#I’ve lived in the suburbs most my life

[bloodtiesandbrickways]

Hey! You! Chronically online millennial looking at this ad!

Do you like lesbians? Do you like queer urban fantasy? Are you sick and tired of Chicago being the main character of every story and wish you could live in the faerie suburbs? Most important of all, do you like free shit?

Great, because this

is for you, and you don’t have to pay one single piece of money for it. In fact, odds are I’ve paid money to put this in front of your eyeballs in the worst Blazed post of all time. But if you’re already here, you might as well click one tiny little link for me. What could it cost you?

Click here for part one of Grocery Shopping is a Dangerous Job, a cozy urban fantasy novella about internalized classism, disability metaphors, shapeshifting of all flavors, F/F and trans!M/F relationship sideplots, and most important of all, what happens when you try and fight a kaiju with a mop after drinking half a gallon of cold process soap at thin trace.

Now, right now that link only goes to part one. Part two will be posted 3 May 2024, so, you know, after I’ve fought the horrible beast known as HTML style tags in the great game of copy/paste. Builds up the suspense, as they say. But I’m only gonna enjoy posting it if you read my story and send me hate mail about how much it sucks. And it has to be detailed hate mail, guys. None of that lazy shit. Tell me what specifically pissed you off or don’t bother.

There! That’s the end of the ad! Go do something useful with your life now, like read my story!

[calaisreno]

Cake

1146 words / Prompt: Laugh

Have some cake. It's my birthday.

Sherlock picks up his fork and examines the slice of cake before him. It’s yellow, with thick white icing and colourful sprinkles. 

John and Molly have already tasted their pieces and are talking about something. John makes a teasing remark about hearing aids. Apparently Sherlock has missed the question.

“Hm?”

John smiles at him. It’s a fond smile, but a sad one. Sherlock tries to remember the last time John looked happy. It’s been ages, he thinks. Even the smile on his face now isn’t truly happy. 

His wedding, maybe. He did smile a lot that day, but there was something ragged underneath. A kind of exhausted cheer. The days leading up the event were hectic, but it was worth it to give John and Mary a joyous day. Maybe it was relief Sherlock saw in those wedding smiles. Glad to have the big day go well, ready to wake up to a new life. 

The day Rosie was born, John’s smile was incredulous, full of wonder. But Sherlock could see he was terrified, too. It was the day it all became real, irrevocable. There was no going back for him and Mary. Nor for Sherlock. John was a father, and had responsibilities.

Unmingled joy. That’s what Sherlock is trying to remember. 

That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.

And you invaded Afghanistan.

It was the first time he heard John helpless with laughter. They’d stood inside the front door, leaning against the wall, giggling at the ridiculousness of what they’d just done, running through alleys and across rooftops. Welcome to London.

It was the moment when he first realised he wanted to kiss John. He wanted to hear that giggle of surrender again. To laugh every day with John and keep him forever.

It might have lasted, if Sherlock hadn’t created a problem that could only be solved by dying, leaving John alone for two years. 

He’d dreamed of coming home, hearing John laugh at his brilliant resurrection. He’d been so intent on that, he hadn’t realised. It may have been necessary to go away, but his return wasn’t as brilliant as he’d dreamed.

Well, then. Neither of them has been happy.

“You haven’t even tasted it,” John is saying. 

“Oh.” He lifts a bite to his mouth, smells vanilla, feels the icing melt on his tongue. “Delicious.” It is, and he takes another bite, even though he’s not hungry. 

John is smiling at him. 

He can’t stop thinking about John’s tears, just a half an hour ago in the flat. 

I’m not the man you thought I was. 

It’s not okay.

Well, it is what it is. John hasn’t been happy for a long time, he thinks. 

Though they never spoke of it, he knows John had mixed feelings about the marriage. A part of him loved Mary, but even though he forgave her, he never forgot:  what have I ever done… my whole life… to deserve you?

Mary wasn’t supposed to be like that. But she was. 

Sherlock wasn’t supposed to come back, but he did. 

John was supposed to be happy. He wasn’t.

Sometimes he thinks John might have been happy if Sherlock had stayed dead. He would have got over his best friend dying in front of him. He would have married and lived in the suburbs with his wife and child. His wife wouldn’t have shot Sherlock, and she wouldn’t have died, trying to protect him. He wouldn’t be raising his child alone. 

He eats his cake silently, pressing his fork into the last crumbs. 

“You’ve been quiet,” John says as they walk back to 221B. 

“Hm.” 

“About earlier… I’m sorry.” He huffs a small laugh. “Mood killer, for sure.”

He stops walking. “John.”

John is two paces ahead by the time Sherlock says his name. He turns and looks at Sherlock, puzzled. “What is it?”

“Are you happy?”

“Am I happy?” He gives a short, bitter laugh. “What does happiness have to do with anything? Are you happy?”

“Well, no one can be happy all the time. But I consider myself an optimistic person. I expect I will be happy again.”

“Are you…” John licks his lips. “Will you contact her?”

“No. She knows what I am, and doesn’t expect it.”

“Sherlock, I know I was pushing when I said you should… I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want that. I just wish you weren’t so alone.”

“Not so alone. I have you.” 

Sherlock resumes walking; John falls into step with him.

“Yeah, a great friend I’ve been.”

“You’re not perfect, John. Neither am I. You shouldn’t hold yourself to an impossibly high standard. Happiness is more important. Do you know,” he says, turning to look at John, “some of my happiest moments have been spent with you.”

John sighs. “We’ve had some good times. I’ll never forget the months we lived together. You saved me. I was so lost, so alone…” Glancing at Sherlock, he smiles wistfully. “Do you remember that night, when we were chasing the cab, and I forgot my cane at the restaurant?” He giggles. “Oh, God. Down alleys, across the rooftops. Welcome to London. That was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever done.”

Sherlock smiles. “Wanna see some more?”

“What are you saying?” John halts. 

Sherlock turns and faces him. “Come back. Move in with me, you and Rosie.”

John is gazing at him, his eyes soft. “Do you know what I wished for that night?”

“What did you wish, John?”

He looks down at his feet. “I wished… that I could spend the rest of my days running after you, trying to keep up. Giggling at crime scenes, running all over London, coming home and sitting in the evenings…” He sighs. “It can’t be like it was before. I have a child.”

“Another adventure I look forward to. We’ll hire a nanny, solve all the boring cases, and you’ll write them up for the blog. We’ll be together.” He puts his hands on John’s shoulders. “Come back to me.”

John shakes his head gravely. “You don’t know what you’re asking. Rosie’s a baby, and soon she’ll be toddling around, getting into everything.”

“That’s what babies do. They grow into children, and eventually leave home. And you’ll miss her then. I want to see her grow up, too. I want to be there when you send her off to uni. I want to help plan her wedding, hold your first grandchild. I want to retire to a cottage in Sussex with you and keep bees.”

“Bees?”

“Yes, John. Do keep up. If you don’t like bees, you ought to have plenty of cases to write up by then.”

John brushes tears from his eyes. “What are you saying?”

In answer, he puts his arms around John. “You said love would complete me as a human being. I’m saying, it already has.”

[cup1dxzs]

Darling little puppet

Wally Darling X Reader

It had been an early Saturday morning, the kind of morning in which the mourning dove could faintly be heard cooing from a tree it chose to perch upon and the morning sun slowly rising to shine it’s light across the land.

You’d decided to lounge around in the living room of your decently sized abode, located in the suburbs but not too far from the city yet not too close, it was just right in your opinion. For now you decided to pick up on a little doodle you had been doing just the night before, the silence of your living space had made you a little bit anxious so you’d settle on grabbing the remote to your Tv and leave a show running as some background noise to help keep you at bay.

Smiling fondly at the show, it somehow made you feel nostalgic and reminiscent of your younger years where your only concern had been getting home in time to watch the newest episode of your favorite show, the good ol’ times as you would put it. Finally breaking gaze from the screen you’d go back to your drawing as well, giggling a little bit as you’d felt similar to the blue haired fellow you saw just a second ago, leaving your current drawing of a blue jay bird unfinished you’d flip the page of the sketchbook and began your new journey of drawing the unnamed puppet.

‘Jeez am I really obsessing over a children’s show? I should get out more often…’ You thought to yourself as you snickered a little bit at your strange antics, maybe you should actually get out more often? But I mean who could even blame you? This life was as cozy as it could get, you were content with how things seemed to be going so far, laying down your pencil you’d look back up at the Tv in hopes to see your muse for the artistic drawing and in your favor there he was!

“Hello neighbor, I’m finally finished up with my painting, do you like it? Isn’t it just the most!” The pompadour adorning puppet spoke as he turned a piece of paper with an Apple drawn onto it, you gave a small grin as you credited yourself for doing such a good drawing despite having little reference as the yellow puppet had barely been on the screen. Finally tuning into the show you grinned at the silliness of the show presented before you, but the more you payed attention to more uneasy you felt, it was a small and slight feeling, only ever happing when that puppets gaze seemed to linger longer than it should’ve, staring right through you, almost as if it could actually see you and was just simply observing you from the inside the Tv.

“I really should get out more…”

———————————————————————————

HELLO EVERYONE!! This is indeed my first fanfic I’ve ever written, pls lmk if I should continue, I’m open to requests but Idk how to open my ask box :( hope y’all enjoyed it!! :D

[waugh-bao]

Not sure if you would know, but thought it worth a try. What type of accent did Charlie have? I know in England accents seem to have more meaning than in America, in terms of class and not just being a signal of where you’re from. I’ve read that Mick changes his to seem like he’s not as posh and I’ve also read that people respect Charlie never changed his. But what is it? Just cockney? I don’t know, but I like it. Especially on words like water and daughter, like when he was talking about the IORR video and said he doesn’t like “me head under water”.

Accents in the UK, and especially England, are a huge cultural and class marker in a way they just really aren’t in the US. Like there is a general bias you’ll see in America of, for example, perceiving people with southern accents as less educated or intelligent vis a vis a more standard northeastern ones, but they don’t have as much regional and class variance and significance. There’s a really good NYT’s article on the subject from the early ‘90s that does a deep dive on it. One of the important things to keep in mind is that even the English accents which outsiders might be familiar with, like RP (Received Pronunciation) come in variations, between the very standard and crisp BBC newsreader of the ‘40s-90s type and the aristocratic variant that has a bunch of peculiarities in pronunciation and vocabulary (think King Charles and the tendency to pronounce a word like “power” as “pāh”). I lived in London for almost 4 years to do my undergrad degree and go back frequently, and of all the places I’ve been in the world it’s still far and away the one where people are the most likely to openly comment on your accent. I was lucky in that the comments were mostly positive, but it’s still a jarring experience when you first start living there.

Mick’s accent is 100% a put on. I hate to cite Bill as a credible source, but he has a point when he says that Mick’s accent is a fake, which is something people who have worked for him have also said. It’s a really exaggerated Cockney accent, which doesn’t match being from a pretty far London suburb (Dartford) or having grown up middle class. Considering his age and background he probably had elocution lessons as a kid to learn to speak RP, especially because people who are around him in private have said he speaks “The Queen’s English.” It’s an act to look like an ‘authentic’ rock star, which there is often associated with coming from a lower class, tough background. When in reality he went to university and is the child of a homemaker and a PE teacher. I think Keith’s accent is authentic, it’s just a very non-standard jumble of Cockney, RP, and American mid-Atlantic, because he’s lived in the US longer than he has in the UK at this point.

My (tentative) classification for Charlie would be Estuary English. It’s a cross between RP and Cockney that’s associated with the Thames and its estuary/the wide London region and surrounding suburbs and towns. Charlie definitely leaned heavier to the Cockney side, especially earlier in his life, but there’s a really interesting combination of the two dialects in his way of speaking. Like that quote you pointed out, he was never consistent in making the “my - me” switchover, where the “me” as possessive article is hugely characteristic of Cockney English. It’s the same thing with his “h”s, sometimes he dropped them and sometimes he didn’t (although RP can do that sometimes too, but not as often). He also tended to use more outmoded vocabulary from Cockney slang, with words like “bloke”, which was probably a reflection of the fact that he never really lived in London (other than keeping a flat in Kensington, which is a bastion of RP) after the mid-1960s and was holding onto the variety from his childhood and young adult years.

[january-summers]

I just made myself giggle, and I’ve decided to share why and make it everyone’s problem >:3c

I kind of have this crack treated seriously AU that’s been floating in the back of my brain on an off for a while and it goes like this:

The alpha team from PFL (plus who ever makes it funnier) end up in a simulation of what we might consider a modern au, or at least a sitcom america suburbia version of a modern au.

