#my short fiction is pretty tight and usually well written ( i think)

[newvegascowboy]

spent most of the day ripping this fic apart and putting it back together in the hopes it began approaching something resembling coherence + something worth saying.

This fic is also currently sitting at 31k and i estimate maybe ending at 40k because i keep thinking of fucking sceeeeenes

[wit-and-worry]

There’s this slightly younger acquaintance I have(had?) who seems to enjoy my company, and with whom I’ve only had seemingly mutually enjoyable and lengthy conversations, but who doesn’t usually initiate contact. He doesn’t seem very online, and has a strong and tight circle of friends he likes. He’s interesting. He’s bright and respectful. He’s almost too polite, in person. But is it so hard to communicate with him over text. Mostly because he doesn’t text back, for whatever reason.

Before we got to talking on the last day of my senior year(he was a Junior at the time), I was frankly intimidated by him. He was the brightest kid in my Hnrs Physics class. He seemed to pick up the material like a pile of feathers. He seemed friendly and confident and put together. He was starkly unlike me. I was and still am struggling not to be a miserable slob with no concept of time or personal responsibility every day. What drew my interest in pursuing a friendship was his evident interest in the kind of literature I was interested in. I saw many Asimov books on his desk and in his hand throughout the year, but also some classics like Heart of Darkness(which I figured was for class but I’m not sure of now), and the Slaughterhouse Five(maybe Cat’s Cradle? I saw him carrying a Vonnegut novel for sure), and some others I can’t remember the names of now, and an anthology of Camus’ short stories. When I saw him with those books I felt like a dog seeing another dog for the first time. My brain went: oh shit! Dog dog dog dog! (gonna go on a tangent now) I’ve historically gravitated towards classic lit, primarily because I had the idea that reading influential works of literature and studying them would help make me a better writer. Not that I didn’t and don’t earnestly enjoy them. Much of classic literature carries me way out of the modern world without alienating me from humanity. I can usually rely on it to be somewhat deftly written and it’s fun to geek out over. It’s fun but lonely. It is also very intimate and rewarding.

When I meet people who share that passion, it implies to me that they have the patience and curiosity and courage it takes to appreciate it.

I admit that, initially, there was also a glamor to the idea of being a young person, having all of that high brow literature under my belt, and as a result being praised by teachers for being articulate and mature and all of that. It’s embarrassing to admit, even to myself, that my interest in classic literature is in part a consequence of my being given, as Savannah Brown once put it “well-timed praise”, but it is what it is.

I still do think that it is beneficial for those who are serious about writing to visit or revisit the work of influential writers. It’s just that now I feel a restless craving for transgressive art. I want to read the kind of fucked up and intimate fiction I want to write.

Anyway I started writing this post to bitch into the void to be honest, because I suspect that this acquaintance of mine isn’t interested in befriending me, and I’m bummed. I’ve reached out a few times either to start a conversation or schedule a hangout, but it’s getting to be a hassle. He has little reason to pursue my friendship, because he’s pretty content with his social life as it is. He’s pretty elusive. He’s apparently very busy. I’m not, which is why I’m pursuing. But I’m tired of making an ass of myself pursuing people. I’ve been the pursuer for most of my life. I might have to let this one go. Or just let him come to me, if he ever does. It’s weird. I’m overthinking this for sure. I just don’t want to drive him away. I think he’s cool, despite being a year younger than me lol. It may seem like I have a crush on this guy, but I promise that is not the case. I don’t want it to ever go there. He seems straight, besides. I’m just so lonely that it’s pathetic. It’s not gotten to the point that I will settle for anyone, but I hit it off with this guy in a way I haven’t with anyone in years. Hard not to want to relive that initial rush. I can’t help but wonder if I said something that creeped him out the last time we hung out. I can think of a few things that he may have misread, which keep me up at night. Well I don’t know what else to say so I’m going to stop here.

-some guy

[luminescencefics]

stir me up

Harry Styles doesn’t know much, but he does know two things. He knows that there’s not many things a good cocktail can’t fix, and he also knows that he can’t stop thinking about the blonde-haired girl who he shamelessly flirts with during his shift every Friday evening.

Willa Tillerson might know too much, to be fair. She knows that she lets work slowly take over her life, she knows that this work-life balance her friends talk about is nothing short of fiction, and she knows that she can’t help but look forward to Friday’s so that she can flirt with the handsome barman at the pub across the street.

A oneshot about drinks and the people who make them, featuring a hint of pining and a dash of a (potential) happily ever after.

written for @stellarboystyles​‘s 3 year anniversary 

mutual pining // prompt #3 “You’re really cute when you start rambling like that.”

harry/ofc, 15k

Willa Tillerson notices two things instantly when she walks into The Churchill Arms after a long and tiring day at work. The first is that her coworkers have already started without her, a pile of empty pint glasses nearly towering over the wooden table they’ve deemed as their own in the back corner of the pub. The second is that her favorite barman is working.

She tries her hardest not to make eye contact with him, because Willa has always thrived on playing hard to get. But there’s no denying that he makes it that much more difficult, with the way his brown hair wisps around his forehead in fluffy curls, and the way his black collared work shirt strains over his bulging biceps when he pulls a pint from the tap, and the way his green eyes light up and cherry lips quirk with a boyish grin when the door shuts tightly behind her, the bell above clanging together in a pretty tune.

Willa Tillerson is trying.

Before she can begin putting her black leather Saint Laurent boots in front of the other, she hears a loud posh voice calling her over towards the back table. With her new handbag held tightly under her armpit, she begins barrelling forward, purposely sashaying her hips back and forth when she walks past the bartop, ignoring the hot gaze that hits her lower back.

“About time! You’re nearly an hour late, Ms. Workaholic,” Annabelle tuts once Willa has approached the table. She rolls her eyes, putting her Celine handbag on the hook below the table and throwing her Isabel Marant wool longline jacket on the back of one of the unoccupied chairs.

“Oh be quiet, I just had some last minute things to catch up on,” Willa retorts, doing her best to turn off Work Willa and turn on Fun Willa.

It’s hard sometimes, considering her job has been taking over most of her life for the better part of the year. She loves the work, and Willa will be the first person to admit that, but it can be a bit gruelling at times.

But she can’t complain, because she’s passionate about her position as a senior designer at Kensington Interior Design Ltd. Willa’s been lucky enough to work at the company ever since she finished uni years ago, and she received the promotion almost four months ago. Her workload had increased tenfold—but she really can’t lament. Even though she’s almost the last person to leave the office every night, and she’s now the last person to trickle in to their after-work drinks tradition that started a few years ago, and she honestly can’t remember the last time she had been out on a date ever since she’s been working through the weekends.

Willa’s really trying.

The sudden urge to have a cocktail is almost all-consuming. So with a quick flick of her neck towards the bartop to Annabelle, Willa grasps her wallet in her hand and struts over towards the counter where her favorite barman is already waiting for her.

“Evening,” he calls out, his right dimple already sunk deep into his ivory skin, causing Willa to grin right back at him. His arms are stretched out wide against the dark wooden countertop, causing his large shoulders to jut out. Willa is doing her best to not stare at the dark ink swirling up and down his toned arms.

“Hi Harry,” Willa responds easily back, resting her forearms on the countertop and leaning forward in her boots so that her cleavage is a bit more exposed in her tight white blouse.

“Your regular, then?” He asks with his deep voice, and Willa just nods back, suppressing the flush that’s beginning to crawl up her sternum when Harry reaches down for the bottle of gin and begins scooping ice into the shaker, pouring a generous amount into the tin.

Harry’s focus shifts towards the task at hand, and he feels grateful for the excuse to point his green eyes at something other than Willa’s pretty face and exposed neckline. He’s really doing his best to keep his eyes above her collarbones, but she’s making it increasingly difficult with each shift forward against the wooden bartop.

“How was work?” Harry asks after placing the gin bottle back into the speed rack. The distraction of watching him make a cocktail is brief, but Willa is happy for the extra minutes she gets to stare at him unabashedly without him knowing.

“The usual, how about you?” His eyes finally rise from the cocktail shaker and meet hers, and her lips begin to lift because she already knows what he’s going to say.

“The usual.” It’s said with a shrug and a smirk, and even though Willa and Harry have the same transfer of words every Friday evening, it still doesn’t fail to make her red-painted lips quirk up in a pretty smile.

He hands over her martini in exchange for Willa’s credit card, which he slides through the machine swiftly to start her tab that he knows won’t exceed four drinks.

Willa loves how their little flirting ruse has been quite routine for the past two months. She knows that they flirt from a distance, with lingering gazes and small quips of lips into half-smiles, half-smirks. She knows that he remembers her drink order by heart, but still asks her because it’s cordial. She knows that he always asks her how work was, to which she always responds the same thing. She knows it all.

So when she starts to pivot on her back foot to head towards her coworkers, she stops abruptly when Harry leans forward against the bartop, crossing his arms over his chest to support his torso.

Because she hasn’t known him to do this.

“You look nice tonight, Willa.” His voice sends shockwaves through her insides and it happens so quickly that she can’t even try to hide the blush that finally rests on her cheekbones. Before she can think of a witty response or even a gentle thank you, Harry’s already begun moving to the other side of the bar to help another customer.

Before Willa can start to get confused glances from other patrons, she begins to walk forward towards her coworkers, trying her hardest to force the blush to leave her cheeks. Because Harry has never complimented her appearance before, and while she appreciates the gesture, she can’t help but wonder if her surprised look threw him off.

“He is too fit to be a barman,” Ethan says once Willa has slipped into the chair with her jacket on the back, pulling a long sip from her Vesper. She’s grateful for the harsh sting that soothes her burning insides.

“He really is. If I was single I would jump on that in a heartbeat,” Annabelle agrees, shooting Willa a knowing look to which she tries her hardest to ignore.

She really doesn’t want to talk about her love life, or lack thereof, in front of her coworkers.

“Honestly Willa, if he played on my team I would already have done it,” Ethan announces a bit too loudly, forcing Willa to swat at his side.

“Ethan!” Willa shrieks, shooting a glance over his shoulder to see if Harry had overheard anything. He hasn’t, luckily, but he has felt her gaze linger on his frame for a bit too long, so when green eyes meet blue she quickly looks away, swallowing down her drink.

Ethan just shrugs her off, finishing up the pint in front of him. “Oh, bugger off. I don’t know what you’re waiting on, Wills. You clearly fancy him.”

“I don’t even know him enough to fancy him, you twat,” Willa says, placing her drink down on the table to give her friend a sharp look. “I think he’s nice to look at. And he makes a good drink. That’s it.”

It’s a lie and everybody at the table knows it, so when they all roll their eyes and tell her to fuck off, she doesn’t even feel bad.

“Sure, Wills. Fancy getting the next round, then? If you just think he makes a good drink, it shouldn’t be a problem, right?” Ethan asks and Willa just ignores him, practically finishing her martini in two full gulps. She knows that he’s taunting her, and when he looks at her Willa shakes her head, praying that he’ll just drop it.

He does, because even though Ethan can be a bit much at times, he knows all of the shit that Willa has been through this past year. And while he means well and really wants Willa to branch out and meet new people, he knows that he can’t push her. So he lets it go and Willa does her hardest to not watch Ethan interact with Harry at the bar. Does her hardest to ignore the way Harry’s gaze shifts to hers in a questioning look when Ethan orders her a new martini.

She needs more liquid courage.

So when Ethan hands her another drink without a word, she’s thankful for that. Because as much as she wants to talk to Harry again, she’s far too shy to do it herself. And not to mention a little thrown off at his last comment—because she wasn’t sure that their relationship existed outside of flirtatious looks and short-worded conversations.

So she sits in the back with her coworkers and drinks and makes sure that whenever she chances a look at Harry, he’s busy doing other things. And after she’s finished her third cocktail, she throws her jacket on and approaches the bar to close her tab, just like every other Friday before that.

“Have a good night, Harry,” Willa says once she’s slipped her wallet into her purse and slides the checkbook over towards his large hands.

Harry just nods, looking at her with that special glint in his eyes he saves just for her. “You too, Willa. See you next week.”

And when she walks over towards the door and feels the chill of the autumn breeze hit her flushed cheeks, she’s wondering if the warmth that lingers on her skin is from Harry’s gaze or if she’s just imagining it.

***

Willa’s spirits are quite high when she walks into The Churchill Arms that next Friday only a few minutes after five o’clock for the first time in about a month.

She had just won over a top tier client and was working on the next steps to continue growing her portfolio. It was between Willa and another senior designer at the firm, and by some stroke of luck, she had been chosen to redecorate the master bedroom in their Knightsbridge mansion.

Her good mood is palpable, and Harry can practically feel her beaming from the entryway of the bar. She looks the same as she always does, far too pretty and successful to banter with a barman like himself, but she still does it anyway. Her long legs are hidden under flowy navy dress pants, heels giving her that extra bit of height that makes her seem larger than life in the dimly lit bar. She’s wearing a cream-colored scoop neck top that makes Harry imagine what she’ll look like leaned over the bartop, and before he can even realize he’s been staring at her for far too long, she gives him a glowing smile and he feels as if he’s weightless.

Willa saunters over towards the table in the back where her coworkers are already waiting for her, with Ethan grabbing her jacket and handbag and wrapping her up in a hug and Annabelle holding out a shot glass filled with clear liquid and a bright smile covering her face.

It’s times like these when Willa feels as if everything is falling into place.

She shoots back the tequila with grace, clamping her teeth down on the lime until the acidic taste quels the stinging of the liquor. Willa leans her head into the crook of Ethan’s neck, feeling his warmth completely encapsulate her body.

“So proud of you, Wills,” Ethan whispers into her blonde hair. Willa just squeezes his hip back in thanks, reaching into her handbag to grab her leather wallet, beginning her normal trek up to the bartop to see Harry.

He’s already waiting for her like usual, a rapturous smile covering his face. He looks exactly how she feels—happy and warm and safe, and she wonders if she’s just realizing it now or if he’s always looked like that. His arms are doing that thing again where the muscles practically stretch his cotton work shirt to shreds, and his eyes are doing that shimmering thing where Willa knows she should look away but she can’t, and his hair is doing that floppy thing that makes Willa want to run her fingers through the tendrils, and Willa feels the warmest she’s felt all night.

“Hi Harry,” Willa says once she’s approached the counter, leaning forward and causing Harry’s green eyes to darken a bit. It’s exactly as he imagined it, and he isn’t even trying to hide the fact that his pupils dart down before lifting to her blue eyes once more.

“Evening, Willa. Celebrating something?” He asks, gesticulating towards the empty tray of shot glasses lingering on the wooden table her coworkers are occupying in the back of the room.

Her eyes light up even more and she nods her head in an excited, enamoring way. He leans forward too, resting one forearm on the clean bartop and his other arm is bent at the elbow, holding his face as he watches her.

Willa tries her hardest not to lean forward an inch more.

“Had a good day at work, landed a really important client,” Willa explains, and she’s fully aware that the pair are straying from their usual Friday conversation, but she really could care less.

Harry gives her a look of admiration. “That’s wonderful. Congratulations are in order, I reckon.” He’s giving her a mischievous look and Willa suddenly feels intrigued. Apparently that was the only sign of approval Harry needed, because he suddenly reaches down and makes two shot glasses practically appear out of thin air, pouring them to the brim with the same clear liquid Willa had just swallowed a few moments prior.

“I’m hoping the other one is for you?” Willa asks in a low voice, cocking her head to the side and looking up at Harry under her thick eyelashes. He can practically feel the groan forming in the back of his throat when he pictures her looking up at him for a different reason entirely, but he suppresses it with a quick nod of his head.

“‘Course. ‘S bad luck to take a shot by yourself.” His voice is even lower than hers, and Willa’s surprised that she can hear it clearly with the barrier of the bartop between them. Willa seemingly agrees with Harry’s statement, because she’s suddenly standing upright, reaching her long fingers out to cup the cool glass in her palm, arching her eyebrow when she realizes that Harry is watching her instead of copying her movements.

“Cheers, Harry,” Willa says, extending her arm and smirking to herself when Harry hurriedly grips the short glass, sloshing a bit of the tequila over the edge. He regains his cool composure though, before extending his arm as well and clinking the glasses softly together.

“Cheers, Willa.” His voice is guttural and Willa can practically feel it resonate through her. But before she could think about it too much, she’s bringing the glass to her rogue lips and knocking the liquid back, keeping her blue eyes locked on Harry’s green.

His lips are moistened from the tequila and a small dribble has started to form on the lower left side of his mouth, threatening to leak down to his chin. Without even thinking (or maybe thinking quite a bit, to be fair), Willa reaches her hand out and cups Harry’s chin, before thumbing at the liquid to make it disappear.

His eyes are blown wide and suddenly the clamor from the busy bar turns into white noise, and all Harry can see is Willa. All he wants to do is grab her smaller hand in his and hold on for dear life, bringing her closer and closer into his atmosphere before she floats away. But then, a voice asking for a refill breaks his reverie and he’s back to tending the bar and ignoring the blazing feeling of where Willa’s hand once was on his mouth.

She waits patiently while he pulls a pint from the tap, watching as his large hands grip the cool glass easily, the motions practically ingrained in his system. He’s quite graceful behind the bar, all long limbs grabbing glasses and mixing different liquids together in such a fashion that makes Willa never want to return to that wooden table in the back of the room.

Before long, he’s right back in front of her, asking if she wants her usual drink to which she responds with a dazed yes. He doesn’t say much to her, still reeling from the fact that she was so close and he couldn’t do anything about it because he was behind the bar and she was on the receiving end, the sobering cognizance surging back into his skin that he is, in fact, at work, and can’t spend his night kissing the pretty blonde patron (even if it’s all he can think about, really).

Once the martini is placed on a cocktail napkin in front of her, Willa reaches for her credit card causing Harry to shake his head with a small grin on his lips.

“No, no. This one’s on me,” before Willa can protest, he cuts her off. “Congrats again, Willa.” And with that he’s off to the other end of the bar, leaving Willa feeling a lot more hot (and bothered) than she was earlier.

Once Willa returns back to the table, she finds herself sandwiched between Ethan and Annabelle, talking about anything and everything. The group rarely bring up work, and instead, Willa finds herself joking around with the office intern and reminiscing about drunken uni nights, finds herself gushing over Annabell’s engagement ring and revelling in wedding plans, finds herself laughing at Ethan’s crude jokes about all of the failed dates he’s been on in the past few months.

Willa finds that she’s actually having a lot of fun.

After her second martini, Willa asks the group if they’d like another round and with a few negative responses, she walks back over towards the bar. Harry can see her out of his periphery, and the sight of her with flushed cheeks and messy hair and glossy eyes causes him to overpour the pint glass in his hand, sticky beer coating his long fingers.

He shakes it off and rubs the remaining liquid on the bar rag in his back pocket, handing the glass over to the burly man who ordered it and accepting his payment with a quick nod. He really wants to head over to where Willa is before the other barman notices her.

Harry’s expecting her to ask for her tab, because he’s noticed that she’s had two martinis and two tequila shots, and she’ll probably want to call it an evening.

But when she’s looking at him with big blue eyes and a hint of a smirk on her lips, he’s suddenly hoping that she doesn’t want to leave. That she’ll stay for quite a bit longer, actually. (And maybe even long enough so that he can walk her home after his shift, but he doesn’t want to think about that all too much).

“Hi Harry, fancy making me another?” Willa asks once he’s in front of her, swiveling the empty up glass in her dainty fingertips. He smiles at her, plucking the glass from between her hands, trying to ignore the burning feeling on his flesh from where their fingers touched.

“Thought you’d be heading out by now,” Harry says in between exchanging the gin bottle for the vodka bottle, pouring a generous amount into the tin.

Willa laughs a bit, shaking her head softly. “Kind of feel like staying out a bit longer.” She’s fully aware that the alcohol she’s consumed throughout the evening has made her much more bold, but she really doesn’t care. She’s grateful for it, in fact, once she’s noticed the darkened look in Harry’s eyes and the sultry smirk gracing his cherry lips.

“I’m glad. Always feel like you cut out a bit early, anyways.” His eyes lift from stirring the liquid in the tin to her pupils, and Willa wonders if he’s speaking in riddles like she is.

“Are you trying to persuade me to stay longer?” Willa asks, and she’s doing that leaning forward thing again and Harry can feel his neck tense with the running reminder to not ogle at the swell of her breasts trapped inside her tight top.

He puts the top back on the cocktail shaker and lines up a new glass, straining the Vesper into it. “Might be.” He’s trying to be smug but Willa is really testing his patience, and she’s found that she quite enjoys making him squirm.

She grabs the glass as he’s placing it on the bartop, her thin fingers falling over his wider ones, causing his hand to still. She’s leaning forward on her forearm, her chest resting over the skin practically causing her breasts to spill out of the tight material of her top. Harry gulps harshly, slipping his fingers out from under hers and immediately regretting the warm feeling that leaves his hand.

Willa giggles again, staring at Harry as she takes a sip from the cocktail, her lipstick leaving a mark on the lip of the glass, making Harry practically fall over at the sight of her.

He has a feeling she knows exactly what she’s doing to him, and normally, he would be annoyed. But for some reason, this pretty girl with too-expensive shoes and put-together makeup and an all-together sophisticated demeanor is somehow the hottest person he’s seen sitting at this bar in weeks. And even when her hair is messy and her eyes are blown out and her lipstick is a little smudged, she still causes Harry to fidget and second guess what he’s saying to her.

He also can’t deny the sudden urge to bend her over in the toilets and make her squirm instead.

He coughs into his fist, breaking the spell, and thankfully Willa gets the hint. Without another word, she slides her credit card over the wooden counter and slips it under Harry’s palm, muttering a slow, “Keep it open, please,” before slinking back to her friends.

Harry’s in a daze and he really needs to do something about the tightness in his pants. But before he can dwell on it any longer, a redheaded girl has taken over the spot Willa was once in and he’s forced to think about something other than the blonde girl sneaking looks at him from across the room.

After two more cocktails, Willa has come to the conclusion that she’s had quite enough to drink. She’s the type of drunkenness where laughter comes far too easily and she feels a bit too warm in her clothes, and while she has the sudden urge to dance and kiss a pretty boy, she knows that she’s done for the night. Because she doesn’t want to lose this feeling, and one more drink will definitely cause her to be the type of drunkenness that includes a side of nausea and a dizzying headache.

She grabs her belongings and gives both Annabelle and Ethan a sloppy kiss on the cheek, promising to meet them Sunday afternoon for brunch. Willa starts heading toward the bar on shaky feet, and when Harry looks at her with an amused grin on his face, she’s quite thankful for the countertop that she can latch onto, because she could get lost in his green eyes if she wanted to (and she really wanted to, more than anything).

“I think I’m throwing in the towel,” Willa slurs through a smile, watching the way Harry’s lower lip juts out in a pout. Her eyes fall to the pinkness of his round lower lip, noticing the slightly chapped skin and admiring the stubble framing his mouth. She starts to think about how kissable they look, but then the pout leaves and he’s forming words and Willa focuses back to listening instead of staring at him hungrily.

“Ah. As the barman, I fully support this decision,” Harry starts, sliding a glass of water over in her direction and beginning to run her credit card before slipping the receipt into a checkbook with a pen. “But, as a normal guy, I’m quite disappointed.”

Willa pauses signing the dotted line at the bottom of the paper. “A normal guy, huh?”

He watches her close the book and slide it back over in his direction, her face scrunched up in confusion. He wonders how somebody could be both sexy and cute at the same time, and wonders how she does it so effortlessly.

“Yep. You do know that I work on other days besides Friday, yeah?” Harry asks, leaning a bit forward so that the conversation can be as intimate as possible in the newly crowded area.

Willa looks at him and smiles, relief flushing over her as her drunken convoluted mind comes to the conclusion that Harry is, in fact, finally making a move. Albeit it’s not as direct and Willa is fairly certain that if she were a bit more sober she’d actually pick up on what he’s been hinting at the entire night, but nonetheless, she takes it in stride, finding herself leaning in a bit more towards his towering frame.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer.” Willa watches as Harry’s eyes light up, and she’s almost certain that he’s leaning closer towards her, but she steps back with a sly smirk. She wants to leave Harry wanting more (even though all he does is want her, practically every waking moment she’s in this bar), so she sneaks away with a tiny wave, causing Harry to come to a startling realization.

Willa Tillerson knows exactly what she’s doing.

***

The next time Harry sees Willa, he didn’t think she’d look so dejected.

He hears the bells chime when the heavy oak door closes behind her. It’s a Wednesday, therefore her usual gang of coworkers haven’t entered the bar at all this evening. At first glance, Harry’s excited to see her, thinking about the last time he saw her and invited her to come in on a non-Friday. But once he sees her blue eyes are a bit dull and her trousers are crinkled from slumping in her office chair long after everybody has left and she just looks, well, sad, he’s instantly concerned.

Willa wasn’t really thinking all too clearly about her arrival when she looks around the half-full bar. It’s a much different scene inside than it normally is on Fridays—the leather booths along the far side of the wall are filled with people eating dinner, the music is a calm acoustic playlist, and Harry is standing alone behind the bartop.

She can feel his eyes on her frame immediately, and while the warmth is still there, she suddenly feels timid under his unwavering gaze. Willa’s fully aware that she looks exactly how she feels—complete and utter shit. It’s a far cry from how she felt the last time she stepped foot in The Churchill Arms, but she didn’t feel like going home, and when she remembers Harry’s invitation to come in on another day, she didn’t really think twice about changing her route to the bar instead of the tube to head home for the evening.

“Evening Willa,” Harry greets her like normal, and he isn’t really sure how to play this one out. He really wanted to sound more excited to see her, maybe playful even, but he doesn’t want to scare her away. Because even though she looks upset, he still really is glad she came in.

But there’s no denying he’s worried.

“Hi Harry,” Willa mumbles, sliding her heavy Theory trench coat off her shoulders and hanging it around the back of the leather barstool. Her handbag rests on the hook under the bartop, and she realizes then that this is the first time she’s ever sat at the bar with Harry in front of her.

He slides a cocktail napkin over in her direction, just like he does with every other customer, and waits patiently for her to look him in the eyes. When she finally does, clear blue eyes squinting up at him with an unknown emotion covering her face, he wants nothing more than to jump over the barrier between them and hold her close.

But he can’t.

So he does the next best thing he could think of—ask her what she’d like to drink.

Harry is expecting her to ask for her usual. But she surprises him (something she’s been doing quite a bit of lately) and gives him a sad, half-smile. “What do you usually drink when you’ve had a shit day?”

He frowns at that. “That bad, huh?” He’s leaning down over the counter on his forearms, trying to reach her at eye level. She’s not backing away, which Harry appreciates, and before he can lean in a bit closer, she gives him a small shrug.

“Yep. I’m officially the sad girl at a bar asking the cute barman to make her feel better with copious amounts of alcohol. Think you can help me out with that?” Willa’s head is cocked to the right in question, her blue eyes brightening when Harry’s lips form a deep grin.

“You think I’m cute?” He asks, reaching for the nice bottle of Reposado he saves for himself after long nights behind the bar. Harry watches as Willa gives him a genuine smile, and he finally feels the mood begin to lighten around them.

Willa chooses not to answer, instead, her eyes widen at the bottle in his large hands. “Tequila? Are you trying to kill me?”

He laughs, reaching into the ice bin to deposit a few cubes into the highball glass on the counter. “This isn’t just any tequila, Willa. Trust me, you’ll like it.”

When the cold glass lands on the cocktail napkin in front of her, she reaches for it, holding it up in front of her face a bit in Harry’s direction in cheers. His eyes squint behind his smile when her lips wrap around the glass, taking a generous sip without flinching.

She doesn’t need to tell him that it’s good, because he already knows that.

Instead, he rests his palms on the countertop and looks down at her. “So, why are you officially the sad girl at my bar, Willa?”

“Christ,” Willa starts, swallowing down another gulp of tequila. “Am I really going to be that person who tells the barman all the woes in their life?”

Harry laughs. “Only doing my job here, babe.”

She laughs a bit, finally feeling a bit better. Maybe her decision in coming here wasn’t as stupid as she originally thought. Maybe seeing Harry on a night where she can actually hear him and be in his presence without the lingering feeling of another patron waiting for her to finish up, or the looks she gets from Ethan and Annabelle when she’s so obviously flirting with him, or the loud music reverberating through the wooden walls, is exactly what she needed.

So, Willa gives in.

“You know how I’m an interior designer, right?” Willa starts, watching as Harry nods instantly. “Well, I had just gotten back from a meeting with a new client—”

“—The big one, yeah? The one you were celebrating last week?” Harry asks, and Willa immediately feels her cheekbones warm. She feels a bubbling in her stomach at the fact that Harry remembered, and before she can get sidetracked on the feeling inside of her, he’s nodding at her in a way that’s asking her to continue.

“Yeah. Anyways, on my way back to my office, I ran into my ex-boyfriend.” Willa takes a break to sip the tequila again, trying her hardest to wash the image of Gavin and his blonde hair and smug look out of her brain with each harsh sip.

“That’s never fun,” Harry admits. There’s no denying the fact that he’s a bit chuffed to hear that she has an ex-boyfriend. Even though a part of him knew deep down that she must have been single with the way she was flirting with him and pushing her chest in his direction and wiping his lips clean of leftover tequila. But he can never be too sure.

But he doesn’t want her to think that.

“Oh that’s not the best part!” Willa announces, feeling herself hot with anger once again. She thought she had gotten rid of it when she slumped in her leather office chair for the past few hours, staring at the white wall thinking about how much of a fucking prick Gavin actually was.

“What happened?” Harry’s voice is soft and kind and it suddenly calms Willa down. She starts to feel her anger dissipate with each second Harry’s green eyes are on hers, and she’s wondering what that all means.

“He was early for a meeting with one of my coworkers. He has plans to make the spare bedroom in his loft a nursery.” Willa’s eyes fall from Harry’s and focuses on the amber liquid sloshing around the heavy ice cubes. Instead of anger, Willa just feels sad.

Not only sad. She also feels a bit stupid, if she’s being honest.

