#I don’t look to celebrities for my morals but truly shut the fuck up if you don’t have anything constructive to ad

[marisatomay]

I think what’s extra appalling about this—beyond the fact that SNL held a candlelight vigil when Ukraine was attacked by Russia just for comparison—is that the host on an episode of SNL, in this case Timothee Chalamet, doesn’t just give a thumbs up to the sketches, the host (and their retinue of PR people and agents) and Lorne Michaels (with the approval of NBC) handpick the sketches from dozens presented to them which are then dress rehearsed and sometimes cut or altered if they don’t play well for the dress rehearsal audience. And this particular sketch was a digital short so it was filmed and edited and screened for presumably many, many people prior to the episode airing. The number of people who saw this concept, this sketch and approved it to air is astronomical. And it did air.

[todaydreambelieversfic]

Kurt shivered. He was terrified. The first reviews of Wicked were released today, and he had never felt like he was going to cry and vomit at the same time. Suddenly, a familiar hand squeezed his.  Blaine draped his other arm over his shoulder and pulled him closer. 

“It’s going to be ok. Whatever it says, you were incredible last night,” Blaine said, cupping Kurt’s face and lightly kissing his lips . “Absolutely breathtaking. I was so happy to be with you, on stage and afterward. Seeing you perform, embodying such a strong character, it reinforced everything I saw that first day at your auditions. You are the most moral, compassionate person I've ever met, and I was blown away by the rawness and honesty I saw you show a room full of strangers.  I knew then that you were my Elphaba.”

Kurt giggled and returned Blaine’s kiss, this one with more heat. "I knew that you were my Fiyero too. The very first time I saw you after you dropped that couch on Sam.”

"I truly mean it. You gave Idina a run for her money. You were brilliant," Blaine whispered in Kurt's ear as he kissed that spot that he had recently discovered drove him wild.

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Blaine."

“No, it will get you sidelined by Fake Boobs over there for a few performances if I ever walk in on you two giving each other blowjobs on company time again,” April blurted. Kurt’s cheeks flushed red as Blaine said something that sounded like ‘so worth it,’ and chuckled as he kissed Kurt’s cheek and pulled back a little. 

“Oh please, like we never got busy on company time?” Cooper laughed. “Actually, I think that’s the only time we ever fooled around.”

“Shut up, Mr. Hollywood and read the damn review or I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Cooper smirked. “Fire me? I’m here for Blaine and Rachel, and if it gets rave reviews, to take half the credit.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, give me the damn paper,” Santana said, jerking the paper from Cooper’s hands. “I doubt they even said anything about my performance so I’m here for the shots at Hobbit,” she said, fiercely flipping past the news and sports pages until she finally found the page she was looking for. It turned out that Rachel did, in fact, run off an actress, the one playing Boq. Santana stepped in to play a genderbent version of the role for the premiere. 

“Well, in case they don’t, you were great,” Kurt said with a smile. 

“Thank you,” Santana said sincerely. Just for that, I’m skipping to what they said about you first.”

“I started the show, so you have to start with me,” Rachel protested loudly, grabbing for the paper. 

“But since this show was not about you…” Santana started, but the paper was swiftly jerked from both of their hands by April Rhodes herself. 

“Let’s get on with it. If it’s good, I got a celebration to start that ain’t appropriate here in the streets, and if it’s bad, I don’t wanna get arrested for being drunk and disorderly on the side of the road. Again,” April blurted. “Ok, ok.” April started reading the review. “ So Wicked is a beloved production on Broadway, so it would be hard to screw up such a beloved story, but I have to admit that under the direction of April Rhodes… I’m just going to skip this part and get to the good stuff, blah, blah, blah, here we go. This genderbent version could’ve been a disaster. They didn’t fully commit to the idea since Glinda was played by a woman, the Tony award winning actress, Rachel Berry. She was perfect for the self-indulged, spoiled Glinda because I’m pretty sure she was just playing herself,”

“Hey!” Rachel whined.

“The man’s not wrong,” Kurt stage whispered to Blaine, who smiled and squeezed Kurt’s shoulder. 

April continued. 

The cast was good, although not as good as the original. The problem with a rebooted show that is beloved as much as this one is, is that the actors and actresses have to find a way to make the characters their own. Although not all of them were successful with this, I believe that there were two actors who were able to breathe new life into the show. I’m referring to Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel, who protrayed Fiyero and Elphaba respectively. 

Although both actors are new to Broadway, I believe this won’t be the last time we see their names in lights. Their chemistry was off the charts. I was disappointed that there wasn’t a cast album to purchase because I literally had chills when Mr. Hummel and Mr. Anderson sang ‘As Long as You’re Mine.’ I believed that those two truly were in love as they sang the duet. 

As for Blaine Anderson, I have to admit that when I realized I was watching Cooper Anderson’s younger brother, I was prepared with my noise-canceling earbuds, with the elder’s tendency to scream his lines. I was pleasantly surprised with the sincerity and depth Blaine gave this supporting role.  His vocals were immaculate. I was saddened that Blaine didn’t have more songs in which to lend his voice to. I truly believe that Blaine Anderson will have a much deeper impact on Broadway than the elder Anderson had. 

"Hey," Cooper nearly shouted."

"Sucks doesn't it," Rachel pouted.

"Shhhh. Go on, April," Kurt said.

April continued. "As for Kurt Hummel, the star of the story, he had massive shoes to fill as the first male Elphaba. Not only did he fill them, but he strutted in them for the whole audience to see. If tonight is anything to go by, my prediction is that this talented young man will be holding a statue on Broadway’s biggest night because I could not take my eyes off him every time he was on stage.  April Rhodes, bravo! You certainly found a star in Kurt Hummel."

I have already arranged to attend this show again again in its short run, although I hope they will extend this production so that the masses will have the opportunity to see it. It’s not the first revival of this show, but it will certainly be the one I remember when it's brought up in conversation.  I will be rooting for the moment when the big award night rolls around and they get the recognition they deserve,” April finished. “Well damn! I only read all that because I saw my lil’ ol’ name at the bottom. They barely mentioned me.” 

Before Kurt even knew what hit him, he was scooped into Blaine’s embrace. Blaine kissed him fiercely as Rachel and Santana fought over the paper April now seemed bored with so that they could read the part April skipped over. April, who had actually been sober for eight days, pulled a flask from her cleavage and didn’t even take a breath as she guzzled the liquid down her throat. None of that mattered to Kurt. The show was considered a success, at least by the New York Times, and he was going to celebrate with the love of his life. He could read the other reviews later. 

Kurt pulled back from Blaine, who whimpered a little when he was left wanting more.

“I wasn’t ready for that to be over yet,” Blaine pouted.

“Me neither, but I need you to know that I love you.” Kurt smiled, his eyes a little wet with tears of joy. “I love you so much.”

Blaine smiled. “I love you too. He laughed when he saw Rachel and Santana rip the paper in half and grabbed the New York Post. “Some people don’t know how to celebrate.”

“Oh honey, I do, and we haven’t even begun celebrating yet,” Kurt teased, giving Blaine a quick, but passionate kiss. “But my plans for you will not pan out well on the side of the street.”

“Then take me to your place,” Blaine whispered seductively in Kurt’s ear.

“Let’s get out of here,” Kurt said, taking Blaine’s hand and leading him back to his apartment.

****

“HARDER KURT! FUCK ME HARDER! I"M SO CLOSE!”

“OH HELL NO!” Mercedes yelled when she heard the noises coming from the apartment below them. “They had to come back here so we could hear their debauchery?”

“It’s kinda hot, actually,” Sam winked at her suggestively.  

“It makes sense why white boy believed you were gay,” Mercedes replied, rolling her eyes at her fiancé. “But they do sound hot, if it wasn’t CONSTANT. Thank the lord they take it to Blaine’s apartment sometimes. She laughed, grabbed the broom, flipped it handle up and rammed it into the floor. “GIVE IT A REST, WILL YOU!” She yelled, leaning the broom against the wall.

“JUST BECAUSE YOU AREN’T GETTING ANY DOESN’T MEAN WE SHOULD ABSTAIN!” Kurt called back. “So tight for me, Blaine!”

Sam laughed and called back. “USE PROTECTION BOYS!”

“Holy hell,” Mercedes sighed, shaking her head as she sunk onto the couch. “We need to move.”

“Actually, they need to move, which is why if Kurt says yes tonight, they will.”

"YES KURT! OH GOD, YES! I"M COMING! SHIT!" Blaine hollered.

“Yes to what? Is our boy proposing? It’s only been six weeks,” Mercedes blurted.

“Blaine’s gonna ask him to move in.”

“WAIT? REALLY? BLAINE’S GOING TO ASK KURT TO MOVE IN WITH HIM?” Mercedes nearly screamed. “OH MY GOD!”

“OH MY GOD! YES! BLAINE! I WILL!” Kurt cried hysterically.

“THANKS ALOT YOU BLABBERMOUTHS!” Blaine called. 

“HE SAID YES SO YOU’RE WELCOME!” Mercedes shouted back.

“Hell, we’re all going to get evicted if you don’t quit shouting back and forth with them through the ceiling.” Sam sighed, shaking his head. “I’m happy for them though. They’ve been good for each other, and Kurt’s a good neighbor. He’s usually calm and quiet.”

“OH MY GOD, YES! I LOVE YOUR TONGUE, BABY! FUCK ME WITH IT GOOD!”

“OH, YOU BOYS IS NASTY!” Mercedes hollered back. “Come on,” she said, grabbing Sam’s hand and pulling him to his feet. We’re going somewhere. Anywhere but here for a couple of hours. “AND THEN, WE’LL COME BACK AND HELP THEM PACK ‘CUZ THEY GOTS TO GO!”

*****

“So, was what Mercedes said true? Do you really want to try living together?” Kurt asked as he carded his fingers through Blaine’s curls. They were lying in Kurt’s bed, with only a thin sheet loosely covering them as the lights from the street trickled in through the curtains. 

“Hell yes,” Blaine said simply, kissing Kurt’s forehead. 

Kurt raised his head and turned to face Blaine. “Do you think it’s too soon?” Kurt asked.

“No. But if you want to wait until we’ve been together a little longer, I understand.”

“I don’t,” Kurt replied simply, leaning in to kiss Blaine softly on his lips. “I don’t want to be away from you when I can avoid it.” 

“It’d be okay though. Either way, I’ll be happy. ‘As long as you’re mine,’” Blaine almost singsonged, returning the kiss. 

“I’m totally yours, you cheeseball,” Kurt laughed, booping him on the nose. “Wait, you have another room, right? Because your closet is kinda small.”

“I’d convert the other bedroom to a closet if that’s what it takes for you to be happy. Actually, I think that’s what it was originally,” Blaine chuckled. “And you act like you aren’t just as big a cheeseball as me.”

“True, but right now, we are dirty, dirty cheeseballs.” Kurt said, pulling him up out of the bed. “We need to go shower and then I’m gonna kick your ass in 'Just Dance.'

“You wish,” Blaine challenged. “You haven’t seen my rendition of ‘You Should Be Dancin’ yet.”

“And you haven’t seen my version of ‘Single Ladies’. You better bring it.”

“I fully intend to,” Blaine chuckled as he grabbed a couple of condoms and a bottle of lube. Unbeknownst to Kurt, Mercedes had already showed him a video of the routine, and he wanted to be ready. “Hey, Kurt. Do you still have the leotard?”

“You know about the leotard?”

“Um, Mercedes showed me a video. Who would’ve ever guessed that Sam’s Mercedes was the same Mercedes you went to high school with?” Blaine laughed.

“Ugh, I wanted to surprise you,” Kurt pouted playfully. 

“You do, all the time. You’re the most unpredictable man I’ve ever met. You always zig when I think you’re going to zag and I really love that about you.”

“I love you too, Blaine,” he said sweetly, but then his hand landed in a loud plop on Blaine’s bare ass. “But let’s get out of the shower. If I can’t shock you with Beyonce, I can show you my Gaga impression.”

“Saw that one too, but I’d rather see it live, in person, and naked.” Blaine laughed, waggling his eyebrows at his boyfriend. 

“As you wish,” Kurt said as he grabbed Blaine’s hand and led him toward the shower.

THE END

Thanks to Ericdooley for looking over this. I also want to thank any of you who commented, shared, left kudos, or recommended this story. It's been a blast.

Read it from the beginning at the link below.

[penajavier]

though you are no god -  Frankie Morales x f!reader

This idea had been brewing for a while and hanging out in my drafts for a longer while, but I’ve finally found the inspiration to clean it up and share it! I am clearly a beginner at this and feedback/critique is always welcome. 

Title: though you are no god (credit)

Pairing: Francisco Morales x f!reader. One use of the word “girl”.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 3.3k

Content/warnings: brief mentions of nightmares and trauma recovery, angst, smut, still somehow the sappiest shit I’ve ever written. frankie likes to be praised. strictly 18+

ao3

••••••••

The first time you get to witness Francisco Morales fall to his knees in front of you, you almost don't remember it happening.  

His mouth presses hot and wet and urgent against your skin where he is bunching up your shirt to expose it. You are nearly as drunk as him, blindly pulling it off and throwing it somewhere behind him. The wall behind you is cool but does absolutely fuck-all to clear your head because oh god his hands are big and warm and his tongue is incessant and oh god this is Frankie, your goofy, kind, awkward, hot as fuck friend-of-a-friend. He pulls you forward a fraction just to tug on your pants and underwear, letting them gather around your feet without giving you the leg room to step out of them. He lifts your left leg over his shoulder with ease, and then his hands are bracing him against you and his tongue is working as if it has a mind of its own, circling your clit and sliding up your lips and you don't remember his fingers being that thick but somehow they are and you are close to going insane. 

Maybe tomorrow you'll wonder how you ended up here, in a hallway in his apartment where he barely bothered to turn the lights on before pressing himself into you, effectively shutting off any sane connection you might have still retained to the world after however-many drinks you two had got in you. The night was supposed to be about Santi, you vaguely recall, but right now you honest to god cannot even remember what promotion he got that you were supposed to be celebrating. You might have made a mental note to apologize to him for leaving his party early, but Frankie adds another finger to your wet cunt and moans like it's pleasuring him more than you, and it's a real effort not to kick him in the chest or collapse on him then and there.  

The fucker laughs as if he knows exactly what he's doing to you, and somehow increases his efforts to a degree you hadn't thought possible. It doesn't take much after that for you to feel that knot tightening in your belly, the electricity of it making your limbs shake. Only when he’s satisfied making you cum thoroughly on his tongue and his hand does he stand up, and for the first time since you got here, he speaks. "Hi," he says, the loopiest grin on his face, before leaning forward to kiss you without waiting for you to answer.  

Your last remaining brain cell thinks to itself, this is going to be one hell of a night. 

•••• 

The second time Frankie Morales falls to his knees in front of you, you can barely bring yourself to look at him. 

It's been weeks (months?) since he practically fell off the grid, following your childhood best friend and designated bad-idea-haver Santiago Garcia into the guts of South America. You had reached the point where a part of you was bracing itself for the worst kind of news, of never getting to see your boys again or hell, not even knowing what the fuck happened to them down there. The rest of you was still holding on to your anger in a misplaced effort to stay hopeful, refusing to let you feel anything other than the need to wring their necks as soon as one of them walked back in the door. And that was it, the majority of your days spent getting on edge every time your phone rang or you felt you saw a familiar set of messy curls pass you by on the street, until you walked home one day to find him standing outside your door, hand poised to knock but hesitant. 

"What the fuck?" the words escape you before you can help it, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. When he turns to look at you coming up behind him, you almost stop in shock at how absolutely shit he looks. "What the fuck?" you say again, seeming to have lost all your vocabulary at the sight of this stupid infuriating beautiful man finally standing in front of you in one piece, messy curls and all.  

An eternity passes with the two of you simply staring at each other, your grocery bags forgotten in your hands and his fingers twitching in an effort to keep them to himself. The smell of fresh bread wafting from your grocery bag does little to alleviate any tension, and the silence is almost painful. You want to do something, say something of all the rage and hurt you've nursed in you at being left alone. How dare you, you want to bark at him, want to hold him by the collar and smack him or kiss his face raw. 

You must take too long in your own head because he carefully extends a hand toward you, but you are so over-stimulated at the mere sight of him that you flinch.  

That's what breaks him, you realize later when the storms have passed and the proverbial rivers have calmed. Not the pain and loss and grief of the mission - things he'll whisper into your chest when you let him - and not the physical battering he must have taken through it all. What breaks him is you flinching away from him, as if you'd forgotten who he was. It’s only me, it's your Frankie, he wants to scream; wants to gather you in his arms and breathe into your ribs. But all he can do is fall to the ground and plead with his eyes.

I'm sorry, mi alma he seems to be saying, and the sight of this glorious man breaking down in front of your doorstep makes you ache in the depths of your bones. You rush forward, all your anger evaporating away from you in the instant it takes to wrap your arms around him and let him rest his head on your stomach. The position is awkward at best. His touch feels almost alien and his hair doesn't smell like you're used to, but you let him cry, let him ruin the clothes you hadn’t given much thought to anyway, and it doesn't occur to either of you that the shirt is one of his that he'd left at your place. 

You choke back the ocean rising in your throat, not knowing how to navigate everything you're feeling at the same time. Will we ever be okay? you wonder, your entire body feeling numb as he holds you just the tiniest bit more tightly.  

You don't know then if you'll ever forgive him, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be the same man again, but right there in that moment none of it matters. What matters is that he is here, and you are holding him like you'd wished and prayed for in all those lonely nights. Maybe you'll never be okay like you used to be, but you have him for now, and you're too exhausted to think beyond that. 

•••• 

The third time, it's fucking magical. 

You and your Frankie have finally settled into a somewhat stable routine. After he left you with the promise to get his shit together, he made good on his word. It seemed as if the mission that must not be named put things into perspective for him - and for you, for that matter - and the two of you decided to give up on the delicate dance you kept orchestrating around each other. You had realized that you needed him much more than you could ever resent him for leaving, and he had realized he never wanted to feel the paralysing fear of thinking he'd never make it back to you again. You two had decided to sit down like adults and talk about it, and Frankie’s regular visits to his therapist had certainly helped. 

Now, in the early morning light in your shared bedroom, he looks the very picture of calm. The birds chirp softly outside the window, blending in with the music of the traffic that you two have begrudgingly come to love. The nightmares haven't left him completely, but they're less frequent and far less incapacitating for him. You feel a rush of pride for how far he's come, how much effort he put into building himself back up piece by piece after being shattered to his bare bones. You’ve seen him curl into you out of fear and into himself during the moments of self loathing when he feels he doesn't deserve your kindness, but now he sleeps with his head tilted slightly upward, exposing the beautiful planes of his neck to you. He is beautiful, you've known it for as long as you've known him, but something about the soft sunlight turning his curls golden and the way you can tell he's truly at peace in this moment, brings tears to your eyes and makes your throat clench. 

You lean up on your elbow and touch his face. His skin is soft, and he smells faintly of your body wash. Thief, you think fondly, brushing his unruly hair away from his forehead. he had stopped cutting it as frequently as he used to because he noticed you liked running your hands through it, and you realize with a jolt that that had been years ago, long before you two had any conversation about the future, even before he had his world turned upside down in the depths of an unnamed jungle. That is when you realize that Francisco Morales told you he loved you long before you had the sense to understand it, and this time you do cry. 

He stirs in his sleep. You briefly worry that you woke him, but he simply turns his head and nuzzles into the crook of your neck, breathing deeply at your shoulder before falling back asleep. The feeling of his soft breaths against your skin makes you smile, and you feel yourself falling more in love with every one of them. 

He wakes you up hours later with gentle kisses and the promise of pancakes, making you giggle with the way his moustache tickles your chin. When you find him in the kitchen later he seems more chipper than usual, smelling like a bakery and humming softly while setting the table for two. He greets you with a sweet kiss and pulls out your chair for you before sitting down in his own. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” you ask playfully, and he smiles wide behind his glasses that you’d finally convinced him he needed. Beautiful man, you can't help but think. 

"Just wanted to do something nice for my girl," he answers with his mouth full and you flick a berry at him, which he expertly catches. "Oh so that's how it's gonna be," he puts down his fork and you start to run away, but he is far too quick. He catches you by your waist and pulls you into his chest, licking your cheek obscenely.  

"Frankie, you dog!" you giggle, still fighting his grip.  

"Dogs are cute," he shrugs, seemingly unfazed against you using all your force. He is gentle as anything with you, but he sure likes to show off his strength every once in a while. He lifts you effortlessly off the floor and sets you on the counter. "You think I'm cute?" he wiggles his eyebrows. 

You almost playfully call him insufferable on autopilot, the way you've always bantered since you've known him. But you're aware now how he relies on verbal affirmations, and you've been making a conscious effort of supplying them whenever you can. So instead you hold his face in your palms and tell him that you think he's the most wonderful man in the world, and that you love him more than anything.  

"Baby," he drops his head to your shoulder and sighs. You do this to him, making his heart swell and threaten to burst out of his ribs. He doesn't have the words, doesn't know how to tell you he feels like the luckiest man in the world every morning when he wakes up next to you, every time he hears your voice or feels your palm in his. He doesn't know how to tell you you've been his anchor and his best friend, or how he can't believe he gets to have this kind of domestic bliss at all. "Baby," he repeats, "I love you." 

You try to deepen the kiss he initiates, but he pulls back and tells you he has plans for the day, telling you to get dressed for something outdoors. You feel a rush of happiness at the thought of him feeling more and more like himself with every day that passes, picking up old habits and finding joy in them. You kiss his cheek and run off to get dressed, beyond excited to see what he had planned. 

The ride to the field is longer than you expected. Frankie has turned the radio on and it plays softly in the background as you two talk occasionally. It’s a calm morning, with the perfect weather that's neither too cold nor too warm. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses it softly once he's parked, and then he hops out and opens your door for you. 

"Such a gentleman," you tease. 

"Yeah," is all he says before he's kissing you breathless against the truck. It takes you by surprise, but it's far from unwelcome. 

Your hands come to rest on his shoulders, and you can tell it takes a special amount of effort for him to pull away from you, his hands still holding you close as he pulls on yours and leads you deeper into the field. The grass is high enough to tickle your ankles, and the whisper of it against your skin feels wonderful. He slows down, the pace leisurely enough for you to appreciate the wildflowers growing around you. He’s careful not to step on any, and you're struck once again by the multitudes that exist within this one man. The same man who has confessed to sins you could never have thought him capable of, now so careful with a thing as gentle as a dandelion. You think about his hand that is so gentle in yours, and the memory of it firmly wrapping around your throat as he does unspeakable things to you makes you blush, and you will yourself to come back to the present.  

Frankie has led you to a tree, and you notice a tree house resting on the sturdier branches. It’s new, you realize, and look at him quizzically. 

"Remember how I was supposed to pick up new hobbies?" he says sheepishly, gently leading you around to the other side where you see wooden footrests leading up. He urges you to climb up, and you are still so surprised that you can only obey. 

"I thought you'd like this," he's saying. "It can be our secret place, we come here whenever we want. Not that we don't already have a home and privacy but I thought this could be nice to have. Like a little getaway close to home." He's rambling now, as you notice all the fine details he has paid attention to in the construction of it. 