How? Uhhhh, they were exploring possible forerunner ruins and Santa’s cousin never finished their system set up so their trials are, uhm, whatever I need them to be.

Anyway, in suburbia land Carolina and York are the newly wed couple who have just moved into the area (or cul de sac, we can put them on a dead end street) which is densely populated by the other Freelancers.

Wyoming and Florida live together.

(So do Washington and Maine because I still ship it damnit!)

They start to realise none of this is real and that they’re trapped but all attempts to forcibly wake others or escape end in escapades.

So on and so forth, and everyone gets to (is forced to by the simulation which makes them think this is real life) use their pre-PFL names.

Now, not all of them have names which we know, some we often fill in with head canons or borrowed headcanons, like I picked up Mattias for Maine from a fic and it stuck in my head, and I like Kathrine (Kathy) or Caroline for Carolina but then I realised I couldn’t remember if I knew if York had a name or not.

And this is why I was giggling:

My brain threw out the option “Newton York.”

How do they get out of there? Either my best adult ass man boy Wash is able to notice some stuff and find Santa’s cousin and ask them to knock it off. Or after a series of hilarious hijinks the street finally makes it to the big local festival which they have to save from disaster (normal sitcom disaster like vodka in the free punch, missing decorations/leading act, a stolen prize winning plant/animal) and the credits roll on their season finale because all they had to do was make it there without anyone dying which almost happened.

Santa’s cousin was just bored and wanted to play Suburbs & Sitcoms, the lamest of D&D variations.

… also I kind of need most of the Freelancers to take a ridiculously long time to realise that Maine’s “housemate” David, is Washington because he doesn’t take his helmet off very often and they were all convinced Wash is at least 7 years younger than he actually is.

[desertdollranch]

Hi, I am Amy from Adelaide!

"I love sport especially Netball, Soccer and Football. But when I grow up I’m going to be an actress. I think that would be so cool!"

"Where we live we are too far away from the country and too far away from the city. Stuck in the suburbs."

"Well, I guess the park is something."

"There are netball courts, and goals for soccer and football there."

"Oh! And I’m part of the junior netball team! We’re called the Pink Galahs. I practice all the time, so that one day I’ll be really good. I like to practice everything I do over and over again till it’s perfect.

"I live with my mum, dad and my two little sisters. They are twins and can be a bit annoying sometimes, but they are small and cute so they get away with it. I’m the big sister. That means I get my own room – finally. I had to share with the twins for ages.

"My house is kinda small and I’ve lived in it my entire life. We live next door to an empty lot, and nobody ever goes there except me and my friends when they visit."

"There are a few trees and the grass is really long. Dad says it’s probably filled with snakes, so I always whack the ground with a stick when I walk through the grass."

"Emily told me that scares them away. She should know because she hates snakes, and her big brother told her so it must be trues."

"Me and my friends built a cubby house there, and it’s our secret place. Not even the twins know about it, because if they did they’d want to play there with us all the time and that would be annoying. The empty lot is the most interesting thing at my house."

(--from Australian Girl's profile of Amy)

[lezbianz]

not to post about barbie movie but america ferrera’s speech at the end - while it has been hailed as a masterpiece in feminist writing by some - just fell so, so incredibly flat for me. i don’t know, but i think the whole “it’s so hard to be a woman! you have to be confident, but not too confident; thin, but not too thin; a working woman, but also a mother” etc. narrative kind of…doesn’t like, actually apply in real life? if you’re a celebrity, or a corporate worker, then yeah, sure, maybe. (though i think like, maybe a total of 1 person ever has been considered “too thin.”) but i don’t see this struggle of How To Be A Woman at all in my real life😭 and i don’t know, maybe the republican suburb i live in is secretly a feminist utopia, but i don’t see anyone making these demands of most women! or maybe i’m just a lesbian, so i’ve never felt the need to cater my whole existence toward what men feel about me - but then, would greta gerwig think i’m a woman?

[time-to-write-and-suffer]

Let’s talk about #swedengate

Hi.

I’m here to give my two cents about the current meme going around about Swedish families not feeding their guests, particularly children who come over to play with their kids.

My initial reaction to this meme was “Wow, out of all the things to roast Sweden for, the Americans picked the thing that’s untrue? Guess they’re just happy that the world isn’t making fun of them for a change.” But then I gave it some thought, and actual Swedes, that I actually know and can confirm are Swedish, said that the memes are true, while others said they were bullshit, including my own initial reaction. So then I thought back to my childhood, and realized that hey, there’s some nuance here. But it’s more complicated than “Swedes are evil and racist and classist and don’t give people food because they hate intimacy and love and joy” and “Swedes are wonderful and perfect and super generous and actually Americans stfu you don’t even take your shoes off inside.”

This is about Culture TM.

So what are my credentials? Well, I don’t have any. I took some basic sociology and ethnicity and culture classes and now I pretend I know things. However, I have something more important than that: 1) I’ve lived in Sweden for two thirds of my life 2) I’m a zillennial so my experiences are probably still relevant and 3) I’m an immigrant from a working class family. My perception of Swedish customs is not colored by patriotism, and I can compare them to the culture of my birth country.

Feel free to ask for clarifications and details and such, but be civil. Svenskar är välkomna att dela med sig av sina erfarenheter, men bara om du är normal, okej?

So here are my, I think fairly unbiased but informed, thoughts.

First of all: yes, Swedish families will feed the kids who come over. However:

Sometimes they won’t :)

A common experience for me was that the parents would ask if I would join, then ask for dietary restrictions and potentially whether what they were making was okay. Sometimes they’d adjust the food accordingly. Back when I was still Muslim, I remember the parents of my then-bestie got visibly upset when I said I’d be going home instead of eating with them, because they’d made chicken instead of pork for my sake. Now, I was always shy and socially anxious, but this was partly informed by the Swedish culture surrounding food and particularly family dinners. I’ll get there, though.

While many of my experiences coming over to friends’ houses included having dinner with the family, I do remember many a time where I've had to wait alone in their room for my friend to be done eating with their family. This is, to an outsider (especially one with different cultural upbringings) very strange and seems maybe draconian in some way. I want to figure out why that is, because to me, it’s awkward but pretty normal.

It should be noted that I was never forced to sit alone and starve, nor that parents will just lock children who aren’t their own in a room to contain them while they gorge themselves on meatballs and surströmming, but rather that this was the result of many different factors.

From what I’ve seen, it could be no-food is more common among city folks than country bumpkins. I grew up in smaller towns, because that’s where immigrants get punted due to the expensive living in the cities, and people there were pretty willing to feed you.

I could also argue that the household’s class has an influence on whether you get fed or not. I remember that I never once shared a meal with my one Swedish friend who was lower-class (she lived in an apartment like the immigrant kids in the town, versus all the other Swedes who had their own houses in the suburbs). I also never once ate at very wealthy kids’ houses, either. So lower class people won’t feed you because they can’t afford it, while upper class people won’t feed you because they’re assholes. This leaves that middle-class families tend to be the most likely ones to feed you, which is my own experience. This is anecdotal and heavily misremembered evidence, but still interesting to think about.

To me, the two things that determine whether you get fed are the family’s own attitude and how well you know them. A lot of families will just assume you’re staying to eat, and won’t even ask or have the kids ask you, because they’re just like that. They’re peppy, they’re friendly, they’re fun. Sometimes they’ll ask about dietary restrictions and might even make you something separate if it turns out you can’t eat what they have.

But the second factor is the main one I want to talk about. You see, Swedes are socially awkward. Or at least, they’re deeply uncomfortable with strangers. They avoid eye contact on public transport, they don’t strike up conversations with random people, and they stand 10 feet away from each other on the bus stop. So when people from other cultures say sharing food is a sort of social bonding exercise, a type of intimacy, is it really a surprise that Swedes are hesitant to participate?

Those families that will feed you? More often than not, the parents will ask you, or ask their children to ask you, whether you’ll stay for food. And due to how Sweden tells you to be polite and unassuming, it’s generally seen as more polite to decline. Some parents will try to convince you, but a some won’t. So if you’re not going home to eat and want to resume playtime later, you’re waiting.

And you, raised in a different culture, might think, “Wow, this is messed up! How do you put that responsibility on children? Just feed them!” But the question isn’t really about that. A Swedish parent isn’t thinking “Am I morally obligated, as an adult, to feed every child that shows up on my doorstep?” They’re thinking: “What if they can’t eat this? What if they don’t like it? I’m not gonna assume they’ll want to eat what I made, that’s rude! What if I make them uncomfortable by making them eat? What if they’re too shy to refuse and eat something they shouldn’t? What if they ate already and simply don’t want to? What if they want to eat with their family at home instead of with us?” Assuming that the child 1) can eat what you made 2) wants to eat what you made 3) wants to share this meal with you, would be rude. It’s easier to ask, and if they say no, you respect that decision. You treat that child as an individual making their own decisions, not as a nebulous little creature you must feed simply because you’re the one making the food.

I’m not arguing pro or con, I’m explaining the mindset.

There’s also another, final layer to this smörgåstårta How do we define a meal? How do we share food, what’s for everyone and what’s for the family only?

You see, Swedish families have a focus on family dinner. Kids get down and eat together with their parents. It’s the norm. It’s the time to share what’s happened and gossip about people they know. Based on the reactions I’ve seen, this isn’t the case in other places. Dinner isn’t something reserved for the family, but something to be shared with others. That’s fine. But it’s different. So when strangers come by, it’s awkward for the average Swede. So they ask, “Are you eating here? Are you sharing this with us?” And you, a small Swedish child, just as aware of the intimacy of the moment because you do this very thing at home, do the quick assessment of whether it’s rude to intrude, whether you’re close enough to this family to say yes, whether you’re comfortable sharing this with them instead of with your own family at home, and come to a conclusion, “No, thank you.” But you’re not gonna leave just because they’re eating, that would be weird! And you want to keep playing later. So you wait.

EDIT: I forgot another small factor that others have pointed out, and it’s that whether you join people for dinner also depends on how long you’re staying. Like if you’re sleeping over at a friend’s house, then it’s obvious you’ll get fed. One family that I was very close with as a kid even let me join in on movie nights, sitting on the couch with blankets and eating snacks together. It was very good and chill, but that’s a level up over just joining them for dinner. High level play, not recommended for beginners.

You know what’s the most common way that Swedish family will feed kids that aren’t their own? They’ll make the food and then set it on the kitchen counter and shout “Food’s ready!” And then you and your friend go downstairs, put food on your plates, and haul it back to their room. That’s the most consistent way you get fed as a kid in a Swedish house. When the expectation isn’t “join us for dinner,” it’s a lot more casual and, seemingly, inviting. It also bypasses the need to ask whether the kid will be joining or not: they can simply take the food if they want to or not if they don’t. But it doesn’t have the same vibe to a lot of Americans, because it doesn’t happen around a big jolly table. But the big jolly table is for family only. Are you close enough to this family yet? Are the parents cheery enough to make it inviting? Can you eat what they’re offering? Do you want to? Do you have a dinner waiting at home in just an hour and it’s food you really like versus the food you don’t like here?

It’s about politeness, really. It’s polite of the parent to ask, and it’s polite of the child to decline. That might be fucked up to an outsider, and many an essay can be written about this, I’m sure, but in the end, it’s not really malicious. It’s just culture and socialization.

In Russia, it’s expected to bring something when you visit someone. If you’re gonna eat there, you bring something to eat as well. Swedes just fucking hate that. Well not really, but they don’t get it, and it makes them uncomfortable. I know because I’ve delivered many a weird gift my mom sent me with to many a baffled and embarrassed Swedish parent who didn’t know how to react. It’s just not done that way here. So it’s not always about being a cheapskate or a snob, nor is it about racism or classism. (For the record, any Swedish family who’s racist enough not to offer a kid food just because they’re a PoC is already racist enough to not let that kid into their house in the first place, which I feel is pretty obvious but idk people are dumb I guess.)

There’s a lot of layers to this. And it comes down to not being evil or racist or hating fun and joy and the spiritual purity of food sharing or whatever the fuck. Sure, there are assholes who tell you to leave before dinner or won’t feed you ever, but they’re the exception, not the rule. It’s mostly about how fucking awkward Swedes are and how even adults can’t usually handle it in a normal way.