Because Gavin didn’t want her in the same way Willa wanted him. Gavin wanted stability, a place of his own with a wife who would be home with their baby. He always believed that Willa put her career first, which in hindsight, was probably true.

But Willa was not the type of woman to stop doing what she loved in order to make the person she was with feel secure. She was not the type of woman to bury her feelings in order to make her partner feel comfortable. She was not the type of woman who would drop everything in her life to have a baby.

So when she tells him this, he walks away.

It was only until today that Willa discovered he had found another woman to do all of that for him instead.

“I’m sorry, Willa. That’s really shit,” Harry says softly, forcing Willa to turn away from the liquid in her glass and look at him. Him, with his fluffy chestnut curls. Him, with his forehead scrunched in concern. Him, with his cherry lips turned downwards. Him, who causes Willa to realize that she shouldn’t be upset over Gavin.

Not anymore, that is.

“Yeah,” she shrugs and finishes off her drink, nodding silently when Harry offers her another. “It’s been almost a year now, and honestly I do feel like I’m over it. It’s just—I don’t know. It just sucks realizing that he’s moved on and he’s finally gotten what he wants and I’m still so unsure of everything.”

“Who says we’re supposed to have everything figured out?” Harry responds, placing a new drink in front of Willa.

She looks at him and wonders how he can make sense of all of this with a few measly words. Wonders how he always seems so confident and sure. Wonders how he’s made her feel comfortable in this bar on a Wednesday night. Wonders if he’s always been like this, to be fair.

“You’re quite good at this,” Willa says after a beat, smiling when Harry laughs.

“Yeah, well, it’s part of the gig.” Before he can stay and talk with her longer (because he could give fuck all about his job at this point), one of the waitresses rings in a drink order and Harry’s off to the other end of the bar, pouring pints and scooping ice into glasses.

Willa doesn’t mind. She actually finds it quite comforting to watch him work. He’s a natural conversationalist, always making eye contact and coaxing laughter out of people. And while she sits and continues to drink, she notices how he always manages to glance her way whenever he is in the middle of performing different tasks, and she finds that her heart keeps swelling with every shy look he sends her.

Two more drinks later, Willa starts to realize that she hasn’t even thought about Gavin at all. Instead, her mind is filled with green eyes and curly hair and mermaid tattoos. She’s found that her eyes keep tracing over Harry’s features—at his sharp jawline, his scattered freckles, his carved muscles, his long torso. She’s quite overwhelmed with how handsome he is under the dim bar lighting, and she’s quite grateful to be sitting this close to him for this long.

Harry makes sure to keep Willa company between drinks, watching the way she seems to grow a bit lighter with each passing sip. A large part of him wishes he could just close early so he could take her home and make sure she stays this level of content for the remainder of the evening, but with each passing hour, he’s watching her eyes grow a bit heavier and he knows that it’s only a matter of time before she leaves him again.

Willa begins to reach for her wallet just as Harry saunters over towards her. “Leaving so soon?” He asks even though he already knows the answer.

“Unfortunately, I have to wake up early tomorrow for work. And I’m already dreading the ghastly tequila hangover I’ll be dealing with,” Willa says, handing over the thick plastic card in Harry’s direction.

Harry laughs. “Hey! I wasn’t the one who asked for a different drink this time!” His tone is light but Willa is quite intoxicated, and normally she would be able to identify the hint of sarcasm lacing his words. But she can’t this time, and suddenly her cheeks burn red and she starts stammering out an apology and Harry can’t help but watch her with a grin.

“Shit! I, uh, didn’t mean it like that. I mean, yeah—I definitely asked you for your usual, and I didn’t mean to insult you! I just, uh, let me rephrase—”

Harry’s laughter cuts her off and Willa drops her forehead into her awaiting palms in embarrassment. “You’re really cute when you start rambling like that.”

Willa lifts her head up and smiles at him, reaching for the checkbook in his extended arms. “You think I’m cute?” She asks in the same way Harry did to her hours earlier, and she watches as he looks deep into her eyes with an unwavering look.

“Much more than cute.”

If Willa was warm before, she feels sweltering under his gaze. She tries her hardest not to let his words affect her, but she gives herself away when she almost drops her credit card while she’s trying to slide it into her wallet, when she starts fidgeting in the leather of the barstool, when her throat suddenly becomes dry and she starts to take heavy gulps of the water glass in front of her.

“Do you live close by?” Harry asks after a beat of silence passes through them. He’s suddenly aware of the late hour, and even though he wishes she could stay, he has the overwhelming urge to make sure she gets home safely.

Willa shakes her head before wrapping herself up in her coat. “No, near Swiss Cottage. I’ll just take the tube, it’s not far.”

Harry immediately shakes his head, reaching behind him to grab the telephone near the till. “Nonsense, you’re not taking the tube at this hour. Sit here, I’ll call you a cab.”

Before Willa can argue, Harry’s already punching the numbers into the phone, giving the driver the address of the pub to pick Willa up at. Normally, Willa would be annoyed at his forwardness. But, she finds it quite charming that Harry is hellbent on making sure she gets home safely, and she finds that she’s not annoyed in the slightest.

“He’ll be ‘round in ten minutes,” Harry announces once he’s hung up and he’s stood in front of her again, looking at her in a way that makes Willa warm all over.

He has a habit of doing that, she thinks.

Just as she was going to thank him, Harry’s attention is drawn to the older man at the end of the bar asking to settle up his tab. With an apologetic look, he heads over, forcing Willa to wrap her scarf around her neck and gather her handbag so she’s not sitting there looking at Harry like a lovesick puppy.

When Harry’s back in front of her, she notices the headlights in the windows announcing the arrival of her cab. Just as she’s about to say her goodbyes, Harry cuts her off, his arms holding him up as he leans forward, staring at her with nothing but intent in his green eyes.

“Go out with me.”

“Pardon?” Willa asks, completely thrown off by his declaration.

“Saturday. I want to take you out.” The cab driver honks from outside and Harry’s practically desperate, needing Willa to say yes. He doesn't think he’ll get another chance alone with her.

Her eyes shift from the car to his. “Okay.”

“Yeah?” He asks, breathless.

“Yeah.” It’s final, sure and assertive, and before Harry can say anything else, Willa’s already heading for the door, offering him one last lingering gaze before the bells clang above her head, signalling her departure.

Harry’s almost positive he’ll be dreaming of that look for the next three days.

***

On Friday evening, Willa decides to skip out on after-work drinks with her coworkers. It’s not because she doesn’t want to see Harry—because every time she closes her eyes all she sees are his staring back, and she really doesn’t know what to do about that.

Willa’s not used to being so enthralled with somebody else, and all she wants is to play it cool for their upcoming date. So when she’s home in her flat, she throws her mobile on her bed after ignoring Ethan and Annabelle’s incessant calls about her bailing on them. And just before she falls asleep, she digs into her comforter and finds that she has a text waiting for her from an unknown number with an address and a message underneath.

Don’t overthink it. Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. x

When she clicks on the address and it populates on her Maps app on her mobile, she finds that it’s a pub somewhere in Camden. Before she can overthink it, just like Harry’s message predicted, she shuts off her mobile and forces herself to sleep and try not to think about the boy who’s been infiltrating her dreams for the past three nights.

Just as Willa’s getting ready for her date, she decides that she’s been ignoring Ethan for far too long, and reluctantly decides to call him back while applying a generous coat of mascara to her eyelashes.

“Christ Willa! You have a date with the fit barman and decide to go AWOL in the meantime? How bloody selfish can you be!” Ethan’s voice squeaks out through the receiver on Willa’s mobile, and she honestly shouldn’t be surprised at his dramatics after knowing him for four years, but she still rolls her eyes anyways.

“His name is Harry,” Willa decides to mention while placing the mascara wand back in the tube on her vanity.

“Oh, pardon my mistake, Wills. Imagine my surprise when Harry asked me for your bloody number last night! You at least could’ve given me a heads up so I didn’t look like an absolute git standing there with my mouth hanging open,” Ethan recounts, and Willa can practically see his erratic hand movements with each stressed syllable that comes out of his lips.

“Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me to branch out and meet new people?” Willa says through mumbles, making sure her lipstick application isn’t butchered through her choppy conversation with Ethan.

She hears Ethan’s cackle through the speakers. “I didn’t actually think you’d listen!”

Willa chooses not to respond. Instead, she leaves her bathroom vanity and heads over to her closet to grab her black leather heeled boots resting on the bottom of her shoe rack. Sitting on the edge of her bed, she starts shoving them on while she waits for Ethan to talk—knowing fully well that quiet pauses in conversations never sit well with her obnoxious friend.

“So, where’s fit Harry taking you?” Ethan finally asks.

“Some pub in Camden, according to the address he sent me,” Willa says while grabbing her tube of lipstick, keys, and wallet and throwing them into her small black leather shoulder bag.

“Camden!? Please tell me you’re not wearing your bloody Celine bag!” Ethan is absolutely ruthless and Willa is really regretting calling him back.

“Will you calm down? I doubt Harry would take me to some dodgy pub,” Willa assures him, flicking off the overhead light in her bedroom as well as the kitchen light and beginning to lock up her front door.

“It’s just so not you, Wills.” Ethan’s words cause Willa to freeze while turning her key into the lock in the hallway of her apartment complex. In retrospect, Ethan does have a point. Willa’s not entirely sure what she’s doing going out with the barman she’s been shamelessly flirting with for the past two months.

And while it’s slightly terrifying, Willa finds a rush of excitement scouring through her veins.

“What if that’s the point?” Her friend hums on the other line, and it’s one of those rare moments when Ethan is actually silent during conversation. Willa takes this in stride, locking up her front door and heading out towards the Underground near her complex.

She says goodbye to Ethan as she’s descending the cement stairs, knowing fully well that her reception will cut out the further down into the station she goes. Willa promises to call him the next morning, and reassures him that she’ll let him know if she needs a rescue (even though she’s fully certain that no danger will come her way with Harry by her side), and happily ends the call just as she’s stepped onto the platform.

The journey doesn’t take as long as Willa would like, considering she’s still wringing her hands together as her body is riddled with nerves when she gets off at the appropriate stop. While Harry has done nothing but make her feel comfortable, there’s no denying that for the first time since knowing him, she’s finally meeting him outside the comfort of The Churchill Arms. She’s finally going to be able to stand near him without the barrier of the bar between them, and while the thought of that is what sends her brain into overdrive, there’s no denying the nervous butterflies floating around her stomach, racking against her ribs until she’s forced to meet the situation head-on, exiting the Underground faster than when she first entered.

Once she’s on the pavement outside, she reaches for her mobile to pull up the address Harry sent her last night. According to her Maps, the pub is a short five minute trek from the tube station. Tucking her chin into her charcoal longline jacket to escape the biting wind, Willa starts walking, trying her hardest to quell the rib-racking nerves shaking her body.

Just as she’s a block away, she notices her destination on the corner of a somewhat quieter intersection. The building is tall, brick-faced at street level, a black sign with The Camden Eye written in capitalized white letters. The pub is lodged between a restaurant and a coffee shop that’s long since been closed. When Willa cranes her neck up, she can tell that it’s two-floors, with loud laughter reverberating through the cream-colored cement walls that have aged with time.

Willa’s head begins to search over the small crowd of people outside the front door, trying her hardest to spot curly hair amidst the cigarette smoke wafting around the entrance. Just as her eyes fall on a tall figure in a cable knit jumper and a long navy trench coat, eyes locked on the glowing screen of his mobile, her own vibrates in her left hand, and she notices it’s from Harry.

Hey, I’m waiting outside. Can’t wait to see you. x

She grins at the message, locking her phone instead of responding to his text considering he was standing just across the street from her. As she approaches him quietly, she takes this time to quietly acknowledge him. It’s sort of cute the way he stares at his phone, undoubtedly waiting for the bubbled three dots to appear with her response that won’t come. He shifts a bit in his brogue boots, the hand not holding his mobile nipping at his lower lip.

Willa wonders if Harry is as nervous as she is, too.

Before she can get caught, her heeled boots stop a few feet away from his, and she watches his head snap up when she calls out his name softly.

Almost instantly, Harry shoves his mobile into his pocket, no longer needing the distraction. Instead, his green eyes shift to Willa’s blue, and his mouth quirks up in that slanted boyish grin of his that she has grown to love, his dimples appearing through the light stubble surrounding his mouth. Willa watches as his eyes dart down from her face to scan over her outfit, and for the first time since knowing her, Harry finds that he quite enjoys the version of Willa standing in front of him.

This version wears denim jeans that are tight around the waist and upper thigh, before falling straight until cropping just at her ankles, showcasing her square-toed leather boots. He takes note of the haphazard holes in her trousers, giving Willa’s look a bit more edge than he’s normally accustomed to. Harry thanks the gods above that she’s wearing another top that shows just the perfect amount of cleavage, his eyes falling to the stacked gold necklaces resting on the smooth skin under her long neck.

While Willa appreciates the way Harry’s arms look in his collared work shirt, there’s something about the way he looks in a cable knit jumper that gets her heart racing just a bit quicker than normal. He looks to be the perfect mixture of comfort yet cool, and as her eyes linger on his waist hidden beneath a pair of worn-in denim trousers, she can’t help but be fully aware that she’s been ogling him for far too long.

But when her eyes finally catch his and she takes note of the surprised glint in his irises, she’s not embarrassed at all, because Harry’s also aware that he’s been caught, too.

“Was starting to think you’d bail on me,” Harry finally says, stepping a bit closer to her on the somewhat crowded pavement.

Willa giggles and Harry’s heart almost stills. “Told you I was coming, didn’t I?”

Harry’s starting to think that if he had to banter with her for the rest of his life, he probably wouldn’t mind it at all. In fact, the thought is practically all-consuming at this very moment.

“Well, I’m really glad you’re here.” His voice drops a bit as he takes one last step towards her, brown leather boots touching black. Both Harry and Willa are conscious of the fact that this is the closest they’ve ever been to each other. While Willa has always known Harry to be tall, she’s extremely aware of it now when he’s standing this close to her, leaning forward with his torso so that his neck falls to keep his eyes locked on hers. With this distance (or lack thereof) between them, Harry can smell Willa’s perfume without the overbearing scent of stale ale lingering in the air. He wants to bask in it for as long as he can.

“Me too,” Willa finally responds, reminding herself that she needs to pull herself together if she wants to get through this night without embarrassing herself any further.

Harry seems to sense it too, standing straight and gesturing his head towards the front entrance. “Ready to head in?”

Willa nods. “You wanted to spend your night off at another pub?” She watches the way Harry’s neck falls back as a loud laugh rips through his lungs, and she can’t keep her eyes off of the bob of his Adam’s apple and suddenly, her throat has gone completely dry.

“I’ve seen your local. Figured I’d show you mine,” Harry says, holding the heavy oak door open for her with that dimpled grin of his.

Once Willa’s stepped through the front entrance, she can’t help but take in the drastic difference between Harry’s local and her own. Willa takes in the sticky wooden flooring, chipped from overuse and stained from various liquors ruining the coating. The high-tops lining the walls are no different—antiquated and blemished, some wobbling in the corners, no doubt lacking a distinct charm. The bartop itself is busier than ever, long and sleek. Willa notices the overworked brown-haired barman pulling pints from the tap and heckling other patrons, and she finds almost everybody in this small pub knows each other in some strange way. The atmosphere is vibrant and light, loud and serene, and Willa finds it rightfully so that this is Harry’s local.

Because it’s practically him personified.

Before she can think too much of it, Harry’s long fingers are wrapped around her wrist and he’s dragging her straight to the far corner of the bartop where a small group of people are pulling long gulps from tall pint glasses. Just as they get close enough, Willa’s eyes widen when a few of them call out Harry’s name in heavy Northern accents, and she can’t help but watch the way he interacts with his mates.

They’re clapping his back while Harry appropriately says his hello’s, but before he can get lost in conversation with them, he turns his back towards the group and rests two strong hands on Willa’s shoulders, gripping the heavy material of her coat.

“Here, give me this,” he says softly, peeling off the fabric from her upper body with such intense care that Willa can feel her already dry throat practically barren at this point.

He watches her as he strips the wool from her thin arms, handing it back to her carefully as he rips his own off, before gathering both jackets easily in one hand. Once he tears his eyes off of hers, Harry grasps Willa’s wrist again, dragging her softly towards the far corner past where his friends reside, shouting over towards the brunette barman who’s neck nearly snaps in his direction once he hears Harry’s gruff call.

“Oi! Horan! Take care of these, would ya mate?” Willa watches as Harry rests the arm that isn’t holding their jackets on the bartop, heaving his upper body over the ledge so that the long material in his other hand does not lap up any spilled drink on the counter.

The barman grabs them, before entering a doorway behind him and disappearing into what Willa can only assume to be an office. Harry’s back in front of her now, smiling that toothy grin that makes Willa feel as if she’s completely lost the plot.

“Let’s get you a drink, yeah?” Willa just nods, afraid that if she tried to speak her voice would come out gravelly and hoarse. Harry’s hand slips into hers and he gives it a gentle tug until Willa is standing right beside him, her front resting against the bartop with Harry attached to her right side.

“Who’s this, Harry?” The barman asks once he’s reemerged from the back room in a muffled Irish accent. Willa watches as he gives Harry an amused look under his blue eyes, and she can feel Harry’s gaze shift from her left cheek back to the man in front of her.

“This is Willa.” Harry says her name as if it was something everybody should already know. And judging by the wide look in the barman’s eyes and the way Harry’s cheeks start to flush a rosy color, Willa can only guess that these people do, in fact, know exactly who she is.

And for some reason, that makes her feel all warm and gooey inside.

“Willa! Hiya, doll. ‘M Niall.” Willa smiles at Niall, watching the way the skin around his blue eyes crinkles when he gives her a gleaming grin. His arm is extended out towards hers, flannel shirt rolled up towards his elbows revealing untouched warm skin. When she shakes his hand, she makes sure not to break eye contact, and she watches as Niall gives Harry a look that seems to be laced with approval.

“I’ll take a pint of Fuller’s, mate,” Harry says to Niall before looking down at Willa with a shy look on his face. “Want your usual? Can’t be sure that it’ll taste as good as when I make it, but I’m sure Niall here could give it a go.” There’s no sign of an innuendo laced in Harry’s words, but for some reason, Willa can practically feel the sexul tension grow tenfold when he speaks to her. She shivers a bit, despite the fact that she is quite warm to begin with, before shaking her head and turning her attention towards Niall who is already, undoubtedly, staring at them with a knowing look in his eyes.

“I’ll just have a vodka tonic with lime, please.” Niall nods at her before grabbing a pint glass and heading over towards the taps, leaving Harry and Willa to themselves for a moment.

“What do you think so far?” Harry asks, his body mirroring Willa’s as it rests against the bartop, with nothing but his chin resting on his left shoulder, looking down at her under the curtain of his eyelashes.

Willa just smiles, cocking her chin upwards so that she’s looking right back at him, and Harry feels his lungs constricting for air. “Ask me after a few drinks.”

It’s coy and sultry and sexy, and the thesaurus in Harry’s brain is working overtime, but instead of getting lost in her gaze (something he’s quite positive he could do without really trying), Niall reappears with two drinks in his hand, sliding the clear glass over to Willa first before exchanging the pint for Harry’s credit card to start a tab.

“Cheers, Niall,” Willa says kindly, before taking the straw between her cherry lips and drinking a generous amount. The immediate rush of liquid alleviates the dryness of her throat, and she tries her hardest not to moan at the feeling.

Harry holds his pint up in Niall’s direction in thanks, before resting his right hip and elbow on the wooden countertop in order to face Willa. She mimics his movement, and Harry’s eyes watch every discerning shift of her body, the way her hips sway in her jeans, the way her tight blouse leaves little to the imagination. His eyes shift from her exposed neckline to her jaw, to her full lips, to the slope of her nose. Suddenly he feels parched, and he’s practically draining his beer once his eyes meet hers, watching the way her lips twitch upwards in a tempting smirk.

Before he can force his mouth to form words, a body approaches Harry's left side, and he feels the heavy arm of one of his mate’s wrap around his shoulders, nearly sloshing the beer over the rim of the pint glass. Sadly, he tears his eyes away from Willa.

“Who are you hiding from us, Harry?” He asks. He’s almost the same height as Harry, and when Willa looks at his grin, she can tell that he’s just trying to take the mick out of his friend. Before Harry can introduce her, Willa places her glass on the bartop and extends her hand to the dark-skinned man.

“Hi there. I’m Willa.” Once his larger hand is in Willa’s much smaller one, he glances over at Harry with a gigantic grin. Harry just nods back, his eyes showing nothing but adoration for the blonde-haired girl, and suddenly he’s realizing that his nerves about her meeting his mates were absolutely unnecessary.

Willa Tillerson can hold her own in any environment.

“Ah, Willa. Nice to meet ya, babe. I’m Marcus.” The inflection of her name only causes Willa to give Harry a look, one that’s laced with surprise and maybe a little bit of teasing. Because she’s found it quite endearing that he’s told his friends about her, and while the flush on his cheeks tells Willa that he’s a bit embarrassed by it, the quick wink she shoots in his direction tells him that he’s nothing to be worried about.

“Nice to meet you, too.” Willa takes a long gulp of her drink as Marcus starts talking to Harry about one of their other mutual friends. But before she could be left out for too long (not that she needed the constant attention to begin with), Harry suddenly asks Niall for another round and shifts the conversation to her, telling Marcus about her job and how successful she is at it.

She thinks that’s quite charming, to be fair.

“Wow, you’re working on a mansion in Knightbridge?! Blimey, that’s proper lush. Congrats! Pretty fuckin’ wicked, Willa,” Marcus says, reaching between Harry and Willa and smacking his hand on the bartop to get Niall’s attention. “Oi! Horan! Line up some shots, would ya? Harry’s date here’s earned ‘em!”

Both Harry and Willa try not to flush at the word date. Instead, their eyes meet through their periphery, and Harry’s not quite sure how long he can stay in this bar without pushing her up against the wooden walls and feeling her against every single ridge of his body.

Their eyes fall to the copper liquid in the shot glasses, noticing that Niall has poured a generous amount not only for the three of them, but for the rest of Harry’s mates as well. Willa doesn’t even look at them, though. She barely even acknowledges Niall when he shouts out a cheers! in their direction. No—instead her eyes are locked on Harry’s, taking note of the green and turquoise swirls, the golden sphere around his pupil, the way his eyelashes fan over the tops of his cheekbones, the way he licks his lips in preparation for the bitter liquid about to fall down his esophagus.

Harry’s watching her just as intently. Wonders how in this small space filled with people she’s the only person in his atmosphere. How everybody else has practically vanished at this point. How her hair shines under the shitty pub lighting, how her light blue eyes look like mirrors, how her red lips pucker a bit, her mouth hanging open just slightly so that Harry can see the tip of her tongue.

He can’t imagine looking at anybody else.

She doesn’t even want to think about anybody else.

Suddenly the shot glasses are in their hands, and without breaking eye contact, Willa leans a bit closer so that she doesn’t have to extend her arm too far in order to clink their glasses together. She’s so close that all she has to do is whisper a quiet, “Cheers, Harry,” in his direction, watching him mimic her words before bringing the rim to his lips and swallowing whole.

Harry’s eyes are locked on her lower lip, and he’s watching as her soft tongue darts out between the folds to lap up the whiskey dribble that never made it into her mouth. He shudders, his mind conjuring up any and every inappropriate thought, all filled with ice blue eyes and ruby full lips and her.

He’s not quite sure how he’s going to contain himself. But before he could harp on it much longer, Niall places another round in front of the pair, and Harry’s almost positive that the only thing that will make him calm down is liquor.

Or maybe, it’ll just make everything that much more difficult.

***

After an hour and a half, Harry’s almost positive that he’s going to burst.

He’s watching Willa from a short distance away mingling with the rest of the girls in his friend group. She’s taken to his friends quite easily, and while that’s impressive in its own right, Harry sort of wishes he could spend the entirety of his evening alone with just her.

Harry’s downed enough pints to make him that much more sociable, that much more calm, that much more pliant. But, the drinks have somehow made Willa that much more vivacious, that much more amorous, that much more teasing.

It first started when Marcus’s girlfriend complimented her boots, and somehow dragged her away from the comfort of Harry’s side. Before she could slip away, she made sure to rub her arm against Harry’s, flush her side against his, brush her fingers against his wrist, before slithering a couple feet away. He’s been trying his hardest to pay attention to the conversation going on in front of him, but every couple of passing minutes, he can feel Willa’s warm gaze on his. And whenever he looks over, she’s always staring up at him under her heavy eyelashes, keeping hold of his gaze before slipping the plastic straw between her lips.

Harry’s not sure how much longer he can hold on, to be fair.

With every passing drink that Niall generously places in front of Willa, she’s fully conscious of the fact that she’s turned into an absolute tease. And while she feels bad, she can’t really help herself, considering Harry is looking extremely delicious leaning against the bartop with the sleeves of his jumper pushed up, exposing his strong etched forearms and big hands.

She’s never one to lose her cool, but she can feel herself grappling with her self-control with each lingering gaze Harry leaves her with. Whether it’s on her eyes, or her lips, or her collarbones, or when he brazenly darts down to her chest—she instantly finds herself craving to be alone with him.

Willa’s not sure how much longer she can hold on, to be fair.

Once she realizes her third drink has been emptied, she kindly excuses herself from her conversation with Marcus’s girlfriend and slowly approaches the bartop near Harry and his friends. He notices her approaching just like he notices everything about her, and in a bold move, Willa sneaks by his frame, making sure to rub her front against his side, her hand falling just above his waist, as she excuses herself to get past him in order to reach Niall.

Harry doesn’t even excuse himself from his friends before he turns around and approaches Willa. She’s leaning against the bartop, her backside fully visible to Harry and he takes this moment to appreciate the length of her torso, the plushness of her backside, the reach of her legs. He places both palms on the wood outside of Willa’s forearms, easily wrapping himself around her body, resting his chest against her back. Willa smiles at the warmth, before adjusting her back a bit in order to feel the friction of Harry’s waist against her, noticing in her periphery the way Harry’s knuckles turn white against the edge of the counter.

“You’re killing me, Willa,” Harry whispers roughly into her ear, the tips of his curly locks tickling Willa’s cheeks. Instinctively, Willa tilts her head to the right, exposing more of her neck for Harry, practically moaning at the feeling of his lips so close to her pulse point.

“I could say the same for you,” Willa mutters back, pushing her backside almost completely flush against Harry’s front, and she jumps in surprise when she feels his right arm wrap around her waist.

“Are you suggesting something?” Although he’s whispering, his grainy voice cuts right through Willa’s insides, causing a shiver to run over her entire body. She can feel his words rush straight through her middle, falling lower and lower until they settle in her core, and she’s suddenly both hot and cold all over.

All of a sudden, Willa is spinning around until her back is against the bartop, with her elbows leaning on the edge, her front practically millimeters away from Harry’s. His eyes have grown darker and she’s fully aware of the rising and falling of his chest, and how his gaze has shifted towards her breasts, completely pushed out at this angle, and all she can think about is kissing his mouth.

But before they can, Niall places two more drinks on the countertop behind her. Harry’s hooded eyes snap up to his friend, and Willa takes note of the strained look he shoots in his direction. Niall clearly has bad timing, and while Willa would normally turn around and acknowledge the barman politely, she suddenly has the urge to dismiss all of her morals and forego most of the rules.

Harry fully expects her to turn around at the intrusion, but after Niall walks away and he realizes that Willa is still trapped in between his arms, his eyes dart down to hers and he sees her white teeth biting her plush lower lip, and he’s completely lost all self-control.

Willa runs a long pointer finger down the lines of his chest, and Harry’s eyes watch the path she traces starting from the middle of his pectorals, falling down the tenseness of his abdominal muscles, before settling just above the button of his trousers. Harry’s certain that Willa’s pupils are as dark as his, and when she lightly traces over the zipper of his jeans, a loud groan forms in Harry’s throat and he’s almost positive he’s about to break in half.

“I’m gonna head to the loo,” Willa says, grabbing her drink with the hand that was just tracing a tantalizing path to Harry’s nether region. Her grip on his forearm is a signal for Harry to move out of the way, but he’s suddenly found himself frozen in place. “If you’re up for it, I’ll make sure the door is locked.”

Willa sneaks away before she can take in Harry’s slacked jaw.

He turns around just in time to catch one last look at the undulation of her hips in her tight jeans, and suddenly he’s downing half of the fresh pint in front of him. He ignores the smirk Niall shoots in his direction, ignores his name falling from Marcus’s lips, ignores basically everything in his sight until he’s standing in the far less crowded hallway where the toilets are.

Harry waits until the girl in front of him enters and leaves the loo before he nearly breaks the wooden door down in order to reach Willa. He finds her by the sinks touching up her lipstick, and before he can even check if the coast is clear, she’s pushing him back against the door, flicking the lock with one hand before wrapping it around the back of Harry’s neck and bringing his lips to hers.

It’s as if time stands still, and it’s a bit surprising for both of them considering their minds have constantly been filled with visions of the other person doing exactly this. But as Willa feels Harry’s tongue slither against hers, and Harry feels Willa’s teeth bite at the flesh of his lower lip, and they both feel warm hands grasping at their sides—it’s as if everything makes sense.

Harry snakes his hands around Willa’s waist, leaving one above her hip while the other palms her ass in her trousers. Willa squeals inside Harry’s mouth, before interlocking her arms behind Harry’s neck, crawling her fingers up the back of his head, pushing and pulling at the soft tendrils along the way.

It’s everything and more and Harry feels as if he could finish in his pants, because kissing Willa is the one plaguing thought that’s driven him completely mad for the past two months. And now that it’s finally happening and she’s here in front of him pulling his hair and biting his lip and moaning his name into his own mouth, he feels as if he’s floating through air.

Willa slots her legs in between Harry’s before grinding her hips against his, and the sudden friction causes Harry to pull apart from Willa’s lips and rest his head back against the door, moaning loudly into the ceiling. The sound makes Willa squirm against his front, and she begins to mouth at Harry’s exposed neckline, running her tongue over his throbbing pulse point before sucking harshly on the skin.

