#so i thought i could try and go it internet archive

[fookinhellcurly]

Larry discussions and why they matter

I got asked today by an older, new fan through the Larry Resources Compilation I made (also posted on Reddit):

"I am genuinely curious, though, like….. why does this matter?"

As a previous chill fan (a directioner, and a larrie, apparently god my brain gets foggy sometimes lol) who barely recounts my own Larrying back in the day (college was a whirlwind and a fever dream to me lol sorry) and came back after Liam's passing, I, myself, have consumed all these Larry information only recently. But from the get go, I knew my convictions.

There might be new ones here who'd come across my blog, so I thought I'd share my answer here as well. I ended up making a bulleted list, and it was the best way I thought I could address the question + the extra notes they left in their comment:

—

Baby larries and misinformation: Most baby larries likely learned about Larry through edits on YouTube, TikTok, or Instagram reels. They then decided to dive deeper, which led them down the Larry rabbit hole and eventually to Reddit and Tumblr. However, much of what’s on social media is taken out of context. There’s a lot of misinformation being spread (especially from bluegreeners), which is part of why non-larries in the fandom get annoyed with us. Some fans take things to extremes without understanding the reality of what H and L are going through. This is why it’s crucial to encourage research and healthy discussions. New information (in a sense that we might have failed to discuss it before; recent example is this post I made about Harry's lyric change to "Louis ONTO my drawers" which happened in 2020) is discovered—or debunked—daily, so having a platform to share and discuss these findings is vital. This Larry research I made is extensive, yes, but TONS of information have been scrubbed from the internet for unknown reasons (i.e, about babygate). Some people are actively trying to bury the truth about Larry. Without blogs and accounts archiving this data over the past decade, we wouldn’t know half of what we do today. My goal here is to make navigating 15 years’ worth of information easier.

The bigger picture: So, what’s the point of all this? In my opinion, it’s not just about proving a point. It’s about understanding the awful and harsh realities of an industry that profits off our support as fans while exploiting the very people we admire. It’s about acknowledging that there’s more to H and L than the clips we see online. They were just kids with dreams who were abused and manipulated by their management. They had to fight to maintain their identities while achieving their goals. It’s heartbreaking to realize that despite progress, the queer community still faces immense barriers (extra: I read the summary of Rock Hudson's battle back in the day—it's a perfect example of how we cannot trust the narrative media feed us). H and L have spent years signaling and coding, trying to break through their closet, and only us Larries could see the signs. Meanwhile, the media and management continue to box them into heteronormative narratives. It honestly breaks my heart seeing Harry get accused of queerbaiting and Louis forced into this Louis Tomlinson™ laddy-lad image, a far cry from the vibrant, flamboyant, happy young man he used to be (his words: "He were a lot sweeter, this lad"). To be clear, I love Lou the way he is but I agree to what this person said, I wish we had seen how the grown-up version of 2010-2012 Louis.

The denials: If HL had cut this shit from the beginning. If they had explicitly denied that their relationship was, in fact, not real (No, they have not straightforwardly denied it because they always redirect or play with words when asked in front of the camera; and that includes L's denial this year), we would have accepted it. But they didn't. THEY fed us all these things to pick on for the past few years. The songs (god, the songs) and the parallels, the use of blue and green (they know what those colors mean to us—they would not use them lightly if they want us to not believe), the coded clothing and the signaling, the acts of defiance, etc.—what are all those for? It's crazy to think that H and L would "bait" us just for the sake of sales.

Finally, the point of not letting the "ancient texts" die and keeping track even in the present: You see, all of us probably became genuinely invested because of the bigger story. In hindsight, everything MAKES SENSE, but in real-time unfolding during the 1D days, when H and L were fighting the most, it was harder to make sense of these things. But because we have these timelines, analyses, and proofs that sometimes even take years to be established (i.e., the McDonald's x Carpool Karaoke 2015 where HL supposedly shared the milkshake—but the clip didn't see the light of day until 2020 came around), we finally get to make sense of a decade+ worth of legitimate stories. As you would observe, there would always be a couple of larries who would ask, "Why do you think they're still together when they haven't been seen in public for so many years?" I want to add my answer from this post:

"[...] I’ve established that being a larrie, like a true larrie and not a chill larrie, you really have to be strong with your beliefs. I know those two try to keep their peace for as long as they want to. And I know we’d probably still get more denials and stunts along the way, but we have to remember that those shouldn’t invalidate the TONS of proofs/receipts that already exist, nor ignore the signals those two send in return when they have to be involved in bs narratives fed to the public. […] There’d be days when it’d be harder to defend HL themselves even bcs of their actions and words that could hurt larries - so on our end, we don’t necessarily have to tolerate that and we’re allowed to be mad or doubt what we’re supposed to be fighting for (not doubting them per se; just the situation and the cause). Though again, for me, by the end of the day, I know there are million other reasons why we cannot bend the truth (and we larries ourselves have always strived to stay analytical and logical when dealing with proofs), and I’d still choose to hold on bcs I know they still need us to believe - even if they decide to keep things quieter like this year or not come out at all."

If no one keeps track of these things (because as subtle as they are, HL still drops hints even once in a blue moon), other people would probably fail to notice them. But they are still just as loud, though not in a way that some 'fans' appreciate (like comparing now with the 1D days when, of course, you’d see them in the same room most of the time). And that’s when hate comes in. Because they fail to see it, they decide to 'overwrite' the past—when the closet was glass and when HL was free to show us their truth. They try to erase the fact that Harry and Louis were forced into a closet: one being labeled as the charming, womanizer man who likes 'girls of a certain age,' and the other as the laddy-lad guy who was a partygoer and then entered fatherhood.

This is the reason why, even though the topics could be repetitive, I personally try to engage, help out, and contribute—it also encourages others to do so. We need each other to keep believing despite the BS we’re thrown. And while Larry has stopped signaling as much, I know they truly appreciate Larries who support them on the sidelines.

There are so many more things my brain probably wants to say, but I literally just woke up when I started writing this lol. I hope that made sense. Again, I am not mad or trying to be rude, but I think these things needed pointing out. ♡

—

That's it. Sums up my beliefs and my convictions as a larrie.

[imeriayapping]

Valentino Rossi in hands of other man? Likely place for him to be

[foone]

Look if there's one thing, just one thing, that I wish everyone understood about archiving, it's this:

We can always decide later that we don't need something we archived.

Like, if we archive a website that's full of THE WORST STUFF, like it turns out it's borderline illegal bot-made spam art, we can delete it. Gone.

We can also chose not to curate. You can make a list of the 100 Best Fanfic and just quietly not link to or mention the 20,000 RPFs of bigoted youtubers eating each other. No problem!

We can also make things not publicly available. This happens surprisingly often: like, sometimes there'll be a YouTube channel of alt-right bigotry that gets taken down by YouTube, but someone gives a copy to the internet archive, and they don't make it publicly available. Because it might be useful for researchers, and eventually historians, it's kept. But putting it online for everyone to see? That's just be propaganda for their bigotry. So it's hidden, for now. You can ask to see it, but you need a reason.

And we can say all these things, we can chose to delete it later, we can not curate it, we can hide it from public view... But we only have these options BECAUSE we archived it.

If we didn't archive it, we have no options. It is gone. I'm focusing on the negative here, but think about the positive side:

What if it turns out something we thought was junk turns out to be amazing new art?

What if something we thought of as pointless and not worth curating turns out to be influential?

What if something turns out to be of vital historical importance, the key that is used to solve a great mystery, the Rosetta stone for an era?

All of those things are great... If we archived it when we could.

Because this is an asymmetric problem:

If we archived it and it turns out it's not useful, we can delete.

If we didn't archive it and it turns out it is useful, OOPS!

You can't unlose something that's been lost. It's gone. This is a one way trip, it's already fallen off the cliff. Your only hope is that you're wrong about it being lost, and there is actually still a copy somewhere. If it's truly lost, your only option is to build a time machine.

And this has happened! There are things lost, so many of them that we know of, and many more we don't know of. There are BOOKS OF THE BIBLE referenced in the canon that simply do not exist anymore. Like, Paul says to go read his letter to the Laodiceans, and what did that letter say? We don't know. It's gone.

The most celebrated playwright in the English tradition has plays that are just gone. You want to perform or watch Love's Labours Won? TOO FUCKING BAD.

Want to watch Lon Cheyney's London After Midnight, a mystery-horror silent film from 1927? TOO BAD. The MGM vault burnt down in 1965 and the last known copy went up in smoke.

If something still exists, if it still is kept somewhere, there is always an opportunity to decide if it's worthy of being remembered. It can still be recognized for its merits, for its impact, for its importance, or just what it says about the time and culture and people who made it, and what they believed and thought and did. It can still be a useful part of history, even if we decide it's a horrible thing, a bigoted mess, a terrible piece of art. We have the opportunity to do all that.

If it's lost... We are out of options. All we can do is research it from how it affected other things. There's a lot of great books and plays and films and shows that we only know of because other contemporary sources talked about them so much. We're trying to figure out what it was and what it did, from tracing the shadow it cast on the rest of culture.

This is why archivists get anxious whenever people say "this thing is bad and should not be preserved". Because, yeah, maybe they're right. Maybe we'll look back and decide "yeah, that is worthless and we shouldn't waste the hard drive or warehouse space on it".

But if they're wrong, and we listen to them, and don't archive... We don't get a second chance at this. And archivists have been bitten too many times by talk of "we don't need copies, the original studio has the masters!" (it burnt down), or "this isn't worth preserving, it's just some damn silly fad" (the fad turned out to be the first steps of a cultural revolution), or "this media is degenerate/illegal/immoral" (it turns out those saying that were bigots and history doesn't agree with their assessment).

So we archive what we can. We can always decide later if it doesn't need preserving. And being a responsible archivist often means preserving things but not making them publicly available, or being selective in what you archive (I back up a lot of old computer hard drives. Often they have personal photos and emails and banking information! That doesn't get saved).

But it's not really a good idea to be making quality or moral judgements of what you archive. Because maybe you're right, maybe a decade or two later you'll decide this didn't need to be saved. And you'll have the freedom to make that choice. But if you didn't archive it, and decide a decade later you were wrong... It's just gone now. You failed.

Because at the end of the day I'd rather look at an archive and see it includes 10,000 things I think are worthless trash, than look at an archive of on the "best things" and know that there are some things that simply cannot be included. Maybe they were better, but can't be considered as one of the best... Because they're just gone. No one has read them, no one has been able to read them.

We have a long history of losing things. The least we can do going forward is to try and avoid losing more. And leave it up to history to decide if what we saved was worth it.

My dream is for a future where critics can look at stuff made in the present and go "all of this was shit. Useless, badly made, bigoted, horrible. Don't waste your time on it!"

Because that's infinitely better than the future where all they can do is go "we don't know of this was any good... It was probably important? We just don't know. It's gone. And it's never coming back"

[infiniteglitterfall]

friggin faux-Palestinian history, istg

I'm in the middle of writing a post about the difficulties of pinning down details and dates in Palestinian history. This one is just me stopping to vent for a sec.

I came across the Wikipedia page for GUPS, the General Union of Palestinian Students. This is an organization with groups at colleges all over the world. Ish. It's shrunk over the decades.

The page made a bold claim: that GUPS was officially founded in Cairo in 1959, but had really started in the 1920s.

I called bullshit. The only source cited was a dead link to the 2010 version of the SFSU GUPS page, which said the same thing -- no context, no source, and especially, no explanation of how Palestinian student organizing could have started before there were colleges or universities in Palestine.

There were two. They were tiny. And they both taught in Hebrew.

Certainly, there could have been Arab Palestinian students there, who learned Hebrew there, or already knew it.

But were there so many that they started a student group that apparently lasted 35+ years before getting a name??

I could not find one other source for this.

So I deleted it and called bullshit.

Within a day, someone who wasn't even logged in reverted my edit. They told me that I hadn't proven that it was wrong, I'd just said it was illogical.

I started looking up sources and putting together a more detailed edit. In the meantime, I started a topic on the totally empty talk page, politely calling bullshit.

I said that I hadn't been able to find any sources in English OR Arabic that confirmed this claim, and that I thought it was an error made on a dead page.

The same person, now logged in, replied:

"you still haven't refuted the claim. the claim is still on their web page."

BRUH.

IT'S AN ARCHIVE OF A DEAD PAGE. BY DEFINITION, IT DOESN'T CHANGE.

This is exactly how it feels to research any of this stuff.

Every single time, it turns out that people's unsourced online bullshit is absolutely wrong.

Every single time, people just respond by insisting on believing whatever claim some rando made on the internet.

The problem is not that Palestinian history doesn't exist, hasn't been written down, or hasn't been researched. Of fucking course it has!!

(I have literally seen people claiming the contrary in the most wild-ass fucking ways. Supposedly-pro-Palestinian people, acting like Palestinians are wooby powerless fuzzy babbies whose books were all stolen by the cruel Jews 80 years ago, who had no way to replace that historic knowledge, and who have just been standing around ever since. It is the most Western Paternalism shit ever, and it absolutely drives me up the wall.)

The problem is that this is a topic that a lot of people are passionate about. And unfortunately, a whole lot of people are unwilling to back down on literally anything that "feels" pro-Palestinian to them, whether it's true or not.

It's purely going on Vibes, but the Vibes themselves are based on how something compares to the Vibes they get from social media and stuff.

And those vibes are so extreme and vehement that any kind of pushback sounds like You Love Genocide And Kill Babies For Fun.

It's just a fucking vicious spiral.

It's like playing tennis against the tennis-ball-throwing machine. It's not a real game. Nobody is engaging with you. It's just the same shit over and over.

(I was trying to type "shot." But apparently I swear so much that instead of autocorrecting me to "ducking hell," my phone now INSISTS I meant to cuss.)

I ended up getting Google to give me the Arabic for GUPS, and then digging for sources about its actual origin.

It turns out Yasser Arafat formed the Palestinian Students League in Cairo in 1949, and that became GUPS in 1956. This is entirely fucking unsurprising in any way if you know anything at all about actual Palestinian history. Of fucking course he did. This also explains why the first search result I found about GUPS was from the PLO. Of fucking course it was.

[hxney-lemcn]

The Riddle of Love — Gotham! Edward Nygma x gn! reader

summery: Edward's interest shifts to someone who indulges in his love of riddles.

tw: bullying (?), kristen kringle is a warning all her own in this fic, implied rejection (not really tho, Ed's just awkward).

a/n: I hope so much that I wrote all these characters correctly. I have riddler fever rn and really wanted to write for him, but I've always been scared that I'd write him too ooc. I think I did good tho.

wc: 3.1k

Master List

“What is it that no one wants to have, but no one wants to lose either?” I asked. I already knew it was a lost cause. Edward Nygma was the smartest man I had ever met. Dorky? Yes. Nerdy? Absolutely. Smart? Incredibly. So trying to impress him at his own game wasn’t exactly the smartest move. Yet, the first time I gave him a riddle to solve (which he solved ridiculously fast), I don’t think I’d ever seen him so happy. So I continued to scour the internet in my free time to try and find obscure riddles. 

Although this riddle wasn’t that obscure. I was running out of riddles to find, and I sure as hell couldn’t make my own. 

“A lawsuit,” Eddie replied without missing a beat, still focusing on testing blood samples. 

I couldn’t stop the pout that formed on my face, “It’s not fair how smart you are.”