That’s not to say that Sweden and Swedes aren’t racist, they very much are. Think of Sweden less as a socialist utopia and more of a wannabe America. It’s a capitalist state slowly being turned further and further right by the neo-Nazis in its government. It has a deeply troubled history with eugenics, genocide, and general racism, and is currently a very segregated society both in terms of class and ethnicity. It pretends to be all about personal freedoms and progress while anyone darker than a vanilla wafer is, generally, fucked. It’s like a white gay’s utopia, but only the type of white gay who’s the target audience of all those rainbow profile pics the corporations switch to in June.

What I’m trying to say is that the food thing has a lot of different layers, not all of which relate to and include the darker parts of Sweden’s past and existence.

If you do want to make fun of something food-related in Sweden that’s actually mildly racist and problematic, go ahead and laugh about how the most popular foods in Sweden that many Swedes consider to be “Swedish food staples” are actually imported and refined by immigrants. That includes tacos, kebab, pizza, etc. Traditional Swedish food is, in general, pretty garbage. Just some of the whitest, saltiest meat you can put on the world’s hardest piece of flat stone some might call bread. And there’s inexplicable jam everywhere. Will defend IKEA’s meatballs with my life though.

So um anyway. That’s that on that, I guess! And again, none of this is scientific or backed up by anything. These are just my thoughts and experiences. Hope it helps y’all decide whether this meme is funny or not <3

[faithfromanewperspective]

the western sydney work ethic, mental health, burnout, inequality and ableism

inspired by ashton irwin on artist friendly with joel madden and 17902 sustainable urban development at the university of technology sydney

I’ve teased the idea of writing this post for a while now, and now I’m sitting in my borrowed bed in Sydney with the graphs and maps from my course still at the back of my eyelids and still processing the Vibes of catching up with my childhood friends and wondering if it’s too early to go to bed if the sun’s still up—it’s time to let it out. Because I found a bunch of seemingly unrelated things and put them together in a way that helped me process my upbringing and the way it’s positioned me as I go through life even now.

For background of this post, the Greater Sydney metropolis has a very stark rich/poor divide, where a large strip from the west going to the south of the city have been left behind in a variety of ways. In my uni course I see the maps on income, education level, job overqualification, crime, violence… they’re nice and set out, and they validate what I already intuitively knew—just like everyone who grew up in the area I’m going to refer to vaguely as Western Sydney. These graphs put words to something I’ve lived when I was too young to process it, something I hear the impacts of in 5 seconds of summer’s songs like I’ve never seen in any other art ever.

I know many people relate too and I don’t want to say you have to be from Western Sydney to get it. There are plenty of other places with similar trends, but this strip of suburbs, half a city, is where I grew up and the case study I’m going to use for the phenomenon I’m going to describe in this post.

Having spent the last decade and a bit in a more conservative, more sheltered area of suburban Brisbane, where people take it slow and at least attempt to have fun without getting completely wasted; where people have high expectations for their lives and livelihoods they never quite meet and where they’re the kind of emotionally aware that you hear all about how stressful that experience is: this was the backdrop of my teens and young adult years to this point. It’s where I learned about mental health and neurodivergence and ableism and where I really explored what faith and spirituality is to me. It’s where I never quite felt comfortable when people were too polite, where I poured all the belief they had in me as a gifted kid plonked into that environment I wasn’t native to into the delusion that I could deconstruct the unequal education system of their own creation if I only worked harder than anyone had ever worked before. Then they would finally listen. It’s where I tried and tried to get help for my mental health and wasn’t listened to either, not when I presented so well and was simply unable to unmask until I was unable to mask at all. Where the slightest bit of hope caused me to forget everything that was hurting me, making it a struggle to work through even to this day. where I wondered if I was some superhuman for the fact that I can work my ass off without even realising it’s hard work, a smile on my face and arms open for connection as always (the mark of health they say) while being desperately unwell, hurting, thinking I had it good compared to some of the people I’d see crumple under the pressure, I should be kind to them (not understanding why I found them so, so relatable).

I am not a freak of nature, or superhuman, though I am neurodivergent and twice-exceptional. I am the product of my upbringing and my ancestors. I carry generations of culture from hectares of foreign lands my ancestors made their homes on (ethically questionably in some cases I do acknowledge) and became part of the ecosystem of. It is, like most difference, a gift and a curse. Something that makes certain measures of ableism not apply to me, but creates others in their place. I’ll get into this more later.

in the strip of suburbs united by demographics we call Western Sydney, farmers from the notoriously difficult land of the Murray-Darling and immigrants from everywhere on the planet, some Indigenous but few Indigenous to Australia, make up classrooms, neighbourhoods, workplaces. Think I Am Australian by The Seekers, but just the verses, as a snapshot of some of the stories representative of the people. Interwoven in the landscape. We celebrated Harmony Day on the 21st of March in my primary school. Everyone had a different cultural background. We heard different languages spoken on the street. There were stereotypes. There were scared people trying to find their tribe, build a life in Australia, away from the larger scale farms, get their kids a good education to do a trade or go to university. Fear and angst and hurt coexisting with an appreciation of the juxtaposition of others you’d never head admitted out loud. But the second verse of the Australian national anthem was written just for us, or might as well have been. Beneath our radiant southern cross, we’ll toil with hearts and hands… google the lyrics, you’ll get it, you’ll see why I wish the rest of Australia did too: for those who’ve come across the seas, we’ve boundless plains to share, with courage let us all combine to advance Australia fair…

No one with the power to acknowledge this I interact with these days remembers the second verse. Except 5 Seconds Of Summer, in their ridiculous little promo videos, who I’d bet the rubble that’s left of my parents’ old house as the new owners turn it into a mansion because Gentrification, have no idea of what a meaningful gesture that is.

I can feel the wounds of being torn from the good parts of that experience closing over. And so it’s time to give the often forgotten stories on an often forgotten piece of land that made me and also these four wonderful humans who we are today, the credit it deserves. Start by telling our stories.

One thing I love about Artist Friendly is it cuts straight to it. Joel Madden is just incredible like that—in a world coming out of the 2010s pop decade of dancing while the room is on fire (bloodhound, 5sos) put your rose coloured glasses on and party on (Katy Perry’s chained to the rhythm) (these I would consider more analytical quotes of the era, one whose vibe was ‘forget all the pain in the world, let’s party and sing about how horny we are’ which for all my cynicism I did find fun)—he kept up his punk edge, kept investing in new musicians, searching for and investing in what’s real. He also really loves Australia, and when you put our underdog-supporting attitude next to Good Charlotte’s songs you understand why. Anyway, the episode pretty much opens by him asking Ashton about his background, and relating from the perspective of working-class-emotionally-unavailable/immature-parents-who-showed-their-love-through-provision-and-really-did-try-to-be-there-but-had-none-of-the-resources. I like the positive take. It’s high time we stop being classist and ableist towards the people who’ve met our needs as much as they were able, but it still wasn’t enough. Who taught us how to take opportunities, work to prove our worth, and through it all couldn’t even afford therapy.

I used to think my family was rich because we lived in Australia and my parents had gone to university. Never mind the fact that I was born when they were barely older than I am now. Never mind the mould in the walls or sneaky Tuesday night washing of the school uniforms in the summer when we got sweaty and there weren’t any spares or the mismatched bargain bin clothes we wore or the bedroom I shared with my sisters. I knew the people I compared us to. And now I do really believe if I’d grown up a bit less frugal or even a few k’s out of the area I did I wouldn’t be who I am. I wouldn’t have the perspectives I have, nor would this podcast episode have me feeling so seen. Like, yes I lived a bit further into the city than these guys, close to the train line without any farmland where the house values shot up seemingly overnight and meant the area I grew up in is experiencing a very weird disparity as two cities collide within it today. But we grew up in the same era in western sydney, we grew up loved and knowing that was a privilege and we grew up knowing from a very young age we had to spend our whole lives working hard if we wanted life to be manageable and we better be polite and better not ask for too much.

yet we also grew up with hurt. From the trauma we inherited from our caregivers as we encountered the attitudes and fears with which they faces the world. From what we saw our peers go through much too young to be able to draw boundaries with the empathy we felt too much of and understood nothing of. From broken family relationships that were all too common. From religion that hurting people used to cause or at least stagnate hurt instead of healing.

when I was burning out and struggling as an unrecognised neurodivergent I used to wonder why my father would place such value on the Protestant work ethic when Jesus died exactly so we wouldn’t have to strive. And I acknowledge that the PWE is harmful to many disabled folk or literally anyone who has experienced the demands of life and had their stress invalidated for it. Including myself. But never having the expectation of a life of ease and luxury? I do appreciate that. It’s given me a whole different metric for how I view life, one none of my friends except those who are from those years of my life understand. No one in Brisbane or my online international friends seem to get it. But I’m sure when you see yourself in this post, that some of you will (we might be the largely unheard minority but I’m sure we exist. Joel Madden is proof of that). It’s given me a differently calibrated emotional pain scale in many ways. Different standards for when the warning lights come on (and I’m very perceptive of angst and disappointment and always see them in others to be worse than they are because of it). And when I look at everything this band has accomplished, I know it’s the same for them.

I have spent a lot of time these last years advocating for neurodivergent acceptance. I’ve done so in a way that made sense of the decade previous, of existing in a world of inequality I’ve always been so sensitive to and of expectations that I took on as opportunities (because what else have I been trained to do)? And yet so much of it is about funding and resources. And when there isn’t that? You make room for my favourite thing ever: grassroots, unofficial but beautifully organic loving neurodivergent affirmation. Plenty of rural folks, my grandparents included, hate labels, prefer focusing on strengths and equipping young people based on those than accommodating difficulties. They’re often seen as conservative, bigoted, ableist, and some of them are. But they bring with them an important lesson about how to live with the realities of the economy that they struggle in too, too much to support someone else. They don’t have the same impossible expectations of their neurodivergent progeny and protegees and community members that many who hold in their heads an idea of perfection they hope to bring to their families do (the kind of things sometimes only a diagnosis can free someone from, and nothing from the memory and shame of) and that—that is an important attitude for all of us to have.

Some people are unconventionally neurodivergent affirming while knowing none of the terms, or maybe trying to hold off using them because of the same economic and confidence reasons I’ve tried to unpack. Some rely on simple kindnesses and explanations that centre around possibility, and go nowhere near deficit. Some people know intuitively or through hard life lessons themselves (usually the latter) the value of stripping all but essentials from the functionality of everyday life. Not making it any harder than it is.

Of course you can drum on the tables in math class. My son is a musician, I get how it is.

Liz Hemmings is the only valid neurodivergence parent—I’ll say no more, it is how it is

Sometimes when we advocate for things we have to be aware that the way the dominant in-power often wealthy culture has figured it out isn’t always the best way to do things. Environmentalism is a prime example of this. This is why we need brown environmentalism and to decolonise and listen to our Indigenous stewards and share power.

You can take a lot of lessons from a place that’s as culturally diverse as Western Sydney. And you can see how a work ethic is facilitated, rather than gatekept. You can see why Ash, when asked by Joel if he’s scared of every getting back to that life (ref to poverty) his attitude is actually one of gratitude and almost reverence for the place that shaped him, that brought the band together and everything that came from that point forwards. That shaped their attitude and birthed the grit that got them through being on tour with one direction and I don’t think he said it but in Ash’s case I bet the empathy he has for the fans and the way he just wants to connect and create a fun experience but also one where we’re deeply seen by moving songs is because he knows what it’s like for so many people. You can’t not if you grew up like we did. You can see why Luke at any chance will say ‘we’re from Sydney Australia’. It has a way of sticking to you, the rich culture that’s a patchwork of orphaned cultures, the way everyday life is like one of those adventures you emerge from with strong bonds usually only found in fantasy novels. You can see that the band is proof that those bonds exist in real life.

after a decade and a bit pretending I know what leisure is and how to have fun without Bad Angst I’m glad that this proof is still in my life. I’ve still got close friends from primary school and few can boast that (we might not quite be Calum and Michael in that regard, but they still have other friends from primary who they’ve kept in touch with despite geographical separation as I have).