Harry’s never been so hungry for a girl ever in his life, and with each lick and bite at his flushed neck, he can feel himself grow harder and harder against his pants. He’s desperate for friction, and once Willa begins lapping at the strip of skin just above the collar of his jumper, he shifts his hips forward so that she can feel him against her clothed core.

The force of the pleasure causes Willa to still against Harry’s neck, and when Harry pushes forward a second time, she can’t help the whimper that falls from her mouth. Once Harry hears it, he wraps his fingers in her blonde hair before bringing her face forward so that he can connect their lips once more.

Willa’s never felt so many things all at once—it’s as if an electrical current has shot straight into her chest, and the only thought she can think of is Harry. He’s moved his hand from her hip to her right breast, and the smooth kneading causes her to grind against Harry again, a breathless fuck falling from her lips into Harry’s mouth.

When they break apart for air, Willa can see her lipstick on Harry’s mouth and it’s enough to send her into a frenzy. Harry notes her blown out pupils, her messy hair, her smudged lips, and it’s as if he’s completely lost all restraint.

Willa’s eyes dart down to Harry’s stifling erection trapped inside his trousers and without even thinking, she begins to palm him through the denim. His forehead falls into the crook of Willa’s neck, and she can feel him heavily panting with each hot breath that scorches her already flaming skin. His muffled moans prompt Willa to pop the button of his jeans, her fingers falling towards the zipper slowly.

Before she can reach under the waistband of his pants, three loud knocks form against the other side of the door, and Willa’s hands immediately fall to her side. Harry’s head lifts from her neck, darting towards the door before falling back to Willa’s eyes.

She calls out a quick “one minute!” before breathing loudly through her front teeth, creating a soft whistle with her frustrated huff. Harry quickly buttons up his jeans before pressing his forehead against Willa’s, sighing breathlessly against her warm skin.

“As much as I like your mates,” Willa starts, “Any chance we can get out of here?”

Harry laughs a bit before nodding, pressing a quick kiss against her forehead. “My flat’s close by.” Willa finds herself nodding, her mind completely clouded over by lust and the fact that she very nearly had Harry’s cock in her hand in the inside of a public toilet in a tiny pub in the middle of Camden.

From the dazed look in Harry’s eyes, Willa can confirm that he feels the same, and all at once he flicks the lock beside them, grabbing Willa and holding her a bit close to his front as they hurriedly rush over to the bar to close his tab, praying her body covers his half-hard erection in his jeans that practically hide nothing.

With the safety of the bartop covering his lower half, Harry calls out to Niall before grabbing a handful of notes from his wallet, throwing them on the wooden top without even double checking the amount. Niall gives both of them a knowing look, taking in their flushed cheeks and unkempt hair, before cackling loudly at the pair.

“You two have fun!” Once they have their jackets, Harry grabs Willa’s hand and leads the way to the front door, not even sparing his friends a second look. He doesn’t even think to put on his trench coat, his body still blistering from wherever Willa’s hands were placed. She feels the same, rushing after Harry wordlessly as he drags them through the busy streets of Camden, racing towards his flat to keep this sexually charged energy-filled bubble from popping.

Before long, they reach an old brick building that looks as if it were once a factory of some sort, but was recently transformed into a modernized apartment building. Willa doesn’t get the chance to observe it much longer, because before she knows it, Harry’s punched in the code to the front door and shoves her into the open elevator door before pressing his lips back to hers.

It’s quick and hurried and somehow completely satisfying every craving itching up Willa’s skin. She’s not even sure what floor he’s clicked or how much time they have left in this confined space, but her fingers are pulling at his chocolate tresses and his hands are gripping her jaw and cupping her cheek and all she can think about is how much she’s been waiting for this moment to finally happen and now that it’s here, she’s kicking herself for waiting this long to feel it.

Harry breaks away once the elevator doors have opened, and with one last peck he’s gripping her waist and shuffling them towards the last door on the right of the short hallway, holding her against the slate grey door before picking up where they left off. Willa’s moaning into his lips and he can feel her clawing at the material of his jumper, and before they can get too carried away, he shoves his key into the lock and thrusts them both into his dark flat.

He flicks a switch on to the right and before Willa can get adjusted to the new light, Harry’s mouth is at her neck and his hands are inching their way up towards her chest, pushing her back against the door and she feels completely lightheaded.

“Harry, fuck. You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do this,” Willa says, her head falling back against the heavy door as Harry kisses along every inch of her exposed neck.

“God, been thinkin’ about this for months, Willa. You’ve no clue what you do to me, do you?” He’s speaking against her skin, his lips ghosting over the upper swells of her breasts. The feeling is almost too much, and Willa feels her body arching from the door and pressing her chest closer towards Harry’s mouth, needing every inch of his searing mouth against her skin.

His palm cups over her core above her jeans and she sighs out blissfully. He hasn’t even touched her yet, and Willa feels herself freefalling towards the edge. She’s not sure if it’s because she hasn’t been touched like this in a long time, or if she’s been waiting for this moment with Harry for months now, but she’s completely enraptured by him and all she wants is him inside of her.

“Show me, then.” Willa’s words cause Harry’s lips to pause against her chest. His head shoots up and his eyes meet hers, and Willa watches the smirk work its way against his lips.

“Is that what you want?” His voice is husky and he’s leaning in so closely that the words form over Willa’s swollen lips, and they’re enough to cause the wetness to spread inside her knickers.

Willa grips the back of Harry’s neck tightly, her fingertips ruffling the hair at the base. “I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Harry groans before bringing his lips roughly to Willa’s, dragging her away from the front door and leading her into his bedroom. On the way, Willa steps out of her boots, flings her jacket and purse somewhere, not even caring if Harry has a roommate or someone who would be bothered by the noises escaping their mouths.

Harry does the same, and she can sense that even if he did have a roommate, he could give less of a fuck if he or any other neighbor of his could hear what the two of them are doing. They finally reach the entryway of his bedroom, and when they part for air, Willa presses her body tightly against Harry’s and she can feel every inch of pleasure coursing through his veins.

She brings her palms to Harry’s front and begins rubbing him over his jeans, running her fingers along the strained length of his cock hidden under the fabric against his thigh, and the throaty moan that escapes his mouth is the only affirmation she needs to unbutton his pants and pull them down his legs.

Willa falls with them, kneeling on the hardwood floor and bringing her lips to the tip of his cock. She licks a stripe from the base of his shaft all the way up to the tip, making sure to outline the hardened vein on the outside, pulsing against his skin.

Harry shudders, weaving his hands around the back of Willa’s neck and gathering her hair into a messy ponytail to ensure it doesn’t get in the way. He watches as she wraps her mouth around the tip, flattening her tongue against the rest of him as she works her way down, inching herself closer and closer down until he’s practically completely enveloped in her throat.

“Holy fuck. Are you real?” Harry calls out between grunts, and the second she looks up at him through the thick of her eyelashes, he can immediately feel himself careening towards the edge, remembering how he thought of her in this position multiple times.

He pulls at her hair, signalling he needs her to stop deepthroating him. Willa lets him go, the suctioning pop reverberating through the quiet bedroom once he’s no longer in her mouth. She pouts up at him, and the vision along with her sticky lips is enough to cause Harry to roll his eyes behind his head.

“Christ, babe. I don’t know how much longer I’ll last if you keep doing that,” Harry groans, reaching down to pull her up so that she’s back standing in front of him. He pushes a strand of hair that has fallen in front of her face behind her ear, and Willa settles into the open palm of his hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the inside of his wrist. “I’ve been picturing you doing that to me for months. So the fact that it’s actually happening I just—shit. Need a minute.”

Willa smirks before inching her fingers under his jumper, walking them up the ridges of his stomach before settling on his chest. “Yeah? What else have you pictured me doing?”

Harry’s eyes widen at her forwardness and he can practically feel his cock twitch against his stomach. “You really want me to tell you?”

Willa smiles, resting her other hand against Harry’s jaw and bringing it close to her mouth. “I’d rather you show me.”

Harry growls before stepping out of his jeans and pants and walking her backwards to his bed. He pulls his jumper over his head, exposing the warm planes of his skin littered with various tattoos. Willa’s hands immediately trace the outlines, her lips hovering over the matching sparrows under his collarbones causing Harry to moan loudly.

“You’re far too overdressed,” Harry mumbles against her lips, reaching forward and pulling her shirt over her head, her breasts hidden under a nude lace underwire bra. Harry’s eyes fall towards her chest, before following the lines of her stomach until his hands begin hovering over the buttons of her jeans.

“Please tell me whatever’s under here will match,” Harry says, his mind completely stupefied at the sight of her half-naked in front of him.

“Why don’t you pull those down and find out?” Willa’s words cause Harry to whimper, and before she can even blink, Harry has pried her legs from her jeans, his mouth watering at the sight of her see-through matching knickers.

“You’re fucking incredible,” Harry says, taking a step back and watching the way she looks splayed out over his duvet. He’s completely hooked on her, one hundred and fifty percent fucked by the way her hair falls over his pillows, the way her chest puffs out against her bra, the way her long legs fall from the ends of her knickers.

He’s in awe.

Willa looks up at him in that way that makes his mind fall to mush, and with a quiet “c’mere,” he’s completely hers.

She brings her mouth back to his and his hands instantly fall to her back to unclip her bra. Her hands fall to his backside, pressing him against her clothed core, begging for friction. She moans when Harry’s lips fall to her chest, before wrapping his mouth around one of her nipples, lapping his tongue against the pilled bud, causing Willa to lift her back completely off the mattress.

His hands graze over her core, cupping her heat as his mouth moves to her other breast. She feels him push the lace fabric of her underwear to the side, before slipping his middle finger into her wet folds. She’s a writhing mess underneath him, and as much as she loves the touching and kissing and kneading, she needs more.

“Harry,” Willa gasps, her own palm sliding up and down his shaft, causing him to groan against her chest. “I need you to fuck me.”

He stills, looking up at her through clouded eyes. “Yeah?”

Her hand squeezes a little harder around him, and she pushes her body upwards to graze against his, watching the way his eyes shut tight in pleasure. “Please.”

He nods, reaching over into his bedside table for a condom, leaning over her again and ridding her of the last layer of clothing between them until they’re both flushed skin against flushed skin. His eyes scan her body, and when he looks at her, she can practically feel the devotion falling from his gaze.

“Are you sure? Can’t guarantee I’ll last long,” He admits, and as much as Willa appreciates his affable claim, she really just needs him inside of her. Without speaking, she grabs the condom from his hand and rips the foil open with her teeth, before sliding it down the length of his cock.

“I’ve never been more sure. Show me what you fantasize, Harry. I’m here.” That’s all Harry needs before he’s lined up at her entrance, slowly sliding into her warmth.

He makes sure to take his time, allowing Willa to get adjusted to the feeling of his length inside of her. It takes her a moment, but once Harry’s almost three-fourths of the way inside, the pinching feeling suddenly fades into something almost euphoric, and instantly her hand reaches out to grip Harry’s wrist by her head.

“More, Harry. I need more.” He groans into her neck, sliding out of her almost completely, before pushing all the way inside, bottoming out with one loud cacophonous groan.

He gathers his rhythm quickly after that, and when Willa wraps one hand around his glistening bicep and the other pulls at the curls at the base of his neck, he reaches down to lift her ankle over his shoulder, the other hand kneading her breast and his mouth latches against her own.

The new angle allows Harry to reach that plushy spot along Willa’s walls, forcing her back to arch off the mattress and her fingernails to dig into the skin around Harry’s bicep. “Oh my god, Harry. Yes. Right there.”

“Fuck Willa, you feel so good. Love when you say my name,” Harry says against her mouth, his teeth clacking against hers, tongue sliding in to taste every inch of her.

“Harry!” Willa calls out through a moan when he lifts her leg higher into the air, causing him to reach deeper inside of her than ever before. He’s nothing but a narcissist, and the sound of his name crying out of Willa’s lips is enough to cause his movements to falter a bit, his release coming far quicker than he imagined.

“Shit, babe. I’m close,” Harry says against her neck, his eyes fall towards her navel where he can see the tip of his cock push inside of her. The vision is enough to cause him to spiral down down down, but he needs to make sure Willa is close too before he completely falls into the abyss.

“Me too, Harry—fuck! Me too,” Willa squeaks. The fingers resting against Willa’s chin inch their way towards her mouth, and instinctively, Willa wraps her mouth around them, sucking deliberately while watching the way Harry’s mouth parts in wonderment.

He reaches down to circle against her clit with his wet fingers, and after a few more timed pumps inside of her, Willa’s crying out against his skin, her fingernails digging harshly into his bicep. Harry likes the pain, and that coupled with the sounds falling from Willa’s mouth is enough to push him towards his release.

He languidly pumps slowly in and out of her until her body has grown limp underneath him. Slowly, he pulls out of her, and Willa immediately frowns at the warmth dissipating from her insides. Harry rolls onto his back beside her, discarding the condom in the bin near his bedside table and trying his hardest to catch his breath.

“That was—”

“—Yeah.”

Willa’s giggling softly beside him, and the sound is enough to cause Harry to smile widely, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and bringing her to rest comfortably against his chest. Their skin is sticky from exertion, and Willa’s hair is knotted from Harry’s hands pulling through the tendrils, and Harry’s arms feel bruised from Willa’s fingers, but they wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Can’t believe it took us that long,” Willa says against his chest, causing Harry to laugh loudly from above her.

“Yeah, we fucked up a bit on that one, I reckon,” Harry says back, combing his fingers through her long blonde hair. Willa hums at the comforting feeling, and she reciprocates the same, running her fingers lightly over the moth tattoo under his chest calmingly.

Maybe it was the alcohol she consumed this evening, or maybe it was the fatigue to her body from what her and Harry just did, or just maybe it was the fact that she had never felt more comfortable wrapped up in another person’s embrace, but almost instantly, Willa finds herself falling asleep, her soft breathing pattern lulling Harry into the same comfortable darkness.

***

It’s the absence of warmth that causes Harry to wake in the middle of the night. He looks over to where he remembers feeling Willa sleeping against him, and finds that his bed is empty. The only reminder of her ever being in his bed is the crinkled sheets and the overwhelming smell of her shampoo on his pillowcase.

His eyes dart over towards the clock on his bedside table informing him that it’s nearly five in the morning. He looks around a bit to see if she’s crept into the en-suite attached to his bedroom, but he finds the light off and no sign of movement inside.

Harry’s a bit bummed, to be fair. Although Willa never explicitly told him that she’d stay, he never would have pegged her to pull a runner in the middle of the night. Especially after the mindblowing sex they shared.

Or was it just mediocre for her? Harry thinks, silently cursing himself for underperforming in any form. He can’t really blame himself. He’s been imagining Willa doing the unspeakable acts she performed on him a few hours ago for months now, so he can’t really blame himself for finishing quickly.

Before he can mull over any other scenarios, the sound of bare feet padding against hardwood flooring causes Harry’s eyes to scan over the hallway. Willa approaches silently, tip-toeing into his bedroom wearing nothing but Harry’s discarded white undershirt, falling against the middle of her thighs. Her hands are deep inside a box of Golden Grahams, and the sight is enough to cause Harry’s heart to thump loudly in his chest, relief rushing through his veins.

He starts laughing, and immediately Willa locks her eyes on him, her chewing abruptly stopping. She swallows harshly before speaking. “I didn’t mean to wake you! I was just, er, hungry.” Willa holds up the cereal box slightly, and Harry just beckons her over with his outstretched hand.

“You gonna share?” Harry asks teasingly, and his just-woken-up thick voice is enough to cause her lower stomach to warm significantly in pleasure.

Willa giggles quietly while treading over to the bed, squeaking when Harry’s arms wrap around her waist and she crashes into his lap, her legs slithering around his waist comfortably with the cereal box in between them.

He reaches his hand in and scoops out a large mouthful, before tipping the open box in her direction and allowing her to do the same. She’s smiling through her chews, watching the way Harry’s jaw works through crushing the cereal bits before his Adam’s apple bobs with each swallow.

Suddenly, Willa isn’t hungry for cereal anymore. She places the box on the ground near the bed, before wrapping her legs tighter around Harry’s waist, settling herself lightly on Harry’s lap. His hands wrap around her backside, his fingers squeezing the soft skin underneath her thighs, causing her to ground down a bit more against his hips.

“I don’t think I’m hungry anymore,” Willa says quietly, her hands falling comfortably around Harry’s shoulders. She watches his lips form that crooked grin that makes her smile right back at him, and slowly his mouth starts to lean towards hers.

“Good, because I’m thinking there’s other things we can be doing,” Harry says against her lips, before pushing her closer to his half-hard bulge and licking his way into her mouth, groaning at the sugary flavor residing on her tongue.

“Yeah? What’s that?” Willa’s teasing and Harry’s come to the conclusion that he quite enjoys her this way. Without answering, Harry reaches for the hem of his shirt and pushes it over her head, discarding it aimlessly on his floor.

“Whatever you want to do, Willa,” Harry says earnestly, noting the way her eyes twinkle in the moonlight falling through his window. She’s beautiful, and he suddenly realizes that his statement was true.

He’d do anything she wanted, as long as she keeps looking at him the way she is at this very moment.

Willa somehow knows how he feels without him needing to express words. She can see it in his eyes, the same ones that have looked at her for months through the crowded bar. And now that they’re in front of her, staring at her with nothing but adoration and fondness, she’s almost positive there’s no other place she’d rather be.

“I just want you,” she whispers, closing the space between them with a kiss, meaning every word.

[victorianoruben]

{Untitled yet}

Ruvik X F!Reader

Chapter 1

Warning: none, I guess?

Written by: me and @another-bryk-in-the-wall

(thanks to my best friend for beta-reading it!)

Sometimes the hours are blurring together on nightshifts. Sometimes they are extremely stressful. Emergencies where there are only two people on a shift.

Other times you have 6 hours of complete rest and boredom.

That day it was the latter.

You haven't been working here for long and already find this hospital to be “different from others".

Many employees were emotionally cold and absolutely not interested in anyone, while just some liked to make jokes with you and treated you like a normal person. Also, the whole atmosphere here seemed very private. There weren’t too many patients who were going out of their way to socialize or make friends inside of the hospital. Hell, most didn’t even leave their rooms.

You sat bored in the lounge with your mobile phone in hand until you suddenly heard footsteps. They reverberated eerily in the long hallway and you turned to face that direction, startled. It was rare that anyone was wandering the halls this late at night. You saw a man in a tight red uniform aiming to walk past you, not even acknowledging your presence.

Only when you took a closer look at him, did you notice his burn scars. They were covering half of his face. When he noticed that you were looking at him from head to toe you decided to greet him, instead of just awkwardly staring at him. A relatively meek "Good evening, Sir" came out of you. You felt very overwhelmed by his dominant presence, which intimidated you a bit. That feeling only worsened when you let your eyes wander to the top of his head... Was that his brain surrounded by glass? No, that couldn't be. You were surely imagining things. But, what if you weren’t. Oh god damn it, what had he been through?

He emanated a unique self-confidence unlike anything you had ever seen in anyone with facial scarring. Usually patients like that were unsure and shy, afraid of being judged over something they had no control over. Human beings could be downright nasty to anyone with a scarred face. Something about facial scars disgusted people and the victims could clearly feel the contempt of others and as a result, they tended to lose all confidence.

This man, however, seemed to practically ooze confidence, which you respected and you caught yourself of being fascinated by or more like interested in his presence. You felt how your heartbeat rose from 0 to 100 when you both made eye contact, though you tried all your best to keep yourself collected and professionally polite. But that didn't work that easily.

"Good evening.", the man replied, his face completely blank and his voice monotone. He was just looking at you without a friendly gesture, without a smile. The man was simply studying your appearance as well. One of the many abilities he gained over the years was that he could read people like an open book, left open for him to peak in. Someone had longer fingernails on their right hand and short on the left? Guitar player who doesn't want to destroy the neck of said guitar. Some dog owners always carried treats with them, even if the dog wasn’t coming along. All those little clues told him enough about a person before they even spoke their first sentence.

But you. He couldn't read you yet, and this peaked his interest.

You hadn't been here for a long time, because he knew all the long-term workers and their darkest secrets.

"Are you busy right now?", the man pointedly looked at the phone in your hand, currently playing a silly cat video. Truth be told, he enjoyed that kind of content, but would he ad this? Never. Absolutely never. He would rather get the other side of his brain exposed than to admit that he liked cat videos.

"I need some help with my studies. Care to join me?", that was a big lie but he was curious -

Who were you and why did you peak his interest more than the average nurse in here? He'd find out soon enough.

Only now did you wonder what he was even doing here during these late hours. He didn’t look like a doctor. Was he a lab assistant? He certainly looked like some sort of scientist.

Pressing your lips in a thin line with a weak smile you put my phone in your pocket and nodded, slightly mortified that he had caught you watching cat videos of all things. It surely didn’t look professional.

"No, I'm not really busy. I’m just having a long boring night- I mean, not that I’m complaining... I wouldn't wish for emergencies either. So, yeah… I’d be glad to help you," You fumbled a little over your words, still slightly unsettled by his presence.

You’d do nearly anything to escape the boredom of a quiet nightshift, though. And you weren’t really worried about him being some kind of serial killer. Sure, your colleagues were weird, but they weren’t really the kind of people to chop you to pieces and bury you in the closest forest. Weird didn’t equal serial killer. Besides, you were curious about the man.

You were walking next to each other in silence that was quickly going growing awkward. Nervously you were fumbling with your hands in your smock overall, thinking of starting any conversation just to get out of this uncomfortable silence.

"I've never seen you before. I'm still pretty new here. Do you work here as a laboratory or doctor assistant? Also, with many nightshifts? Is that really that common in this mental hospital? " You had narrowed your eyes questioningly when you looked up to him. By reading his facial expressions it didn't seem like he liked to answer you. His forehead was wrinkling in silent contemplation, which made you suspicious. It was unusual to have an assistant running around here so late at night.

Maybe you weren’t so far of with the serial killer suspicions. You actually contemplated hightailing out of there.

'Quick, think of an answer. She is just a pretty and naive nurse'

But even a little slip up could cost his head. He could tell by her tensing posture that she was seconds away from fleeing the scene.

‘That could end badly’

"I mostly work nights," he tried to keep his answers short and to the point. Laying on a confidence in his answer that he didn’t actually feel. He made sure to look her in the eye shortly and casually avert his gaze back to the hallway. If he didn’t look her in the eyes at all he would look like a liar and if he stared at her too much he’d look like one too. It was a delicate balance, that he had mastered over the years "That is because the nights are quieter and I can focus on the patients better this way."

You took a glance at him, still wondering about what his actual job was. His answer was too vague for your taste. But the curiosity was still grown inside of you.

You had decided to work in a mental hospital because the human psyche had always been kind of a mystery to you. Mental illnesses were both fascinating and tragic in your eyes. The mind was even more delicate than the body, in your eyes. It was so easy to break and healing it was a true challenge. It was your goal to help people with mental illnesses like depressions, dissociative disorders and PTDS.

So, you really wanted to know what this scientist - or whatever - was working on.

You both arrived at the door to his office. You signed an NDA before, but who knew what could happened once you opened mouth. He didn't trust anyone in this damn hospital.

"Do not be surprised by the sight in front of you once I open this door. All I am asking you is to check the vitals of the patients in the bathtubs. I want to make sure they are doing well but I am not entirely sure how to do that.", he lied through his teeth, ready to push you into one of the bathtubs once the chance was there.

Or could you be useful to him in the near future?

When you entered his so-called office after his warning you had expected anything - but that!

Never in your life had you seen a machine this far developed... It looked like something directly taken out of a science-fiction movie. The construction filled the whole room. There were wires everywhere, all connecting to a weird sphere in the middle of the room. Completely gob-smacked by the strange… whatever that was you took a while to take notice of the bathtubs. When you did, though you froze up immediately. There were people - no patients - in lying in the bathtubs, connected to the cables, which were attached to the back of their necks.

Like a statue you stood there for at least 20 seconds. Staring at one patient, you slowly went to him just to check his state. Curious to see if he was aware of his surroundings or if he was unconscious – maybe asleep . What was this system?

Could that reach possibilities to help several people out of mental illnesses or was this just a machine designed from a psychopath just for his own use?

And why would he need help from just a nurse like you?

You let out a sarcastic laugh, "Looking at this huge thing… I highly doubt that you don’t know how to check vital signs ", you shook your head and crossed your arms, taking several steps back, out of his direct reach. No way would you let him put you into one of these tubs!

You really wanted to run away and never go to the hospital again.

"So, tell me. What do you really want from me? Do you expect me to go into one of the bathtubs? Gotta tell you, that’s not gonna happen. I mean... not to sound judgmental. Because technically this could be something to help our patients. But I gotta tell you, this,“ You gestured towards the patient that was laying in the tub right in front of you, “looks quite suspicious and not very save. I hope the patients volunteered for this, because if they didn’t I have to report this. Don’t get me wrong, you seem to be quite intelligent and this looks interesting, but I cannot allow something like this to continue without - "

"- You are annoying. All I want you is to check the vitals of the patients and you are throwing a whole speech at me.", he shot back, not amused with your behavior.

"I am a scientist, not one of your doctors. What I am doing here could change the world forever. It is a system which helps people with heavy trauma to forge new memories and get rid of the trauma. Do you understand me?", the scientist continued to spit out. There was a look of passion in his eyes that you hadn’t seen before. They had looked quite dull and emotionless up to this point. It was clear to you that he truly cared about that project of his.

What you weren’t aware of was that the man had a plan. He'd snow you . Make you feel comfortable. And then, he'd put you in the bathtub too. The next one on his list would be Tatjana from the reception area. And then it was your turn.

What even was your name? He chanced a quick glance of your name tag, just enough to read "(Y/N)" on it.

"Listen to me, (Y/N). This is a top-secret project. If I find out you talked about it outside of this room, I will make sure you suffer great consequences. And trust me, I have my eyes and ears everywhere. Now go and check on the rest of these people before I get angry. Then, you may leave."

Author's Note:

I'm still unsure if I keep making this as a slow-burn whole Fanfiction or just cut the whole thing I'm planing into single parts like One-Shots

[babaleshy]

I'm Autistic

Because this will likely be a lengthy, wordy post about my self-diagnosis as Autistic as well as all of my experiences regarding Autistic traits, I'm going to leave a "read more" link so that you're not scrolling for ages just to catch up on your feed.

Ah, I see you've clicked "keep reading" or "read more" or whatever this site has it labeled as, now. You don't get to be mad at how long this is or how much of a waste of time reading this may be to you because you consciously clicked on the link. Therefore, I am exempt from taking responsibilities of eating up any bit of your time, including the time you've wasted reading this disclaimer.

So... Yes. I am. And it's a self-diagnosis right now.

You're probably thinking that I saw a Tik Tok clip, checked out a page on WebMD, and decided that I'm Autistic (this is in reference to a Tik Tok I saw last night that nearly made me spit out my drink because of how painfully accurate the "what people think self-diagnosis is vs reality" clip was). That is, of course, not the case.

A few years ago (likely 2018), I don't recall what it was I read online, but it made me go, "Oh wow, that makes so much sense to me," in regards to a neurodivergent trait. However, this was then I thought I had ADHD. My husband has ADHD, was diagnosed with it as a child, and because his dad forced the doctor (this was like, in the late 90s, early 2000s I think) to put him on Adderall and Ritalin, my husband does not remember 3 years of his life because he was a drooling, zombified mess. Why did his dad do this? Because his grades were bad. Did this help with his grades? No. Did his dad take him off the meds because he didn't get the desired result? Also no. My husband wasn't even informed on what ADHD was. He was simply told he had it and to take these pills. It wasn't until he (my husband) read the label saying that it could increase the risk of heart issues that he cussed his dad out and flushed all the pills down the toilet. Up until very recently, he wasn't sure if he actually had ADHD until he saw a YouTuber who was actually diagnosed with it display the exact traits he had.

But he didn't see this YouTuber when I thought I had ADHD, so my husband couldn't exactly relate, plus I didn't want to trigger anything with him on the subject.

But the more I researched, the more I realized I could be on the spectrum. It wasn't until 2019 that I was printing out articles, trait lists, etc. to highlight and put into a folder (which is thick and nearly bursting with what I've printed out to have a hardcopy of records highlighting the traits that I have, including traits my husband and my mom see in me) that I realized "I could have Asperger's."

Of course, I no longer use that term after finding out it was named after a n*zi, and I began to embrace the term "Autistic" instead.

But the thing that triggered me into going, "Wait, so it's not ADHD that I think I have, it's Asperger's?" was, like my husband, seeing a YouTuber talk about their traits and experiences. I had identical struggles, myself. (Through this same YouTuber, I also found out I'm greysexual, too! There's a name to describe my experience with sexual attraction! Yay!)

There are a lot of VERY SPECIFIC TRAITS Autistic people experience that aren't mentioned by the YouTuber or in anything that I've printed out and highlighted that I have found through various Tik Toks that I have personally experienced that simply further solidifies the fact that I'm definitely on the spectrum. When I showed the Tik Tok I mentioned earlier (I don't remember their name) to my husband last night, he was wide-eyed because the description of how that individual self-diagnosed themselves WAS EXACTLY WHAT I DID WORD FOR WORD HOLY SHIT.

I was already convinced I am Autistic, but each time I read Twitter threads of people's experiences with their Autistic traits, each time I watch Tik Toks or certain YouTubers share their experiences, it further solidifies that yep, I'm Autistic.

What's amazing is that my husband is very supportive. I'm extremely lucky to have married him. I've been a terrible masker but he loves me anyways. He never gave me shit for my meltdowns and tried to help me out, thinking I was just horribly overly stressed. Now that he knows why I've had the few outwardly noticeable meltdowns that I've had throughout our years together, he knows how to help me more, now. And while he's figured out my traits and what issues I have, knowing that I'm on the spectrum helps him make sense of why I'm like this, and he can help me accordingly whether it's to prepare for something in advance, help me calm down, etc.

