#it’s casual intimacy and the absence of awkwardness because they are your family and an extension of you

[invisiblemonstrosity]

normalize kissing your best friend cause you are so deliriously happy you cannot contain it within just yourself

[silvysartfulness]

If you're in the mood to talk a bit about the roadtrip boys: What is each of their preferred love language, give & receive?

I'm always in the mood to talk about the Roadtrip boys! I just don't always have the spoons. 😅

But yes, this is a super interesting question, because they do misinterpret their sometimes incompatible love language signals a lot!

Starting with Xiao Xingchen, because he is arguably the one of them most expressive in love and appreciation: he is an affectionate person at heart, and for the most part, he's intuitive about picking up on how best to convey that affection to someone else (except when he's really, really not. He's still human. He fucks up at times, too.)

What he needs more than anything is assurance and a feeling of closeness and connection. While words of affirmation can be a relief sometimes, to really remove all doubt, they can also feel clumsy at times. But he loves to spend quality time with the people he loves – giving them all his attention and just enjoying their company. With Song Lan, it was philosophical discussions, martial training, planning their future together. With Chengmei, it was joking and laughing together, being entertained by his quick wit and sense of humour, as well as going on Night Hunts together, and just spending quality time as a family in the Coffin House. Many times during the Roadtrip journey he's reflected on how happy it makes him just being in their company, them all doing things together.

He also really wants/needs physical touch. Theirs is not a culture where intimate, physical touch is all that common, especially not during his rather ascetic upbringing, but that was one of the things Chengmei really brought to the surface in him – how wonderful it is to be touched, held, brought so close to another human being. The intimacy of it, the sense of safety and connection.

He knows Song Lan dislikes touch, and he is very conscious about not pushing him to do anything he doesn't want to – but when it's given, he's so giddy with joy, he doesn't stop and wonder if it really is what Song Lan wants, or if it's something he feels he should/must do.

When it comes to giving, he's intuitive, and tries to adjust to his loved ones' needs. Giving pieces of candy to Xue Yang. Withholding touch with Song Lan - an expression of love in its absence - and using words to try and tell him how much he means to him instead. Giving his care and concern and attention, and helping in various ways when he can. The wish to help others is very deeply rooted in him, the reason he descended into the world in the first place, so definitely giving acts of service, whenever he can.

Xue Yang next – who in many ways is surprisingly compatible with Xiao Xingchen, proven most simply by how easily they grew close in Yi City.

Xue Yang is very, very bad at words. He can't identify his own emotions most of the time, and would be even harder pressed putting them into words. But he does know how be to be useful – within a few days of arriving in Yi City, he's collecting firewood, fixing the roof, offering to help on Night Hunts (yes, I know, but for the sake of argument, we'll ignore the ”fierce corpses” for now) haggling for food, going grocery shopping... For ultimate hurt, also consider: making a-Qing apple bunnies when she's upset and crying, offering to teach her how to avenge herself, offering to lend money and come with her and Xiao Xingchen to the market to help pick out pretty things for her... Xue Yang is all about tangible gestures. Gifts, favours - a concrete tally of keeping score.

He's a gifts and acts of service person all the way.

And like Xiao Xingchen, he's very tactile. He craves physical touch, both giving and receiving, especially with someone like Xiao Xingchen, whom he does grow to trust won't hurt him, even when he allows himself to be vulnerable.

He may not be very good at giving quality time – he doesn't often have the patience or empathy for it, giving someone his full attention for long, but he does love it when Xiao Xingchen does it for him. Just spending time with him, laughing, having fun... It's nice. It's possibly the thing he misses the most, wanting hopelessly to get to have again. Just that attention and easy connection. Feeling like he belongs. More than anything, that.

In Roadtrip, he keeps using gifts and acts of service to express both his affection and his desperate hunger to belong – inventing and creating the speech talisman for Song Lan. Sharing that precious apple with Xiao Xingchen. Making Song Lan the mala, even spending time and effort on clumsily decorating it. He tried to cook Xiao Xingchen spring rolls to make up for making him upset, offered him fruit so he wouldn't go hungry, tried to give him nostalgic herbs found by the wayside... He got them all a new teapot, the fanciest one he could find. Adjusting and rearranging Song Lan's souls to give him back his autonomy, making him the little paper frog as a spur of the moment gift, sharing his candy, and promising to try and find a way to give him back his sense of taste. And of course burning himself out almost to the point of qi deviation twice to save Xiao Xingchen.

Xue Yang loves intensely, but unless you can decipher the often roundabout ways he expresses it, you may not realize.

Song Lan is, however (much to his own horror) getting increasingly good at understanding Xue Yang's gestures of affection. What they actually mean – how much it actually means. Unlike Xiao Xingchen, Xue Yang is not intuitive about adjusting his expressions of affection to the recipient, and Song Lan has spent a lot of time frustrated with his uninvited casual touches and unasked for gifts. Beginning to realize they are in fact genuine attempts at companionship makes it all... worse, in many ways. Especially since he's not as immune as he'd like to be.

Song Lan himself prefers to find companionship through quality time. He deeply appreciates just meditating alongside Xiao Xingchen, just occupying that same space in peace. That is probably, on the whole, the love language he really prefers, especially receiving.

Words of affirmation, absolutely, at times, though he can get tied up and feel that he can't really express all he wants to say in return. He really doesn't want physical touch – although he has come to appreciate some platonic hand-holding with Xiao Xingchen at times. He has little interest in material gifts, which is one reason it took him so long to pick up on Xue Yang using gifts as one of his primary ways to show affection. He can appreciate acts of service, though it often leaves him feeling a bit indebted.

As for giving, he, like Xue Yang and to an extent Xiao Xingchen, is very much an acts of service person. That's what his and Xiao Xingchen's original dream was built upon, after all, as wandering cultivators - helping people. Unfortunately, with him and Xiao Xingchen, it translates to a certain degree of miscommunication where he reads Xiao Xingchen's need for physical touch as something he should provide as an act of service, and... It's not particularly healthy for anyone involved. It's a work in progress.

He's also glad to give quality time, especially with Xiao Xingchen - though in the case of Xue Yang, it tends to end up pretty awkward. But it was during their time watching over the comatose Xiao Xingchen together in Muaishan that they really began opening up and seeing each other as people. It was nice, even if neither of them can really articulate it, or admit that they would actually miss the odd companionship they shared during that time.

In time... he will learn that gifts is one of the things that really matters to Xue Yang in a way that words don't really do, and learns to both give and accept them with more grace.

Thank you so much for your question! It was a really interesting one!

[ditttiii]

Brothers Conflict || 03.

Thrust into an already established family, you struggle to find your footing while dodging the advances of seven, incredibly good looking stepbrothers.

Your father marrying, and you suddenly having to live under the same roof with seven step brothers was a royal mess or so you had thought, Because them falling in love with you was so much worse. Or was it?

◈ Genre: Romance, Fluff, Humour, Smut and maybe a little angst. (PG-18) (step brother AU)  (I do NOT support incest, this work is inspired by the popular anime/manga Brothers Conflict)

◈ Pairings: OT7 x Reader (reverse harem)

◈ CHAPTER THREE

WC: 2.7k

Warnings: Language (sfw)

Masterlist

"How about this?"

"Nah, it's too sideways," you reply from where you are standing near the doorway of your bedroom.

"Right or left?" Sunmi asks, as she grips the frame and distances her torso from the wall, trying to see for herself where she should shift the frame. From the looks of it, she's failing spectacularly at it.

Suppressing a snort, you answer ‘left’ and hum when she tilts the frame and you are finally satisfied with its position on the wall. Walking back in, you marvel at the sheer grandness of your room for the umpteenth time as you take in all the space around you. Roughly four times the size of your old bedroom, it was huge. 

Floor to ceiling windows on the side opposite the bedroom door, before which was your queen-sized bed. A decent size, intricately designed bedside table beside it, with the floor underneath covered with a soft, plush rosy white carpet. A walk-in closet the size of your old bedroom, a bathroom with a jacuzzi, curtains heavy enough to suffocate and kill you if they were to ever fall upon your body; your new bedroom screams rich.  

It would be a lie to say that you don't feel intimidated. Raised in a middle-class, humble neighbourhood, you hadn't in your wildest dreams ever imagined living in a room like this. But here you are, soaking in the reality of the moment; and realising that it feels like something between a dream and a nightmare. 

Nearly four hours since you first started unpacking, and five since you had first met your new family, most of your room was organised. All boxes untaped and emptied as you and Sunmi worked hard to make the unnecessarily large, empty room less of a hotel room and more like the bedroom of a 19-year-old girl. 

Sighing, you push the last book of your novel collection into the bookshelf. Made from some sort of whitewood, much like everything else, it was designed intricately and looming large over your small shadow. 

"This is it."

Slouching, you fall onto your back, eyes straying to the ceiling above and the textures carved onto it, refusing to reply to Sunmi’s statement. Agreeing would mean that you'd have to let her go and you don't think you can, the isolation and abnormality of the situation already sinking in and scaring you. 

 "Mmn," you reply noncommittally instead. 

A long sigh, and then your best friend is curling on the floor beside you, her hand snaking around yours, fingers intertwining, as she silently lets you know that she is here for you. Repressing the tears you can already feel trying to escape your eyes, you squeeze her hand back. 

The clammy, ice-cold touch of your skin against hers goes unmentioned as you both lay there in silence. 

"I'll call you every day," you whisper, your voice choked as your death grip around Sunmi's waist tightens, and she lets out a strangled moan before pushing you away. 

"Woman, stop being so dramatic! You'll see me back in college every freaking day once summer ends and you know I'll come to see you whenever you want me to, the hour-long ride be damned," Sunmi chides. There’s no bite in her words, and her voice wobbles despite her trying to act tough, but you don't call her out on it and only nod. 

"You better, you airhead, lord knows you'll probably sob your body dry without seeing me every day." 

A giggle comes out of your best friend's tall, lean body, one you are entirely too envious of, and her eyes soften, your smile softening with it. 

"Take care, will ya?" 

"Always," you whisper back, and with one last kiss thrown over her shoulder, she leaves. Her figure grows smaller and farther with every step she takes, and you bite your lip to prevent a call from tumbling out. Not moving an inch until you hear the distant roar of her car driving away, you finally shut the door when you no longer hear or see her car. 

Suddenly you feel scarily small. Like a tiny, irrelevant existence born in a world too large and glamorous; a world where you evidently do not belong. 

Meandering through the floor, you gaze at the picture frames on the wall as though you are the actress of some old seventies cinema, bemoaning the absence of a long lost lover. 

Dramatic, yes, but you have always been more on the theatrical spectrum of humankind, and it isn't like there is much you can do right now anyway. Not unless you want to hole up in your room and stew in your sadness alone. And even though that might sound appealing to most (considering what your room now looks like), it wasn't something you felt like doing at the moment. 

So you mindlessly gaze at the pictures, the setting sun casting a warm orange glow in the darkening hallway as you try to find some semblance of familiarity, a speck of comfort or intimacy. 

"Y/n?" a soft voice calls out to you, and you twist on your heels, your eyes meeting with those of Yoongi. 

"Yoongi-oppa." Voice coming out soft, your words fade at the end as your eyes track the way Yoongi's face glows when the rays of the setting sun hit his skin. Long messy dark blonde hair makes space for his glittering curvy eyes to shine through, and your breath gets caught somewhere in your chest when you look at the vision that was Min Yoongi. 

"Exploring?" he asks casually, but even without knowing him for all that long, you can detect the underlying layer of concern in his voice. You don't know if he is being open with you right now, or if you can just read him well, but the concern makes your heart feel a little warmer. 