Now I’ve acknowledged this and traced the strings that are much easier to see when my own life is mirrored in a podcast episode, maybe I can find the good among the cultural dysphoria in the circles I do have in Brisbane, and do value still for what they are even if they’re not quite the same. Now that I can see how a world of too many opportunities and not enough freedom can burn someone out who came from this background, with the type of brain that flourishes on being a latchkey kid and sketchy hangouts with deep conversations and questionable substances but crumples under expectation and too much choice and politeness, I can put my life back together in a way that validates who I am and where I come from, rather than what those around me tell me should be good for me.

as, I can tell by this interview, these guys have. I want to be able to talk about suffering without people acting like it shouldn’t be something we can comfortably say out loud, as Ashton does here and through music. My art isn’t quite the same, but the purpose behind it is so, so similar. I relate a lot to the importance he places on spirituality, even if I’ve tried to do something with Christianity that it, in the mainstream at least, isn’t built for and probably can only partially do on its own. Maybe the epitome of humility is being able to learn from other religions and see them as gifts from God even as, and I include Christianity here as well, anything can be dangerous if used in a way that it wasn’t meant for: anything with power to heal has power or hurt too. I’ve got so much respect for how Ash does it. I think this episode really cemented for me that, and I feel like it’s something we as a fandom don’t talk about enough because of their characterisation (and fair enough, if you’re famous you don’t want people dissecting every part of you, and I’m not going to do that just give a generalised compliment): these guys are so incredibly resilient and intelligent and invested in creating healing and they’re really fucking good at it. They might present themselves as goofs with one braincell that create bops and fan over other celebrities as if they themselves aren’t famous too, but so much of that is humility and them baring themselves in ways that are sustainable and really emotionally mature (for the most part) to be relatable to us as fans and invest in making that connection genuine. They’re not pretending, because they understand how it is to be human.

and you don’t get there by being some sort of Untouchable Philosophical Genius Figure. you get there because you’ve lived in community and you’ve survived hard things because of other people who’ve done similar and created authentic art too. You get there often because you have to: because putting on a fake show and doing stuff for likes and popularity was never going to work and will only screw you up in the long run and you’re worldly enough to see that from a young age and learn from your own intuition and empathy and experiences. You get there because you lived your whole life being resourceful and being street smart and doing what it takes to make good decisions and invest in yourself (who else do you have who’s worth more than that) and your future. Doing what it takes to make sure you’re alive to learn how to do better at things you’re behind in that might keep food on the table in the future, because there’s none of that oh-it-won’t-happen-to-me attitude. That part is very sustainable which I love. I also really really relate to it and have found it something I would get complimented on when I was younger, too young to be so mature. But I never attributed it to myself. I knew somehow, abstractly, I was disabled and nearing my limit and everything I do I did so I could survive. It’s the western Sydney work ethic.

and yet this often beautiful phenomenon has its ugly side. If you know you’re neurodivergent even without the words—more often than not the only people you see who you relate to are those who didn’t make it, who fell off the horse of functionality and into things like addiction and other things that exacerbate the inability to empower yourself. You figure that when you’re honest with yourself you’ll be dead by 25. Sometimes you give up on trying to prevent that and wonder if it’s even worth it to attempt to keep going: is your life really worth that effort?? What I’ve described is a combination of the experiences of many people I know, aspects of it are mine, and aspects mirror things I know these guys have mentioned about themselves (I’m going to leave it at that vague level of detail). You wonder why people believe in you, is it only because any other option is unmentionable? But what if you let them down like you know (fear) you will? And burnout is the epitome of this: the need to let go of trying. And without a decent amount of privilege it’s impossible to return from.

I’ve been there and scrounged at straws of privilege I do have, pretending I’m doing my job to the level that others expect while letting go of every expectation I have on myself. Still problem solving outside every box on how to get back on my feet because I know nothing else, radically accepting that I might not and whittling down all my needs in life to the most essential, that I might still survive even at my limited and diminishing capacity. While always relating to those our society sees as failures. I’ve borrowed from other cultures that aren’t my own to have a stubborn sense of worth while trying to keep afloat in a society and economy that says it’s conditional. My spirituality comes in here, as do my problem-solving skills: again, maybe this culture fears burnout more than anything, but maybe it has half a toolkit on how to get out of it. Only half. I have to pair it with what I learn from others too.

and even through that, I’m immensely privileged to have savant skills and a generally able body. Just like when you make it big as a musician you’re privileged by that. Against a backdrop of I’m-nothing-special. I’ve always struggled with questions of my felt worth, because I’m so conscious of my privilege and ability that sometimes I get the two muddled (though I know my ability doesn’t define my worth in things I do poorly at, and my persistence technically doesn’t either but I’ll be damned if I don’t try and try and actually find doing badly more validating of how I see myself than when I do well, so I chase it again and again, my dad is the same, it’s what makes us so adventurous). I understand the consciousness of things that are going well not lasting, and pouring creativity for new ventures into things like selling candles. Instead of letting achievements make me believe I’m someone more important than I am, using them as ways of giving myself space to do whatever’s next, dial off the pressure a little bit.

I understand appreciating others’ sensitivity and the social capital they bring everywhere rather than their material wealth or achievement and when Ash praised Calum for that and said it made him look bad I felt that. Both the experience of being that counter-cultural person who doesn’t give a shit about money but values connection so, so much more (and from all I’ve written, you can see why, can’t you) to still never being able to be as good a person as I see the need for in the world.

I understand missing family and constantly grieving that, as I weigh up the city of my childhood with the friends and culture I love versus the city of my youth with my feathered family who are my children and who I hate to miss birthdays of and the like, same goes for my sisters and parents and grandparents, the way Ashton, the only band member with younger siblings, hates missing all their milestones too. I feel privileged that Brisbane and Sydney are so close to each other and nothing in my life is as far as Los Angeles. I understand the nostalgia for Sydney. This whole post is proof of it.

I understand the unbreakable bonds between people who make this kind of art together. I understand putting disagreements on the back burner and realising the connection through writing is so much bigger and the connection can overcome whatever is going wrong. Heck, I feel privileged to understand and relate to how such brilliant brains work (nature: neurodivergence I won’t go any further into as well as nurture) as well as the environment that made them what they are.

all my life I’ve longed for that kind of community and connection I’ve seen largely in fiction, sometimes between people in real life. And I think having written this analysis (it’s taken me til my bedtime or later) I do have all the ingredients there. All the ability to make it, both in the practical way I relate to and am there for my friends and whatever I do in my silver bridges tag. In the neighbourhoods I eventually design that foster communities with all the good parts I’ve described but without the inequality and minimal poverty and hurt and violence. To everyone who’s shown me these things in myself that are so worth working for and I know I’m not savantly immediately good at, I am so so incredibly grateful. the city as a whole. My family and friends. The celebrities I grew up nearby and those who invest in people like them. People like me. May I keep investing in people: people like you. because what is humility but knowing there’s always something to learn, and what will bring all of us forward but learning it and putting it into practice in love and empathy that drives a grit that no amount of striving for striving’s sake can manufacture?

[nakianshuri]

If there’s anything I’ve learned about a good portion of the Stranger Things online fandom, is that they’ve projected on to these characters so much that the show in their head is not at all the show that the Duffer brothers are writing. I mostly see this from the POV of a Steve fan and Stancy shipper since season 1, but I like most of the other characters, too, and they get distorted to hell and back by bad takes as well. 

A lot of the conversation about Stancy in season 4 has revolved around Steve’s dream and how that relates to Nancy’s scene with Jonathan in season 1 that keeps being brought up again and again and again not because of what she actually says in the scene but in what she represents to viewers when she says it. It really feels like people have projected their own rejection of marriage, kids, etc onto that scene so it’s not really about Nancy the fictional character anymore but something much more personal. Which is the only way I explain people saying they rather stick pokers in their eyes or whatever than see her with a family with Steve. Steve’s dream of summer family adventures appealing to Nancy (which it is if you actually watch that Winnebago scene) is discussed like some existential threat. And with a lot of anger. But that’s just what I’ve observed.

I’ve often seen posts reblogged on my dash or in the Stancy tag saying that scene was Nancy standing against being saddled with a husband and kids in the suburbs and heteronormativity in general. Maybe? But that reading leaves no room for the idea that maybe there are other interpretations of the scene. Literally no room to think that what she’s talking about is being trapped with no career path and with a man she never loved. Or that what Nancy doesn’t want to be saddled with is a life she settled for and a life of complacency. 

Nancy doesn’t say she fears marriage or children but complacency, safety, a lack of initiative, lack of self-awareness, being one of the mindless crowd, which in season 1 and beginning of season 2 is what Steve represents, which the show said through Jonathan in seasons 1 and 2 and Murray in season 2.  I’ve seen people say Steve was wrong in telling Nancy his dream because she was in a relationship. So what? Jonathan in season 1 knew Nancy was with Steve and still talked badly about him. He doesn't it again in season 2 when he tells Murray Steve is the one who represents Nancy clinging to safety rather than to love. And he doesn't it again in season 4 when he basically says Steve’s couldn’t lead the Hawkins group. And honestly, I don’t care enough about Jonathan to get mad about it. 

If you remember what happened in the show this season, however, you’ll recall Eddie told Steve that Nancy still loves him, and Steve later decides that maybe he can be honest about his feelings, too. It’s also a juxtaposition to Jonathan’s lack of honesty about his own feelings. 

But back to what Nancy wants: She wants to be the best at what she does. She wants to lead and to be respected by her peers for her talent and intellect. She wants to investigate the dark corners of the world and wants to find hidden truths. She never says--or hasn’t said yet--that this is only possible if she remains unmarried and without children.

In the past, the only person willing to live this life of discovering and truth with her was Jonathan. Except season 3 showed that might not be the case. That he for his own reasons wasn’t willing to search for the truth if it jeopardized his own security. What season 4 showed was Nancy realizing that she could do this with Steve, who she’d written off as unwilling to take risks. He’s willing to dive head first (literally) into danger, which is the opposite of the Steve she knew before they broke up. He’s been doing that away from Nancy for two seasons now, but this was the first time he’s shown up for Nancy when she needed someone. That’s the story being told. 

[levmemes2]

ordinary days sentence starters.

sentence starters from the musical ordinary days. feel free to change wording, pronouns, etc. as desired.

"this guy, he is a genius."

"kindness is a virtue that is oftentimes ignored."

"the city tends to make me feel invisible."

"it makes me want to scream. or write a manifesto."

"this whole entire city's gonna look at me."

"my hometown was, like, the suburb of a suburb."

"i am not a negative person, it’s just that i’ve always known that i had places to go."

"they fired me like three weeks later."

"show me my future, because it isn't where i am."

"wouldn't it be genius if i lived, well, right here?"

"you really don't want to do [city] alone."

"my life must be more than the sum of this stuff."

"i should've done this years ago."

"why can’t I be some other person who can just let things go?"

"i’m allergic to the french, you know."

"why can’t this moment last instead of slipping into the past?"

"my sense of direction is irrefutable."

"i don’t know, lately, when he’s right beside me, i’d rather be off on my own."

"still, it’s one of my favorite places."

"all i want is someone who can help me reach these places that i dream about."

"all of my most favorite places are places that I’ve never been."

"i’ve tried so many times to tell her that I love her."

"your handwriting’s wonderfully hard to decipher, but, boy, does it conjure you right off the page!"

"this moment could be like a scene from a movie."

"i think real lives make the best kind of movies."

"i'm a civil kind of girl."

"thanks for this waste of my time and for making me a part of your waste of a life."

"can i buy you a cup of coffee?"

"you're gay, right?"

"they're serving monkfish, so the wine can't be red."

"when have you ever seen me drink riesling?"

"i think walking will do us both so good."

"it's like i'm walking next to a stranger."

"i love the rain, how everything shimmers..."

"somehow, i want to get us back to there."

"shut up, [name], and marry me."

"what's your deal? what are you about?"

"you really don't find me funny at all?"

"where do you see yourself in, say, five years?"

"if we're moving nowhere, should i move on?"

"maybe i should try to wear less of my heart upon my sleeve."

"i don't want to be the person always standing still."

"i always told you, [name], that there was nothing we wouldn't make it through."

"something's there that smothers all the words i want to say."

"how i can be what makes him happy when i can't even make a promise that i will stay?"

"i've gotten used to keeping all this space between us."

"if you want to meet up, i'll be waiting right here."

"hey, what are you doing the rest of your life?"

"i'll be here, right beside you, as long as you want me to be."

"hey, you're allowed to move on. it's okay."

"for beautiful to happen, the beautiful has got to be seen."

[amplifyme]

Shift (aka The Lost Fanfic)

The X-Files. MSR. Teen and up. WC: 4261. Post-Fight the Future. Read on AO3.