"Honey? Do you like it?" he asks when you've been too quiet. 

"Do I like it?" you ask incredulously. "Francisco Morales, this is amazing!" 

He immediately breaks into a wide grin, and you can see that he is proud of himself. He looks almost like an eager child, and you love the way his eyes shine in that moment. 

"There's one more thing," he leads you to a small opening in the wall that serves as a window. You can see the clear sky and the field stretching out under you, and the cool breeze feels like a gentle caress. It's a beautiful view, and you lose yourself in the sights and smells for a moment. 

"So am I looking at something specific?" you ask, wondering what it was he wanted to show you.  

He doesn't answer, though, and you turn around to repeat the question. The sight that meets you nearly knocks you off your feet, and you cover your gasp with your hand. 

Frankie is on one knee, hat resting by his feet and hand extended, holding the most gorgeous ring you have ever laid eyes on. You might be biased, but you couldn't care less. 

"Darling, I-" he starts, but you don't have the self control that he apparently does, and you throw your arms around him. 

He wraps tightly around you, only letting you have enough room to look up and kiss him. And god do you kiss him. You kiss him like he has never been kissed before, like you could pour every ounce of affection you have for him into that one moment, needing him as close to you as possible. 

You don't realise you're crying until he kisses the tears off your cheeks, and then he lifts your hand and slides the ring on. 

•••• 

The fourth time comes that night, after you've spent your day in the field, holding on to each other and bursting with mutual joy. 

He sits you down on the bed, and kneels in front of you, kissing your shoulders gently. "Hey, Mrs. Morales," he smiles as he says it, even as he's biting the soft skin at your clavicle. 

You laugh, telling him that’s not how engagement rings work. He only grins against your skin and bites harder. 

You scratch his head and he purrs, lifting his head briefly to give you a sweet kiss before he's pushing you to lie down. Let me take care of you, honey, he whispers. Then his hands are on your waist and his mouth is on your chest, making you writhe in place. He kisses and sucks and bites, making sure to give every part of you equal attention. So beautiful, he's talking almost to himself as he leaves a wet trail of kisses down to your tummy.  

His hands meanwhile touch and grab and smooth over any part they can reach, moving as if of their own volition. He knows your body so well that he can map it with his eyes closed, can recognize it with his last breaths. He reaches your cunt and pulls you closer, closer, inhaling deeply and groaning like he's hardly staying in control. 

With the same patience he had displayed earlier in the day he teases you mercilessly, kissing around where you need him most. You pull on his hair and he tuts and bites your thigh. What did I say, baby - a flick of his tongue against you - let me take care of you. You whine petulantly, and he tells you to be a good girl for him. He even says please, the asshole. 

The first lick against your clit comes at the same time as his finger pushes into you, and it takes everything you have not to lift off the bed. So wet for me, he moans against you, the vibration making your pleasure amplify. You fist the sheets around you, telling him how fucking good he's making you feel, how good he always makes you feel. The praise fuels him on and he pushes two more fingers into you at the same time. 

You are so full and so stimulated with his tongue incessant against your clit, and he has no plans of letting up. You feel your orgasm hit you quick and hard, and you can barely warn him before you're gushing, soaking his face and trying to pull away from the overstimulation. 

He looks up at you, grinning like the Cheshire cat. He licks you clean until you're begging him to stop, and then he patiently kisses his way back up your body. 

"That was... that was amazing," you're out of breath as you say it, wrapping your arms around him and pulling him in to taste yourself. 

"Oh honey," he coos. "I've barely started." 

•••

fin.

Tagging some lovely mutuals whom I love and who are amazing writers: @disgruntledspacedad @pedropascaldice @frannyzooey. Please let me know if you don’t want to be tagged in the future (if there is a future) ❤️

[lafourmii20]

My favorite pairing is probably DrPepperony if I had to choose one, and I'm a sucker for 30 (the protective one). While I tend to swerve to "people protecting Stephen", please write it however you'd like - if you're interested in this combination. :)

Thank you for the ask, @aelaer 💕

I love drpepperony and I was very happy to write this OT3 with this prompt. It's a bit longer than I thought, and maybe not exactly what you imagined. I hope you like it!

~~~

drpepperony, pre-relationship (could almost be read as gen), hurt stephen, with a bit of blood, protective pepper, protective tony, not clint friendly (sorry i had to find sort of a bad guy), post Endgame but Tony lives and Steve died

~~~

“If you’re so powerful, why couldn’t you save her?!”

Clint’s shout echoed on the lawn, all the way to the cabin. Tony instantly got to his feet.

“Stay with uncle Happy, Maguna.”

He left his drink on a table, and his daughter under Happy’s careful watch, and hurried outside. When he pushed the front door, he frowned, deeply unhappy with the scene.

“I’m sorry,” Stephen whispered in such a thin voice Tony wasn’t sure anyone heard him –not sure the guy even wanted to be heard.

“You’re sorry? Is that what you just mumbled?” Clint answered, his tone getting angrier and angrier with each word.

“I am truly deeply sorry,” Stephen articulated more clearly this time.

It did not seem to appease Clint. At all.

“Well, great! You’re sorry. But Nat is dead because of you. And your sorry ass apologies won’t do shit to bring her back!”

Clint was furious. He was grieving. But he was taking it out on the wrong guy.

“It’s all your fault!”

Stephen didn’t move, didn’t even blink when Clint lurched forward and punched him square in the face. He fell backwards and blood splattered on the ground.

“It’s all your fucking fault!” Clint bellowed as Sam and Bucky restrained him, tried to stop him from attacking again.

He almost tore free, and Tony took a step forward. He was all for letting his fellow Avengers sort things out between themselves the way they wanted to –and if they had to punch some sense into each other from time to time, well it was their business. But no one was getting beaten up, without even trying to resist, on his lawn.

But before Tony could say anything, Pepper stepped into the scene.

“What is going on here?” she asked in her no-nonsense voice. Se didn’t wait for someone to answer –as if there even was a correct way to answer when she used that voice. “No one is fighting in my home! Today, we celebrate those we brought back, and we grieve those we lost. This is not a time for fighting and I will not tolerate it. Is that clear?”

Clint might try to protest, there was no way he would sway Pepper. He was an Avenger. She was even more dangerous, Tony thought with pride. Looked like he could let his wife handle the dirty business.

He crossed the lawn, got to the poor wizard still slumped on the ground, haggard and defeated. His nose was bleeding profusely, and the corner of his eye was starting to turn purple. Tony grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Come on. Let me take care of you.”

Stephen looked up at him. There was a deep sadness, a resigned look in his eyes that broke Tony’s heart. Then Stephen got up and it was gone. They walked silently through the crowd, crossed the lawn and reached the house. Tony pushed him as carefully as he could in a bathroom.

“Here we go,” he said softly, helping Stephen sit on the edge of the tub. “Fri, where’s the first aid kit?”

“Under the sink, boss,” the AI answered immediately and Tony dived under the sink to retrieve the little box, opening it to get some cotton balls and antiseptic, though he wasn’t sure what to do with those. “May I suggest the ice pack, boss?”

“You’re the best, baby girl.”

“Of course,” she answered, and Tony chuckled.

He went back to Stephen with a slightly wet towel to wipe off the blood while he handed him the cold pack. Stephen’s fingers shook wildly when he took it and pressed it on the side of his head, with a painful wince.

“You don’t have to do all this,” the Wizard of Oz finally said. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah, look in the mirror, doc, and tell that to your face,” Tony scoffed.

He got a brief glimpse of a smile before he moved the towel over nose, lips, chin, and all the mess of blood that covered Stephen’s face.

“Why didn’t you send Clint to the Sinister Dimension or whatever the name of that hellish world is?” Tony asked, trying not to wince with Stephen every time the towel stroked over a sensitive area.

“Dark Dimension,” Stephen corrected.

“Sure.”

A moment of silence passed. Tony took the time to rinse the blood out of the towel before applying it again. It seemed like the bleeding had stopped. That only left the big ugly contusion at the corner of Stephen’s eye. Ouch, that looked painful.

“Fri, can you scan our good doctor? Make sure there are no deeper wounds?”

“I’m fine,” Stephen protested with another wince that said otherwise.

“Fri?”

“The good doctor is right, boss. No deeper injury.”

“Great.”

As Tony looked at the slumped and beaten up form in front of him, it seemed that nothing was great. If there were no physical wounds, it seemed that there was a more profound, more painful, psychological one. That man was wounded, burned out, and morally exhausted. And Tony was suddenly filled with the impulse to help him, to fix this, whatever this was.

He wanted to see the powerful and cocky sorcerer he clashed with, when they first met.

He wanted the weirdly flirty wink after great prowess of magic, and butting heads with someone that didn’t take his nonsense but actually listened to him, and compromised.

“So, why didn’t you stop him?” he asked again after a minute of almost comfortable silence.

He threw the bloody towel in the laundry basket and leaned against the sink, watching Stephen intently.

“Because he’s grieving. And he’s right,” Stephen answered in a too small voice.

Defeated.

Tony was not taking any of it. If Pepper had to protect Stephen from Clint, Tony would have to protect Stephen from himself, apparently. It was far from the weirdest thing he had ever done.

“Bullshit. It’s not your fault.”

Stephen arched an eyebrow behind the cold pack, before he winced and dropped it. Tony picked it up for him and, instead of giving it back to the wizard, he brought it up to Stephen’s face and gently hold it up against his temple. Stephen just sighed, closed his eyes for a second, letting Tony take care of him. The situation was slightly more intimate than Tony anticipated but it warmed his heart to see Stephen accept his help. And yeah, he could see himself get closer to the wizard in the near future.

“It’s not your fault,” he repeated.

“It kinda is. I chose this path, the one where Natasha and Steve had to die. Their deaths are on my hands.”

“That’s just pure bullshit! You didn’t push Nat on Vormir, she jumped. You didn’t put the gauntlet on Steve’s hand, he took it and snapped his own fingers knowing he would not survive it. You did not murder them. They chose to sacrifice themselves to save us all, and believe me, I would have done the same thing, without blaming you. You know what you did?”

“Wallow in self-pity, dishonoring their great sacrifice?” he whispered defeated and seemingly disgusted with himself.

“No.” Damn, that man really needed to be protected from himself. Tony knew a thing or two about blaming himself for everything, but Strange was on another level completely. “You put us on the right path, you risked your sanity to view all those possible futures and other timeline. You are a hero.”

That seemed to finally shut Stephen up. He blinked, looked up at Tony, but this time, there was something different in his eyes. A deep emotion Tony couldn’t really name. It made his heart race.

Stephen’s hand rose, lightly touched Tony’s at the side of his head. It was delicate and far more intimate than he expected. But before Tony could say anything else, the bathroom’s door opened, and Pepper stepped in.

Stephen quickly took his hand away, but Tony kept his position. There was nothing he wanted to hide from his wife. Besides, if something ever happened with the wizard, he was pretty sure Pepper would want to be included. Yep, that would be very nice actually, the three of them in the cabin. Tony could almost picture it.

Wait, he was thinking a bit ahead of himself, wasn’t he? Well, who could blame him, he was a futurist, after all.

“Are you okay, Dr. Strange?” Pepper asked.

“You can call me Stephen. And yes, I’m okay. Tony took care of me.”

Pepper looked at her husband. Tony winked, she smirked in return. His hand was still pressed against Stephen’s head –there was a cold pack between them, but did that really matter?

Pepper went to Stephen’s other side, carefully took his chin in her hand to examine him –and there was no cold pack or any medical supply to excuse the proximity. Stephen tensed for a second, then he relaxed in her grip.

“You did well,” Pepper finally concluded, with a small stroke on Stephen’s cheek. The wizard shuddered. Then she stepped back and the fluttering moment was over. “Tony, you stay with him, I’m gonna send everyone home,” she ordered more than asked.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Tony answered immediately.

“And Stephen?”

“Yes?”

“Stay for dinner with us tonight. Please?”

A moment of hesitation, blue-green eyes jumping from Tony to Pepper, a gulp and finally.

“I will.”