"Something like that." Your answer is ambiguous, but Yoongi doesn't ask you to elaborate, so you don't add anything more, turning back and looking at the pictures again instead.

"This something you enjoy?" Yoongi asks as he moves beside you, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his pants, and leans; making himself comfortable against the wall.  

Your eyes stray to him. "Sounds like you don't."

"Not really my forte, I can appreciate it from a distance, sure, but not an enthusiast," he replies, the back of his head hitting the wall behind as he looks up at you. 

Humming, you shrug. "Same, I guess, it's just fascinating to me. I wish I was smart enough to understand what half of these actually mean, but I am not, so I just appreciate the beauty and move on."

"Fair enough." 

You nod and let the silence reign again, but it's a comfortable silence, the kind of quiet where you are both lost in your own thoughts but at the same time appreciate the company of the other.  

Slowly the sun sets behind you, and the glassed walls shimmer one last time before the ceiling lights are switched on, bathing the entire floor in warm but bright light. 

Yoongi had been silent the entire time as you explored the floor like a child in a zoo, poking and prodding the potted plants, oo-ing and aah-ing over the art around you, fascinated and occupied with the attractions around.   

But when the lights switch on, he clears his throat and gets up from the couch he had taken a seat on some time ago, head tilting as he wordlessly asks you a question. You nod back and smile, making your way to him as you finally get ready to spend some time with the rest of your newly acquired family. 

As you both make your way to the main hall, you don't miss how your heart is feeling much lighter now. The silent company that Yoongi had provided you with seems to have put you at ease and calmed your racing thoughts. 

Walking into the kitchen alone, you try your best to make as little noise as possible. Yoongi, much to your displeasure, had promised that he'd meet you out in a few minutes only to disappear inside of his bedroom and leave you to your own devices.  

The sudden bout of bravado from earlier had left your body too, in its place leaving raring, gut-twisting anxiety. 

Tiptoeing to the refrigerator, you take out a bottle and pour yourself a glass. The chilled water slides down your throat, quenching your thirst, and you let out a satisfied sigh, smacking your lips in contentment after. 

"That thirsty, huh?" 

You jump, startled, heart racing and in your throat, as your gaze snaps to the doorway and finds Seokjin standing there. Suit coat hung over his left arm, and a button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, he was clearly returning back home after a workday. 

"Holy fuck, you scared the shit outta me!" 

Your brain to mouth filter is seemingly not working after being startled. Feeling anxious was a problem enough, but being scared after was evidently enough to send your last two brain cells out the window. Your common sense and the knowledge that Kim Seokjin was now your stepbrother, eldest stepbrother, flying out the window along with them. 

You hear crickets chirping in the distance as an awkward silence blankets the room, and in that moment you want to die. Spontaneously combust and float away into thin air, disappear, dissolve, vanish—die. 

"I am so sorry, can we pretend I didn't say that, “you voice out meekly, your eyes avoiding Seokjin’s and instead finding purchase on the wall behind him, seemingly fascinated by the utter whiteness of it. 

Hearing a chuckle ring and break the awkwardness in the air, you shift your gaze to the source of said chuckle and catch your eldest brother's gaze. "It's alright Y/n, I get that this is a big adjustment. Please don't feel like you need to rush on anybody's accord, take your time."

And then Kim Seokjin smiles—his pouty, full lips stretched into a small but ridiculously warm smile, and something in your chest clenches at the sight of it. Warning bells ring in the back of your mind, and you squash the thoughts threatening to come forward, their not-so-appropriate nature resulting in an immediate rejection from your end. 

Mumbling a thank you, you let him know you'll be down soon and then dash to your bedroom, slamming the door closed once you're inside and sinking down onto the floor. 

What the hell was that!?

Raking a hand through your hair, you groan in annoyance, wincing when said hand gets stuck in a tangle and pulls a few strands loose.

Looking back at your impression so far in front of Seokjin, one of your seven step brothers, it had been nothing but absolutely marvellous. So you can't imagine what could possibly go wrong when you sit down at the dinner table and are surrounded by all seven of them. 

Nothing, nothing at all, nope-nada-zilch!

Frustrated, you slide a hand down your face, hoping to calm down, but the move only ends up irritating your skin under. The day has been long, and all that you pray for now is that it ends soon. Your bed, which from the looks of it was fit for royalty, was beckoning you over too. 

With one last huff, you are pushing yourself up onto your feet and to the bathroom to splash some water, before you go and join the rest of your new family. 

Pulling the chair in, you wring your hands nervously under the table, away from any prying eyes. One by one, the rest of your family filters in and takes a seat; Seokjin and Yoongi both pick their seats at the two heads of the table. Hoseok and Namjoon sit on either side of you, with Jimin plopping himself down opposite you, and getting flanked by Jungkook and Taehyugn on either side. 

Not much conversation had taken place as they picked their seats, everyone sufficiently tired enough after a long day, but they had smiled or nodded at you when they first entered the dining room. 

'Well most of them at least,'  you think, eyeing the two youngest, who had both refused to give you even a cursory glance, resulting in your smile going unseen and unreciprocated. Their attitude, however, doesn't bother you too much at this point; as it was, they were virtually nothing more than strangers to you. 

Conversations pick up around you, and you feel slightly out of place, as though you are a guest over for dinner rather than their new stepsister, but the feeling doesn't last long, because both Namjoon and Hoseok soon pull  you into a conversation. Inquiries come forth about your day, and how your unpacking had gone.

The conversation is mostly superficial, nothing too emotionally challenging; neither of them ask how it feels being a part of their family or something like that, and you are relieved. Grateful, because you don't know if you'd be able to answer those questions anyway. The whole situation is still very odd no matter how many minutes of the day pass. 

Someone clears their throat, and your eyes snap to Seokjin, who was pushing his chair back and picking up his glass, the red wine inside sloshing with the movement. 

"I've done this before, and yet it never gets any less nerve-wracking," Seokjin starts, and your eyes furrow in confusion, but he continues before you can think about it any more. "Y/n," he says and tips his head in your direction, "I know this must feel a little scary—actually, scratch that, you're probably terrified right now, and that's okay.” he pauses, and takes a breath before continuing, “I'm sure it feels crazy suddenly being thrust into an already established family and being told that now you're one of them, and I just want you to know that I get it. We get it, and we are here for you. If you don’t want to accept us as family, that’s okay too; all of us would understand and support whatever decision you make. I just...” Sighing, he locks eyes with you.

 “...I just hope you can let us in eventually, family or not." 

Seokjin's eyes bore into yours as he says this, stressing the 'us', and you gulp, feeling the back of your throat tighten at his words. Sensing the fine thread of control that you had over your emotions loosening, you swivel your gaze to the table instead, nodding, your vision growing blurry as you try to blink back the burn in your eyes. 

The room goes quiet, as the boys give you time to collect yourself—or sob, you don't know, but you appreciate the consideration nonetheless.

It was going good, it really was. You were holding on, no matter how precarious the hold was, you were holding on. Grasping onto that last string of control and restraint you had with all of your might. 

But then Hoseok is wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his side, letting you nestle your face in the crook of his neck, and the string snaps, his neck growing wet as tears streamed down your face and slid down his skin. 

For a few minutes, you forget that you were now surrounded by strangers who you had to accept and call your family. For a few false, delusional minutes you forget that they don't know you, that the care they were showing was genuine and not something they were obligated to. That the one whose hands were drawing circles across your back, the one whose voice was whispering reassurances in your ear—stupid sweet-nothings that you would tell a small child to make them feel better, actually gave a shit about you.  

You forget the reality and slip into a safe headspace, letting the warmth of another human encircle you, hold you, wrap you in its cocoon as you weep. 

A/N: dedicating this chapter to @mel-gonzalez07​, one of my oldest, most loyal readers, and more than anything else an amazing friend. ily angel 💖  

Y/n is going through some shitt here. Imagine being thrust into a dynamic that has been established for years, and then having to act like you are meant to be a part of it. 

The taglist for the story can be found:- here. A kind reminder that tumblr sometimes doesn’t give an alert for a tag notification, but you’ll find the notification in your notification dash. So, check it once a week as I usually update weekly.

Feedback means the world to me, so tell me what you thought. What would you do if you were in oc’s shoes?        

Until next time! Take care you sweet soul and Oo! Go stream folklore 💖 

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[alison-anonymous]

family vacation headcanons ♡ hades

Requested: yes, thank you @fandomsandmore394 for requesting this once again! I love all of your ideas darling, I hope you enjoyed this one as well! And as to whether or not Mal calls the reader “mom”, well, you’ll just have to read to find out ;) 

Summary: pretty straightforward, Hades, Mal, and the reader all go on a vacation together to get in some well needed family bonding since they’re all so busy. Mal ships them really hard and is already thinking of the reader as a mom ♡

A family vacation with Mal and Hades...

       ♡ it all began after the whole "Happily Ever After" thing. The boarder was taken down, a bridge formed between the Isle and the mainland, and everyone was singing their perfectly choreographed duets and life was finally perfect. With Ben and Mal’s engagement in the works and you and Hades moving in to the castle as family (when someone dared to question why you were considered family since you were only Hades’s girlfriend, Hades threatened them until they shut up), you soon came to realize that there was hardly any time for some family bonding. Between the paparazzi, royal duties, and everyone trying to get used to their new role, you, Hades, and Mal hardly had any time with one another apart from the spare moments you got at dinners and sleeping next to Hades in bed.

       ♡ finally, you had had enough of it

       ♡ so, one nice Tuesday morning, Hades woke up groggily to see your beautiful face wide awake with your signature gleeful grin plastered on your face.

       ♡ “good morning, love,” you giggled, pecking him on the lips. He smirked at you, snaking his arm around your waist as he gazed curiously into your eyes.

       ♡ “what are you plotting?” 

       ♡ you laughed, e/c eyes ablaze with excitement. “You. Me. Mal. Family vacation. Start packing!” And before he could even blink, you were up out of bed, scurrying to your huge walk-in closet.

       ♡ of course, Hades put on a casual, I-could-care-less attitude about your idea, but you knew that on the inside he was even more excited than you were. He would get to spend some quality time with his two favorite girls! What father/boyfriend wouldn’t love that?

       ♡ when you told Mal, she was more than happy with the idea. Getting things arranged so that the kingdom would still be up and running despite the major absences of the soon to be Queen of Auradon and her father and potential step-mother was a bit difficult. But with the help of Ben, who was a bit sad that he couldn’t come with, everything was arranged without any problems. 

       ♡ and so, within a couple weeks, you, Hades, and Mal were off on your first ever family vacation! Hades wanted to go to the Underworld, and Mal wanted to go to a beach for the first time, so you compromised by taking them to the revived ghost town of Deadman’s Caper, home of the black sand beaches and crystal clear water that you could see your reflection in. 

       ♡ you were a hell of a lot more nervous than you had expected to be. You had never really had much time with Mal other than your first few meetings, so you obviously had some living up to do. Compared to Maleficent, your ideas of motherhood were a lot different. But Hades had fallen in love with you, so Mal had to at least like you, right?

       ♡ little did you know, that Mal absolutely adored you

       ♡ you were just too self conscious to see it ;)

       ♡ ever since the day that she and Celia had wandered into Hades home and saw you and the God himself curled up on his couch together with his arm wrapped protectively around you, she instantly started shipping you two together. She knew that things between her dad and mom would have never worked out, and all that she really wanted was for her dad to be happy. And if his happiness was you, well, then you were part of her happiness as well.