I didn’t see Ed’s lips twitch up, how the praise I didn’t think twice about saying impacted him more than he’d like to admit. It was quiet for a few minutes, and I looked back down to the papers I had brought with me. Sometimes, I found myself working in the forensic lab when I could. One of the perks of being a criminal data analyst. I could make my notes on paper, and then just copy them into the computer later. 

Since I was a data analyst, I was in the record archives often. I was acquainted with Kristen Kringle, which obviously led me to Edward Nygma. She would complain about him if I came in after he had left. At that point I didn’t know him, but I also found her complaints unfounded. I’d let her vent, but I’d also speak up for him, which made her glance away in what I assume was guilt. Then there were the unfortunate times that I’d walk in on his awkward flirting. I’d just tensely put away or take the files I needed for my research and leave them to it. 

But after enough times, I’d caught him in the middle of one of his riddles. An easy one, probably to dumb it down for Kringle so she’d be enticed to answer it in the first place. Yet he had caught the attention of the wrong person. Although that didn’t seem to put a damper on his mood. He only sent me a tight lipped smile with a little ‘ding ding ding!’. That’s how I was caught hook line and sinker. His mannerisms were oddly endearing to me, and that’s how our odd little friendship formed. 

I was brought out of my reverie as Eddie shuffled over to his microscope, “I am a nine lettered word and rhyme with perfection; I am another name for love. What am I?”

I blinked, not ready for a riddle, even though I always should be in the presence of him. I looked up from my work, and I noticed how Eddie was sweating, his cheeks flushing a bright red. I tapped the metal table anxiously, the word love had thrown me off my game and my brain felt empty of anything else. I mumbled words under my breath that rhyme with perfection. 

“Deception, reception, perception,” I mumbled, yet none of them fit the rest of the rhyme. The longer I took, the more anxious Eddie seemed to get. “Affection. Oh! The answer is affection!”

Ed cleared his throat, adjusting his glasses, “Y-yes, that is correct. G-good job.” My proud smile fell into a more awkward one, thinking over the implications. That riddle sounded like one he’d save for Kringle. Was he running out of riddles as well? The thought alone was preposterous. It was tense for a bit. And when I realized I had nothing left to do but input the current data I had on some wanna be gang leader. The sad part is I knew that the cops aren’t going to be the first ones who get them. 

Even though I needed to leave, it felt wrong for some reason. To leave the situation after Edward had seemed to admit something in his unique way of sharing. I didn’t want to assume his feelings, yet I knew he also wasn’t one to just state them willingly. Biting my lip anxiously, I decided to just do it. 

Walking over towards Ed’s hunched form, I leaned down to place a light kiss to his cheek, “I’ll see ya later Eddie.” Then I booked it out of the room, leaving behind a very flustered dork. 

It wasn’t much later in the day when Doctor Lee Thompson entered my office. It wasn’t much of an office. The dark walls made the space feel enclosed, and it barely fit my desk and the few cabinets it held. Yet I didn’t mind it since it was a space for myself. Lee, on the other hand, was another acquaintance whose office was nowhere near mine. She’d only come to my office for a few reasons, if it was work related (which was rare since our departments weren’t similar), or if it was personal. Sometimes she fessed that it seemed I needed some company, that it would do me no good to spend all this time alone in my office. Other times…it was on a more personal note, about Eddie and I’s relationship. 

She plopped a candy bar on my desk, a placating move that was all too familiar.

“You must’ve done a real number on Ed,” She smirked, sitting on my desk. Due to the tiny size of the room, and the nature of my job, I didn’t have a seat for guests. 

“What do you mean?” I asked. Deep down, I knew exactly what she meant. I knew Edward was an awkward man, and his experience with flirting was an ultimate zero. Yet it was hard to imagine that he was still affected by a small gesture of affection… Okay maybe the gesture wasn’t that small, for either of us, but still! 

Lee’s smirk widened, “I think you know exactly what. Poor little Ed kept stumbling over his words when I brought you up. Something must’ve happened.”

I unwrapped the candy bar as she spoke, wanting to avoid any thought of the earlier moment. Looking back it was so awkward and a terrible attempt at…what? Flirting? Was that my intention? I didn’t even know my own intentions! 

I took a bite from the candy bar, savoring the sweet flavor before having to explain the painfully awkward memory. When I managed to explain the event, Lee couldn’t stop herself from chuckling, causing me to finish my candy bar with a bitter look. 

“That sounds like something you’d both do,” She smiled.

“What’s that supposed to mean,” I huffed, trying to fight off the flush of embarrassment I felt. 

“Nothing,” She sighed wistfully. “But you two really take your time, huh?” 

“Shut up,” I scowled. 

“Okay, okay,” She threw her hands up in mock surrender. “I’ll stop teasing…for now. But seriously, I think you two would be cute together.”

I let out a childish groan, “I get it. Is there anything else you need?” 

“No,” She smiled as she stood up. “Just wanted to see what had Ed all wound up.”

I rolled my eyes, but my heart skipped a beat at the implication. As Lee saw herself out, my mind kept racing. What was Ed doing right now? What was he thinking about? Did he really care enough about my opinion, about my affection, that he was still affected by it? I stared at my computer screen, the cursor blinking mindlessly. Glancing at the time, I scowled as I realized I still had 30 minutes left to my shift. The idea of going home, having a relaxing dinner and then maybe treating myself to a warm bath. 

…

That was only the beginning. It seems that Eddie’s admiration had shifted from Kristin Kringle to me. It was flattering, to say the least. At least to me. Once I gained Ed’s attention, I seemed to have gained his colleagues attention as well. Typically, I didn’t work with the officers, I’d research criminals, then that data would be added to the files. So when I walked past James Gordon and Harvey Bullock, I never thought twice. But when Ed had waved at me, that cute tight lipped smile on his face as I waved back, a smile of my own adorning my face, it drew the attention of the two detectives. 

"Careful Ed,” Harvey mocked. “Don’t wanna scare them off.” Jim only glanced up briefly, not interested in the situation in the least. I watched as Ed’s smile twitched for a second, Harvey’s words seeming to get to him. I felt my smile slip, not liking how they treat him in the slightest.

“He…didn’t do anything wrong,” I shrugged, before waving goodbye, making my way to the record archives. Not only them, but even Kringle was looking at me more than just as a person to vent to. 

“I feel sorry for you,” She stated, adjusting her thick rimmed glasses. Her hazel eyes held their usual air of judgment as she placed some files back in their spots. 

“Why?” I asked, flipping through to find the person I needed. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” She asked, raising one of her perfectly maintained eyebrows. “Edward’s got his eyes on another victim.” I frowned, anger bubbling within me at the way she always found new ways to insult him. 

“I wouldn’t describe it like that,” I managed to grit out. “I find the sentiment sweet.”

“Wait,” Kringle paused, turning to look at me with disbelief. “Do you…like him?”

I sighed, finding it hard to focus on the task at hand with this irritating conversation, “Would there be something wrong with that?”

“Isn’t it kind of weird how fast he switched?” She asked, a hint of jealousy in her tone. “I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before he loses interest in you.”

I slammed the cabinet shut in a bout of rage, leaving the room before I do something I may regret…or lose my job over. As I exited, my scowl worsened when I realized I didn’t even get what I needed. 

“Hello!” Edward’s excited voice greeted me as I entered the break room. When my gaze landed on him, I felt my expression soften, my shoulder’s relaxing. His brown eyes were so expressive, that silly smile on his face never failed to melt my heart. 

“Hey,” I muttered back. Looking over the options in the vending machine. Just get something to eat, and hopefully I’ll feel better. 

“Is…something the matter?” He asked, fidgeting with his glasses. I let out a long sigh as I sat across from him at one of the few tables. 

Taking a bite of my snack, I took some time to gather my thoughts and feelings, “Sometimes I just hate people.”

His eyebrows raised, nervously fidgeting with his tie, “Th-that’s…understandable.”

“Sorry,” I muttered, finally cooling down. “Someone was just saying some really mean things and it got to me.”

Edwards’ demeanor changed in an instant, a frown replacing his smile, and his eyebrows furrowed in a mixture of concern and anger, “Who?”

I blinked, “What?”

“Who insulted you?” He asked, fists clenched. This wasn’t what I was expecting. He would get annoyed, yeah, but he’d always just stew in it until he calmed down. And he was barely angry when I was around, which was something I was proud of. So seeing him react so harshly was unusual. It made me feel a bit appreciated, that he cared enough to get this angry over it, yet it was also unsettling.

“They…they were insulting you,” I clarified, rubbing my arm awkwardly. “And trust me, I was ready to do some things that would’ve gotten me fired.”

Ed blinked, calming down drastically at the revelation, “Oh.” 

“Yeah,” I shrugged. “I swear if she says one more damned thing about you I’m gonna…” I strangled the air, the only way I could express how frustrated her insults made me.

Edward fake coughed, his cheeks tinged a light pink, “I assume you mean Miss Kringle.”

I paused, hoping it didn’t hurt that his past interest was still as rude as ever. “I didn’t even manage to get the files I needed,” I grumbled, hoping to lighten the mood a bit.

“...I can get them for you,” I felt my heart crack. Was he still interested in her? Was that why he was so ready to go into the den of the woman who so readily insults him? 

“Oh, no you don’t have to do that,” I shook my head. “I’ll just have Lee do it.”

Ed blinked, seeming to think over something before standing up, “I’ll be right back.” Before he was fully out the door he paused, “Whose case files did you need?”

I couldn’t help the tiny grin at how eager he was as I gave him the names of the people I needed files on. Yet that smile fell. Was he really so excited to get a chance to see Kringle that he almost left without knowing what files he needed? I finished my snack, getting a drink from the vending machine while I was at it. My mind continued to make up terrible scenarios that could be happening at that moment. How she could manage to crush Ed’s precious heart even more than she’s already managed to.

Ed was back quicker than I realized. It took him less than ten minutes! He set the files I needed on the table, that tight lipped grin on his face as he waited for my input.

“Oh! Thank you!” I thanked, flipping through the files to make sure they were all there. “She didn’t give you any trouble, did she?”

“No,” He replied simply. As I met his gaze, that’s when I finally realized that he was truly over Kringle. I should’ve felt disturbed at how intense his gaze was, at how strong his emotions seemed to be when he wasn’t even trying. Yet I only felt flattered, important, and wanted. Emotions I wasn’t completely used to, and caused my heart to stutter at how strong my own emotions were becoming. 

Standing up, I leaned in and kissed his cheek again, this time a bit more confident then the last time I did. I waved goodbye as I walked out with the files he gave me. I felt pride swell within me as I watched Eddie become a flustered mess as I left. It was a good mood lifter as I watched him fumble with his usual nervous ticks, before he was finally out of my sight. 

…

Edward’s courting tactics only seemed to grow after that. I wasn’t sure what changed him to do so. I could only speculate that Lee had something to do with it. She kept stopping by my office, asking how Ed and I were doing like she hadn’t just seen us the day before. I can’t lie, I was reveling in the attention that Ed was giving me, and I could tell he’d revel in my attention as well. A mutual pining on both sides. 

Normally, I’d be okay with that. Too scared to try and push things forward. Edward Nygma was different. He was just so…amazing. I’ve never felt so strongly towards someone. He was sweet, attentive, smart, and overall lovely. I couldn’t just settle for pining, I wanted to experience what it would be like as his lover. 

Which led me to this horrendous mess up of a confession.

I dressed up a bit nicer than usual, hoping to impress the cute dork. I felt confident in myself, an emotion I don’t feel regularly. I greeted Lee, who seemed like she guessed the occasion and sent me a wink when I walked past. 

“Hey Eddie,” I greeted, setting a cup of coffee down on the counter.

“Oh! Hello,” He greeted me, smiling. “You seem chipper this morning.”

Nudging the coffee towards him I smiled back, “It’s a good day today. I got you a coffee.”

“You didn’t need to,” Ed replied sheepishly, not used to people giving him things. 

I only shrugged, “I wanted to.” I tapped the counter I was leaning on as nerves started to slowly creep through me. So, before my anxiety could get the best of me, I blurted out, “What is mine but only you can have?”

With furrowed eyebrows, Ed actually paused to answer a riddle for the first time during this little game we had. His eyes flitted around the room, like he was trying to avoid the answer. I know he was smart enough to figure it out, so the fact he was taking so long to answer caused my heart rate to spike from anxiety. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I was reading the room wrong. I blame Lee for feeding me a wrong understanding. 

“I…uh…” Ed stuttered over his words, sweat dripping down the side of his face. Shit, shit, shit! I shouldn’t have said that. He does know the answer, I found it online easily, he obviously knows. He doesn’t feel the same and now he’s trying to find a way to politely reject me. 

“Nevermind!” I exclaimed, trying to quell my nerves by getting the fuck out of here. “Stupid riddle! Never needs an answer. I should get to work.”

“W-wait!” Eddie called out, making me stop in my tracks. So close yet so far. “I can be a fruit, I can be on a calendar, I can be important, and I can be forgotten. What am I?”

Turning back around, I watched as Eddie picked at his nails. We both seemed like complete messes at the moment. It was hard for me to think of anything due to my previous failure of admitting my feelings. I bit my lip awkwardly, trying to stop myself from making any more of a fool of myself.

“I…I’m not sure Eddie,” I chuckled solemnly.

Clearing his throat, he adjusted his glasses before admitting, “A date. W-would you accompany me on one?” I stared at him with wide eyes, unsure if I heard him correctly.

“Y-yeah! Of course I will!” That tinge of embarrassment was quickly overpowered by exhilaration. The smile that stretched across my face almost hurt with how big it was. Eddie’s smile was also wide as he still couldn’t meet my eyes.

“Is…is tonight okay? Dinner? 7 o’clock?”

“That sounds perfect.” 

And to make the moment better, I kissed his cheek before parting, excited for what the night held for us.

[shootingstarwritings]

Body a Day #5: Revenge

“Release my nudes, why don’t you?” hissed Mira as she stared at her ex’s reflection in the mirror. “Well, all’s way in love and war, Evan dear. Let’s see how you like it when everyone thinks you’re a whore,” she said, spatting into the mirror.

A few days earlier...

Mira was a young woman who had wanted to end her relationship with her boyfriend, Evan, amicably. “We’re just a bit too incompatible,” she had rehearsed in the mirror as much as she could before breaking the news to him. Although she was nervous and genuinely guilty for ending a relationship she had deeply enjoyed, she was still confident that Evan would take it well. He was kind, smart, and respected Mira’s boundaries.

The two met up at a small diner that one of Mira’s friends recommended for breaking up. There was a bit of small talk, but Mira couldn’t hide the lead ball in the pit of her stomach. “Evan,” she finally said after taking a deep breath. “It’s been a lovely year, but… I’m sorry, but I need to break up with you. I’m going to be moving away soon, and I just don’t think I’ll be able to handle a long-distance relationship. I’m really, really sorry. You’re a great guy and… I honestly was thinking of taking it further. But my career has to come first. Again, I’m sorry.”

Evan stared at her with a blank expression. Then, wordlessly, he stormed off the restaurant with his meal unfinished. This is for the best, thought Mira. She was certain that, after a while, Evan would move on. He was the kind of guy that would easily bounce back.

A day later, the few nudes Mira had ever taken, at Evan’s request, were all over the net. “I’ll kill him,” texted Mira in her friends’ group chat once she saw the news. “Death death death kill kill killy,” she kept sending as she fell into a murderous trance.