Notes:

This was written sometime in the summer of 1998 after Fight the Future was released and before Season 6 began. It was archived exclusively on my website and was the only piece I didn't have backed up on my computer. When the site went down a few years later, it disappeared into the ether. I've been looking for it off and on ever since. Truth be told, I couldn't even remember what I'd written. But thanks to the resourceful and forward-thinking Lilydalexf over on Tumblr, I received an email with a text file of the fic, which she'd saved way back in the day. I've cleaned it up a bit and have included the original author's notes and disclaimer.

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Classification: VAH... all right, all right, it's MSR, too.

Rating: PG-13 for content

Spoilers: Fight the Future

Author's notes: Yeah, okay, so it's not smut. I'm sorry (say it like Eddie Van Blundht). The muse looked down her nose at me and implied that I'd forgotten how to write anything clean. This'll show her.

I'm so sorry, Mel. Can you ever forgive me? ;->

Disclaimer: Aw, jeez, do I have to? You all know the drill; just repeat it to yourselves and that'll be good enough for me.

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"Let me see if I'm understanding you, Mulder." Scully silently offered to swap her container of shrimp fried rice for his Mongolian beef. "You're saying that our work on the X-Files should be considered the norm, as opposed to the typical white-collar worker with the house in the suburbs and the two point five kids?'

"And the Range Rover," Mulder added as they traded off. He took a bite of the rice and talked around it, his typical enthusiasm overriding any need for manners. "What I'm saying is that we're hardwired to seek out new experiences, blaze new trails. The human intellect demands new and different challenges, and if we ignore that basic need we run the risk of becoming complacent; the perfect target for any organization with enough power to literally take over our lives."

He set the container on the coffee table and tore open a packet of hot mustard with his teeth, liberally dousing an egg roll with the runny yellow substance before inhaling half of it in one bite. Scully watched with bemusement. A grazing Mulder was a sight to behold.

"So, if everyone was hunting down fat sucking vampires instead of sitting behind a desk or flipping burgers, the world would be a better place?" She waited as he furiously waved a hand in front of his open mouth and grabbed his beer, draining the last couple inches from the bottle. Pushing forty and he still hadn't figured out how much hot mustard was enough.

"That's kind of simplistic," he declared when he could talk again, "but yeah. Just think about it, Scully. What if the majority of the population could see just a fraction of the things we have? Think of how much more open-minded people would be to extreme possibilities. The idea of a race of aliens bent on colonizing the planet with not so benign intentions would be much more easily accepted."

Mulder held his hand out for the beef, giving her some time to consider what he'd said. Night had fallen and his living room was bathed in shadows. Light spilled from the kitchen doorway. Aside from the cool blue cast by the muted and ignored TV and the soft glow from the newly stocked fish tank, it was the only illumination in the apartment.

"But, Mulder, you're assuming that the majority of the world's population would even want to know the things we know. Contrary to what you might think, most people are perfectly happy living a life of order and routine. I dare say most of them would go out of their way to avoid the changes that kind of knowledge would inevitably bring."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"That's kind of simplistic," she remarked, catching his faint smile as she echoed his earlier jab, "but yes. Most people just want to be left alone to live their lives as they see fit. Change isn't always a good thing, Mulder."

"But it's inevitable," he argued. "Chaos is the norm. I can't believe I'm the only one who realizes that." He chewed and swallowed another bite, staring off into space. And then he looked in her direction, aiming the full force of his gaze squarely at her. His eyes were suddenly darker and more soulful. More aware. In a split second his entire focus had changed, and now everything in him was intent on nothing but her. It was a look she'd seen in his hallway just a few weeks ago, and one not easily forgotten.

"What about you, Scully? Is ignorance bliss?"

It was a question fraught with many different meanings - and they both knew it. That he felt comfortable enough to ask anyway was a sign of how much things had changed. It wasn't just one event out of all the events of the last month: it was the sum total of them that had led to this new and still tentative honesty; the constant awareness that they were standing on the brink of something brand new and yet older than time.

It was an electrifying feeling that had her thoughts careening wildly. She was smart enough to realize that what was blossoming between them was a strange and beautiful thing, but it was also a double-edged sword, and she wasn't entirely certain she was emotionally prepared to deal with the risks it entailed.

She held his eye, determined not to flinch, and chose to answer the easier version of his question. "No, of course not. It would be foolish of me to try to pretend that none of these things have happened." She glanced away and then back at him. The fact that his attention had shifted to the food and off of her allowed her to elaborate more than she might've otherwise.

"I guess I'm uneasy with the inherent changes that certain kinds of knowledge bring. I've always been a creature of habit, Mulder. I like routine. I like knowing what to expect. And despite the rather bizarre lifestyle I seem to have established, I've been able to adapt fairly well. It's just that sometimes it gets a little overwhelming."

"There's nothing wrong with routine, Scully. You're taking me too literally." Apparently, her deflection had worked. At least for the time being. He went on in his slightly professorial monotone. "The daily grind is a natural outgrowth of living in a civilized society. All I'm saying is that it tends to make us lazy and stupid. And that leaves us vulnerable to anyone or anything who cares to take advantage of the situation."

Mulder scrubbed his newly cropped hair and slouched back against the couch, one hand unconsciously and contentedly rubbing his stomach. "I probably don't have to tell you this," he continued, "but I thrive on change. I like chaos. It keeps me sharp. The best thing about not knowing what might happen next is that you're prepared for anything."

She pushed away from the food and settled back next to him, their shoulders barely brushing. "But, Mulder, we all need some kind of stability, a constant we can depend on. Otherwise, we'd spend our lives wandering aimlessly from one experience to another, without any kind of cohesiveness. I hear what you're saying, but there's nothing that prevents us from living an ordered life except our own inability to make sense of the very chaos you seem to cherish."

He rewarded her with a low chuckle. "Is this a kinder, gentler way of telling me I'm crazy?"

She shot him a dismissive look. "No. I'm just baffled by your attitude. Don't you ever find yourself wishing for a simpler life; one where you knew what to expect from day to day?"

"You make it sound like I don't have that already."

She gaped at him and then recovered. "Okay, now you've completely lost me. You wanna explain to me how you can possibly describe your life as simple?"

"Well, using the criteria you've established, it is simple. I have the stability you spoke of. I have that constant."

She snorted softly. "And that would be… what? That your stability is the fact that you have none? That your only constant is change?"

He turned his head and pinned her with a look, his words echoing the gentle rebuke she saw in the mossy green of his eyes. "You haven't been paying attention, Scully."

Still sprawled on the couch, his face bland, the only clue to Mulder's anxiety was the almost imperceptible bouncing of one leg. "I realize that the aftermath might be a little foggy to you, but I find it hard to believe you don't remember what was said just outside that door." He tilted his head toward the front of his apartment. He made no attempt to elaborate. His words lay solid and heavy between them, offered up like a gift she couldn't refuse, even if she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to accept it just then.

She'd been anticipating this. She'd thought about it enough that she'd even come to think of it as The Moment of Truth because of its potential to shift a large portion of her life in an unknown direction. Formulating possible responses to Mulder's probable remarks about what had happened and what'd been said had been uppermost in her mind lately. When he’d jokingly accused her of daydreaming just the day before, she hadn't been able to argue the point. He'd been right: she'd been far too distracted the last few weeks. Maybe it was best just to get things out in the open - for her continued sanity, if nothing else.

But before she could say anything he beat her to it, apparently misconstruing her long silence as refusal to take his bait. "Well," he rasped, sitting up and pulling a hand down his face, "this is an awkward moment. Look, Scully, forget I said anything."

"No," she quickly assured him, laying her hand on his back. "No, it's okay. I was just… I'm just not sure what to say, Mulder."  

He glanced back over his shoulder at her. "Well, I think I made my feelings pretty clear."

She certainly wouldn't argue with that. While she couldn't claim to remember much after she'd been stung in the hallway outside his apartment, the memory of Mulder's strangled words and the thrill of realization as he'd moved in to kiss her were etched into her brain. And now it was obvious that he was expecting her to come clean about her feelings. Yet another version of their well-established “I showed you mine, now you show me yours” game. Only this time it wasn't theories they were trading.

If Scully'd had a list, she could've checked off the symptoms of reticence she was experiencing, one by one. First came the dry mouth, followed closely by the leaden feeling in her stomach. Then the reeling in her head as she began to contemplate all she could say wrong despite her best efforts to put the correct spin on things. If discussing emotions were as simple as analyzing facts and figures, debating hypothetical situations, she'd be in the clear. Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

She'd never been very big on flowery declarations; the words had always stuck in her throat every time she'd attempted it. She was a woman of action, and if forced to 'fess up, would much rather show than tell. And so that's what she did: sitting up and perching on the edge of the couch next to him, she gently turned his face toward hers and leaned in to kiss him. She was aware as her lips brushed his that he had gone completely still. She didn't linger, choosing instead to make it a chaste but tender kiss, pulling away after just a few seconds. Her hand stayed at his jaw a little longer though, as her fingers memorized the slight abrasiveness of his evening stubble. His eyes, when she raised hers to meet them, were both amused and a little shocked.

"There," she whispered. "I hate leaving things unfinished."

Mulder's eyebrows crept up and he gave an infinitesimal shake of his head. "That's it?" he asked. "You mean we're done?"

Now it was her turn to be taken aback. "What were you expecting?"

As his hands lifted to cup her cheeks he murmured, "C'mere and I'll show you."

Chaste was clearly not what Mulder had in mind. Not that she was complaining. She was too busy admiring the way his bottom lip was expertly nudging hers apart, opening her mouth to admit just the tip of his tongue. He briefly touched it to hers before sweeping it across her upper lip and withdrawing, pulling back just enough to be able to look her in the eye. Permission was asked and granted in the few moments it took her to curl a hand around the nape of his neck and bring his mouth back to hers.

Scully decided that his idea of what constituted finishing business was much more comprehensive than hers. She also decided that kissing him was something she really enjoyed doing and vaguely wondered what had taken them so long.

Good little investigator that he was, Mulder was busy making a thorough exploration of her mouth. It occurred to her, in some distant, foggy place in the back of her mind, that the shift she'd predicted was indeed inevitable. Funny thing was that the reality of it didn't scare her nearly as much as she'd thought it would. She allowed herself to completely relax into their kiss, with Mulder sensing her acquiescence and slowly easing her down onto the couch, his arms cradling her. They ended up with Scully lying against one of the throw pillows, his upper body draped across hers, their legs tangled.

It took her a few seconds to force her eyes open after Mulder finally broke for air. She found him looking down at her, his expression a wickedly potent mixture of affection and good old-fashioned lust. One corner of his mouth drew up just the tiniest bit.

"That was more what I had in mind," he informed her. And then he dipped his head and began to plant small, wet kisses down the line of her jaw. His hand slid up her back and gathered a fistful of hair, gently but determinedly drawing her head back and exposing the tender skin of her neck to his mouth. The soft cotton of his dress shirt rubbed against her stiffening nipples through the silk of her blouse and bra, setting off sparks of heat traveling swiftly through her body.

Hoo-boy.

It'd been a very long time since she'd felt the weight of a man's body on hers, the delicious friction it created. Forever since her hands had roamed over corded muscle and curve of spine. Too long since she'd felt the heat pooling deep within her and someone there to share it, add to it, eventually douse it. What made the cottony thickness of her arousal even more enjoyable was that it was the real thing this time - not some fantasy Mulder who came to her only in the relative safety of her dreams. And there was only a little part of her that wondered if perhaps they should slow down and think about this some more.

She didn't know whether to laugh or cry when Mulder muttered against her neck, "You're gonna have to tell me when to stop, Scully, 'cause if you leave it up to me, I won't."

God bless his considerate, gentlemanly little heart.

Damn it.

"Then maybe," she managed to utter even while threading her fingers through his hair and urging his mouth to points south, "we should stop and think about this."

Deft fingers began working the buttons on her blouse. "Okay. Just say the word and I'll stop."

Oh, she didn't want to do this. She didn't want to stop him. She had a sudden urge to strangle the life out of the sensible little voice in her head. If such a thing were possible, that is.

"Mulder."

"Hmm?"

"Stop."

He groaned in noisy protest but did as she asked. Resting his chin between her breasts, he peered up at her. Hair askew, eyes warm but a little wary, he was the most gorgeous man she'd ever had the pleasure of lying beneath. He was content to wait quietly while she pronounced sentence on him, trusting her to do what was best for both of them. That particular trust was a heavy burden he'd placed on her long ago, and one she'd struggled to throw off more than once. But here and now, she was beginning to realize that it was also a precious gift. And it gave her far more power over him than she even dared contemplate.