       ♡ there were a few complications that arose while travelling there. Many people gave Hades some trouble for being the ruthless soul stealer who tried to suck the power out of his own daughter. Hades was about to lose it on the man, but before he could do anything, you already had the man pressed up against a wall by his collar, sneering a bunch of threats at his face until he was scared shitless. After you told him that if you ever heard him saying another lie about your boyfriend that you would personally track him down and kill him, he finally was able to scramble out of your grasp. You had sighed and rolled your eyes at the nerve of some people when a pair of strong arms suddenly wrapped themselves around your waist and twirled you around in the air before setting you down gently to face the dazzling face of the love of your life. Hades’s piercing blue eyes stared down at you, full of mischief and love.

       ♡ “I love it when you do that,” he mumbled, his breath warm on your lips from his closeness. You wrapped your arms around his neck and smirked at him.

      ♡ “when I do what?”

      ♡ “lose your shit on some idiot who called me insane. You’re incredible, love.”

      ♡ you couldn’t help but blush at his words, melting into the kiss that he pulled you into. It was only when Mal cleared her throat that you remembered you were out in public. Both of your guys’ eyes widened in shock and you were about to pull away from one another to make it less awkward for her, when you stopped. Instead of looking grossed out, Mal simply held a smug, yet loving look on her face.

      ♡ “oh, don’t stop on my account,” she chuckled, but her eyes held a glitter of sincerity. “You two are really cute together.”

      ♡ you felt your cheeks flush a deep crimson at the intimacy of it all, which only made Hades fall more in love with how cute you looked when you were flustered. He laughed with his daughter, and slipped his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers together and giving you a small squeeze of reassurance. 

      ♡ a lot of moments like those happened throughout the vacation

      ♡ you and Hades would get lost in each other’s eyes, and Mal would simply be sitting there, soaking up the sun and the absolute puppy love her father and you were in. 

      ♡ the bonding went splendidly! It had been so long since you and Hades had gotten to have any quality time together, so you both made sure to make up for all the lost time. There was not a second that Hades wasn’t touching you - holding hands, having his arm wrapped securely around your waist, around your shoulder, around your arm, and you bet Mal commented excitedly on it every time ;) 

      ♡ Hades made sure to compliment you every chance he got and the times that you were alone together were some of your favorites because that was when he’d swoop you in for a surprise kiss ;) and let’s just say that since your vacation suite had two bedrooms, you certainly had fun at night too... ♡ 

      ♡ but the bonding time with Hades wasn’t the only amazing thing going. Bonding with Mal was going even more swimmingly than you had expected. There were some times while you were sightseeing that you and Mal would break off from Hades and you two would go window shopping together, making fun of the frilly princess designs and how some of the tourists seemed way too chipper. You bonded over your love of art, and before you knew it, you were laughing and chatting up a storm. Mal may sometimes come off with a cold, secluded front but once you got to know her, she was the sweetest girl you had ever met. It was hard to believe that she had once been so cruel.

       ♡ you all made sure to make the very best of this incredibly vacation, planning events for every day. After some sightseeing, you would all go to these fancy diners where you would prank some of the other guests, giggling to yourselves as you slid under the tables or hid around the corners as guests spat out rubber worms onto their plates. And after dinner would be some shopping and Hades having to drag you away from the Cursed Artifacts exhibit because you were known to get just a bit too interested in those sort of things ;)

       ♡ but your absolute favorite activity of all that you did together was visiting the beach

       ♡ you all enjoyed it so much it was a nightly occurrence where you would all get back to your suite after a day of bonding and then quickly scramble into your bathing suits. Fun fact about Hades: ever since he got over his ironic (and very secret) fear of water, he’s loved swimming ever since. You of course gave Mal swimming lessons after learning that she couldn’t swim as well. And after teaching her the basics, she was soon swimming around you in circles! There were times when Hades would pull you under the water by your legs and press your lips against his under the water, causing you to squeal in surprise and smack some water in his direction, laughter filling the air.

       ♡ and of course, there was sand castle building. At first, Hades tried to keep his cool attire by refusing to participate, but after threatening to bury him in the sand, he rolled his eyes with a smile, but accepted the invitation. With your meticulation, Hades’ flare, and Mal’s artistic ability, the sandcastles you made were INCREDIBLE. And to celebrate, you would all lounge around on chairs next to one another and watch the sun set, chatting softly amongst one another. The long night talks that you would have together were moments you wished could last forever... 

       ♡ I guess there’s something about the waves softly crashing against the ground and the stars beginning to peek out of the clouds that opens up even the most closed-off people

       ♡ you had all become a billion times closer than you were before you came on the trip, and the day before you left was a day that you would always remember. You had all had a great morning at the beach and you and Mal were browsing in the arts and crafts store when she posed a question.

       ♡ “hey Mom, can you hand me that?” she asked, pointing to a spray can on a tall shelf, not even noticing the word slip out of her mouth. You froze in shock and couldn’t help but stare at the young girl until she finally realized what she had said. Her mouth fell open in surprise and her cheeks dusted a flustered pink.

       ♡ “I-I am so sorry, Y/n, I-”

       ♡ “Mal,” you couldn’t help the tears that sprung into your eyes. You gently rested your hand on her shoulder and smiled softly at her. “It’s okay. I-I know that I’m not your mother, or even your step-mother yet, but I would be honored if you want to call me your mother.”

       ♡ Mal’s eyes soon became filled with tears too as she pulled you in to a hug, chuckling softly into your shoulder. You hugged her back, squeezing her tightly in pure happiness. You hadn’t expected Mal to accept you or even to like you, so the idea that she would even want to consider you a mother figure sent you to Cloud 9!

       ♡ and then Hades came around the corner with a bunch of churros in his hand and one in his mouth. The second he saw your teary expressions, he instantly froze. “Ooooh who do I need to kill?” 

        ♡ after a bunch of giggling and explaining that there was no need for murder, you all got ready to head back home. And it was just as you were all boarding the ship back to Auradon that Hades pulled Mal to the side and whispered in her ear, “I have to show you something.”

        ♡ she nodded her head curiously as he then pulled out a tiny velvet box out of his pocket. Her eyes widened in shock as he flipped it open, revealing a gorgeous, sparkling ring inside. Her hands flew up to her mouth, but it wasn’t enough to conceal her huge grin.

        ♡ “oh my god, dad, when are you going to do it?” she grinned, shoving him playfully. He snickered, gently closing the box.

        ♡ “I wanted to get your opinion first. This trip has made me more sure than ever that I want to marry that woman, but I just want to check if you’re ready for a step-mother?”

        ♡ for once, his stature was serious as his blazing hair flickered in the wind and his blue eyes gazed down. Mal’s green eyes searched for you until she finally caught sight of you talking to the captain. A small smile grew on her lips.

        ♡ “if I could choose anyone as my new mother, it would be her.”

        ♡ needless to say, the family vacation was one of the best ideas you had ever had. Not only was it an amazing experience, but it also led to a brand new engagement as well ;)

♡ a.a.

[aroworlds]

Fiction: The Pride Conspiracy, Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

This section contains multiple depictions of platonic physical intimacy.

Length: 4, 789 words (part two of two).

I’ll have a pride coat! And nobody will have the least idea what it means!

On the last working day of the year, Rowan staggers into the office holding a plate of homemade shortbread—the top layer of plastic wrap bearing the Sharpie-written words “NOT FOR HOUSEMATES BUY YOUR OWN FUCKING BISCUITS”, his mood sour. On the one hand, he’s free until January (although he’ll prefer that circumstance more should this be a paid break). On the other hand, Christmas and its family awfulness tag-team with the heat to curse him with mind-racing, restless 4 AM wakefulness.

He chose right. Didn’t he?

In six days, he’ll have survived the family dinner and his housemates will be with their people or travelling for the holiday. He can bag up his presents for their customary donating, buy something online and spend the day baking food he doesn’t have to share or hide.

Christmas will be an exercise in endurance, but it’s a known terrible. Better to suffer one day of hell and leave than to poke the hydra in each of its eyes and allow it, enraged, to hunt him across the earth. Right?

“Rowan!” Melanie greets him at the door, today wearing a silky blouse with a poinsettia print, a pendant shaped like a miniature tree bauble, and stocking-shaped earrings of the heavy, dangly kind. A Santa hat trimmed with silver sequins and a large golden bell sits atop her short hair. “Merry Christmas!”

“Uh … back at you?”

“You didn’t wear anything Christmassy!” Melanie flutters her hands at him: she painted her glossy crimson nails with white and green stripes like the fancier sort of candy cane. “Can’t you get anything in your size?”

“No...” Rowan glances at his usual outfit: dress shoes, jeans black enough to resemble slacks on forgot-to-do-laundry days, navy shirt.  

Couldn’t he have worn his cherry-red Docs?  

Her suggestion gives him a convenient out, but isn’t he trying to be honest about his feelings? “I didn’t look. Christmas … isn’t that exciting when you’re enduring family.” He barks a laugh, hoping Melanie understands. “At least being trans, nobody asks me if I’m dating anyone or when I’m going to bring someone home to meet the family, because they don’t want to think about trans people in a relationship.” He steps sideways, hoping to navigate around her, put his plate down and move the conversation towards something less fraught. “I made shortbread. Do you like shortbread?”

He stiffens, trying not to panic, when Melanie envelops him in a bear hug, smushing Rowan’s chest and one arm against her necklace. “You spend Christmas with your family?”

“Don’t most people who celebrate it?” He shuffles out of her embrace to slide his cling-filmed plate onto Shelby’s desk beside a plastic container of pizza scrolls. He slips the ingredients card from his jeans pocket, straightens the creases and rests it by the plate. “Uh … is cling-film better or worse for the environment than biscuits in a freezer bag? I had a set of clip-seal containers, but my housemates left me two condiment-sized ones in the cupboard. I could use a bit of plastic or defrost frozen stir fry, except I didn’t know what I’d put that in if I used the stir fry container for the shortbread...”

Rowan realises he’s rambling and presses his lips together before he rants on how his containers must be growing five types of mould in the bottom of Matt’s backpack.

“Happy Holidays, everyone!” Shelby, both arms burdened by plastic cake containers, enters wearing a red T-shirt with the legend “All I Want for Christmas Is a Unicorn”, a glittery ribbon tied around the end of her braid. Only twice before has he seen her without a blazer. “Mel! Your earrings! Millers?”

Rowan swallows a laugh and, freed from awkwardness, heads for the relative comfort of his desk.

A party day, he soon realises, possesses a distressing lack of work. He acquires plates and spoons from the kitchenette, he works on a few photos from last week, he sorts his emails. He notices Melanie pulling Damien aside to talk about something that requires the waving of candy-cane fingernails, but, before he can start to wonder, the volunteer ropes him into a conversation about a loving family with unusual pavlova-eating habits. Shelby saves him from that oddity only to tell the story of her family’s chipping in to get her granddaughter a four-hundred-dollar dollhouse. “My parents wouldn’t have spent that much on a toy! How can anyone charge four hundred dollars for plastic?”

That seems like a good time to head over to the food table.

Shelby does make a good chocolate cake.

“Rowan.” Damien heads towards him, his approach signalled by a trailing, bell-ringing Melanie. “A minute?”

Nothing good has ever been heralded by this question. Nothing.

Rowan nods and follows them over to the whiteboard, standing in front of the List.

“Do you,” Damien says, at least doing the decent thing of asking straight out, “need somewhere to go for Christmas?”

Oh, god. What provoked this horror? Melanie?

Why...?

“We’d non-romantically love to have you.” Melanie’s smile beams as bright as her nails—her lips a close match for their glossy crimson basecoat. “Me and my daughter and her partner, I mean—not me and Damien together. It won’t be anything fancy, but you’re welcome to come.”