“Hold up, girl,” said one of her friends, a girl who went by Frida. “I think I got a way to get even with that dick. I’ll be over in a few hours.”

It was impossible to completely get rid of the nudes from the internet. Someone had probably already saved or archived it, and it would simply get reposted if Mira requested it to be taken down. “Evan knows what he did is permanent,” said Frida once she was over Mira’s apartment. “So we’ll just have to get even with him.”

“But I don’t have any nudes from him. Are you planning on breaking into his house and taking pics of him naked?” said Mira.

Friday shook her head and pulled out a small device that resembled some kind of water pistol. “Nope! The one who’ll be posting his dick pics is Evan himself. Or rather… ‘herself,’” she said with a giggle.

A possession gun. “Sounds like pure sci-fi,” Mira said. Frida shook her head and insisted it was real. Her father was a scientist for the university, but Mira still found herself skeptical.

Frida handed it to her. “Just try it. Point it at your temple and think of the person you want to be,” she said, pointing a finger gun to her own head. The imagery reminded Mira of a certain RPG she was fond of, so she wasn’t too hesitant to try. In fact, the only thing she was worried about was that she might utter the name while doing so. The thought of it was mortifying.

“If you insist…” Mira finally relented. Though she did take a few moments to make sure there were no secret cameras throughout the apartment. “Okay… let’s see it.” Pressing the water pistol to her temple while the other clutched her chest, Mira took a deep breath and put a trembling finger on the trigger. It was nonsensical to be so afraid of a toy, but pointing anything with a barrel to her head was her so much anxiety. Still, Frida’s goading pushed her to it.

She shut her eyes and thought that to that kind smile that had betrayed her. With that burst of anger, she resolved to pull the trigger. “H-Here’s my p-payback… Evan!” It didn’t sound like a gunshot, but it was close. It was like there was a tiny explosion in Mira’s head before the world faded to black.

“Mmm… huh…?” Mira opened eyes to a blurry ceiling she had become familiar with. Blinking the exhaustion out of her eyes, she looked around and found herself in Evan’s room. Posters of various video games and anime were plastered all over the walls. A few weights were pushed to the corner to make room for a small table used for cards games that Evan collected. Mira took a quick whiff and was relieved to find out that he kept the small room freshener she had given him.

Maybe I should take it from him, thought Mira as she sat up. She started swinging her legs off his bed before letting out a horrified cry. Her legs, one of her many pride and joys, were replaced with thick, muscular and hairy legs much like…

...like Evan’s…

Gulping, Mira got out of the bed, nearly falling from the unexpected new strength and weight, and wondered over to Evan’s bathroom. Staring at her from the mirror with a look of pure anxiety was Evan. Her reflection. Evan’s reflection.

“Me.”

Mira texted Frida in a manic state. “What do I do? How do I get out?! What am I supposed to do now?!” All Frida said in response was that Mira would simply need to will herself out of Evan’s body and that it would com naturally to her.

“In the meantime,” texted Frida, “now’s your chance to teach that pig a lesson. Lemme know what the damage is so I can spread it everywhere!”

My chance…

Mira took a deep breath and then looked back at her borrowed reflection in the mirror. Frida was right. This was her chance to get even at Evan. No, not just even. She wanted to get complete revenge and to teach him a lesson. “Okay, Evan,” she grinned to her new self. “Let’s let the campus know about this other side of you.”

A few hours later, Mira set up Evan’s phone at a good angle to capture the show. She grinned and began the recording. “’sup, everyone!” she said, raising both arms in peace signs like the real Evan would. “Evan here, and I’m here to show y’all how cock-hungry this hole o’ mine is!” Clad in just a small pair of yellow briefs, she picked up one Evan’s favorite dildos and brandished it in front of the camera. “Ohh, now this is a good one. A classic piece in my extensive collection.”

She swung it around a few times, making lightsaber noises and pressing the vibrate button. “Critical hit!” she shouted as she stabbed the air multiple times. “All right, I think that’s enough warming up.” Mira walked over to Evan’s dresser, making sure to swing his hips the whole time. She bent down, showing off Evan’s perky ass to the camera, and took out some lube that he kept hidden away. “Oh no, gonna have to go shopping for some more soon!” she forced himself to exclaim. She showed the bottle to the camera just to emphasize how much of it had been used up already.

“Urgh! Aw, fuck…! Ah…” Mira cried out as she slipped the first of Evan’s multiple dildos in his loose, well-used hole. Evan hadn’t been able to admit it to anyone but Mira, but he was an avid fan of anal penetration. During their relationship, he had often asked Mira if she could peg him. The first time that happened, Mira patted him on the arm, promised to keep his secret, and plowed him until he could only see white. It was a harmonic relationship, but then…

“Th-This is what I deserve!” Mira shouted in Evan’s voice. “This… hah… this is what happens to losers who betray their lovers. They…nrgh!” Mira paused and grit Evan’s teeth as she found the prostate.

Grinning madly, she positioned Evan’s body so he was squatting down on the floor and began to ride the dildo like no tomorrow. His nice chest jiggled up and down, all in view of the camera. “This is what I get for leaking nudes, it’s only fair I leak my own little sex videos, huh? Mira, I-I’m sorry. I-I’m… oh shit, I-I’m—!”

Evan’s makeshift flagellation session came to a halt as Mira could feel his core beginning to tighten. His whole body was convulsing as the first waves of his impeding orgasm came crshing down on her. “I’m fucking cumming!” Evan roared as torrents of semen shot out of his untouched cock. Some hit his chin while one even hit his slack-jawed mouth.

“Haaah… Haaah… that was fun…! Any daddies that wanna abuse this hole, c’mon down!” Mira forced Evan to say his home address and ended the humiliating video with a nice view of Evan slurping down his own cum. She giggled and then began to upload the video to every site Evan had leaked her nudes on.

Just before Mira returned to her own body, she wandered back to to Evan’s bathroom and stared at his reflection. She played with his expression, recounting how often she had seen him smile at her, pout in frustration, and sheepishly request her to keep a secret. They had shared so much of themselves to each other that… looking at him, Mira felt a pang of guilt.

“How did it come to this?” she wondered out loud. Looking at Evan’s face, a guilty grimace, she wondered if he looked like that when he betrayed her trust.

“We’re even now,” she whispered. “And we’re done, Evan. Goodbye.”

[fortheloveofarchons]

POV: He's Your Sugar Daddy

C.W. Sugar daddy x sugar baby, breast play, suggestive, a bit of breeding k1nk, thoughts of baby trapping

.

.

.

While your sugar daddy, Pierro, sits at his own desk, working on some paperwork, you continue to babble on some current mundane concerns. Working on his desk, Pierro would give you constant hums and small, curt nods while you talk. 

Noticing his lack of attention, you close your lips, and decide to leave him alone. But before you could walk away, you feel an arm wrapping around your waist. He pulls you into his lap, forcing you to stay with him. With this distance, you could feel how warm he is, his breath close to your ear. 

“I’m listening… so keep talking.” Pierro mutters while focusing on his papers in front of him. But being in his lap suddenly made your brain into static noises, like an internet disconnection on the radio. All you could do was to melt on his lap, so you could stay there forever. 

Noticing your silence, Pierro holds you closer.

“Tell you what, I recently bought you a new dress.” He leaves a gentle kiss on your neck. “Don’t think about the price, dear. I bought it just for you.” 

“T– Thank you!” Your cheeks reddened, and rushes out to go and try them on. “I’ll go and wear it now!” 

Once you try it on, you notice the slight risque feature of the dress, with a slit on the side, exposing your plump thighs. With your exposed collars that show off your shoulders, it leaves your collarbones in display. 

When you walked into the room again, you could see the corner of his mouth turn into a small smirk. He motions with his finger, motioning you to come closer. You take a few tentative steps, close enough to be a foot away from him.

“You look… beautiful.” 

Your cheeks become red and warm upon hearing his words. Before you know it, his arms pull you close to him, and you sit on his thigh. 

“My own sugar is so sweet… so delicate…” His breath fans your neck slightly, and your body flinches a little from the sudden contact. His hands travel down from your neck, down to your loosely-exposed breasts, giving it a good squeeze, and travel down to give your exposed thigh another tight squeeze. “Close your eyes for me, would you?” 

“Yes, sir.” You shut your eyes tightly. You could only hear the sound of his hands shuffling, moving at what sounded like a drawer opening. You then feel something cold gently wrapping around your neck. 

“Alright, you can open them now.”

Opening your eyes, you look down to find something beautiful, what was decorated on your exposed collarbone is an expensive necklace of sapphire.

“It’s so beautiful…” You said, admiring the shimmer and glow that the necklace gave with the reflecting sunlight. 

“The diamonds on your neck fit you so well..” Pierro holds your chin, gently turning your head to face him. “Come here.” 

He leans in and kisses you, and your arms wrap around his neck, deepening it. At that moment, all Pierro could think of was filling you with his seed...

Here's the full version!! Kudos and comments are much appreciated!

[spjohnv-blog]

If you're familiar with the South Park Archives, pretty much the only SP fansite still online - there's over eighteen years of history there, pages and renders for tons of characters and locations, thousands of screenshots, a pretty dedicated staff, transcripts of every episode, and so much more. When I made my start writing shitty fanfics, it was a super useful resource, and that was a small chunk of what it is today.

FANDOM has today unveiled a new Offensive Terms Policy which continues a trend in the last few years been suggested in events like Community Connect, where it has previously been suggested wikis avoid references to canonical sex. The avoidance of slurs is something I would be super supportive of generally -- we don't need to see that kind of stuff on Wookiepedia or like, a wiki for Bluey. It'll keep people from vandalizing children's wikis with adult content for kicks. I am generally in favor of content filtering, especially for family-friendly-oriented content.

...but, this is going to cause a lot of problems for the South Park Archives, a show with a major character who frequently uses slurs and is firmly anti-censorship. You don't need to be an editor to think about that. If you're a fan, you know what kind of show we're talking about.

This is a show with episodes called "The Biggest Douche in the Universe", "Major Boobage", "Reverse Cowgirl" and "Titties and Dragons". There are songs like "Fuck the Police" and "Jacking it in San Diego". There is a character called 'Retarded Fish'. The names of these songs and episodes, bear in mind, are legally registered copyrights, not our choices -- how do you change that? Move an article to Episode 1601? What about "Fuck the Police", which isn't even a South Park original song?

You can clean up a synopsis, and formalize language on a character page, I've done both of those things when I was an editor, but you can't undo all of this. How do you?

That's not even getting into the transcripts pages, which are intended to be 100% accurate to the actual dialogue, continuing the tradition from the good ol' South Park Scriptorium...

Within the day of the policy change, FANDOM has already started to make changes to remove slurs from the transcript pages that are unable to be modified as it is directly related to global policy. I don't know that the staff were communicated with about this personally either, but I'm not in the know like I used to be.

No doubt some of this move is prompted by advertisers - FANDOM previously cited advertiser feedback as a motivation for inserting all sorts of videos on top of wiki pages (similar to their later push to include AI-generated content) and understandably many advertisers may not want their brand name mere inches from a discussion of cartoon eight-year-olds using slurs. I mean, shoot, I wouldn't if I were in charge of a major company, and I get someone needs to keep the lights on, but...

I don't know man, it's a shitty position to be in. It's a well-intended policy that I'd support in almost any other context but literally this narrow exception, and I definitely hate the thought of looking like I'd be defending use of offensive terms, but like, how do you cover "everything" about South Park, an explicitly adult show that is so firmly anti-censorship, that builds entire episodes around these kinds of jokes, or even analyze it from a critical perspective, in such a family-friendly, sanitized way, without betraying its spirit and creative intent?

You can imagine how many staff members there are probably scratching their heads or bashing them into lamp posts, trying to figure out what to do or how to move forward after this. They could apply for an exception, but would it even be granted? What would the alternative be? Are restrictions like this worth it or do they render the whole thing moot? How much responsibility lies with FANDOM? Are advertisers forcing the whole internet down this road? There are so many questions in the air on this. I certainly don't have answers.

[ffc1cb]

new art blog

the short version:

1. i made a new art blog: @cbge;

2. @ffc1cb will stay up as an archive.

the long version:

hi everyone. this announcement is somewhat late, since the blog in question has been up for a few months now, and i’ve already started posting art on it. the reason it took me so long to “reveal” it is because i’ve been trying to figure out whether a new blog is something i actually want, or if it's just me throwing darts at a board, trying to make myself feel better somehow.

i don’t know when precisely it all started, but ever since sometime last year i’ve been going through a hard time, both emotionally and creatively. i’m not sure whether being depressed is what made art harder, or art becoming harder is what made me depressed (a bit of both, i think), but lately, drawing has been a struggle. 

i’ve found myself having less and less energy for art, and this lack of energy resulted in poorer quality of drawings, which resulted in me feeling like i’m getting worse at it, despite my efforts. i knew i could make good art, art that i’m proud of - i’ve done so countless times before, - but somehow it felt like i just couldn’t anymore, like my hands forgot how to. nothing looked right. 

i’ve been trying to experiment. i’ve learned some new things, tried this and that - it was enlightening, to say the least, and even though i kind of liked how it looked, it made me feel a sense of displacement. i was at odds with myself, my art, and how i felt about it, when previously i was always in sync. i was making art, yes, and it looked nice, but it felt like it wasn’t mine.

i suppose part of it was also the growing lack of engagement, and i don’t mean likes and reblogs - i never particularly cared about those. they are all just numbers to me; dry and impersonal. what i’m talking about is actual, human interactions: personal thoughts in tags, asks, replies, etc. a conversation. 

i don’t mean to sound “old” or anything, but i remember when talking to artists online was more commonplace. my wife tells me it’s because the internet culture has changed over the years, that people have become more reclusive, less willing to be open with their thoughts, and she's probably right, but in my slump i find it hard to believe. somehow it feels like it’s my fault for being less “engaging”, for seeming unapproachable or perhaps intimidating. maybe it’s “just a skill issue”, maybe it’s because i have stopped churning out fanart for popular fandoms, maybe it’s because i refuse to torture myself emotionally by having an art account on twitter (i can’t fucking stand the place anymore; i still post nsfw art there, but only because it’s literally one of the only places on the internet that allows you to do so. i miss when you could post female presenting tits on tumblr).

i have always, ever since i started posting art on the internet back in 2012, done it for human connection. i wanted to talk to people, and have people talk to me. i wanted to inspire people with my art, and i wanted to bring them comfort. i wanted to elicit an emotional response, and have people tell me about it. it was one of the main reasons i drew in the first place; having lost that, i’ve been struggling to stay passionate about making art.

i miss being a small artist on the internet during the 2010s. i remember when i could make a post going, “hey everyone, how are you all doing today?” and it would not seem weird to people in the slightest. it is just me? does anyone else feel that way? am i too deep in my own head? the internet feels so unwelcoming nowadays, especially to artists. we are all just content machines; people scroll by our stuff, or maybe look at it for half a second and leave a like before scrolling away. i know it’s unfair to demand people’s attention, especially now when our lives are already so overwhelmed by everything - no one has the energy to pay closer attention; i myself am not immune to mindless scrolling. but it feels bad. i wish we were all sincere and enthusiastic again.

anyway (sorry for rambling. i hope i haven’t bored you to death), you might want to say, okay, but how is making a new art blog on a “dying” social platform going to help with any of that? the truth is, i don’t know. i just felt like i needed a change. 

i’ve been running this blog since 2016 (that’s almost 8 full years!). i feel incredibly attached to it, but at the same time, i feel it weighing me down. 

there are people who followed me years ago for one specific thing, still expecting me to post about said thing (i still find it mindboggling that some people follow artists for a specific fandom only, but that is a whole other matter for a whole other post that i will never write). a third, if not half, of my following are probably dead blogs. and with my current struggle with trying to regain the joy i once felt for making art, looking back at all the art i’ve done over the years makes me feel tired. i still love it all; it’s all very dear to me. i’m proud of it; looking at it makes me mourn my younger and more passionate self.

so i’ve decided to make a new blog, where i will let myself post whatever i want, in whatever stage of donness i feel like. maybe it will help me, somehow. maybe it won’t. but if you care about my art, if you want to keep following me on my artistic journey, i welcome you to join me there. similarly, feel free not to - no hard feelings.

thank you everyone for your support over the years; it matters a lot to me. i’m not planning to delete or private this blog; it will stay up, and i will still be reachable on here. i will still answer asks, if there will be any. i’m just not planning to post any art here anymore. this is it for my dear old friend ffc1cb.

i can be found in other places:

@cbge, as mentioned earlier,

@k0nstanta, an art blog dedicated solely to my wife and i’s ocs,

@inquisimail, a dragon age ask blog that has become my dragon age sideblog in general,

and multiple other blogs, none of which are art related, but feel free to ask, if you’re curious.

thank you very much for reading all of this. i hope you have a wonderful day.