"Is this what you had in mind in the hallway?" Her voice was intentionally rich with humor. It was important that he know she wasn't upset by his attempted seduction. Getting their wires crossed about this was the last thing they needed.

She watched as his eyes lost their wariness. The hint of a boyish grin crossed his face before disappearing behind his trademark deadpan expression. "Actually," he quipped, "I was kind of hoping to make it to second base." And with that, he deliberately began to refasten the buttons he'd managed to undo. His knuckles unintentionally brushed fire along her breasts.

"Don't give up, Slugger," she told him as he finished, her voice gone slow and husky. "You haven't struck out yet."

The look on his face was priceless. She couldn't help but grin at him. His answering smile was enough to light up the room. He sat up and pulled her along with him, waiting until she was settled before he twisted around and sat down on the coffee table across from her, his long legs caging hers. Mulder reached out and caught one of her hands in his. He took in a breath and let it out slowly. "The truth is, Scully, I accomplished everything I set out to do that night. The rest of it… just icing on the cake." There was a beat of silence. "Well, except for the bee sting. That kind of put a damper on things."

"Mulder…"

"No, let me finish. I'm sorry it took me so long, but I want you to know I meant every word I said."

"I know." She squeezed his hand and ducked her head, not wanting him to see the sudden tears that threatened to spill over.

"Do you? Because that's all that really matters to me. I don't ever want you to think that I don't value you, or that you're not the most important thing in my -"

She cut him off with her fingers pressed against his mouth. If he kept it up, she'd lose her struggle to hold off her tears. She didn't want to turn into a blubbering idiot, not now. Not when smiling had felt so good.

"I know," she repeated.

His eyes flicked over her face, reading it like a map only he could decipher. Long seconds passed before he nodded slowly, satisfied by what he'd seen.

"Good," he said. "That's good."

She took a few moments to study his familiar features, softened by emotions he rarely let show. She took in the relaxed line of his jaw, the warmth of his eyes, the hair that stood up in tiny spikes on the top of his head. And the seductive fullness of his mouth, still moist from their kisses. She could drown there, she realized, and not give two hoots about anything else. It was a dangerous and compelling prospect.

She reached up and smoothed her hand over his unruly hair. "I guess this begs the question of what we do now."

He looked aside for a minute and then back at her, shrugging. "We keep on keepin' on. We see where this thing takes us. We fight the good fight. We start scheduling regular make-out sessions."

"Just thought you'd sneak that last one in there, huh?"

"Nothing gets past you, Scully."

She was trying to focus on the issue at hand. He wasn't going to make it easy. She knew this Mulder well. And she could tell he wanted to play, revert to his habit of joking about the most serious of subjects. All the nervous energy he'd suppressed just minutes ago had broken free. Both legs had taken up a gentle bouncing, his hands moving like moths around a flame: glancing off her knees, her hands, her arms, before flying away, only to return again.

Sometimes it was a pain in the ass always being the grown-up.

She grabbed one of his hands and held it tightly in both of hers. He went still almost at once, his keen sense of her innate composure helping to ground him. She vaguely wondered what would become of him if something happened to her. She could picture him floating off into space like an errant helium balloon, with no one to pull him back. She was his safety line; a fragile string that was nonetheless durable enough to keep them both anchored to the ground - even if Mulder was always looking up into the sky, wondering what he might be missing.

"This is going to have an impact on everything," she told him as she caught his eye. "It's going to change everything."

He pursed his lips and jerked an eyebrow. "Maybe. But it's impossible that you'll ever be more important to me than you are right now, so that won't change."

"What if it does, Mulder?"

"That's not gonna happen." She opened her mouth to protest but he cut her off, grasping her shoulders and gazing at her with single-minded intensity. "I won't let it. I'm one relentless sonofabitch, Scully. It's gonna take a nuclear explosion to pry me away from you now. And I won't risk the only thing that matters to me unless I'm absolutely certain it's the right thing. How could it, how could we, be anything short of incredible?"

Five years with Mulder had programmed her to automatically begin formulating an argument to counteract his latest bizarre theory, and this time was no different. While her brain shifted into overdrive, spitting out a dozen reasons why they couldn't afford to be so blasé about the whole situation, her heart was busy tugging her in a different direction. One that whispered to her that he might have a point. Not every decision had to be based in logic - she'd slowly begun to realize that. Sometimes you just had to go with your gut.

"And besides," Mulder suddenly blurted into the silence, "who else would put up with my sorry ass?"

Strange how the simplest phrase could be the deciding factor in such a life-altering decision. He wasn't being facetious, despite the joking tone of his voice. He honestly believed that she was the only one who'd ever understand him, who'd willingly accept him for all that he was. Who'd see that what he did made a difference. And though there were times when she'd wondered if someone more open to extreme possibilities might be better for him, she knew in her heart that no one could ever feel about him the way she did. And no one could ever challenge, respect, trust, and complete her the way Mulder did.

“You made me a whole person.”

Isn't that what it came down to in the end? Wasn't that all that really mattered? Suddenly, nothing was more important to her than that he know what was in her heart.

"I want you to know something," she told him. "And I want you to listen to me very carefully." Mulder gazed at her with cautious chameleon eyes. "I want you to know that no matter what happens now, one thing will never change. What you do makes a difference. I know it doesn't seem like it most of the time, but it does. You have to believe that. And I want you to know how proud I am to be a part of that. You're an honorable man, Mulder, and you lead an honorable life. And I want you to know I'd be proud to be a part of that, too. In whatever form it takes."

She watched his face carefully as she spoke, cataloguing every emotion that passed over it. There were many things to see there, as he nervously chewed his lip and took in her words. But what she was left with was a mixture of tenderness and pride that nearly made her dizzy.

Mulder opened his mouth a few times before he finally got anything to come out. "Can I…" His brow furrowed and he cleared his throat and tried again. "Can I just hold you, Scully? For a minute?"

She reached for him, and they both stood, knowing that the limited contact they'd have otherwise wouldn't satisfy either of them. She went easily into his embrace, her head tucked under his chin, her arms wrapped around his waist. He held her loosely for a moment before tightening his arms and drawing her even closer. They stood toe to toe, touching everywhere it was possible to touch, the contact sweet and heavy with the promise of things to come.

Mulder dipped his head until it rested against hers. His chest expanded as he took in a deep breath and then released it with a ragged sigh. "God, you feel so good. So good."

She tightened her arms around him, wanting nothing more than to be enveloped by him, held in his warm and welcoming embrace for as long as he'd let her. Judging by his remark, that could end up being a good long while.

And that was okay. It was better than okay.

"You know what, Scully?" he murmured against her hair.

"What’s that, Mulder?"

"Someday soon we're gonna have really phenomenal sex."

Maybe even sooner than he thought.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The End

Nope, no sequel planned. Live with it.

[roguetargaryen]

Piel Canela - Tommy Miller x F!Reader

Chapter 1 - A New Beginning

Author’s Note: Author’s Note: This is my first full fic that I am writing so I know there will be grammar errors. Also, this may be a slow start but the story will progress. This is an alternate universe where there is no outbreak, and it also takes place in the game timeline in 2013. Let me know what you guys think, and I hope you guys enjoy it.  

Word Count: 1980

Series Masterlist

Warmth. It's what Y/N felt as she drove down the almost quiet street to reach her final destination. After the almost 17 hour drive from Chicago, she was finally arriving at what she hoped would be her forever home. She sure would miss her time back in the city, but tranquility is what she needed now. The events of the past two years were enough for her to settle down in the quaint suburbs of Austin, Tx. One thing she would definitely need to get used to was the Texas heat. She thought summer days in Chicago were bad enough, but not like Texas. Even with the window rolled down, she still felt like it wasn't enough to cool down. Hopefully by sundown most of the heat would be gone. She recalled her conversation with her brother at their last rest stop, "You'll get used to the heat. The good thing is the house has central air for you but make sure to keep the windows and doors closed throughout the day. That can sometimes help. At night the cool breeze in front the window open is nice. But that's the least of your worries." And he was right, that was the least of her worries. Her move was pretty much a result of packing everything from her tiny apartment and starting fresh in a whole new city thanks to her ex-fiance that is. She had hoped that with this fresh start, she could leave that chapter and move on. The downside is she has to give up her job, her friends, and practically everything she knows and move for her own safety. No one knew where she had gone except her best friend, who she knew would not say anything. Y/n were born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago but moved to the city for university. It wasn't something her parents were fond of at first. Their goal was for her to become a doctor or lawyer to make good money, but over time they warmed up to the idea of her choice in career. She met her ex-fiance in university in her sophomore year. He won over her parents really quickly and soon after graduating, he proposed. Also right after graduating she was offered a position in a marketing company which allowed her to stay in the city. Y/n felt like her life was perfect. She had everything she possibly could have wanted and even till this day she questioned where it all went wrong. When things started to hit the fan. 

Her thoughts were interrupted by her little passenger getting excited about finally arriving at her destination. At the last rest stop her niece, Emily, begged her dad to let her ride with y/n. Y/n loved having her in the car and she kept her company during the last couple of hours to her new home. Her older brother, Manny, was the first to arrive with the moving van while y/n drove in her car with the remainder of her more personal items. Emily bounced in her seat and anticipated to get out. Once y/n pulled in her driveway Emily bolted from her seat and greeted her mother, Kelly, who was waiting to give y/n the keys to her new home. Once out of the car, y/n walked over to Kelly and gave her a big hug. "Hola Kelly!" She giggled and responded with a thick Texas accent, "Hola Y/N! Bienvenidos a Texas. You know I've been getting better at my Spanish. Now that you guys are here I can definitely practice more." "I don't see why it took Manny this long to teach you. You guys have been married for 13 years." "Hey! Stop talking about me and let's get this stuff out." Her brother retorted. They pulled apart and y/n took the keys from Kelly, who led them inside the home. It was a cute little two story bungalow that was perfect for you. The living room was connected with an open kitchen concept kitchen and a small dining area. The stairs led up to a two bedroom and one bathroom. Y/n stood in the middle of what would be the living room and let out a big sigh. Both Many and Kelly had done so much for her to help her get to Texas, and words could not express how grateful and appreciative she was. 

After the movers arrived, the process of unloading the truck and y/n’s car went a lot quicker, so much so that by almost mid afternoon they were practically done. The help was much needed after the long drive. Once everything was unloaded, Manny and Kelly left to return the moving truck and pick up something to eat while y/n stayed with Emily. They decided to take a break and sit on the front porch steps to take a look at her new neighborhood. Y/n’s thoughts were interrupted by Emily speaking up, "Oh Tia I forgot to tell you my best friend lives across the street at the house right there!" "Is this the one you play soccer with that you told me about in the car?" "Yes!" It was almost as if on cue, a car pulled into the driveway and a man came out with a young girl trailing behind him. "Sarah!" Y/n jumped, a bit startled by her niece's outburst as she waved at her friend. The young girl turned around and waved back. She spoke to her dad real quick, who then nodded and followed behind her as they walked over to them. "Hi Emily! When did you get back?" "This morning. We did a lot of driving but we got to see a lot! I got you something from Chicago. Let me go get it." With that she ran inside and left y/n alone to meet her new neighbors. "Hi I'm Y/N. I'm Emily's aunt." She extended her hand to the handsome man in front of her who took it with a small smile. "Joel. Joel Miller. And this is my daughter Sarah." "Hi." Sarah added with a soft smile. Before y/n could respond, Emily bolted out. "I got you a key charm from Chicago." "Chicago? That's a long way to Texas." Joel spoke. "My family made the move and I tagged along." Before Y/N could continue, her brother and Kelly pulled up. "Hey Joel!" They greeted each other and made small talk while the girls caught each other up. "Well neighbor..." "Y/N...you can call me y/n.." "Well y/n it was nice meeting you. We will let you guys have dinner. We will see you soon. Let us know if you need help with anything." "Thank you Joel. Bye Sarah." " Bye y/n. It was nice meeting you." Y/n watched as they walked towards their house and smiled. Maybe Texas won't be so bad after all, y/n spoke to herself as she walked inside herself. 