“My wife said my telling her about being recipro makes so much sense, and she’d like to ask questions of someone who actually knows things.” Damien nods, his holiday cheer demonstrated in the absence of a tie, rolled-up shirtsleeves and reflectively-shiny shoes. “And I make beer batter fritters.”

Never has Rowan heard Damien speak in aromantic-identity terms with that much casual fluidity, and he would smile but for two co-workers waiting, expectantly, for his answer.

How does he express appreciation for their kindness while explaining that he can’t not go home for Christmas?

A few moments pass before Rowan’s lips and tongue produce sounds that aren’t “I”, “uh” and “I … uh”. “Thanks? But … well, I’d be fine being alone on Christmas and I'm not doing that because … that’d be bad, so... And, you know, family? And I want to see my dog? So ... thanks, but...”

“But you’re one of us,” Melanie says with unusual solemnity, resting a hand on Rowan’s shoulder. “Just like Damien’s now one of—wait, we need to get you a mug! Why didn’t we get Damien a mug?”

“Well, actually...” Rowan, thanking the Aro Gods for Melanie’s willingness to head down any conversational tangent, darts towards his desk and satchel, the latter housing a heavy tissue-wrapped box. Pinkish-red, of course. “Here. Have a mug.”

“Oh! You should have told me!” Melanie’s lips tremble as she and Damien follow him back across the room. “I would have gotten a mug with you!”

Rowan rests the box on his lap, startled. Why didn’t he think to tell Melanie that he bought Damien a mug? (How else does one welcome another into aromantic kinship?) Why didn’t he wait until Damien was busy and order a mug with Melanie, instead of buying one on his phone on the train home from work?

Rowan owns skill in list-making, cross-stitch, baking, fixing other people’s photos and designing his own leaflets. He’s quietly proud of the many arts in which he dabbles with varying degrees of success. He’s mastered, too, survival on the fringes of other people’s lives, survival in a world where few are worth trusting. That ability though, makes him a man too comfortable in isolation. It makes him, in ways that have nothing to do with allosexual frayromanticism beyond his living in an aromantic-antagonistic world, a man who doesn’t know how to welcome other people into the house behind his five-metre fence.

He keeps everyone at arm’s length, even when—perhaps especially when—he plies his crafts for their benefit.

Does everyone experience acute flashes of insight at inconvenient times, the irrevocable sense that their personhood is one bewildering state of immeasurably fucked up?

“I’m sorry. Really.” He passes the mug to Damien, looking at Melanie. “I’m used to doing things on my own. I should have thought, but I didn’t.”

“We do realise that,” Damien says, tearing both wrapping paper and the box lid in a sharp tug. “You got the green-stripe one—oh, wait, it’s got both?” His hands render the mug’s size almost laughable, but Rowan couldn’t find soup-sized variants from a store willing to custom print aromantic flags on crockery. “Mel, there’s both. The recipromantic-only one and the shared one. Thank you!”

Is Rowan imagining that hint of passive-aggression? “You realise...?”

“That you’re independent, that’d you’d rather suffer alone than risk asking for help, even when it causes problems for you. That you’re only comfortable with people when you’re in a position of knowledge or authority. We learnt early on that you work best when we get out of your way.” Damien sets the mug on the desk with a soft clink. “I’m not completely useless in my job, so try harder to stop rolling your eyes over my photos.”

“They’re terrible,” Melanie says, squeezing Rowan’s forearm—apparently forgiven. “You know that, right?”

“The next person to say they can do better has to prove it—”

“My dog photos prove it!”

“At an event! Not in your backyard!”

For a reason likely tied up in internalised ableism, Rowan thought anxiety his designated, annoyance-causing personality failing. His tendency to overreact, freak out, let things get to him; his tendency to shaking hands and rambling incoherence. He didn’t consider that, in the company of people more inclined to decency and less inclined to avoid criticism on deadnaming and cissexism by casting him as the problem, they may find something else frustrating or difficult.

“Is this...” Rowan halts, thinking better of it, before he says the words “being fired just before Christmas”. Even he doubts Damien capable of inviting someone to join him for the holiday only to retaliate with a firing on Rowan’s refusal, although logic doesn’t still his hands. What’s the good of logic if my anxiety still ignores it? “What is this?”

Damien shrugs, tapping a finger against his new mug. “Yearly performance evaluation, maybe? Shame that I’ll have to write it down. I’d rather just call this sort—”

“What’d you say on mine?” Melanie blurts, clapping her hands.

Damien raises both eyebrows. “As if I’d answer that sober!” He shakes his head; Melanie trills her laughter. “We realise that there’s reasons, Rowan. It isn’t a real problem for us, but it may be one for you. If you find yourself in the company of a therapist at some point, consider mentioning it?”

Reining in Melanie wasn’t the reason Damien asked her to work with Rowan, he realises in yet another dizzying, revelatory moment, but that isn’t the cause of Rowan’s spluttering. “If? You think it’s only if? I’d have more aro shit on my desk if I weren’t paying a psychiatrist and a psychologist!” He sighs and nods. “January. I see them January.”

“I don’t like to assume.” Damien shrugs again; Rowan guesses it his attempt at conveying casualness. “Given that this isn’t quite the … er, situation for this conversation, I should—”

“I’m fine,” Rowan says, thinking Melanie’s heedless interrupting a contagious quality. “Really. It’s good. Like actually...” He doesn’t know how to voice this feeling that, for the first time in his life, someone has voiced a critique that doesn’t feel like he’s being disdained or unravelled. “Melanie … again, I’m sorry.” He thinks the time right for another distraction and grabs the second parcel from his bag—tissue paper tied with strands of aro-coloured embroidery floss. “Here. I’ve been working on this. I got your name.”

Melanie lunges for the parcel, struggling to untie the knot with her long fingernails until Shelby—was she close by?—hands over a pair of scissors. Blades click shut; Melanie pulls away the paper.

Twenty square embroidered patches in the purples and greens of many aro-ace and aromantic pride flags cascade from Melanie’s hands onto the worn carpet.

Melanie has always been given to laughter, but the way she bends over, resting her elbows on her knees as though she can’t hold herself up, has Rowan fearing that he’s given her a heart attack via pride patches.

“Aro-ace! Are these all of them?” She draws a shaking breath and carefully kneels, gathering patches. “I didn’t know there were this many!”

“Aro and aro-ace. The ones I know about, anyway. There’s probably a few I don’t.”

“Did you make all these?” Shelby asks. “You should sell them!”

Rowan considers explaining why he’ll never make even minimum wage selling hand-embroidered patches in aro pride flag colours, but Melanie’s pulling him into another grasping hug has him scarce able to breathe, never mind speak. He doesn’t know for how long Melanie smothers him, just that she, like an eventual retreating tide, steps back, leaving Rowan bewildered and giddy. Perhaps this is too much?

“You’re a liar, and this must have taken forever, and you shouldn’t have. I can’t believe you sew!” Melanie shakes her head, shuffling through the patches. “There’s the aro-ace flag with blue and orange, and a combined one, and one without black stripes—oh, thank you!”

Rowan shrugs, relieved that she seems happy. “Do you have something to put them on?”

“I have a coat. I’ll have a pride coat! And nobody will have the least idea what it means!” Melanie grins, shaking her head, before leaning over to tap Damien on the forearm. “Should the rest of us swap gifts now?”

Damien settles himself down on the closest chair. “Good idea. Do you want to—”

“We’re doing Secret Santa now!” Melanie stands on her tiptoes, waving the hand not clutching a handful of patches. “Find your person and give your gift, and then come here and show me what you got! Rowan made me aro-ace patches! All the aro-ace patches!”

“You know your evaluation says ‘needs to stop interrupt—’”

“Quickly, because Damien’s nattering on about performance evaluations!”

Damien sighs, shakes his head and leans back on his chair, looking up at the ceiling. “Lord give me—is that mould up there?”

“Probably,” Rowan says, hoping that he doesn’t look like a man expecting to open a set of golf balls. Did Shelby get him and lie about Melanie? Does that explain the voice recording? “Does the janitor have a step ladder? It’d be easier to tell if we got up close.”

“She does, because of the lighting.” Damien shakes his head. “Remind me first week back to get someone in to look at that. Or to write it on the whiteboard before we leave.” He reaches inside his left trouser pocket, removes a small card-sized parcel held between thumb and pointer finger, and flips it onto Rowan’s lap with surprising deftness. “I think this will be appropriate? While I didn’t know what you planned for Melanie, I saw you working on the train one evening. You had earbuds in and were too busy looking at your hands to notice, but I guessed then you’d made your bag’s patches.”

“It’s hard to cross-stitch on a moving train,” Rowan says by way of apology, a shade confused: what gift needs this explanation? “Hard to cross-stitch well. Not so hard if you don’t care about neatness.” He peels back the tape—Damien wrapped the card the way he presses his suits, the edges inhumanly crisp—and finds a gift card for his local sewing store. Rowan stares, drops the card on his lap and slides his hands under his legs, doubtful he can say anything comprehensible past this isn’t a gift pack of golf balls.

“That’s what you got him? A gift card?” Melanie shakes her head and pokes Damien in the shoulder with startling vehemence; only Damien’s size and his feet, firmly planted on the ground, keep him from falling. “Did you put any thought into that? I don’t like to be that oldie—” She stops, scowling: Rowan can’t hold back his spluttering laughter. “As I was saying, gift cards are the laziest way to—Rowan’s laughing at me, isn’t he?”

Damien tucks his hands behind his head and leans further back in his chair, grinning up at the popcorn ceiling.

Moments—in which Shelby gives Damien a six pack of fancy-looking artisanal beer—pass before Rowan’s ribcage resumes its regular pattern of movement. Finally, he manages to rasp an explanation: “Buying a gift card for a department store? Impersonal, but okay if they shop there. Buying a gift card for a trans man at a clothing shop where every tag has woman on the label? Hateful, unless you know he wants it. Buying a gift card related to someone’s interests so they can pick what they want? Good. And I need fabric, so … thank you.”

“Did someone get you a Millers gift card?” Melanie asks, her hands raised to cover her mouth. “That’s horrible!”

“That’s Aunt Laura,” Rowan mutters. Melanie’s expression of horror, Damien’s surprising evaluation and the wonder of a good, useful present leaves him inclined to truth: “That’s the most considerate gift I’ll get. One with thought that isn’t ‘outright cissexism’ or ‘you’re a man so we’ll ignore your personality to give you the most generically-male of generically-male items’.” He places the gift card and paper on his desk before nodding at Damien, who continues his overgrown Cheshire Cat impression. “Really, thank you.”

Even though Rowan isn’t standing atop his desk to blather about names, the room falls into an uncomfortable quiet.

Shouldn’t someone rustle some wrapping paper? Bite into a biscuit? Thank somebody for their gift? Why aren’t they making noise?

Melanie breaks into a broad smile, threading her fingers together like a self-congratulatory cartoon villain. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

Rowan’s body, ever alert to strangeness in the people around him, stiffens long before his brain concurs that this change in conversational direction is at minimum odd and veering towards confronting with a high likelihood of I’m so not going to like it.

Damien jerks upright, chair creaking. “Didn’t we talk about how to do this—”

“His aunt gave him a Millers gift card!” Melanie grabs Shelby by the arm and drags her towards the meeting room like an illegal firework gone out of control.

Damien isn’t much an arbiter of this office’s brand of chaos, but he’s the closest thing to a pillar of stability inside this mouse-scented bewilderment and therefore the person at which Rowan directs his questioning: “What...?”