[foundtherightwords]

Love, If You're Near

Pairing: Michael (Hoard) x OFC

Summary: With a troubled past and a hopeless future, Gwen is just trying to survive on the streets of London. When she meets a man named Michael with a rather strange request, she shrugs and goes along with it, never dreaming that she will find a soul just as broken as hers, or that sometimes broken pieces can fit together perfectly, to bring healing and hope when one least expects it.

Warnings: discussions of prostitution and domestic abuse

Word count: 6.8k

A/N: I've had this idea for Michael even before "Hoard" was released, and after watching the film, I was happy that it was still viable. I don't condone Michael's actions, but I can see where his desire for love and affection comes from, and I hope that after what happened with Maria, Michael could start his own journey of redemption and healing. It is what I based my idea on. I also took some inspiration from "Frankie and Johnny" (the 1991 movie with Michelle Pfeiffer and Al Pacino, not the song).

"Hoard" takes place in 1994, and this is about 4 years after that.

Also, big thanks to @wheels-of-despair for sending me a transcript of the movie. It's helped me tremendously in deciphering the East London dialogue!

Gwen dropped down on a bench outside Dalston Junction Station, slipped her right shoe off her aching foot, and gingerly touched the raw red spot on the back of her heel, through her fishnet. "Cheap piece of shit," she grumbled. Except the shoes weren't exactly cheap. Twenty quid down the drain and they hurt like fuck, even after she'd tried every trick in the book to break them in. But her last pair had broken beyond repair, so it was either this or go barefoot, and she didn't want to step on broken needles and used condoms and whatever garbage that littered the backstreets of Hackney. Plus it was freezing. She'd met a stag do the previous night, and they had kept her out until the morning, eventually straining her all the way over in Chiswick. It was almost noon by the time she crawled back to her flat. It was too cold to sleep in, so she'd whiled away the day in coffee shops and pubs, waiting until it was time to go back out on the street. At this rate, she would take a five-quid blowjob in a car if it meant getting somewhere warm.

Across the street, the Hackney Carnival Mural shouted at her with its peeling musicians and protestors waving their "Unite for Peace" banners. Gwen turned away, annoyed. Idiots. What good is peace, when one is cold and tired and doesn't even have a decent pair of shoes?

It was almost Christmas, and a slow night. The nights had been slow for a while now, not like when she first started. Ten years on the streets, she thought she'd known how it worked. Then three years in the clink, and when she got out, it was like Brave New World out here. Foreign girls flooded the market. The pimps and the punters liked them because they were younger and easier to control, but the local girls knew that naïveté was just an act. These newcomers were tougher and meaner, and they wouldn't hesitate to pull a knife on those that dared to encroach on their territory. That was if they were still on the streets in the first place. It was all indoors now, and they didn't even have to rely on the old tart-card-in-phone-box method of advertisement. The Internet had that covered.

Gwen readjusted her long blonde wig and sighed. Sometimes she felt much older than her thirty-one years.

She put her shoe back on with a grimace. Perhaps she could try her luck up the road, near the Shacklewell Arms. Her friend Medusa worked that corner, and sometimes she would let Gwen stay with her so they could team up against the new girls.

Medusa's real name was Melissa, but all girls needed some exotic street names. For Halloween one year, back when they were both younger and sillier and full of hope, Gwen had even helped her attach plastic snake's heads to her dreads, both giggling like mad.

Gwen took the backstreets to avoid the twinkling lights, the sound of Christmas music, and the scents of evergreen and cinnamon that spilled out from every door and shop window. They depressed her. Her feet would not thank her for the detour, but her heart would.

By the time she reached the Arms, she was sure her blister had burst and was bleeding. Some indie band had just finished their gig, and the front of the pub was crawling with people. Gwen peered into the crowd, trying to make out Medusa's statuesque form. As she spied Medusa's dreads swinging to and fro, Gwen opened her mouth to call her friend. Her eyes fell on the man next to Medusa, and the call died in her throat. It was Medusa's boyfriend and pimp, Nico.

Despite Medusa's insistence that Nico was "not that bad", Gwen knew better than to face him. At best, he would cajole her into coming to work for him, and at worst he would threaten and force her. Gwen knew what it was like to tie yourself to a man. Usually, she could chase Nico off with a few choice words, but in her current state, cold, exhausted, and irritated, she had no strength to deal with him. She beat a quick retreat.

And collided with someone.

It was a man coming out of one of the cheaper and seedier establishments that lined the back alleys behind Shacklewell Lane. "Excuse me," he mumbled.

"'s alright," Gwen said. And, because he was a man and she was working, she added, out of professional habit, "You looking for company?"

"No, thank you," the man said, a little too quickly, and started to walk away. A few steps, then he seemed to have second thoughts and turned back. "How much?" he asked.

Gwen gave him the once-over. He was probably in his mid-thirties, medium built, dressed in old jeans, an older jumper, and sturdy boots. A working man, then, not a tourist or an out-of-towner looking for some cheap thrills. Not her ideal client, but beggars cannot be choosers.

She told him her hourly rate. "Forty quid and I'll do whatever you want, darling." It wasn't high, all things considered, but it wasn't cheap either. She had her dignity.

The man shook his head. "That's—that's out of my—sorry." He turned away again.

Gwen slumped against a brick wall with a sigh. Maybe she should call it a night. The prospect of her cold flat with its empty fridge was not very welcoming though. Maybe she could find Medusa again. She was desperate enough to even risk Nico.

As she struggled to her feet, she staggered backward and collided, for the second time that night, with someone. This time it was a little girl who was coming out of a doorway with her mother. The girl was holding to the hem of her mother's coat with one hand and in the other was a teddy, which she dropped to the ground.

"Sorry," Gwen said. She quickly picked up the teddy, dusted it off, and handed it to the girl with a smile. "Here you go, love."

The girl stared back at Gwen with enormous eyes but said nothing and made no move to take her teddy. The mother snatched the toy back. "Why don't you watch where you're going, you slag!" she snarled. "And stay away from my kid."

"You watch where you're going!" Gwen spat. "What are you doing, dragging a kid out on the street this late anyway? She should be in bed!"

The mother's nostrils flared. "Don't tell me how to raise my own kid! What does a slut like you know about being a mother?" With that, she snatched the kid up in her arms and stormed off. Swallowing her anger, Gwen walked away in the opposite direction.

A moment later, a wail from the little girl caused Gwen to turn back, just in time to see the woman yank the teddy out of her hand and toss it into the nearest bin.

An inexplicable fury prompted Gwen to chase after them despite her blister, not even knowing what she would do if she caught them, but the woman turned down a side street and disappeared. Only the teddy stared up at Gwen from the bin with a rather mournful look, or so she imagined.

She picked it up and straightened up the bowtie around its neck. "I know more about being a mother than that bitch," she said to the teddy, and, without knowing why, she put it in her bag.

Feeling eyes on her, she looked up to see the man who had rejected her still standing at the mouth of the alley, watching her with a strange expression. Something in his dark eyes made blood rush to her cheeks, and she growled, "What the fuck are you looking at?"

He approached her slowly. "Forty an hour, you say?"

She stood up a little straighter. "Yeah."

"And you'll do whatever I want?"

"Within reasons," she said warily.

"Where can we go?"

"You have a car?" He shook his head. "Well, then that depends on what you have in mind," she said. "Even an alleyway would do, though I have to tell you, I'm not keen on getting any more blisters tonight." He colored slightly, and Gwen found herself wondering if this was his first time. She glanced at his hand. No ring. But then again, this type always takes care to leave their ring at home, don't they?

"My flat's not far from here," he said. "Do you mind—?"

Gwen hesitated. She made it a point never to go with a customer to a place she was unfamiliar with. Too risky. But she was cold and tired and just wanted to get this done.

She scrutinized the man, more carefully this time. He had dark hair pushed away from his forehead in soft curls, and a face that, had she been feeling better, she would have found quite handsome. What really struck her, though, were his eyes. They were dark and large, fringed by ridiculously long lashes, which made him look almost boyish. Gwen, who had to rely on false lashes and mascara to get such a doe-eyed look, stared at those lashes enviously. Noticing her scrutiny, he glanced at her briefly and looked away again. That shy, beseeching look finally cinched it for her.

"Alright," she said. "But cash up front."

"Fair enough." He opened his wallet and handed her some crumpled fivers and a tenner. Gwen counted them carefully before stuffing them into her bag. She also checked that her pepper spray was still in her bag—no matter how unassuming the man looked, or how sad his eyes were, she had to be careful. Technically, it was illegal to carry pepper spray, but Gwen never let a small thing like legality stop her.

Her fingers brushed across a little card, and Gwen paused momentarily. She'd been given that card by a group of women who roamed the area in twos and threes, who might be mistaken for working girls at first glance. She supposed that was their disguise. They were a non-profit helping to get women off the streets, they said. Give us a call anytime, they said. Gwen had scoffed at their optimism, yet for some reason, she still held on to their card. 

"What's your name?" the man asked.

"What do you want it to be?" she said, again out of habit, too tired to actually be coquettish. The man raised his eyebrows at her, and Gwen relented. "You can call me Queenie." Medusa wasn't the only girl with a ridiculous street name.

She didn't ask his name. She didn't care.

They went down Shacklewell Lane, away from the bright lights and loud noises of the Arms, crossed the A10, and through some side street lined with terraced houses. Then the houses gave way to chippies, greasy spoons, Laundromats, and off-licenses. Gwen was whimpering by the time they reached a block of council flats, its brown brick façade the color of dry blood under the dim streetlamps.

"You all right?" the man asked, glancing at her.

"How far up?" Gwen managed, looking up at the looming building, trying to calculate how quickly she could run out of there, if necessary.

"Fifth floor."

She let out an involuntary groan. The man looked at her for a moment. And then, before she realized what he was doing, he scooped her up in his arms in one smooth movement and carried her up the stairs, bridal style.

"Do you mind?!" she protested. The man said nothing, only kept walking.

Gwen tried to wriggle out, but she was too tired and his arms were too strong, and after a moment, she gave up and leaned her head against his shoulder. He smelled, not unpleasantly, of soap and sweat and rollies, and she found herself pressing her nose into the crook of his neck, breathing in his human scent, to purge from her memories the stench of piss and stale beer and rubbish that had assaulted her all through the night.

For all his strength, the man was panting a little by the time they arrived at his door. He set Gwen down on her feet and fumbled with the lock. The moment they were through the door, she collapsed on the nearest available surface, which happened to be an old, rather threadbare sofa, and pulled her shoes off.

"Take it from me," she said. "Never wear heels."

He seemed amused. "OK, I won't." He went about flipping on the lights. "Do you want some Epsom salt for that?"

"Nah, I've had worse."

The man disappeared behind a door down the hall—the bathroom, she supposed—and emerged a second later with a plaster. He then knelt in front of her, rolled down her right stocking and lifted her foot into his lap, not in a sensual or seductive way, but rather matter-of-factly, and stuck the plaster on her heel, like a parent cleaning up a child's skinned knee. This done, he pulled out the sofa and made a bed on it, still in that same matter-of-fact manner.

Something rolled out from under the sofa—a piece of Lego. Gwen's eyebrow went up. Following her eyes, the man saw the Lego as well and turned red. He quickly kicked it back under the sofa and went on making the bed as if nothing had happened. Well, if he wasn't going to say anything, then she certainly wouldn't either.

"Right," she said, rolling down her other stocking. "Let's get started, shall we?"

He turned toward her, looking alarmed. "No, no, no," he said and put his hand over Gwen's, stopping her. "Clothes on, please."

Gwen tilted her head. It wasn't the first time she'd been asked to keep her clothes on, though it was rare enough that it still came as a surprise. She wasn't keen on having her dress all wrinkled and stained. It would be a nightmare to get it clean. But she pulled her fishnets back up anyway

The man sat down next to her on the sofa bed, sheepishly avoiding her eyes. "I'm Michael, by the way," he said.

"Nice to meet you, Michael," Gwen said, because that's what one is supposed to say when someone introduces themselves.

"Would you like something to drink? Cup of tea?"

If he'd offered her some wine or whiskey or even beer, she might have accepted, but tea was probably the least erotic drink Gwen could think of. "No, thanks," she said. She didn't trust him not to slip her a Mickey—hey, Mickey and Michael, that's rich, she thought, chuckling to herself. When Michael didn't say anything, she reminded him, "You only paid me for an hour."

"Could you—" he began, looking down at a spot on the scuffed floor. "Would you mind—could you just hold me?"

Is that it? Gwen had to stop herself from grinning. This really was his first time then, poor lamb. She scooted closer and wrapped her arms around him. "Like this?" she whispered into his ear. Michael nodded and eased them both down on the bed until they were spooning, with her behind him, so she couldn't see his eyes. "What else do you want me to do?" she asked.

"Just this."

Gwen frowned. "What?"

"Just hold me like this, please."

She sat up to look at him properly. He was lying on his side with his eyes open, staring not at her but at something or somewhere else, miles away.

"You're not going to make me put a giant diaper on you and breastfeed you, are you?" Medusa had once met a punter with that request. It had been part of the reason why she'd decided to work for Nico, so she could avoid another awkward situation like that, though, in Gwen's mind, it was rather like out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Michael turned to her. "What?"

"You don't want to tie me up, and you don't want me to tie you up?"

"No."

"You don't even want to have sex?"

He blushed again. "No."

"So let me get this straight," she said. "You're paying me forty quid to—spoon you?"

"Yeah." He sat up as well. "Look, if you're not comfortable with it, I understand. I'll pay you for your time, and then you can go."

She considered. As far as requests went, it was an odd one, but certainly not the strangest she'd had. And it sounded innocent enough—perhaps the most innocent of all. Still, she would not be lulled into a sense of safety. She pulled her bag a little closer to make sure she could reach inside and get the pepper spray if necessary. Her shoes would be a write-off—she could run faster barefoot anyway.