Once inside, they settled around the kitchen island and began to eat when Emily spoke up, "Tia I am gonna be over all, the time now that I know Sarah lives across the street." "I would love that but first you gotta ask your dad" y/n responded. "Mija you can't just invite yourself and you do have to ask for permission." "Okay papa. Is it ok that I come over to Tia y/n's house?" "If it's okay with her it's okay with me." He responded. "I don't see why not. Besides I do have a little free time to get settled in before I start working. So if you guys need help picking her up from school and watching her, I'm more than happy to help. It's the least I can do." "Y/N we told you that you don't owe us anything." Kelly responded. "We just want to make sure you're happy and safe. You're family and we take care of each other." "I know but.." "ah ah no buts." "Well at least accept my thank you." "We do. Now let's enjoy our lunch so we can wrap up today." Manny finished. With that, easy conversation flowed as they ate lunch. 

Later on that evening, y/n was wrapping up the kitchen and putting away most of her stuff. By now, Manny and his family had left with a promise from Kelly that she would be back tomorrow to help her with the rest of the house. A lot was done for the day, with mainly the first floor being done. Before calling it a night, she gathered all the trash she could and stepped out into the brisk night. Once done she let out a heavy sigh and stood with her arms crossed as she observed the quiet neighborhood. A soft strum caught her attention from across the street where she noticed her neighbor Joel sitting on his porch with a guitar in hands. He gave a soft wave, to which she returned and decided to walk over to his home. “Hey neighbor. I hope I’m not interrupting.” Y/n wondered. “Not at all. Usually when I can't sleep I come out here and just play anything that comes to mind.” Joel explained. “How’s the unpacking going?” “It’s going. I thought I didn’t have much when I was packing but that’s not the case. You never know how much crap you actually have.” Both let out a chuckle and then sat in a comfortable silence until he started strumming the guitar again. “Did you write that?” Y/n asked. “It’s not finished. I just let myself play. I wanted to be a musician when I was younger, but I had Sarah really young. I don’t regret it. I used to say the universe has its way of shaping your life when you least expect it, but she’s my life now. Her and my younger brother Tommy.” Y/n listened attentively but didn’t want to pry too soon. “That’s really sweet. What do you do now?” “I’m a carpenter. So you can say I’m really good with my hands if you need help anytime…uhh that kinda came out weird. I’m sorry.” “No, don’t be.” she giggled. It felt nice to feel like she was getting to know someone this soon in her move. “But I’ll keep that in mind..””What about you? What do you do?” “I was in marketing when I worked in the city. It was good for a time but now my brother and I are opening up a bakery. We are looking to open in about two weeks.” “Camilla’s right?” “Yes! How did you know?” y/n asked. “Well your brother kinda hired me to help get the place ready.” “Can’t wait to see it. I hope you guys can come to the opening.””Sarah will definitely want to go especially if Emily will be there. I swear if given the chance, those girls can be attached at the hip.” “Emily got really excited when she found out I would be living across the street. Pretty much told us she would be over all the time.” Both chuckled and then they fell into another comfortable silence before she spoke again. “I think I’m gonna head back home. I have a busy day tomorrow and I don’t want to keep you up too late either. Thanks for the good welcome to the neighborhood.” “Of course. I’ll see you around, neighbor.” “Goodnight Joel.” “Night y/n.” When she closed the door behind her, she leaned against the frame and smiled. For a long and tiring day, she was happy at how well it went. Tomorrow would be a new day, her new life was starting, and it would be something she would look forward to.

[withclawandvine]

what we pretend to be, chapter 4

Summary: Azriel was a veteran spy, well suited to the sneaking and solitude that comes with a life in the shadows. He was good at it. He wasn’t good at undercover missions, so he couldn’t hide his shock when new recruit and undercover specialist Elain Archeron was already seated at the conference table, looking beautiful as ever. And then it was dropped on them like a bomb: Azriel and Elain would be sent to the suburbs, posing as a married couple to gather intel on a suspicious man who, according to reports, was in communication with notorious arms dealer, Koschei Sokolov.

Author’s note: aaaand we’re back! and things are finally happening!! i’ve been really excited to share this chapter, which is at least 33% of the reason why it took so long — it just wasn’t living up to my own expectations. BUT i’m feeling pretty good about it now. hopefully we can keep these good vibes going hehe. please enjoy and lemme know what you think!

Tags: SFW, undercover au, fake married, hurt/comfort

Word count: 3.5k

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42105033

prev | start at the beginning

The wheels of the cart were already squealing under the burden of their items, but they couldn’t leave without a coffee maker. The Keurigs were tempting — easy and instantly gratifying. But the coffee the machines produced was mediocre at best, and Elain wouldn’t object to something more sustainable. She picked up a French press and started reading the product description printed on the box. No filters! Easy cleanup! Robust flavor! 

“Have you ever used one before?” Azriel asked, peering over her shoulder. 

Elain shook her head. 

“Then shouldn’t we — ”

“Just trust me,” she interrupted, stiffening a little in surprise as her phone vibrated in her back pocket. She handed Azriel the box and took it out to see that Nuala had finally replied to her text from this morning — an all-caps demand to know if the agent had lost her mind and if she was aware that summer wouldn’t last forever. 

Nuala had been in charge of Elain’s wardrobes for all of her previous missions. She’d always been as grateful for her fellow agent’s ability to anticipate her every need as she was mystified by it. Which was how she knew that her vast new collection of satin negligees was no oversight. 

Don’t be such a baby. Besides, I’m sure Chazen would be happy to keep you warm (;

Elain’s eyes widened at Nal’s message, and she couldn’t resist glancing over her shoulder to make sure Azriel was still focused on coffee makers. He caught her eye and smiled as he balanced the French press on top of their mountain of homegoods. She managed a quick flash of her own teeth before turning back to her phone.

Excuse you we are both professionals. 

Nuala’s response came through on the way back to the house. Oh come on, E. It’s sooo obvious he’s got a thing for you!!

After deleting the entire thread, Elain peered over at Azriel, looking more relaxed than she’d seen him in days. That much, she could tell. Their first car ride had been all bouncing knees and white knuckles, but now Azriel was leaning back in his seat with one hand draped lazily on the wheel and the other hanging out the window. 

But these supposed feelings for her?

She thought about all of her past interactions with Azriel. It didn’t take long; there weren’t all that many, poking the first hole in Nuala’s claim. On the rare occasions they were both at their desks for the day, filling out incident reports and compiling relevant intel for future investigations, they’d often get up to refill their coffee mugs at the same time. 

And sometimes, instead of going straight back to their respective corners, they lingered, sipping their drinks and trying to find something to talk about. Most of their work was classified, even amongst fellow agents, and due to the nature of that work, neither of them were particularly inclined to be forthcoming about their personal lives. Their interactions, while pleasant, were thin. And there was nothing to indicate that those few minutes had been significant to Azriel — at least, nothing obvious. 

As if he’d felt the weight of her attentions, Azriel turned to look at her. Aside from a slight raise of his brows, his expression was neutral, his hazel eyes unreadable. It was silly to think anything about Azriel could be truly obvious. 

***

The kitchen, while a bit too white and sterile-looking for her taste, was a dream. Flooded with natural light, the open space was home to miles of glossy countertops and appliances so sleek, Elain could see her reflection in them. It filled her with a sort of giddiness as she opened the double-door fridge and started lining its empty compartments with bottles and jars. 

In that aspect, it wasn’t all that different from the little fridge in the apartment she kept in the city. Leased under the name Sarah Gardiner, the rickety studio had no personal affects, no air conditioning, and nothing in the fridge besides black olives and hot sauce. Nothing fresh, lest she get sent to the other side of the country, gathering intel while her broccoli and blackberries molded.  

But now, a rainbow of produce covered the island, and Elain fell into an easy rhythm of washing and chopping and lining it up in neat rows on the shelves. Leafy greens and berries went into containers lined with paper towels, carrots were peeled then submerged in jars of fresh water. 

While she worked, Azriel busied himself with organizing the spice rack, seemingly in alphabetical order. Elain couldn’t help but smile to herself as she glanced over to see him holding up two little bottles, squinting thoughtfully at the labels. By the time the sun set, the fridge looked like it belonged to a lifestyle vlogger, the pantry was stocked, the French press was washed and ready for tomorrow morning, and the cardboard boxes from yesterday had been broken down.

While Azriel took them outside to be picked up for recycling, Elain started setting out ingredients. First thing tomorrow morning, she’d bake and box up a batch of cookies to hand deliver to their immediate neighbors, offering baked goods and an unassuming smile in exchange for their trust. Putting faces to the names in their briefings. 

“The couple right across from us kept staring at me,” Azriel said as soon as the garage door was shut behind him. “They probably think we’re up to something already, just because of how fast we finished unpacking.”

“How fast you finished unpacking.” 

When Elain woke up, the sun was only just beginning its ascent, but Azriel had already unloaded and organized all of their surveillance equipment in the home office, and was in the process of arranging decorative candles on the sofa table. 

“I don’t normally go to sleep as early as we did last night.” 

Elain wasn’t sure she’d consider midnight early. Especially not for someone who also claimed to be a morning person. Although not even she made a habit of being up hours before the sun. But when she pointed this out, Azriel only shrugged, “I guess I’m both.” 

“I think that just makes you an insomniac,” she said, half-teasing.

“Maybe.” His lips quirked in a small, rueful smile. He nodded to the stick of plant butter still in her hand, “Do you want any help?” 

Elain hesitated. Until now, she had no intention of doing anything but showering and going to bed. She was exhausted, and while she would’ve liked to prep the dough and let it chill overnight, she — unlike Azriel, apparently — needed more than four hours of sleep to function.

He was still looking at her, waiting for an answer with a self-conscious hand curled around the back of his neck. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll actually be, but —” 

“You can chop up the chocolate.” 

Elain had been following the same vegan chocolate chip cookie recipe since she learned how to use the oven. By now, each step and measurement was engrained in her memory. She whisked the melted plant butter in with the sugars and added vanilla until it felt right. 

The rest of the kitchen darkened with the sky, but instead of turning on the overhead light, Azriel kept close, so both of them were haloed by the yellow glow of the stovelight. His elbow occasionally bumped into hers as he neatly worked the knife through each bar of dark chocolate at a diagonal, just as Elain had instructed. 

When the final cup of flour made the dough stiff and heavy, Azriel took over. Elain couldn’t stop noticing the muscles in his arm flexing as he folded in the chocolate chunks. 

Azriel was distracted as he helped Elain with the dishes, stopping more than once to stare with what could only be described as lustful eyes at the oven. It only got worse as the aroma of melted chocolate and warm sugar got stronger. 

He couldn’t remember the last chocolate chip cookie he’d had, the milk chocolate and butter in most others was enough to make his stomach revolt. 

Elain winced. “It’s really that bad?” 

“If I was going to lie to you, I would’ve gone with something sexier than gastrointestinal issues.” 

She nodded sagely, “Like astigmatism.” 

“Exactly.” 

When Elain bit into a cookie, it was still delicate with pools of chocolate on the surface. It tasted of comfort and nostalgia — like swatting at Feyre’s hand when she tried to stick her fingers in the dough and late nights with Nesta. Azriel ate his in nearly a single bite, with an indulgent hum that made Elain grateful for the low light. 

Especially now that he was looking down at her, gaze steady and contemplative. She waited for him to say something, but he was quiet as he lifted his hand. Elain felt his warmth against her skin, his knuckles nudging her cheek as his thumb smoothed over the corner of her mouth.  

“You’ve got some schmutz,” he murmured. 

His touch had been slow, but he withdrew his hand quickly, eyes darting around the kitchen before landing determinedly on something beyond her left shoulder. Elain might have mistaken it for embarrassment, if his eyes hadn’t narrowed with suspicion. She turned around, following his gaze through the living room window to see Lynn Forth stepping alone off the Sokolov’s driveway and into the quiet street, an empty casserole dish in hand. 

“It’s a bit weird to be picking up a casserole dish at this time, don’t you think?” Azriel mused. 

Maybe. Lynn might’ve gone over hours ago, then got to chatting and lost track of time. 

“We’re baking cookies at this time.” 

“We’re weird.” 

She grinned. “And vaguely off-putting.” 

*** 

Azriel and Elain had been on their way to the house right across from theirs to deliver a box of Elain’s cookies and make formal introductions when Lynn stopped them in their driveway. Nobody else had showed up on their doorstep since their arrival. They still hadn’t decided if that was strange, if it made the Forths suspicious or simply over-eager. 

As she presented Lynn with the box, Elain lied smoothly that the cookies had been for her and Brian to thank them for the welcome basket, as if there weren’t four identical containers waiting on their counter for the next delivery. 