“You know how Melanie gets all enthusiastic?” Damien runs both hands through his already-mussed hair. “She comes up with plans and you can’t so much stop her as guide her in the safest direction and hope you’re alive come the landing?”

Does Damien know that is the worst answer anyone can give to a man with more than one anxiety disorder? At least short of pronouncements like “we volunteered you to give year 12 biology students a seminar on recessive genes and you’re starting right now”? Wasn’t that something to do with the monk who grew beans? Hendel? Mendel? Or did he just grow beans at a monastery for some reason? Or was it peas?

“What...?” Rowan croaks, staring at the dark meeting room like a man waiting to face a starving tyrannosaurus.

“She thought we should demonstrate our acceptance of you, after our failures in this. And then she realised Christmas isn’t a great time of year for you, which made her even more … uh, enthusiastic. I made her promise she’d do this after everyone else left, but...”

Melanie staggers out of the meeting room with a large basket held in both hands, a basket covered with glinting cellophane and decorated with a mix of blue and green ribbons.

Shelby trails after her, clasping another pair of scissors.

Rowan will never understand, never mind be able to explain, the thought processes leading to his diving off his chair for the sanctuary underneath his desk—just that one moment he’s sitting on his chair and the next he’s crouching beside computer cables and a lid from someone’s Pikachu lunch box. Some primeval sense of cave as safety, perhaps … but didn’t prehistoric humanity fear cave bears and cave lions? Aren’t large, bright spaces, with visibility and room to run, safer than small, dark places concealing unknowable predators? What about drought, then? Or deserts? Are there any safe places, really...?

Melanie holds no respect for the ancient tenets of let the hiding man hide undisturbed until he’s ready to stop hiding, but she does rest the basket on the ground at the entrance of Rowan’s desk-cave, blocking legs and chairs from sight. “Merry Christmas,” she warbles from behind the mountain of cellophane and wicker. “We hope there’s something there that you like!”

“Happy Holidays!” Shelby echoes, followed by a few more rounds from the rest of the office. “Do you want scissors? Melanie wraps things like she’s paid to use sticky tape by the metre.”

“We only have cheap tape in the office! It won’t stick unless you use heaps!” A thunking sound echoes from above Rowan’s head, and then Melanie’s candy-striped hand reaches around the leg of his desk, offering Shelby’s scissors. “Here. You’ll ... probably need them.”

There’s something to be said for this workplace’s willingness to treat escapades atop and beneath office furniture as normal, Rowan thinks. Breathe. “Than—uh—thanks.” He takes the scissors, staring at the back of shining cellophane; a miscellany of shapes wrapped in green paper sit within like an aromantic dragon’s treasure hoard.

“Damien, can you make them give us better tape next year?”

“We can have good tape if we stop spending the stationery money on good coffee and your fancy teas?”

“The tape’s fine,” Melanie announces before changing the subject: “Rowan? Are you opening anything? You have to tell us what you’re opening if you’re going to do it down there. Oh, do be careful—I think Liam used to shove his chewing gum under the table.”

Rowan shudders, but better his hair brushing old chewing gum over seeing his gift-opening become the focus of everyone’s attention! He draws a steadying breath, tells himself delay won’t help and slits the cellophane until he can draw out a wrapped box, one suspiciously weighty. At least fifty pieces of tape fasten the flaps on each end; Rowan promises himself that he’ll wrap everything in string and tea towels from now on before ripping into the paper. A mug with five horizontal bands wrapped around its body, the trans flag fading into the aro flag—blue into green, pink into green, white unchanged, pink into grey, blue into black.

Shelby, he thinks in disbelief, the non-existent golf balls making their appearance inside his throat. He rests the mug in his lap before reaching through the cellophane with shaking, sweating hands for another box. Another box with the same dimensions and weight...

“Oh, god,” he whispers.

His co-workers got him a basket of pride mugs for Christmas.

Melanie breaks into ringing laughter.

He needs a moment to find his voice, a moment in which he unwraps a mug with a gradient allo-aro design and another with the aromantic flag on one side and the bisexual flag on the other. “Did you  … did you … uh, get me any coffee to go with all my mugs?”

“It’s on the bottom!” Melanie trills. “And it isn’t just mugs!”

“Mostly mugs,” Damien says.

After another couple of minutes, a gradient frayromantic and a frayromantic-and-allo-aro mug join the collection precariously balanced on Rowan’s thighs. He sighs in relief when the next item in the basket feels soft, flat and light, something rustling underneath the wrapping paper, but a second lot of golf balls settle in his throat when he spots the pink and blue stripes, the drape of fabric: a trans pride flag.  

He can’t swallow, can’t lessen the burn in his eyes or ease the stiffness in his jaw and neck; his fingers fight to tear, peel and grasp. Bewildered to the point of dizziness, he finds an aromantic flag with its glorious green stripes, a frayromantic-and-bisexual mug and the expensive coffee Rowan permits himself on special occasions.  

He scoops wrapping paper and boxes back into the basket before hugging his clinking pile of mugs and flags.

Inchoate feeling abounds: a tangle, a knot of emotion with trailing threads of pleasure and overwhelm, surprise and gratitude, guilt and shame ... and something like the shock of being slapped across the face. They shouldn’t have done this! He shouldn’t be like this! Why is this too much? Why can’t he say “thank you” and express a normal, sensible gratitude for these people doing what Rowan’s family can’t ... instead of struggling with the feeling that Rowan, ungrateful and demanding, doesn’t deserve anything from people who have provoked his annoyance, frustration and alienation?

Mugs. Mugs and flags.

Why does something this wondrous have to hurt so much?

After a few moments, the only sound from him the chink of shifting crockery, someone moves the basket. Melanie sits on the floor and wriggles herself backwards underneath the table, grunting, to sit beside him. For once, she doesn’t speak; she rests a hand around his shoulder and lets him be a shivering mass of man clasping mugs.

Finally, Rowan’s rasping, croaking voice manages a few words: “Is this why Shelby recorded me ... talking about my identities?”

“I told you he thought it was suspicious!” Shelby crawls to Rowan’s other side, her braid trailing over the carpet. “Mel said you’d think it was just me being old—no, nobody does that!” She clasps his forearm, squeezing like a vice on wood. “Mel tried seeing if you’ve got a … all those accounts that aren’t Facebook, where you might say what you are? But she couldn’t find you, so I had my granddaughter show me how to record you. We knew we wouldn’t remember if you just said them.”

“I don’t know all the flags yet,” Melanie says in apologetic tones. “And I thought if I made the others check, they’d learn more about us!”

Part of Rowan feels a habitual spike of terror at the thought of offline people finding his social media accounts; part of him feels a quiet pride at Melanie’s using him to educate others in aromanticism. Most of him, fearing a blubbering breakdown, clings to the lifeline of asking questions: “And why Damien started that whole conversation?”

“We had to know where your mug seller was.” Damien bends down to peer underneath the desk and, at Melanie’s brow-arched stare, adds: “I’m not getting under there! You’ll have to call the SES to cut me out!”

Rowan nods and draws a breath. “I … I...”

“You’re very welcome.” Shelby squeezes his arm again. “Can I have your shortbread recipe? They’re good!”

“Yeah. Bag. Front pocket, left-hand side. People ask, so...” Rowan tries for another slow inhale. It’s supposed to help. Supposed.  

His family expects gratitude said clearly and directly, even when undeserving; they’ll never take emotional speechlessness as its shorthand. They want the formula followed, interactions never deviating from the same narrow structure: gift given, thanks provided, everything right in their world where it’s the thought that counts justifies disrespect of another’s personhood. They avoid messiness and honesty; they fear navigating and acknowledging mistakes and missteps.

They won’t see him as a man, or understand the pain they cause in believing his masculinity something he can put aside for their comfort, because they fear a world with unpredictability and fluidity.

Mum and Dad will never conspire to give him a gift like this. They’ll never want to get to know Rowan well enough to try. They’ll never put his needs ahead of their comfort. They’ll never speak of challenges or difficulties with Damien’s kind casualness. They’ll never want to acknowledge their failures. They’ll never give him an awkward, chaotic Christmas that veers from their notions of how things are supposed to be.

Does he want to endure their narrowness, now that he knows what better looks like?

Does he want to endure their truth that Rowan Ross isn’t a real man to them—and won’t be a real person until he remembers his deadname and the stereotypical trappings of the gender presumed to accompany it?

Or does he want to expect and get something else?

Maybe he doesn’t want a world so predictable his erasure becomes acceptable collateral damage for sticking to the pattern.

Maybe, despite his anxiety, he wants a world where people can surprise him.

“Melanie? Damien?” Rowan, shaking, pokes his head out from underneath the desk. “Can I … can I still spend Christmas with one of you?”

[ardentmuse]

First Time - Weasley Boys

Just a little headcanon about what each of the Weasley brother’s first time would be like with you :) Inspired by this lovely ask from anon.

(A/N: Had a tagging issue so I deleted the first post in hopes of fixing it. Nothing explicit here but definitely a little steamy)

Masterlist

Bill - Astronomy Tower

Bill is as easy-going as boyfriends come. He wants you to set the pace for things, to let him know what you want and when you are ready. And more than anything, Bill cares about your friendship first and foremost and building your romantic love on top of a good foundation. So needless-to-say, your relationship is a lot of exploring, of testing waters and stepping back if need be. But even if you just had a session of heavy petting, you always pretty quickly transition back a comfortable companionship. It is a perfect pairing.

But honestly, Bill is worried. Are you just friends plus? Is he being romantic enough? Is he doing what he can to help your relationship transition, to prove to you that he wants more from you than just someone to help him study or keep him company?

And so when you mention just casually that you’d like to be more intimate, Bill sees it as his opportunity to prove what a romantic he can be. He takes you up to the Astronomy tower, prepares a picnic, and sits with you under the stars, holding you close and reminding you every now and again that you are more beautiful that whatever the sky has on display.

And soon you are kissing, and then you are bare under the canopy of night, and as Bill enters you, he tells you he loves you for the first time. Sure he’s said he loved you before because you are his friend but never like this, never with the piercing gaze and vocal strain, the sighs of longing and the tears pulling at his eyes, never with the emphasize on the word “love,” like it were somehow a different word entirely from when he’d tell you he loved you for bringing him that book he forgot or sharing your tea during a study session. And that is all you need to know this is real for Bill, too.

Charlie - His Childhood Bed

For Charlie, sex is just the next step in conveying his love and desire for intimacy with you. Your relationship so far has been well-paced. Every few months is something new: a handsy make-out, seeing each other naked, sleeping in the same bed, some hot and heavy explorations with hands and mouth while on rounds, until finally the only form of pleasure left to try was a full union of your bodies.

But for Charlie, no matter how much he loves you, he needs his family to love you too. So coming home with him for the Christmas holiday is huge. And once he sees how much his mother and father enjoy your conversation, how eager you are to help with the cooking and the clean-up, and how his younger siblings love to play with you, he knows he is ready.

He knocks on Ginny’s door well into the night and asks you to come join him in his bed. He holds you and kisses you and tells you how much he loved you. But most importantly, he asks if you are ready for something more. And so you come together, awkward and fumbling and trying ever so hard to be quiet. But this is your Charlie and he is perfect regardless.

The next morning, Molly pops her head into Charlie’s room early, wanting to tell him before you wake up how much she likes you and approved of the relationship, but she sees you in his bed before she can speak. At first she is fuming at your blatant disregard for house rules, but then she notices how her son’s arms holds you tight, how his head is buried in your neck, how he seems to be smiling even in his sleep, and she just shuts the door. She knows, even if Charlie doesn’t yet, that you are his person and that she’ll have many years to tell him just how much she approves.