"Just—hold you?" she asked again, wanting to make sure. "For an hour?"

He looked up at her with those dark eyes, imploring, infinitely sad, like those of a lost child or a dying animal, and Gwen felt her heart stumble. "Yes, please," he said.

"I'm not charging you the full rate just for a bit of cuddle!"

"It's OK, really. I don't mind."

"I do," she insisted. "It's about being professional. What do you do for a living?"

He seemed taken aback by her question, but he answered anyway. "I'm a cleaner. At St. Mary's Hospital." He was quiet for a moment, then added, "Used to be a bin man. But I couldn't take the stink anymore."

Something in the way he said it made Gwen think that there were other reasons besides the stink for him to give up being a bin man, but it was none of her business. "You wouldn't take the full wage for cleaning half the hospital, would you?" she asked.

Something like a smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "I guess not."

"OK, so let's say twenty an hour, and we have a deal."

A moment's hesitation, and he extended a hand. They shook on it. His hand was warm, his grip strong and steady, and Gwen wondered why such a man could be so alone, and so lonely.

She made to give him back the twenty quid, but he pushed her hand away. "Keep it. I may ask you to stay longer."

"All right," she said, tucking the bills into her bra. "No funny business, mind."

"No."

She lay back down and put one arm around him again, leaving the other free so he couldn't easily pin her under him. "Is this OK?" she asked.

"It's fine," he said. "You don't have to do anything. Just—be natural."

Natural. Gwen wasn't even sure if she remembered how to be natural in bed anymore. She knew how to be enthusiastic, how to be dominant or submissive, how to be seductive, even how to be afraid. But natural? She no longer knew what that meant.  

The minutes ticked by.

While they lay there, Gwen let her eyes wander around, trying to find some clues that might point to danger. She saw a sparsely furnished flat, similar to her own. There were only the sofa bed, a coffee table, and a TV taking up the front room, a kitchenette to the side, and two closed doors, one leading to the bathroom, the other she had no idea. She saw more evidence of a kid—childish drawings on the fridge door, a small toothbrush, a bowl of half-eaten cereal on the coffee table. If he had a kid, she certainly hoped the kid wasn't locked in that spare room.

Her wandering eyes returned to Michael. He had taken his jumper off and was now in a vest. There was a tattoo on his bicep. "Who's Billy?" she asked.

"Mate of mine, from school," he said in a small voice. "He OD'ed."

"Shit," she said. And then, "I'm sorry."

"It's all right." His hand found hers, clasped it to his chest.

"What are you doing?" she asked, pulling away.

"Sorry," he said quickly. "Your hand's cold. I was just trying to warm it up."

"I would've worn a coat, but unfortunately it doesn't go with this outfit," she joked. Her only warm coat would've covered up what she was trying to sell. She left her hand in his, feeling the heavy thump of his heart under her palm. He nestled into her with a sigh, but she remained stiff, keeping some distance between her chest and his back, so she could bolt at the first sign of danger.

But it never came. Instead, his breath evened out, and soon he was asleep.

Gwen must have dozed off as well, for she remembered jolting awake. Michael was still sleeping, holding her hand to his chest as if afraid she would fly off if he let go.

This could be her chance. After making sure Michael was sound asleep, Gwen carefully slid her hand out of his grasp, got out of bed, and tiptoed down the hall. She opened two closed doors. One was a bathroom, just as she suspected. The other was a bedroom, a kid's bedroom, painted in bright, buttery yellow, with a frilly little bed and cheerful toys and books piled on the shelves, a complete contrast to the sad, gray flat outside.

Gwen's feet took her into the room almost of their own volition. She gazed about, a strange melancholy washing over her. No, there wasn't anything strange about this sadness. She knew exactly where it was coming from; she just didn't want to think about it.

There was a framed photo on the bedside table, and she picked it up—it was of Michael, smiling a big, happy smile, carrying on his shoulder a little girl of about two or three years old, who had his same brown curls and his chocolate button eyes.

"What are you doing?" said his voice behind her.

She jumped and dropped the picture, which landed safely on the bed.

"Sorry," she said, fumbling to pick up the frame. "I was looking for the—uh, bathroom. I didn't mean to snoop."

"It's OK." He didn't look angry, only a little awkward, like she had stumbled on an embarrassing secret. It emboldened her.

"This your kid's room?" she asked.

"Yeah." He took the picture frame from her and set it back on the table. "She lives with her mum. I only have her on weekends and when her mum has to work nights, but I try to keep the room nice and clean for her," he explained.

Gwen let out a small breath and reminded herself to stop watching so much The Bill. From the way he had been so secretive about it, she was expecting something tragic. She was glad it wasn't.

"That her?" She nodded at the picture.

A ghost of a proud smile hovered over Michael's lips. "Her name's Amelia."

"Pretty name. Suits her."

"Don't let that face fool you, she's a little terror."

"How old is she?"

"Turning four soon."

"Oh, that's a great age," Gwen said without thinking. "That's when you can start to have a real conversation with them, and it's so fun."

"It is." Michael looked at her sharply. "Have you got a kid?"

For a moment, Gwen considered telling him the truth. It felt so nice, so normal, to talk in that cheery little room, as if sunshine had been stored in its bright yellow paint and the warmth of it was seeping into her, chasing away the cold of those long, lonely nights out on the street. She wanted to hold on to that feeling a little longer.

But she was here to work, not to have a heart-to-heart like she was on some bloody chat show.

"No," she lied.

"Because you sound like you know kids," he said.

Anger pricked at Gwen's insides. Who did this punter think he was?

"It's none of your business," she snapped. Michael continued to stare at her, and the intensity of his eyes forced her to look away. The flat was closing in on her, suffocating her, like her old prison cell. She couldn't breathe. She had to get out of here, get away from this strange man whose eyes seemed to penetrate her very soul.

She grabbed her bag. "I have to go."

Michael glanced at the clock on the wall, surprised. "But I paid you for two hours."

"Here." She tossed the money on the bed, picked up her shoes, and all but ran. He caught her at the door.

"What did I do?" he asked.

"Nothing. I just have to go."

"Don't do this," he said, clutching at her arm like a child afraid of being separated from its mother. "Don't leave. Please." The pleading note in his voice now sounded more like a command. That voice, the hard grip of his hand, and the dark glint in his eyes awoke something savage within Gwen, a cold fury she hadn't felt in years.

"Let me go," she said quietly, "or I'll kill you."

He dropped her arm in an instant. "I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes glistening with what looked like tears. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you—I just don't know how to—"

As suddenly as it appeared, Gwen's anger vanished. She couldn't afford to lose her temper like that.

"It's fine," she said. "Just let me—"

Before she could finish, there was a knock on the door. "Michael?" said a voice on the other side. "You in?" A woman's voice.

Michael turned to Gwen, his eyes enormous on his pale face. "Hide," he mouthed to her.

A part of Gwen wanted to be defiant and face whoever was at the door—a wife? A girlfriend?—so she could watch Michael squirm, but another part of her took pity on his panic. Rolling her eyes, she made her way into the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

"Leah," she heard Michael say, as he opened the front door. "What's wrong? Is Amelia all right?"

Peeking through a crack of the bedroom door, Gwen saw a woman standing in the doorway. She had auburn hair pulled into a tight bun and a scowling, disapproving expression that seemed terminal. A little girl was asleep in her arms.

These must be his ex and their daughter then. Gwen retreated into the shadow of the room, feeling strangely embarrassed, like she had intruded on an intimate scene. In some way, she had.

"She's fine," Leah said, and Michael let out a breath of relief. "It's my mum," Leah continued, looking harried. "She's had a fall. I have to go to Cardiff to see her. Don't know when I'll be back, so I can't take Amelia with me—" She looked around the flat, her eyes narrowing as they landed on the bills scattered on the sofa bed. Michael looked away, his cheeks flushed. "Is this a bad time?" Leah asked.

"No, not at all," Michael said quickly. "I'll take her. Call me when you get to Cardiff and let me know how your mum is."

With a curt nod, Leah handed their daughter over. She brushed a curl away from the sleeping child's forehead and went downstairs, but not before throwing another suspicious look over her shoulder.

Gwen waited for another moment or two until the coast was clear, and emerged from the bedroom. Michael, with his arms full of a sleeping toddler, gave her an apologetic look.

"Well, I'll be off then," Gwen said, trying not to show how the sight of the little girl was affecting her.

Michael hesitated. "Listen," he said. He tried to take her hand, but his arms were too full to reach. "You don't have to run off like that. I'm sorry about earlier. Stay for a bit. It's cold out."

"I'll be fine," Gwen said lightly. "And you're busy. I should go." At the door, she paused. "Good luck, Michael."

At that moment, Amelia lifted her head from her father's shoulder. "Daddy?" she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey there, sleepyhead," Michael said, and the tenderness in his voice made Gwen want to cry. She knew she should be going now, but some invisible force was rooting her to the spot, making her watch Michael with his daughter as if hypnotized. "Mum has to go to Grandma's," he was saying, "so you're staying with me for a bit. Is that all right?"

The little girl rubbed her eyes with a chubby fist. "Where's Snappy?" she said.

Michael looked around. He patted the pockets of Amelia's coat and came up empty. "You don't have him with you?" The girl shook her head. "You must have forgotten him at home then."

"I want him."

"We'll get him when Mum comes back—"

"I want him now!" Amelia demanded. She no longer sounded sleepy.

Michael gave Gwen an exasperated look over his daughter's head. Despite the twist of pain in her heart, Gwen couldn't help but grin back in rueful sympathy.

"What's Snappy?" she whispered to Michael.

"Her crocodile." Turning to Amelia, he said, "Don't worry, Snappy will be fine—"

But Amelia was not having it. "No!" she shouted. "I want Snappy! I'm not going without Snappy! Give me Snappy!"

"Let's just go to bed first, and then I'll find Snappy for you, yeah?"

"No! I don't want to stay here without Snappy!" The little girl started kicking and wriggling to get out of Michael's arms, and there was a shrill note in her voice that Gwen knew well would be followed by a tantrum. Wincing, Michael set Amelia down on the floor. The little girl pushed at her father, shouting, "I want Snappy!"

"Hey, hey, stop," Michael gently admonished her. "I don't have a key to Mum's place, so we can't get in. You have a lot of toys here—"

"I don't wanna stay here! I wanna go home! I want Mum!"

At that, something seemed to break within Michael. Without saying a word, he dropped Amelia on the sofa bed and went over to the kitchenette, where he plopped down at the table with his head in his hands. All the while, Amelia kept crying for Snappy.

Gwen looked between the despondent father and the wailing toddler. None of this had to do with her. She did not need to get involved. She should leave now.

She didn't leave.

She sat down in front of Amelia, who continued to sniff and snuffle. The violence of her tantrum seemed to have passed into a sulk.

"Hi," Gwen said. "You're Amelia, right?"

The little girl wiped a sleeve across her runny nose. "Who're you?" she asked.

Gwen glanced at Michael. He was still sitting with his head in his hands. Odd, that. Why was he acting like a tantrum was the end of the world? "My name's Gwen," she said. Michael raised her head at this, but made no comment. "I'm—I'm a friend of your dad's. Amelia's a very pretty name. Have you ever heard of Princess Amelia?"

At the mention of a princess, the girl's large brown eyes, so like her father's, widened in interest. "Who's she?"

"She was the youngest daughter of King George III. She was very nice and kind. Her father loved her very much, and so did her mother and her brothers and sisters." Gwen paused. Perhaps she shouldn't mention that it was Princess Amelia's death that drove her poor father to madness. "And there's also Amelia Earhart," she said. "She was the first woman to fly across the Atlantic." Again, Gwen paused when she remembered that Ms. Earhart disappeared while trying to fly around the globe. She looked at Michael to see if he'd noticed her bungled attempt to cheer his daughter up. He was still at the table, watching her with an inscrutable expression, just as he had when they first met in the alley. She cleared her throat and returned her attention to Amelia. "Now, can you be kind like Princess Amelia and brave like Amelia Earhart?"

Hesitantly, the little girl nodded. Gwen smiled. "Good. Tell me about Snappy then."

Amelia's little mouth screwed up, and she blinked rapidly, threatening tears again. "He's—m-my croc-crocodile," she hiccupped. "He's gold and has black teeth and he's very scary and he protects me."

"Ah, so that's why he has to stay home then," said Gwen, as if she'd just made a great discovery. "He has to keep it safe for when you and your mum come back."

"Really?"

"Yes. He knows you'll be perfectly safe here with your dad. And"—here Gwen pulled out the teddy from her bag and handed it to Amelia—"in case you're feeling lonely, here's Teddy. He may not be as scary as Snappy, but he can keep you company until you see Snappy again, all right?"

Amelia took the teddy, turned it this way and that, and held it experimentally. Finally, satisfied that the teddy was safe, she hugged it to her chest and smiled at Gwen through her tears.

"Now there's a great big smile," Gwen said, smiling back and giving the girl's nose a little bop.

"My dad always says my smile's as big as Christmas," said Amelia.

"And he's right."

As if on cue, Michael appeared next to them. He nodded at Gwen gratefully and took Amelia into her room.

Gwen was still sitting on the sofa bed when he came out a few minutes later and sat down next to her. "You're really good with her," he said.

"So are you."

"No, I'm not. You heard what she said. She didn't even want to stay with me."

"Michael, she's four," Gwen said. "She's knackered. A four-year-old would say they hate you one minute, then turn around and kiss you the next. That's what they do."

"How do you know?"

Gwen rubbed a hand across her eyes. Amelia wasn't the only one who was tired. Gwen felt like she could lie down and sleep for a thousand years. "I lied earlier," she said. "I do have a kid. Her name's Emma. She's six—no, seven now."

Michael tilted his head, looking at her more closely. "Where is she?"

"She lives with a foster family in Croydon. I haven't seen her in three years." The foster mum sent photos, and Gwen tried to call when she could, but it wasn't the same. "Sometimes I'm afraid she's forgotten me."

"Why can't you see her?"

Gwen didn't answer. It was a wound she wasn't ready to open yet.

Michael went back to the kitchen and fiddled about with the kettle. He came back a moment later with two steaming cups, and handed Gwen one. It reminded her of the tea she used to make for herself as a kid, too sweet and milky for her liking now, but she said nothing. They sat sipping their tea in companionable silence.

"Do you believe some people just can't be loved?" Michael asked.

"What?"

"Some people always seem to end up alone. It's like they can't be loved."

Gwen took a moment to answer. The punters all liked to talk. They would complain to her about their jobs, their wives, their girlfriends, their mothers. She could hear Medusa now, telling her, "We're like trick cyclists, darling"—Medusa was not Cockney, but she'd heard that slang for "psychiatrist" on The Bill or EastEnders and liked to slip it into her talk because she thought it made her sound cool—"except we're cheaper and they get some sex on top of that." So when a customer talked, Gwen would just nod absently and say "Is that so?" while thinking of something else.

Now, having been brought closer by the talk of their kids, she asked Michael, "Why do you think that?"

"Everybody in my life is gone," he said, his voice bleak. "My parents—well, they weren't fit to be parents, really. I lost count of how many foster homes I lived in. None of them wanted me. My brother took me in, but then he moved to Australia with his wife and kids. Maybe it's my fault." His head drooped. "I met someone once. I loved her. Or I thought I did. But I fucked it up. I didn't see what she was going through, and I made it worse."