Well, well, well, Tony thought. That was a very interesting turn of events. He couldn’t wait to see where all of this would lead them.

~~~

Inspired by this intimacy prompt list

Prompts filled: 3. touching foreheads (ironstrangefrost) 23. wearing someone’s clothing (ironstrange) 29. kissing while mad (ironstrange) 59. height difference (ironstrange)

[ohnopoe]

Hey, love your work! I was wondering if you could write a Frankie Morales one shot with prompt 33 from the kissing prompt list? Take all the time you need, and thanks! ❤️

Unexpected | Frankie Morales

Ship: Frankie Morales x Reader Prompt: An unexpected kiss that shocks the one receiving it. Word Count: 1k+ Warnings: Alcohol Author’s Note: Thank you so, so much! I jumped on this way quicker than I thought possible, it was just so darn cute!

This is part of my follower celebration! Click here for info!

If it hadn’t been for the liquor making your mind swim pleasantly, you might have been able to think of an excuse for your actions. An ex you wanted to make jealous, a bet from Pope, because you just knew Benny wouldn’t have your back on this one, maybe even sheer curiosity. But the drinks had been flowing readily for far too long now, stealing your thoughts and replacing them with that same lack of care about consequences that had brought you into this mess in the first place.

Your eyes widened in shock as the realisation kicked in, your lips still tingling from excitement at knowing the feel of his kiss as you finally pulled away.

It had been a heat of the moment thing, even though the thought had been plaguing your mind for far longer than you’d care to admit. For months now, you had wondered what it would be like to kiss the man of your dreams, the very same man who was, somewhat unfortunately, your best friend, and thus, ought to have been firmly off limits. For months you had woken from dreams of him, had lost yourself to your imagination, had craved him in ways that no friend ever should.

But then you had found yourself drinking, more than you ever did usually.

Will was never one for a large celebration when it came to his birthday, always preferring to simply find an out of the way bar and have a few drinks with friends. Well, a few was a relative term amongst the group. It wasn’t long until a few quiet beers became shots of tequila, quiet jokes turning into rowdy laughter as you all slipped into intoxication.

And there it was, that lingering question filling your mind as you watched the quietest of your group smiling softly, those perfectly pouted lips curving enticingly and dragging your attention away from the topic at hand.

You were on him before you had even considered your actions, leaning forward until you were precariously sat on the edge of your own seat, not giving a damn about the way it shifted under you as those lips drew you in.

They were all you could have imagined and more, soft and plush, with the mixture of beer, tequila and that one glass of whiskey Will had insisted upon mingled with something different, something smokey and smooth and utterly addictive. He didn’t move at first, the shock of you darting forward to kiss him rendering him utterly frozen as his brain failed to come up with an explanation for your actions. In fact, it wasn’t until you were pulling away that he so much as breathed, following your withdrawing kiss hesitantly, a breath away from you as his mind filled with questions.

And then you were staring at one another, shock filling both your features as the group hollered around you.

How could you explain yourself? How could you ever begin to apologise for throwing yourself at your best friend? How could anyone else ever compare to the heat of his kiss, even when he had done nothing to respond?

Fear and anguish plagued your intoxicated mind, your eyes wide and showing every emotion to an equally startled Frankie. But he was too lost in his own mind to truly take it in.

He could find no reason for the kiss, but, admittedly, he wasn’t looking very hard. No, he was lost in the sensation of your kiss, even now as you shifted back onto your chair, your mouth falling open in a failing attempt at an excuse for your behaviour.

“I-” your throat was too dry to finish the thought, half formed though it was. Clearing your throat and looking determinedly anywhere but at the shell-shocked features of Frankie, you glanced hopelessly at your empty glass, both cursing it and wishing it were full all at once.

“I-” you tried again, but this time you were cut off by his hand, feather light as it settled against your jean clad thigh, uncertain and timid.

He was trying to catch your gaze, trying to read your emotions as he had grown so good at doing over the years, but you couldn’t bare to meet his eyes for longer than a second before the heat of a blush filled your features.

What could you even say? I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to do it? I didn’t mean to give in to the aching desire I’ve felt for you for so long? I didn’t mean to ruin everything?

Nothing could ever begin to touch on how devastated you were at your own impulsive actions, nor the way your heart had swelled at the simplest touch of his lips against yours.

But then his hand was moving against your thigh, his thumb reassuring you with those gentle caresses you had tried desperately never to overthink in the past. His other hand reached up to take your cheek in hold, so careful, so reverent, that your eyes shut on instinct, your body instantly melting into his touch even as the fear remained within your mind.

You could feel the warm rush of air against your lips, his own heated breath anything but smooth as anxiety ran like a current between you.

And then his lips found yours once more.

It was slow, gentle, but determined. That same care that Frankie seemed to put into everything was found tenfold in the way his lips shifted over yours. You almost moaned as his tongue ran over your bottom lip slowly, asking in that timid fashion for permission to deepen the kiss. Eagerly, you gave way, leaning into him, your own hand finding its way into the mess of curls that sat at the back of his head, below that tatty cap he always wore.

You didn’t hear the low whistles from your friends, or the groan of “fucking finally!” from Pope. It was like a cliche moment in a film, the crowd around you fading into the background as you melted against the kiss of the man you had loved in secret for so long.

When he pulled away this time, he didn’t go far. His hold on your cheek keeping you with him, his gaze filled with wonder and affection, and not an ounce of the questions you had feared.

“I don’t know what caused that,” he admitted, his voice low and gravelly as he spoke only to you. “But that needs to happen a whole lot more often.”

[the-voltage-diaries]

Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου - Lucifer x Diavolo

AO3 Link

Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου: Greek for ‘My Polar Star’

Word Count: 1859

A/N: I don’t know what this is. All I know is that @simpingw0lfi3​​​​​​​ refused to do it, so I did. Of course, please don’t expect this to be perfect because... it really isn’t. 

Vote of thanks: @akaiiro-yume​​​​​ for checking and correcting all the grammatical fuck ups I did, making sure I didn’t stop writing this halfway and going through any mental breakdown I might have had instead for me. And, of course, @some-ikemen-snob​​​​​ for making sure this SCREAMED Lucifer energy this way and that. only for now, but ily both.

Devildom 14th February, 20XX Saturday, 7:57 PM

Dear Diary,

      I suppose I've never written a journal entry such as this in the past, for I haven't found either the desire or the will to task myself with writing my thoughts down in a manner wherein I speak to an inanimate object. That said, I have been told writing is, in a manner of speaking, therapeutic, and I believe I could do with some of that right now. It would be false to assume I don’t still harbour any inhibitions towards using my time in this manner, especially when I'd much rather be by Diavolo’s side. The very same Diavolo who, as a matter of fact, happens to be the subject of this writing session today. Strangely enough, and if I recall correctly, he was also the one who introduced - which is putting it rather mildly - me to the “art” of journal entries. I admit, I haven’t given this activity the kind of gravity which was probably expected out of me, but then again, today is a little different from the rest. I'm not entirely certain as to where to begin, but I do believe I have been told in situations like these, one should do whatever... feels right.

      Diavolo is... well, where do I even begin? He is the future of Devildom, as a few might call it - myself included. While he does appear to be quite the cheerful and at times careless lord, it’d be a lie to deny that he is just as wise and compassionate underneath that wave of buoyancy radiating off of him. Honest to a fault, but with his moral compass always pointing towards the best interest of those around him. I’ll admit, sometimes it proves to be rather difficult to believe that he indeed is a demon. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to compare him to the Polaris considering he does quite radiate the charisma from himself, shining admirably amidst a dark sea of onlookers. While in name he rules over all the demons in the land of Devildom, the right set of eyes won’t take too long to deduce the eloquence with which his fingers reach out to the soul of every single resident of the land, holding them together better than gravity ever bound humans to the earth. 

      Saying that is all there is to him would be a lie whiter than the wet snow, making its way to the tips of my fingers and sliding off gently onto this page. That, of course, doesn’t mean describing how I feel towards him is no herculean task. There are some cases when a language -  no matter the plethora of vocabulary it offers - just isn’t sufficient enough, and this certainly is one of those cases. For the time being, let’s just owe my lack of articulacy to the bond of mutual respect and trust Diavolo and I share, built over centuries upon centuries, braving the ravages of time, and even perhaps the less than pleasing antics my brothers tend to pull. But while the impression the ruler of all demons and I tend to emit may seem to be distanced by a careful degree of professionalism, I don’t believe anybody knows that that might not be the case. Even Diavolo himself. Doesn’t come as a surprise, really, for they simply can’t know.

      Why do I believe that to not be the case, then? Well, I would wonder why I felt so strongly about it had I not known the reason myself. The very same reason which is now a secret so surreptitious that I can’t help but consider burning this piece of paper once I finish writing to ensure it is never revealed to another set of eyes. Such dastardly is the nature of this emotion, tricking one into its delusive warmth, encompassing them with the belief that nothing truly is impossible, that what they feel might just be true and meaningful enough to be returned by the other they feel for, only to cackle with glee and turn away when the reality doesn’t match the fantasy it was believed to turn out to be. The very same emotion which in layman’s terms is apparently called... love.

      I’m not entirely certain I understand the extent of its exquisite existence myself, to be truthful. All I know is no matter how intensely I try to shut the door on its escaping fumes, it turns futile the second I lay my eyes on the man in question. While the rest of the known universe sees an omnipotent leader binding everyone together, making them sing the same tune in harmony, I see what I can only consider an anchor, grounding me, making it so that I can’t ever fall into the abyss of the darkness that breathes inside of me and float away. He is the quintessence of the best of what the world has to offer, with his golden eyes sparkling like stardust, weaving their ever-lasting magic into the hearts of whoever they come across - be it human, or demon, or angel - wrapping them in their never-ending warmth, letting them sink into the depths of benevolence they promise. His hair are the cerise of a raging inferno, sheltering beneath their canopy a quick, sensible, erudite mind. His smile is but a warm culmination of everything optimistic and positive, like a flame inviting moths to it, reaching out to give their innermost yearnings a hand to grab on to and never let go. Simply divine. And this is where the paths diverge, I suppose.

      They see a to-be Demon King, I see Diavolo.

      But alas, love is a fickle mistress. Getting too lost in the charm of her alluring arms will only result in a doom of them wrapping around your neck, enticing, until you realise their hold is tightening. Not to hold on, but to suffocate. I might have gotten so lost in that fiery gaze that I didn’t notice it start to crawl along my skin, leaving a charred, burnt path in its wake. The very anchor which I believed to be the one to ground me and hold me close etched itself deeper into the oceanic floor of delirium, drowning me. The threads of his stardust wrapped themselves around me and clutched hard enough to strangle. Before I knew it, the symphony of something meaningful became the cacophony of a nightmare.

      This red thread strung through itself earlier today the series of events I’d rather forget. I’ve known how I feel towards Diavolo for a while now, and I had been searching for an opportunity to come clean and let him know about it for the last few days. Not to say I hadn’t gotten said opportunities at all, but one could owe it to me being too prideful to admit I was finally opening up to the idea of accepting feelings and... emotions. Around that time was when Solomon let slip a few details about the significance of Valentine’s day in the human world as an annual occurrence to celebrate romantic love, friendship, and admiration, and with enough persistence, Asmodeus managed to convince Diavolo to declare the day as an official holiday. Just a few hours ago I walked along the empty hallways to Diavolo’s office, knowing him, Barbatos and I to be the only ones in the building, still choosing work over any form of inactivity. By then, I had talked myself into finally telling the most powerful of all demons about the feelings I harboured towards him. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I was indeed a tad hopeful, wishing for the feelings to be returned. Once I reached the door to his private office, my hand settled above the smooth hardwood to give it a knock. And that’s when I noticed that the door was already slightly ajar. I heard a voice inside, other than Diavolo’s, and I took the liberty to glance inside, only for my hopes to come crashing down when the realisation struck me: I shouldn’t have done that.

      Inside his office, Diavolo sat in his seat with his mouth pressed against another, a hand trailing across the small face with dark green locks framing it with elegance while the other held on to the person’s waist, pulling him closer. My eyes widened when the smaller man of the two let out a muffled whimper, perched on Diavolo’s lap. Barbatos. I felt my heart squeeze out a pained croak at the sight, and even though every single nerve in my body begged me to move away and forget I ever saw anything, my legs didn’t move. They stayed glued to their spot on the floor even as I felt it crumble beneath my feet, just the way my eyes stayed on Diavolo. My lip trembled with a longing I never thought I’d experience when Barbatos intertwined his fingers with Diavolo’s, smiling into the kiss they shared, like the perfect harmony which was always meant to be. It was when Diavolo broke the kiss, eyes meeting the other’s and whispers of love and confessions floating across the room until they settled on my ears, that I finally felt the mask crack. The facade I had worked on for centuries to lay the foundation of crumbled as my fists clenched, letting myself have a moment of weakness when a lone tear of frustration, delay, anger, and self loathing dripped down my cheek. I looked up at the ceiling, a voiceless laugh tumbling across my lips at the cognisance that the Polaris I was reaching out for, shining proud in the middle of a dark, cloudless sky, was beyond my reach, and... never supposed to be mine. How far I could stretch, how willing were my fingers to make one last attempt to touch it’s light and bask in it - all of that didn’t matter anymore.

      I exhaled a shaky breath, blinking once as I tucked away whatever it is I was going to tell Diavolo in some corner of my mind, crushing the key with a hard snap of my fingers. My eyes found Barbatos again, glazing over with a heartfelt wish for him to find his happiness, at least. It was with one last aching smile towards Diavolo and a euphoric laugh spilling from Barbatos’ lips that I turned on my heel, shaking my head at the fate I was handed. Needless to say, I hold no malice towards either of them - they’re both precious to me, as much as I dislike admitting it.

      I believe I have shared more than what was required, and I shall burn this piece of paper lest anyone finds it. One might call it wishful thinking on my part, but I do pray that watching the last signs of anything I harbour towards the one who wasn’t meant to be mine from the start burn as the embers of the fire consume it whole makes me put a lid on my feelings once and for all, for they were never supposed matter. They weren’t supposed to exist to begin with.

      After all, only a prince deserves a fairy-tale with a happy ending, and I am no prince.

Lucifer.

[slyttherins]

A Jily wedding | Wolfstar

Summary: Slices of life leading up to Jily’s wedding

Pairing: Sirius Black x Remus Lupin / James Potter x Lily Evans

Word count: 2589

-

James, Sirius and Peter sat at a table at the Leaky Cauldron, drinking beers and celebrating James' last days as an unmarried man.

''I can't believe you're getting married. Married!''

James rolled his eyes and finished the last of his beer. ''Shut up, Pads.''

''I mean, who would've thought you'd end up marrying Evans. All those years of trying and failing to get her on a date finally gave something.''

On the other side of the table, Peter snickered, remembering how desperate James had always been for her during their years at Hogwarts. Someone will without a fail mention it during their speech at the wedding. There were so many good stories about James Potter's grand flirting techniques - and failures -, it would be a shame to not share some with their guests.

''Moony, where are our beers?'' James called out to him.

''Coming!'' he replied from the bar, only now receiving the tall glasses. ''You're getting the next round,'' he told Peter when he sat down.

Sirius wrapped an arm around his shoulders and toasted to James - again.

''I don't get it. How can you be so calm about this? You're getting fucking married in twelve days, Prongs!''

The closer they were to their wedding day, the less nervous James was - unlike Lily who was a nervous wreck, planning everything with his mother. Sometimes, she'd ask his opinion on things like cake toppers or flowers, but James always told her the same thing: I don't care, do what you please. To some, it could pass like he was behaving like an ass, but he truly didn't care whether there were white or blue or yellow flowers on the table-centers. To him, all that mattered was that his beautiful fiancé would become his wife at the end of the ceremony. That Lily Evans would become Lily Potter. The rest...was just confetti.

.

''Is Petunia coming?''

Remus Lupin knew nothing about weddings, but, unlike the other marauders, he was helpful. He had come to the Potters' to help Lily with some last minute preparations like the final seating chart and making sure everything was in order for next week - and she couldn't be more thankful.

Lily looked down. ''No. She...she isn't,'' she replied, feeling her eyes welled with tears.

Remus pursed his lips into a thin line, now regretting asking. ''I'm sorry.''

''She made her choice a long time ago. I don't know why I ever thought for a second that she'd send a positive RSVP...''

''She's your sister. You're allowed to be upset.''

''I thought she could make an exception for one day, for my big day, and put her hatred against the wizarding world aside, but I guess not.''

Family was a difficult subject for Lily Evans. Mainly her relationship with her sister, Petunia. They used to be very close, but her witch abilities put a strain between and their relationship had kept deteriorating until they became completely distant.

Two years ago, Lily - alongside James - had attended Petunia and Vernon's wedding. Although they hadn't talked the whole night, Lily saw this as a step into rekindling their relationship, but Petunia had proven wrong when she didn't return the favor and checked the RSVP as 'no' for Lily's wedding.

''My parents cannot make it to my wedding either. It's so sad to think that on my big day I won't have any family there to see me walk down the aisle. I don't even have someone to give me away to James-'' She pushed her face in her hands, more upset than she let on.

Remus' heart broke at the sight of a crying Lily, five days before her wedding. She didn't deserve this. She deserved a beautiful wedding with all of her loved ones in the attendance. A wedding filled with love and happiness.

He squeezed her forearm. ''You have me. I can be your family for one day.''

At Hogwarts, she and Remus had become best friends - much to James' jealousy. Their friendship wasn't to the marauders' level, but they were very close - thanks to being both prefects, and studying and potion partners.

If James were there, he'd add that they were both bookworms too.

Lily raised her head, the couple tears she had let slip now visible. ''You'd do that?''

Remus nodded. Yeah, he'd do that.

.

This morning, a letter had arrived from Madam Malkin announcing that their robes were finished being crafted and that the boys could come in and try them on in the afternoon.

The accent color of the wedding was a rich purple-y red color which somehow suited everyone. When Madam Malkin revealed the robes to the marauders, they were pleasantly surprised and excited to try them on.

Everyone's robes were different while being cohesive, just like their personalities. The base of the outfit was simple: white shirt and black trousers - except for Peter who was the ring bearer. James, as the groom, had a cloak, a vest - matching with his best man - and a bow tie. Instead of a bow tie, Sirius and Remus had matching ties. Remus also had suspenders instead of a vest because Lily prefered that for him - and, according to Sirius, he looked fine.

''How do I look?'' James asked, standing in front of the floor length mirror and perfecting the cloak over his shoulders.

''It looks nice. But, won't you get hot in this?'' Peter replied, slouched in one of the chairs, munching on some snacks and leaving crumbs on his nice dress shirt.

''Probably. I'm only wearing the cloak for the ceremony, though. Padfoot? Moony, what do you thi-'' James turned around and groaned, seeing the two kissing in the corner. ''Bloody hell, can you two not suck faces for ten minutes?''

At James' voice, Remus pulled away and looked down, sheepish. ''Sorry.'' His lips were slightly red and a piece of his hair was sticking up at the back.

Sirius, on the other hand, was unbothered and still staring at Remus as if he was some bone to munch on. ''If Evans hadn't put Moony in bloody suspenders and fit trousers, it wouldn't be an issue,'' he defended, taking a seat beside Peter. ''Have you seen his ass-''

''I don't want to hear it!'' James interrupted before Sirius could finish, raising his hands to cover his ears like a child.

Madam Malkin appeared in the fitting area. ''Everything alright here? I heard screaming.''

''All good, Madam Malkin,'' Remus replied politely with a small smile, hoping she hadn't noticed his burning cheeks.

Sirius looked smug and Peter was snickering in his seat, amused by the situation.

''If one of you tears or stain anything before the wedding, you'll be paying for the repairs,'' James warned them - Peter included.

.

One week before the wedding, James did the unthinkable and walked in on Lily trying on her dress. It wasn't intentional - he didn't even know she was home -, but Mrs. Potter had shooed him out of the room quickly, screaming that it was bad luck to see the bride in her dress before the wedding.

''I didn't even see the dress!'' he promised from the other side of the door. ''But, just so you know, I'd still marry you if you were wearing a pillow case.''

Lily had laughed. She was going to marry that idiot. ''And you better have a dress robes when I see you at the altar, Potter.''

.

''So...who's next?''

''Next what?'' Remus asked, confused.

''Who's the next marauder to tie the knot?''

''Well, Peter. But I suggest you take a seat because that's not happening for a long time. Have you seen him flirt with Dorcas? He can't even pick up that she isn't interested in boys!''

They both bursted laughing.

''It must be you, then.''

Remus choked on his tea, almost spittering it all on himself. ''You know Sirius and I can't get married, Evans.''

''Not now, obviously.''

''Even if we could, marriage isn't Sirius and I's deal. We love each other very much, but have no intention on getting married - ever.''

Although it could sound nice to call Sirius his husband, Sirius' view on marriage had been heavily tainted because of his family and blood purity obsession. In the Noble House of Black, you didn't marry out of love, but to keep the bloodline pure. Toujour pur.

A few years ago, his parents had even tried to force him into marrying his cousin, Narcissa. Sirius had found it morally disgusting and was very thankful when Narcissa married Lucius Malfoy.

''He might changed his mind for you.''

.

''How was your afternoon with Lily? Has she gone all bridezilla yet?'' Sirius asked when he heard the door of his and Remus' shared flat open and close.

Remus chuckled as he removed his boots. ''Surprisingly, no. She'd have all the reasons to, though. She received some last minute RSVPs and has nowhere to place them on the seating chart, the florists got the wrong colors for the arrangements and the Ceremony Official mixed up his dates and Lily and James' date isn't available anymore,'' he explained. ''If I were her, I'd be crying on the floor - but don't tell her that.''

Sirius laughed and went around the counter to greet Remus properly, abandoning the sandwich he was making himself. ''Your secret's safe with me, love.'' He kissed Remus who scrunched his nose, smelling a mix of exhaust and leather on his boyfriend.

''You've taken out the motorcycle?''

''Yeah. I went on a ride with Prongs. We came up with a genius idea to drive him to the altar on my motorcycle, but there's very small chances Lily will let us.''

''With reason.''

Much like Remus, Lily wasn't a fan of that motorcycle. Motorcycles itself were dangerous and had a high risk of fatalities, but Sirius' was huge and fast and could fly, which made it ten times more dangerous. Plus, James and Sirius were very reckless on that motorcycle and had once been chased by muggle authorities.

.

The ceremony went on smoothly - if you don't count Peter almost dropping the rings. James had shed a few tears when he saw Lily in her white dress and Lily didn't forget her vows, which she had been nervous about. Her memory wasn't the best under stress.

After saying 'I do', everyone had moved to the magically enlarged ball room for the reception. As expected, the place was beautiful. Rich purple-y red and white flower arrangements, chic drapes, floating lights and a massive cake.

Like expected, Sirius had filled his best man speech with embarrassing anecdotes of the couple - mainly on James' end. He did tease a bit Lily too - otherwise it wouldn't have been fair -, but he was harder on James, as expected. The guests had laughed and James was embarrassed, which was all Sirius wanted.

''You just wait for payback on your wedding day, Padfoot,'' James threatened as they shared a shoulder hug.

.

Lily might not have gone all bridezilla on her wedding planning, but she insisted on handing her guests a list of rules for the night. There weren't too many and they were simple and basic. No pranks. No gorging yourselves at the buffet table. No exhibitionism. No drunken speeches. No getting so wasted you can't walk. No white for the women attending.

Some were specifically hinted toward one or more people, but she figured that all their guests could use those rules.

Lily had joined Remus at a table as the guests danced to rest her sore feet. She had charmed her shoes before putting them on so they wouldn't hurt her feet from wearing them all night, but the charm must've worn out by now.

''Mrs. Potter,'' Remus greeted, nodding his head.

The redhead chuckled and took a sip of her champagne. ''That's me.''

''You look beautiful, Lily. Radiant.''

''I can't believe I'm married, Remus. Married! This is insane.'' She smiled and took another sip.

A few feet from them, Sirius' shirt was halfway unbuttoned and his tie was undone as he danced with James, a drink in his left hand. His hair was pulled into a messy half-up, too hot to let them down fully, and Remus watched with discouragement and endearment. They looked ridiculous.