Percy - The Prefect Bathroom

With Percy, sex is definitely a topic you have to brooch first. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to; he’s intensely attracted to you, almost debilitatingly so sometimes. It is just that he is so worried of scaring you off with his eagerness. And if he is honest, he also wants to be good and isn’t sure he can until he learns to keep his desire for you at bay.

And so when you slink into the Prefect Bathroom during one of his baths, at first he is vexed that you would dare break so many rules. And then he sees you naked and the blood just flees his brain and all he can do is swim towards you and kiss you. The quick switch has you laughing as you inform Percy that you just wanted him to stop thinking and feel for once. And from there it doesn’t take long before he is entering you. And it definitely doesn’t take long before he finishes.

But honestly, if Percy is anything in the bedroom, it is determined. Once he is able to get rid of that cloud over his mind, the one you cause with your adorable smiles and perfect scent and words upon words to fill his ears, his entire attention becomes focused on seeing that you enjoy yourself, exploring the elements of your anatomy that had previously been foreign to him, and making sure you knew that you would always be first in these scenarios. And what starts out as an annoyance quickly becomes a tradition, a way for you to enjoy each other in the most beautiful part of the castle, a treat for all the hard work it took him to become Head Boy, and a way to surround himself with love for you.

Fred - Empty Classroom

Dating Fred is hot and heavy from day one. It isn’t that he can’t, it is simply that he doesn’t want to keep his hands off of you. Why would he when he has the most beautiful partner in the world wanting to make out with him and touch him at all times of the day? He is living a dream.

And so one day when he pulls you into an abandoned classroom, you both expected to just continue with your normal passionate kisses, tongues swirling and hands roaming until you were both breathless and insanely giddy. But when he backs you up into the desk, lays you out upon it and begins to suck your neck, you both are too far gone to see how things have turned. It isn’t until Fred’s trousers are abandoned around his ankles and your robes are hiked up at your waist that Fred realizes what is happening and pulls away.

“What’s wrong?” you ask when you feel him abandon the space between your legs. It is pretty easy to feel ashamed and exposed when your boyfriend seems to not be interested in making love to you.

“Are you sure, prince(ss)? This is… big,” he says and you see the fear in his eyes and know it has nothing to do with you.

And so you do the only thing that seems to make sense to prove your interest. You stand, you kiss your man, and push him back against the desk as he had you. You wait for his nod in consent before you enjoy his body fully and slowly, for once not losing yourself to the passion entirely.

George - The Three Broomsticks

When George first asked you to date him, he went over-the-top with it, showering you in gifts and filling the day with activities. Every major milestone had been like that. The first time he said I love you, he stole a cake from the kitchens to celebrate. Passing your exams was greeted with a party, a ton of candy, maybe a few illegal creatures, and somehow an empty Gryffindor boys dorm to share and cuddle in private. You thought it was going to be that night, but George’s hands never roamed too low and the only hints of anything sexual were the frequent comments he made about just how good you looked wearing his clothes as pajamas.

So when George is ready, he talks to you, and together you pick a night. George promises to organize a place, given his knowledge of hidden Hogwarts things. But when the night comes, he sneaks you through a passage, out into Hogsmeade and into a bedroom at the Three Broomsticks Inn, the best they have to offer. Madame Rosmerta only smirks once when she unlocks the door for you and you can’t help but wonder how many young couples she has helped do just this.

But somehow, inside, George already has everything: champagne and your favorite cookies, dinner from downstairs, protection, and oils and soaps for a lovely bath should you feel sore afterwards. And you just take things slow, not focusing on the outcome but instead on the feel, and afterwards you cuddle well into the morning.

And at breakfast the next morning, when Fred comments on George’s absence from his dorm room that night with raised eyebrows, George says nothing, only squeezes your hand under the table as he eats his toast.

Ron - Your Apartment

Taking your relationship with Ron to the next level during your time at Hogwarts was simply not something you considered. You loved Ron, and he loved you, you had no doubt, but stress was so high and then Ron disappeared for nearly a year with Harry and Hermione and then the Battle of Hogwarts happened and then all the intense auror clean-up afterwards… Honestly, you are perfectly content with the stolen kisses as he scarfs down his dinner before leaving again on another mission. Someday things will settle and when they do, your relationship can become top priority again.

But then one night as you sit on your couch finishing your dinner and enjoying a book, without warning your fireplace goes off and in rushes Ron, covered in dirt and completely disheveled. He walks with confident steps to you, grabs your face, and kisses you with more passion than you’d thought possible. He picks you up and begins walking to your bedroom.

“Ron, what’s going on?”

Ron stops dead in his tracks, staring down at your head in his arms, “Y/N, I could die!”

You laugh, “Yeah, I know, sweetheart.”

He continues his paces into your room. He rests you down on the bed and covers you with his body and passionate kisses upon your flesh.

“I can’t wait anymore. What if-- I don’t know why I waited in the first place. I need you. Do you--?”

He doesn’t even need to finish his sentence before you are pulling him down to continue the passionate kisses and share the closeness you both have yearned for for so long but had been too afraid to speak out loud.

All tags: @fangirlandnerd, @aerdnandreaa, @thisisbullshytt,  @cancerousjojian, @whovianayesha, @themarauderstheoutsidersandpeggy, @luna-xxxxx, @sleepylunarwolf, @starryrevelations, @potter-thinking

Harry Potter tags: @tessimagines, @0-lost-in-stereo-0, @whysoseriouspadfoot

[turtle-paced]

do you think ned loved catelyn? that was the impression i very much got from the books and the show. my friend disagrees though and says while cat clearly loves ned, ned doesn't love her as much as she does him in the books.

Ned loves Catelyn very much. He’s a family man through and through (well beyond the point of political utility), and his relationship with Catelyn is absolutely essential to that.

Cut for length.

Catelyn I, AGoT, immediately establishes familiarity and affection between the two. One of the first things we learn about their relationship is that this is a mixed-faith marriage, and despite Ned’s own dedication to his faith, he had a sept built for Catelyn in Winterfell.

Catelyn II starts with Catelyn and Ned alone together. Having sex, in fact, which Catelyn thinks of as lovemaking rather than duty or, worse, assault. The scene-setting makes it very clear that Ned spends quite a bit of time in Catelyn’s rooms.

The warmthreminded her of Riverrun, of days in the sun with Lysa and Edmure, but Ned could never abidethe heat. The Starks were made for the cold, he would tell her, and she would laugh and tell himin that case they had certainly built their castle in the wrong place.

So when they had finished, Ned rolled off and climbed from her bed, as he had a thousandtimes before.

Yeah, if Ned’s spending that much time in Catelyn’s rooms and grumping about how warm they are while she pokes fun at him for being a delicate Northern flower, he’s not there just because he wants another kid. Hell, if he’s staying around long enough to chat and for them to have running jokes, he’s not there just for the sex either. He’s there for Catelyn.

That scene continues on with Ned arguing “I want to stay in Winterfell,” against the solid political logic Catelyn advances. It’s pretty clear that the draw of Winterfell is his family. When he caves, though, and starts sketching out how the family will be split,

Ned kissed the tears from her eyes before they could fall. “Thank you, my lady,” he whispered.“This is hard, I know.”

Tender. Intimate. Again, this points towards a mutually loving relationship. We see that sort of casual physical intimacy between the two again, in Eddard IV.

Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced himfiercely.

“My lady,” Ned whispered in wonderment.

“Why?” Ned asked. He saw her hands then, the awkward way she held them, the raw red scars,the stiffness of the last two fingers on her left. “You’ve been hurt.” He took her hands in his own,turned them over.

Ned’s head jerked up. “But… who… why would.”

She put a finger to his lips. “Let me tell it all, my love. It will go faster that way. Listen.”

“As you say, my lord.” Catelyn lifted her face, and Ned kissed her. Her maimed fingers clutched against his back with a desperate strength, as if to hold him safe forever in the shelter of her arms.

“It will not come to that,” Ned promised her, praying it was true. He took her in his arms again.

These are all from the end of Eddard IV. I honestly cannot come to any conclusion but that these are two people who enjoy physical contact with each other, seek it out, and draw mutual comfort and strength from such contact. It’s also quite clear that the nature of this relationship is romantic.

Eddard IV is also the chapter that gives us this:

Ned Stark dismounted in a fury. “A brothel,” he said as he seized Littlefinger by the shoulderand spun him around. “You’ve brought me all this way to take me to a brothel.”

“Your wife is inside,” Littlefinger said.

It was the final insult. “Brandon was too kind to you,” Ned said as he slammed the small manback against a wall and shoved his dagger up under the little pointed chin beard.

When Ned and Catelyn are apart, he still thinks of her and wants to be back with her.

Not for the first time, he wondered what he was doing here and why he had come. He was no Jon Arryn, to curb the wildness of his king and teach him wisdom. Robert would do what he pleased, as he always had, and nothing Ned could say or do would change that. He belonged in Winterfell. He belonged with Catelyn in her grief, and with Bran. 

- Eddard II, AGoT

Hell with politics, he should be home with his wife and son. 

That said, when it comes to politics, again, they’re on the same page. Ned’s thoughts on Catelyn politically speak of respect and trust. He trusts her to rule Winterfell in his absence, he trusts her to raise the armies of the North. When she arrests Tyrion, Ned’s got her back, sight unseen and precise circumstances largely unknown to him. He backs her up rather than cutting her loose. 

“Abductions on the kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets,” the king said. “I will nothave it, Ned.”

“Catelyn had good reason for taking the Imp-”

- Eddard X, AGoT

On Catelyn’s part, it’s crystal clear that she and Ned talked about warfare and politics. In some detail.

“Gods have mercy,” Ser Brynden exclaimed when he saw what lay before them. “This is MoatCailin? It’s no more than a-”

“-death trap,” Catelyn finished. “I know how it looks, Uncle. I thought the same the first time Isaw it, but Ned assured me that this ruin is more formidable than it seems. The three survivingtowers command the causeway from all sides, and any enemy must pass between them. The bogshere are impenetrable, full of quicksands and suckholes and teeming with snakes. To assault anyof the towers, an army would need to wade through waist-deep black muck, cross a moat full oflizard-lions, and scale walls slimy with moss, all the while exposing themselves to fire fromarchers in the other towers.” She gave her uncle a grim smile. “And when night falls, there aresaid to be ghosts, cold vengeful spirits of the north who hunger for southron blood.”

- Catelyn VIII, AGoT

How like his brother Robert he was, even in that… only Robert had always had Eddard Stark totemper his boldness with caution. Ned would surely have prevailed upon Robert to bring up hiswhole force, to encircle Stannis and besiege the besiegers. That choice Renly had denied himselfin his headlong rush to come to grips with his brother. He had outdistanced his supply lines, left food and forage days behind with all his wagons and mules and oxen. He must come to battlesoon, or starve.

- Catelyn III, ACoK

The latter is Catelyn’s own analysis, but done with knowledge of what Ned would have done - when she’s never personally seen Ned at work in the field. That level of analysis did not come out of nowhere. Catelyn and Ned talked, about topics of mutual interest and concern. (And how many men in this series talk about warfare in this level of detail with their wives?) No, it’s clear, Ned and Catelyn had a relationship that extended beyond sex and duty.

Even so it’s very clear that no, seriously, hell with politics, Ned would rather be at home with the family.

When he had gone, Eddard Stark went to the window and sat brooding. Robert had left him no choice that he could see. He ought to thank him. It would be good to return to Winterfell. He ought never have left. His sons were waiting there. Perhaps he and Catelyn would make a new son together when he returned, they were not so old yet. 