"Was it Amelia's mum?"

"No." He sighed. "But I fucked it up with her as well. She's too good for me. They're all too good for me."

"Is that why you hired me?" Gwen asked before she could stop herself. Michael turned to her, and the look in his eyes went through her heart like a pin. It was the same look he'd given her when they first met, so lost and vulnerable, the look of a lifetime of hurt and loneliness. Now she understood why she had been so taken by it. It was a look she knew well, for she had seen it plenty of times when she looked into the mirror.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—"

She shrugged. "It's alright. I'm used to that."

He put a tentative hand over hers and closed his fingers around it. "Thank you, Gwen," he said. "Thank you for being here. Thank you for helping me with Amelia."

"Hey, my pleasure." She grinned. "She's a good kid."

"I was frightened to death when she was born, you know," Michael said. "I didn't know what to do. I still don't. What if I fuck it up like I fuck up everything else in my life?"

Gwen squeezed his hand. Finally she understood his despair earlier, just as she had understood his loneliness; understood it because she saw it in herself.

"Want to know why I went to prison?" she asked. "Why I haven't seen my daughter?"

He looked at her, not with morbid curiosity as most people did when they learned she'd been to prison, but with interest and sympathy. She pulled off her blonde wig, and, turning her head, spread her mousy brown hair over her ear to show him the ragged scar just above it, which the hair couldn't quite cover.

"Her father, my piece-of-shit boyfriend—he gave me that," she said. "And worse. Then one time, he pushed me too hard. I pushed back. He hit his head on the kitchen counter." Her voice trembled. It was the first time she spoke of this in three years. She steadied herself, and continued, "I could've called an ambulance, but I didn't. I just stood there and watched him die. Got me three years for that. Involuntary manslaughter." She lifted her eyes to Michael's face. "Think you can fuck up your kid's life worse than I did?" she asked. She tried to laugh and began to cry.

Michael reached out and drew her to him until she was in his arms with her head on his shoulder, just like how he'd held Amelia. He said nothing, but in his embrace, she could feel her fears quiet down, if not fade away entirely. She thought of Emma, and herself, of Amelia, and Michael, of the frightened child inside all of them, waiting only for someone to reach out and hold them and tell them that it's going to be all right.

She buried her nose in Michael's neck, taking in his scent of soap and sweat and smoke, and let out a breath she had been holding for three years, or perhaps even longer. "This is nice," she said. "I can see why you'd pay for this."

Michael's shoulders and chest rumbled pleasantly with laughter, and Gwen smiled as well.

"Can I see you again?" he asked.

Her smile faltered. Somehow, his question made her sad. It brought her crashing back to reality, a reality in which she would have to go back out on the street soon, back to the cold and the loneliness and the emptiness.

But professional habit won out in the end, and she didn't even sigh as she gave him the answer she'd always used with all her customers, "You know where to find me."

"No, not as Queenie," he said. "I want to see you again as Gwen. And without the wig. Can I?"

She lifted her head to look at him. He didn't let go, only slid his hand up her shoulder and her neck to cradle her cheek. As the warmth of his gaze and the tenderness of his caress enveloped her, Gwen made a decision.

Tomorrow, she would go and buy Emma a Christmas present. And bring it to her in person.

Tomorrow, she would ring that number on the card of the non-profit group.

But today, tonight, she would stop running away.

"Yes," she told Michael. "Yes, you can."

THE END

Yes, "Snappy" is the crocodile that Maria gave to Leah.

And of course, it wouldn't be my fic without a Snow Patrol song to accompany it (the title comes from the first line of lyric):

[cillianmesoftlyyy]

The Ward Pt. 3 | Jonathan Breech x fem!character

Summary: Jonathan Breech is sentenced to three months in a Dublin psych ward after trying to take his life. He meets a girl and thinks he's fallen in love... but is this just a product of opportunity and loneliness or could it be more?

Warnings: Based heavily on One the Edge (2001) so there is already a lot of mental-health specific discussions. More specifically- mentions of suicide, self-harm, death, depression, anxiety, feeling helpless and alone, medication, vomiting, pregnancy. Pt. 3 has smut: unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), and loss of virginity. Please don't read if you think any of the previously mentioned topics could be triggering! Some of this is taken from my personal experience with mental-health issues so read with care.

word count: 3790k

Pretty- Coco & Clair Clair 🎶

Narc- Interpol 🎵

Note- One the Edge is free on Internet Archive...

Please read the warnings before continuing, thanks!

After group therapy, Jonathan walked into the men’s bathroom on the women’s ward and stood just inside as the door swung closed quietly. Margaret was sitting on the ledge as she had a day or two before, reading. She looked up as he entered and closed her book. 

“Was I really your first real kiss?” He asked and she scoffed in surprise. 

“What?” 

“Was I really your first kiss?” He asked again and Margaret stared at him before answering, a blush already forming on her cheeks. 

“Yeah…”

“How was it?”

“You were there, remember?” She put her book aside and put her palms against her face to cool them. She looked at the wall, too embarrassed to look at him. 

“Pretend I wasn’t.” He smiled and she rolled her eyes, “tell me how it was.”

“It was good, I don’t know.” She laughed uncomfortably and he smiled wider.

“Tell me how you felt when you kissed me,” he prompted and she shook her head in uncomfortable disbelief. 

“Well, um I felt happy and good like I didn’t want to stop. I liked looking at you and I liked feeling close to you.” She answered. “Is that what you meant?” She furrowed her eyebrows and Jonathan nodded. 

“You liked kissing me and I liked kissing you. I don’t think this is just a relationship of convenience, I think we could really like each other.” 

“Here we go,” she jumped off of the ledge and landed beside Jonathan who had one hand resting against the handicapped stall. 

“Just hear me out! I thought about what you said and I think I really do like you. I like talking to you and I think we understand each other really well.” He explained and she laughed softly. 

“We both tried to kill ourselves, of course we understand each other.” 

“But see, that's the thing. We understand each other better than other people would. You said that there are plenty of attractive girls out there but what makes you so sure that I would choose anyone else if I could choose you?” He waved his other hand as he spoke. She had started to walk away when she turned back and went up to him, talking low.

“Because even though we kissed and we may like each other, we don’t know each other at all. I’m some girl from America who happened to take too many pills to kill herself and it didn’t work. In any other situation, you would have walked past me on the street and gone for someone else.” She started to get upset and he looked down at her from against the wall. “I’m not interesting or beautiful or that smart, I’m just depressed and lonely and that makes me easy to love when you have nothing else to do.” Jonathan inhaled quickly. 

“I don’t agree with you at all. I think you’re interesting and so beautiful that it distracts me during group therapy. Even though I’ve only been here for about a week, I feel that I have a pretty good idea of who you are and what you mean to me and my happiness, and you mean a lot.”

“But what if I can’t make you happy?” She interjected, angry tears filling her eyes. “Not everything can be solved by sex and love, Jonathan. We’re unstable and could kill ourselves at any time. You can’t trust me and I don’t trust you,” she whispered and started to turn when he reached for her. 

“Margaret, I love you.” 

“Don’t say that when you don’t mean it!” She nearly screamed, hitting his chest with her hands. She started crying as she hit him weakly. He watched her, his jaw clenched. “Don’t call me cute or beautiful or anything else when you don’t fucking mean it!” She cried and pushed herself away from him. Her nose was runny and she wiped it on the sleeve of her green jumper. Her hair was messy and some of it stood up. She took a deep breath and looked back at him, caught in the beauty of his eyes. “We lie all the time. We lie about how we feel and about how sad we are so that others feel better about themselves. We can’t lie to each other, not here. So, don’t lie to me, please. I’m sick of lies, Jonathan.” She whispered sadly and Jonathan closed the distance between them and held her. She didn’t resist and hugged him around his waist, putting her face in the crook of his neck. He kissed the top of her head and smoothed down her messy hair. She cried quietly against him and he waited patiently, holding her closer. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered against her cheek, “I won’t lie to you, I promise. I’m so sorry.” He promised, though he hadn’t been lying. “I shouldn’t have sprung that all on you but I wasn’t lying, Margaret. What I said was true. I won’t force you to believe me but I promise that I was telling you the truth.” 

She stopped crying slowly and took in a shakily breath. He rubbed her back, feeling the warmth of her body through her clothes. 

“What if I don’t feel the same way? What if I hate you?” She whispered and Jonathan looked up at the ceiling tiles. He knew that it was a possibility and he was prepared to accept it. He put his chin on top of her head and exhaled slowly. 

“Do you?” he asked, “Do you hate me?” 

Margaret thought for a moment and shook her head against his chest, “no.” Jonathan sighed in relief and pulled her even closer, kissing her head. She gripped his shirt gently in her hands, her fists clenched against his back. After a few minutes she pulled away and went to the sink where she splashed cold water on her face. She rubbed cold water over the back of her neck and took a paper towel from the dispenser on the wall, wiping the water away. He watched her with a sense of wanting, wishing that he could touch her face how she was now. He crossed his arms over his chest and rested on one hip, jutting the other out. He sucked on his bottom lip and leaned his head back against the yellow tile of the outdated bathroom. He built up the nerve and left the wall, standing beside her at the sink. He took the paper towel from her hands and wiped the skin beneath her jaw and below her collar. He kissed each place after he wiped it and she closed her eyes, breathing softly through her parted lips. Then he kissed her and she brought her hands to his neck, tracing the lines of tendons in his neck. He pulled away and threw the paper towel into the trash. 

“You’ll be ok?” He asked and she smiled softly from the sink. 

“Yeah. You?” She asked and he nodded. 

“Yeah,” he smiled back and left the bathroom. He smiled to himself as he went back to his room. He sat on his bed as the sun set, his hands clasped around the back of his neck. He sat like that for what felt like hours. He rubbed his eyes and kicked off his shoes, realizing how long he had been sitting there, staring at the floor. The razor, still lying by the wall, caught his eye. Jonathan crossed the room and grabbed it from the floor. He twirled it in his fingers again and studied the sharp edge. The release of pain was always nice but he hated the way the blade had felt, stinging as it would slice through him. He put the blade back into his carton of cigarettes and pushed the box further away on the table so that he wouldn’t see it. The sun had completely set by now and he stood at the window. The bars blurred in his vision so he could only see the garden outside. He thought about Toby and how they had escaped over the wall for the night, and how he had come back to Margaret waiting for him in his room. The thought of her prickled his skin and jumped his heart. Why couldn’t they find comfort in pain, especially when it was in each other? Maybe this wasn’t just a momentary salve, what if there was a reason why they were both here together? Life was never ensured and he was young and wanted everything out of life while he could still bear being alive. The analog clock on the wall read midnight and he sighed quietly, trying to make himself tired. Time changed shapes when he was depressed, it slipped by quicker than he could understand or it slowed down to a painful trickle. The corridors were quiet outside and the night nurses retired to the office, listening out for the sound of harm. Jonathan’s door clicked open and he jerked around, expecting to see a nurse. 

Margaret closed the door quietly behind her and looked at him, a shy smile coming to her lips. His silhouette blocked the light from coming in through the window but she could still make out his sharp face in the shadow. She walked up to him and kissed him softly, her hands finding the angular shapes in his face. His lips were slightly chapped and he licked them when she pulled away for breath. 

“You’re here,” he whispered and she nodded. 

“You were right. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he put his hands around her hips and ran his thumbs up and down. Her white nightgown glowed in whatever light still managed to shine through the small window. Like before, he could see the shape of her body below the clothes and he shivered. She wore no shoes so she stood on the balls of her feet to kiss him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He leaned into her and supported her hips as she balanced. She took a step back and panted slightly, he watched her, his lips pink from kissing. She took the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head and dropped it ungracefully to the floor. Jonathan stared at her as his heart quickened further. He thought he knew what was happening but he wanted her to lead him, he wanted her to be in control as it started, so he waited until she went back to him and unbuttoned his cardigan. He kept his arms by his sides and let her push the cardigan off his shoulders and down his arms. She studied his body as she undressed it slowly. She unbuttoned his top, the one that was still too short on his arms, and paused when his chest was exposed. With her shaky fingers, she traced the line of his sternum down to his navel. His stomach flinched below her cold touch and he smiled as he watched her, her lips held open in awe. She took off his shirt slowly and kissed his collarbones up to his shoulders. He yearned to undress her immediately but he waited for her to explore him completely at her own pace. 

Margaret looked up at his eyes that looked royal blue in the dark and hooked her fingers around the waistband of his pants. He nodded and she pulled down his pants, so he stood with only his boxers and socks on. She stepped back once again and looked at him. His chest was hairless and smooth, there was some scarring from old acne at the base of his neck. He had long lanky legs and longer dark hair that swept naturally to either side of his face. He was beautiful, she thought to herself. He could tell that she was giving him his turn, waiting for him to touch her as she had touched him. He approached her slowly and started by tucking her hair behind her ear. She closed her head and leaned into his gentle touch, he smiled. Jonathan ran his index fingers down either side of her chest to her navel and bunched the fabric of her nightgown into his hands. Then he moved his fingers to the cuffs of her sleeves and played with the small eyelets of lace decorating each one. He smiled down at her and when she opened her eyes, she smiled back. 

“Are you ready?” He asked her quietly and she nodded.

“Yes.”

Jonathan returned his hands to the fabric around her navel and pulled the dress up and over her head. Her hair fell back against her shoulders when the gown left her head. He put the dress aside and looked down at her bare chest. He didn't expect her breasts to be bare below the gown and the sight of them made him blush. His hands rushed to touch them but he managed to slow down his movements, touching her ribs first before sliding his dry hands over her chest. She exhaled shakily as he cupped and squeezed her breasts in his hands. It was like he was seeing a girl naked for the first time, though he was not a virgin by any means. He knew she was, he could tell without her having to say the words. So these moments were important to her and he wanted to honor that. He moved his hands up to the base of her neck and he kissed her. He lowered himself slowly to the ground, to his knees, and looked up at her. She looked down at him with a mix of fear and anticipation. He smirked reassuringly and kissed the front of her underwear. 

“Can I taste you?” He asked quietly and she drew in a shaky breath before nodding with a small whimper. He slowly pulled down the waistband of her underwear, exposing her cunt, and left the underwear half-way up her thighs. He felt his erection push against his boxers as he placed a second kiss on her cunt and she gasped quietly. His hands held her thighs still as he licked the closed entrance, guarded by a small gathering of hair. He lowered his head farther and ran his tongue up and down her slit. She gasped softly as he did so and her hands found his shoulders which she squeezed. He raised his head and kissed her navel where she had a small freckle. He pulled her underwear down the rest of the way and helped her step out of it. He stood up and cupped her face in his hands. 

“You are so beautiful,” he whispered and she held his wrist, looking up into his blue eyes. 

“Will you fuck me?” She asked him slowly and he smiled. 

“Yeah,” he nodded, “yeah.”

She kissed him and breathed deeply through her nose, catching his scent and relaxing against him. Jonathan guided her to his bed and they both crawled onto the mattress and sat on their knees, kissing each other hungrily. She lowered herself back onto the bed, her head at the foot of his bed. He supported himself above her, his arms on either side of her head, careful to avoid her hair as it spread out around her head. He looked at her, startled by exactly how beautiful she really was. He kissed down her chest and held the tops of her thighs in his arms, lowering his head to taste her again. She squirmed as he nibbled at her thighs and traced her labia with his tongue. He sucked and prodded her while she whimpered quietly, her hands still gripped around his shoulders. He hummed against her and she moaned, her hand snapped against her mouth to ensure that she wouldn’t be too loud. He came up for air and smiled. She was arching her back against the mattress, her chest rising and falling with excitement. 