''Seeing this makes me regret what I just willingly signed up for.''

Remus laughed. ''Worry not, we're in this together.''

''They look like idiots.''

They laughed and James held on to Sirius who's drink tilted and almost made a mess. Sirius brought it up to his lips and kept on dancing with his best friend.

''You think Sirius will make it till the end of the night? How many drinks has he had?''

At this moment, Sirius tripped on his own foot, making him vacillate and almost falling. More than he should've.

''I'll handle him,'' Remus assured.

.

When Remus decided it was enough, he pried Sirius from the room and led him to one of the couches in a secluded part of the ball room to - hopefully - sober up before going home.

Lily had offered them a sobering potion, but Remus had declined it, knowing Sirius would be annoyed and want to drink more after - which he really shouldn't if he doesn't want to get alcohol poisoning. It wasn't his first time dealing with a drunk Sirius - and he didn't really mind. He was easy enough to manage.

Sirius' head rested against the high armrest of the couch, sprawled like his bones had been replaced with jelly. Drunk and dazed, he reached out for his boyfriend and dragged him down with him, making Remus squeal in surprise.

Sirius took hold of his hand and brought it to his face and leaned into it as Remus sat on his lap.

''Where's your tie?'' Remus asked, not seeing the silky strip around his neck.

Sirius looked down and shrugged, only now noticing that it was in fact not there anymore. He shrugged, not caring much about the lost tie. It's not like he had planned to wear it again.

''You're very drunk.''

''And you're very pretty.'' Sirius wrapped his arms around Remus' neck and started kissing his jaw lovingly and drunkenly. ''I love you, Moony.''

In his last stage of drunkenness, Sirius Black was a needy and affectionate drunk - before blacking out, that is. Once he was past the goofing with James stage, he was the neediest person, wanting nothing else than to hug, cuddle and kiss everybody he knew - especially Remus.

He'd look around the room, searching for Remus just so he could wrap his arms around him and kiss his face and flirt with him. To love and be loved in return. It was all a drunk Sirius wanted - needed.

Remus tried to resist Sirius' kissing and pulled away, insisting on keeping his promise to Lily and following her wedding rules. He looked down at the raven haired wizard, seeing clearly how much of a mess he looked with pieces of hair were falling into his heavy eyes, a soft smile across his lips and the smooth skin of his chest on display from his half buttoned shirt.

''Shall we go home?'' Remus took a piece of Sirius' hair and twirled it around his fingers.

Sirius shook his head in protest, feeling the effects of alcohol dissipate a little. ''Wanna stay a little more,'' he said...only to change his mind less than a minute later, which made Remus laugh.

''Let's go say goodbye to the newlyweds, first.'' Remus helped him get up from the couch and walked back to the party area.

[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #461

“this city looks so pretty, do you wanna burn it with me?”

Have you ever wanted a Nikon camera? Or do you have one already? My camera before the one I have now was a Nikon D3200. I use a Canon now. Who was the last person (if anyone) you said Happy Birthday to? A friend. Do you have Photoshop? If so, how often a day do you use it? I have it, but I barely use it nowadays. I use it to edit photos for character profiles or profile pictures, add a watermark for my actual photography, and I used to make Mark-oriented gifs like crazy. They mostly did really well, so... I might wanna get back into that and get That Sweet Validation. Do you watch any shows that you know your parents wouldn’t approve of? No. Have any of your exes gotten married or had kids since your breakup? None, I think. Do either of your parents have a mental illness? My mom has depression. Can you tolerate children for a long period of time? NO. Have you ever lived with someone you felt thoroughly uncomfortable around? No. Are you into dubstep? Yeah, I tend to enjoy it. Zelda or The Sims games? Can I pick neither? lol I don't feel very much at all for The Sims, and Zelda games have always looked... boring to me? Like I've watched most of the Game Grumps' playthroughs of all the games, and they make it hilarious of course, but the games themselves? Nah. Are you terrible at assigning bands their proper genre? YES YES YES YES YES YES. Even in my preferred category, that being metal, FUCK if I know the sub-genre. Have you ever made out in a closet? No, that shit sounds claustrophobic as hell. Have you ever been to a laser tag place? Yeah, on a triple-date once! It was SO fun. How do you wanna celebrate your next birthday? Have a couple friends over, pig out at The Cheesecake Factory. o3o Do you tease your parents about them being old? No, especially not Mom. She's self-conscious about getting older. Are you in love with someone? "In love" is a bit too far, buddy. But I love someone. Have you ever ridden a unicycle? No. Have you ever wanted a pet bunny? I was VERY serious about getting a lop-eared bunny for quite a while, but we just couldn't afford to adopt one (even off Craigslist) and get a cage for it, toys, etc. Are the bottom of your feet clean? I HATE seeing the bottom of my feet. Not because they're dirty, but because it's Callus City. I ain't even fuckin jokin'. Do you like really salty food? Yeah. :x When’s the last time you bled a lot? Well, I just recently finished my cycle after not menstruating for three or four MONTHS, so you can figure that one out. Have you ever watched a needle go into your own skin? Yeah. I like to know exactly when it's coming. Have you ever seen someone get a piercing/tattoo? Yes to both. When you’re done eating finger foods, do you usually lick your fingers? Usually kasdjlf;kalsdjf shut up ok I like food. What’s the most racist thing you have ever said? As a little kid, when my really good friend (a neighborhood kid, even) asked if he thought we'd be a good couple, I told him no because "blacks and whites don't date" or something like that. It was an idea I'd never been exposed to before; the idea was so foreign to little kid me. I had no idea I was being racist. It ended in a small fight and we didn't talk for a few days 'til he came to my house telling Mom that he had to "be a man" and fix this and if that ain't the cUTEST SHIT RIGHT THERE. We were friends again after that. He's still on my Facebook, and he actually semi-recently got married! :') Do you know someone that is mute, deaf or blind? No. Have you ever spent more than two weeks in a wheelchair? No. Does weed smell good? Or no? Ugh, no. Where do you see your closest friend in ten years? Successful and happy she kept pushing. Mama to so many reptiles that are blessed with the best lives possible in human care. Got at least one amazing book out there. If she's reading this, you've fucking got this. <3 Would you like to have twins? Mother of fucking god, no. Even if I WANTED kids, do fucking not give me twins. Who was the last person you got into an argument with? My mom. Want to have kids before you’re 30? Once again, I don't want kids, but IF I did, that'd be preferable before the risk of birth defects and other issues climb with age. Does anybody have a tattoo with your name on it? My older sister has my initial. Do you think somebody’s in love with you? No. Do you think you and your best friend will be friends in ten years? Yes, I genuinely do. Who were the last people to hang out at your house? Miss Tobey, our friend and landlord. Does anyone like you? Welp... I hope he still does. Guess we'll figure that out soon. What person on your Facebook do you talk to the most? VIA Facebook? Probably my friend Lyndsey. She likes to comment on stuff I share. Do you want to fall in love? I do, but I'm also utterly horrified to and risk being hurt again. Are you interested in more than one person at the moment? No. Once I realized I was so deeply into Girt, all other romantic feelings kinda just... poofed. How was your last break up? Civil and done with both of our best interests in mind. What is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to say? Probably the first time I admitted I needed to go to the hospital for suicidal thoughts. I was so, so scared of what it was going to be like. What is the hardest thing you NEEDED to hear? That if Jason wasn't happy with me, he had every right to move on. She was right. Do you treat yourself well? No... but I'm trying to change that. What was the last song you sang out loud to? This "Set Fire to the Rain" cover. Do you take good pictures? I think I do? Have you ever done any internship? No. What’s a topic you’ve drastically changed your opinion on? Holy shit, so much, especially when it comes to morality and political stances. I am now a massive supporter and member of the LGBTQ+ community, I'm pro-trans rights, pro-choice... I've done like a dozen 180s in a lot of topics. Do you know anyone who has a PhD? I mean, some doctors, but no one in my truly personal life. Do you know anyone who works as a lawyer? Yes: my cousin. Have you ever experienced sleep paralysis? LAKSDJFKLA;JWD NEVER AND I PRAY TO THE HOLY LORD THAT I NEVER DO. Does the thought of having wrinkles when you’re older upset you? Not massively? Like literally everyone gets them and is natural and inevitable. Do you know anyone who’s struggling with addiction? I know one alcoholic, and one that's probably borderline. I also have two friends who are extremely addicted to weed. Look me in the eyes and say it's not an addictive substance and I wouldn't believe you one bit. Is there a video or computer game that you can get lost in for hours? Eh, sometimes World of Warcraft. Some days I'm really into it, and others I barely touch it. What’s your favorite Disney Channel movie? I have no clue. I don't even remember movies that were made *for* Disney exclusively. Do you ever have to do yard work? No. We have a friend from the dance studio mow the lawn. Do you have any live versions of songs in your music software? My iPod has a whole live album of Ozzy. Did you or do you listen to Britney Spears songs? Both did and do. Britney is a boss bitch. Does your favorite band have a male or female lead singer? Male. Have you seen the movie Moulin Rouge? No, but I've seen some of that P!nk music video of the song and it brings out the Gay in me. Do you have a key to anything besides your house? No. Could you ever complete a 500-piece puzzle? I've done that before. I miss doing puzzles... Have you ever been to any sort of convention? I went to a reptile expo with Sara!! I REALLY want to go to another when my legs are stronger and can handle standing and walking so much. Is your mom or dad the older parent? Mom. Have you ever tried to walk on a moving vehicle and fallen over? No????? What is your favourite kind of bread? Is there any of that in your house? Pumpernickel. No. Are/were you in the school band, and if so, what instrument did you play? I played the flute all through middle school and I wanna say half of HS. Have you ever ordered an unusual drink at a bar? Never even been to one. Have you ever been pulled aside by security at the airport? I think once for some reason I don't recall? What is your favourite seasonal candy? (only available at certain times) Gingerbread men, probs. Or chocolate bunnies!!! :') How do you feel right now? My stomach is KILLING me. I'm super excited though that Girt is coming over tomorrow. Have you ever had surgery that kept you in the hospital for over a day? No. What would you like your generation to change? How we treat nature. Is there anyone that you truly could not live without? No. I learned that is a very unhealthy mentality to have. Do you like carrots more if they’re raw, or cooked? I just hate carrots. What restaurant did you last go out to dinner at with friends? With friends? I couldn't even guess. Does your refrigerator have an ice maker or do you use ice cube trays? It has an ice maker. Do you have a favorite sibling, if any? No; I love them all. Do you have a favorite brand of clothing? I STAN CLOAK. How’s the love life? Something new might start tomorrow. I think it will. Do you watch the news? No; that shit is depressing. Who do you admire most? Mark. Do you have a favorite album? Black Rain by Ozzy Osbourne takes the cake and always will.

[maddie-grove]

The Top Twenty Books I Read in 2020

My main takeaways:

I’m glad that I set certain reading goals this year (i.e., reading an even mix of different genres and writing about each book I read on this tumblr). I feel like it really expanded my horizons.

There are a lot of proper names on my Top 20 list this year, which possibly means something about identity? That, or I just tried to read more Victorian novels. 

Be horny, and be kind.

Now...

20. The White Mountains by John Christopher (1967)

In a world ruled by unseen creatures who roam the countryside in tall metal tripods, all humans are “capped” (surgically fitted with metal plates on their heads) at age fourteen. Thirteen-year-old Will Parker looks forward to becoming a man, but a conversation with a mysterious visitor to his village raises a few doubts. This early YA dystopia has gorgeous world-building (notably a trip to the ruins of Paris) and expert pacing. The choices Will has to make are also more surprising and complicated than I ever anticipated.

19. What Happened at Midnight by Courtney Milan (2013)

John Mason wants revenge on his fiancée Mary after she skips town following her father’s death...apparently with the funds that her father, John’s business partner, embezzled from their company. When he tracks her down, though, she’s working as a lady’s companion to the wife of a controlling gentleman who refuses to pay her wages, and John’s fury turns to sympathy and curiosity. This is a smart, well-plotted Victorian-set novella about a couple who builds a better relationship after a rocky start.

18. Johnny Tremain by Esther Forbes (1943)

It’s 1773, and fourteen-year-old Bostonian Johnny Tremain has it all: a promising apprenticeship to a silversmith, the run of his arguably senile master’s household, and...unresolved grief over his widowed mother’s death? When a workplace “accident” ruins his hand and career, though, he must “forge” a new identity. Despite its jingoism and surfeit of historical exposition, I fell in love with this weird early YA novel. It’s a fascinating, heartbreaking portrayal of disability and ableism, and, to be fair, Forbes was just jazzed about fighting the Nazis.

17. Something Happened to Ali Greenleaf by Hayley Krischer (2020)

After universally beloved jock Sean Nessel rapes starry-eyed junior Ali Greenleaf at a party, his queen-bee friend Blythe Jensen agrees to smooth things over by befriending his victim. Ali knows Blythe’s motives are weird and sketchy, but being friends with a popular, exciting girl is preferable to dealing with the fallout of the rape. This YA novel is a complex, astute exploration of trauma and moral responsibility.

16. The Color of Law by Richard Rothstein (2017)

Rothstein details how the federal U.S. government allowed, encouraged, and sometimes even forcibly brought about segregation of black and white Americans during the early and mid-twentieth century, with no regard for the unconstitutionality of its actions. He brings home the staggering harm to black Americans who were kept from living in decent housing, shut out of home ownership for generations, and denied the opportunity to accumulate wealth for generations. It’s an impactful read, and I was honestly shocked to learn Rothstein isn’t a lawyer, because the whole thing reads like an expansion of an excellent closing statement.

15. My Friend Dahmer by Derf Backderf (2012)

In this graphic memoir, Backderf looks back on his casual, fleeting friendship with future serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, a high school classmate who amused Backderf and his geeky friends with bizarre, chaotic antics. Backderf brings their huge, impersonal high school to life, illustrating how the callousness and cruelty of such an environment allowed an isolated, troubled teen to morph into something much more disturbing without anyone really noticing. It’s a work of baffled, tentative empathy and regret that stayed with me long after I finished it.

14. Daniel Deronda by George Eliot (1876)

Gwendolyn Harleth, beautiful and ambitious but with no real outlet, finds herself compelled to marry a heartless gentleman with a shady past. Daniel Deronda, adopted son of her husband’s uncle, finds himself drawn into her orbit due to his helpful nature, but he’s also dealing with a lot of other stuff, like helping a Jewish opera singer and figuring out his parentage. I love George Eliot and, although this bifurcated novel isn’t her most accessible work, it’s highly rewarding. The psychological twists and turns of Gwendolyn’s story are a wonder to experience, and Daniel’s discovery of his past and a new community is moving.

13. The Plot Against America by Philip Roth (2004)

The Roths, an ordinary working-class Jewish family in 1940 Newark, find their quiet lives descending into fear, uncertainty, and strife after Charles Lindbergh, celebrity pilot and Nazi sympathizer, becomes president of the United States. This alternate history/faux-memoir perfectly captures the slow creep of fascism and the high-handed cruelty of state-sanctioned discrimination, as well as the weirdness of living a semi-normal life while all of that is going on. Also: fuck Herman and Alvin for messing up Bess’s coffee table! She is a queen, and she deserves to read Pearl S. Buck in a pleasant setting!

12. David Copperfield by Charles Dickens (1850)

Young David Copperfield has an idyllic life with his sweet widowed mom and devoted nursemaid Peggotty, until his cruel stepfather ruins everything. David eventually manages to find safe harbor with his eccentric aunt, but his troubles have only begun. Although the quality of the novel falls off a little once David becomes an adult, I don’t even care; the first half is one of the most beautiful, funny, brilliantly observed portrayals of the joys and sorrows of childhood that I’ve ever read.

11. The Rise and Fall of Adam and Eve by Stephen Greenblatt (2017)

Greenblatt examines the evolution and cultural significance of the story of Adam and Eve from the Bible to the modern day (but mostly it’s about Milton). I can’t speak to the scholarship of this book--I’m not an expert on the Bible or Milton or bonobos--but I do know that it’s a gorgeously written meditation on love, mortality, and free will. Greenblatt brought me a lot of joy as an unhappy teenager, and he came through for me again during the summer of 2020.

10. The Music of What Happens by Bill Konigsberg (2019)

Self-conscious seventeen-year-old Jordan is mortified when his widowed mother hires Max, an outgoing jock from his school, to help out with their struggling food truck. As they get to know each other, though, they realize that they have more in common than they thought, and they end up helping each other through a particularly challenging summer. This is an endearing, exceedingly well-balanced YA romance that tackles serious issues with a light touch and a naturalness that’s rare in the genre.

9. Red as Blood by Tanith Lee (1983)

In nine wonderfully lurid stories, Tanith Lee retells fairy tales with a dark, historically grounded, and lady-centered twist. Highlights include a medieval vampiric Snow White, a vengeful early modern Venetian Cinderella, and a Scandinavian werewolf Little Red Riding Hood. Fairy tale retellings are right up my alley, and Lee’s collection is impressively varied and creative.

8. A Room with a View by E.M. Forster (1908)

Unnerved by an impulsive make-out session with egalitarian George Emerson on a trip to Florence, young Edwardian woman Lucy Honeychurch goes way too far the other way and gets engaged to snobbish Cecil Vyse. How can she get out of this emotional and social pickle? This is an absolutely delightful romance that gave a timeless template for romantic comedies and dramas for 100-plus years.

7. My Ántonia by Willa Cather (1918)

Jim Burden, a New York City lawyer, tells the story of his friendship with slightly older Bohemian immigrant girl Ántonia when they were kids together on the late-nineteenth-century Nebraska prairie. It was a pretty pleasant time, give or take a few murders, suicides, and attempted rapes. This is one of the sweetest stories about unrequited love I’ve ever read, and it has some really enjoyable queer subtext.

6. Mister Death’s Blue-Eyed Girls by Mary Downing Hahn (2012)

In 1956 Maryland, gawky teen Nora’s peaceful existence is shattered by the unsolved murder of her friends Cheryl and Bobbi Jo right before summer vacation. Essentially left to deal with her trauma alone, she begins to question everything, from her faith in God to the killer’s real identity. Hahn delivers a beautiful coming-of-age story along with a thoughtful portrait of how a small community responds to tragedy.

5. The Lais of Marie de France by Marie de France, with translation and introduction/notes by Robert Herring and Joan Ferrante (original late 12th century, edition 1995) 

In twelve narrative poems, anonymous French-English noblewoman Marie de France spins fantastically weird tales of love, lust, and treachery. Highlights include self-driving ships, gay (?) werewolves, and more plot-significant birds than you can shake a stick at. Marie de France brings so much tenderness, delicacy, and startling humor to her stories, offering a wonderful window to the distant past.

4. Maus by Art Spiegelman (1980-1991)

In this hugely influential graphic novel/memoir, Art Spiegelman tells the story of how his Polish Jewish parents survived the Holocaust. He portrays all the characters as anthropomorphic animals; notably, the Jewish characters are mice and the Nazi Germans are cats. I read the first volume of Maus back in 2014 and, while I appreciated and enjoyed it, I didn’t get the full impact until I read both volumes together early in 2020. Spiegelman takes an intensely personal approach to his staggering subject matter, telling the story through the lens of his fraught relationship with his charismatic and affectionate, yet truly difficult father. 

3. At the Dark End of the Street by Danielle L. McGuire (2010)

McGuire looks at a seldom-explored aspect of racism in the Jim Crow South (the widespread rape and sexual harassment of black women by white men) and the essential role of anti-rape activism led by black women during the Civil Rights movement. This is a harrowing yet tastefully executed history, and it’s also a truly inspirational story of collective activism.

2. In for a Penny by Rose Lerner (2010)

Callow Lord Nevinstoke has to mature fast when his father dies, leaving him an estate hampered by debts and extremely legitimate grievances from angry tenant farmers. To obtain the necessary funds, he marries (usually!) sensible brewing heiress Penelope Brown, but they face problems that not even a sizable cash infusion can fix. This is a refreshingly political romance with a deliciously tense atmosphere and fascinating themes, as well as an almost painfully engaging central relationship.

1. Mansfield Park by Jane Austen (1814)

Fanny Price, the shy and sickly poor relation of the wealthy Bertram family, is subtly mistreated by most of her insecure and/or self-absorbed relatives, with the exception of her kind cousin Edmund. When the scandalous Crawford siblings visit the neighborhood, though, it shakes up her life for good and ill. I put off reading Mansfield Park for years--it’s practically the last bit of Austen writing that I consumed, including most of her juvenilia--and yet I think it’s my favorite. Fanny is an eminently lovable and interesting heroine, self-doubting and flawed yet possessed of a strong moral core, and the rest of the characters are equally realistic and compelling. Austen really made me think about the point of being a good person, both on a personal and a global scale.

[fallout4reactsblog]

Companions react to Sole Survivor decorating for Christmas? Also, good luck on your finals!!

Cait: “I just don’t see the point.”

Sole sighs as they stretch on their toes to pin another string of lights above the door. “It’s festive, Cait. It’s pretty, and I like it.”

Cait scrunches her nose and reaches for one of the cookies that had just come out of the oven. They’re far too hot, and she hisses as it burns her fingers and hastily pops it in her mouth.

“Still don’t get it,” she says around a mouthful of steaming crumbs. “Why bother if you have to take it all down again in just a few weeks? It seems like a waste of time.”

Sole glares at her. “It would take less time if you’d help.”

“I’m sure.” Despite the burnt tongue she’d just sustained, Cait eyes the tray of cookies again.

Sole must have eyes in the back of their head, because without even turning they say, “Don’t eat all my cookies. I want some left to decorate.”

She flops into the couch almost sullenly. “What’s the point of making them pretty if you’re just going to eat them?”

Sole smacks her with a Christmas-themed pillow. “It’s fun. You’d have fun too, if you’d stop pouting about things.”

“I don’t know,” she says with a shit-eating grin. “Making fun of you is pretty fun, too.”

That earns her another smack, but all she does is laugh.

Curie: “Oh, madame/monsieur!”

“Curie!” Sole leaps away from the Christmas tree almost guiltily. “You’re here early. I didn’t hear you sneak in.”

Curie doesn’t reply, she’s too busy slowly spinning in the middle of the living room, taking in the decorations sole’s been busy putting up. “Where did you even find all of these? They are most exquisite.”

Sole rubs the back of their neck. “I’ve been scrounging them up for a couple months. Lots of this kind of stuff got lost or damaged too much to use.”

“You did a wonderful job.” Curie’s fingers brush a strand of silver tinsel with reverence. “I have not seen such wonderful decorations since before the war.”

Sole smiles, softly, and holds up the box of ornaments they were using for the tree. “Wanna help me finish up?”

Curie grins. “I would like that very much.”

Danse: “Sole. What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

To their credit, sole didn’t jump, merely stiffened a moment before turning around.

“I’m just putting some Christmas lights up, sir. Is there a problem?”

He glanced down at the new knight. The lights were still gleaming in their hands, lighting them from below with a multitude of colors. He turned his focus back to the roof, where sole had already laid them in crisp, straight lines.

“Surely there is a better use for your time than such activities.”

“Probably,” they said simply, returning their attention to the lights. “But I thought some decoration would help to raise morale. These people are already beaten down; maybe a little festivity would help to lighten the mood.”

He had to admit sole had a point; Sanctuary had been far too somber lately. Truth be told, he missed when the Brotherhood decorated back in DC, but Arthur’s obsession with the Institute and war made the chances of celebration unlikely this year.

“Very well, carry on then.”

Sole must have seen something on his face, because before her could leave, they asked, “I don’t suppose you’d want to help?”

He couldn’t stop a small smile. “I suppose I could spare a moment.”

Deacon: He hates this.

The tinsel feels like it’s burning his hands, the lights claw at his eyes, the wreath wraps around his throat like a noose, choking him of air. He blinks a few times, willing the tears away, willing Barbara away.

Sole wants to do this. He can for them.

“Deeks.”

He slaps a grin on his face in record time. “What’s up?”

They kneel in front of him, a box of ornaments in hand. “What’s wrong? You’ve been trying to kill that tinsel for about five minutes.”

He looks down at his hands as he releases his grip. Sure enough, it’s slightly crumpled from being clenched so tightly. He laughs, nervously.

“Ah, nothing. Just got lost in thought, that’s all. I’m good.”

They just shake their head and put the box to the side. “Why don’t we take a break?”

He opens his mouth to protest, but they cut him off, “I’m getting a little overwhelmed. Thinking about the past is… hard. So I need a breath to get it together, if you want to do the same.”

He agrees in a way that he hopes isn’t overeager, dropping the tinsel to the floor. Sole grabs two beers of the counter and they settle on the couch.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No.”

He takes a sip and nods. “Me, either.”

Gage: “Can’t someone shut that shit off?”

Sole is glaring up at the sky, talking to no one in particular as the same Christmas song that’s been playing for weeks echoes through the room. Gage takes another drink.

“Not for another week at least.”

They growl a little, turning back to the tree limbs in front of them. They’d managed to dig up an artificial tree- the kind that needs assembling, and Gage was getting a kick out of watching them struggle with it.

“Oi, which of these limbs is bigger?”

He glanced up at the proffered greenery and shrugged. “They look the same to me.”

“That’s what I thought. Which means somewhere down here I fucked up.” They scowl at the limbs they’ve already put in. “But they all look the same too.”