(I should also add here real quick that there's a high chance I have OCD as well, but less of the compulsive actions and more of the obsessive thoughts, but I'm not entirely sure just yet if this is the case. I'm actually hoping to see someone about this but with the pandemic, I don't know when that will be.)

Now... onto the traits and experiences.

My Traits (that stand out with neon lights)(Will copy word-for-word a trait my mom or husband see in me and it will be typed in a different color.)

Having a folder that has all of my research I've obsessively looked up, printed out, highlighted what I saw in myself with one color (yellow) while highlighting what my mom and my husband see with another color (pink). I'm also using this folder to make this list as a reference because I sometimes forget certain traits I do have are because I'm Autistic. (I'm 32 as I write this, so when so much of what you think, do, and experience that you see is normal for you turns out to be an Autistic trait, it takes a while to get used to it and thus remember that because you haven't had a label for it your whole life.)

Despite being goth/punk, I dress as comfortably as I can. Textures aren't a very big issue for me, but what feels like strangulation of my body tends to be a problem. I cannot handle having the cross seams of pants feeling like I have a chopstick slowly impaling my vulva, or I can't stand how tight some shorts are that they pinch my hip joints.

I've NEVER spent much time grooming my own hair. It's either tiring, I"m impatient and want it done NOW, or both. This is why I have a Tank Girl haircut (all buzzed except for bangs), where I can basically "wash and go." (Husband does my haircuts and dyes and he's kickass at it.)

Eccentric personality; may be reflected in appearance.

Is youthful for age, in looks, dress, behavior, and tastes.

Usually a little more expressive in the face and gesture than male counterparts.

"May not have strong sense of identity and can be very chameleon like before diagnosis." (This resonates with me in the form that I never saw myself in ANY fictional character other than Tank Girl. My husband agrees with this opinion, but he also says he also sees a lot of me in Caulifla from Dragonball Super.)

I enjoy reading and films as a retreat, often sci-fi, fantasy, children's (sometimes), can have favorites which are a refuge.

Uses control as a stress management (like routines, rules, rigid certain habits, etc.)

Usually happiest at home or in other controlled environment.

I've been seen as "sensitive" by some, and mocked for crying a lot by others.

I struggled with social aspects of college and have 2 partial degrees.

Often have trouble holding a job and finds employment very daunting.

Slow at comprehending at times due to sensory and cognitive processing issues.

DOES NOT DO WELL WITH VERBAL INSTRUCTIONS; MUST BE WRITTEN DOWN

Special interests (I'll get into these later).

Emotionally immature and emotionally sensitive.

Anxiety and fear are predominant emotions (some of which might be due to possible OCD).

I do have some sensory issues such as visual processing issues at times, certain sounds, certain smells, food I think, and issues with sunlight and my goddamn retinas.

Moody and prone to bouts of depression. Both of my parents as well as my husband have described my personality as reminding them of a cat.

Mild to severe gastro-intestinal difficulties (some of which could be due to endometriosis, btw).

I stim a little such as leg-bouncing, foot-waggling, some hand-flapping, some bouncing, the "spine-shimmy," joint-cracking, or playing with my ears.

Prone to temper or crying meltdowns, sometimes over seemingly small things due to sensory or emotional overload.

Hates injustice and hates being misunderstood, which incites anger and rage.

Prone to mutism when stressed or upset, especially after a meltdown, likely to stutter and may have a raspy voice.

Words and actions often misunderstood by others.

Perceived to be cold-natured and self-centered; unfriendly.

Very outspoken at times, may get very fired up when talking about passionate/obsessive interests.

Will shutdown in social situations once overloaded but generally better at socializing in small doses. May even give the appearance of skilled, but it is a "performance."

Doesn't go out much; will prefer to go out with partner only (aka my husband).

Will not do "girly" things like shopping.

Takes relationships seriously.

There's a bit on this chart (some of you probably already know by know what chart I'm using here) that says due to sensory issues, one would either really enjoy sex or strongly dislike it. I'm in the former camp complete with a pretty high libido.

Often prefers the company of animals.

So there are the traits that REALLY stick out like a sore thumb. These come from a site regarding female Asperger traits or however it's labeled as. I have plenty more from two other articles I printed out with lots of highlighting, but the chart actually sums a lot of the definitive shit quite nicely. At some point in this list, I could tell I went "fuck it" and copied many things word for word anyways since I'll be talking about experiences later in this post.

But it was this chart that I'd discovered that I started to realize that I really am on the spectrum, and to triple check, I asked my mom and my husband if they saw any of this in me. The traits typed in green are ones I wasn't sure of and had to ask them if they saw it. I'm not always aware of how I am, who I am at times, etc. I also didn't want to lie about it, so I had to get second and third opinions.

Despite all of this, only very few people that know me IRL know about me being Autistic. This is because I was heavily bullied growing up and since I haven't exactly left my hometown, I really don't want whoever stayed in the area as well to either have more fuel and re-enter my life that way, or try really hard to relieve their guilty conscience and demand that I forgive them or some shit. I also don't want "Autism Mommies" to come at my ass either asking that I help their kid (I'm not fond of children so that's not happening, plus ableism is what fucks a lot of Autistic people over regarding of age but they won't take that for an answer) or that because they---a neurotypical person---have a child who's Autistic, then that means they know all about it and because I'm not exactly like their child then I can't possibly be Autistic. It's just a whole mountain of shit I don't wanna get into.

This next bit will be split into 2 parts. One will be my special interests, and the other will be my experiences from my past that are prime examples of being Autistic long before anyone in the common public knew what Autism actually was.

My Special Interests (Both Forever & Temporary)

The following list will have my special interests but with indicators in parentheses as to whether they are forever-interests (as in, I never lost interest in the thing) or temporary (meaning, it was short-lived be it by weeks, months, or a few years). This will be in chronological order, meaning: the order of which these have appeared throughout my life.

Barney (temporary; helped me skip preschool and become honor roll student in kindergarten though)

Halloween (forever)

the color orange (forever)

dinosaurs (forever)

Donkey Kong Country esp. for SNES (forever)

animals (forever)

Godzilla movies (forever)

monster movies (forever)

Pokemon (temporary; I still like Pokemon, but it's not as hyperfocused as it used to be)

Digimon (temporary; same situation as with Pokemon)

Dragonball Z (forever)

Sailor Moon (on-and-off)

Ultimate Muscle (Kinnikuman Nisei) (forever)

Freddy vs Jason movie (still like, but the hyperfocus was temporary)

horror movies (forever)

Transformers (temporary)

Dark Knight movie (temporary)

Harley Quinn (temporary)

Lobo (temporary)

X-Men (forever, but only certain universes, mainly the 90s cartoon, and the character is always Hank McCoy)

neon-colored stuff (temporary; kind of some sort of semi-rave/techno phase)

books (forever; this was when I discovered it's "legal" to enjoy books if you "aren't smart"; I may explain this logic I had later in the post)

sex/sexuality/sexology (forever on the first two, temporary on the last one)

BDSM (on-and-off)

feminism (temporary in regards to doing research and educating myself; I still hold the views I've developed as a result, just not obsessively researching this topic anymore)

anarchism (forever)

ecology (forever)

Pleistocene epoch (forever)

goth and punk stuff (forever after discovering what these things are all about for real compared to when I was in high school and had no idea how to ask, who to ask, or where to look this stuff up at in rural Ohio)

Hellblazer (temporary)

Serbian heritage (on-and-off)

bats (temporary)

arachnids (forever)

teratophilia (forever; finally have a word to describe this damn kink)

gardening (current; unsure)

Russian language (current; unsure)

DIY things (forever)

Towards the end, it may not be in the proper order thanks to slowly losing my damn mind being cooped up mostly in my room on this farm since moving back here in 2014. The two that are "current;unsure" are ones I have a hyperfocus in right now, but I don't know if this will be temporary or not. I certainly hope not, especially considering how useful these things will be. And while I have gardening as one of them, I haven't properly begun yet because I get empty promises from my parents where they claim they'd help me, not to worry about it, then get irritated when I ask where the help is and they suddenly can't give me the help when I told them I needed it.

I should also note that I don't exactly have an encyclopedic knowledge in a whole lot of these interests that are forever-interests because I'm normally exhausted just trying to exist with minimal trouble from people. I'm hoping this will change. The things I know I have an almost encyclopedic knowledge in would be Dragonball Z, animals/ecology, and... a-and that's it. That's really it. That's all I've got because Dragonball Z was so profoundly different compared to other cartoons I've watched in the 90s that it was a wonderful escape, and I grew up around animals, taking care of animals, and watching nature documentaries. The stress I went through growing up has caused my memory of some of that wonderful animal knowledge to be lost and what could be re-gained may be easily forgotten again, hence why I need to narrow my focus for what I'd like to be an ecologist for. While I love paleontology, I want to help the living world's ecosystems and environments, too. I'd love to go back to school for this stuff now that I'm more informed of who I am and what I want in life (as opposed to being forced to pick a college major while still in high school while I'm just trying to survive the concept of existence).

In terms of collecting things pertaining to my interests, a common pattern you'll see me have is a very slowly growing Hank McCoy collection. This is largely because there isn't too much stuff made regarding this character. (There also isn't much stuff I can find that involves Piccolo, Cyndaquil, Donkey Kong, giant ground sloths, etc. that isn't already snatched up by other fans.)

Now, I'm going to get into the list of experiences. Some of which will talk about my special interests, but I also really want to talk about my struggles, too.

Experiences That Screamed "I'm Autistic"

In gradeschool, I was friends with someone who probably wasn't actually a friend and her mom made her hang out with me since I didn't really have any friends. She has told me several times that she didn't want to be my friend anymore with some kind of hostile catty smile, but I just.. I wasn't getting it. Because there was a smile. Why say that with a smile? After all we've been through? Then she's back to being my friend the next week. She really wanted to hang out with the popular girls (yes, there were cliques in 90s American gradeschool) and has done countless things to sabotage our friendship such as telling me Barney is a fake, Donkey Kong was a real gorilla who hung himself, etc. And I believed all this shit, too, in an attempt to still be an acceptable friend. She even told me that I couldn't be a witch because I liked toads so much (toads were the only wildlife I excitedly interacted with in my back yard on a regular basis).

I love Halloween for many reasons, but one of them (aside from my favorite color being involved) was the fact that it was acceptable to wear a mask. I love (and still do) the idea of covering my face because I feel less "naked" to the world. So this pandemic had a small plus for me in the form of mask-wearing outside of Halloween has become somewhat more acceptable.

In 5th grade, another classmate who had more obvious Autistic traits and was diagnosed with Asperger's at the time was an asshole to me. They would constantly give me shit and bully me for whatever reason. When I finally took a stand, the teachers on duty at recess called me to the bottom of the hill, forcing me to look at them WITHOUT allowing me to have my hands up to block the sunlight that hurt my eyes, and were able to manipulate me into "admitting picking on so-and-so for no reason" because I chased them around the playground where a group of girls (the same cliquey assholes the former "friend" wanted to mingle with) had to group-carry me away. They're the ones who snitched and they gave me those same hostile smiles. That's when I learned that not all smiles meant good things. I was 10.

I sometimes "lose the ability" to ask for help long before the "help" I ever got in any circumstance was just me being met with frustration by whoever is trying to "help" me or I'm met with "sorry, can't help you there. (The former being with homework or school work, the latter being with going to authorities about bullies.)

Growing up, I was never girly (or girly enough) and I've tried to, but I failed miserably. My special interests would roar through and because it was too odd or different or annoying, it gave other girls fuel for bullying me with.

Regarding the lack of being girly enough, I was at a pool party with the former "friend" mentioned earlier and she started this "game" where she and the other girls would leap into the pool saying, "I love you, Leonardo!" This was in 4th grade and in reference to the Titanic movie, which at that point, I'd never heard of, because I was too pumped for the latest Land Before Time sequel. So when I leapt into the pool, I said, "I love you, Raphael." All the girls were confused, asked who that was. I then asked, "Aren't we playing Ninja Turtles?" Because the only Leonardo I knew of was a fucking Ninja Turtle, goddamnit. Who let you brats watch that shitty romance film anyways? Boring as fuck.

Aside from the occasional weekend visits or sleepovers at the former "friend's" house, I didn't get to socialize much, so I would spend most of my days (especially in the summer) watching what was on TV or watching from our very large VHS collection. During which I would make mental notes on how certain characters acted or what they said and try to remember that to mimic them in a social setting, which would be out of place because I'd be so focused on mainly the dialogue that once it prompts me to say the thing, they don't respond how I expect them to and then I'm at a loss.

I was very ignorant of music and didn't even know the concept of independent or underground bands existed. Plus, rural Ohio is a cultural wasteland. Otherwise, I would've gotten into metal, goth, and punk way earlier in life. So I thought that bands that existed were because television said so.

Speaking of an odd logic... If it was taboo or bad to talk about, I thought it was illegal. Thus, I thought any knowledge about sex was illegal and that it was supposed to happen "naturally."

I also thought that, because I wasn't considered as smart by my peers, some teachers, and even as such in the form of an insult from my parents from time to time (despite what they claim NOW), that also meant I wasn't allowed to enjoy books, because only smart people are allowed to enjoy reading. So therefore, it would be illegal for me, a not-smart person, to enjoy reading a book. So I had to focus on the pictures because if I enjoyed reading, somehow everyone would know and then I'd get into trouble.

I also thought it was illegal to talk about periods.

I socially struggled BADLY when I got to middle school because my brain was like... 4 years behind? How the fuck do people know all these bigger words? Or complex issues? This was also when I had to start suppressing ALL urges to cry because at that age, I'm not "supposed" to cry over everything. So I still, to this day, suppress it to the point of guaranteeing inducing a headache. Because I've always caught shit for crying.

Middle school was when I met an oppressive "friend" who was obsessed with me because she had a crush on me and was rather controlling of who I could and couldn't talk to and got pissy if I got close to making a new friend. Because I was desperate for a friend that wasn't like the former "friend," I allowed this abuse into my life.

High school was me just trying to survive. By the time I got home, I was too mentally exhausted to enjoy anything short of watching TV or whatever was rented from Blockbuster.

My brain was still feeling like it was years behind, and I struggled to keep up with whatever was supposed to be something I knew about, including the concept of masturbation.

Like I said earlier, anything sex-related might've been illegal to talk about, and because masturbation was still kinda taboo, I feared I'd get in trouble, but my teenage hormones compelled me to do it a LOT. It consumed my free time almost like an escape, a form of stimming, but I was shameful of it to the point of suicidal thoughts.

The former bullet was due to being raised in a christian household. My parents didn't have such views on sex like this, but I was afraid of being in trouble for asking, took to the internet, and caught some misinfo about how immoral it was. I mourned I'd be going to hell.

Speaking of religion, I thought it was illegal to change your religious beliefs, and there was only Judiasm, Muslim, and Buddhism outside of christianity (I'm Pagan, now).

While I was excited to get away from my parents presumably for good after high school, college was a new form of hell. The sudden, dramatic change in environment and lack of ANY preparation for living like an adult on my own caused me to mentally/socially/emotionally malfunction. I had outbursts I desperately tried to suppress, I felt stupid because everybody sounded smarter than me, I didn't actually want to go to art school but wasn't smart enough for anything else and never really bothered to better my artistic skills and thus felt like I shouldn't be there anyways, I struggled to fit in better, I had no idea how to function that certain habits such as neglect of my own dishes on my desk developed because I LITERALLY COULD NOT SEE MY OWN MESSES DUE TO THE STRESS I WAS EXPERIENCING. This was 3 or 4 long YEARS of this.

Attending art classes mostly run by very demanding (and demeaning) teachers while my art skills weren't up to par added to this stress on top of me not actually wanting to be THERE in the first place, just away from my parents.

I nearly ruined a friendship with a roommate because of my struggles. I'm not even sure if she is aware of my Autism because I'm afraid to approach her about it for some reason.

Plenty of times throughout my life where I'm loud and don't even realize it.

I've info-dumped on my parents, but right now they half or completely ignore me.

I've tried making eye contact, but it's like staring in the sun not in the sense of pain, but in the sense of by natural reaction looking away. When I force myself to make eye contact, I'm spending so much focus and effort into doing that to the point where I am unable to pay attention to what the person is saying. Instead, I stare at the mouth so I make sure I hear correctly the words they're telling me.

Each time someone is mad at me and gives me the silent treatment, and I inquire what I did to piss them off, they get madder because I'm somehow supposed to immediately know when I fucking don't. Then, half the time, they continue not telling me and I have to hear it from someone else. This further confuses me as to why they don't just simply fucking tell me.

I've annoyed people to listening to the same one or few songs over and over again. A lot (currently obsessed with the Sunset Overdrive and Tank Girl movie soundtracks).

I can "smell" the heat outside on a summer day.

I can smell other people's unique scents sometimes (especially when in someone's house; also experienced this in other people's dorms).

I can't remember what grade this was, but in high school, we went to some kind of space camp facility thing, and our class was split into two groups: one group was the group who was on Mars and ready to come home, the other was on Earth and can't wait to go to Mars. I was in the former group. My job in this little fun display interactive room thing was to examine the isotopes and report... uh.. I can't remember.. Report something that was off. Everyone else was dicking around with what they're supposed to do, and I was actually doing my job, and then said something, like I was supposed to, if I found something that was off (I don't remember the specifics). When the scientist who worked at the facility praised me on "saving the crew," I caught this look from the entire class a look I can't quite describe other than they didn't seem to like the fact that I did a good thing and was being praised for it instead of any of them (or they were shocked that a "dumb girl" like me could achieve this and get praise for it, I don't know.. hard to tell). This was a science class field trip, but despite this, I didn't have an interest in space, and still didn't feel I was smart. (Come to think of it, I think this was actually an 8th grade field trip, I can't remember.)

Just discovered this today: I'm actually very easily overwhelmed that could trigger a meltdown when I wake up. I don't know for how long until that point passes, either. But this could also be explained with how I've reacted to certain alarm clocks (the ones with the bells just induce pure rage in me). Either I will be on the verge of a meltdown or I'll have a fucking headache all day. Normally, I just wanna drink my coffee and either read or practice a little on Duolingo.

I don't always have enough room for a lot of info in my head for things that I like, so I have to carefully narrow shit down. Right now, I'm trying to figure out what to do about my urge to get my hands on some monster movies while making sure nothing else I've retained info for wanes. Not sure if this is due to stress or what. But apparently I have designated compartments for certain categories in my brain. If I get into monster movies, continue to work on my knwoledge on ecology and paleontology, and gain more knowledge about arachnids, that shouldn't impede on the "language" category, so whatever I learn in Russian will remain safe.

Interest "Webs."

I have what I'd like to call an "interest web." My special interests in one thing can lead me to having an interest in another. I care about nature, and I also care about paleontology. Paleoecology is something I'd like to dip my toes into. But because this all involves nature, I have an interest in botany (though it's still intimidating so I'm sticking with local native trees) and arachnids (after conquering my fears and learning more about them). So the web stops at arachnids there (no pun intended).

Back to ecology and paleoecology...

I have a major interest in the Pleistocene because it was just before we humans started writing shit down. Hints of that era echoes within our current environment, from the pronghorn being "unnecessarily" fast (due to miracynonyx, the "American cheetah," which is now an extinct cat) to avocados not seeding like they should without human assistance as well as the yucca trees (Joshua trees) going into retreat thanks to the absence of giant ground sloths.

But the planet is warming, and we could use all the help from plants that we get, especially when it comes to making sure that permafrost stays frozen. So there's this "Pleistocene Park" project taking place in Russia, and one day, if I get into the field of paleontology, I may want to chat with those involved in that project, but one can't expect every other country to know English.

There's also FROZEN PLEISTOCENE MEGAFAUNA CARCASSES BEING FOUND IN PERMAFROST, too.

On top of all of this, Russia's northern lands will become habitable for humans if shit hits the fan and the planet's mostly fucked, so it's still nice to know the language.

See how all of these interests intertwine? (It also helps that since I am of Serbian heritage but can't find accessible resources to learn the language and I wanna know a Slavic language that Russian is kind of accessible. It also seems to be the only Slavic language "commonly" found in colleges when it comes to foreign language courses.) This is why I call them "interest webs." Not sure if other Autistic people have them, but it's something that I have.

The second one could simply involve Halloween, punk, goth, monsters, and teratophilia with Halloween being the gateway because my favorite color is orange.

Just thought this would be a fun thing to touch on real quick.

My Sensory Traits

I do experience some sensory traits, but they're not intense like some people would assume (unless I'm simply not noticing how intense they can be).

I can "smell" the summer heat, which was something I thought everybody else experienced but I'm wrong.

My retinas hurt in bright sunlight despite not looking anywhere near the sun, which I also thought everybody else experienced.

Drinks taste different or off in some way if they're not in a particular mug, glass, etc. that the drink is supposed to be in. (I have certain mugs that I enjoy my coffee in, but the other mugs? They taste off. I can't explain why. I have ONLY TWO acceptable little tumbler glasses for orange juice.)

Breakfast food does not taste like breakfast food unless it's on this one specific plate from my childhood.

Dinner can be iffy on certain plates, but the safest go-to is the knock-off blue willow plates.

Lunch is acceptable on anything, but if I'm having simply a sandwich, it must be on a small plate.

I have specific forks I'd prefer to use because of how they feel in my hand, how the food-part feels in my mouth, and how the fork itself tastes.

Gotta have cinnamon in my coffee. I just do. It's not coffee without it.

I cannot fucking handle hair snippets of any size for any reason on my body. This is why there is a rigid procedure to where my husband must buzz my hair over a paper-towel-covered sink (to avoid clogging the drain) while wearing a particular tanktop Harley Quinn night shirt, and then I must shower immediately afterwards. During the haircut, my skin itches like mad like I'm being poked by the hairs directly even in places where hair snippets have never, ever gone.

I'm overly sensitive to the cold to the point of pain, especially in my fingers and toes.

Also cannot brush teeth with cold water because it's so painful (this was LONG before I had dental issues and persists to this day). Even my tongue hurts from it.

I'm picky as fuck with candy. Trick-or-treating was sometimes difficult because all I cared about was either orange-flavored stuff, or chocolate. Only specific chocolates, too (Krackle, Mr. Goodbar, Crunch, Butterfinger, Reese's, that was it.) Skittles were okay, but a lot of the baggies I got had a LOT the red ones and the red ones suck. Can't stand the other candies. (But my tastes have changed since then, and I opt for European chocolate from Aldi's as they are far superior, especially Moser Roth's 70% dark chocolate and Choceur's coffee and cream chocolate.)

Speaking of candy, the Whopper's Robin's Eggs tasted better than regular Whoppers and I will never be able to explain why.

Despite loving orange flavored stuff, I have trust issues when I see an unlabeled orange candy because there's the dangerous chance it could be fucking peach flavored. *gag* (I like real peaches, but the artificial flavored ones suck balls.) Due to my dental situation, I cannot enjoy very much in a way of candy, and the only artificial orange flavoring I CAN enjoy is through Vitamin D gummies... And even then, EVEN THEN I have to worry about the fucking peach flavors if I have to go with a different brand because we can't get our hands on a bottle from Simple Truth.

Artificial cherry flavoring is death.

The ONLY flavored medicine that was acceptable to me was orange (of course) and those dissolving strips that were grape-flavored that they don't fucking make anymore because fuck me that's why. Everything else was peer-pressured to do shots kiddie edition.

The different colored coatings on M&M's taste different from one another and I cannot explain why. It's very subtle, hardly noticeable, BUT I CAN TELL.

Peanutbutter is fucking amazing.

The smell of peanutbutter is fucking not.

There are these frozen meals my husband gets for days he doesn't have energy to cook and one of them (all from the same brand) smells like fucking hell.

My husband's Nissan Cup Noodle ramen overpowers my incense despite what other household members say.

I love incense, especially dragonsblood, "coffee time," pumpkin spice, raven, and rain.

All of the autumn scents or scents associated with autumn are orgasmic to me.

The smell of artificial cherry is death.

I would love to have perfume or body spray of Play-Doh.

I can compare smells of some places to others, such as the library branch I frequent smells like my gradeschool, as do SOME of their books' pages, and when my husband and I walked through this hall-like tunnel-like storefront in downtown Pittsburgh, I said it smelled like my grandma's basement, and he thought the same, so we're in aggreeance that all grandma's basements smell the same. Except for my Baba and Deda's. Their basement smelled like they actually still enjoy life and had their shit together.

Speaking of gradeschool smells, my gradeschool had two directions of classrooms, one led towards the gym, but the hall off to the side was carpeted, had some nice colors, and held 2 kindergarten classes and 2 first grade classes. That section of the building had its distinctive smells. The other direction led to the office, the cafeteria, and the hall with the 2 classes of grades 2 through 5 plus the preschool and the art/music class was. The smell was different in all classes EXCEPT for the music/art class, and I never went to preschool so I wouldn't know what that smells like.

ALL PRINCIPLE OFFICES SMELL THE SAME. HOW.

I could smell when my husband accidentally put in cinnamon when he thought he grabbed paprika in a dish that I liked. He was terrified of telling me. That was a happy accident and it became a permanent ingredient. He was mortified and shocked that I could smell his whoopsie in my dinner he made me.

I can also smell the cinnamon they use in Little Caeser's pizza crust. Yes. They use cinnamon. But I was the only one to notice.

Honey is like peanutbutter: it tastes amazing. But holy shit fuck that smell.

Gas stations smell like death, sadness, and questioning life's choices.

No two people's car interiors smell alike.

I can smell when it will rain soon, especially if it's about to storm.

I'm the one who noticed that hairy white oldfield asters smell like cake batter.

Dominant yellow filling my entire vision can be sometimes painful.

I used to be able to "hear" the color yellow in my head so much I thought yellow actually made a noise. It was a particular shade of yellow, and it made this Playskool toy-like clicking bell ringing noise, but really obnoxiously, almost painfully. I don't know how to describe the shade other than "cloudy pastel lemon?" It looked like the fucking lemon-flavored medicine I had to take as a kid.

My parents tried mixing in this cherry flavored death medicine in with my orange soda thinking I wouldn't know the difference but I did, so I dumped it down the drain and opened a new can because that can of Big K orange was fucking ruined.

Orange is wonderful to my eyes. But it's a hard color for me to find when it comes to getting things in a particular color. My back-up colors are red, green, and purple.

The sunlight hurts my retinas, even when I'm not looking at the sky at all, but the pain intensity increases the further I look up on a sunny summer day. This has been like this since childhood. Prescriptive sunglasses shouldn't be fucking expensive and should be covered by healthcare insurance.

I have to try really FUCKING hard not to stare at someone's muscles in person because ugh... Good thing I rarely see anybody who's well-built. (No really, this isn't even really a sexual thing, I'm so fucking fascinated and once I realize "oh, so that particular muscle looks like that from that angle", I get a glimmer of hope that I MIGHT be able to draw something humanoid since I suck at drawing people.)

Orange trees as so pleasing to the eye, and these are much more socially acceptable to stare at, lest I'm in person and the property owner might think I'm plotting to steal some (luckily I've never been anywhere near a place that grows orange trees).

Neon lights are amazing and I want them to come the fuck back. I swear, stores were so much more enjoyable of an environment when they were common. Such lights improve my mood in a way I cannot describe. I'm no longer in a hurry to get home if I am in the presence of neon lights.

Sunny days during winter are painful because the sunlight reflects off the snow. I'm painfully blinded if I look outside or go anywhere.

I cannot handle the sight of someone having boogers/snot hanging from their nose, not the sight of someone vomiting, nor the sight of an syringe needle piercing flesh.

I cannot handle the sound of alarm clock bells. I have woken up in a rage and been in a bad mood I try so hard to suppress for a good portion of the day. If I hear an alarm clock bell now these days, I wanna take it and chuck it across the room regardless the time of day or if I'm already awake. It's not so bad if I hear it from a video. In person? That's starting a war with me.

Children crying or screaming (especially babies) are almost painful to me and triggers my fight-or-flight response.

The reason why I was the loudest mellophone player in marching band was to drown out hearing the fucking trumpets. And I did; I was louder than the trumpets. (I quit marching band my sophomore year but for different reasons.)

Much of the music from the 80s that gave it that sound that definitely said it's from the 80s is very pleasing to my ears.

I love punk music for its messages, lyrics, and energy, but goth always puts me into a headspace where I feel like I'm at home; I'm at peace and want to cuddle the monster under my bed.

However, some punk songs can hit deep or strong and live rent-free in my head, such as Anti-Flag's "Racist," Bikini Kill's "Rebel Girl," and Skarpretter's "Nazi Scum."

One particular artist's voice I cannot get over because his is the first voice of any kind that makes me wanna fan myself is Peter Steele of Type O Negative. My favorite song, however, is "All Hallow's Eve" because his voice, the subject, and the lyrical content.

I'm able to hear something off in the oscillating fan my husband likes to use before he notices it.

I'm the one who can hear coyotes at night (doesn't help my mom wants to blast westerns to drown out the world and I'm back here in my room away from that shit though).

I can hear the branches scraping against the house, gently making creepy noises before I realize what the fuck it is, BUT NOBODY ELSE HEARS IT.

I can recognize the call of a robin because we had so many at the house I grew up in, and nobody else in this family fucking noticed.

I tend to notice the sound of the rain over all the house noise first.

I don't like tight clothing, which is why I prefer bralettes because my tits hurt.

If I could, I'd go without the bra because the band can sometimes suddenly feel tighter than it actually is, but because I have large nipples, I kinda need that bra for a bit of protection.

Shorts can be tight around the crotch, hip joins, and lower belly region, and that's a big no-no for me.

I'd prefer baggy pants, honestly.

Can't have tight footwear. No.

The seam at the top of socks or tights hurt my pinky toes if the whole sock/tights shift that way.

I already covered the hair snippet thing so since this is the sense of touch, another body hair thing is I kinda don't wanna shave my pits anymore because they are extremely itchy when they grow back. HAVE to shave my crotch because if I don't it gets horribly itchy, and my thick, fast-growing hair weaves into underwear, gets caught in pads, etc.