- Eddard VIII, AGoT

Going back to Winterfell to see his sons and his wife…maybe have another kid. Note that Ned thinks of it as making a new son together, and that this is perfectly in line with Catelyn’s thoughts about having another kid in Catelyn II. Speaking of simpatico:

His regency would be a short one, he reflected as the wax softened. The new king would choose his own Hand. Ned would be free to go home. The thought of Winterfell brought a wan smile to his face. He wanted to hear Bran’s laughter once more, to go hawking with Robb, to watch Rickon at play. He wanted to drift off to a dreamless sleep in his own bed with his arms wrapped tight around his lady, Catelyn.

- Eddard XIII, AGoT

As she slept amidst the rolling grasslands, Catelyn dreamt that Bran was whole again,that Arya and Sansa held hands, that Rickon was still a babe at her breast. Robb, crownless,played with a wooden sword, and when all were safe asleep, she found Ned in her bed, smiling.

- Catelyn II, ACoK

Those two passages look quite similar in essence. I think, all in all, it’s pretty clear that Ned and Catelyn are on the same page regarding their personal happiness. It involves their family, and each other.

[gwyvian]

Resistances and Dalliances

Chapter 5: Tears of the Sky

Ryder woke with a start, drowsily wondering what had possessed her to sleep in a place that made every muscle in her body burn and knot in the worst way possible, and she groaned and rolled onto her back to try to ease at least a little bit of her discomfort. The last vestiges of a contented dream were still clouding her mind like a gentle fog, but it didn’t take long for her to remember where she was and what had happened when her eyes began to bring the world into focus again and found Evfra beside her, sitting against a leg of the table with his chin propped speculatively in one palm, eyes staring broodily at the wall across from them.

He was also not wearing a stitch, a fact which simultaneously fascinated her and made her feel a little awkward for looking. Despite the flustering memory of being in his arms as she drifted off to sleep coming into her mind unbidden, she couldn’t help but feel that she was intruding on his privacy, especially considering how grim he looked; it wasn’t an encouraging expression right after intimacy.

“So… where do we go from here?” Ryder asked as casually as she could and felt her cheeks flush as Evfra’s eyes touched her.

“You’re awake,” he said, avoiding the question.

Ryder averted her eyes and began to search around for her clothes; she still felt cold inside and the floor wasn’t exactly warm, despite the heat of the lamp bathing everything in its orange glow. She sincerely hoped she hadn’t embarrassed herself by falling asleep at the wrong moment when sheer exhaustion overtook her and she was beginning to feel increasingly self-conscious the longer Evfra didn’t commit to an opinion on what they had shared. Most importantly, she felt too exposed at that moment, vulnerable in a way that she did not like being while there was still this tangible uncertainty between them.

Evfra seemed to sense her unease, because he added, “I suppose I see what some others see in your kind.” His eyes went back to the wall.

Ryder dressed hastily, beginning to shiver, and let the silence stretch until she had almost all her clothes and armor back in place. Every inch of her seemed to have suffered from their earlier ordeal, her hands and arms were crisscrossed with cuts and she found a few bruises on her ribs and legs that were beginning to purple. All in all, she didn’t feel particularly attractive at the moment, which did not improve her mood, but she was proud of how she managed to avoid dwelling on thoughts of slapping Evfra silly for his idiotic lack of feelings when he had practically swept her off her feet earlier, or the ringing absence of admiration or displays of affection to soothe her nerves, or the casual dismissiveness with which he ignored her now, or his backhanded compliment, or…

Their eyes met again as she strapped the last piece of equipment in place and he very obviously noted her state of dress, as if surprised by it. Well what did he expect on a planet undergoing an ice age? she thought irritably, but nevertheless his look made her almost regret not waiting a little longer. Almost. Cold or no, she felt a little too damp this close to the lamp with all her armor on to trap the moisture in, but at least she no longer felt like her soul was bared before the insufferable man. She wished she didn’t have flashbacks of tender kisses along her neck or his almost rough, passionate embrace every time she looked at him. Clearly he didn’t feel at a disadvantage in his undress, nor did he seem to be plagued with such memories as he continued to just sit there without even a hint of embarrassment.

“Angara choose partners with serious intentions usually,” he said finally, and for a wonder he sounded uncharacteristically hesitant. His eyes were still like glaciers, though the more she studied them the more she realized that there was something different in the way he looked at her. It wasn’t warmth, but it was… a familiarity?

Ryder thought she knew why he sounded that way, though. Relief surged in her, but she was startled by how much his unspoken rejection hurt. She hastily composed her face and tried to let go of the inevitable feelings of inadequacy, irritated at herself for feeling them in the first place. It wasn’t about her personally, she was sure; it still stung that apparently he didn’t find her irresistible enough to forego this part of the conversation, though. Not that she had expected anything else; she just couldn’t imagine it going any other way.

“I cannot have a family again,” Evfra continued. Not exactly the gentlest way to put it, but it at least it was some consolation that there seemed to be a definite hint of regret in his eyes. Or maybe that was wishful thinking on her part, fulfilling a need to mend the laceration his words striped across her ego.

“It’s fine,” she replied stiffly, pressing her lips together to keep the building lump in her throat from putting a betraying quaver in her voice. She didn’t want him to misunderstand and think that she wanted more from him, after all. After a deep breath, she felt it was safe to speak again. “It was a one-time thing. You needed an outlet, and I suppose so did I.”

“Good,” Evfra said, finally standing. He stepped closer to her and unexpectedly ran a tender finger down her cheek. “Do not mistake this as a lack of desire for you,” he continued, bluntly as ever, “I know your heart is elsewhere and on my part I cannot let myself be distracted. The Resistance needs me. They are my only family and I cannot, I will not, give them anything less than my whole being, for the sake of my fighters and for all angara everywhere.”

Ryder quivered, fighting sudden hot tears of mingled despair and rage and she pulled away from him, turning her face away to hide it and he didn’t try to stop her. Why did he do that? It was bad enough that she was reacting like a schoolgirl turned down by her first crush; she wasn’t even sure if she liked Evfra at all in the first place.

“I think you made that pretty clear already,” Ryder replied stonily, though she tried to moderate her tone. She grimaced, concentrating on one spot away from him as she struggled to regain control over herself, trying to blink the tears back without letting a single one fall while keeping up the appearance that she was just fine with it all. She was fine with it all, she didn’t expect or want a… relationship with him; she did wish he would stop talking about not wanting it, though.

Well, perhaps it was a lie that she didn’t like him; he had put notions in her head before anything happened between them – but they had all been harmless fancies with no possibility of realization. Now that they had crossed over that threshold, she found she had no idea where they stood or how she was supposed to act. How did you keep a professional tone with someone you experienced cathartic passion with and ignore how unexpectedly fulfilling it was? No one had ever needed her like that before and even if what had happened was just a physical thing, the fulfillment had certainly been an emotional one. At least, that’s what Ryder felt she had poured herself into.

“Take me back to Aya,” Evfra said, “I’ve been away long enough.” He began dressing and, despite herself, Ryder couldn’t help but watch out of the corner of her eye. She was ready to admit she was a little taken with the way his shirt hung off his shoulders, crumpled and half-donned as it was. She felt a little calmer now that it seemed their conversation about what had happened was conclusively over; if he was changing the subject, there was nothing more to say.

“Any chance the Resistance could lend us a shuttle to get back to the Nomad?” Ryder asked, trying for briskness. She really didn’t relish the idea of braving Voeld’s climate again so soon after escaping it and though their brief time in Techiix was restorative, her body definitely had a ways to go before she could push it again.

“Those shuttles have important work to do, not carry you around for your leisure when you can walk,” he replied disapprovingly.

Ryder smiled. It was comforting to hear him his old, gruff self. “I had to try,” she said and the remark provoked a grunt from him.

When their eyes met again though, she saw again that familiarity, only now it struck her as an unquenched thirst for connection when he looked at her. Something profound had changed between them irrevocably and no light-hearted jabs at him would take that away. She wasn’t sure if she regretted that or not. That look did make her a little angry at him, though; if he was going to keep his distance, he should moderate his eyes and not make her squirm with uncertainty every time they met hers.

They left the room behind and from the moment they stepped outside Evfra’s whole manner changed. He radiated calm confidence and he seemed to have regained an ineffable equilibrium she hadn’t seen in evidence since they left Aya behind and their misguided ‘mission’ began. He acknowledged everyone that called out to him, but his long strides did not leave room for conversation, for which Ryder was thankful. She wasn’t prepared to face angaran honesty if any of them happened to notice and ask why she and Evfra had been closeted together for such a long time.

“Evfra,” Ryder broke the silence, “before we go back to Aya, maybe we should track down that Roe—uh, the angaran who lead us to the cave,” she amended hastily, partly not wanting to be overheard and partly not wanting to antagonize the Resistance leader. She remembered that he didn’t believe that the man they had met was a Roekaar, though she herself was convinced beyond a doubt. Evfra would see reason, but she didn’t think she had the leverage to convince him otherwise just yet.

“We’re done with that. You stay if you want to, but I am needed on Aya,” Evfra said with a finality that left no room for debate.

Ryder went on anyway, undeterred. “Isn’t it worth it to just check? He was poking around the very device which led us into a trap, you can’t call that coincidence. Not to mention that he was the one who shouted that name to you.”

Evfra sighed vexedly. “Very well, I will send a team to find him. Do not ask any more than that.”

“Fine,” Ryder said with relief. “I guess I’ll just… hang around headquarters to hear the results of that then,” she glanced at him sideways to catch his reaction, but beyond an ever so subtle twitch, he did not react at all.

Ryder thought the time of day must have changed, but to her eyes Voeld’s bleak skies were perpetually the same grim shade of gray no matter what hour it was. At least there was light enough to see; the road to reach the Nomad wasn’t exactly treacherous, but her footing was still far from steady. Somehow she managed not to slip every five steps and be faced with coming into physical contact with Evfra again and again; it did happen a few times, and each occasion left her trembling worse from memories than the cold. She wasn’t sure she could bear much more of that without tossing dignity to the winds and admitting that she wasn’t sure she was through with him yet, and as soon as that thought occurred to her, she decided that the man or the cold, or both, had simply addled her brains. It certainly was an uncomfortable realization.

They made the journey in silence and at least on Ryder’s part, she spent the time mulling over how to convince Evfra to pursue the investigation of the Roekaar, especially to clear the Inititative’s name beyond any doubt. She thought she must have helped the Resistance leader dodge the emotional harm intended for him by helping him release those feelings – thinking of it that way made her giddy, pleased and mortified all at once – but she was sure that there was more to this scheme than what they had encountered already. Besides, she truly wanted to punish the one responsible for using his own mother as a tool to break him in the first place.

Absorbed in thoughts of how to phrase her argument to Evfra and the brief, wistful daydreams of their time together which intruded into those thoughts, it seemed like no time at all that they were climbing into the Nomad and heading for the Tempest. The way her knees trembled and almost buckled as soon as she bent them to climb inside was a rude reminder that she was far from recuperated. In comparison to their trek across the almost seamless white expanse to where they had parked what seemed like an age ago, the portion of the journey travelled in the Nomad felt almost unreal as they glided effortlessly to the ship. When they finally rolled aboard the Tempest and climbed out, it occurred to Ryder that Evfra hadn’t barked any lurid instructions at her about hiding his presence; she wasn’t about to bring it up, though.

Being home again was sweeter than she expected, as if somehow the universe righted itself and she could properly sort out all the experiences she had gathered planetside. She immediately instructed Kallo to take them up and set a course for Aya over the comm, already immersed in fantasizing about a shower. The blood and sweat lost its charm very quickly, although she rather enjoyed Evfra’s lingering moonkissed scent clinging to her here and there, as if he had laced ambrosial snowy flowers through her hair and across her skin, masking everything else; perhaps getting rid of that reminder of their time together would help soothe the inexplicable hollowness she felt knowing it wouldn’t happen again.