“So just slap them all on and say fuck it.”

“That’s not how it’s done, Gage.” They eye one of the limbs suspiciously. “If it’s not worth doing right, it’s not worth doing at all.”

“If you say so.”

“How about these two?”

He takes another drink. “The one in your left is maybe bigger.”

They cock their head to the side and finally smile. “Huh. You’re right.” Their eyes narrow slightly and they shoot him a mischievous grin. “Maybe I should make you do this.”

“Fuck no,” he says, and they laugh before turning back to the tree.

Hancock: “Stop pullin’ so hard, sunshine. It needs to come my way a little.”

“It does not. If anything it needs to come my way.”

He shoots them a playful glare through the tree. “If it goes any further your way the whole thing is gonna fall over. Is that what you want?”

They stick their tongue out at him. “It is not.”

“Is too.”

“He’s right, sole,” Fahrenheit chimes in. “It needs to move a couple inches Hancock’s way.”

Sole sighs quite dramatically before relinquishing the inch. “Stop siding with him just because he’s the mayor.”

It’s Hancock’s turn to stick out his tongue. “You just can’t accept that I’m right.”

Farenheit tightens the bolts in the tree’s base, and sole and Hancock finally are allowed to step back and look at their work. Hancock nods appreciatively.

“Alright, that’s the trees down. We still need lights and ornaments. If we hit lights now, we can probably get those halfway done before sundown, and then we can finish them up tomorrow.”

Sole nods, dusting off their hands. “Sounds good to me. You grab the lights, I’ll start positioning generators?”

“Agreed.”

They high-five crisply, grinning. This is sure to be Goodneighbor’s biggest Christmas display yet.

MacCready: Sole is too quiet. Sure, they’re working, so it’s almost understandable, but usually in projects like these they’d sing along to the radio or make small talk. The silence that fills their house is unnerving.

A single sniffle is all it takes for him to appear at their side.

“Something wrong?”

“No, I just…” 

They hand him a stocking. It’s small, with the word “Shaun” hand-stitched on the front. The needlework isn’t great, but it’s better than anything he could have done, and suddenly he’s thinking about a very similar stocking in DC, just a different name.

“We were so excited to have his first Christmas. We didn’t have a lot of money, but- it was just such a special thing and now I’ll never have that.”

Gently, he sets the stocking to the side and gathers sole into his arms. “Hey, it’s okay. You’ll see him again. Everything is gonna be fine.”

They take a shuddering breath against his shoulder, and he squeezes his eyes shut. This, God, he doesn’t want to go down this road, he doesn’t want to think about the family he could have had, but it’s too late, now.

“We’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, and tries to make himself believe it.

Nick: “Well, color me surprised.”

Sole glances up at him from their spot by the generator, where they’ve presumably just plugged in the lights. A grin spreads across their face, and infectious sort of energy that has him smiling, too. “You like it?”

“I’d be a fool not to.” He stares up at the glowing rooftop, complete with sleigh decoration perched by the chimney. “You worked pretty hard on all this, huh?”

“Three hours straight,” they chirp brightly, joining him on the sidewalk. “Just wait until you see the inside.”

He shoots them an amused smile. “You got the inside decorated, too?”

They nod enthusiastically and start up the stairs to the door. “Come have a look!”

The inside does not disappoint. It’s warm and cozy, with a row of stockings tacked to the wall above the heater. One for each of their friends, he notes, and admires the care they’ve put into them. His even has the agency’s logo stitched beside his name. It’s truly touching.

“Do you like it?” they ask nervously beside him.

“I love it.” Gently, he presses a small kiss to the top of their head.

They laugh. “Merry Christmas, Nick.”

Piper: “Come on! We’re almost there, don’t you get any taller?”

Sole huffs, and readjusts Piper on their shoulders. “Unfortunately, this is as tall as I get.”

Piper scrunches her nose as she stares up at the eight foot tall tree. Maybe her and Sole had been a bit too ambitious when they piked it out, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Then again, at the time they weren’t thinking of the logistics of getting the star on top, now were they?

“Maybe you can stand on a box, then I’ll get on your shoulders?”

“Oh!” She can almost feel Sole brighten. “Better idea, I’ll climb a ladder with you on my shoulders. That should do it, right?”

Piper nods. “Blue, why didn’t we think of that earlier?”

“We weren’t being smart about it. Here, let’s go grab that ladder-”

Ten minutes later, as they lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, Piper knew why they hadn’t thought of that earlier: it was a dumb idea. Still, at least the star was up there, right?

Surely that had to count for something.

Preston: “You still need more copper?”

Sole consults their list again. “I’m making a lot of wire, Preston. I need a lot of copper.”

“I’m not complaining,” he says, detecting a hint of frustration in their voice. “I’m just thinking about where we can find some more.”

“I know,” they sigh. “I’m not frustrated with you. I just wish I’d thought of looking for decorations before December got here. We wouldn’t be so pressed for time then.”

“Don’t beat yourself up about it. I think it’s great you thought of decorating at all. It’s not something I’d have thought about, that’s for sure.”

They nod. “It’s gonna look great, if we can just get the rest of these supplies together.”

“Well, maybe we can swing by General Atomics? There’s probably tons of copper there.”

They peer over their list with hopeful eyes. “It’s a long trip. You sure you want to walk all that way for a couple strands of Christmas lights.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t sure.” Truth be told, he’s grateful for the distraction- the last thing he needs is to get caught up in his own thoughts this time of year.

They breathe a sigh of relief, and some of the tension leaves their shoulders. “Alright. First General Atomics, then we can focus on getting some glass for bulbs…”

He lets them continue on as they start to walk.

X6: “May I take the hat off now?”

“Nope!” they say cheekily. “Keep complaining and you’ll have to wear a sweater, too.”

He eyes the gaudy red sweater they’re wearing, complete with gold thread on the stitched tree and small bell ornaments that jingle every time they take a step. Wisely, he snaps his mouth shut.

“I do not understand the strange shape,” he says, lifting the Santa hat off his head to illustrate its unique cone shape. “Surely the original half-sphere is the optimal structure for such clothing.”

“It’s festive, X6! Come on, it won’t kill you to celebrate a little bit. Help me get the star on top of the tree.”

“It might,” he grumbles under his breath, but he does get up to help.

When the star is adequately positioned (after no small amount of nagging on sole’s part) he takes a step back to look at it. He does have to admit that the decorations are pretty, even if there’s no functional purpose to it. He can’t imagine why sole would go to all the trouble for a few weeks’ aesthetic, but he won’t complain.

At least, not until they make him help take it all down.

[mythologyfolklore]

Ares and Athena through the years - Ch. 07

(A/N: trigger warning for mention of extreme torture and gore, plus mention of rape and child rape. Don't read further, if this is too much for you. Oh, and excessive use of the f-word. Also, Eris speaking with a weird accent, because she does what she wants.)

Chapter Seven: Captured and broken

.

Ares had gone missing.

At first no one had really minded, it had been wonderfully quiet without that noisy maniac.

In fact, had it not been for the circumstances, they would have used this opportunity to relax, but there was no reason for relaxation.

Olympos was besieged by two adolescent Gigantes, the Aloiadai. They were attempting to pile up a mountain, so they could take over the home of the gods. They threatened the Olympians and on top of that were harassing Hera and Artemis.

Ares had had enough of their nonsense and had gone to face them – despite having a bad cough, that idiot. But he still hadn't returned.

Which was bad, because now they had a gap in their defence, should the twins succeed in reaching up to the heavens.

And it was slowly, but surely getting too quiet.

Hermes and Apollon had admitted to missing their older half-brother's constant teasing.

Athena was growing more and more tense. She could have kicked herself for not knowing how badly she needed the annoying idiot. She missed the constant fighting. With Ares things never got boring, he was her adversary, someone to let steam off with. The blue-eyed goddess was getting seriously bored, restless and (not that she would ever admit it) worried for her half-brother.

Where was he?

Hephaistos suggested that something must have happened to him, because why would he go off, fight two Gigantes and then stay away for a year, not letting his family hear anything from him?

Aphrodite had turned into a nervous wreck and was constantly fearing the worst, which made her spiral into panic attacks every thirty minutes.

Eileithyia and Hebe were concerned too.

Even Zeus and Hera seemed to be worried.

The King of the Gods was constantly wandering to and fro in his office and the Queen was ruffling her hair in stress.

Since she and Artemis both were being harassed by those overgrown brats, they even had put aside their quarrels and could sometimes be seen sitting together at Hestia's hearth, talking and bonding over the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

.

To everyone's surprise Hera also turned out to be a stress baker.

So it came, that one evening the Olympians sat together in the assembly hall in a low mood, munching cake.

Finally Dionysos spoke up: “Who wants to get shitfaced?”

But before anyone could take the invitation, Zeus shook his head. “This is no time to get drunk”, he chided the youngest god and poor Dionysos lowered his head in shame. “If my son returns home in good health, that will be a reason to celebrate.”

Athena really didn't like the way her father specified “if he returns in good health”.

Zeus knew the future; Apollon had got that from him.

And whatever Zeus was seeing, it had to be bad.

Even though he appeared calm on the outside, the weather gave away, that he wasn't; his anxiety had manifested in a never-ending rainstorm, that had flooded all the lower areas of Olympos (the gods couldn't leave their palaces to walk on the pavements, without being knee-deep in the water).

After Zeus' statement, no one spoke another word.

Aside from the heavy rain and howling wind, there was just icy silence.

Finally, it was Apollon, who couldn't take it anymore.

“Father, how much longer do you want us to sit here?!”, he snapped, “It's been more than a year already and he's still missing! We have to do something! Ares may be a stupid jerk, but he is still one of us! They must have captured and imprisoned him somewhere, that's the only logical explanation for why he is still gone! What if those gigantic brats overwhelmed him and are torturing him in their evil lair?! What if they chained him up and are now doing unspeakable-”

“SHUT UP!!!”, Aphrodite shrieked all of the sudden and burst into distressed sobbing.

Hera went to pat her shoulder comfortingly and then proceeded to glare at her step-son.

“Way to elevate everyone's morals, Latôios¹! If you were as tactful as-”

“Enough!”, Zeus barked and everyone fell silent. “We will find him and until then-”

Right in that moment Iris burst in and announced a visitor.

Athena blinked in confusion.

Who could possibly have shown up here, on Olympos, in this weather?!

.

Eriboia was at loss as to what the Erebos that abnormally large bronze jar was doing in their cellar, why her step-sons wouldn't let her near it and what the heck they were doing in the cellar so often to begin with, when they weren't piling mountains on top of each other.

The overgrown youths were constantly bugged with these questions: “What is that ugly, huge bronze jar doing downstairs?”, “Why won't you let me go near that thing?” and “What the Hades are you two doing so much down there?”

After months of prying, it was Ephialtes who finally caved: “Alright, alright, shut up, I'll tell you! We caught the son of Zeus!”

“Which one?”, Eriboia deadpanned, “Zeus must have fathered at least ten percent of the population of Hellas. Be more specific.”

“Well, Ares! The god of war! You know, the only legitimate son?”

Oh no.

“Anyway, we caught him and wanted to use him as hostage, but Zeus hasn't reacted so far, and now that damn war god won't stop struggling, screaming and trying to free himself. But he can scream and struggle all he wants, because we bound him with extra strong chains! They're magical, you see, they grow tighter every time the captive moves. If we keep that loser down there long enough, they'll crush him! And until then he's a fun toy to play with, when we're frustrated or bored!”

Holy goat!

“Ha! It's like he wanted to be played with! He seriously took on us both and thought he could beat us all on his own! Now no one can bring us down! Soon we will conquer Olympos and all the gods and then-”

A piercing scream came from the cellar, cutting Ephialtes' boasting off.

As they looked into the room, they could see the ugly giant jar was quaking.

Eriboia was just a normal human – maybe that was why she felt the uncanny vibes coming from the jar so intensely. And it would have put her off, but the screams of agony appealed to her conscience way too much.

The teenage giant only smirked, before turning back to his step-mother. “Right then, we're off. Gotta pile up more mountains, so we can reach Olympos! Don't let him out, mother!”

With that he was gone.

Now Eriboia was entirely different in character from her step-sons, nor did she share their way of thinking. She had nothing against the gods and definitely didn't condone hubris – that and the way Ephialtes had just called the god of war a toy was beyond creepy.

Gingerly she approached the jar and pressed her ear against the bronze.

Now that she was close enough, she could hear the war god's faint voice whimper in agony.

“Help …”, it rasped, “Help … please … let me out … let me out …”

Her heart twisted painfully and she really wanted to help. But she wasn't strong enough to topple over that huge metal jar and maybe it would have hurt the captive too. So she knocked against the jar to show him, that she had heard.

“Hey”, she spoke, “Don't worry, I don't want to hurt you. I'm a mortal human, who wants to help. I'm not strong enough to get you out of there, but I will get help as soon as I can, okay?”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then a strained voice answered: “Thank you … please hurry … please.”

She frowned; it sounded so fragile, broken and weak.

Can the Deathless Ones die after all?, she wondered.

There was no time for long pondering, though.

She disguised herself and took off to Olympos to tell Zeus, where his son was.

Alone, there was a problem: how would she, a mortal, ever reach the Heavens?

.

Ares had never been so glad to hear a mortal's voice.

That woman – he just assumed it was one, judging by the voice – was his only hope.

The chains were cutting deep into his flesh and many of his bones had already broken under the pressure. He sank onto the side. The movement caused the chains to tighten even more, which caused him to cry out in mortal agony.

Ares was dying and he knew it; not only was he being crushed, he was also starving, dehydrating … and the Aloiadai had inflicted the worst kinds of torture upon him. He couldn't breathe. If someone didn't get him out of here soon, he would perish.

As much as he had always wanted to believe, that his immortality was absolute and that nothing could truly destroy him, he knew that Ephialtes was right. It would happen, if-

“Ares?”

The oh-so-familiar voice of the Messenger of the Gods nearly made him cry, but he had no tears left.

“Ares! Ares, where are you? Answer!”

He could only cough weakly.

Looking up, he saw Hermes' face come into view and peek into the jar.

“Oh, finally, I found y-HOLY FUCKING SHIT, IS THAT YOU???”

Ares let out a laboured chuckle: “Took you long enough, squirt.”

“Holy shit, what the Tartaros, what the fuck-”

“Just get me outta here!”, the war god croaked, “But careful, these chains are-”

The rest of the sentence died in the coughing of Ikhor.

.

Hermes shook his head and pulled his half-brother out of the accursed jar as carefully as possible. Then he picked him up bridal style and carried him back to Olympos as fast as his winged sandals could carry him.

He was flying at the speed of the wind, but the flight still seemed endless. Especially when the Messenger noticed, that Ares was starting to pass out.

If he passes out, he might never wake up!

“Ares, you have to stay awake! Do you hear me?!”

“Dunn' think I can – ngh!”

The war god grunted in pain and spewed more Ikhor, as his chains grew even tighter.

Hermes felt sick at the sight, but he had to keep him awake.

“You can do it, man! We're almost there! Here, we just passed through the gates!”

“… What's with the weather?”

The messenger cringed. “It's been shitty ever since you disappeared. Dad has anxiety.”

Ares grinned weakly. “Hey, the wind 'n' rain … feel good … nice 'n' cool …”

Oh no, he's falling asleep!

“Hey, Ares, look! There's Hephaistos' forge! Remember the incident?”

The response was a weak glare.

“Okay, sorry, sorry! Remember the Gigantomakhia? We all kicked arse and you killed Ekhidnades and Mimas?”

“U-huh.”

“And how father clapped your shoulder and said 'Well done, son'?”

A rattling laugh: “How could I … forget? Best day of … my shitty life …”

The older god's ribs and sternum broke with a nasty crack and he spat more Ikhor.

Hermes cringed at the sight more disturbing than anything he had ever encountered in Hades' domain.

“Okay, Ares, hang in there! There is Athena's olive garden! And there are Hera's apple trees and pomegranates!”

It didn't help; the other's red eyes were closing.

“Hey, Ares, don't pass out! You've gotta stay awake! Think of your family! Your kids!”

Ares smiled faintly. “My kids …”

“Yes, yes! They need you!”

“M-hm. Hey … how long was I …?”

“Thirteen months. Today it's the 3rd day of the Gamelion²”, Hermes supplied.

Ares groaned in despair: “I missed everyone's birthdays!”

Hermes was surprised, but also felt compelled to make the older feel better.

“When I visited Harmonia in Elysion last year, I wished her a happy birthday from you.”

“Good. Can you do it … tomorrow night too? Today … it's her birthday. And … bring her roses … I promised her … flowers from here …”

Hermes smiled: “Doing it still today.”

Ares forced a smile. “Thank you …” And promptly passed out in his half-brother's arms.

“No problem and-ARES?! OH NO, BY KHAOS, PLEASE, NO! WAKE UP! YOU HAVE TO WAKE UP! ASKLEPIOS! APOLLON! ATHENA! HEPHAISTOS! FATHER! ANYONE! HEEEELP!!!”

.

The chains were even darker than the gods had feared at first.

They couldn't even be removed normally, someone needed to neutralise the dark magic. Only one goddess was capable of this and thus Zeus sent for Night-Wandering Hekatê. And indeed, with powerful ancient spells the ever-shifting Titanis made the chains release their hold on their captive.

Now the healing deities could finally take the war god to the sickbay, where he was laid into the Pool of Paiôn³. Apollon himself, Asklepios and his wife and daughters had all come together and poured their entire healing powers into the water non-stop for three days.

But his injuries (both external and internal) were so grave, that he would be in the Healing Coma for at least another year.

Later that night, the Olympians held council and listened to the reports of the divine doctors and of Hekatê.

“The number and kinds of injuries we found on him is truly disturbing”, Asklepios stated, “His inner organs all crushed, not a single bone unbroken and … and …”

He hesitated.

“Go on”, Zeus urged.

Only, the son of Apollon was obviously unsure of how to put into words, what he really wanted to say – it took him a while to find a way to put it into words.

“Well, my wise king, it seems like the Aloiadai … uhm, used him to elevate their boredom.”

Zeus tensed up and the air suddenly became extremely heavy and charged.

“What?”, he asked slowly.

Asklepios swallowed, before he continued: “Apart from the wounds and bruises inflicted by the chains, we also found scratch marks and hand imprints all over his body and … injuries between the thighs.”

The meaning of that was obvious.

For a moment everything was quiet … too quiet.

Then, all at once, the wrath of Zeus was unleashed in a thunderstorm of mythological proportions.

.

Deep down in the underworld, a loud rumble was heard and the inhabitants trembled in fear.

Persephone looked up from her work. “What the here is going on up there?”

Hades shrugged: “Probably your father throwing a hissy fit or something.”

.

Finally Zeus calmed down enough to dial it back with the lightning and thunder and cleared his throat: “Ahem. My apologies. What were you saying?”

Poor Asklepios (who wasn't remotely as used to Zeus' temper tantrums as everyone else) stuttered the rest of his report: “Uh-uhm … h-his injuries a-are nothing my ch-children and I c-can't fix, b-b-but his soul … he-he'll be traumatised.”

Zeus took a deep breath, before he could unleash another European hurricane, and nodded. “Thank you, grandson. You may go.”

Asklepios left the hall as quickly as was appropriate, obviously relieved to no longer have to be in the enraged sky god's presence.

Zeus sighed and rubbed the back of his head.

Then he turned to Hekatê and asked for her report (ignoring the eyes floating in the air around her head and upper body as far as possible).

“I have wandered the earth ever since I could walk”, she lisped. “But never have I seen anything so sinister. More so I'm puzzled, that the Aloiadai even got their hands on these. If you would come closer, so I can show you what I mean?”

The Olympians all came closer and surrounded Zeus and Hekatê.

She placed her hands onto the metal and eldritch symbols began to show.

“As you can see, ancient and powerful magic has been woven into them. This”, she pointed at a certain line of symbols, “Is a tightening spell. It detects the slightest movement and causes the chains to constrict in response. Of course Ares would have tried to free himself and inadvertently made it worse.”

She pointed at another row of symbols.

“This is the curse of mortality. Every divine being's essence is encompassed by a thick shell and that's our divinity. But these chains infiltrate the protective shell and pump the impurity of mortality into your very essence.”

Hera gasped: “Does that mean my son is now a mortal?”

“No. Fortunately, Hermes found him just in time. But one more day and it would have been too late. You have seen how faint his divine aura was.”

The Titanis sighed and went on: “This spell here is the worst. It drains the life out of the victim and transfers its life force onto the person holding power over the chains. In other words, while Ares was their prisoner, the Aloiadai grew stronger at his expense. They fed off his very life force, like parasites. Although I don't think they were aware of it, considering their age.”

Now it was Athena, who cried out: “So, even if he hadn't succumbed to his physical injuries, he would have wasted away, until finally all of him was drained, leaving him a lifeless husk?!”

“Yes.”

“But this is awful! This is evil! How- they're only Kouroi⁴!

“Indeed”, the Titanis agreed. “But watch, it gets worse – step back, everyone!”

They did and Hekatê sang another ancient incantation. The eerie glow of the shackles intensified, grew darker and darker. Then Hekatê suddenly leapt back and not a moment too soon; a substance began to ooze out of the metal like wafts of black mist.

There was a collective gasp and several of the attenders fainted.

Poseidon's and Zeus' faces turned ashen and their black eyes widened with horror.

“No!”, Zeus whispered, “It can't be … this is impossible!”

“But … but how???”, Poseidon screamed, “We sealed them away, they shouldn't have-”

“Father, uncle”, Athena spoke up, “I beg you, do not withhold this from us – what is this?”

Zeus squeezed his eyes shut and took a breath to compose himself.

Finally, he revealed, that those were the chains that once bound the Elder Kyklopes and the Hekatonkheires⁵, who were first imprisoned by their father Ouranos and then by Kronos.

“They were forged from the pure darkness of Erebos and the baleful essence of Tartaros. For the Titanes, we used different bonds, as we didn't want to use the terrible old ones. My siblings and I collectively decided, that something so appalling must never be used again. So we hid the chains, where no one would ever find them – or so we thought.”

He turned back to Hekatê. To his dismay, she was weeping from her floating eyes.

“Do forgive me”, she apologised. “The horror of this whole situation just breaks my heart.”

Zeus nodded. As king he couldn't weep, but the awful weather on Olympos spoke volumes.

“We all feel the same way. Anyhow, now that this has been done to my son and heir, I decree, that we must make sure something like this can never happen again. Sealing these chains away obviously wasn't enough. Hekatê, can you destroy them?”

“No, I'm afraid that's not within my power. I could break them, but destroying them completely would require the power of one of the Protogenoi.”

The Olympians exchanged uncomfortable glances.

The Protogenoi. The Firstborn Ones.

Which of them could they summon?

Athena addressed the problem: “We have to make a choice. On one hand it would be wise to call upon Nyx, Erebos and/or Tartaros, as their essence is the main component of these chains. On the other, it would make sense to summon the Protogenos, who made them.”

“That was my father.”

Everyone stared at Aphrodite, who had just woken up and was standing up.

“I was born from the essence – hold your tongue, Poseidon – of Ouranos, the Sky. He is the one who made them, as Zeus already said.”

“Can you summon him?”, Athena enquired.

“I can try”, Aphrodite replied, “I can speak to him, but I'm not sure, if he will actually help us.”

“Do try”, Zeus requested. “You are the most beautiful of his children. If anyone can convince him to destroy these disgusting things, it's you.”

Aphrodite consented, but declared crossly: “Mind you, everyone: I'm only doing this for Ares! This is my father's fucking fault! These fucking chains did this to my love and I will not fucking rest, before they've been fucking obliterated!!!”

Then she stomped out into the rain.

It seemed like an eternity, until Athena noticed, that her father was growing uneasy.

“He's coming”, he informed everyone. “I can sense a supernatural shift in the atmosphere.”

And sure enough, Aphrodite returned with a majestic looking man of lofty stature, clad in a long robe covering his entire body.

His skin was the night sky, his hair and coat resembled the thunderclouds outside (in fact, his hair seemed to be composed of the clouds outside). He radiated the sheer primordial power and very essence of the holy heavens.

So this is Ouranos?

There was something about him, that made Athena's very flesh crawl. His face was void of all emotion, his silvery eyes were cold.

Psychopath, was the first word that came to her mind.

“Welcome to my home, venerated forefather”, Zeus greeted the old god with ostensible calm.

“Thank you”, the Sky replied coolly. “Now, why have you dared to summon me? My daughter here told me, that it is important, otherwise I would not have come.”

“Yes, indeed it is. I reckon you remember these?”

He pointed at the broken shackles, still lying on the floor and oozing darkness and bale.

The Sky stepped closer to examine them. “Ah, yes. It was I who made them.”

“We know that. Now, if you could-”

“Why did you free the Kyklopes and the Hekatonkheires?”, Ouranos demanded to know. “I sent them to Tartaros for a reason.”

Suddenly Athena felt a surge of rage. And she wasn't the only one.

Zeus' coal black eyes grew hard. “You imprisoned your children, because they weren't graceful and fair-faced, like the Titanes. My siblings and I liberated our uncles, because they were talented and useful and never hurt anyone, unless we asked them to.”

His passive-aggressive outrage caused more lightning and thunder outside the hall and in Ouranos' cloudy hair. As response it waved in what was probably irritation.

“You're the son of Kronos and Rheia indeed”, Ouranos remarked scathingly.

Athena intervened: “Do forgive us, Dome of Heaven. Surely you must know, what these chains have done to a god, who despite all differences is one of us. So you need to understand, that we're quite … on edge.”

Understatement of the millennium, but whatever.

Ouranos turned and looked the bright-eyed goddess up and down.

“You're the granddaughter of Okeanos, the only honourable one of my sons. Yes, I see him and your mother in you. Well then, for your sake and that of my daughter Aphrodite, I will forget this argument ever happened.”