Ah yes. Pads. I hate them, but they're far more acceptable than a tampon or a cup because I have vaginismus.

Certain fabric textures are itchy as hell. There's a black shirt I have whose collar and cuffs are gorgeous but I have to wear something underneath to avoid feeling itchy.

Winter is hell for me here in the midwest, as I am very susceptible to the cold to the point of pain, especially in my fingers and toes. I become very slow, too. I feel like I can't get warm enough most of the time.

Air conditioned places in the summer feel almost similar, so I don't always wear shorts if I'm expected to go into, say, a Walmart with my husband to pick up everything. I'll shiver.

(We're gonna get into TMI territory here.) Can't masturbate by hand unless I've got a nitrile glove on because my brain only focuses on what my fingers are touching more than what my cunt feels.

Can't have any sex with my husband without anything brighter than low-light because things can be visually distracting in the room, or lights can suddenly feel way too bright to me. (Halloween string lights or those LED rope lights with adjustable brightness features and colors are excellent for this situation.)

In Conclusion

This is all that I've figured out so far. None of this hit me at once as a realization when I figured out that I'm Autistic. This took a while to realize it, and the realizations were mostly at random times through examples of other people experiencing it on the internet or through me going, "Huh, is that an Autistic trait?"

There may be even more that I'm currently unaware of or have forgotten to type here.

I apologize for how extremely lengthy this was. This took all day to type because of having to get up and do other things that needed to be done. One of the reasons why I really wanted to type this is because it's much easier to organize this on a computer, and I am absolutely shit at organizing files on my computer.

Unfortunately, while my husband is wonderful in supporting me, my parents aren't exactly all that great at it. Especially my dad, who is either vaguely dismissive or outright "forgets" that I'm Autistic (he honestly just... doesn't care, and tries to make things convenient for him at the expense of others most of the time). My mom... I'm not real sure. There are times where she seems to remember and others where she doesn't. I'm honestly wondering if they don't like knowing that I'm Autistic because that means my brother would have been as his traits were far more obvious than mine.

I hope that whoever is questioning whether or not they're Autistic has found this helpful at least in the sense that it would point you in the right direction on where to go next, but I would highly recommend checking out online Autistic communities, as that's where I've discovered that I'm on the spectrum.

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

Fig & When the Flood Comes | Short Story Update

Hi folks!

It has been some time since I’ve updated you on my writing on this blog and that’s because I’m back in university! Adjusting to Zoom university life has been really interesting and also a bit tiring, so for those of you who are also doing online school, I’m thinking about you! <3

Today I’m back with updates for two flash fiction stories I wrote for class. First we’ll chat about Fig! TW: this story deals with heavy topics such as kidnapping and murder so tread carefully if these are sensitive topics for you.

Plot:

Two young women held in captivity prepare a celebratory breakfast after murdering their captor.

Genre: Literary fiction, flash fiction

POV: First person present tense

Word count: ~947

Characters:

Unnamed narrator (unknown age)

Trying to “preserve the peace” but is actually chaotic

Dominant of the duo

Zip (unknown age)

Subservient, nervous, docile, unsure

Conception:

I honestly don’t know where this idea came from tbh! I’ve been on a steady roll with short fiction and wanted to upkeep that momentum throughout the school year (usually I write one short story every 6 months!) and I believe this idea came from an image of these two girls alone in an apartment. The story itself is not very plot oriented which worked in my favour because I was mostly interested in this intricate, undefined relationship between these two characters.

The writing bit:

Writing this story was very fast initially because it’s so short! I needed to keep the word count pretty low (under 1k) and so I wrote the draft in one or two sittings. HOWEVER, I was admittedly not very happy with the finished draft because it seemed a bit rushed and missing something. As my deadline for workshop drew nearer, I began some revisions to get the story ready which essentially boiled down to me writing out “the crux” of the short story.

Writing out “the crux” has become a necessary part of my short fiction process, and I’ve done this for the last few stories I’ve written: essentially writing out the “heart” of the story. This usually has something to do with character motivation/goals and how that interlaces with theme. I find understanding this very necessary to writing a successful short story.

I pants my stories, so most of the time, I don’t know what the story is even AFTER I’ve written it. So my process currently looks like: get an idea > write the idea > be confused about what I just wrote > write out “the crux” > revise, and this has been working quite well for me! Getting a handle on the crux allows me to have a clearer perspective on the events of the story/how that interacts with character, setting, etc, and so I find writing out a few sentences at the bottom of my document in this vein is crucial!

Aesthetic:

Now let’s chat about WHEN THE FLOOD COMES! TW: natural disasters

Plot:

A portrait of a community before and after a flood ravages their town.

Genre: Literary fiction, flash fiction

POV: The first half is told in first person collective (present tense), and the second half is told in first person present tense.

Word count: 593 words

Characters:

The community

There’s no autonomy in the narrative, the entire first half is told in this conjoined voice.

Unnamed woman

After the flood, we switch into a single first person POV of a woman who lives a reclusive life in the wake of the devastating flood.

Conception:

We do weekly writing prompts in my fiction class and this was one of them. We had to write a dual flash fiction description of two very different places and it had to be 500 words long (one half was one place, the other was a very different place)! If you’ve ever done a description exercise where all you write is description you know how hard :) this :) is :) I thought contextualizing this description as an actual story would make this task a little easier to complete and I’d gotten an image of a flood a few days earlier I wanted to explore so this was the perfect opportunity!

The writing bit:

Like I said, writing this was hard! It’s difficult to write a 500 word description that has poignant, relevant details and so I definitely ran into that, but centering this description around “characters” was really helpful. While the narration shifts to first person I think it’s quite seamless to the point where it isn’t all that noticeable. I decided there’d be a POV shift for ~thematic reasons, as the community is so tight-knit (hence the collective POV) and that sense of collectiveness is shattered (hence the shift to a singular first person).

Last night I added a section between the before and after to talk a little about the flood since that wouldn’t have been relevant for the prompt and I actually ADORE how this story turned out. I don’t often write flash fiction because I am ~bad at it, but this was really fun to write despite being so difficult to hit word count initially. The vibes are so eclectic and fun but then move to somber so quickly! For the details, I drew on a lot of my personal experience living in Ontario and would canon this story as being set in a Toronto suburb and the rural bits of Ontario not too far away.

Aesthetic:

And that’s it for this update! Hope to be back soon with an update for Feeding Habits! :)

--Rachel

[p-and-p-admin]

Interview given to The Severus Snape and Hermione Granger Shipping Fan Group.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/199718373383293/

Hello Lariope and welcome to Behind the Quill, it is a pleasure to talk with you.

Many of our group’s members requested you as an interview subject, but amongst more than a dozen stories in the HP universe you are probably best known for Killing Time, Second Life, and Advanced Contemporary Potion Making.

Okay, let’s jump right in. What's the story behind your pen name?  

So, there's a really common plant in my area called Monkey Grass. Most people use it as landscaping filler. I thought it was pretty and asked someone who had some what it was called. She told me that it's technical name is Liriope, which I heard as Lariope. This was around the time that book 6 was released, and it struck me as a very witchy name, particularly as JKR likes flower names. Which Harry Potter character do you identify with the most? Wow. Probably Neville. I'm certainly not as brainy or as confident as Hermione, not as out-there as Luna, not as athletic as Ginny. I'm less angsty than Harry and less apt to charge off in my own direction. And I am certainly not as thoughtless as Ron, not as strict as McGonagall, not as dark as Snape. And if you've read Second Life, you know my feelings about Dumbledore! But I was someone who took some time to come into my own. Often bumbling or nervous, but when my back is to the wall, brave and honorable. So I'm going with Neville. Do you have a favourite genre to read? (not in fic, just in general) 

I love fiction, but honestly, other than Harry Potter, I don't read fantasy! I tend to like "domestic" fiction, as in Anne Tyler, and literary fiction. I also really love Stephen King, oddly enough. Do you have a favourite "classic" novel? 

By classic do you mean like, the literary canon, or just not fanfiction? My top five favorite novels are, in no particular order, The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger, It by Stephen King, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay by Michael Chabon, The Temple of Gold by William Goldman, and The Secret History by Donna Tartt. I'm not big into the classics, which is weird for an English major to say. At what age did you start writing? 

I've been writing all my life. The first time I saw Stand by Me at 11 years old, I rewrote it with a new ending because I could not bear the death of Chris Chambers. I think I've always been interested in working with other people's texts. How did you get into writing fanfiction? 

I loved Harry Potter so intensely. I came to it as an adult at a particularly lonely time in my life. When book 6 was released I read it all in one gulp, and then felt kind of despondent when it was over. I thought of the good old rule of the internet, that if it exists, there is porn of it, so I went looking for what I called "Potterotica," figuring that it would give me an opportunity to read more about the characters I loved. I didn't yet have a concept of fanfiction, let alone fanfiction that wasn't erotica! As I read, I had the persistent feeling that I hadn't yet found exactly the story I was looking for. I kept feeling that I would do this or that differently. Then after the release of book 7, I was tormented by the fate of Snape. I really felt I needed to save him. That I couldn't relax until he'd had some love in his life before his death. I didn't have the sense yet that I could change his fate, only that I needed him to have happiness and love before he died.  I have a Master's Degree in fiction writing, so I decided to just give it a try. My first story was terrible!!! It was called If Memory Serves and was archived only on the Restricted Section. But it definitely forced me to reawaken some skills, and whetted my appetite. What's the best theme you've ever come across in a fic? Is it a theme represented in your own works? 

Hm. I'm not sure how to answer this question. I know that one of the things that I respond most strongly to in fic is a feeling of inevitability--that regardless of how or when, these characters had unfinished business with each other. I hate to use the word destined... but that feeling that there were many points in canon where something minor could have changed which would have changed everything and brought two characters together--and that that could have happened at any point, in any number of ways. I like very much when canon is reimagined or reinterpreted to make that relationship deeper--like reimagining the scene where Snape insults Hermione's teeth to have a totally different meaning in the context of their relationship. I think I am remembering Somigliana's The Traveller being particularly gratifying in that way. Obviously I play with canon a lot in my own work. I like for fanfiction to feel "real" as in, possible in a canonical context. What fandoms are you involved in other than Harry Potter? 

Almost none! I've been fannish all my life, but Harry Potter was the first experience I ever had of "fandoms," that is to say, community built around a narrative. I usually just freaked out over things in private. After HP, I tried very hard to get into the Sherlock fandom, because I had a dear friend from the SS/HG community who was into it, but in the end, I could just never become invested in quite the way I had with Harry Potter. Subsequently, I had children, so I mostly support their fannishness now. If you could make one change to canon, what would it be? Do you have a favourite piece of fanon? 

I wish Snape could live. I really do. He had a lot left to learn and a lot left to give to the world beyond the sacrifice of his own life to the cause. There are certain things I have ultimately accepted as head canon, as far as pieces of fanon are concerned. Honestly, they are so ingrained that I'm having trouble thinking of any! Sometimes when I watch the movies with my kids, I think, but wait, what about?... oh yeah, I forgot that wasn't canon. Do you listen to music when you write or do you prefer quiet? 

I need dead silence to compose, because I hear the words in my head as I write and I can't be distracted from them. But I often pick pieces of music that I listen to obsessively in my downtime when I'm writing a story, that I think of as sort of like theme songs. Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova was one for Second Life. Table for Glasses by Jimmy Eat World still calls up Dark Santiago for me. What are your favourite fanfictions of all time? 

Oooh. Ok. So I read a lot of Drarry, and I pretty much love everything that Sara's Girl has ever written. Somigliana's work--the Traveller was amazing. All the Best and Brightest Creatures by Wordstrings (Sherlock). I also really loved greywash's Sherlock fic. There was an SSHG that has been long since removed that was called Dear January--I still think of it.  I loved all the epics of my particular time in the SSHG fandom. Mia Madwyn, Subversa, Loten. Are you a plotter or a pantser? How does that affect your writing process? 

Definitely a plotter. I kept pages and pages of working notes and planning points as I was writing Second Life. I always began a chapter with a working document of where I thought the chapter was going, as well as a reread of that portion of canon.  Points of discovery along the way still happened all the time--I'd be in the midst of something I had planned when all of a sudden I'd see some point of connection I hadn't even thought of, and something would open up bigger than I had thought it would be. I remember in particular the end of the Bathilda Bagshot chapter of Second Life, when Snape is running toward James and Lily's house and feeling like time is doubling back on itself--I didn't see that parallel until I was in it.  I think you always have to have room to surprise yourself, even in the thick of your planning. That sense of discovery affects the reader's journey through your work. What is your writing genre of choice? 

Haha, fanfiction is my writing genre of choice. No, I wrote short stories when I was pursuing my degree in fiction, which is kind of hilarious now, as I became sort of known for my long-windedness. Why say 100 words when 10,000 would do? I grew to love the novel during my time in fanfiction. It would be hard to imagine turning back to a shorter form now. But who knows. I always tell myself that once the children are grown I will get back to writing. I was beginning a sort of cross between fantasy and domestic fiction when I had children and I still think the idea has legs. Which of your stories are you most proud of? Why? 

Oh, different ones for different reasons. I think Dark Santiago is the most structurally tight and sound thing I've ever done. Second Life is like a miracle that it even happened, that I was able to control such a behemoth and bring it home. I was terrified the whole way. And weirdly, there's a drabble series that is called The Sins of Severus Snape that I am still really proud of. I think of those like linked poems. A real exercise in being concise for someone who likes to sprawl all over the page. Did it unfold as you imagined it or did you find the unexpected cropped up as you wrote? What did you learn from writing it?  

I think I've pretty much covered those questions in all my ramblings. I knew the general structure, I was happily surprised along the way, and I learned to write novels from writing fanfiction, Second Life in particular. How personal is the story to you, and do you think that made it harder or easier to write? 

There's not a lot of personal parts of the story to me in Second Life. I mean, every character is drawn from me, in a way, just because they come into being informed with my way of looking at and understanding the world and other people. But there isn't a lot in there that echoes my experience. Advanced Contemporary Potion Making was personal, and I think you can feel that in the story. It takes the biggest step away from canon. It wasn't hard to write, but it was hard to live. And now, as I look back, I have a different perspective on my life and on the story itself than I did at the time that I wrote it. What books or authors have influenced you? How do you think that shows in your writing? 

Oh man, Stephen King is all over my writing. I don't think I've ever written a sex scene that didn't have a grain of that scene in the sewers of It inside it. Not because of the child thing--I know that skeeves people out about that scene--but because in it, Beverly discovers the power of sex--sex as a force, a life-giving force, something with teeth. I think that idea shows up a lot in Second Life. I like fiction in which you are very much inside the character's heads, and I think that's apparent in my writing. I think I got that initially from Stephen King, who leaps around inside his different character's heads sometimes in the same paragraph! I also think the theme of unending loyalty, the power of friendship, the triumph of good over evil--those are very Kingian themes that I recognized in Potter and then carried into my own writing. Do people in your everyday life know you write fanfiction? 

Yes. That wasn't always the case. During the time that I was active in the fandom, I was a young elementary school teacher, and I dreaded anyone finding out that I wrote sex scenes with children's book characters. I was very private about my fanfic then, and even a few of my closest real life people did not know. My parents still do not know. My children are teenagers now and into fanfiction in their own right; they know I wrote it, but they don't know my ship or my pen name. My husband has read most of Second Life. I recently started a new job, and during one of those "get to know you" games, I was asked to share something that other people wouldn't guess about me. I said that I had once been a fanfiction writer. How true for you is the notion of "writing for yourself"? 

Mmm. I wrote the stories I wanted to read. Do you know what I mean? I wrote things because that's how I wanted to see them, how I wished they were, and I wrote to my own preferences. But writing in real time, for people who were actually reading and responding--that was crucial to the process. My biggest fear during the writing of Second Life was that I wouldn't finish it, or that I would lose control of it and it would become crap. "Breaking the story," I used to say, and I was terrified of breaking the story. But the fact that there were people experiencing it with me and waiting for it, reacting to it, and giving insightful feedback--that helped keep me very focused and motivated. I never wrote something because I thought it would be appealing to others, but I was so gratified that what I wrote did appeal to others. How important is it for you to interact with your audience? How do you engage with them? Just at the point of publishing? Through social media? 

I had a LiveJournal and although I was not a frequent poster, I read my friends list every day during that time. I read what everyone else was reading and talked about the stories and themes that everyone else was talking about. I made a number very close friends during that time--other authors, people who were reading my stories and commenting. We talked on the phone frequently, and I had a team of beta readers. I went to conventions. I participated in the ss/hg exchange. A lot of those people were my audience, were reading my stories. And many of them became my good friends. I had a policy to answer all reviews when I was writing Second Life, and I did that until I was unable to do it anymore. When I had multiple stories it got much harder. That community changed a lot toward the end of my time in it. People were leaving LiveJournal, and Tumblr was on the rise, which felt like a much bigger pond. AO3 was replacing the smaller archives on which I had really grown as a writer. And once the movies were over and there was no more "fresh canon," people started to drift away. I do think that I might have lasted longer if that tight knit community had stayed in place. It played a big role in my commitment to my work and continued enthusiasm. As a side note, one of the friends I made in the SS/HG community is still my best friend. She is the "aunt" to my children, and we still talk on the phone weekly and visit at least yearly. What is the best advice you've received about writing? 

If you want to write, then write. Make a routine. Write a certain number of words a day. Read them out loud to yourself. You'll hear your own bad habits and improve them.

What do you do when you hit writer's block? 

If I'm already in a project, I will force myself to write a certain number of words per day. I will hold a scene that I'm longing to write out in front of myself like a carrot. Like, if you write this transition part that feels yucky and like you are stuck in it, then you can write the big reunion scene that you know is coming. If I'm not in a project... well, then I don't get through it. I just don't start a new project.  If I need to write a story, as I did during graduate school or during the ss/hg exchange--I would do this thing one of my professors suggested--pick three headlines, words or ideas that have interested you over time and force them into the same story. Dark Santiago was that way. I had the prompt of fortune telling. I added an idea about the way magic works for muggleborns and the ocean town where I was living. Voila: Dark Santiago.   Has anything in real life trickled down into your writing? 

I'm sure it has in ways I can't even see. I remember once talking to a friend on the phone about Second Life as I was writing it, and she pointed out that the fact that I'm a Quaker was informing the story--like my own perspective on war and the horrors of violence were bleeding into the the kind of philosophy of Second Life. Do you have any stories in the works? Can you give us a teaser? 

I don't. I wish I did! I often miss my time in fandom, the spirit of creativity and community, all those ideas just bubbling out in every direction. Any words of encouragement to other writers? 

I don't believe that the end goal of fanfiction is to become a published writer, just as I don't think every guitarist has to have the goal of selling out a stadium, or every golfer has to want to compete in the Masters. I think you can love a thing without making it your livelihood. You become a "real" author the minute someone else reads a story that you wrote. Many of you reading this right now are people who made me an author. It is, as Stephen King once wrote, a kind of telepathy. I thought of something once, in 2008, in the southeast of the US, and you can read it right now wherever you are, and experience the thoughts and feelings I was dreaming up then. It's a wonderful gift, writing. And working among people who are dedicated to improving their craft and talking about stories and ideas--that is just the very best ground for making something that makes YOU proud. Thanks so much for giving us your time.  

Thank you! I am really honored to be asked

[cluttermind]

Without A Parachute (4/?) - Smoke and Ashes

Summary:  Emma worked tremendously hard to give herself a better chance. From group homes, to living in her car, to ivy league student, this English Major’s only solace was escaping her reality through books. One night, Emma comes home to find a small package with only her name on it written in beautiful calligraphy. The package contains a thick, brown leather journal. Emma soon learns that the fiction she writes in the journal eventually becomes reality. Will Emma learn to control this gift, or will she fall too fast into the temptation to change too much? With the help of her good friends August, Robin, and Elsa, and the mysterious, intriguing bartender of The Jolly Roger, Emma discovers just how easy it is to lose control, and how difficult it is to pick up the pieces.

Rating: M

Words: 14,041 total / 3,559 Ch 4

Read on ao3: Beginning | Current

Note: I thought this would take a lot longer to write than it did. This one kind of wrote itself.

I'm adding a trigger warning as the end of this one is a little dark. I hope you enjoy it either way! Things are really starting to move forward plot wise :)

TW: implied attempted sexual assault and under-aged drinking.

//

Chapter 4

“Smoke and Ashes”

I heard the church bells from afar

But we found each other in the dark

And when the smoke does finally pass

We will rise above all the ash

- City and Colour, We Found Each Other In The Dark

“It’s open!” August shouted from the kitchen of his large studio apartment. Emma opened the door and stepped in. “Emma! You’re late!” Ela and Robin called out hellos from their spots around the coffee table.

“Yeah I didn’t sleep much last night. What’s for brunch?” She asked, walking to take her seat next to Elsa on the floor in front of the couch.

“Chocolate chip pancakes” Elsa said, licking her lips. “Hurry up, August! I’m starving!” She whined dramatically, nudging Emma.

“Yeah August. Hurry before we perish.” Emma played along with Elsa, attempting to rile August. Robin chuckled, rolling his eyes at their antics. He was sitting across from Elsa, his laptop already open on the coffee table, typing away at a paper due in a few days.

“Nope. You were late. You can perish.” August retorted, flipping pancakes to be added to the growing pile next to him.

Emma gasped playfully. “Rude.” She pulled out her macroeconomics textbook just as her phone buzzed.

Killian Jones: Leaving before I wake up? Classy, Swan ;)

Emma Swan: I left a note!

Killian Jones: But without a kiss goodbye

Emma grinned at her phone like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Emma Swan: Then I guess it wasn’t goodbye ;)

“Well, well, well.” Elsa toyed, “Who are you texting Emma Swan?” August finally finished making an enormous pile of pancakes and brought the tray over to the table. Robin helped by running to grab some plates and silverware.

“Oh uhm Ruby.” Emma lied. “We’re joking about how awful our econ professor is.”

“Well I’m more interested in what the hell happened on Thursday,” Robin chimed in, handing Emma a plate. So much for being in a bubble.

Emma took a deep breath, hugged her knees to her chest and gave them the CliffNotes version of the story. Elsa rubbed her back the entire time. Saying it out loud somehow didn’t crush her they way it had before, as if the words no longer carried the weight they once did.

“Emma that’s awful!” Elsa nearly yelled when she finished speaking. “Don’t listen to a word he says. What kind of professor does that?!”

“What did he say to you after class?” August asked between taking bites of his pancakes.

“That I don’t have what it takes to be a writer.” Emma said, pausing, Killian’s words from last night echoing in her head. You get to make your own choices. Make them based on what makes you happy. “But he’s wrong.”

Her friends, being the wonderful, supportive people they are, stood strongly by her side. Yelling to each other how ridiculous this professor is, how he shouldn’t be a professor, and how brilliant their friend is. In that moment, Emma felt the least alone she had ever felt - surrounded by intelligent, kind, and loving friends who taught her what it means to be a part of a family. Because that’s what they were to her. They were her family. Her beautiful, ridiculous family.

After the yelling had died down and the excessively large pile of pancakes had been eaten, they spent all day studying, taking only a few short snack breaks. Before they knew it, it was dark outside. It was usually around now that they’d quit for the night, having finished enough to go the rest of the weekend relaxing. August nearly slammed his book shut, making the rest of them flinch.

“Geez, August. What’d the book ever do to you?” Robin asked.

“It existed.” August quipped, dramatically. “Can we be done? I need to be done.”

“I think I’ve done all I can for this weekend too.” Elsa said, closing her laptop. “What’re we doing tonight? Movies? Pizza?”

“I could go for a drink, honesty.” Robin responded, mirroring Elsa as he closed his own laptop.

“Drinks anywhere that also has food is usually expensive.” Emma stated.

“Yeah I guess.” August paused. “Oh! What about The Jolly Roger? It’s not that expensive right? Plus if I remember correctly, their onion rings are insane.” August was nearly salivating remembering the onion rings. The last time they had gone together was sometime last semester to celebrate the end of midterms.

“Right! I forgot how good those were.” Elsa responded. “Okay if we’re actually going out I need to change.”

“I’m so hungry. You look fine. Let’s just go.” August responded. Emma giggled about how the tables have turned since this morning when they were the ones complaining about being hungry.

“I’m not going to a bar in leggings and a sweatshirt.” Elsa threw her things in her bag. “Emma and I will meet you guys there in an hour. I have this beautiful dress that you just have to wear tonight.”

“Oh this isn’t an outing outing! We’re going for food!” Robin groaned.

“If we’re going to a bar, we’re going to a bar . It’s been way too long since we actually went out.” Elsa claimed. There was no arguing with her. She was pretty determined to make this happen. Plus, she wasn’t wrong. It had been a while since they went out together. She considered texting Killian to make sure he was working, but she knew he would be since he took yesterday off and thought she’d surprise him.

Emma shrugged and grabbed her things while August grumbled, grabbing the remote to turn the TV on for a bit.  She followed Elsa out the door. At Elsa’s dorm, she handed Emma a simple, low cut, black dress. It was tight, ruched, and hugged her in all the right places. And the glitter got everywhere. Despite Emma’s protests about the glitter, Elsa insisted she wear it. She also insisted that Emma let her do her makeup and that she wear the black heals that ‘go so perfectly with it it’d be a cardinal sin not to wear them.’ Eventually Emma got to look at herself in the mirror, her dainty gold chain with a small gold book charm falling against her bare chest above the deep neckline of the black dress. Elsa was right, the shoes did go perfectly. And her red leather jacket actually pulled the look together.

Except it was freezing outside. Like actually freezing. All she wanted was her sweatshirt that was in her backpack that was now sitting in Elsa’s room.

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Emma said, shivering as they waited for the bus.

“Oh come on! It’s not that cold. Plus you look great.”

“August might kill us. We’re so late.”

“We’re 20 minutes late.”

“We’re 30 minutes late Elsa.” Emma laughed as Elsa shugged, clearly not caring about August’s desire for food as they finally stepped onto the slightly crowded bus.

“August will live.”

“I’m more concerned about Robin having to deal with him.” Really what Emma was nervous about was seeing Killian. Butterflies filled her stomach when she thought about seeing him in something other than jeans and a sweater.

15 minutes later, they walked through the doors of The Jolly Roger 45 minutes late. Emma was grateful for the warmth of the pub. She instantly spotted August waving them over. He and Robin had already ordered and had food in front of them.

“Look who finally decided to show up.” Robin joked, drinking the last of his beer.

“Blame Elsa.” Emma playfully nudged her friend next to her.

“Fine fine. This round’s on me. Emma help me with the drinks?”  Elsa said, leading them to the bar.

That’s when Emma saw him, handing a customer a drink at the bar. Part of her wanted to run and hir, the other part of her wanted to run to him. He looked up from his customer and looked in her direction. She swore her heart nearly stopped when he smiled at her, eyes drinking her in.

“Swan.” Killian said, grinning at her as they approached. “Isn’t this a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming tonight.”

I did say it wasn’t goodbye earlier, didn’t I? Emma thought.

“You two know each other?” Elsa asked.

“Aye. We do.” Killian said.

“Killian owns the pub. I come here to study during the week when it’s quiet. Sometimes he feeds me.” Emma said. Killian raised an eyebrow at her.  “Okay fine. He feeds me a lot. Killian this is my friend Elsa. Elsa, this is Killian.” Elsa was staring wide-eyed at Emma, mouth open, silently screaming how did you not tell me about him?!  

“Nice to meet you lass.” Killian said politely. His eyes, however, never left Emma’s and Elsa turned her attention back to him. “What can I get you?”

“4 beers and 4 shots of tequila.” Elsa chimed.

“Grilled cheese?” Killian asked Emma.

“With onion rings apparently. The thought of Smee’s onion rings were making August drool earlier. And make it two.” She responded as Killian poured their shots and set them in front of them. Elsa carefully grabbed three of them, letting Emma know she’ll meet her back at the table. Emma downed her shot quickly, wincing as the clear liquid burned her throat. Killian’s gaze sent a warmth up her neck and to her cheeks.

“You look nice, Swan.” He said eventually, pouring them each a shot. Killian held his glass to gently tap it against hers. They both downed the shot.

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

“Aye, I know that, love. But I wear this every day.” Killian leaned forward on the bar in front of her. “So what’s the fun fact of the day?”

Emma looked confused. “The what?”

“You usually greet me with a weird fact whenever you come in here.” He paid attention. He listened to me , Emma thought. Part of her thought he never paid attention to the random things that came out of her mouth. She smiled. He was listening.

So she took a risk. “The whole button down, vest, fitted jeans thing really works for you.” Emma flirted.

Killian took the bait, smirking and raising an eyebrow at her, his voice dropping to a place she hadn’t heard before. “That black dress is really working for me. And I happen to quite like the red leather, love” Emma blushed bright red, her face matching the color of her jacket, and Killian pushed back against the bar, standing straight again. “Your friends are waiting for you. I’ll have Ruby bring your drinks in a second.”

“Tell Smee to rush that grilled cheese. I’m starving.” Emma said as she walked away, returning to the table her friends were at.

“Excuse me but who was that? What was that?” Elsa asked immediately.

“He’s the owner. I told you.” Emma stated, trying to avoid that conversation. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah, okay.” Elsa scoffed. Ruby brought over their drinks and another round of shots, and Elsa’s attention was suddenly elsewhere.

“Hey Emma! The shots are on the Captain.” Ruby said as she set everything down. “Anything else I can get you?”

Emma looked over at the bar to see Killian wink at her. She smiled and rolled her eyes at him. “I think we’re good."

For over an hour, they ate a little too much, drank a bit, and gossiped a little too much about the rumor going around the English Department that a student was sleeping with a professor. After a while Elsa went to get another drink and Robin went to talk to some friends in one of his classes, leaving August and Emma alone at the table.

“Elsa’s flirting with the bartender.” August commented.

Emma's eyes went wide with . . . jealousy? Not that Emma had any reason to be jealous. Killian could flirt with whomever he chose to. They spent one night together, literally sleeping. It didn’t mean anything. Did it?  