“Are you ready for me?” He asked her and she propped herself up on her elbows. 

“I think so,” she whispered.

“I’ll go slow, ok?” He nodded reassuringly and she smiled nervously. 

“Ok.” 

He slid off his boxers, showing his erection. Margaret looked at him, her brows furrowed in fear. He noticed her expression and cupped her cheek with his hand. 

“Hey, it’ll be ok. You can tell me to stop anytime and we’ll take everything slow.” She smiled softly and nodded again. He spat on his hand and fisted himself slowly, coating his erection with the lubricant. He moved the head of his erection against her and pressed gently at the small opening. “It’ll hurt a little at first. I’ll try to be gentle, tell me to stop if it hurts too much.” He rubbed the side of her thigh and pushed inside her just a little. She exhaled stiffly and he pushed a little farther. 

“Relax, It’ll feel better for you if you do.” He cupped her face and waited for her to relax around him before going all the way in. She gasped sharply when he was inside but as soon as he was, her body opened to accommodate him. The stretch of him inside her was nice and she caught her breath. 

“Ready?” he smiled, his arms propping himself up above her. She nodded enthusiastically and slid her hands up his chest, to his neck. 

“Yes, I’m ready. I’m so ready.” She whispered and he chuckled softly. He thrusted farther before pulling out and doing it again. She learned how to catch and release her breath as he entered her, hitting a spot that made her gasp in pleasure. She didn’t think that penetration could feel so good. Jonathan panted and tried to compose himself as he slid in and out of her tight cunt. He moved slowly above her and shivered in pleasure at the sound of her quiet moans. He dropped his face close to hers and watched each other as they opened their mouths in silent gasps, exchanging hot breath. 

“Faster,” she whispered and put her hands on his lower back, pulling him farther inside her. 

“Fuck,” he gasped weakly and moved his hips quicker, her walls tightened around him as she squeezed her thighs. The bed squeaked quietly beneath them and she laughed quietly, bracing one hand against the wall beside them. 

“Jesus, Jonathan…” she gasped and threw her head back against the mattress, “so good…” was all she managed to get out and he cupped her breast with his free hand. 

“Fuck, fuck,” Jonathan cursed and changed the angle of his thrusts, hitting her G-spot exactly. She gasped loudly and covered her mouth quickly. He covered her hand with his hand and went faster, hitting the spot again and again. He watched her eagerly as her eyes rolled back into her head and she grew wetter around him. He gasped quietly and panted, the muscles in his back flexing and relaxing with each thrust. 

“You’re going to cum,” he panted out and she nodded breathlessly beneath their hands. Her legs wrapped around him and pulled him as far as he could go inside her and he tried to quiet his involuntary whimpers as she kept gripping around him and coercing him deeper and deeper inside. Finally she came and he felt her finish around him. She moaned into her hand and he helped stifle the noise as she finished. He pulled out and kissed her, his hands now pulling the cum from between her legs and coating his still-erect penis. He fisted himself as she kissed him, sucking on his tongue and his lips as she came down from her organsmic high. He was still wet and hot from being inside her and he finished in his hand, shooting his cum onto the cement floor. He broke their kiss and panted heavily above her, his arm now tired from masturbating. 

“Did you finish?” She asked softly and he nodded. “You pulled out,” she observed and Jonathan smiled. 

“You said you were scared of getting pregnant,” he laughed, letting his head fall against her stomach. She smiled, contracting the muscles in her abdomen, and she carded her fingers through his hair. He turned his head to rest his cheek on her bare stomach and looked up at her. She stared straight up at the ceiling and twirled his hair. 

“Was it ok? Did it hurt?” He asked softly and she shook her head. 

“It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. It was really good, Jonathan,” she sat up and he rolled over to rest his head on her thigh. She leaned over him and kissed him. He sat up and ran his hand around her waist, kissing her more. 

“You were so perfect,” he whispered. 

“Is this how it’s supposed to end?” She asked him as he pulled away. He furrowed his brow.

“What do you mean?”

“Do I go back to my room now? I don’t know what people do after sex.” She pulled her hair around her shoulder and braided it nervously. He laughed lightly and shook his head.

“No, no. You can stay here. I want you to stay here…” he trailed off and admired how her body looked in the moonlight after they had fucked. Her face was flushed and her lips were wet from kissing. 

“Ok,” she dropped her hair and nodded slowly, “I'll stay.” 

“Good.” He smiled and reached over the bed for their clothes. He pulled the sweater over her head and rubbed her arms to warm them up. She pulled on her cotton underwear while he put his pants back on. He pulled down the covers for the first time since getting there and they crawled beneath the blankets. They faced each other and Jonathan petted her hair away from her face, absorbed by how soft she was.  

“Your lip’s getting better,” he observed and she smiled. 

“Who would’ve thought,” she joked. They stayed there in silence, Jonathan stroking her hair. Margaret shifted closer to him in bed where it was warmer. “Are you tired?” she asked in a low voice and Jonathan nodded slowly. 

“Yeah, a little.”

“Did it take a lot of energy?” 

“To fuck you?” He smiled. 

“Yeah,” she laughed quietly and he shrugged. 

“Yeah but it was worth it. I like being tired after. I liked making you cum.” He added at the end with a smirk. 

“I liked it too. I like you.” She nestled her head below his and he sighed, wrapping his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head and waited for her to fall asleep before drifting off himself. She smelled like the outside, fresh and clean like rain. The smell washed him away.

----

The end? lmk below if I should continue this series :)

[paingoes]

Rubies

Web 2.0

(Content: living weapon whumpee, guilt, conditioning, past abuse, caretaker new master)

Apollo had stayed true to his promise of making the room less sparse. He’d brought down books from upstairs so Delta would have something to do besides staring off into space whenever he locked himself in his room. He’d given him a journal too, which Delta found tremendously suspicious. Delta had a habit of destroying everything he’d ever written just as soon as he had finished. He would continue on in this tradition. Anyone having that kind of direct access to his thoughts terrified him. He was grateful for the books, though. 

It was Kitty who offered her old laptop.

“Don’t…look too hard through that,” She said with a nervous smile. She’d done all she could to reset it, but she couldn’t be sure there weren’t still some gems lying around in its SSD. 

Delta reflexively recoiled at the offer. There was such a strong impulse in his head to avoid getting caught with the laptop. It carried over now, even when freely offered. She left it on the desk for him. He would only use it in the dead of night, out of pure habit. It didn’t feel the same as it used to. It couldn’t hold his attention for very long.

There was a practical reason to reintroduce it, though. Kitty acted a bit furtive about it; Apollo said they weren’t supposed to be working. That’s what unpaid leave meant. But there wasn’t really anyone else they could kick it off to. They had to go through the archives. 

Kitty had already backed up everything he had posted publicly, plus all the exchanges they’d had in private. He’d focused in more once she’d mentioned it, agreeing it needed to be deleted as soon as possible so that there was nothing left to piece together about his alleged death. But there was other information on there that only he had access to, that they now needed to preserve before scrubbing.

katkittykat: ok we also were gonna try and offer u whistleblower immunity

katkittykat: but forget it i know u wont accept it

ndhakdvsnnd: im not a whistleblower

katkittykat: see what did i say 

ndhakdvsnnd: can you fuck off

They scrolled through the archived chat logs in dim silence. Kitty was sitting next to him on the floor with the new old laptop up on the coffee table. Neither of them needed to say it. It was weird to go through their old texts while in person. 

It wasn’t Kitty’s first time meeting an internet friend. She had done it more times than she could count. Almost all of them had been shyer and more reserved in person, so she had already expected Delta to follow in that trend. But it was clear that what was going on with him is a different beast entirely.

When she turned to look at him, his eyes were cast down again and his head was bowed. Loose strands fell in his face. He removed his hand from the touchpad, letting it rest in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I…shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“Just bants, man.” Kitty elbowed him — not a good idea. He winced, the pain reigniting in the handprint-shaped bruise around his upper arm.

“It was disrespectful.” He closed his eyes. It was guilt — not fear — that was audible in his voice.

“I’ve never done anything respectable,” she joked.

He opened his eyes to meet her own. His expression was wholly disbelieving. It wasn’t a joke to him. She remembered how sincerely he’d spoken the other day. Thank you for saving me. She’d tried to brush it off, but her heart had hurt badly afterwards. It hurt again now.

“Don’t worry about it. Seriously.” She had to resist the urge to squeeze his shoulder the way she would with her other friends; she saw how he had flinched whenever she touched him. Thankfully, he didn’t mention it again.

The loading icon went around and around as the account was deleted. Just as soon as it stopped, the home page of the forum appeared. In bold letters, it read Sign Up.

“You gonna make a new account?” She asked.

“Do you think I should?” His hand hovered over the button. 

“I dunno. You were active way before you started posting all the leaks. I thought you were having a good time with it,” she paused, “Guess it might be kind of touchy now though?”

It did make him really anxious to be on the computer. It made him feel too much like he was about to be caught out, as little sense as it made. He started to shrug, then stopped himself. Disrespectful.

“Yes, miss,” he agreed, “It’s…touchy.”

That was putting it mildly, but he had no desire to say more. He pocketed the thought, though. He probably would get back online later. It just felt like too much to do it now, without her explicit guidance. The thought alone was starting to overwhelm him. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Can I go back in my room, miss?” He asked in a soft voice. 

“Yeah, whatever. You don’t have to ask.” She tried to reassure him. He’d gotten scared at some point; she could see it in the way he held himself. She didn’t really want for him to go off to deal with it alone, but she wasn’t going to force him to stay. She watched as he disappeared behind the door. He’d left the laptop behind. She shut it for him, then stretched upwards, climbing up onto the couch.

=======

“Does he talk to you?” Apollo would later ask her. He added, a bit dejectedly, “He doesn’t talk to me.”

“Nah.” She shook her head.

“Well, it’s still early,” Apollo started arguing with himself when she wouldn’t, “I guess he’s still scared. I’m not sure what I can say to him that isn’t going to sound trite. He always hated it when I tried say stuff like that to him over text. So defensive. I don’t know if it’ll go over better or worse now.”

She could tell he’d been thinking about it often. Fussing came so naturally to him. She’d liked it a lot when they were a little younger, when she was even crazier and badly needed someone to try and reel her back in. It isn’t lost on her that Delta has the exact opposite problem, that Apollo’s delimiting nature could have the opposite effect. He badly wanted for things to be clean.

“You shouldn’t take it purrsonally.” The pun slipped into her voice even when she was trying to be serious.

“I know,” he agreed, “I…don’t think he was allowed to talk before. It’s rude to speculate. I don’t want to be presumptuous. But.”

He threw his hands up at the wrists, not finishing the sentence. There was nothing to do but speculate. It was clear enough Delta had not been treated well; the bruises spoke for themselves. But the particulars of his behavior were a kind of puzzle box. He offered no key for it.

Galatea had dealt with Empire’s lot before, both refugees and defectors. Apollo had met many of them personally. There was always a stilted manner in which they spoke. The customs of Empire still remained enigmatic to all those living outside of it. Apollo had no way of telling how much of Delta’s behavior was just a cultural difference — or even a linguistic one — and how much of it was something deeper. He could not tell how much of it was motivated by fear or confusion or simple exhaustion. How much of it was what he wanted vs what he thought he was supposed to do. Apollo wished desperately for some kind of candor between them. Still, he understood that it would be asking a lot of him at that point. He sighed. 

========

The knock was soft and rhythmic. Delta jumped, immediately moving to hide the laptop beneath his blanket. It wasn’t as good as beneath the mattress, but decent enough on short notice. He mechanically slid off the bed, dropping onto his knees at the foot of it. The door did not open.

“Can I come in?” It was Apollo’s voice on the other side. Yes, obviously. It wasn’t locked.

“Yes, sir,” Delta answered anyway. 

Apollo pushed the door open. His eyes widened a little to see Delta kneeling, but he did not show the same visible alarm that he had before. He slid the door shut behind him, leaning back against it.

“I thought it might be good for us to talk,” Apollo said. He tried to read Delta’s body language, but it did not shift by much. Deliberately controlled. He didn’t answer, staring up at Apollo with huge eyes, patient and expectant. Apollo pushed himself on. It was trite, but if there really was any confusion about Delta’s position, it wouldn’t be right to leave him hanging.

“You can sit. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually. Levon told you he wasn’t going to hurt you, didn’t he? And you know that me and Kitty won’t either? You don’t have to be scared of us. You’re safe here.”

Delta didn’t move off of the ground. His head had lowered a little bit, as if he was being scolded. He didn’t take his eyes off of Apollo. 

Apollo squatted down onto his heels, trying to get to Delta’s level.

“Are you scared?” He asked.

“…Yes, sir.” Delta nodded slowly.

“Okay,” Apollo nodded too, rubbing his chin, “That’s okay. Can I ask why?”

Delta’s wrung his hands anxiously; it was a childhood habit, one he’d mostly gotten out of by the time he’d graduated. It’d returned with a vengeance.

“I don’t know.” He said shamefully. “Sir. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. It’s okay. I just wanted to check in on how you’re feeling. I can’t tell a lot of the time. You know you can talk to me or Kitty if you’re upset, right? We want you to be comfortable here. You can tell us if something is wrong.”

Apollo doubted it even as he said it. It seemed unlikely that Delta would come to them for anything, that he might not be physically capable of it at this point. But if he introduced the idea early — and reminded him often — it might start to sink in. For the time being, Delta did not respond.

“I’m assuming the kneeling is a habit, right?” Apollo ventured. Delta seemed a bit alarmed at the suggestion. 

“It’s just to be respectful. Sir.” Delta explained in a quiet voice.

He considered this. It might’ve been easier if it was just muscle memory, not a deliberate effort on Delta’s part. The mindset would be harder to get him out of. But Apollo was very glad that Delta had been willing to explain his reasoning to him. It was a good sign.

“Okay. You don’t have to,” He stated very clearly, “You can stand up. We won’t think it’s disrespectful. No one else will, either. You don’t have to do it.”

Again, not much changed in Delta’s expression. He offered the same quiet noise of affirmation, not voicing anything else. 

“Do you have any questions?” Apollo cursed himself for not asking sooner. But Delta didn’t take advantage of the opportunity the way he had hoped. 

“No, sir.” Delta folded his hands in his lap. He’d answered too soon. Apollo wondered if the question had come across as bullying. He got the sense he was starting to push too far out of Delta’s comfort zone. 

“Alright. Let me know if you need anything. Like I said, you can talk to us whenever. We’re right out here.” He stood up, feeling a little bad that Delta was still kneeling. He started to close the door.

He heard a soft “Thank you” just before it clicked shut.

…………

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat

[investingestincest]

TW /// MENTIONS OF SUICIDE

(Rambles)

I don't know if i can ever forgive antis for running so many artists off the internet because they found them gross. There are so many artists that come to mind but one that sticks with me the hardest is Columbo who was literally ran off Twitter for the most vile reason. I often see tiktok artists redraw that one Monster fanart of Johan and Nina that Columbo made. This was what pushed me to watch the anime in the first place and I get so sad when I remember what happened. They deliberately tried to ruin the artist's life and outed them knowing that this could get them killed. They wanted them DEAD over DRAWINGS. The length some would go to ruin someone's life is terrifying and so fucked up.