“Thank you, honoured forefather”, Athena said politely. “Anyway, us gods are in agreement, that such dangerous means of confinement should never be used again. We couldn't possibly imagine anyone more capable of preventing another such tragedy, than you.”

“I understand”, the Sky nodded, “You want them to be destroyed completely. Hmm …”

He picked the adamantine chains of darkness up effortlessly, but frowned, before continuing: “Something has been done to them, that wasn't my work. I remember each component that I used to create these. The parasite spell and the mortality spell were not among them. These two must have been added by the Titanes, I can't think of another explanation. The only other Primordials, who could have done this, wouldn't have.”

Ouranos grimaced. “I agree with you, these things are really disgusting. Something so hideous must not be allowed to exist.”

His hands began to glow as bright as the sun, countering the dark essence of the chains … until eventually the chains just faded into thin air. He informed the gods, that whatever of this evil had remained would be erased by the holy essence of Great Khaos itself, then proceeded to strut out of the palace to become one with the Dome Above again.

.

A few moments later Zeus groaned: “Oh thank the Moirai, he and the grisly chains are finally gone!”

Upon hearing this, the other gods returned to their seats and allowed themselves a moment to let the tension seep out of them.

For the first time that night the (still heavy) rain and howling wind actually felt … relaxing.

After an uncertain amount of time, Hekatê asked: “May I go home?”

Her vibrant violet hair had greyed and she had rapidly aged throughout the night; she had arrived a little girl and was now a crone. A sign, that it was almost dawn.

Zeus allowed her to go and thanked her.

She smiled: “Don't mention it. I like to help.”

With that, Hekatê took her twin torches back from Hestia, said goodbye and vanished into the dead of night.

Once she was gone, Apollon sighed and rubbed his temples. “Shit … is it really morning already? Man, I haven't slept in days, putting my healing energy into the Akesian Sleep⁶ has completely drained me and there is still so much to do! This will be a long day …”

“Don't worry”, Hera muttered, “I'll make a few calls for today, so you should have less duties to attend to. Consider this a sign of gratitude for helping my eldest son.”

“Much appreciated”, the younger god thanked her. “And you're welcome.”

Zeus stood up. “I think we all need sleep. It will do no good to any of us to have no rest.”

“Wait, father! We're not done yet!”, Athena claimed and everyone sunk back into their seats with a groan.

The King of the Gods frowned. “What's the matter, my daughter? What did we forget?”

“Getting rid of the chains was only one part of the problem”, she pointed out, “We still need to take care of the other part: the Aloiadai, who did this to Ares.”

“Yes, but what shall we do? What if another of us goes to face them and is captured as well? You've seen, what they've done to Ares. What if they have more of those chains?”, Hephaistos worried.

“I don't think they do”, Athena replied, “I don't think they even knew what the chains were. Anyway, we need to dispose of them, before they can kill us all and force Hera and Artemis to-”

“I say we vaporise them!”, Aphrodite hissed, “Reduce them to ashes, like my father did with the chains!”

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?”, Athena questioned. “Remember how Ares' immense power didn't impress them at all? We need to-”

“I DON'T FUCKING CARE!!!”, the goddess of love shrieked and began to glow red with rage, “I DO NOT FUCKING CARE, PALLAS ATHENA!!! LOSING MY DAUGHTER WAS BAD ENOUGH, NOW I NEARLY FUCKING LOST MY LOVE AND THE FATHER OF MY DIVINE CHILDREN! WHAT DO YOU FUCKING EXPECT ME TO DO??? SIT IDLY BY, AS THEY GET AWAY WITH ALMOST FUCKING TORTURING HIM TO DEATH?! I DO NOT FUCKING FORGIVE AND FORGET! EVERY FIBRE OF MY BEING CRIES OUT FOR REVENGE! I WANT THEM TO FUCKING SUFFER, LIKE THEY MADE ARES SUFFER, IF IT'S THE LAST FUCKING THING I DO!”

“SHUT THE TARTAROS UP!!!”, Athena roared, losing her last shred of composure. “WHAT MAKES YOU BELIEVE WE'LL LET THEM GET AWAY WITH IT?! WE ALL! WANT! REVENGE! THEY HARASSED HERA, EVEN THOUGH SHE IS OUR QUEEN AND ARTEMIS, EVEN THOUGH SHE'S A VIRGIN GODDESS LIKE ME! WE ALL WANT THEM TO SUFFER AND BY STYX, THEY WILL!!!”

“Ahem … excuse me, ladies?”

The furious goddesses blinked and turned to Zeus, who was looking slightly unsettled.

He sighed: “Calm down, both of you. You're scaring everyone.” And gestured towards the table with his thumb.

Athena and Aphrodite sweatdropped, as they spied the other Olympians hiding under it, huddling together, whimpering and shivering in fear. The two disputants stuttered an awkward apology and helped their fellow Olympians to come out.

Hera, first to recover, addressed Aphrodite: “Next time you get angry, please tone it down with the F-word. It's unbecoming for a member of the Dodekatheoi⁷.”

“I'm sorry for that”, the older goddess apologised, “I don't know what came over me.”

“Anyway”, Athena groaned, “We need a plan. Raw violence didn't help Ares and it won't help us. We have to be more cunning than this. Besides, his state is partly our fault, as we failed to rescue him for more than a year. We're all upset and out for blood, so does anyone beside myself have an idea how to get rid of them?”

Artemis raised her hand. “I do. And I'm confident, that it'll work. It involves you and me and the help of discord-sowing Eris.”

.

Ares remained in the Akesian Sleep for longer than Asklepios had predicted.

During that time, everyone who cared came to check on the unconscious god.

Athena was surprised by how many people that were, and even more surprised that she was among them.

One day she saw Hera crouched against the glass of the healing tank, weeping bitterly.

“My son, my little boy, my champion, my little whirlwind …”

It had been many thousand years, since Athena had last heard Hera use those nicknames for her son. It reminded her that, deep down under all her cold and queenly exterior, Hera loved her children, even though she had the worst ways of showing it sometimes.

Sometime later Athena saw her father Zeus and Hera stand in front of the healing tank together. He was holding her in his arms and she was crying into his chest. It was a rare moment of harmony between the two and Athena couldn't help, but smile.

Of course Aphrodite came a lot too. Day after day she lingered by the tank and prayed to Khaos, that Ares would get better and back to his old self. But other than that, she never wept. Like Hera, she stayed strong for her children, which was quite admirable in Athena's eyes.

Ares' children too came every day.

One evening, Athena found the twins Phobos and Deimos snoozing against the glass, apparently they had fallen asleep waiting for their father to get better. Instead of waking them up, she had just carefully scooped them up and carried them back to Aphrodite's house. Their mother had smiled at the sight of Athena carrying two pre-teenage boys in her arms, but had allowed the younger goddess to help her tuck them in.

.

Hephaistos too came to check on his older brother.

The sight was painful.

Ares was floating in the Pool of Paiôn unconsciously, just skin and bones, paler than Hades and covered in wounds that were healing way too slowly.

“Dammit, Ares”, he grumbled, “What were you thinking? Taking on two Gigantes by yourself! You fucking idiot.”

He pushed his wheelchair next to the glass.

“You know, if someone had told me fifty years ago, that one day I would be visiting you in sickbay, I would've called them mad. I'm just glad that you and I got to reconcile, before this shit happened. One regret less I would've had, if you had actually died.”

He couldn't help but wonder, if the Akesian Sleep was dreamless or not. He hoped it was, because if not, Ares would certainly be trapped in unending nightmares about what he had gone through.

“You probably can't hear me, but … we're missing you. Hard to believe, huh? But it feels kinda too quiet and empty without you. Maybe you won't believe it, but we care about you, deep down, even though you're a prick.”

He chuckled bitterly: “I know exactly, what you would say now: 'If you care, then why did it take you over a year to find me?' Well, and you're right. I guess it took this crap for us to realise. Don't get me wrong, we still don't like you. And as soon as you recover, you'll probably still be a huge prick, albeit one with major issues and traumata. So that'll be a thing.”

With a last sigh, he turned his wheelchair to leave.

“Get well soon, okay?”

.

In a rare fit of generosity Zeus even allowed Ares' best friend Eris to visit, on the condition that she and her kin wouldn't wreak havoc.

Eris was sour about the condition, but agreed.

So she, her children and the Keres were uncharacteristically quiet, as Asklepios allowed them in one by one.

Eris was the last in line, letting her children and sisters go first.

They left Olympos right after making their sickbed visits, knowing better than to overstay their welcome.

But Eris lingered. She couldn't just leave a postcard and go, not with Ares.

.

It was almost nightfall, when Athena found the Mother of Woes still stand in front of the healing tank.

The abhorred daughter of Nyx looked oddly subdued. Her mane of tousled black and white hair and her black wings were drooping.

As Athena was about to make herself known, Eris spoke: “He was me charge, back when he was a wee kid.”

“I know. Hera told me, that you were his nurse first and then his guardian”, Athena answered softly.

“Did she also tell ya, why I became his guardian later on?”

The younger goddess had to admit, that Hera had left that detail out.

“He an' the Horai were born still durin' the Titanomakhia. Everyone says it lasted ten years, but that's Olympian Years. An' despite all the commotion, Zeus still had time ta fall for and marry first yer mother, then Themis, then Hera, who is now his queen. Mortals an' younger gods think it 'appened later, but they're wrong.”

One Olympian Year was a mortal decade, Athena knew. So the war had actually lasted a hundred years? And why was Eris telling her this?

The personification of strife chuckled: “Neanderthals and mammoths an' such were still around. Ares loved playin' with 'em. Ye know, when I first met 'im, he was such a wee laddie, he didn't even reach up to me hip.”

That was hard to imagine; Ares was a quite tall man and had been lanky even when Athena had met him as a preteen. Eris was rather slight and dwarfish in comparison.

“He was, like, seven. I found it a bit weird, 'cuz I already had been his nurse before. Bu' when Hera told me the situation, of course I said aye.”

“Why did Hera make you his guardian?”, Athena finally asked.

The Daimona scowled: “She tol' me he'd been kidnapped by Kronos an' his cronies. They did sum' really sick shite ta him, if ye know what I mean.”

Suddenly the goddess of wisdom felt like she was going to puke.

Eris sighed: “'Course he was traumatised. An' ya know yer father's attitude about that shite.”

“Yes, I do”, Athena nodded soberly. Zeus was the biggest arsehole in that regard (and a lot of others, but that was irrelevant right now).

“Anyway, Hera could nae 'andle him, so she gave 'im back into me care. She knew he'd be safe wi' me. No one likes me, so they would nae come ta me lookin' fer him. Turned out he still remembered me; always had a really good memory, he had. Leapt right into me arms. I took care o' him fer three years, then Eileithyia was born an' he wanted to go back. I helped him cope wi' the trauma an' taught him how ta fly an' deal wi' the voice in his head.”

So she knows about it too.

Eris finally turned to face Athena.

Her ghostly white face was grim and her gleaming red eyes were hard. Her spidery claws balled into fists.

“Listen ta me, Daughter o' Metis. Ares is like a son ta me. When ye asked me help to put down the Aloiadai, I asked fer nothin' in return. Tartaros, if I was as strong as ye, I would've ripped them apart with me bare hands.”

Athena nodded, knowing what Eris was going to ask of her.

“Ye know exactly what I want from ye. Don't evah go easier on 'im than ye did before and don't evah mention, what I just told ye. But promise me this: whether ye hate him or nae, whether ye two are allies or adversaries, I wan' ye to prevent this from e'er happenin' again. Keep an eye on 'im, lassie, aye?”

Athena nodded solemnly.

“By the waters that drip from the river Styx, you have my word.”

.

---

.

1) Latôios: "Son of Leto", one of Apollon's epithets 2) Gamelion: the first winter month in the Attic calendar (Januar/February), dedicated to Hera. At the end of this month, the Hieros Gamos was celebrated, in honour of Zeus' and Hera's marriage. 3) Paiôn: "The Healer", an epithet of Apollon and Asklepios. 4) Kouros: an early to mid teenage boy. 5) Hekatonkheires: the "Hundred-Handed Ones", three giants with a hundred hands and fifty heads each. They were imprisoned in Tartaros by their father Ouranos after birth, much to the outrage of their mother Gaia. Kronos later freed them, but re-imprisoned them, after finding them no longer useful. Eventually they were freed permanently by Zeus and in return helped him defeat the Titanes. 6) The Akesian Sleep, or sleep of healing, is my invention. It's a reference to the Stygian Sleep, but a healing sleep instead of a sleep of death. 7) Dodekatheoi: Twelve Gods, another name for the twelve Olympians.

[reformedkingsmanagent]

TSS Charlie x reader where he catches her instead of Eggsy in Valentine's fortess, bit can't bring himself to give her away, and she uses her Kingsman equipment to disable his tracker?

A/N: I changed the ending a bit. I hope that’s okay. I started writing him surviving completely unscathed and then realized he’d have to actually watch his family’s heads explode and I just couldn’t do it. Let’s just say that he’s not about to run off to Poppy here, but he’s not leaving unharmed. I hope that’s acceptable enough!

“We need a door into their network. Eggsy’s busy in the tunnels, I need you to find us a link, Gawain, as soon as you can.”

Merlin’s request came through your earpiece as you were scanning the ballroom for an opportunity to take a shot at Valentine. No such luck. Despite the lax security, there were far too many people around to pull anything off with even a percent chance of success. For the moment, Valentine was safe.

“I’m on it,” you acknowledged.

There were booths tucked away on an upper level that were home to a few people who appeared to be tending to work on their laptops. You’d start there.

As you climbed the stairs, you spotted an older man with almost purely white hair sat in front of a laptop, fingers poking slowly at the keys as he tried to respond to some emails, probably. Most of the people in the room were either tied to corporations or politics.

Time to put on your best ‘I’m lost’ look.

“Hi there, have you been able to get online? I can’t manage to get a signal and I really need to make sure my friend made it to her safe zone.”

He smiled up at you, not at all bothered by the interruption. “Of course, of course, I’m almost done—”

You’d readied your watch as he motioned to his laptop. He was slumped onto the table before he could finish his sentence. You moved him further into the booth and took a seat in front of the laptop to begin your attempt to connect Merlin to the network.

Just a few keystrokes after plugging in the USB, and—

“Gawain, I’m in, now get back to the plane.”

“Understood—”

As you started to get up to leave, an icy sliver of steel brushed up against your throat.

“Nice and slow.”

You recognized his voice immediately.

“Charlie, what are you doing here?” A jolt passed up your spine as you turned slightly to get a look at him, as if you somehow doubted your own intimate memory of his voice.

“Well, my family was invited, obviously.”

Under any other circumstances his charming smile would’ve been welcome, but with the feedback you were getting from Eggsy and Merlin on the comms, there couldn’t have possibly been worse timing.

Did Charlie know the situation he and his family were in?

“You know, I thought I might’ve been dreaming. Almost dropped my champagne glass at the sight of you here.” The dinner knife was cold against your carotid, but you had the feeling he wasn’t truly threatening you. “But if you’re here, then that means so are the others.”

“Charlie, you shouldn’t be here.”

“No, love, you shouldn’t be here.” There was an undercurrent of affection in his words that you hoped you weren’t imagining. He nudged your arm and made you scoot further into the booth so he could take a seat beside you. The knife was placed flat on the table in front of him as he turned to face you, now cornered in the booth.

“Are you going to tell them?” You asked, glancing past Charlie to the glass-walled booth above the ballroom where Valentine stood, monitoring the celebration below.

“…no.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“You’re not safe here,” you tried to explain.

“Even if I had a choice, which I don’t, I’d say things look pretty safe from here.”

“But you know what he’s doing.”

Charlie nodded. “But I know what he’s doing.”

A few seconds of silence passed. You didn’t know what to say. It was an impossible situation.

“It’s only been a few days since we last spoke, but why does it feel like a lifetime?” His touch was soft as he turned you towards him. He didn’t drop his hand once he got your attention.

You knew what he was getting at. He didn’t make it through, and neither of you had the chance to discuss the status of the tenuous relationship the two of you shared during training before he left.

What are we? What are you after? What do I want for myself?

“I didn’t know how to say I wasn’t going to leave with you,” you confessed as his hand fell away from your face. Your stomach was in knots. Your confession was the polar opposite of all the whispered promises you’d given him while cuddled up and warm.

“And I wasn’t going to ask you to.” His expression wasn’t challenging, it was understanding, something not many people ever got from Charlie Hesketh.

“Charlie, I’m sorry.”

He waved your concern away. “I didn’t really want it anyway.” He was lying, of course he did, otherwise he would’ve put forth 0% effort. “My dad said he’s going to have me working for him by the end of the week, anyway.”

“I thought you didn’t want that?”

He shrugged beside you. “Consider it my punishment.”

“Gawain?”

“I’m fine, Merlin, on my way.”

Charlie watched you, understanding that like his favor to you, you were doing the same for him. You weren’t sure what sort of reaction Merlin would have to Charlie’s presence here. Remembering he was Chester King’s candidate for the Kingsman position, him being here didn’t seem so out of left field anymore. His father was probably involved, but that didn’t mean Charlie should be condemned for it.

“Maybe if we met somewhere else…” He didn’t need to say the rest.

Suddenly a conversation occurred in your earpiece that made your blood run cold. As they figured out how to weaponize the implants, you realized the man sitting beside you still had one.

They were going to kill him and they didn’t know it.

You frantically brought your watch up beside his head, finding the device easily enough through the interface. Now you had to disable it.

“Yes, please.”

“No!” you whispered, eyes going wide. You weren’t going to have enough time to finish neutralizing the implant. Charlie didn’t have any time to react before you did the only thing you could think of doing, knowing what was about to happen to him.

“What are you—”

You shocked the ever-loving fuck out of him, right where his implant was. He shook, but he managed to reach for your wrist. You knew he was probably confused, but perhaps the full use of the implant hadn’t been revealed to him yet, or anyone here for that matter.

You fell down with him, trying to prop him up to keep him stable. It didn’t help enough though, and you saw the wound, felt the heat from the side of his neck as the blood reached your fingers. There would be an ugly scar at the side of his neck, but as you desperately shook him, you saw he was still alive.

At least there’s that.

“I can’t…”

The extent of his injuries soon became apparent. He could hardly speak, and despite him attempting to shift himself to try to cover your hands keeping pressure on the wound at his neck, he didn’t have a full range of motion in his arm. It could be an after-effect of the shock, but you thought not. A panicked set of blue eyes met yours.

“Charlie, I’m so sorry.”

Eggsy and Merlin were communicating, talking about extraction, but it was all background noise to you. The knot in your throat kept you from replying to any of it. You could hardly see Charlie’s face anymore through your tears. Finally, you shut your eyes and let them spill.

“Don’t,” Charlie mumbled, lifting his good arm up to clumsily brush his fingers across your cheek, catching a stray drop there. You could feel the moisture left behind by the blood on his fingertips.

Don’t cry for me, he wanted to say.

Of all the things for him to lose right now, he wished his voice wasn’t one of them. The pain was incredible and it was hard for him to stay aware, to not fall into that void, but he did it, if only to be able to agonize over everything he couldn’t say.

He was glad it was you. He doubted Eggsy would’ve been so merciful.

“Charlie, I’m going to carry you out of here. Do you think you can walk if I help you?” The least Merlin and Eggsy could do now was shut up and get Charlie some help. Not a second thought or consideration for who they were condemning with a press of a button. A moral grey-area, sure, but the man in your lap deserved more than this.

“Not…them.”

He knew. Of course he knew.

“It’s the only way I can think of to get you help,” you explained. “You’ll die here.”

A resigned blink spoke volumes.

“Okay, okay, we just need to be careful with all this—”

As you slowly helped him to his feet, he let out a strangled cry.

“I know it hurts, I’m sorry.”

He squeezed your shoulder to try to explain that it wasn’t your fault, but he didn’t think it translated. Or if it did, it wasn’t enough to assuage your guilt.

As you helped Charlie over the bodies of all the other incidental victims very much aware of the fact that his family was among them, you heard Eggsy doing his best to fight off Gazelle. No matter what Merlin had to say, you weren’t stopping to help.

You made it all the way to the plane before Merlin realized you weren’t where he’d asked you to be.

“Gawain, what’s all this…?” His eyebrows shot up once he saw who you were holding. “You should be—”

“You need to help him,” you demanded. “You almost killed him.”

Merlin didn’t have a rebuttal.

Charlie didn’t want to let go of you, but Merlin would be able to get him up the narrow steps without falling. You followed them both inside, keeping a close watch on Charlie, hoping desperately that he’d end up okay.

“I-I can’t do this right now,” Merlin realized, looking up at you, blood on his hands. “I’ve got to help Eggsy, the whole world’s goin’ t’ shit right now.” Merlin left Charlie on the narrow cushions to return to his monitors. You understood both sides, though you had a personal stake in one versus the other.

“I’ll be okay,” Charlie breathed, good hand reaching for his neck. You pulled his hand away to inspect the wound. It looked horrible. He was being so polite about possibly dying.

You were not going to sit there and watch him bleed out. The hard-shell case hit the floor with a clatter, full of enhancements and items not commonly found in the average first aid kit.

“You want…that,”Charlie managed, pointing to a bottle of antiseptic, coaching you through his treatment. You couldn’t help but smile to yourself as you remembered how good he was in training. It still bothered you that such a simple test ruled him out. Then again, Charlie was explicitly not loyal. Side effect of a family like his, perhaps. “Rinse it off. So you can stitch.” He grimaced, the talking driving fresh shards of white-hot pain into his throat.

Many minutes of barely-restrained anguish passed as you were able to stitch the torn skin closed at the side of his neck. It was rough, but it would last until someone better could have a look at him. Still, he was alive, while anyone else with an implant definitely wasn’t. Whatever you did, you saved his life. You weren’t sure how he felt about it.

Still, during the trip back to Kingsman, back to doctors and help and safety, Charlie kept his hand on yours. Not even Eggsy arriving back on the plane with a princess pulled his attention away from you. Eggsy had questions, but one glance from you got him to tuck them away for a rainy day.

***

Days went by where you weren’t allowed to see him at all. It got to the point where you started to wonder if Merlin had whisked him away somewhere else and not told you, having them deny you access to buy himself some time to cover his tracks.

But eventually, you were allowed in. He was in a state when he arrived, they kept repeating. It’s a wonder he even survived.

You’d believe it when you saw him with your own two eyes.

As you continued down the hall, you eventually came to a partially-open door. You nudged it open slightly with your foot.

“Charlie?”

He didn’t answer. You opened the door further until you spotted him standing near the foot of the bed across the room. You were relieved to see him until you realized that a lot had changed since you saw him last.

He looked better than you expected, all things considered. Well enough for him to be on his feet, and apparently well enough to leave. He was pulling on a jacket as you walked into the room, your eyes immediately going to the rest of his belongings bagged up on the foot of the bed.

“They did everything they could, or so they say,” Charlie explained. “Maybe this is my punishment…” The steel glinted in the ultra-bright fluorescent lighting as he turned his new arm.

Your heart hurt for him. Not for the injuries or effects, but for his loss, his rapid change of circumstance that almost no one would be able to weather. He took it all on the chin because he was used to it. But inside, you knew he was seething. It was so plain to you, you wondered how no one else realized it.

“Charlie…”

“I’m not staying here.” He took one look at your expression and frowned. “What, did you think after everything I’d just be let back in? Or that I’d want to be here?”

You shrugged, looking down at the patterned tile floor. Yeah, there was some part of you that wondered if he’d stay. But a bigger part knew that would be asking too much.

Foolish hope.

“I’ve got to go home, get their…affairs in order. I…”

What he wasn’t able to say was ‘I don’t want to do it alone.’

It was easy to forget just how much he lost, he was so good at hiding it, burying it down underneath a calm veneer. Still, you could feel his pain every time you looked at him.

He moved towards you, the metal hand pulling at your fingers, trying to bring you closer. You gripped the hand tightly between both of yours.

“I’m not going to ask you to…” The echoing of his earlier words got you to realize that while he wasn’t asking, he definitely was. The ‘but’ was right there on the tip of his tongue.

Did he want you to leave with him? To leave Kingsman entirely, and do what, exactly?

“It’s alright. You don’t have to.”

“I… Charlie, this is a big decision, I need time to think—”

He smiled through the anger, even managing a laugh. “Did Merlin need time to think?”

A grey area.

You felt like you were being split right down the middle. On one side, obligation, duty, and on the other a swirl of emotions, nostalgia, love.

He used the cold metal to lift your chin enough to plant a firm, chaste kiss to your lips. For as nice as it was, it was incredibly painful.

“We’ll see each other again,” he whispered. He grabbed his bag and walked out of the room and down the hall before your eyes opened.

*************************************

Requested to be tagged: @shydragonrider @alliedoolallie

[uberfluss]

1-97 xoxo

1. What’s your middle name? i forgot i needed one

2. What are you listening to right now? this baby dont cry by K. Flay!

3. What was the last thing you ate? oatmeal

4. Who was the last person you talked to on the phone? my aunt

5. Do you drink? occassionally 

6. Do you smoke? nope

7. What is the first thing you noticed in someone? usually their affect

8. What is your hair color? naturally dark brown currently fire engine red that wont fucking fade

9. What is your eye color? blue green grey 

10. Do you wear contacts/glasses? both

11. Dogs or cats? cats!

12. What’s your favorite animal?cats oscars or ferrets

13. What’s your favorite television show? myth busters or how its made

14. What’s your favorite movie? beetlejuice!!

15. What’s your favorite band/singer? Billie Eilish Grandson Kflay and Mallrat have been the most recent

16. How old are you? i literally dont know half the time

17. Do you have a crush on anyone? not to my knowledge

18. What’s your sexual orientation? bi

19. What’s your favorite color? honestly i think pink

20. What was your most embarrassing moment? i literally dont know 

21. Do you ever wish you were someone else? all the fucking time

22. What were you like when you were a kid? annoying as hell never shut up and never stopped moving