August noted her confusion and nodded his head in Elsa’s direction. Emma turned to look where he was motioning to. Elsa was leaning forward on the bar talking to Ruby. They were giggling and Elsa was blushing, sipping on her drink.

“She looks happy” Emma smiled. “And they’re definitely flirting.”

“Oh yeah they’re not subtle at all.”

A song came over the speakers that Elsa and Emma both love. Emma watched as Ruby bothered Killian into turning the volume up and Elsa looked back at Emma, grinning from ear to ear. They had danced to this song hundreds of times in Elsa’s dorm and August’s apartment. Elsa nearly ran over to her, pulling her to her feet. They were nearly screaming the lyrics at each other, their hips swaying with the music. It wasn’t long before most of the pub was dancing with them.

Killian laughed as he watched Emma. He had never seen her this carefree, this full of life. The sight of her with her friends having fun sent a shiver of warmth through his body. As unsettling as that was, he couldn’t take his eyes off her, wanting to save this image of her forever.

“Dance with her.” Ruby said to him, pulling Killian out of the trance Emma had put him in.

“What?”

“Go dance with her. I’ll manage the bar for a bit.” Ruby held her hand out for his phone so she could keep the music going. He rolled his eyes, handing it over. As the song ended Ruby kept the energy going by putting on one of her carefully curated dance party playlists.

Killian snuck up behind Emma, hands grabbing her waist from behind. “Hi, love,” he said into her ear, laughing as she squealed from the unexpected touch

Emma turned her head back to smile at him, recognizing his thick accent. “Killian!” She laughed, clearly a little tipsy by now. Emma leaned back against him, her body still swaying with the beat of the music that somehow keeps getting louder, her ass moving fluidly against his hips. Elsa bounced away, making her way over to Ruby at the bar, leaving Emma and Killian as alone as two people could be in a crowded pub.

Killian ran his hands up her sides, entirely lost in Emma and the music. She turned around, laughing in his arms. Her hands rested on his shoulders and his found their place on her hips, pulling her close to him.

She was singing along to the music entirely off key on purpose And he laughed at her, his body moving easily with and against hers. Killing kept her tight against him. If he wasn’t working, if they weren’t in a crowded room, Emma might find her hands wandering places other than where they were playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.

Killian’s blue eyes locked on hers and she struggled to catch her breath. Emma’s entire body was humming in reaction to the way he looked at her and the way his hands rested possessively on her hips. Suddenly Emma crashed her lips against his, pulling him closer to her. Shocked for a brief second, Killian’s eyes shut as he kissed her back, his passion, his eagerness matching Emma’s. His arms wrapped tightly around her and the world fell away around them. Emma’s entire body was on fire as she kissed him. She kissed him like she had been waiting to kiss him her whole life. He kissed her like she could heal every broken piece of him.

Then the song changed and Killian pulled back.

“Wow” Emma breathed, finally releasing the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding for so long.

“Aye." He grinned. "I have to get back to work, love,” Killian said, a tinge of disappointment noticeable in his voice as he stepped back, putting distance between them. “To be continued.”

Emma smirked at him as she made her way back to her table. August was lost in the crowd, as was Robin. She finished off the rest of her drink before joining Elsa, who was clearly oblivious to everything other than the cute bartender in front of her. Emma bumped her with her hip playfully.

“So he’s hot .” Elsa whispered, barely loud enough for Emma to hear over the music.

“He’s not bad.” Emma smirked before confiding in her friend. “I kissed him.”

“Stop.” Elsa gasped. “Tell me everything.”

“Oi, love. I didn’t take you to be the type to kiss and tell.” She heard Killian tease. Her face went bright red. She hadn’t realized he was standing so close or that she was talking as loud as she was.

“Eh it was average.” Emma teased back, pretending to ignore him while she continued her conversation with Elsa. “He could use some practice.”

Killian raised his eyebrows at her, and leaned in towards her across the bar. “Is that a proposition, Swan?”

“Potentially.” Emma’s head was starting to spin. “I think I’m going to head home though. I have a bit of a headache.”

“Do you want me to walk with you?” Elsa asked.

“Nah it’s just a few blocks. I’ll be fine. You have fun.” Emma said. “Do you know where August and Robin went?”

“Robin left a few minutes ago with that girl from his philosophy class. I think her name was Regina?”

“Hm go Robin.”

“August’s at the other end of the bar with some guys I don’t know.”

“Ah well, I’ll let him be. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?” Emma asked, pulling Elsa into a hug.

“Definitely.”

Emma grabbed her jacket, bracing herself against the cold as much as possible. Everything was spinning around her. She didn’t remember having that much to drink. Her head was killing her. She stumbled a bit. These damn shoes . She felt sick, and dizzy, and weak. She heard footsteps behind her. Her legs gave out beneath her. Someone grabbed her upper arm tightly - too tightly - to keep her upright. Emma flinched at the pain in her arm. Suddenly her body was flush against another's, someone who she didn’t recognize.

“Let go.” Emma protested as much as she could but her body was betraying her.

“Shut up,” the man snarled at her. His voice was dark and rough.

It hit Emma like an earthquake, slow and confusing at first before the earth split beneath her. It hit her that this wouldn’t end well. There were few versions of stories like this that did. As a writer, as a woman, she knew. Emma didn’t know when she started crying. The cold wind felt colder against her wet cheeks and the dread of what would come next filled every fiber of her being.

And while she wasn’t religious, a familiar prayer popped into her head, a shadow of a memory from some of the religious-based group homes she had found herself in.

Hail Mary, full of Grace

She wanted to jerk her arm out of his grip, hit him wherever she was able too. She couldn’t tell if it was the fear or something else that was paralyzing her.

The Lord is with Thee

He walked her a few steps forward, her feet dragging against the sidewalk. No. No. No. Please. Even her voice was betraying her. His grip on her arm tightened when she tried everything she could to pull away.

Blessed art thou among women

Her body was trembling yet her mind was blank. Thoughts beyond the plea to a God she didn’t believe in were unable, unwilling to form. Emma refused to think about anything beyond the time it took for one foot to be dragged in front of the other. She couldn’t remember the next line of the prayer. She skipped it. Everything was simultaneously happening too fast and too slow.

Hail Mary, Mother of God

She could barely keep her eyes open or her body standing. She had to lean against him for support. This made Emma sick to her stomach. Tears fell faster as she begged to see tomorrow.

Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death --

“Swan! You forgot your phone!” Killian called as he ran out to catch Emma. His voice cut through the night, interrupting the final word of her petition.

“LET HER GO!” She heard Killian run towards her.

The man in the hoodie cursed when he heard Killian’s voice and ripped Emma’s necklace from her neck. “I’ll get you one day, pretty. One day you’ll really fall and I’ll be waiting,” he whispered harshly. The man tossed Emma to the ground, discarding her from his grip, before sprinting away. Her head hit the concrete sidewalk. Pain and relief and fear and disgust and guilt washed over her.

Killian was kneeling at her side in an instant. “Emma, are you okay?” His accent was thick with concern as he lifted her head off the sidewalk. Everything was still spinning. Everything was still slipping away.

She opened her wet eyes to see Killian close to her. Everything was going dark. Everything was spinning. The only thing in focus was Killian’s blue eyes. Emma felt like she was drowning and the world around her was going dark.

Even though she felt herself sinking deeper, Killian’s touch, his presence, his voice gave her the strength to allow the word she’d been wanting to scream for the past minute and a half finally escape her lips.

“Help.”

[lucidpantone]

Do you think wtfock are aware that they've done a disserve to Moyo's character? Not just by baiting him as a lead, only to put him as a flat love interest in one of the worst seasons of all time. But by not developing the character in any meaningful way. Do you know if they are aware of what they did? It's these things that hold meaning for me because it is indicative of how they allocate value to each character and what they are capable of changing going forward or replicating in the future

Disclaimer this is long (its a theory): So I think we need to split the wtfock team into 3 components. The cast, the crew, the bosses + the writers. I think the cast was always very aware of the poor treatment of moyo very early on and vocalized it. Also note I asked around about is moyo blocked? and from the intel am gathering no one knows because no one asked. You have to remember Moyo was never set to take place if his season ever happened it would have been after yasmina and wtfock would have gone back to the drawing board with NRK and argued the fact. I dont think wtfock ever advocated for moyo because one it would have been a lengthy negotiation we know this because David said they had to argue Arthur which means they compiled evidence/research and put a case forward to NRK. I got a somewhat decent timeline on how the pre-production around s4 happened this is my theory. Wtfockdown ended in early May. I believe the idea of S4 was already being shopped because we know Mesjes was also being negotiated. Lets say the month of may the team got funding together, confirmed crew and cast availability, confirmed possible film locations and all that. The script 100% began being spitballed in late may/June I know that. I think the meat of the script was written in June/July. Filming for S4 began in august because the blogs who extra were kind of enough to keep us in the know like here. That means that the edit down process was extremely tight. I have never written fiction but i have been professionally edited down to go to print and trust me it takes awhile a month is not a long time. Usually you get 3months this is for journals and books I imagine for tv its different but still a month is not a lot of time and thats if Brahm and the intern even got that (note this because it will matter). I do think the writers vocalized that the timeline was very tight and wouldn't allow them the time to clean and research more topics. Also its one thing for Brahm who is a seasoned script writer to do it in this timeline but the intern had never even written a script solo so this is an insane amount of pressure to put on someone highly inexperienced. Now do I think the wtfock bosses Rutgers, ***s and ****s knew that this timeline was insanely tight and could open wtfock up to failure? 100% they did but I dont think they cared because in Jan of 2020 sputnik invested in new leadership concerning branded content(sponsorships) which I assume was scheduled/sold for yasmina season but now that it wasnt happening they needed to fulfill some of their contracts. 

I actually know a lot about this world of branded content since I have dealt with it professionally and if they didn't fulfill their contracts they would need to deliver what in the industry is called “make goods”. I assume wtfock didn't want to do that for various financial implications so the bosses probably thought who the fuck cares what this season is about just write something to fulfill these contracts. So they gave the writing team an insane timeline and this is what they came up with combined with allocating what felt like 20% of clip content towards sponsors. Meaning they now had 8 episodes instead of 10 to tell a story. Thats not saying that if you were an experienced writer you couldn't make this work. You can! but you forget our writer was a completely green intern promoted up. So with that said I think wtfock bosses knew and didn't really care that they ruined their show but at the same time they put way to much faith in a young writer that was way in over her head and given the crazy short notice they probably didn't have the time to hire on someone else with experience. Now to the crew..... they are hard to gage because for them they didn't give less effort to s4 then to s3. They worked just as hard in each season. Which is 100% true so I think they suffer from the in the bubble syndrome of well we gave 100% and you guys are just trashing us but we aren't. We are trashing the excessive sponsored content, the poor writing and the terrible delivery we aren't trashing the efforts of the cast or crew but I get why they feel like we are trashing them and being super ungrateful they are in the bubble. Lastly, do the writers now see why the season was bad?? yea I think they do. I think watching it back now they see it but also they also never accounted for Romi. The writers probably thought they could get away with it like in s3 because the Willem’s were so great but they never thought that Romi would do so poorly. Once again another miscalculation of trusting someone completely inexperienced. I think what would have a season 4 looked like if someone with the skill set of lets say Lula from skamfr would have been our Kato. It probably would have been somewhat ok but Romi was just one of the many terrible choices that took place because her lack of emotive skillset she made Kato such a nasty/harsh character with almost no duality or texture that only served to hurt Moyo over and over again as the writers tried to justify all her actions. So in the end this is my wrap up the cast knows they fucked up, the crew sorta of knows but since they dont connect with the fans like the cast I think they are a bit hurt with how intense the hate was. The bosses just want the money they dont give a fuck about anything and the writers know now but once again its not entirely their fault because the circumstances set them up to fail but yes I am pretty sure they know the criticism is valid but what's done is done.

[aroworlds]

Fiction: The Pride Conspiracy, Part One

December isn't the best time of year for a trans aromantic like Rowan Ross, although—unlike his relatives—his co-workers probably won't give him gift cards to women's clothing shops. How does he explain to cis people that while golf balls don't trigger his dysphoria, he wants to be seen as more than a masculine stereotype? Nonetheless, he thinks he has this teeth-gritted endurance thing figured out: cissexism means he needn't fear his relatives asking him about dating, and he has the perfect idea for Melanie in the office gift exchange. He can survive gifts and kin, right? Isn't playing along with expectation better than enduring unexpected consequences?

Rowan, however, isn't the only aromantic in the office planning to surprise a co-worker.

To survive the onslaught of ribbon and cellophane, Rowan's going to have to get comfortable with embracing the unknown.

Contains: A trans allo-frayro trying to grit his teeth through the holidays, scheming aro co-workers, a whole lot of cross-stitch, another moment of aromantic discovery, and many, many mugs.

Content Advisory: A story that focuses on some of the ways Western gift-giving culture enables cissexism and a rigid gender binary, taking place in the context of commercialised, secular-but-with-very-Christian-underpinnings Christmas. Please expect many references to said holiday in an office where Damien hasn't figured out how to run a gift exchange without subjecting everyone to Santa, along with characters who have work to do in recognising that not everybody celebrates Christmas.

There are no depictions or mentions of sexual attraction beyond the words "allosexual" and "bisexual" and a passing reference to allo-aro antagonism, but there are non-detailed references to Rowan's previous experiences with and attitudes towards romance and romantic attraction as a frayromantic. Please also expect casual references to amatonormativity and other shapes of cissexism.

Length: 4, 914 words (part one of two).

Note: You'll need to have read The Vampire Conundrum for many references to make sense.

Rowan should be assumed an Australian character in an Australian city. Our Christmas, therefore, involves hot weather, short sleeves, barbecues and confusion at certain holiday traditions common in the Northern Hemisphere. 

They’re aromantic. How isn’t he obligated to help decorate her desk in as many pride-related ways as possible? 

“It’s Secret Santa slash December Holiday Gift Exchange!” Damien emerges from the meeting room, shaking a paper-scrap-filled jar with the gleeful attitude of a toddler attacking a pile of presents. In order to give the occasion suitable gravitas, he draped a rope of red tinsel over his shoulders, the fronds glittering in the flicker-prone lighting. “Come gather!”

Rowan looks up from his computer, biting back a groan. This isn’t a surprise, given that Shelby answered his interview questions about “workplace culture” with descriptions of their celebrating capitalist-infused Christian holidays, and the office more than lives up to that promise. A tree sits on the front counter, its branches crammed with baubles. Tinsel hangs on everything from which tinsel can be hung and rests in snake-like coils over the computer towers, screens, desk partitions and the large corkboard. Ribbon-wrapped pencils topped with felt trees, stars and stockings flowered, overnight, from everyone’s pen mugs; Melanie gave Rowan three of them for his frayro mug. Every desk features a red bowl of tree-shaped marshmallows, candy canes or that weird Christmas lolly mix common in dollar shops.

Only the lack of music renders bearable this explosion of festivity. Damien said he drew that line last year after Melanie and Shelby alternated between Michael Bublé and Josh Groban’s Christmas CDs.

Rowan doesn’t want to think about that sublime horror.

Christmas to him means slipping a few TSO tracks into his melodic metal playlists and gritting his teeth until the new year.

“O come all ye faithful,” Melanie sings, spinning her chair around. Every day this week she’s donned a different Christmas-themed T-shirt; today’s features a screen-printed Rudolph head with an apple-sized nose made from red minky fleece. Rowan doesn’t understand the American “ugly Christmas jumper” thing—why?—but Melanie appears to be replicating the trend via short sleeves and jersey knits.

Damien jerks his elbow at the largest whiteboard, half filled with the Banned Holiday Decorations List—items including “music, carols, hymns and singing”, “all types of fake snow” and “Cadbury Crème Eggs”. “Didn’t we talk about carols?”

Rowan doesn’t want to be accused of being a dreadful, fun-loathing millennial about which too many articles have been written on dislike of office gift exchanges … but he doesn’t know how not to be one, either. Why do people like this? Buying presents for people who aren’t strangers but aren’t friends, hoping that his attempt isn’t too generic only to open something tailored to feminine cliché ... followed by the apologetic explanation or justification that Rowan isn’t easy to shop for.

Can’t he save himself fifteen bucks and skip the disaster?

He’s never understood how he presents a difficulty that isn’t cissexism and a lack of imagination: buy him good thread, expensive coffee, dress socks, a nice mug, food storage containers or fancy kitchenware. He’ll even take a cheap box of chocolates, since his housemates will eat anything should they believe it food. Just get him something that isn’t a floral-patterned bath set followed by the hand-wringing apology that the giver just doesn’t know what to get someone as confusing as Rowan!

Why don’t they ask him what he wants?

He’s over spending money and time on gift exchanges only to receive cissexism, dysphoria or stereotype wrapped in paper and tied with a bow.

Rowan draws a breath and slips his fingers under his thighs. He should have sent Damien an email when Melanie started decorating, but Rowan was thinking about pushing their print date back two weeks and not thinking about Mum’s out-of-nowhere request that Rowan attend the family Christmas. “Uh … Damien? Can I … quick word?”

Why did he get himself a new psychologist? One who says terrible words like assertiveness?

“Give us a minute.” Tinsel rustling, Damien crouches beside Rowan’s chair. “Will here do?”

If everyone overhears, Rowan can pretend he’s talking to one person while knowing they all benefit from his explanation. Besides, going into the meeting room makes this a thing. “Yeah. Um. I … I don’t usually get the right presents from people in gift exchanges. By which I mean ... presents that aren’t a reminder that they think me female, and if they give me enough nail polish and heart-shaped jewellery and glittery handbags, I’ll admit it. I don’t want that? Really don’t want that?”

Why do his parents want to play at being a happy family? Does Mum want to show off to Uncle Keith and his new wife? Have they forgotten how badly last Christmas went? Or is this just more cissexist assumption that Rowan will discard his masculinity when needed? If they behave as though Rowan should fit their expectations, will he—eventually—surrender to them?

I’m not being difficult because I want my masculinity and transness respected. I’m not...

Melanie leans over to poke Shelby’s shoulder, her bright red lips forming a ring.

Damien blinks, hesitating as if he doesn’t know how best to respond. “That ... sounds like my niece’s favourite birthday. Although she took the bag, put one of my sister’s dumbbells inside and swung it at the boy over the road who wouldn't stop calling her pretty. And then made an army of neighbourhood girls wielding heavy unicorn bags.” He shakes his head. “I mean that … you obviously aren’t a certain kind of eight-year-old or into glitter, so...”

If only Rowan had the nerve to do that to Aunt Laura! “I bet he never did that again.”

“No. I’ll make sure … that the person who has you gets you something appropriate.”

Inappropriately-feminine gifts aren’t his only difficulty. Rowan doesn’t how to voice something so complex (to cis, gender-conforming people) about gender and gift-giving without sounding like he’s complaining for the sake of complaining—the demanding, difficult trans man of his parents’ accusations. Most often he endures a cis female celebrity’s latest perfume, but well-intended “accepting” people give him an Old Spice gift set—acknowledging his masculinity at the cost of his personality. How do cis people not chafe at gift-giving traditions that assume people can be reduced down to one of two categories with narrow behaviours and interests ascribed to each?

It’s easier to draw the line at gifts that only avoid being the embodiment of the giver’s cissexism and donate everything else, as much as Rowan yearns for one year with a good present he doesn’t buy himself.

Will cis people ever understand that being trans means holding back on responding to cis nonsense?

“Thanks. Yeah, thanks.”

“Secret Santa slash December Holiday Gift Exchange rules!” Damien straightens, shaking the jar; paper rattles against glass. “Twenty-dollar limit, keep it fun, don’t give anything inappropriate for a professional environment. I want to be eating mince pies, not taking people into the meeting room for discussions on adulthood. We exchange on the last day, December 20.” He reaches into the jar, the neck a tight fit for his hands, and tweezers out a folded piece of paper before handing it to Rowan.

Damien shakes the jar again before offering another slip to Melanie and then Shelby.

Don’t people draw names themselves from the bowl or jar? Nobody else seems concerned by this lapse—Melanie starts laughing when she sees her name—so Rowan shrugs and opens his, deciding it must be normal enough.

The Aro Gods must be inclined to a little seasonal kindness, for he sees “Melanie” written in Damien’s handwriting.

No need to struggle through generic alternatives like food or wine; pride pins will make her happy enough. A pen? A mini aro flag? Choosing may be Rowan’s worst problem, but he can get her a few things and give her whatever’s over the limit after the exchange.

They’re aromantic. How isn’t he obligated to help decorate her desk in as many pride-related ways as possible?

“Rowan!” Melanie bustles over; he quickly slides his paper up his sleeve. She makes metallic jangling noises—words like “ringing” or “pealing” don’t apply—as she moves, thanks to a gold chain bracelet decorated with small bells at each link. Matching earrings dangle from her ears, clinking out of tune with the ones at her wrist. “Can I ask you something?”

He nods, hoping she’ll let pass unremarked his description of holiday cissexism.

“Where did you buy your flag patches? I want one. Well, maybe more than one, because there’s the aro flag, and the ace flag, and maybe one of the aro-ace flags, but I haven’t decided which one I like best since there’s several that are nice, and...”

Once-in-a-lifetime inspiration hits Rowan with finger-twitching force. “I don’t know,” he lies once Melanie runs out of steam. “Uh … a friend gave them to me and ... I don’t know where they bought them. Online, probably?” He swallows and tries for distraction, gambling his poor ability for falsehood against Melanie’s likely ignorance. “Maybe look on Etsy? I’d look on Etsy.”

“Etsy? What’s that?”

“Handcraft eBay,” he says in relief, thinking through his thread stash. “Where people sell handmade things. I don’t know when I’m seeing my friend next, but I can ask...?”

He’ll need purples, greens, greys, black, white—oh, and blues! A little orange, a little yellow. Has he enough fabric? What about time? Should he do the main ones first and then others as he can squeeze them in?

On the way home tonight, he’ll start by stopping at his local sewing store.

***

Rowan hits “send” on an email to Damien, ignoring Mum’s latest text, as Shelby bounds up to his desk. Like Melanie, she’s added Christmas T-shirts to her daily ensemble; unlike Melanie, Shelby’s T-shirts appear to come from a department store’s children’s section. Today’s shirt shows a cute-but-scientifically-inaccurate dinosaur in a Santa hat holding a red box. Also unlike Melanie, Shelby hasn’t added earrings, pins, necklaces, bangles or socks in honour of the season. “Yeah?”

Damien added “battery and USB-powered light-up objects” to the List after an office vote provoked by a flashing necklace that resembled miniature string lights.

Shelby whispers, meaning that she speaks in a raspier tone with volume enough that her standing on the other side of a crowded football oval needn’t impede one’s hearing. In fairness, Rowan has heard her speak over a hundred gossiping Year 7 students until they surrendered to the stubbornness of an older woman who doesn’t go to bed caring what they think of her. “Can you go through all the … the identities? Can you show them to me and tell me what colours go with them? Do they all have their own colours?”

Rowan can only sit and gape.

“Please? I need someone to go through them all.”

He lunges for his half-filled mug, hoping his perpetual need for coffee conceals his surprise. “You mean pride flags? Queer pride flags?”

“Please.” Shelby nods, grips his arm and gives a meant-as-comforting nutcracker-like squeeze before lowering her hand to fidget with her phone—a device likely dug up with the fossils from the dinosaur on her shirt. It doesn’t have a cover; he guesses she covered the back with multiple layers of washi tape coated in (yellowing) clear nail polish. He doesn’t ask why. “Maybe you can start with the ones you use, and that one Melanie has, and then tell me the other ones? There aren’t that many, are there?”

Rowan, lukewarm coffee in his mouth and heading down his gullet, chokes.

Several moments of spluttering and coughing, aided by Shelby’s enthusiastic back-pounding, pass before he can answer. “Uh … there’s lots, actually. Lots.” He considers explaining about Tumblr before deciding on the appropriate answer: a thousand kinds of nope. “Do you want gender ones, or sexuality ones, or aromantic ones, or...?”

Shelby’s blank, brow-creased expression shows that, if she read Rowan’s leaflet, his emails and the hand-outs provided by Damien’s trainers, the knowledge hasn’t stuck with her.

(They weren’t better than Rowan’s own and only mentioned aromanticism as a way of being asexual.)

“The ones you and Melanie use...?” She lowers her voice to a point where someone may, in theory, be unable to hear her from the other side of the room. “I want to get Melanie a little extra … something, this year. With a flag, maybe?” She jerks her elbow in the direction of Melanie’s mug, currently filled with something smelling of camomile and dish-water. “But I should know more about the other ones, too. Like yours. Can you show them all to me?”

There’s no way in this tinselled hell that Melanie can’t hear Shelby, yet Melanie appears engrossed in deleting emails.

Last week, Rowan said “aromantic” once to their newest volunteer in a conversation about the pride flags on their website. Seconds later, Melanie materialised from the hallway, passed over one of Rowan’s leaflets and introduced herself as aro-ace before giving a five-point rundown on ways to avoid casual amatonormativity—not that she’s yet comfortable saying the word—in the workplace. There’s no way she’s contemplating the mysteries of her trash folder while Rowan talks to Shelby about aromantic pride flags! Breathing “aro” aloud is now akin to summoning a demon—one revelling in the discovery of the identity that makes belated sense of her life.

“You want me to show you aromantic flags?” Rowan asks to clarify, baffled.

Shelby beams at him. “Yes, please.”

Melanie, frowning, deletes an email.

Did Damien have a word with her? Did the volunteer complain?

Rowan can’t say that he wants to play tour guide through the world of queer vexillology, but Shelby has gone five weeks without saying the phrase “you trans people” and two months without reassuring Rowan on the subject of pronoun-correction. He also knows Melanie and Shelby are friends outside of work, bonding over stage shows and music. If Shelby wants to support Melanie in her aromanticism, how can Rowan refuse?

While Rowan sat there planning the politest way to navigate the glaring error in the trainers’ leaflets, Melanie stood up, exclaimed that aromanticism isn’t the same thing as asexuality and demanded that they do some reading before engaging in “obvious aro denial”. He owes her. She scares him a little, but he owes her.

(Should Rowan master the ability to handle conversations and presentations, he may consider becoming a sensitivity trainer. That two-day workshop, while decent enough on gender and sexuality, left him again concluding that most queer alloros have no idea how to reference and include aromanticism in their conversations about queerness.)

Another Mum-authored text flashes up on his phone, displaying the words “Christmas”, “clothing” and “appropriately”.

No, no and hell no.

“Yeah, okay.” He bends down to grab his satchel, tucked against the left-hand side of his desk. A decent collection of patches and badges now covers the front flap, including his cursed-but-memorable “aro” patch. “That’s the trans pride flag, with the blue, pink and white, and beside it is the bisexual flag. The flag with the greens and black is the aromantic flag, and the allo-aro flag has the greens and gold. It’s pretty much the same as the aro flag, except with yellow and gold instead of grey and black.” He points at each patch as he moves through his explanation. “Allo—allosexual—aromantics are aros who experience sexual attraction.”

He’ll stick to simple definitions with Shelby, even if they lack ideal expansiveness.

Shelby nods, smiling.

“For me, it means I’m aromantic and bisexual. Aro-aces, like Melanie, are aromantic and asexual, meaning she doesn’t experience sexual attraction.” He almost asks her if she remembers what “aromanticism” means before realising that he’ll sound like a condescending primary-school teacher. “This flag with the blues, white and grey is the frayromantic flag, which designates the specific way I’m aro. The flag on Melanie’s mug—”

Shelby leans against his desk, her grey braid trailing over one arm. “So you have an aromantic flag and an allosexual aromantic flag? A special aromantic flag?”

Are they heading towards the sort of conversation that involves anger over “making up” identities outside the speaker’s reckoning of acceptable? Or does she mean “distinct”? “Ah … kind of? The green and black flag represents all aros—Melanie and me. The green and gold one’s just for me, and I don’t use her blue and orange one.”

For the first time in living memory, Melanie pays Rowan and Shelby no attention.

“I see! You want to reflect different types of aro.” Shelby almost says the word without unusual stress; Rowan considers applauding her but decides he won’t risk undermining his point on avoiding excessive overreaction to queer terminology. “Do you ever put the flags together? Like if you want to be both things at once?”

When isn’t he the state of multiple identities at once? Rowan decides she means “represent” instead of “be” and nods. “Yeah? Some people put a heart with the stripes of the aro flag in the middle of the trans or bi flags, but I don’t like that because using a heart to represent us all is a bit … eh. You know, heart, love, love hearts? Lots of people don’t care, though. I’ve also seen folks split them in an image, or have the stripes fade into each other. Like trans stripes fading into aro stripes.”

“And you like that better?” Shelby blinks, her blunt nails tracing the edge of the case. “Would Melanie like that? The aromantic flag fading into another one?”

There’s no way Melanie didn’t hear that—and no reason for her to say silent! Last month she told Rowan and Shelby to get mint chocolate cake for her birthday after walking in on them debating sponge versus cheesecake in the meeting room!

(Sponge, in Rowan’s opinion, is the classic cake format.)

“Yeah. It shows my identities together without using symbolism I find awkward.” Rowan lowers his voice, leaning closer to Shelby. “Melanie will probably go for the aromantic flag fading into or combined with the asexual flag, if you’re doing something with two flags. I don’t think she’d be into hearts, but a split image or fading? That’d work.”

Shelby straightens, beaming, and gives Rowan another firm arm-squeeze. “That’s great! Thank you so much for helping, Rowan!”

“Don’t you want to know more about aro-ace flags...?”

“No, that’s great!” Shelby, heading towards her own desk, no longer attempts to speak at anything not normal volume. “Aromantic into asexual! I’ll remember that!”

As Shelby turns, he catches a glimpse of the cracked screen on her phone—or, more specifically, the movement of her hand as she presses stop on her recording app.