Everything seemed to be going remarkably smoothly and she was almost sure she would be able to reach her quarters and seclude herself from everyone without having to talk to anyone – maybe even sort out her feelings if she was lucky – but as fate would have it, no one was where she expected them to be; their passage did not go unnoticed.

“Welcome back Ryder – Evfra!” Suvi said in feigned surprise, emerging from the Med Bay and passing them by. “It is a pleasure to have you aboard. I had no idea you were on Voeld.” She exchanged a smirk with Lexi over her shoulder, who was standing behind in the Med Bay’s doorway.

Ryder groaned, closing her eyes.

Evfra nodded to the science officer in sour acknowledgement without saying a word and Ryder wasn’t sure if he caught her mocking tone or not; she couldn’t tell by his reaction, since that expression seemed to be the default one he greeted everyone with. Then, to her horror, he headed straight for her quarters. Ryder practically scampered after him, hissing for him to stop, which he ignored. As they passed Lexi, she gave Ryder a friendly smile and a very speculative look and Ryder could feel her inquisitive eyes on their backs as they disappeared into the Pathfinder’s quarters. Evfra stopped once he was inside, examining her furniture disapprovingly, eyes travelling from couch to bed and everything in between.

“Evfra, you definitely can’t stay in here,” Ryder said as soon as the doors shut behind her, mortified.

“Why not?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Well, they’re my quarters. I want to change and…”

“We have been intimate, there’s not much more to hide.” He frowned at her, clearly not understanding what the fuss was about.

Ryder gaped at him. “Uh, well,” she stammered, running a harassed hand through her hair. “You’re not hiding anymore, you could go anywhere on the ship, but if you spend your whole journey here they’re going to get the wrong idea.” Especially if she walked out of here fresh and clean; she dearly hoped her face wasn’t nearly as crimson as it felt.

“How is that the wrong idea?” he asked, frown deepening in confusion. “That’s exactly what happened.”

Ryder covered her eyes. How could she explain? He wanted to keep things professional – she didn’t think he was capable of ‘friendly’ – but didn’t seem to realize that even rumors of a possible dalliance would completely change their relationship in ways he probably did not want to experience, if only he knew about them.

“Look, Evfra, you said you don’t want anything between us,” she said awkwardly, not looking at him. “If you start flaunting that you bedded me,” the wording made her blush, but she wanted to drive her point home firmly, “no one from the Initiative will believe that we’re not in relationship. Everything we do will be scrutinized under that microscope, they’ll drag you into conversations because they think I have influence over you and I wouldn’t be surprised if your own people started to think of you differently.”

Evfra made a noise of disgust. “Your people have a strange way of going about this. What more is there to it than an expression of feeling? Even I have them, if I don’t share all of them with everyone.”

Frustration built into prickles of anger; the man was stubborn as an ox. “I would very much like to be alone for a time,” she said coolly, crossing her arms.

Evfra gave her a flat look. “You have an AI in your head. You are never alone. And you don’t have time to sit around here, I need to get back to Aya,” he said forcefully.

“You’re not very subtle, are you,” Ryder gritted her teeth before finally letting out a slow breath, giving up. “Fine, stay. I’ll be on the bridge.” As she was leaving, she rolled her eyes to the ceiling when Evfra immediately made himself comfortable on her bed, nodding in what passed for approval for him.

If anyone asked… she realized a simple denial would not work, but maybe if she just kept her distance and behaved as if nothing were out of the ordinary she might get away with it. Feeling angry, grimy and increasingly desperate for some time alone, she stalked through the ship to find a secluded corner and Evfra’s haste be damned, but Kallo’s urgent voice over the comm stymied that plan.

“Ryder, we’re receiving a distress call. Aya is under attack, the message isn’t clear but it sounds like someone is trying to perform an orbital strike!”

“What?” Ryder gasped. “Under attack by whom?”

“The reports say… it’s the Initiative,” Kallo said anxiously. “It could be the exiles, but they’re definitely our weapons.”

Ryder cursed, punching the wall. “On my way,” she said grimly, flexing the hand she had punched with painfully. She tried to focus on the anger she felt, it seemed to rejuvenate her, but a cold knot was building in her stomach as her thoughts kept straying to how she would explain this to Evfra; and whether she could continue to believe that her people hadn’t been behind it all from the start after all.

[asenseofagency]

Easy as That

After several days of being gloomy and non-communicative, my husband approached me last night and announced with trepidation that he thought we should separate. I knew it, or something like it, was coming. He was clearly heavy-hearted about speaking his mind. I, on the other hand, had to hold back my DELIGHT.

There is nothing like the feeling of coming to the same hard-won conclusion at the same time. The overriding feeling was relief for both of us I think and I’m so proud that we were able to be honest - with zero enmity so far - about the fact that our relationship had more or less traveled its course and that we wanted different, irreconcilable things out of our futures. 

Mine is still unclear; I don’t wrap up grad school interviews until the end of February and it could be well into March before I’m sure what my options are. At the moment, under the best of possible circumstances, I’d end up in Southern California by the end of the summer but the reality could be very different and a lot more humble. We’ll see what materializes.

I’m a little sad, a little scared, and a lot relieved.

The fear is a product of the realization that as I take a shot at my academic dream, I’ve jettisoned a lot of personal relationships along the way. This has been mostly a coincidence of timing. I began to see that a lot of the relationships in my life took more from me (in an energetic, emotional sense) than they gave back. So I’ve been letting go of a lot. That’s all good and arguably healthy but it has served to isolate me. My relationship with my soon-to-be-ex-husband was one of the last really emotionally intimate relationships I had with anyone. Breaking that off strips me of essentially my last confidante, my last emotional safety net, the last person with whom I was able to be fully, unreservedly honest, which feels, admittedly, dangerous.

I’m also aware that if I did want to replace that relationship with a new one, the trust/honesty/communication bar is set almost impossibly high.

But maybe a high bar is a good thing. And if I do get the opportunity to move, I’ll be rebuilding a life from scratch anyway, and maybe the stripping of personal ties will turn out to have been inevitable. In doing it ahead of time, I might have saved myself some later grief. You never know until you know.

The fear persists. I know I have a tendency to isolate myself. Though I’m not shy or socially anxious, I’m an introvert through and through, preferring coffee and books and cozy rainy days at the house nine times out of ten to parties, events, and girls’ nights out. Losing my husband (and best friend) in this process means making a conscious effort not to allow my natural isolation to become pathological.

Again, a relocation could make a lot of things academic...

I’m a little sad because I know, once the distance happens, once the real break takes place and we’re not co-habitating anymore, I will start to miss his companionship in earnest (and probably vice versa). We lived largely separate lives for sure. That, I expect, will make the change less noticeable but our routine included various weekly dinner and brunch dates, shared sit-downs in front of whichever TV series we might both be following at the time, and the absence of those things - our opportunities to bond and catch up with the events of each other’s week - that absence will be the thing that stings most. Repeatedly, and for a while. That will be hard to prepare for.

The relief, however, comes in many, many forms.

If I get the opportunity to move in conjunction with grad school, or even if I move for the purpose of taking another job, housing becomes infinitely easier under some circumstances. My needs are very minimal. In fact, I thrive on a streamlined environment, for a long while in my young adulthood not owning so much as a single piece of furniture. I look forward to the opportunity again. Minus a partner, a pet, and a pile of shit, subsidized campus housing in the form of studio apartments becomes a really appealing option to me.

And I’m relieved because my husband, at least at the moment, wants to stay in the house we’re currently in. That house feels every bit an anchor. I haven’t got the first idea legally how it might transpire and perhaps it’s financially disadvantageous to me but if given the opportunity to sign the house over to him instead of putting it up for sale indefinitely, I’d gladly take the easy way out to get the payment off my hands. His ability to make that payment on a single salary is what’s in question. He’s got a line on a better job, so it could be an eventuality, but I’m skeptical. In either case, the possibility of having the house end up squarely in his hands is ideal to me. We’ll see under what circumstances it can be accomplished. A troubling outcome would involve living in another state on a shoestring and remaining jointly financially responsible for a monthly mortgage payment; I’m motivated to avoid that at all costs, so it’s imperative we remain on the same team as we sort those problems out.

I’m relieved he was able to be honest with himself too. I didn’t dread anything so much as him convincing himself to relocate and then regretting the decision later. He was able to be totally honest with himself, even when it was painful and awkward, and I’m so happy about that. He likes where he’s at, he likes his small circle of friends and family, and he has zero desire to uproot. Easy as that. I don’t understand it but it was a matter of him acknowledging his own truth. If or when I move, that unloads me of a huge emotional burden; I’ve only got myself to manage.

We had also become more roommates than spouses. There hadn’t been any kind of romantic feelings in a long time and no rekindling was forthcoming. That transition is probably inevitable with all long-term relationships: the slow dying of passion and its replacement by... sweatpants and familiarity. We talked about that openly, that maybe monogamy as we know it is a scam. My mother-in-law, with whom my husband had apparently rehearsed some of our conversation, confessed to him that had it been socially acceptable in her day, she might never have stayed married as long as she did (!). Also, some of our mutual acquaintances who seem the most self-actualized are committed bachelors and bachelorettes, without the stability of a life-long partner, yes, but free to take life’s opportunities as they come. The likelihood that either of us gets into a long-term relationship in the immediate future seems vanishingly small and that doesn’t speak to any kind of bad experience we’ve had together as much as it does the realization that lust (certainly) and love (often) die. Friendship remains, which you can have anyway, at any time, with essentially anyone, to your chosen degree of intimacy. So maybe it’s time for a change of perspective with respect to what you’re looking to get out of romantic relationships. At the very least, it’s worth sampling and an ancient, long-subdued part of me is excited about the idea of casually dating again at some future point in time, without the expectation of longevity. It seems bewildering to navigate at the moment but on the whole, what a relief.

The separation also alleviates some of our long-held grudges. Though we’re great friends, we’re incompatible on some level. I’m disciplined; a thinker, a worker, a grinder. He’s short-term-oriented, easy-goin, and basically unambitious. Those aren’t statements of personal worth or value but they are fundamentally incompatible modes of operating and things that were never going to change about either of us, I’m sure now. He was almost certainly irked by my obsession with productivity; I grated at his escapism and lack of motivation. It’s a relief not to have to fight that fight anymore.

But if I’m relieved that there are no bad feelings toward each other now, I’m cautious, too. We’ll have to live apart for a year before we can legally divorce and in that time, I know, feelings can change. Resentment can grow from the smallest kernel of inconvenience and bad communication, so I’ve got to remind myself that even after we’re not living together I need to prioritize keeping the lines of communication open and constructive. We’ll be disentangling our financial lives from each other for a while and that’s just the type of thing that can go badly wrong if you lose common ground and end up at cross-purposes. Though it seems impossible now, I want to make sure we avoid becoming, in any way, adversaries.

Still everything feels... movable, unencumbered now. There are plenty of compromises to be made but they are the mundane compromises of timing, convenience, money not of personal desire or ambition. It’s an indescribably strange feeling to have made such a big decision and not be able to act on it quite yet either, to be in a holding pattern while the options develop themselves. We’ll be living together at the barest minimum for two or three months more, likely longer, watching, day-by-day with bated breath, as the future pieces itself together into something recognizable, actionable. Without a doubt, it forces you to live in the moment. You put one foot in front of the other and trust that the path will materialize as you go.