23. What would your dream house be like? a small little apartment that i could safely afford

24. What last made you laugh? shaving cream in a crock

25. What is your favorite word?idt i have one 

26. What is your least favorite word? not sure

27. What turns you on? no

28. What turns you off? someone being a fucking asshat

29. What is your star sign? triple sagittarius

30. What are your favorite books? hunger games, illiad, mary shelly’s frankenstein, les miserables, and donte’s inferno.

31. Do you have any siblings? too many

32. Do you like to dance? only by myself

33. What is your definition of cheating? starting a relationship with no intent to tell your other partner(s)

34. Have you ever cheated on someone? no

35. Do you regret anything? loads

36. Do you have any phobias? driving through farmland gives me anxiety if that counts

37. Ever broken any bones? i’ve only fractured my rib the rest have been just dislocations and subfluxes which are daily occurances 

38. Ever come close to death? we all do

39. What is your religion, if any? a mess

40. Have you ever been to a psychiatrist/therapist? yep currently seeing one

41. Are looks important in a relationship? not really?

42. Are you more like your mom or your dad? hopefully neither

43. What is your favorite season? summer!!!

44. Do you have any tattoos? like 2

45. Do you have any piercings? like 9 hopefully gonna make it 11 soon

46. How many boyfriends/girlfriends have you had? three

47. Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character? lydia deetz when i was like 7 

48. Who is your celebrity crush? winona ryder 

49. Are you a virgin? not answering

50. Do you get jealous easily? i literally cant name a time i’ve been truly jealous

51. What is your favorite type of food? sweets

52. Do you ever want to get married? i see no point in signing a legally binding document that ties me to a person for the foreseeable future. if anything it sounds like really bad dangerous idea.

53. Who was your first kiss with? a girl named maggie in the 6th grade and not the maggie that i post about

54. Have you ever been cheated on? no

55. What is your idea of the perfect date? sitting on a rooftop of a parking garage downtown at night taking photos and enjoying the view of the buildings around eating fries from some fast food place

56. Are you an introvert or an extrovert? extroverted introvert

57. Do you believe in aliens or life on other planets? i wouldn’t be suprised

58. What talent do you wish you’d been born with? a way with words that doesnt make me seem like an asshole half the time

59. What is your saddest memory? when i lost contact with my parter for two and a half years

60. Do you believe in love at first sight? no

61. Do you believe in soul mates? yes

62. Have you ever dyed your hair? all the time

63. Has someone ever spread a nasty rumor about you? no

64. Would you go against your moral code for money? no

65. What are three things most people don’t know about you? 1 i have a kid 2 im partially deaf 3 im in mensa

66. Who are you jealous of? no one really

67. Do you sleep with a stuffed toy? a plush heart from my partner

68. How long was your longest relationship? dont know

69. Is the glass half empty or half full? the glass is half full of air and half full of liquid and therefore completely full

70. What is the sexiest thing someone could ever do for/to you? no

71. Who is your most loyal friend? Maggie Lizard U.

72. Are you in a relationship?  yes

73. If you have a boyfriend/girlfriend, what is your favorite thing about him/her? everything

74. Are you a bad person? it feels like it some days

75. Are you a lover or a fighter? lover

76. What did you do on your last birthday? i dont do anything for my birthday ever

77. What is your favorite quote and why? 

“ there are 7 billion 47 million people on the planetAnd I have the audacity to think I matterI know it's a lie but I prefer it to the alternative”Because you do have to convince yourself there’s value to your life. even if you know deep down there’s nothing because if  you dont you’ll walk down a very dark and dangerous road with only one end. and its not a very pleasant one

78. If your best friend died, what would you do? given she’s the reason im alive i’d probably be completely unable to cope 

79. If you had to go back in time and change one thing, what would it be? i dont even know

80. If you only had 24 hours to live, what would you do? i’d call the people i love and tell them i love them and try to hang out with them if i could

81. What is the strangest dream you’ve ever had? the only dream i can remember is sitting on a curb with maggie playing some jenga like game next to a crashed helicopter surrounded by terrified people with guns and we were just smiling watching a giant giant gaint ship come barreling towards us and i KNew that it was the start of the end of the world. 

82. Are you happier single or in a relationship? i think the same. depends on the relationship.

83. Who were you in a past life? some Victorian bastard

84. What is your happiest childhood memory? driving around around midnight through downtown milwaukee after a death cab concert at the rave

85. Have you ever experienced unrequited love? yes

86. Have you ever had an imaginary friend? no but my sister had an imaginary friend called mr fork taht she never questioned and she thought when she got older he’d turn into mr knife. she didnt like mr fork and she wanted him to leave

87. If you were the president, what would you do? step down

88. What is your ideal career? i plan on going into phsychology and becomning a therapist ideally i want to run a shelter for run-aways or kids that got kicked out that would provide a stable enviroment and gave kids a place to stay as long as needed and if possible get the parents into therapy with those kids and resolve the home conflicts while the kids are still in the care of the shelter to ensure that they’re not mistreated as a result of anything that was said 

89. What is your political affiliation? socialist at minimum

90. Are you conservative or liberal? liberal

91. Is the male or female body closest to perfection? what the hell is perfection??

92. Do you like kissing in public? depends on the place

93. If you could change one thing in the world, what would you change? create healthy equality 

94. Where would you like to live? in the middle of a giant bustling city like new york or hong kong or in a secluded pine forest running on solar pannels and well water and being completely sustainable

95. Where would you go on your dream vacation?

everywhere

96. Describe yourself in one word.

headache

97. Describe yourself in one sentence.

a dumbass who is really trying their hardest and it just doesnt wanna work

[deathbyvalentine]

LARP Prompts (TW for drug mentions, suicide ideation.)

Blue Lights

She sat cross-legged, night dress pooling around her, blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a cloak protecting her from the biting cold. A candle flickered beside her, jumping and flickering. On her lap was a leather bound book, spread open, pages worn from years of use. She stared, fascinated, trailing a finger along the winding words.

The book was her grandfather’s, who had been married to a priest. It was the only book that wasn’t about flowers or animals in the entire household. It was about saints. They were illustrated in bright colours, shining yellows and deep blues. They either looked serene, eyes closed, smiles painted on or in agony, being licked by flames or eaten by dogs. Scarcely any had long lives. The darkness in the world always wanted to snuff them out. 

They kept coming back to one illustration. A woman lying in her soon-to-be-tomb, auburn hair spread across a pillow, eyes peacefully shut. A blue glow surrounded her, banishing the shadows into corners. It looked like the safest place in the world. Temperance had never even heard of blue light appearing anywhere near here. Nowhere was holy enough. 

She wondered if she looked a little like her, though truth be told her hair was a shade darker than auburn, her lips too full, her skin too sickly looking. And she wasn’t destined to have any great adventures or grand deeds. She was stuck here, in this bed, too weak to do anything at all. Her illness didn’t just rob her health, it robbed her potential, her ability to serve the Church. Saints didn’t just pray. They did other things too.

With a huff of frustration, she blew out the candle and shut the book with a sharp snap. She would dream of sunrises that night.

Astrid + Syn Row

Astrid stood in the centre of the room, clasping her hands to her chest, eyes filling up with tears. She always looked so small like this, her shoulders sloping inwards, trembling just a little. Who knew if she did it on purpose or not. She always managed to work herself up so easily, it scarcely mattered if it was intentional. Whatever she felt, she felt deeply. Even if it was irrational.

The drugs probably didn’t help.

With shaking hands, she lit a cigarette, managing to look utterly plaintive. Always the innocent victim, never the aggravator. It was a skill really. She sat down on the edge of the battered sofa, flicking a strand of pink hair over her shoulder. “I just don’t understand.” “How can you not understand? You cheated on me!” “Yes, but I didn’t mean to.” The mind truly fucking boggled at that, and it was impressive that Syn didn’t leave right there.  “How even - “  “I was drunk! And you know what I’m like - “ Flirty. Flaky. Forgetful. Ditsy. Innocent. Completely absent minded. And utterly impossible to reason with. She would never understand why people were angry at her, or how actions had consequences. She drifted through life, utterly surprised when bad things happened to her. Never learning. Syn looked at her, shaking her head. Astrid stood, putting out her cigarette on a plate and wrapping her arms around Syn. They weren’t shrugged off. “I’m sorry. I’ll be better. I promise.” Syn almost believed her.

Sanctum - Sacrifice

Axis had nothing to give. 

All he had were the clothes on his back and himself. And neither of those things were worth much in particular. His blood had been spilt on too many city corners, his spit on too many beer bottles, his hair tugged out in more than one fight. And his mind? In pieces. Memories lost in a haze of drugs, childhood mostly repressed, fractured morality... You name it, Axis had lost it or broke it. 

Maybe that’s why all he had left to sacrifice was his life. In every ritual he gave away a day, a week, a year. It didn’t matter particularly. When you didn’t know or care exactly when you would die, it was easy. Like giving away an abstract concept rather than anything to do with you. 

Then, now he supposed, he was giving away chunks of himself. His personality, his compass, his feelings. He never had the strongest sense of self anyway, and when he did, rarely liked himself. Let’s see who he could be with bits of him missing. Maybe he’d be happier. Maybe he wouldn’t. Either way it’s a new type of bullshit. And even that seemed appealing after twenty years of his own.

Empire - Lullaby

The first death he had watched over in his Nation. Deaths happened all the time of course, every second he could feel someone somewhere perish, but this was different. This was real and brutal and right in front of him. Mattias had thus far lived quite a sheltered life. His parador had moved whenever conflict came to the region his family were staying in. And he had never had to fight. Or starve. Or struggle. Everything had been so easy.

Safiye had been one of the first friends he had made in Anvil, and now she was dying in his arms.

The curse of being the Brass Coast was the intensity. He felt every paper cut as if it was a sword blow. Joy and sorrow in equal measure, each as debilitating. He loved like an ocean, wild and expansive. His grief consumed him as much as his desire to celebrate everything she had done.

He kept his voice steady as he stroked her hair, letting the flame inside him burn bright but low. He joked with her, wanting her final moments to be joyful, not mournful. He poured liao to her lips and to her own, making sure her testimony and her spirit would be carried with her. She needed something. 

He didn’t want to let her go, but when her lover came, it was time to. He didn’t want to intrude - Dawn were one of the few nations he understood in that way. The display was likely to be unsubtle and proud. He touched her forehead, said goodbye, and got to his feet, furious at the orcs that took her.

He didn’t let anyone see his tears as he walked away, knowing she would be gone by the time he got back. 

Sam + Alexei Adventures

“I’m tired.” Sam looked back over his shoulder, widening his eyes. “You can’t possibly be.” “But I am.” Alexei’s voice wasn’t quite there yet, but it was dangerously close to a whine.  “We’ve been walking less than an hour.” “But my feet hurt.” Alexei looked down at his feet that were in heeled boots. Not walking boots. Just like his fur coat wasn’t waterproof and his braces didn’t actually keep his trousers up.  “I know what you’re trying to do.”  “Then why don’t you just do it.” “Because then you’ll win!” “I always win.” Alexei said, flatly. 

Ten minutes later, Sam rounded a corner, carrying the smaller man on his back. Alexei, for his part, seemed perfectly content with this development and looked around the forest with an inquisitive eye. A little oddly for someone that looked so ill prepared for hike, he didn’t show an ounce of fear. In fact, he seemed more relaxed here than he had done in court. Like he had stopped worried about being observed. Like he had actually taken a breath. He was less of a little shit too, marginally.

He started talking, idly at first. About his favourite flowers. About his favourite animals (wolves, if Sam was wondering, which he wasn’t). As the evening drew in, and sleep started creeping into his voice, it got more pensive, almost dreamy. Wondering what the point of this part of his tale was. Wondering what fatal flaw he might have running through him like a fault line. Wondering wondering wondering and coming up with no answers. Eventually, he fell silent and Sam realised he had fallen asleep on him. A sign of trust, he knew - Alexei generally found it incredibly hard to sleep. He would stay up to the early hours, reading or walking, anything but being alone with his thoughts.

When the tavern appeared in the small clearing, Sam almost hated to wake him up. He seemed to be having such a peaceful dream. 

[davidquigg]

This is a short story I declared finished almost seven years ago. I dredged it up accidentally on Saturday morning by plugging “Canon AE-1″ into my Gmail’s sent messages.

I still like this story and care about it but nonetheless have shown that I’m capable of forgetting it exists, so I’m posting it here to give it a chance to go play outside.

SOMETHING ABOUT AIRPLANES

Draw her face.

Or his.

Yes, yes, you're not an artist.

Fine. Shut up.

Just try.

Try because I want you to know what I came to know only a few hours ago.

Start simple. Get paper. Get a pencil. Sketch the shape of her face. Don't overthink. Let's stipulate that this will not be art.

Just sketch.

You're paralyzed, obviously. I had the same problem. This is what it feels like when you start to know what I came to know only a few hours ago.

Go on. Sketch the outline of her face. It's just a shape. This could be middle-school geometry. I mean, you've got to know the shape of her face. You've thought of her at least once today. Because today is either a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, and whenever it's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, or Sunday, you think of her. So you've got to know the shape of her face.

This is when you'll be tempted to screw this all up by cheating. Log the fuck off Facebook.

You don't get to look at that little thumbnail photo she posted to her profile. You don't get to look at it because it's cheating. You also don't get to look at it because you promised yourself you wouldn't look at it. She's not even your Facebook friend. And you've supposedly come to realize that there's something unseemly about clicking on the profile of one of your seven mutual Facebook friends and then clicking through to see their friends just so you can scroll down and smear your screen with nose grease because you're crowding in close and then closer to her thumbnail photo. Look at it this way: If she lived next door to a friend of yours, would you contrive to visit that friend's place just so you could look out his window and into hers? Don't answer that. I'm liable to hate you for your answer. Or I'm liable to hate myself less. I'm not interested in hating myself less. I'm not interested in you hating yourself less. I'm interested in you knowing what I came to know only a few hours ago.

So sketch. It's hopeless. I know. Let me save you some hours. Draw an oval. Any oval. Does the oval look exactly like the outline of her face? No. Obviously. But it's a start. Darken the inner edge of the bottom of the oval. Does the oval look more like her? Less like her? Adjust accordingly. Keep darkening inner edges. Keep assessing. Keep adjusting. Somehow you will eventually end up with a shape that seems surprisingly right.

Now pick a facial feature. Maybe eyes. You're not an artist. I know. Neither am I. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because I just need you to point to the exact spot inside the oval where her right eye should go. You've got to know that, obviously.

It's hard. But you got the face shape eventually. Or you think you did. So you should try. Just point to the spot. Just point. With the pencil. If I managed it, you'll be able to manage it.

But did I actually say that I managed it? I'm pretty sure I didn't say that. I didn't say it because it didn't happen.

Try to realize what this means and let it really sink in. Try. I say "Try" because you're not going to realize what this means. What you're going to do is wonder what this means.

You're going to wonder what it can mean that the same brain that can picture Jay Fucking Leno or Don Fucking Knotts or Angelina Jolie or Justin Fucking Bieber is only capable of rendering her as some smudge in a haze of longing.

She accused you once of just loving the idea of her. But nobody had ever been more real to you, so the accusation seemed ridiculous. And now this.

You have never had a sewer rat lick you with the ardent, rhythmic persistence of a family dog. But just the thought nauseates you, and rat-lick nausea's back-of-the-throat scuttling is what you feel now. Without knowing why. Without really knowing what this whole Leno- Knotts-Jolie-Bieber-her syndrome adds up to. Knowing, though, that it is something novel and morale-wrecking and mercilessly survivable.

Everything seems to be mercilessly survivable. This, for example. It happened years ago, when I could have drawn her face. It is happening years ago, when I can draw her face. It is happening.

She has found me out. Or thinks she has. She does not see me seeing that she is setting a trap. She is among the new CDs. In the D section of the shop. I look away.

A moment before, she did something to a copy of Something About Airplanes. I don't know what. But it doesn't matter. I'm assuming it involves some kind of subtle identifying mark. If I wanted to avoid getting caught, the specifics of what she'd done to the CD would matter. I don't want to avoid getting caught.

What she is doing now is an equal mystery to me. As I said, I have looked away. This is not an easy thing to have done. She has made a starer of me. I am not a starer. I could have been. I would have been. But back when my unfurling teenage libido threatened to ruin me, Andrea Zilpop sat me down on a humming Kenmore dryer and made me watch "The Tao of Steve" on the TV/VCR her parents had installed in their laundry room.

Andrea had seen the movie at work, which for her in those days was Rain City Video in Fremont. She hoped the movie might somehow trump my testosterone and allow me to remain someone she could bear to stay friends with. Her plan was not crazy. There is, I dimly remember, some learn-a-lesson section of the movie. But that is not the lesson I learned. What stuck in my brain instead is one pillar of the obese, irresistible protagonist's mantra of seduction: "Be desireless."

Being desireless has worked. So I have stuck with being desireless. In every way.  I do not, for example, stare.

As I said, I have looked away.

I do not want to be looking away. My face tingles from the perverseness of looking away from Mali. Mali may be her real name. Or it may not. Maybe her east-of-the-mountains parents named her Molly and she has moved to Seattle and become Mali. I don't care. This isn't about her name. This isn't about her Value Village clothes. This isn't about her piercings. This isn't even about the seemingly extravagant breast tattoo that reveals its topmost sliver whenever she interrupts her clack-clack-clack perusal of our latest used CDs and arches her back.

I am an expert on what this is not about.

I balance a stack of CDs on my left palm. New CDs. Not truly new. Used, in fact. But new to us. Willy bought them. Sam priced them. Now I'm stocking them.

Somewhere in this stack is Yankee Hotel Foxtrot. I know this because an imaginary Jeff Tweedy has been singing my favorite track inside my brain from the moment I picked up the stack. "… Tall buildings shake / Voices escape singing sad, sad songs …" Jeff just sang that.

Imaginary Jeff.

When I'm stocking, there is always a song in my head. And sometime during the course of stocking, I always discover that the disc that holds the song has been in my hands all along.

Somewhere in the stack. This has stopped freaking me out. It has stopped seeming mystical, beautiful, impressive, oppressive.

Someone is moving into my peripheral vision. Closer. Closer. Whoever this is, they are not Mali. Even out of the corner of my eye, the blur is all wrong. And they're getting close in a looming, intrusive way she never does.

"Uh, have you heard if …" He does not pause. The elipsis is mine. Because, hell, I just have to interrupt. Here, at least.

Even if not in real life.

Because it's so obvious what's going to happen here. It's time to play Stump the Record Store Guy. And, yes, I'm human. I'm stump-able. But not by this guy. I can tell that from his blur. I don't even have to look over at him. I can also tell his question is not real. He doesn't want an answer. He wants me to know that he knows stuff that he assumes I don't know. Fine, I'll let him talk.

"Uh, have you heard if Andrew Bird is going to put out a live CD of his '05 show at Doug Fir Lounge? I think it was like April. Yeah, April 9th. Best show I've ever been to, dude."

No it wasn't, I want to say. Because this guy was not at the show. Don't ask me how I know. I just do.

"Yeah, they say …"

This is the sure tipoff that all this comes directly off the Web. Which is cool. Just be straight about it.

"Yeah, they say it was his best performance ever of that Happy Birthday song."

This is nonsense, of course. I don't claim to know when Andrew Bird's best performance of the song happened. But I do know that he performed a purer, better version in Amsterdam nearly four years earlier.

"Man, I'd give anything to hear that show again," he continues.

This is where I almost snap. I want to tell him to go back to www.archive.org/details/ abird2005-04-09 if he wants to hear the show so badly. Because we both know that's where he heard it in the first place. Not live.

This guy is talking over imaginary Jeff Tweedy's singing to involve me in his charade of self- esteem building. I want it to end.

"Let's check something," I say, smiling as I lead him nowhere near the Andrew Bird section and straight to the Andrew W.K. section. I paw through the discs, looking in vain for a recording on which Andrew W.K. performed in Portland under the name Andrew Bird.

He snorts. This ingrown hair of a man snorts. He's not even going to call me out on my error. He knows he knows more than me now. This is all he came for. He can tell himself that this is why he buys all his music on iTunes. He's smarter than all of us. Nothing for him to learn here that he can't learn by consulting John Cusack's iTunes Celebrity Playlist and clicking "Buy All Songs." I mean, John played a record-store owner in a movie. So if John recommends fifteen tracks and two of them are by Gnarls Barkley, then it must be for a good reason. Right? Right.

"I'll take it from here," he says, shaking his head.

Good.

"Uh, OK?" I say, feigning bafflement. "Let me know if I can answer any more questions." This all feels so good. The hollowness of his swagger washes away all my annoyance. Stuff like this is what I'd miss if I quit. And Mali. I'd miss Mali, obviously.

She is finished with whatever trap she was setting for me in the New section. Unless someone else with a fake question intercepts me, I am about to be standing shoulder-to- shoulder with her in Used. She does the back-arching thing. I'm way too far away for a glimpse of tattoo. But still. Still.

I would pay to have someone competent take my picture right now. Because I sense that I have never looked happier. And I'd like to know what this feeling looks like. I'd like to hold a print of this moment in my hands when I'm very sad or very old.

Mali is doing something with her eyebrows. She is acting. It is bad acting. Bad, adorable acting designed to convey concentration. She is flipping through discs in the catchall section where we indiscriminately file all bands that start with D.

She exhales loudly. Loudly and adorably. Crap, I am so not desireless.

"Hey, Hilliam," she says, looking up while still doing the frustrated, focused thing with her eyebrows.

I should explain that I was Willie before I started working here. Willie Hill. But Willy already worked here. So I couldn't be Willie at work. When I refused to be Billy or Will or Bill – Will Hill?! Bill Hill?!! – it was Evan who cracked himself and everyone else up by blending my given name and last name. Hilliam. I'd become Hilliam. And that's who I am. Here in Ballard, at least.

My parents hate it. Obviously. But they live in Wallingford. In Wallingford, I'm still Willie.

"Hey, Hilliam," she says, doing the eyebrow thing. "I've been wanting Something About Airplanes. For weeks. Does anybody ever bring that in used or do people just hang on to it?"

"We see it sometimes. In this town, there's always at least one person swearing off Ben Gibbard."

"For serious?"

"You'd be amazed."

"Oh."

"Last week. No, two weeks ago. Dude comes in. He's got an empty kitty litter bag that he's filled up with every Death Cab record, every Postal Service record. He's got All-Time Quarterback. And he's growling."

"Growling?"

"Well, words. But he's growling the words," I say and yell out "Travesty!"

Sam is closest. He yells "Travesty!"

Willy hears. He yells "Travesty!" He pauses, stomps his foot, and hollers "Unconscionable!"

"Unconscionable!" Sam yells.

"Unconscionable," I tell Mali.

"Is there more?" she asks. "I don't want to clap between movements."

"But you do want to clap, right?"

"I want to know what's unconscionable."

"And what's a travesty."

"Yes, a travesty, too."

"'Cupid.' The guy downloaded some unreleased solo tracks by Chris Walla. On one, Walla covered 'Cupid' by Sam Cooke."

"Travesty!" Mali says.

"You've heard it?"

"No," she says. "I'm just being cooperative."

"Right."

"Active listening."

"Right."

"Anyway …"

"Anyway," I say. "This guy hates Walla's 'Cupid' cover so much that he decides to sell everything ever touched by Walla or by people who touched Walla."

"So you've got his copy of Something About Airplanes?"

"Never at the end of the month."

"What?"

"We sold it almost right away."

"Oh."

"We'll get another."

"OK, well, can we do the thing again?"

"Of course. I'll call you if we get it in."

"Used."

"Right. I'll call you if we get it in. When we get it in."

"Used."

"Used."

With everything but her arms, she moves to hug me. It's a kind of lurch. You can't hug without arms. So we don't hug.

"You're the best," she says instead.

I love that she knows what I'm about to do. I love that she set a trap. It hasn't occurred to me that she might find this whole thing creepy.

I mean, how can it be anything but endearing to discover that the guy at the record store perpetrates a lovelorn fraud every time you mention a CD you're hoping to find used? It will go like this: 1) Hilliam retrieves a new copy of the CD Mali wants; 2) Hilliam pays for this new CD in cash; 3) Hilliam removes the CD's clear wrapping; 4) Hilliam buys the CD back for the shop, screwing himself out of about ten bucks because the CD is now, technically, used; 5) Hilliam waits seventy-two hours before calling Mali to say that the CD she wanted has miraculously appeared.

Fifty-some hours later, she calls the shop.

"Hey," she says, sighing.

Just that. She's never called before.

"Mali?"

"Uh, yeah. Does that junkyard phone have caller ID?"

"I recognized your voice," I answer unstrategically.

"From me saying 'hey'?"

"You sighed, too."

"Shit," she says, laughing. "Am I the Sighing Girl of Ballard or something? Is this how everyone thinks of me?"

"Not that specific. Sighing Girl of Seattle is what people tend to say."