Is that legal? It surely isn’t normal? Or is she an auditory learner, meaning she’ll learn best by playing the recording over … but in that case, why not say so? He could have directed her to YouTube videos and podcasts! Perhaps, though, she only shows her ignorance in digital etiquette, in the same way Rowan took Melanie aside to explain that the use of caps lock for the body of a promotional email violates good manners as much as—more than!—she thinks signing a form in red ballpoint? Should he complain about something suggestive of her willingness to understand him?

Rowan stares, shrugs and shakes his head as a third text pops up.

Sometimes it’s easier to just not ask.

Too bad that can’t apply as easily to family.

***

Rowan stands, yawns and stretches. His lunch half-hour beckons: sunshine spent with food, cross-stitch and a flock of pigeons tame enough to perch on the far end of his bench. Since today involved apologetic emails followed by a contrite phone call to his goddess amongst printers, time free of people feels like looming perfection. Just him, the pigeons, a sewing needle and the homemade pasty he hid from Matt inside a bag of frozen peas.

Any day in which he gets to enjoy his own cooking can’t be too terrible.

Perhaps he should do as his psychologist says: put a chest freezer in his bedroom and a lock on his door.

“Rowan!” Damien, his hair tousled enough to make Rowan think of a woolly mammoth in a sharp suit, carries a plate of something smelling like honey and chicken into the office. “While Melanie’s out, can you show me your mug shop? You said there’s a lot of aro-ace flags, right? Or would she want one like yours, the green one? I don’t get her something like your blue and green shield one, though?” He shrugs and sets the plate down on Rowan’s desk. “My wife’s friends with her sister and we got invited out, but there’s another swap. I don’t want to get her the wrong thing. Do you mind?”

At least Damien does the sensible thing of asking while Melanie’s out on lunch. Maybe this won’t take too long: Damien’s a terrible photographer with unreasonable expectations of Photoshop, but he does know how to buy things online.

“Yeah. Hold on.” Rowan opens up his browser just as his phone beeps. Nope, ignoring that. “I’ll show you what mugs I think she’d want.”

He hadn’t realised how many people here are friends with Melanie outside of work. It must be nice to have a regular social life that isn’t “being at work” and “sighing at housemates”, but there’s advantages in possessing the short holiday shopping list of family, a work gift exchange and a couple of friends. Besides, does anyone want one’s co-workers to know what happens at an outside party?

“Don’t ignore your phone because of me.”

“It’s Dad.” Since Rowan can’t find a pithy or amusing way to explain that Dad’s text message will be a guilt-trip ordering Rowan to come to Christmas for the sake of the family’s happiness followed by a second guilt-trip explaining how much his refusal to confirm has upset Mum, he just shakes his head.

You talked about this with the psychologist. Guilt. Trip.

He made an appointment for the second week of January; he should have made one in December as well.

“That bad?”

He can’t remember the specifics of his rant that day atop the desk, but he must have suggested at an interesting relationship with his parents. “Yeah.”

Did they forget telling Rowan that if he doesn’t like how they treat him, he can leave? They told Rowan that he isn’t welcome while he remains intolerant of them—while I expect them to treat me as I deserve. He left. Now they want him back to smile for the family photos?

What’s worse? Enduring a day of misgendering, deadnaming and cissexism, which shouldn’t result in unknown voyages of horror if he bites his tongue? Or avoiding short-term discomfort while gaining the long-term torment of the family’s schooling Rowan in appropriate Ross respect for blood and holidays? What chance is there of avoiding harassment if he doesn’t go?

Maybe he can leave off shaving for a week before Christmas and turn up with his new, albeit patchy, facial hair while wearing an op-shop debutante gown, so he “dresses appropriately” and “doesn’t confuse the relatives” as requested.

How many truckloads of Valium will he need for that?

“Rowan? Are you okay?” Damien, now sitting on an office chair, peers at him as though waiting for Rowan to do anything more than stare at the computer screen.

“Ugh. Sorry. Just thinking.” Rowan sighs and types in the shop’s name, bringing up their website, and then opens a second tab to another archiving different pride flags.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Damien asks in that gruffly-gentle voice, one that makes Rowan want to smash his fist through a window.

“Yeah, no.” Rowan draws a breath and points at the screen with a hand a too trembly for his liking. “So you’re going to want to know what flags represent what, because there’s a drop-down menu where you can choose from different flags...”

It’s easier to talk, easier to run through all the different flags in a depth of explanation Damien doesn’t request, easier to think about something that isn’t family—a subject with complexity enough to distract but without provocation enough to distress.

He doesn’t know if Damien asks questions from curiosity or kindness, but Rowan’s pasty becomes pastry crumbs scattered over his desk and keyboard; Damien’s chicken, half-eaten, sits cooling on its plate.

“So cupioromantic is the one where you want the relationship but you don’t feel romance?” Damien frowns and runs both oversized hands through his hair, now resembling a befuddled bear emerging after a long hibernation. “Why have a word for that? I mean, everyone feels like it isn’t one of those movies and dates anyway, so why specify that?”

“Where you don’t feel romantic attraction but desire a romantic relationship,” Rowan says, telling himself that Damien unknowingly regurgitates the tired “demiromanticism is normal” argument. Isn’t this better than looking at the fifth text message? “Some people need it to be a word. Movies aren’t that divorced from reality. They’re … too easy, too glossy, too perfect, too unrealistic, but...”

He sighs. Not dating brings many benefits, but Rowan has to admit that he misses the fun of falling in love, even if trouble always follows. Misses the fun of dreaming, hoping and fantasising; misses the bright, happy glow of being caught up in someone else. At risk of being considered a bad aro, he likes that glorious limerence pushing him to navigate people despite his gibbering anxiety! In some ways, knowing he’s capable of falling in love over and over feels heady and powerful; amatonormativity more than the nature of Rowan’s frayromanticism bestows difficulty on its aftermath.

I want to fall in love with you ... and after getting to know you, do it again with someone else, all the best bits of romance’s beginning on eternal repeat.

Instead, he avoids dating and the inevitable development of his partner’s hurt, surrendering to a world where his shape of attraction isn’t acceptable or reasonable. Albeit with a trace of bitterness that frayromanticism will be easier to navigate should Rowan not be an anxiety-plagued, bisexual trans man!

Of course, discarding romance makes pursuing his shape of sexual attraction unacceptable and unreasonable...

“How are they real? Nobody just sees someone and falls in love like that—”

“Dude, dude, I’ve fallen in love like that.” Rowan shakes his head and launches into the speech that’s the spiritual duty of any card-carrying aromantic: “Do you fall in love after you get to know someone? After they love you back? Do you know what ‘fall in love’ means to you? Because it’s easy to name all sorts of feelings ‘love’ and think they’re romantic when the world says you have to be alloromantic. It’s even easier to not be romantically attracted and not know! Have you thought about it?”

Damien, his eyes so wide that he reminds Rowan of a zebrafish with a brown wig, shakes his head.

“I swear, alloros like romance movies because while they’re a … a simplified, idealistic version of romance, they’re close enough to what people feel—or think they’re supposed to feel—that they … ring, resonate. They wouldn’t do that if it were complete invention. Just like science fiction isn’t real but talks enough about human experiences to have meaning to human audiences. Unreal, in so many ways, but just real enough. So—”

Damien holds up both hands, palms facing Rowan. “Stop. Stop.”

Now the anxious part of Rowan’s brain realises he’s lecturing at his supervisor in a way no need to avoid thinking of his family justifies; he gulps, fingers trembling. While the office code of conduct doesn’t specify things like unwanted speeches questioning another person’s belief in their romantic attraction, he doubts this acceptable behaviour. “I … shit. I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I just...”

Will he ever stop causing a mess at work?

“You’re talking so fast,” Damien says, slow and careful in the way of a man talking to a panicked horse, “that I can’t keep up.” He sighs and runs one hand through his hair. “This isn’t something I thought we’d be talking about! I just wanted to check that everything was right...” He shakes his head, but he doesn’t sound annoyed or outraged. Just bewildered. “Okay. Right. What about all those sorts of things that we think are love? What do you mean by that?”

At some point during the resulting afternoon, Rowan sends an email thanking his printer for her willingness to amend the job queue, ignores his brother’s entry in the competition to provoke the most seasonally-appropriate guilt, and scribbles a note to ask the higher-ups if they’ll spring for a basket of expensive coffee and chocolates sent to said printer.

Damien nods several times, takes dot points on a flyer print-out and the back of the report draft for last week’s holiday event, asks more questions and promises that he’ll remind the higher-ups of their involvement in submitting January’s flyers two weeks late. After eating the rest of his re-heated honey chicken at Rowan’s desk and narrating the story of how his future wife followed him from pub to pub during a crawl for his brother’s buck’s night, Damien concludes that he only experiences attraction for someone after they express attraction for him.

Melanie, having rested her arms on the back of Damien’s chair to overhear the last half of the conversation, gives him a smothering hug and welcomes him to “the quiver” before cackling at Damien’s blank look.

Find a recipro mug, Rowan later scribbles on the bottom of his to-do-list.

At least that job doesn’t involve relatives.

[hunnybadgerv]

Writer Ask Meme 3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing? 10. Pick an author (or writing friend) to co-write a book with 12. Which story (or: stories) of yours do you like best? why? 17. What things (scenes/topics/character types) are you most comfortable writing? 29. Is writing more of a hobby or do you write with the intention of getting published? 36. Post a snippet 49. Favorite fictional world?

Behind the Scenes of Fic Writing: 30 Questions for Authors

3. What is your favorite/least favorite part about writing?  Getting started. Once I’m writing, I can usually find the zone. But it’s getting started that is always the hardest for me. Like this morning, I didn’t know where to even start. So, I opted to edit, since it is something I wanted to accomplish this week. And I know that in the revision process I also tend to refine my prose, i.e., write, so my editing and writing work today coincided. 

I have, however, written every day this month and I’m hoping to continue that trend. But regardless of the time of day, getting started tends to be my biggest obstacle overall. 

10. Pick an author (or writing friend) to co-write a book with. Must it only be one? Gosh. 

There are so many great writers I know, more than I could ever even try to consider for this.  

I’ve always admired @theoriginalladya for the uniqueness of her ideas and character development are second to none; I equally love and hate when she and I talk about her characters because I get super excited about them because of how amazing they are. Then I quickly become obsessed, which may or may not be the only “bad” thing. @painterofhorizons has angst super powers; even in a snippet of text she can rip your soul clean from your body. Her writing is so evocative and emotionally striking. Then there is @chyrstis, whose ability to seamlessly weave humor into her fics sparks more than envy. She manages to put characters into such believable, yet laughable situations that it only serves to endear them to readers. 

I’m not sure I could ever co-write a piece, but I would count myself lucky to write with any of the writers I regularly associate with, especially one of these three. Apologies to all the amazing writers I know who I did not mention by name, but I already didn’t follow the question in the first place by mentioning three rather than a single one. 

12. Which story (or: stories) of yours do you like best? why?  Oh gosh. This is so cruel. One story! Really? That’s all. Honestly, First Watch of the Night (Guardians in the Darkness Series) is one of my favorite. I think that might be in part because of nostalgia--it is Nyx Shepard’s WIP. I actually have it planned all the way through ME3, though I’ve currently stalled in the revision process in the ME1 timeline. I’m not sure why either. 

I find myself wondering if the reason I have not finished it is because once I know what happens, maybe I won’t have the drive to finish writing it. Maybe I can’t get past the block because I’m worried that finishing their story will vacate those muses from my mind, which I kind of don’t want. I really have grown quite attached to Nyx, Kaidan, and her crew. 

Honestly, I think that might be the struggle I end up in with all my longer fics. Short fics in collection are so much easier because the story never has to end. A long fic follows a certain line and has a definite conclusion, which I think worries me.

17. What things (scenes/topics/character types) are you most comfortable writing?  Umm, If you were to look at characters like Tayen Quick, Nyx and Feign Shepard, Furia, Remy McGinnis, Mari Ryder, Cyna Mahariel, and Laerke, you’d see a common thread connecting them. I tend enjoy writing strong female characters, especially those that are flawed or broken in some way. Honestly, Nyx and Furia, also to some extent Leah Rook, all share imposter syndrome to one degree or another--so does Mari. I always tend to have one or two characters that share a flaw. I have Mari, Laerke, and Furia who have all lost their entire families. Characters that come from big families. But I tend to write female protagonists more so than males. 

29. Is writing more of a hobby or do you write with the intention of getting published?  I published a short story in college. And I really would like to be published some day. Right now, I am mostly writing for me. I’ve got original fiction ideas, but I don’t work on them currently. I focus on my fandom work in order to practice and hone the skills and plans I have for future pieces.

I want to write something in the mix of fantasy/sci-fi. But I also have a strong sense of realism. I still hold tight to Mark Twain’s statement that the difference between real life and fiction is that fiction has to make sense. Things have to stem logically from one another in a story, and I always try to ground my writing in experience--sights, smells, sounds, textures that my readers can be familiar with--in order to add some sense of connection. I try to make my characters flawed in ways that feel accurate to them. 

A part of me screams in the back of my head that I am a writer. I can be an author, but a part of me worries that perhaps it may not happen. I keep writing. And I keep trying new things. I’ll always be a storyteller. I will keep writing and falling in love with fictional beings and places that I cannot resist exploring.

36. Post a snippet  This is from First Watch of the Night. I really love the characters and depth I managed to capture in this piece. Honestly, it’s one of the pieces of my own writing that intimidates me ... a lot. I don’t write the same way anymore. I feel like my writing lacks the same emotional depth right now. And I’m not sure why. It might have to do with how disconnected from other humans I have been in the last decade.

The scene here is Nyx Shepard and her father from Chapter 18:

The two Shepards watched one another for a long moment, before Taranis returned his attention to one of the soft cherries. The commander sighed, sipping her tea quietly while the captain waited. It was his usual tactic. He knew there was more and he could always wait her out. Nyx would talk to him in her own time, even if it had to be in carefully crafted abstractions. His daughter knew the drill. Taranis' methods were nothing new to her. He would take long pauses, allowing her to consider all the things she was not telling him. Then he would ask careful questions in case it was actually related to her current or a classified assignment--since need to know could interfere with her desire to disclose and his fatherly curiosity.

Whatever it was, Nyx held onto it much longer than usual, which told him she really did not want to bring it up. Despite this, Taranis knew she would relent because she kept glancing over at him with a look that suggested she was merely trying to find the way to bring it up. Nyx always came first for him; he redirected his career to give her the life she had, a life where there was always one parent there to hold her tight when things weren't just so. He knew it was not perfect, but he did everything he could to be there for her.

Nyx sighed as she set the tea cup on the table between them. "Fine," she breathed heavily.

It took another few moments for her to look up at him. Then she scooted a little closer, lowering her voice in discretion. Watching her carefully Taranis could not quite be sure what she was going to say, but she bit her lip and winced a little when she finally asked a question he never expected to hear.

"What did you do when you met Mom?"

Everything froze for a second or two as he stared at her. The little blush on her cheeks threw her father for a loop, but made him smile. "Well, damn."

The commander shook her head at him, trying to discourage him from thinking too hard about what she had just asked.

"Answer the question, please."

Captain Taranis Shepard rubbed his hand through the short stubble on the back of his head as he stared at his daughter in stunned silence. "I avoided her. Tried to just keep my distance. I even put in for a transfer," he admitted with a wry smile. "It got denied because I did not put in what command thought was a valid reason. Then, on leave, I talked to your Grandpa Shepard about it."

Nyx smiled and laughed. "And what did the old devil dog have to say about that?"

Her voice held a note of disbelief that her father was not surprised to hear. Taranis' father was a stickler for rules, regulations, expectations. He was strict and set high expectations. The captain could tell by the way his daughter eyed the dregs in her tea cup that she was as completely unprepared for what her father was about to say as Taranis had been when he heard it.

"He told me it was not a weakness to want someone to be part of your life."

Nyx's eyes darted to his. She was easily as shocked as he had been. Moving the tea cup, Taranis laid her hand out in his and covered it with the other.

"I told him all the things, I'm pretty sure you're telling yourself right now. All the excuses about regs, concerns, and bad experiences and stories you've heard," Taranis said quietly as he stroked the back of her hand lightly.

She leaned toward him. Her voice was tight with emotion. "And?"

Holding her hand tightly, her father smiled at her softly. "He told me that there are some things that outweigh the regs."

They were both quiet for a moment as Nyx let herself fall back in the chair. Her mind was clearly racing. Kirk Shepard had always stern, at best; he still was totally by the book in everything except when he met his wife. That was the only rule Taranis could think of his father ever even bending, let alone breaking out right. Nyx had been very close with both her grandfathers; she respected them as men and as marines. For her they were role models, people she that influenced her greatly.

"I'm going to tell you something you probably don't know. My parents met in the service, too. We Shepards seem to fall for our brethren," he said playfully. Nyx did not look relieved in the slightest. "He almost lost her on a mission. Even in love, your grandfather was still the same man. He couldn't justify risking the primary objective. The mission at all costs, you know?"

Taranis knew she understood it. Hell, he knew she lived that decree just as solidly as his father.

"She made it out alive, barely. Your grandfather, sentimental bastard, proposed to her when she woke up from surgery. Grandma Amelie was just as stoic as he was. Told him she would consider it, but only if he promised to do always put the mission first, even if she was in his command. She believed him when he said he would. Even lived up to it. Had to put her at risk once more in the field before they got married."

"And he told you this when you asked him about Mom?"

"Yep," Taranis said, nodding as he studied his daughter's reaction. "I was rather hoping I wouldn't have to tell it to you, but I guess it was too much to hope you'd break the trend of falling for servicemen."

She shrugged and looked at their hands for a long moment. "Seemed to be going well for a while," Nyx said quietly.

"Just tell me it's not the Zingel kid."

Her laugh made him smile, and brightened her eyes. "No, it's not Caz."

Taranis leaned back in his chair, fidgeting with his uniform for a moment. "So, tell me something about this fella."

The way she tilted her head at him suggested that the question might have been her maximum.

"At least tell me his name so I can start checking up and get a little peace."

"Da."

"Fine." Taranis let his hands fall on the arms of his chair. "Don't relieve your old father of the undue stress he is now placed under worrying about what kind of man his plucking his daughter's heart strings."

"Seriously?" she replied with a doubtful look.

They both knew she did not see herself as the type of woman who was plucked, but Taranis had a long and vivid memory and he could still recall the girl with the romantic sensibilities.

"What? I remember the shelves of Austen, Gaskell, and the Brontes. Then there were the sonnets your grandmother always sent you. And if I recall you were planning on marrying Captain Wentworth." He tilted his head at her slightly. "Perhaps I should have seen this coming after all."

They both laughed. Then Nyx sprang forward and hugged her father around the neck. "I've missed you, Da."

"I love you, Nyxy-girl."

Her lips were warm on his cheek. "Love you, too," she repeated before she stood. "I should probably go."

"We should do this again," her father offered, as he stood and proffered his arm. "Soon."

His daughter smiled and looked away for a moment. "Sure. As soon as I can."

Once they exited the little shop, they stopped and he touched her cheek before he bent and kissed her forehead again. He did not like her chosen phrase. Taranis knew she meant it, but he also knew the schedule she had kept for the past several years and there was little hope of relief given the most recent change.

"I'd prefer sooner," he noted.

It always killed him to say what he said next, the phrase was tradition, but always made his heart ache because he knew there was always a chance that he could lose his girl in the line of duty. He had been in her boots and hung them up for her. She had taken them up with fervor and so much more skill and determination than Taranis ever possessed.

"Good hunting, Commander," he said, a waver in his voice, as he saluted her sharply.

Nyx returned it as smartly as she would to an admiral. "Thank you Captain."

Taranis watched the girl with her mother's hair and his eyes weave through the crowds in the wards. He remembered meeting a boy once, at her basic graduation. Keith or Kyle or something that started with a K. He managed to stick around until a few months after her graduation from Exeter. Somehow the kid had stuck it out through three mission deployments before the relationship ended without so much as a whimper. The captain could not remember his name or much else about him. Even after a few years together, his daughter never hinted at the question she just asked. It elated and scared the hell out of him.

49. Favorite fictional world?  I really enjoy writing ME and in SWTOR. They are amazing worlds full of science, magic, adventure, and drama. Though I’m also drawn to fantasy for the same reasons. But I think futuristic worlds and space are some of my favorites.

[beanpolebrianmay]

Practice

Pairing: Joe Mazzello x Reader

Summary: Joe comes to you for help with a different audition.

Disclaimer: I do not own any people, this is fiction.

Word count: 3612

Warnings: Teasing mention of a daddy kink, slight language (?maybe?), badly written fake movie scripts, and fluffy getting-together tropes are in your future.

…

The paper you held in your hands stared at you – unflinching and eggshell white and creased in the corner where it was held together by a staple. The last page. It was cool until the last page.

“Please, y/n?”

Joe hit you with his big eyes and you blinked, arching an eyebrow at him. It wasn’t as if you hadn’t helped him rehearse for auditions before; in fact, you were always the first one he asked. But this?

“Joe—”

“We won’t even do that part; we’ll stop right before it. It’ll be like any other role I’ve taken on, I swear. It won’t be weird. I’ve done parts where my characters kissed your character before, and it won’t be any different.”

“Joe, these lines are, like, uber-suggestive. And they don’t just kiss. It’s gonna be weird.”

“That’s why we stop before it. Please,” he whined, “you’re an actor too, don’t treat it any differently than taking on a role. That’s all this is, it’s not like I, Joseph Francis Mazzello III, am actually going to say these things to you.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. “Bringing out the full name, huh? You know that I’m not an actor. I acted as a hobby years ago and I do these lines with you, but that doesn’t mean that I’m an actor.”

“Well, as a professional actor myself, I say you are and superiority wins.”

You scoffed. “Not in my house, it doesn’t.”

“Not unless it’s your superiority,” Joe mocked back.

“I will not deny this. But back to the matter at hand, don’t you have someone else who isn’t your close female friend to practice with? An actress crush or something? Like, I’m pretty sure this is the entire plot to a rom-com somewhere out there.”

“No, I don’t, I would have told you if I did. And you’re my lucky charm – ever since I’ve started doing the audition scenes with you, I’ve been more successful in getting the role. Please, don’t make me mess up my mojo.”

You looked away from his pleading gaze and towards the packet in you hands again, considering the possible outcomes.

One: You go ahead with practicing, you say the things in the scene and he says the other things and then you spend the night re-brainwashing yourself until you believe the whole “I’m not attracted to this man” line again.

Two: You don’t practice with him and suffer through his grumpy episodes and your guilty conscience until he realizes his mojo doesn’t have anything to do with you at all, gets the part, and forgives you.

Three: You go ahead with practicing, you say the things and he says the other things and then you feel some other other things and he finds out and all the sudden your whole friendship thing is weird and practically over.

You glanced back at the man across the counter and met the puppy eyes he had trained on you.

Finally, a sigh escaped your lips. “Fine.”

Joe broke out in a grin and maneuvered his way to sweep you into a tight embrace. “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much, y/n. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t just find a different partner,” you grumbled. But the complaint fell flat with the smile that had inched its way onto your face. “Why is this part such a big deal, anyways?”

“It’s different.”

You let out a short bark of laughter, eyes scanning the words on the page again. “Yeah, that’s pretty obvious. But I mean, why does me practicing with you mean so much to you this time?”

“It always means a lot to me when you practice with me. Because it means that you’re willing to take time out of your day to spend with me and help me be get better at what I love doing. Quality time is my love language, you know,” he grinned, picking up the two packets and shoving yours into your hands. “Now let’s get cracking.”

“That sounds like something my dad would say. Stop being a dork, you old timer,” you tease, following him to the living room.

“Okay, three things. One: my dorkiness is one of my most attractive qualities, thank you very much.” You rolled your eyes but silently agreed with him. “Two: male life expectancy has really risen with the invention of modern medicine, so unless you know something about my date of death that I don’t, I prefer middle-aged if you don’t mind. And three: you know, I’ve been compared to a dad quite a lot in my life. Some of my fans online have even taken to calling me ‘daddy’ a lot, maybe I just have a dad energy?”

You stumbled and choked on your spit at this new information, a laugh bubbling out from under your desperate coughs and Joe pounding on your back with a grin plastered to his face.

“Joseph Mazzello, please tell me that you know what that actually means and you don’t think those fans really just think you have a father-ish personality.”

He dropped his smile and looked at you blankly for a second before breaking out in giggles. “You should have seen your face,” he chuckles, nudging you and turning to walk the rest of the way into the living room. “Are the red cheeks from embarrassment that I totally just got you or are you hiding a dirty little secret, y/n?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you teased, hip-checking him as you pass to sit in the armchair opposite to the couch.

“Oh boy, would I ever.” Joe wiggled his eyebrows and you laughed, miming locking your lips. He sighed dramatically, flopping down on the couch. “Keep your secrets, then. But I’ll have you know that my character would totally have your character begging to tell mine all her dirty little secrets.”

“My character would be begging to tell her own secrets? Joe, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does in my world.”

“No wonder you are the way that you are.”

Joe chuckled, picking up the packet. “Okay, enough banter. This is a pretty short scene, especially with the, er, one part cut out. It’s also a pretty stage-direction heavy scene, so we’ll be moving.”

You nodded and stood up from the chair, reading over the lines. “Okay. You ready?”

“Yeah, let me just look over these one last time.”

You waited until he faced you and took a deep breath, meeting your eyes and nodding to signal the start of the scene.

Seeing Joe fall into character never failed to stir up feelings of intense admiration and pride in you. He really was an incredible actor, and with each role he came to you with, you had the pleasure of seeing the movie before it was made. Never mind that he didn’t always get the role, because it didn’t matter when he was always showing you what the movie could be with him.

This time was no different. Except when he had said that the role was different, he had meant it. Though it was no Fifty Shades of Grey, the film itself was directed towards adult audiences. This role was the opposite of who Joe was. The character wasn’t a villain, just a very focused, very serious and intense character.

So it really shouldn’t have stunned you when his usual demeanor melted off of his face and he fixed you with a heavy gaze. But it did. You felt your lungs constrict and looked down at your paper again in an attempt to escape him, but you could feel his eyes regardless.

“I’m not sure I understand what you want from me.” His voice was deep and smooth and decidedly not the Joe Mazzello you knew, which (and you would never admit this openly to him) he was right in the fact that it made it easier to slip into your character.

“I’m not sure if I understand it either. But it’s not my job to understand it, it’s my job to get it done.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have though, you’ve got to see the problem in that fact.”

You sighed and swayed your hips as you approached him, his eyes never leaving yours. “I’m not surprised, you know. If I were in your position, I wouldn’t want to give the chip up either. And I’m going to be completely honest with you. I don’t agree with what the corporation is doing, and I don’t want them to get their hands on that tech either.”

Joe looked at you with cold suspicion. “Then why work for them?”

“Because there’s no getting out once you’ve gotten in. It’s a one-way street and if I had known that I never would have joined. But I did, and it still stands to be the stupidest decision I’ve ever made.”

Joe circled the coffee table with you. “And I’m supposed to believe your sudden change of heart?”

“You could, though it would be naïve and quite pathetic, seeing the things I’ve done to you and the people you love. I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Joe’s jaw clenched, and you stopped your circling to hear him. “You don’t know a damn thing about the people I love. You know very little besides the art of murder and blind loyalty.”

“I’m not arguing with you,” you relied in a soft voice, which only seemed to goad Joe on. He took three giant steps toward you and took the front of your shirt in his fist, face close and angry, but you didn’t respond other than to read your lines off of the script.

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you. I was sent to retrieve that chip.”

Joe broke character for a second. “Uh, there’s a sort of fight scene here, but they said to skip over it, so we’ll just continue on? Um, I think I beat you, and now I have you like this?” Joe spun you around and loosely put an arm around your neck in a one-armed sleeper hold.

In this position you knew that he could feel you swallow hard, but with your throat pinched in between his forearm and bicep, there wasn’t going to be a whole lot he wouldn’t feel from that area, so at least you had an excuse.

“Listen here, corporation bitch,” he spit, surprising you with his sudden transformation back into his character, “I’m going to give you an ultimatum. You either get the hell out of my house or I’m going to slice your throat into ribbons.”

“Big talk for a man who hasn’t done anything yet about the killer in his home.”

Joe grabbed a pencil from his back pocket that he had put in earlier – a makeshift knife – and dragged it across your cheek, lips twisting into a forced smile.

“You think I’m playing some sort of game?”

“I’ve been playing games with you since the beginning, I’ve just been waiting for you to play along.”

“Is that what you want?” Joe asked, spinning you around again and backing you up against the wall, his breath against your ear, continuing his trail of the ‘knife’ against your skin. “You want me to play along?”

You swallowed thickly, widening your eyes and breath becoming shallower. You were just a really good actor, of course, none of these reactions were actually real.

“I’m glad you’ve finally joined the program, Mr. Adams.”

“I’ve joined nothing of yours. And I never will. This is my game. My program. And if you want to play then you’ll play by my rules,” he ground out, almost cruelly, like he knew he had you in the palm of his hand. Everything about him was tense with rage and retribution from his fiery glare to his white-knuckled grip that he had on your shirt.

“Anything,” you breathed.

Your noses were almost touching and your breaths were shared between the minimal space between your lips.

“You think you can come here after killing the people I care about and what? What do you want if it isn’t the tech? I’m not supposed to believe that you’re such a whore you’d screw me without anything in return, am I?”

You let out a breathy chuckle. “I’m certain that I would get something in return, wouldn’t I, Mr. Adams?”

Joe pressed you only fractionally harder against the wall as not to hurt you, a slip of the real Joe in the midst of his character.

“You’ve got some nerve, you know that?” As impossible as it seemed, he leaned in closer, but still your lips didn’t touch.

There was a charged pause, which Joe broke by letting go of your shirt and stepping back, laughing awkwardly. “Well, that’s where we end, I guess.”

“Yeah, I guess,” you repeated, clearing your throat and cursing the rough quality that the sentence had contained. “Again?”

Joe puffed out a breath, nodding. “Yeah.”

It was your regular routine to go over the script multiple times, except each time you changed the way you portrayed your character to help him acclimate to possible ways other actresses might play the character.

“What’s this movie about, anyways?”