Don't even get me started on doxxing. At what point in your sorry little life do you decide to dig someone's private info and leak it to the whole world. And still claim to be more righteous than another ?

Not to mention those who harmed themselves or committed suicide because of harrassment.

I remember how a 13yo artist on twitter committed suicide because of the harrassment they faced (Not proship related). You know what those bastards did ? Went to their last post and filled it with nothing but mockery. They were editing the comic to make amogus jokes. A 13yo child.

I blocked and reported over 700 and yet there was still more. I've never felt so sick in my entire life. They had just gotten the confirmation that they pushed a child to suicide and their immediate reaction was to laugh about it. They killed a child and they laughed ?

This isn't even the first time this happened and I think that's pretty much what made me realize that antis (or just internet fiends in general) didn't actually give a shit about anyone else or the content that they "hate" in general, they just use it as an excuse to show how vile they truly are because what sane person would do that ? Instead of blocking and moving on, you put someone's life in danger for a fucking drawing ? For what, an ounce of validation from strangers ? Is this what it takes for these fuckers to ruin someone's life ? Validation from online strangers ? Laughing with your online friends about how you ruined someone's life, with others who'd probably do the same to you without a second thought if they deem you as problematic in their mind ? This is seriously all it takes ? Their moral backbone is as real as the fictional character they try so hard to defend.

Do you really think that the fictional character will appear in your living room one day and thank you for ruining someone else's life ? It baffles me how they think the internet is a lawless barren land where you can do whatever. Like this won't have consequences ? This isn't the 90s, your information and everything that you post is preserved in archives and can be dug up if you end up getting prosecuted. Besides, if someone finds out about what you did, reports you and you end up in court, what do you tell the judge ? That you were "only trying to protect a fictional character from the icky proship pedos on twitter" do these guys even hear themselves sometimes ? I'm so fucking tired of this bullshit man...

[love-triangles-au]

wow! What a big son! Can I find out more about him?

Lol, yeah, absolutely! We could probably use a dedicated Cuz post.

Cuz is Venuz's younger cousin and is actually a hybrid between Venuz's race (we've been calling them "Alabasters") and another venusian species called Fireballers, which is why he grows up to be so much bigger than Venuz (his anatomy is also a bit different; he has narrower teeth all around his mouth and some limited fire-breathing abilities). He was never given a name, so Venuz just took to calling him cuz, and, by the time he had become Gun God, they were kinda stuck with it. :P

If being immortal was hard enough to grapple with for an average joe, it's especially hard when you're just a kid. Immortals who haven't reached their race's physical prime continue to age until then, and so Cuz has only grown around eight years older over the past seventy years (when the story begins, he's about 13).

Consequentially, Cuz has always been ahead of his peers, and arguably ahead of Venuz, as well. He's rather smart and internalized very early on in life from their travels that mistakes can be deadly, so he tries to eliminate them whenever he can. Most assume all he's doing online is playing video games, but he actually spends a good chunk of his time making use of the archived Earth internet and researching whatever might be useful to know.

The downside to all this is that he's rather lonely. School came and went and, even when he got time to interact with his classmates, they just couldn't relate to one another anymore. Those with mental faculties closer to his aren't often able to get past the fact that he looks and sounds like a preteen, and it's not like he doesn't still have some kid tendencies, either, so he doesn't fit in with much of anybody and has grown discouraged from trying.

And, so, it's Wikipedia and Fortnite all day until he's old enough to be seen as an adult. On the bright side, he's gotten insanely good at his games of choice :P

From the moment he met Bill, he saw right through him. It hadn't been the first time someone had feigned interest in order to manipulate Venuz, and he got an especially bad vibe from this silver-tongued, emotionally volatile alien who both didn't seem to understand how his own body worked and held so much arrogance you'd think he thought himself a gift to the universe. Cuz knows that Venuz has been feeling lonely, too, so he's in a particularly susceptible mindframe for that.

And, likewise, Bill recognized that Cuz didn't trust him, meaning he had to go. He would attempt to steal away as much of Venuz's time as possible, but he underestimated how close they were, and his attitude towards Cuz would eventually become a big problem for his relationship with Venuz.

Will probably save most of the nuances and details on the aforementioned problem for the fic, but I can for sure say that he and Bill very much do not like each other, and Cuz likes even less that he has to constantly bear witness to this asshole slobbering all over his well-meaning cousin who deserves so much better :P

~ Mod Emily 🦇

[maered613]

Dead to You (Are You at the Wake?) - Chapter 4: You Had to Kill Me but It Killed You Just the Same

“Luke Skywalker, in the flesh.” says Luthen Rael, who if all goes according to plan, will be Luke's new boss. “-delighted to meet you.”

Luke laughs and shakes his hand.

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, my boy.” He says, “-look at it from my perspective. A young, extremely qualified and experienced Mortician calls me, an aging one man show, to tell me he's moving to the middle of nowhere, would I have a job for him? Sounds too good to be true. You can never tell with the internet.”

“I suppose you have a point.” Luke says, as they walk through the tiny funeral home.

“Tell me son,” Luthen says, “-why did you become a mortician?”

Luke gives him the same spiel he gave Din, about being eminently qualified, tells him about Wedge. He knows that Wedge would never tell anyone about the inquiry unless Luke told him to, so he's not too worried that this guy would dig.

He also leaves out the bit about the pull toward death he’s felt his whole life, as he's really only coming to terms with it now.

“I see.” Luthen says, “-why move all the way out here?”

Luke puts on a sheepish grin.

“Ah, well, I… followed my boyfriend.” He says, “-I know how that sounds, but-”

Luthen laughs.

“-and you're not even married? He’d better put a ring on it soon.”

Luke snorts but his stomach twists.

Him and Din are bound together now, in arguably a more permanent way than a marriage vow. But.

Luke pushes that thought aside.

-

Din’s son is dead: To begin with, there's no doubt whatsoever about that.

What there is doubt about, however, is how Din can possibly go on; having loved and lost in a way he never expected he would.

The only thing keeping him moving is the thought that Grogu would want him to. So, he soldiers forth, through the numbing pain and the aching grief; just trying to get through one day at a time.

Until he meets Luke.

Luke, who refuses to leave Din’s loneliness unbroken and makes him feel like, maybe, he could live again.

It's only fitting, then, when Luke reveals that he is a Mortician. It's his life’s mission to help distraught families send off their loved ones to whatever awaits in the undiscovered country from which no traveller returns.

Din thinks that being surrounded by death must be his life’s new purpose.

Din is more right than he knows.

[staybabblingbaby]

Felix Tinder AU (First Date Part) A1 D1

[Caution: These are not full fics, or even full parts of fics for some, these are part of my writing progress archive!]

Concept: You match with what you think is a Stray Kids fan account on Tinder. You get along great with the account's owner, and think it's probably your most successful match to-date. Little do you know who's actually behind the screen...

Word Count: 1,543

Notes: I've avoided posting this one for so long because I've ended up doing something completely different, and it's probably going to end up as a hybrid SMAU for the actual thing. Plus, I didn't know Felix was religious when I wrote this and now it feels kind of disrespectful... Still! That's the purpose of the Archive! To see the writing in all of it's stages! So it's going up. There is no sequential part rn, but there is another attempt I will be posting soon that's VERY different.

Warnings: Talking about Religion and Parasocial relationships at one point.

Leave me comments or questions or anything! Love hearing from folks <3

Masterlist | Next Part (Coming soon!)

As you pull to a stop in front of the fanciest hotel you’ve ever seen in your life, you can’t help but wonder how you’d gotten here. Feeling small and dirty in your beat up little car, you pull out your phone. Tinder’s fire-y little logo taunts you as you pull up the chat you need.

Ah, yes. Tinder. The root of all your problems, honestly. Not actually, but it feels like it right this second.

It had all started a few weeks ago. You were going through one of your lonely phases, where you started trying to join hobbyist groups and downloaded every dating app in existence in desperate attempts to at least make a friend. You’d do this just about every year or so, despite the fact that you were never able to make close or long lasting relationships through it, platonic or otherwise.

You’d always end up too busy with work or burn out your social battery way too early into a friendship to be passing up the opportunity to hang out. Not to mention quickly getting overwhelmed with the dating apps and retreating from them post-haste. It was a vicious cycle of loneliness and social exhaustion that you hadn’t figured out how to escape yet.

Tinder happened to be one of the dating apps you’d downloaded. Though you always had ‘NO HOOKUPS’ in all caps at the start of your profile, Tinder had always had great results for you in terms of matches. You’d met several long and short-term friends through the app, though no romantic prospects as of yet. Probably not ever, given Tinder’s nature, but you’d remain hopeful, if doubtful.

It had been during your initial binge-swiping that you’d noticed a funny profile. With just a cute Bbokari picture and a few video game memes in their gallery, the fully filled out profile and simple name, ‘Felix’, had felt intriguing. It had seemed just a bit backwards for what you recall Tinder being all about, regardless of how complicated the profiles got.

‘Travelling the US for a couple months, let’s cross paths!’ read the first line of the profile. You’d weighed the pros and cons of potential long distance and immediately decided that you didn’t care. Your profile was set for friends, anyways, and you‘d long had more internet friends than irl ones.

You’d swiped without anymore thought and lo’ and behold you’d matched immediately. Still riding the surge of social energy that came with deciding you’re desperate enough for dating apps, you’d decided to open with a little joke.

‘So, is this a SKZ fan account on Tinder or something? bc i could b into that lol’

You probably should have expected the immediate reply, seeing as you’d made your account all of 30 minutes prior and he’d swiped on you first, judging by the immediate match. Of course he was online. It’d still caught you off guard though.

‘Something like that lol. You a STAY?’

‘something like that :p’ ‘enough of one 2 have a bunch of their songs on my playlist, but that’s all i’ll say on that’

‘aw c’mon, who’s your bias?’

‘nuh uh, i’ve said enough. k-pop babble requires level 3 friendship’

‘lol alright, i’ll ask how your days been then’ ‘How’s your day going?’

The rest was, as they say, history. The two of you had really hit it off and kept chatting even as you quickly grow overwhelmed and stop your swiping crusades. You tell him about your forays into building a social life and, when that doesn’t pan out, about your latest crochet projects. He, in turn, tells you that he and his friends are traveling all over the US for work over the next couple of months and provides you with silly hotel room anecdotes.

If you never thought more deeply about the coincidence of a guy named Felix having a Bbokari picture on his Tinder profile, well, there were millions of STAYs worldwide. It only made sense that there was at least one Felix bias named Felix out there.

It’s only a few days later that you feel solid enough in your budding friendship to ask a burning question.

‘Not to switch topics (i’m sure my crochet rants r riveting), but can i ask a question?’

‘(They absolutely are) sure!’ ‘I retain my right to silence tho ;P’

‘lol fair ennough’

‘I was just wondering y you don’t have any pics on here?’ ‘I’m p convinved ur not a serial killer by now’

‘I could be, you never know!’ ‘stranger danger’

[pause represented either by text or in fake text tbd]

‘i’m just shy’ ‘I like to talk before anything else’

‘That’s fair’ ‘I’m good at talking lol’ ‘you may have noticed im a bit of a yapper’

‘lol’ ‘yeah, i like it :D’

You had to pretend very hard not to be flustered after that conversation. And also try very hard not to examine why that simple acknowledgement sent your heart fluttering.

You’d quickly switched the subject back to ranting about how black yarn was the devil and despairing about your lack of ability to count. You may be minorly allergic to serious conversations, but Felix hadn’t seemed to mind.

Another week goes by, Felix keeps you updated on his cross-country adventure and you whine about how much you envy his job for letting him travel. He laughs you off and retorts with how exhausting it gets. He seems to be genuinely enjoying the hell out of whatever it is he’s doing though, so you don’t take him too seriously.

As time goes on your conversations get deeper. It’s towards the end of a conversation about religion, belief systems, and community that something shifts between you, ever so slightly.

‘ok but like’ ‘and hear me out here’ ‘religion is a parasocial relationship with a being of dubious existence’

‘lol what?’

‘No but fr!’ ‘ok so, like’ ‘listen it’s like k-pop idols, right?’

‘right?’

‘LISTEN, ok, so you know how, like, idols are basically manufactured to build a parasocial relationship with fans?’ ‘to the point some fans are actually insane about it?’

‘I’m well aware, yes’

‘Well religion is the same thing, i mean, think about it!’ ‘I have not met a devout Christian who wasn’t a lil insane abt their relationship with God’ ‘some are rlly nice abt it, but they literally say “our holy father who art in heaven” and call themselves his children’ ‘THAT is a parasocial relationship!’ ‘It’s the same w idols, right?’ ‘except the relationship is dating or friends or whatever image theyre curating’

‘right’

‘and think about it this way ok’ ‘the reason parasocial relationships are treated with cuation despite our predisposition to them as humans in the digital age is because they get dangerous when people delude themselves into thinking its real’ ‘It’s the same thing with religion except theyre encouraged 2 believe its all real in an attempt to instill them with certain morals’ ‘That’s how you get religous extremests’

‘I hadn’t thought of it that way’

‘and don’t get me wrong! I eat that shit up. I’m on bubble and all sorts. it’s just a facinating parallel between religon and fan spaces and the communities they create.’ ‘some fandoms are more organized than some churches i’ve seen’

‘i think this is the first time you’ve mentioned k-pop since we started talking’ ‘so you’re on bubble, huh? interesting’

‘Noooo my babbling has betrayed me!’ ‘I always knew it would T^T’

‘lol i still wanna know who your bias is’

‘you’ll die wondering’

‘well, then, what are your thoughts about meeting an idol?’

‘what is this, an interview?’

‘maybe’

‘lol ok’

‘i mean, in the vein of all fans, i’d be thrilled? ig?’

‘ig?’

‘Well, i’m kinda scared lol’ ‘idols intimidate me’

‘aw why are you scared?! i’m sure they’re lovely’

‘lol they’d have to b xD’ ‘idk man they just scare me! If i saw an idol in the wild i’d flee, no hesitation’ ‘poof, gone’

‘lolol imagine that poor idol saw you book it the other direction’

‘they’d survive lol’ ‘but nah, yeah, i’d be thrilled to meet an idol but i’d pass out i think’

‘well don’t do that’

‘listen, strangers scare me enough, attractive strangers that i admire very much? terrifying’

‘fair enough ig’ ‘so you wouldn’t talk to an idol if given the chance?’

‘y r u so interested? this is a weird line of question’

‘i’m just curious!’

‘i mean, depends on the context? a fan sign or something i’d probably b fine, if a nervous wreck, but like’ ‘in public?’ ‘I’d prolly keep my distance’ ‘like’ ‘Idols deserve their privacy too, yknow?’ ‘nerves aside, leaving them tf alone would just be the polite thing’ ‘idols are people too, yknow? I try not to forget that, regardless of how godly their music’

‘I agree’ ‘I think they’d appriciate that’

‘right? and, like, if i ever met an idol i’d have to confront the reality that they themselves are real, yknow?’ ‘it wouldn’t make me less of a fan but i’d def feel weird about several fan activities’

‘lol like what?’

‘wouldn’t you like to know weather boy?’

After that conversation, you couldn’t put your finger on it, but something had shifted in your friendship.