"Smartass! … Want to meet up for a cigarette break?"

"You smoke?" I blurt, glossing over this unprecedented non-retail-related overture and fixating on the seeming impossibility that a smoker could smell as nice as she does.

"No."

"Then why are we meeting for a cigarette break?"

"Don't you smoke?"

"Not since high school."

"Oh, I just figured all you guys did. The shop smells a little like my grandpa's overcoat."

"Noooooooooooooo," I say, as if this truth stings badly.

She laughs. But this moment is slipping away. I slap at my pockets. I detect packaging.

"Lemonheads!" I say.

"What?"

"I've got Lemonheads. We could do …"

I'm looking around to see if anyone is within earshot.

"Do what?" she asks.

"Sorry, we could do a Lemonhead break. Are you down?"

"Lemonheads? Hell yeah, I'm down," she says. "Meet me like halfway?"

"Halfway like skatepark halfway or like kitchen-store halfway?"

"Kitchen store," she says.

We hang up.

The little guitar riff that opens "Portions For Foxes" is chiming out of the shop's speakers.

This is a coded message. What we mean when we play this song or any of the ten other tracks on Rilo Kiley's 2004 release is that we knew the sound of Jenny Lewis singing long before a National Public Radio review of her solo album introduced her to the ears of every amiable Dockers-wearer within range of Terry Gross's voice.

I yell to Willy that I'm going on break. He looks quizzical. So I pantomime smoking a cigarette. His eyebrows rise, signaling comprehension, and he waves goodbye. I walk out, striding west on Market just as Jenny Lewis sings me a warning: "the talking leads to touching / and the touching leads to sex / and then there is no mystery left."

This is not what I want to hear as I walk to meet up with Mali, hoping that the talking will lead to touching and the touching will lead to sex. Not what I want to hear at all.

So, reflexively, I play a song in my brain. Not just any song. And not even a whole song. Just the opening lyrics to a song from Jenny's bandmates' side project: "Well she gets real mean when she's drunk. / And she finally fell asleep and I'm glad. / She said, 'The only way you got as far is you did / is 'cause of me. Your songs suck.' " I've always wondered if those lyrics are about Jenny. Now, for convenience, I've decided to decide that they are definitely about her. I willfully black out the second verse where the mean drunk – whoever she is -- recants and apologizes.

Heedless now, I walk past the shoe boutique that used to be a rubber-stamp store and the booming restaurant/bar that used to be a failed restaurant.

No song plays in my head now. A rare relief.  I hear a Vespa start. I hear a clang. It's the type of clang made after a successful wallop of one of those smack-a-lever-with-a-hammer contraptions they erect in the feats-of-strength section of county fairs. This particular clang is synchronized with the Walk part of the mid-block Walk/Don’t Walk indicator. With its blessing, I now cross Market.

Continuing west, I pass the kids' boutique Mon Petit Shoe that used to be a friendly, long-in- the-tooth toy store, the yoga studio that used to be a Hallmark shop, the furniture store that used to be a competing record store, and the Puerto Rican restaurant that used to be an Australian restaurant that used to be the eastern part of the now-shrunken kitchen store.

Kitchen 'N Things is closed for the night. Mali has not noticed me yet. Her face is pressed against the store's front window, peering at something green.

I find myself wishing I were famous, wishing some paparazzi would leap from the shadows.

Though I'm not smiling, I sense that I look as happy as I feel. Again, I wish for a photograph that I could hold up and compare with every future joy. Is this pessimism, optimism, premonition? I stop my footsteps and watch Mali for a good fifteen seconds before calling out her name.

She does not turn to me right away. She peers a moment longer, seeming to say a kind of goodbye to whatever merchandise it is that she's coveting.

"Ah," she says, instead of greeting me. "I love Kitchen Uhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn Things."

I can't honestly tell if she's mocking the store's middle "'N" or cooing it like a loved one's nickname. I don't care. Either way, it strikes me as adorable. Anything she says drives me deeper in love.

"What were you leering at, lady?" I ask.

"Brushes. Silicone brushes."

"Don't you guys sell brushes?"

"Sure. Housewares. Aisle three. But not like these. Not silicone."

I don't know what to say. She goes on. Very earnestly.

"Plus, they're 100-percent recycled material. They're made from old fake boobs."

I nod without really registering what she's said.

"Are you serious?" I ask, regaining my common sense.

"Horribly serious," she says, giggling. "Dour. Humorless. Can't you tell?"

"Smartass," I say, reaching up and giving her left arm a gentle tap. "Let's get very, very serious here. How goeth your shift, fair maiden?"

"Goeth?"

"I don't know. I'm just making stuff up. How's your shift going?"

"Fine. The usual bizarreness. I just had two customers start bad-mouthing each other at the checkout. Freaks."

"What happened?"

"Well, we've got like two weeks left at the store before they tear it down to build the bigger, better store with the stacks of condos on top," she says, pausing to make some kind of crazy jazz hands that I take as a signal she finds the whole "bigger, better" thing to be bullshit. "Anyway, this woman pays for her stuff and starts chatting with me about where I'll be transferred during construction. Turns out, she knows my new store. I say that I've heard everyone's mean to each other there. She tells me, in this well-meaning-slash-excruciating detail, everything she knows about the nice people who work there. She also gives me advice. Career advice. Life advice.

Meanwhile, I'm ringing up some semi-older dude with a twelve-pack of Bud. The first woman does not stop talking. The dude keeps glancing back and forth between me and the woman.

Mostly, looking at me, though. Finally he leans in toward me and says, 'I think she likes you.' I pretend not to hear. Because like what, what am I supposed to do? Join in? Give him a little giggle? Help him slam this lonely, sweet woman who is so intent on being nice to me that she will not leave me the hell alone while I try to do my job? No. No. I won't. So I ignore him.

"And that should be the end of it. But as he walks past the woman with his beer, he says, 'Why don't you just leave her alone? She's not interested.' Now, the sweet woman stops being sweet. It's go time, man. She's like, 'Why don't you back off? Go home and drink your Budweiser and mind your own damn business.' "But she gathers up her plastic bags and heads for the door, where they go off on each other a little more. I manage to tune that part out. But now I've got the rest of the line to deal with.

The next guy is this mumbler. So, you know, he mumbles something. I say, 'What?' He says, 'I feel so low-maintenance all of a sudden' and glances over at Advice Lady and Budweiser Prick.

And, of course, he's low-maintenance by comparison. And that would have been totally great if he hadn't felt the need to point it out. Still, I say, 'You are low-maintenance and I appreciate that.' Luckily, he doesn't stick around to chat. He just takes his strawberries and his Odwalla and gets out of my life."

I tell Mali, "Oh my god. You're way too nice. I don't know how you can deal with people like that."

I say this. But it's not what I mean. I mean something more. I have a whole theory about this.

The theory goes like this: In all the world of retail, the most exhausting thing a woman can be is sexy and nice. Nobody girl-chats with mean and sexy. Nobody flirts with plain and nice. And pretty much every kind of customer just wants to flee from mean and plain. But sexy and nice? You get everybody. You get everybody who wants to see you naked. You get everybody who wants a friend. It is endless. And retail is already endless.

But I don't say any of this. Because what makes me any less weird than Mali's customers if I use her crappy-shift story as a clumsy excuse for telling her I think she's sexy? Better to impersonate a friend right now. Better to save telling her she's sexy for some dizzy, panting, half-dressed moment in our hypothetical shared future.

What words should pass through my lips if I manage to wipe away this smile? I simply don't know.

"You make me smile," I finally say since it is true.

"That's just because I'm too nice," she teases.

"No, it's in spite of that. Nice people make me frown. Every last one of them."

"Until now?"

"Until now."

"You're so full of shit."

I smile yet wider. She smiles, too.

This continues. Continues for longer than I want to document here, for longer than anyone would want to read. I remember every word, every gesture, every crumbly nibble of the cupcake we share down the street, every last expansion of my smile.

****

The film was trickier than the battery. My hands and the film and the inner workings of my neglected Canon needed to collaborate. They did, eventually. I thumb-flicked the lever to advance the film. I clicked the shutter release. Thumb-flick. Click. Thumb-flick. Click. Thumb- flick. I was ready.

The 16 I boarded is a southbound bus. But first it goes west. It drives along 45th until it reaches Stone Way. This is one of the vivid intersections of my acne years. Here stood the closest McDonald's to my house. It had a drive-thru. Very convenient. I knew people who went there.

But I disliked all of them. My loose confederation of friends always made the walk – and later the drive – east to Dick's drive in, where we could dine without the nuisance of chairs, tables, or even walls.

For reasons that seem, well, petty to me now, each of us would raise a middle finger whenever we passed that McDonald's at Stone and 45th. So the teenage me would have certainly flipped me off as the 16 turned left on Stone and I found myself missing the McDonald's and resenting the condos that had risen in its place.

The 16 goes south on Stone and jogs diagonally to the southwest before merging its way onto the Aurora Bridge. In some unremembered year when I was not yet a grownup and, therefore, still impressionable, a bus like this one fell from this towering bridge. A guy named Silas Cool shot the driver and then himself. I've harbored a gut-level uneasiness about this bridge and about people named Silas ever since. The closer I get to my own natural death the more it shames me that I don't remember the names of the murdered driver or the one passenger who died in the fifty-foot plunge.

This forgetting didn't trouble me at all that day on the 16. The uneasiness eclipsed all other thoughts. What power we all held. How powerless we all were. Any of us could pull a pistol and, for reasons known only to ourselves, change – or even end – the lives of dozens of strangers. There would be no stopping it. So I averted my eyes from the driver and from all the possible catalysts of my death.

I stared out the window toward the shrouded Cascades and twisted a ring on my AE-1's lens, compulsively changing the size of hole that light would pass through if I took a picture.

And so it is that my first shot that day was radically overexposed. The resulting photo – of the front end of a climbing seaplane that seems to just barely clear the bridge's railing – is more striking, more beautiful that anything I would have shot on purpose. I wouldn't know this until I got the film developed. Even then, I would need to shoot five more rolls before understanding the error that gave me this treasured image. It would take another dozen rolls before I could replicate the effect more or less at will.

I shot nothing when we passed the Space Needle. I shot nothing downtown when I got off to transfer to a 174. Nothing as we passed the home of the Mariners, the Seahawks.

I traveled with the camera pressed to my eye as we neared Boeing Field. But the overcast sky had suddenly switched from being a veil filtering the sun to being a shroud. This mid- morning dusk made the camera useless. Even using the widest opening in the lens, I would have had to expose the film to light for one-eighth of a second. Such a small sliver of a second is actually a long time in the world of photography. It is a fatally long amount of time when you're shooting from a moving vehicle. Unless you happen to know enough to pan the camera and keep the lens pointed toward whatever passing object you're shooting. That's when things can get interesting. Spectacularly interesting. But, as you may sense already, the only spectacularly interesting photographs I could make at this point were accidental.

So I'd only shot that lone photo from the bridge by the time the bus pulled over on East Marginal Way long enough for me to get off at my stop. This put me in the city of Tukwila, essentially across the street from the Museum of Flight. I intended to throw down the $14 to go inside. It was my whole reason for riding the bus this far. But I got detoured. In all my family and field-trip visits to this place, I'd never noticed that the outdoor airplane display was plainly visible – even to deadbeats standing outside the fence, especially to deadbeats with long lenses on their cameras. Turning my back to the wind, I removed my normal lens and replaced it with a zoom lens that allowed me to get closer to the airplanes without getting closer to the airplanes.

****

We are at Besalu. Mali and me. She got the table. I got the coffee and pastries. It's not busy. A rarity. And this is a relief. Because I didn't have to stress that we might have radically different approaches to getting a table in an overstuffed café. I'm of the laughably civil school of table- getting: literally, ask every person ahead of you in line if they need a table before taking one.

Mali might believe in the more standard, snake-a-table-as-soon-as-you-see-one-and-screw- everybody-else approach. If so, I am not ready to know this. I'd be willing to tolerate it. But unlike so much else, it's not the sort of thing I could manage to see as an adorable quirk.

"Oh, they look so good," Mali says, reaching for the plate of pastries that I'm just about to set down.

"You've seriously never been here?" I ask.

"No, this is my first time above 58th Street."

"Wow."

"Don't you ever have that? Streets you just don't cross? Whole parts of neighborhoods you don't bother to explore?"

I think about this. She talks.

"You think I'm lame," she says.

"No. Not at all. I was just thinking about what you said."

She nods.

"When I was growing up in Wallingford, there was this McDonald's …"

She is nodding furiously. I realize what's going on.

"Please, go ahead and start eating," I say. "You don't have to wait until I get done talking."

She smiles. Not at me. At her ginger biscuit. She takes a bite. She stops chewing, stops moving – the way you might if you were about to spit out something unexpectedly rancid. She closes her eyes. She swoons. Literally swoons.

"Amazing, isn't it?" I say.

She resumes chewing, swallows, reopens her eyes.

"Oh my god," she whispers, slapping the table with both palms and making Jurassic Park ripples in our coffees. "I could have kept that bite in my mouth for the rest of my life."

"Amazing, huh?" I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth that this is essentially the same thing I said less than a minute ago.

"Uh, yeah," she says.

She swivels, looks back toward the kitchen.

"Does he make these right here?" she asks, jerking her head toward a dark-haired man who's loading some kind of dough onto both sides of an ancient-looking scale. With a big knife, he slices a hunk from the left pile of dough and drops it on the right pile. The scale falls into balance.

"Yeah, him and two other people. But it's his place," I say.

"Would it be inappropriate to run into the kitchen and hug him?"

"Probably," I say, laughing hard until I start to wonder whether the little artistic venture I'm about to unveil would stand a better chance of shining in some other café, some place without its own resident culinary master.

I'd planned on offering Mali a taste of my croissant at this point. But that would be an impossible act to follow. I push myself. If I just say the words, I'll have to go ahead and do it.

"Hey, let me show you something I've been wanting to show you," I say, sliding a Ballard Camera envelope from the pocket of my jacket.

There are three more envelopes just like this one on my bed at home. They are thicker envelopes. This thinner one holds what I consider to be the eight presentable images from my four rolls.

"Come on. What is it?" she coaxes, noticing the hesitation I thought I'd managed to hide.

I've given a lot of thought to what comes next. Just hand her the envelope? No, seems almost apologetic. Hand her the images one at a time? Too controlling. Instead, I've decided to lay the images out. Three columns of two, topped by the remaining two photos. Why? Don't know. But this is what I've decided.

I put down the first two pictures. A smile – so full, so deep, so reassuring – takes over Mali's face. It animates me. I lay out the six remaining photos with the flourish of an overcompensating tarot reader. My chair is now meaningless. I am an idiot marionette, dangling, waiting for her reaction.

She's deliberate. Each image gets a long, careful look. I become aware that I'm sweating. I breathe fast. Then faster.

Please. Say. Something.

"Did you download these?"

"No," I say a bit too enthusiastically. "I took these."

"Who did you take them from?" she says, holding a hand to her aghast mouth.

She is messing with me. She knows what I meant. I know she is messing with me. I know she knows what I meant. But I am so keyed up that I start to defend myself.

"IdidnttakethemfromanybodyI," I blurt.

She lowers the hand from her mouth. It has been hiding a smile, that same smile. I breathe again. I am ready.

"I took these," I say. "With my camera."

She stares at me.

"You've never told me you were a photographer."

"I'm not."

And I take a deep breath because I'm about to flay myself.

"There's something about you, Mali. You just make me want to make things."

She squints at me.

"To create things, you know. For once. Instead of just talking shit, you know."

She squints tighter. The eyes close now. But a tear leaks from each eye.

Her left hand slides across the tabletop. I put my hand on top of it. We stay that way. While I'm not totally sure what has just happened, I know that it is powerful, and I sense that it is powerfully good.

****

Arranged in the same pattern but in a different order, the photos are now Scotch-taped to the wall next to Mali's futon. I wake to find her looking at them.

"I have a new favorite," she says.

"Oh?"

"Yeah, this one," she says, jerking her head in the direction of all of the photos.

She can't point. Her arms are around me, encircling my left shoulder, my neck, my right armpit. We went to sleep this way. I can't decide what would mean more to me: us having held this position all night or Mali having chosen to recreate it as soon as she woke up. This is another one of those endearing-either-way choices.

"I'm sorry, Armless Lady," I say, straining to kiss her neck. "I'm having trouble seeing where you're pointing. You're going to have to describe your new favorite photo."

I am expecting it to be that first photo I took, the one of the seaplane cresting the Aurora Bridge on its takeoff from Lake Union. Its accidental overexposure makes it unique among these eight photos. Also, I'm disinclined to admire any photo that I made on purpose. I still feel incompetent. Incompetent but strangely helpless to resist the urge to keep creating. So my camera is here by the bed. There's a new roll of film in it. The camera has a self-timer. I could set it on Mali's bookcase and photograph us right now.

I don't.

I didn't.

I never did.

She releases her hold on me and slides her left hand down my chest. She retrieves my right hand, brings it to her mouth, and kisses it before delicately folding everything but my index finger in toward my palm. She guides my hand until my index finger is pointing squarely at the blurriest photo of the bunch. Shot from below and slightly off to the right, it shows the nose and two cockpit windows of a commercial jet.

"Really?!" I marvel.

"Yeah. It reminds me of a clown's face."

"Hmmm," I say and then stare at it until the plane's nose becomes a clown nose and the two windows of the cockpit become the clown's eyes. "OK. Yeah. Clown face. Got it."

We're quiet until I say, "It's funny. You can't see it in black and white, obviously. But the part that looks like a clown nose was painted a total clown-nose red.

"I believe it," she says.

Her arms are back around me.

"I have to say, I'm surprised that's your favorite. You seriously like it more than the really similar one that's in better focus?"

"Seriously. That one looks like a plane – not a clown."

"Didn't realize you have such a thing for clowns."

She laughs, gives me this tender headbutt. I expect banter along the lines of "Well, I'm lying in bed with a clown." But she must not want banter. So I retrace our conversational steps.

"I'm trying to figure out what it means that I set out to take pictures of airplanes and your favorite airplane picture makes you think of a clown."

"Don't think about it too much," she says. "The clown thing is just a tiny part of it. I'd like it without the clown thing. What I like most is that the picture looks like a mistake."

"You like it because it looks like a mistake?"

"I like it because it looks like a mistake. But mostly I like it because I don't think it's really a mistake. Of all of these, it's the one that looks most like you were pushing yourself, reaching for something. And I guess only you know if you actually reached what you were reaching for. But whatever. I like that you trusted me to look at it. I like that you trusted me to see past the blurriness."

"I almost didn't show you that one."

"And maybe that's what I mean. This is the one that stopped you. This is the one where you needed to decide what this was all about, whether you were going to show me some flawless, boring-ass pictures or whether you were going to show me you."

"What's weird to me," I say slowly, "is that I'm showing you a me that didn't exist a week ago."

"Well then maybe what you're showing me is us."

It is a flat, detached, factual statement. I try to catch my breath.

I can't.

I couldn't.

I never could.

[ohnookc]

Dating Within Your Own Race

“But why is it wrong to have a strong preference to date someone of your own race? How is it different from having a preference for gender, body type, religious background, and so forth?” These are really good questions, y’all, and since quite a few of you have posited them, here is my best response. First, let’s talk about the things we agree on: sexual orientations and preferences aren’t particularly under our control. The more the scientific community has studied them, the clearer that has become. And, if those preferences aren’t under our control, making moralistic or ethical arguments about them (whether anti-racist or anti-homophobic or anti-classist) is at best a complicated task. How can you hold it against someone to have a strong preference to date someone with the same religious background, or of the same gender, or of the same race? Are they a bad person for that preference? Short answer: no. They aren’t a bad person. There are a lot of cultural contexts at play when it comes to differences in religious, class, and racial backgrounds that can make relationships a lot more complicated. The first is tied strongly to a lot of ethical and moral values that ought to line up for a relationship to be successful. The latter two are tied into a lot of power dynamics that are patently difficult to navigate within the context of a romantic relationship. I’ll also admit this freely: I do not have a strong preference to date within my own race, but in practice, 70% of the romantic relationships I’ve been in or seriously pursued have been with white, cisgender men. Since I’m a white, cisgender woman, that means the majority of my relationships by a good margin have been heterosexual ones within my own race. And there are a lot of reasons for that. Generally, I spend my time in places populated by primarily white people. My immediate circle of friends is mostly white. I have more in common culturally with other white people than brown and black people. The majority black and brown people I am friends with have intimated to me that it’s hard for them to date white people because the racial dynamics can create a lot of tension and frustration, which is definitely not a romantic thing. Put simply: i have a lot more opportunities to date people who are also white. So, if someone said to me, “I’m open to dating people who aren’t my race, but it’s really hard and I don’t really do it in practice,” of course I wouldn’t tell them they’re racist for that. I think there’s a difference between the de facto practice of generally dating within your race and openly declaring that you have a “strong preference to date people of [your] own race,” though. It’s not the practice of usually dating your own race that bothers me about that sentiment. It’s the strong negative attitude towards dating outside of your own race that is expressed by that specific phrasing that bothers me. First of all, if you are a white person and you say you actively want to date within your own race because you just don’t find people who aren’t white attractive physically, that suggests to me that you aren’t willing to give other races the chance to be attractive to you. It suggests to me that you haven’t taken the time to critically evaluate your own preferences and ask yourself to what extent they might be shaped by a culture that particularly celebrates white beauty by actively excluding nonwhite beauty. That devaluation of nonwhite beauty is itself a facet of racism, and even if at the end of the day you aren’t attracted to people who don’t look like you, if you are unwilling to give someone who doesn’t look like you an earnest chance to become physically attractive in your eyes, you’re most likely perpetuating that facet of racism. If you say you have a strong preference to date within your own race because of cultural differences, that suggests to me that you lack the compassion and empathy to embrace the cultural differences that could, if they were allowed to, make the melting pot of American culture stronger and more rich. Our society devalues nonwhite culture, especially Black culture (except when we’re appropriating it to make ourselves seem cooler or more edgy). The only time white culture seems to be okay with Black culture is after it’s been taken and repurposed as useful to our own. And so long as white culture is seen as the default culture as opposed to one culture among many, refusing to engage with nonwhite cultures perpetuates white supremacy. So while I understand and empathize with the practical difficulty of dating someone from a different cultural background, and I can see why a person would, in practice, not do a lot of it, I still think that shutting out the possibility of it like that is another extension of racism. Finally, as specifically relates to the guy from the post that started this conversation, the most damning evidence that he in particular is racist comes from his reaction to me suggesting his strong preference came from racist origins. When I said it was racist, he didn’t come back with a thoughtful, level response explaining why he answered that question that way. He went on a batshit insane, frothing-at-the-mouth tirade against me as a person. He even used “libtard,” which is basically code for “I call people cuck on the Internet and think President Trump is doing a great job” It seems pretty fucking unlikely to me that someone who is that irate at the mere suggestion that their attitude is racist has ever really considered why they believe the things they do or what the impact of their attitude is on other people. So even if some of you might have answered that survey prompt the same way he did for more thoughtful reasons than his, that doesn’t mean he in particular is not racist. I’m never going to tell any of you that you have an obligation to date outside of your own race, gender preferences, class, or physical preferences. But I do think anyone who is coming from a dominant cultural background has an obligation to at the bare minimum reflect on their preferences and interrogate their own beliefs. You need to have a better reason than “that’s just how I feel” when it comes to racism, or sexism, or classism, because people who are negatively impacted by those things aren’t just uncomfortable. They are dying because of it. They are being raped because of it. They are SUFFERING because of it, and it is never morally acceptable to ignore someone’s suffering. Thank you, truly, to those of you who used my post as an opportunity to engage in meaningful discourse. Even if at the end of the day we still disagree, your effort to have a conversation about it matters and I hope you will continue to do so. And yes, I’ll admit, I also hope that eventually you will see why I believe what I do and come around to agreeing with me. But even if you don’t, I thank you for participating and being willing to reflect anyway.