“You’re actually playing the lead character. She’s an assassin retrieval person for this bad corporation but she wants out and my character is like, kind of the antagonist as first because she’s messed with him and his life a lot and he doesn’t like her for that, but ends up helping her in the end. Of course there’s more to the story than that, betrayals and almost deaths and things. I think this scene is one before she turns good and she’s just using sex appeal and passion to get the tech my character has.”

“Nice.”

Joe laughs. “Yeah, for you. I’m just the poor fella who keeps getting duped. The poor guy just can’t catch a break.”

“He doesn’t seem all too logical to be honest. I mean who would actually sleep with their enemy?”

“I mean hey, when the urge strikes,” Joe grinned, anticipating your punch to the arm.

“Keep it in your pants, it’s not that hard.” Joe wiggled his eyebrows at that and you gave him another punch, although you laughed at the unintentional innuendo.

“Okay, ready to go again?”

“Bring it.”

The two of you went over the scene for another two hours, trying out different methods and getting more and more into character. By the time you had both agreed one last time before calling a night, Joe had a comfortable grip on his character and was more natural in his line delivery and actions.

This being said, it meant that he was no longer acting as though you were a china doll, and his grip got tighter and his tone got nastier. You could almost believe that he hated you to the point of crazed, impassioned, yet reluctant attraction.

He had his forearm pressing your clavicle, and in turn your torso, harshly against the wall, yet again. “You think you can come here after killing the people I care about and what? What do you want if it isn’t the tech? I’m not supposed to believe that you’re such a whore you’d screw me without anything in return, am I?”

You gasped in a strained chuckle, as if out of breath and lustful. “I’m certain that I would get something in return, wouldn’t I, Mr. Adams?”

“You’ve got some nerve, you know that?”

It was at this point that you expected him to step away just as he had been doing, but the atmosphere had shifted in the two hours you had been rehearsing. The droplet of sweat beaded at your temple wasn’t from physical activity, and his pupils had been steadily expanding each time he manhandled you against the wall.

“Um—” You swallowed, unsure of how you wanted to end that sentence.

“Yeah,” Joe breathed out. His eyes dropped to your lips and you felt your heart beating frantically against his arm, which was still pressed across your chest, pinning you to the wall.

You swallowed again. “Are you – um – are you sure that you don’t want to practice the scene just once more?”

“No,” he said softly, eyes not leaving your lips, tongue peeking out to wet his own. “Are you sure you can’t help me practice the next part?” He flicked his eyes up to yours briefly, not letting you look away, needing to make sure what he was about to do was okay with you.

“I think I can spare a few minutes of my time.”

As soon as the confirmation left your mouth, he replaced the words with his lips. His arm lifted off your chest and his hands rose to cup your jaw, gently pulling your face to his and eliminating any space that had been left during the scene (aka, not much).

And although his actions were soft, the kiss was anything but. He kissed you with a passion that made you dizzy – though you weren’t sure if it was the passion or lack of oxygen. He pulled away and you both drew in a breath, but before you had time to ask questions, Joe was kissing you again, his hands roving from your jaw to your shoulders to your waist to your hips. His kisses were hungry, and you were giving as much as you were getting, but there was a niggling voice in the back of your head flashing red warning signs of “stop now or forever regret this.”

You tried to ignore it for as long as you could, but when Joe’s lips started kissing down your neck and his body pressed you even harder into the drywall behind you, you knew you had to stop and regroup.

Gently, you pressed your hands against his chest. “Joe,” you whispered into his ear, “Joe, I don’t think the making out against the wall part of the scene was this long.”

“You’re right, they moved to the bedroom much faster,” he panted against your shoulder. “But I’m getting the feeling that you’re not going to help me practice that part of the scene today.”

“Simply astute, my dear Sherlock,” you joked, trying to alleviate the thick tension that still shrouded the two of you. “Is it just me or is it incredibly warm?”

“It’s not just you, I’m pretty sure it was the both of us. Rude.” You giggled and pushed him away from you, sliding down the wall and patting the floor beside you.

“Pop a squat, I think this is one of those things you’re supposed to talk about with your best friend.”

“What, gossip time? Alright then,” he said, sitting down and rolling his head to face you. “So you’ll never believe this, and don’t laugh at me when I tell you because I might just cry and have to gorge myself in Ben and Jerry’s –”

“Even though you’re lactose intolerant,” you interrupted.

“—Yes, even though I’m lactose intolerant. But anyways, you’ll never believe it, but I finally got the courage to kiss the woman I’ve wanted to for a long time today. It was pretty hot, if I do say so myself.”

Your lips parted on another snarky reply when you registered what he had said.

“Wait, what?”

Joe swallowed, but he had already gone this far. “What? I thought kissing your crush was the thing you were supposed to talk about with your best friend.”

“I mean it is, but – Joe what – I don’t understand,” you spluttered.

Joe grasped you by your shoulders and looked you dead in the eyes. “I like you. You are simultaneously my best friend and my crush, as juvenile as that sounds, and the opportunity presented itself and I kissed you and I liked it and I like you even more and I want to kiss you again but I won’t until you say that I can but fuck, y/n, I’ve never wanted to kiss someone again so badly in my entire life and if you don’t say that I can soon I’m going to have to excuse myself to go home and bash my head into the tiles of my bathroom while I take a cold shower –”

“I can’t very well say anything if you keep rambling, Joe.”

“Right. Yes, rambling, right, I won’t do that anymore.”

“I had no idea that you liked me. That’s insane.”

“Like, a ‘wow seeing that singer in person was insane’ or a ‘wow I can’t believe my best friend has been perving on me for the last five years, he’s insane’? Because those are two vastly different kinds of insane and I would really rather be the first.”

You rolled your eyes and shook your head. “Joseph Mazzello, I’ve been trying to deny my feelings for you since about three months after I met you. It’s definitely a good kind of insane.”

Joe’s face lit up. “Wait, you like me too? Really?”

“Really really,” you said, grinning back.

“Does that mean I can kiss you again? Because I think I really need the practice, you know, for the audition.”

“That means you can kiss me again and again and take it from me,” you breathed with a smirk, fingers tugging his collar so that your lips brushed against his with your next words, “you don’t have anything to worry about.”

[agwitow]

Help support my writing

Hello my lovelies, I hope you’re all doing amazing/fantastic!

So, I’ve been toying with the idea of starting a patreon for awhile, but kept putting it off. I wanted to wait until I had a few more novels completed and published. Y’know, so there’s more for y’all to love ;)

Unfortunately, I kind of need your support to get to that point. (Catch-22 *sigh*)

I don’t usually talk a lot about my personal life online, so you may or may not be aware of the fact that I have some... frustrating health issues. To be brief, I have depression, anxiety, chronic insomnia, chronic migraines, celiacs, fibromyalgia, a few vitamin deficiencies (which I never remember to take my supplements for), and am currently fighting off a month-long bout of pneumonia.

I am exhausted. 250% done. I have not had the energy to do anything beyond collapse into bed after getting home each day. I haven’t written more than a handful of words since, oh...I’d say probably November.

Writing is one of the main ways I recharge emotionally. And I haven’t had the physical energy to do it in far too long.

Then on the weekends, I end up sleeping for 80% of the time. My body is too run down. I need a break from work.

Extra unfortunately, I would need to take an unpaid leave to do so. I can not afford to miss a single day’s wage, let alone the week or more my body needs to properly recover.

Which is why I’ve decided to launch my patreon now. Please help support my writing <3

And if you aren’t familiar with me or my fabulous writing (okay, so maybe it’s not fabulous, but it’s pretty good), then let me tell you a bit about who I am as an author.

I’m a huge nerd for mythology, fairy tales, and history. Legend’s Legacy is a historical fantasy series that is basically my love letter to those three things

I also write an eclectic mix of other genres, including: sci-fi, romance, low fantasy, high fantasy, science fantasy, magical realism, mystery, and general fiction. Seriously, browse through my short story and flash fiction tags. It’s not all good, but I enjoy dipping my toes into all sorts of different genres

Ever heard of Eloise? Yup, that was me (and yes, the novella is one of the first things I’m going to work on when I can function for longer than five minutes at a time)

I have a (probably unhealthy) love of world building, fantasy map making, creature design, and fantasy religions

So why Patreon?

Well, it’s a platform designed to help people support the artists and creators they love. With a minimum of $1 a month, you can help support me and my writing. Plus, it provides me with an easy way to give something back to all you awesome people!

My page lists what I’d need to make each month through patreon to be able to take time off on a regular basis, but for a one-time leave of absence I think I’d just need a total $1,500. It’d be tight for a month, but doable.

You can check out my patreon page here, or, if you’d rather, my ko-fi page is here.

Any support would be appreciated, as would sharing this around.

Thanks so much my lovelies!

[themagiciansreccenter]

The Great Blank Spot: Greywash

So much goes into creating fanfiction even before the first words hit the paper. And in-depth spotlight on our writers and the process behind their work.

Tell us about your current project.

I'm finishing up the sequel to "Firebird"—or, well, really, the story that "Firebird" is a prequel to. It's called "The Marriage Plot" and it's a fake-fake-marriage story, or an un-arranged marriage story, or something: basically it starts with a political misunderstanding that *looks* like the only way out is going to be Eliot and Quentin getting married. Spoiler: that's not what happens.

The fics are finally posted from The Trials. Did you participate?

No, I came into the fandom after The Trials started, so I missed it, but I'm still reading my way through everyone's submissions and really enjoying them!

What is your current word count?

104,069 words, but I revise/cut/rewrite a lot as I go so that goes up and down.

Do you try to write daily? Do you have a word count or other goals you try to hit for each writing session?

I write every morning for about an hour and a half before work—or, well, I sit and work on fiction for about an hour and a half: sometimes that's freewriting, or reading, or editing. I'm trying to be less focused on output quantity and more on time spent this year, since trying for output goals seems to encourage some not-good strains in my mental health whatsits to go mad with power and make my life suck.

What was the inspiration for this fic?

Ahahahahahah oh dear. Um—the answer to that question is hugely spoilery, so I guess I'll say: the last six lines of dialogue, which sort of ~came to me in a vision~, or whatever, and then... the whole rest of the story sort of... constructed itself around that. But I think I can say that I'd been thinking/obsessing about Fillorian marriage, and how—like, skin-crawlingly horrific I find it as a concept, and *why* I find it so skin-crawlingly horrific, before I started working on "The Marriage Plot," and that definitely—informed the story, let's say.

How do you stay motivated between chapters/stories?

I don't have a huge problem staying motivated... for me it's more that I have SO MUCH STUFF I want to work on, so I have trouble staying focused. I have this little Penny-centric fic that I want to get done before the end of the current fan_flashworks round, so I have like 24 hours, and I also have a Penny/Quentin story that'll go up in the next FFW amnesty, and... possibly one or more *other* stories for FFW amnesties that are either done or mostly done, and I just! I am really bad!! at staying focused on one project.

On the motivation front, though, I will say that a big part of why I don't tend to lose motivation is that I never leave projects "at a good stopping point". This seems really counterintuitive, but it helped me *so* much when I started doing this: I almost always end a writing session by getting to a good stopping point, and then writing 9/10ths of the next sentence or paragraph. I like to have a sentence waiting for me where the ending is obvious but not actually written down, so I open it up the next morning and I'm like, "oh, that's supposed to end, 'with his palm'" or whatever, so I have that really easy in for getting back into the swing of writing.

Did this fic require any research? How much research do you typically do for your fics?

I do do quite a bit of research, but I don't typically do research in advance. I'm, like, the anti-planner, I am *so* bad at planning stories, so I kind of write until I hit a point where I'm like "oh, God, I actually do need to know how you go about getting a marriage license in New York, don't I," and then I spend like three hours on the NY city clerk's office website or whatever. I think the thing where I was looking up how to get a marriage license in New York came up like 30,000 words into this story, or something. And a lot of times I'll {{bracket something I need to look up later, like this}} and then just keep working, and fill it in in less high-value writing time—I do that on my lunch breaks a lot, so I can keep my block writing time in the morning for actually making new words.

Do you typically write ahead or post as you go?

It really depends on the project. Somewhat ironically, I mentioned this on Dreamwidth earlier this morning, but I actually usually kind of hate posting things as WsIP unless I am well ahead and very, very sure I can finish quickly. I got kind of trapped by a multi-year WIP in //Sherlock// fandom, which—I love that story, I just wish I wasn't posting it as a WIP. (Though it also wouldn't be that story if I hadn't posted it as a WIP, so... whatever, que sera sera, et cetera.)

When I was posting "Firebird", I started out with... I think I was drafted five chapters ahead at the start? Six? Maybe? I honestly don't remember, but I do know it rapidly fell to four and then kind of froze there, because I knew I needed to have Ch. 8 *very* nailed down before Ch. 4 went up, because I was back-editing all the way to 4 as I wrote 8. And I didn't want to back-edit live work. But then I hit a like... 9/10ths draft place on 8 and burned through that entire posting cushion *super* fast during the last few days I was finishing 8, because 8 was almost the last thing I finished—I had 9 and 10 almost completely drafted before I finished 8, and that's pretty typical of me, to write sort of medium-out of order. So 9 and 10 went up basically as soon as they were edited, because I didn't have that cushion anymore. But "Firebird" lent itself to WIP posting because it has, you know, like. Plot, and excitement, and some sort of cliffhanger-y bits here and there; "The Marriage Plot" won't be posted as a WIP, because it's very interior and relationship-focused, and it just doesn't lend itself to that treatment. The most I might do on something like that is post it consecutively over a few days just to not have to edit all the HTML on 100k+ of fiction in one go.

How much planning and outlining did you do before you started putting words on paper?

Almost none! Ahahaha. I had a freewritten story outline, but I tend to do all my fiction discovery by writing fiction, so I have to be really willing to try things and toss them out, which is what I do instead of actually outlining. I'm thinking about making a pretty huge change to "The Marriage Plot" right now, actually, and am sketching it out by writing some short stories that happen in the (mostly off-screen) 6-9 months between "Firebird" and "The Marriage Plot," and seeing how things crystallize. So I may be about to toss out like 20k of fiction! I don't know, we'll see!

Has it been pretty smooth sailing or rough waters? When things get rocky, how do you handle needing to rewrite sections or scrap scenes entirely?

Oh, I tooooootally don't mind rewriting. I write really fast but am bad at planning, or well—bad at seeing what it'll take to get the characters to where I need them to be emotionally, so mass rewriting just kind of comes with the territory. I also write in Scrivener, which has a Snapshots feature that makes it much less stressful to hose something—I can always go back and look at a previous version if I want a line or a paragraph or to take it back entirely.

Teaser

"Well, no," Alice says, and then her mouth twists, tightening up. "I sort of—I told them that they couldn't have Quentin, because he was already engaged."

"What?" Quentin says; and Eliot grabs at Quentin's tipping wine glass, just in time.

"Look, I had to tell them something, all right?" Alice snaps at him. "Sorry, but I didn't think you wanted to get married to some conceited isolationist—"

"To who, Alice?" Margo interrupts; and Alice stops again, and then flushes.

"I had—well, the only way I could think of to convince them was the—well, you know, when Eliot got deposed," Alice says.

"We *both* got deposed," says Margo, tight; and Alice says, "Yes, *yes*, you *did*, but then *you* took the throne and now *Eliot's* on your council, so I told them—"

"You told them," Margo finishes, "that to prevent civil war, I offered my most powerful rival my only virgin son in marriage."

"Well," Alice says. "Basically—yes."

There is a long moment of silence.

"Well," Eliot says, finally. "I'm not sure how anyone could've foreseen *that* one going wrong."

The Great Blank Spot is an in-depth spotlight focusing on the writing process and previewing in-progress fics for our fandom. It is meant to be an organic, ever-evolving feature. Previously interviewed fic writers can reach out to us here, to have a specific work featured. If you’d like to have a work featured but haven’t done the author spotlight, reach out to us to get started. If you have suggestions for questions you’d like to see answered, shoot us an ask!

[shazzeaslightnovels]

Reading Long - March 2019

Volume’s read: 12

As per usual, no spoilers unless otherwise tagged and I obtained all of these volumes in Japanese from Bookwalker.

Saenai Heroine no Sodatekata 8 by Fumiaki Maruto

A welcome breather after the last few volumes of non-stop drama. It felt a lot more like the early volumes but I enjoyed it anyway. I swear Katou’s relationship with Eriri is the true love story of this series. Even though it’s only been a couple of months since I read the first two volumes, I couldn’t help but be nostalgic about the events in them along with the characters, as if a year had really passed for me too.

Sword Art Online: Mother’s Rosario by Reki Kawahara

Since I read the interview with Kawahara Reki where he talks about wanting to write a proper yuri series someday, my interest in this series was renewed. I rewatched the anime and genuinely enjoyed the first two seasons, though I still dislike Phantom Bullet arc (mostly because GGO just doesn’t look like much fun to me) so I wanted to read some of the light novel and figured I’d start with my favorite arc.

Even though this volume doesn’t hit me as hard as it did when I read it in English as a teenager, I still really like this volume. I’m one of those people who was annoyed by how little presence Asuna has in Fairy Dance and Phantom Bullet so I always liked that this volume gives her a lot of focus. And I LOVE Yuuki. One of Kawahara’s strengths has always been his ability to make the reader care about a character with only a couple of pages. Despite how little time she has, Yuuki still means a lot to me and I love her relationship with Asuna so much. One issue I did have with this book though was how many pages at the beginning were dedicated to recount the events of previous volumes. I already know all this and I doubt there are many readers who didn’t know all this. The other issue I had with this volume is how the last chapter tries to tie the arc into the main story. It didn’t need to and I think it shifts the focus of the arc away from Asuna and Yuuki’s relationship too much. And, as much as I enjoyed reading it, I think the anime surpassed it. Aoi Yuuki’s performance as Yuuki is breathtaking and the action scenes are so brilliantly animated. I did like having more insight into Asuna’s thoughts though so if you liked this arc in the anime, definitely check out the light novel!

This volume was published in English by Yen-Press as Sword Art Online: Mother’s Rosary so check it out if you’re interested!

Saenai Heroine no Sodatekata 9 by Fumiaki Maruto

I’m not sure what to say other than that this keeps up the quality of the series? It was a good volume.

Saenai Heroine no Sodatekata: Girls Side 2 by Fumiaki Maruto

Well this was a surprisingly satisfying read. Like the first volume, this volume is split into two parts with the first part taking place after volume 8 and the second after volume 9. The first part has three stories in it all focusing on characters and relationships that don’t get much focus in the main series. For example, the first story focuses on a conversation between Michiru and Utaha who I don’t think have had a real interaction since vol. 4. Even though these stories aren’t very plot relevant, I enjoyed them anyway. The second part is much more plot relevant and has some really good character moments for Izumi, Eriri, Megumi and Michiru and also includes a guest appearance by Mayu (from Koisuru Metronome manga)! The stories here were really good and the epilogue really tied them together nicely. I’m not sure whether this volume will be necessary to understand the story of future volumes but I get the feeling that the events that happen in the volume will be necessary to understand the characters and their relationships with each other.

Saenai Heroine no Sodatekata 10 by Fumiaki Maruto

Once again, Maruto takes a typical light novel volume premise and quickly turns it into a dramatic affair. The cover and the colour illustrations are a lie! This isn’t a beach/swimsuit volume but it is an Utaha volume and a good one. It made me remember why I loved Utaha in Koisuru Metronome and why I still do. I’m a bit anxious about vol. 11 given that the cover and the colour illustrations show Megumi being embarrassed which is very out of character for her.

Saenai Heroine no Sodatakata 11 by Fumiaki Maruto

Welp, Maruto finally did it. He finally made Megumi into a boring heroine for me. I can’t get into too much details about what I disliked about this volume without spoilers but I think one thing that was really missing was scenes without Tomoya in them. I get that he’s the protagonist and the narrator but in the first few volumes, there sections that were just dialogue that showed Megumi interacting with people who weren’t Tomoya. I think we haven’t had a scene like that since vol. 7 and GS doesn’t fully replace it. Those scenes made Megumi feel like a full character and they were needed here. The reader needs to be shown that she has a life outside of Tomoya.Without that, she’s boring.

This is the last volume in the series that I own so I won’t be reading the last four volumes (including FD and GS) until Bookwalker has them on sale again.

Iriya no Sora, UFO no Natsu 1 by Mizuhito Akiyama

A few years ago I read The Picture of Dorian Gray. It was the first time I had read any novel that was written before I was born and I remember being so amazed at how paragraphs could last an entire page. Reading Iriya gave me a similar feeling to that, even if it’s not nearly as old as Dorian Gray. It’s amazing to see how much the light novel medium has changed since the first volume was released in 2001. There were so many descriptions of settings and movements and some of these lasted for more than a page. Due to this, I had a tough time reading this volume. There were a few times where I lost the plot and had to go back and read the scene from the start again. The writing style is smooth and the relationship between the two leads is cute but I can’t say I found the plot very interesting. I don’t quite understand what most people find charming about this series yet but I’m looking forward to possibly finding out in volume 2.

As for the anime, I saw it a long time ago and barely remember it and don’t have easy access to rewatch it. Looking at the episode summaries from Wikipedia, the first episode adapts around 170 pages so I’d imagine it’s pretty rushed.

Torikago Miko to Seiken no Kishi by Izuki Kougyoku

A short ~90~ page story from the author of Mimizuku to Yoru no Ou. It’s a pretty standard fantasy story about a legendary knight and I can’t say I cared for it. I didn’t really buy the relationship between the two leads but I did really like the ending. Even if I didn’t care much for it, I’d still recommend it to people who liked Mimizuku.

Kidou Shitsuji by Takeshi Matsuyama

Well, this was a pleasant surprise! This is by the author of Ame no Hi no Iris and Koori no Kuni no Amaryllis and the English title is Robot Butler but the titular character is not the funniest thing about it. Instead, most of the scenes I found humorous involved the female lead, Liese and her attempts to get Bel to notice her through the use of shoujo manga tropes. Of course, they all backfire on her. She tries to wink flirtatiously at him and he just asks if she has dry eye. She tries to run into him with a piece of toast in her mouth… only, they’re in the middle of a hallway and he catches her effortlessly when she tries to run at him. Liese’s cluelessness when it comes to romance is genuinely charming and of course I loved her relationship with her best friend, Flora, who introduced her to the concept of shoujo manga in the first place and encourages her every step of the way. The other notable character is Flora’s robot butler, Victoria who seems to be the only one who knows how much of an idiot Bel actually is. In addition to how funny it is, the volume has some surprisingly tight world-building and chapter six is truly awesome. There are so many things that get revealed and there’re big epic fights! I liked it a lot. Unfortunately, I didn’t care for the ending. I thought it was a bit of a cop-out though I suppose it did end it cleanly in the way that I am not desperately wanting a second volume. Anyhow, I’d highly recommend it and I’m looking forward to reading more of Maruyama’s works in the future.

Iriya no Sora, UFO no Natsu 2 by Mizuhito Akiyama

Despite my lukewarm opinion of the first volume, I actually quite enjoyed this volume. Surprisingly, Iriya isn’t in this volume much and the volume instead gives the reader some insight into some of the side characters thoughts, particularly Akiho. My favorite part of the volume was when we got to experience the school’s cultural festival through the eyes of the Asaba parents. It was an interesting choice and one that I quickly got behind. Rather than being just background dressing, Asaba’s parents are actually pretty interesting and fun without being too eccentric and silly. One thing I think this series does really well is that I never feel like the author is treating the characters like adults. A huge issue with a lot of fiction is that they tend to think of teenagers as adults instead of just a pile of people who are still growing and learning how to make decisions. (Saekano has this issue too, btw.) But these characters are still in their first year of middle school and they act like it. I think I’m starting to get the charm of this series now. This volume was very fun to read and I enjoyed it enough that I started volume 3 right away.

Iriya no Sora, UFO no Natsu 3 by Mizuhito Akiyama

I’m starting to realize that I like this series the most when it’s not being told from Asaba’s POV. I still like his character and a lot of the impactful scenes come from his POV but the most memorable part of this volume was chapter 1 where Akiho and Iriya have an eating competition and become friends. I liked it a lot, especially since Akiho kind of becomes Iriya’s “Mum friend” afterwards and Kiyomi starts affectionately calling Iriya “Kana-bu” which I thought was pretty darn cute. One thing that I really like about the dynamic between Akiho and Iriya is that Akiho is never portrayed as a straight-up bitch trying to get between Asaba and Iriya. Instead, she’s just a girl learning how to deal with her feelings. And Iriya is never portrayed as just a victim of Akiho’s attitude. Iriya is strong in her own way and can be very determined when it comes down to it. But enough about them, this volume had a lot of character development for Asaba. I really liked that he asked Iriya what she wants. Does she want to keep things the way they are? Or does she him to help her? He asks and I really liked that. I also think the way he runs to the bathroom in uncomfortable social situations is hilarious and adorable. In general, despite this volume having pretty heavy plot developments, I just found all the characters to be really cute. Anyway, I’ll be taking a short break before reading the final volume but I am really enjoying this series so far.

Ankoku Kishi wo Nugasanaide 1 by Shinichi Kimura

From the author of Kore wa Zombie desu ka? this story starts when a high school student called Najima’s class gets a new transfer student who just looks like a suit of armour wearing a female uniform. Honestly, I found it boring which is why I’m not putting much effort into the premise summary. It was fine, I guess, but I didn’t laugh at all and I found the characters to be bland. But I bought the first three volumes when they were first released so I kinda have to read them.

[kiran-wears-science-blues]

Writing Questionnaire

I was tagged by @rawliverandcigarettes​! Thank you!!

I’m tagging: @captainkirkmccoy​, @nancydrevv​, @womanaction​, @animatedamerican, and @darkwingdukat​.

Short stories, novels, or poems?

Short stories and novels. I’ve only written like two novel-length things, but those are the most rewarding pieces for me to write. Short stories are what I write normally. I don’t understand poetry and the scant few I’ve been inspired to write are so personal I would never post them for public viewing.

What genre do you prefer reading?

I prefer science fiction or fantasy with gayness, but anything that has strong characters really. I also love YA fiction. 

What genre do you prefer writing?

By virtue of mostly writing fanfiction, largely science-fiction/fantasy. My favorite trope is found family, particularly where Parent Figure never expected to end up as a parent but just loves Child Figure so damn much (see: Varric & Cole, Pearl & Steven, Picard & Data). I also tend to write character studies or coming-of-age/coming-of-confidence stories for my favorite characters (Andrew Wells, Data, Tasha Yar). 

Are you a planner or a write-as-I-go kind of person?

Definitely a planner. If I don’t have a plan, I burn out so fast. My plans might change as I go but I need a pretty solid outline.

What music do you listen to while writing?

Usually, Spotify’s playlist called “The Most Beautiful Songs in the World”. It changes if I feel like it, though. 

Fave books/movies?

Movies: X-Men: First Class, Gattaca, Star Trek Beyond, and also in general just seeing movies in a theater. Theater-going is a guaranteed spiritual high for me.

Books: I’m gonna say the Martian, but there are so many others. 

Any current WIPs?

Haha, always. The one I’ve most recently added anything to is a Steven Universe fic, which explores how Pearl’s maternal feelings toward Steven developed. There’s also a Mass Effect fic about how my Shepard develops a friendship with Mordin while mourning the loss of Liara’s innocence. It’s only a oneshot, and it just needs like one more paragraph but I can’t figure out what that should be and it’s been stuck like that for like six months. 

Also, there’s the collab with @animatedamerican​ for Dragon Age with Cole learning about humor that I really need to work on. And I haven’t given up on my novel! But it needs some serious revamps; the brothers and the fairies are the only things that I know will stay, and everything else might need to be totally reworked. 

If someone were to make a cartoon out of you, what would your standard outfit be?

Tight-fitting jeans or leggings, boots, geeky t-shirt, cardigan, and a messenger bag. Also, my Star Trek sciences necklace which I’ve taken off only like once in two years, for my mikvah. 

Create a character description for yourself:

There’s a girl who sits in the hallway in front of the windows, her laptop and papers strewn around her in a semi-circle. She shuffles them out of the way whenever someone goes by -- which is not very often -- and then sprawls out again after they’ve passed. She’s there every day, working silently, like a fixture of the hallway. But she smiles at each person who passes by, and stickers plaster her laptop, little splashes of passion in the white hallway. She blossoms somewhere; just not here. 

Do you like incorporating people you actually know into your writing?

On occasion I will be inspired by someone, but I never write someone into a story completely - just take one trait or one event.

Are you kill-happy with characters?

Never :( I don’t even think to kill characters. The only exception to this was Daybreak, but that’s because the Buffy comics really dropped the ball in addressing the fact that like half of Slayer Organization died in S8. 

Coffee or tea while writing?

Tea. I can’t stand coffee.

Slow or fast writer?

Slow, I think. 

Where/who/what do you find inspiration from?

Two things: loving characters a lot, and being spiteful about how canon handled them. I write because I love the characters so much that I can’t not write. It’s all about the characters and who they are. If I didn’t love characters, I could put down the pen and never feel a loss. 

If you were put into a fantasy world, what would you be?

My whole life, I’ve dreamed of being a YA protagonist. I mean, literally, I’ve never had a nightmare; instead I unrealistically pull off saving the world like the thousands of YA protagonists I read so much it apparently affected my inner psyche. So... the heroine in a moderately dystopic fantasy world who didn’t set out to save the world but irritatedly does so when the world gets in her way. 

Most fave book cliche? Least fave book cliche?

Favorite book cliche: found family mmmm yes please. Least favorite: love triangles. >:( 

Fave scenes to write?

I don’t know if I have a particular favorite type of scene to write, so much as just scenes that flow are my favorite to write. Usually, these are scenes that really get inside a character’s head or delves into a relationship. 

Most productive time of day for writing?

Morning. 

Reason for writing?

Because I love the characters. Bastille put it great in their song “Poet”: 

“Obsession it takes control, Obsession it eats me whole. I can't say the words out loud, So in a rhyme I wrote you down. Now you'll live through the ages, I can feel your pulse in the pages.”