Lynn said she’d just been heading over to invite them to a welcome party at her house on Saturday. As she chattered about the woes of party planning and all the cleaning she still had to do before the day, Lynn took a bite of one of the cookies. She joked that they ought to make some more to bring to the party — they’d be a hit! 

Elain’s eyes had flickered to Azriel to find that was already looking at her, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Now, standing in the threshold of the Forth’s home, Elain held up a container of only slightly-stale cookies in a tupperware. “Can I put these in the kitchen?” 

“Of course! Everything’s out on the island.” Lynn said. Then, lowering her voice into a mock-whisper, added, “But feel free to stash those in a cabinet.” 

As she moved past Azriel, she ran her hand down his arm, pausing to squeeze his elbow. A fortifying gesture before she left him alone with the neighbors. 

Elain didn’t hide the cookies, but she took her time poking around for a different hiding place. When Azriel circled back later with the recording devices, he’d give her one to leave somewhere in the kitchen. 

Aside from the abundance of hotdishes and slow-cookers that would get swept up by the masses at the end of the night, the kitchen was pristine; no grease splattered the stovetop, a crumbless floor. The usual nooks and crannies weren’t dusty enough for her liking.

At least, the ones she could see. There was a small gap between the top of the fridge and the cabinets above it, too high and dark for Elain to assess its cleanliness. With a glance over her shoulder to make sure she was still alone, she pushed up on her toes and reached into the crevice, her fingertips dragging over the cool metal as she fell back onto her heels. 

The pads of her fingers were filmed with dust. She brushed them off on her pants as she made her way into the living room, where Azriel was already sitting on the sofa, a proprietary hand on the cushion next to him. 

It was impossible to discern whether or not Azriel was playing up his discomfort for the sake of their plan. While Elain fielded questions about her supposed grad program, and why she chose the small liberal arts school nearby instead of staying in the city, he sat silently beside her. The strain in his eyes and grimacing mouth seemed very, very real. 

“And we’re hoping to start a family soon,” Elain continued, reaching for the hand Azriel had rested on her knee and weaving their fingers together. “This just felt like the right place to do it!” 

The chorus of awws and predictions about how lovely their children would be turned into advice and their own experiences — the school was wonderful, there were a plethora of after-school clubs, the cul-de-sac was perfect for street hockey. 

“Though ever since the Weavers and the Carvers grew up, there haven’t been many little ones running around.” The voice coming from across the room was wistful. 

Another lamented, “It’s been so quiet.” 

“I really thought the Galkins would have at least one baby by now,” someone else chimed in. 

She felt the arm around her back tense, the only indication Azriel was listening at all. His face was still masked with malaise. 

“Oh, I don’t think we’ve met them yet.” Elain said tilting her head thoughtfully, as if she were trying to put faces to the name. 

Lynn shook her head, “You wouldn’t have. Poor Lisa’s been sick all week. I stopped over a few days ago to invite them tonight, and ended up fixing a pot of my chicken soup instead.” 

That could explain the late-night visit. She wanted to know what Azriel thought about it, but when she turned to face her partner, Elain only made her brows wrinkle with concern. “You alright, baby?” 

He gestured vaguely to his head. “I think I feel a migraine coming on.” 

Her thumb smoothed over the delicate skin below his eye, where any real pain would’ve been concentrated. “Should we go?” 

Azriel shook his head gingerly, the movement nudging his face into the cradle of her hand. “You stay. I’ll be alright.” 

His message came halfway through a discussion about the grass-free landscaping project Demetra and her wife were planning for next year — the first and only stimulating conversation of the evening. 

Did we finish unpacking all the bathroom stuff? Can’t find the Tylenol anywhere.

Sensing someone peering over her shoulder, Elain loosed a chagrined sigh, “I better call him,” and stepped into the hallway. Azriel had been scouting the house from the outside the past few nights, but his description of where the bedroom was made less sense from the inside, so she opened the door to a half-bath and the basement before finding the right one. 

With one last glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the quiet Brian and Lynn’s bedroom. 

Even though she’d been expecting to see him, Elain startled at Azriel’s shadow-cloaked frame looming on Brian and Lynn’s patio, a backpack on his shoulder. She unlatched the door and he stepped in, wearing an almost boyish grin. “Hope you’re not having too much fun without me.” 

Unlike the kitchen, it was easy to decide where in the bedroom to plant the recording device. A stately, and more importantly, heavy-looking headboard dominated most of the far wall. Nobody would be moving it any time soon. 

Elain had to crawl under the bed to stick the bug to the back of the headboard. She wiggled back out, flushed from the effort and Azriel’s bemused expression as he helped her back to her feet. He waited patiently for her to tug her shirt back down and run her fingers through her mussed hair before handing her the second device. 

Just as she was slipping it into her pocket, she heard a voice from the hallway, “... so sorry. I keep telling him to put his damn drink down if he’s got something to say.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Lynn responded, much louder than the first voice. “Just wait, as soon as this little machine does it’s thing, it’ll be like it never happened.” 

Elain barely had time to usher Azriel into the closet and shut the door behind them before Lynn and the other woman, Trina from down the street, entered the room. In the near-dark, Elain could just make out the rows of clothes hanging around them, and a small shelf neatly displaying a collection of handbags and sunglasses. Elain could almost sigh with relief; unless somebody had also gotten a drink spilled down their shirt, the odds of Lynn opening this closet were slim.

The only way to hear all of what was being said would be to press her ear to the door, and shuffling around to do so was not a risk Elain was willing to take. Though the few things she could make out — Bissel, works wonders, eggshell, he says it’s because he’s Sicilian! — didn’t make her feel like she was missing anything important. Anxiety danced down Elain’s spine and Azriel was practically vibrating with tension; he was standing so close she could feel the disturbance in the air around him. 

Within seconds of Elain realizing that Azriel was not just tense, but trembling, the rapid, shallow breathing started. He clamped a hand over his mouth, knowing the importance of staying quiet. Cast perfectly in the sliver of light streaming in from the bedroom, Elain could see that his pupils were blown wide with panic.

She remembered the car, the bashful hand scrubbing the back of his neck. And I don’t really do great in tight spaces. 

In the moment, his confession had conjured imaginings of clammy hands and nervous lip-biting — not this. 

It took Elain a second to gather her wits; the anguish in his eyes was paralyzing. She couldn’t think, only stare back. And she was sure the expression swirling in her own eyes was far from reassuring. 

She knew that reaching for someone on the cusp of a panic attack was uncouth at best, and at worst, like trying to douse embers with accelerant. But she also knew there were still soft voices coming from the other side of the door, and that Azriel was showing no signs of improvement. She needed to do something. Deep pressure could relieve anxiety… or so she’d read once. 

Elain wrapped her arms around Azriel’s body and squeezed.

He went completely rigid, even his desperate breathing came to a halt for one stunned beat. And when he didn’t shove her away, Elain tightened her hold, putting all of her strength into it. His next breath didn’t seem so hard-won. She breathed with him, counting in her head as she went — one, two, three, four seconds in. Hold. Exhale slowly through the nose all the way to eight, tapping each second out with her index finger so Azriel could count with her. 

Gradually, his chest fell into the same rhythm as hers, rising and falling slowly, and the hand Azriel had been using to smother himself moved, curling tightly around Elain’s shoulder, pinning her body to him with his forearm. Her own arms trembled with the strain of holding him together. She listened to his heart slow down instead of the low hum of Lynn and Trina’s voices. She didn’t even notice it fading out, or the click of the bedroom door.

All of her attention was on the hand that had gripped her shoulder, now sliding up to hold the back of her neck, the pressure gentle and warm. Azriel’s thumb worried over her pulsepoint, his gaze heavy. Elain stared back, trying to decipher the storm swirling in his eyes — dread and shame, and something else. Something deep and private and tender. 

He blinked slowly, deliberately. And when his eyes opened again, it was gone, and he was focused only on the small gap in the door. 

“It’s clear,” he whispered, his hand moving down her back, settling at the dip in her spine and using its new position to guide her into the open air of the Forth’s bedroom. Azriel still moved like a man trapped, his steps small and his shoulders stiff as he made his way to the balcony. 

Elain watched his hands — scarred, and steady at last — carry him down the rope. When he hit the grass with a dull thud, she freed the grappling hook from the wrought iron and let it fall at his feet. The din of the party could be heard from outside, but Elain still kept her voice to a whisper, “I’ll see you back at the house.” 

Azriel nodded once before melting into the night.

[umichenginabroad]

Madrid Week 3: Flashbacks

Hola a todxs! It’s Niko back with week 3 of studying abroad in Madrid. Time is STILL passing by really fast and slow at the same time, so I'll talk about it again — I’ve been here less than a month and it’s felt like half a year, but the days go by quickly. I don’t think that will stop anytime soon, but I’m here for it. More perceived time = more life lived, and I hope that my weeks don't start blending together anytime soon.

As promised in week 2, I wanted to spend this blog talking about my trip to Granada last weekend. Granada is a small Spanish town in the southern region of Spain called Andalucía. It’s got a population of around 230,000 people — nearly the exact same as my hometown of Arlington, VA, which is a suburb outside of Washington, DC. However, in place of tree lined residential neighborhoods and modern office buildings, Granada is filled with narrow cobblestone streets bordered by low, densely packed buildings and intensely intricate churches/palaces built hundreds of years ago.

That palace — La Alhambra — is the largest tourist attraction in Granada, and was one of the main reasons I wanted to visit it (also, a big shout out to Emma for hosting me, a friend of mine from high school doing her semester in Granada!!). It’s a massive Moorish palace on a hill that overlooks the entire city. The Moors, who were North African Muslims, conquered much of the Iberian Peninsula in the 8th century. La Alhambra was slowly built between the years 1238 and 1358, during the reigns of Ibn al-Aḥmar and his successors. 

With that said, my trip to Granada last weekend was not my first time seeing La Alhambra. As I mentioned briefly in week 0's blog, I took a trip to Spain with my 8th grade Spanish class for a week. That was 7 years ago. We hit most of the main touristic Spanish cities within that time, Granada included.

So, walking through the palace last weekend triggered a slow trickle of distant memories, fuzzy enough that I couldn’t remember details, but potent enough that I could remember how I felt. Some things had changed about the palace, many things stayed the same. I still felt the same sense of awe I did 7 years ago witnessing the incredible detail hand-carved into every surface, or seeing the palace perfectly reflected in a courtyard’s pool. The difference was that this time, I was exploring alone.

I think that during this trip, I really gained an appreciation — and curiosity — of solo travel. Although I was with my friend Emma much of the time, I felt a great deal of peace in exploring La Alhambra at my own pace. Without anyone else to turn to, I was forced to be present and attuned to my surroundings, and that enabled me to appreciate them that much more.

I think that part of that appreciation, however, was derived from the sense of independence and freedom I had existing alone in Granada. Going into college, being alone terrified me. I would step into the dining hall for lunch and wander through the common spaces, looking for a familiar face I could share a meal with. Now, I try my best to cherish the moments in which I can connect more to myself, whether that be during a meal, practicing a hobby, or exploring an ancient Moorish palace. That’s only something I've been able to move towards through consistent practice -- AKA, spending deliberate time alone. I hope to continue deepening that connection throughout this semester solo-exploring Spain and Europe, which I know is something I'll carry with me for the rest of my life.

Aside from La Alhambra, Emma and I explored the city and its various landmarks (El Albaicin, a predominantly Muslim neighborhood, the Granada Cathedral, the Monastery of San Jeronimo, the Mirador de San Miguel Alto [and an epic sunset], and even a jazz-esque show with Spanish flair from a band at a local music club). More pictures below.

On the way back home, we stopped at a rest stop for the bus, and I couldn’t help but notice how familiar it seemed. It conjured up a nostalgic feeling that could have only come from my first trip in Spain — I realized we had stopped at the same station.

For old time’s sake, I bought a Kinder Egg Sorpresa. These things were a huge deal to me in 8th grade, as they are banned in the USA for being a ‘choking hazard’.  Inside the chocolate exterior was a little plastic goat toy that will now serve as the centerpiece of our dining room table.

It’s funny to think how much of a different person I am from the 13 year old on vacation with his school friends and Spanish teachers. But it’s also comforting to know that all of these memories I carry with me explain the person I am today.

This week, I got a little more into school groove, took a rollerblading route, visited the Reina Sofia museum and went to see some amazing techno DJs over the weekend. Per usual, check out the photo captions for more info on the content this week :).

Hasta luego,

Niko Economos

Aerospace Engineering

Universidad Carlos III de Madrid

Madrid, Spain