denwritesandcries · 24 hours ago
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Dating Tara having a scary dog HCs
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Pairing: tara carpenter x fem!reader
Summary: You didn’t expect your girlfriend to act like that around your dog, but it's still pretty funny though.
Word count: 1,4k.
Content: cursing, fluff, tara being dramatic and a caos gremlin, author never had a dog, mentions of scream V.
Note: Still don't think I'm really good at hcs but I had fun writing these!
English is not my first language.
- Tara could admit that she didn’t know much about you when you first started to go out, which probably would have caused Sam to have a meltdown if she’d found out about it, but, well, making impulsive decisions was her specialty.
- One of the things Tara had come to learn about you — details, mere details — was that you had a dog, after hearing you mention it once or twice.
- Tara, who had never had a pet before, was immediately excited with the prospect of meeting and having one in her life, wondering what it would be like.
- You hadn’t shown her any pictures, and on your Instagram there were a surprising amount of different dogs for her to be sure which one was yours, so Tara tried to guess. Would it be a puppy, happy and gangly? Or even an older, relaxed and well-behaved one, a childhood dog maybe? Would make a good cuddle buddy.
(Whichever one it was, she hoped it to be a short-haired; her asthma and allergies would be very grateful.)
- What she hadn’t imagined, however, was to come across her girlfriend smiling and waving brightly, with a damn hound on a leash on what should have been a perfectly romantic and uneventful date.
“What is that?”
“Hi, baby!” you greet, oblivious to her incredulous and apprehensive tone, “That’s Cujo.”
“Cujo,” she echoed, hesitantly, “Like… the rabid, murderous dog from the movie?”
“No, not the movie, the book,” you corrected. “Don’t worry, Tar, she’s a sweetie.”
“Your Cerberus is a she?”
“It’s just a doberman, babe.”
Great.
- Tara’s definitely scared of your dog at first, but she won't admit it. She's faced crazy killers before, for God's sake! A little pet was nothing.
- You know she's scared from the start. It's honestly kind of funny how she tries to act all brave, especially since you know Cujo wouldn't hurt a fly if she could (and she could), so you do your best to make her relax.
- Trying to get her used to it at first by asking if she'd like to hold the leash on walks, even though she always refuses it, “If it decides to start running I might get dragged across town until I fall down some drain. Would you dare do that to your poor asthmatic girlfriend?”
- Trying to avoid situations where your dog is involved doesn't work for long, though, it lives with you, after all – duh, Tara, really? – and your house is the only place you two can have some privacy without Sam hovering like a hawk all the time, so she has to get over it, like, urgently.
She stops you at the door the first time she comes over:
“So, is there any more… unexpected pets I should know about?”
You shrug, “I have some sea monkeys too.”
- She’s completely dramatic about it at first, as she always is when things don’t go her way. But it’s endearing, and it’s one of the reasons you fell in love with her anyway.
- So… Tara, who has staring contests with your dog every time she comes over for the night or to just hang out, because she can’t stop squinting suspiciously every time she gets too close to the furry form you idolize so much.
- Tara, who gets upset and sullen when you’re gonna cuddle and the dog is faster, taking up your entire lap, the place she should be.
“You can just lay or rest on her, baby, I swear she won't bite.”
“No freaking way! Here, just hold me closer.”
Well, she swears that your dog would have laughed at her if she could.
- Tara, who's sure your dog has something against her and chases her around for the pure pleasure of it, no matter how much you argue about projecting, dark eyes making her jump in fright whenever they're in the same room.
- Tara, who huffs and whines when you go to sleep and the dog follows you, sprawling at your feet in the bed like she's its owner.
“Oh man, even here?”
“Tar, she's sleeping. It's a dog, it's not planning something against you.”
“She's threatening me on purpose!”
“She probably knows that you dislike her, you know, it's pretty obvious.”
“Whatever, I'm not apologizing to a dog.”
- Tara, who actually finds it pretty comfortable sleeping next to the furball, who keeps the bed less lonely and stops the heat from escaping when you get up early to make breakfast.
- Tara, who warms up and attaches quickly afterward, even if she doesn't want to admit it out of sheer stubbornness.
“Awn, I see you guys are getting along. You're petting her now! That’s so great, honey!”
“I'm not! I'm just checking to make sure she didn't bring any dirt from the park earlier.”
- Tara, who turns into an absolute menace once she and your dog bond and you honestly don't know if that's a good thing or not, but it's chaotic anyway.
- Tara, who struts around, holding on to the leash to save her life and still managing to look completely smug like a damn small gangster, laughing at those who stray from their path or get scared by the sudden barking.
“Ha, look at them! Scared of such a little pup, losers.”
“If she ever gets up she'd be literally bigger than you, Tar,” you sigh, “And you acted just like them too.”
“Liar! All lies!”
- Tara, who spends her money on thousands of clothes and accessories that she thinks would look good on the dog, even though your pet already has a lot. Most of them are silly costumes from movies she likes, and one day you come home to find your dog on the couch wearing a cheap Michael Myers costume and you can barely breathe from laughing when she comes running up to greet you by the door.
- You definitely notice your dog wearing a big colorful bow that conveniently matches your girlfriend’s shirt and teases her shamelessly. All you get is a ‘she looks like a princess, leave her be!’
- She calls the dog by cute pet names and talks in a baby voice – which she denies to death – when she thinks no one is listening. Sometimes you even get confused about who the ‘hi baby!’ is for when she walks through the room.
- You're a little jealous when she prefers to snuggle with your dog instead of you, but you end up finding it so adorable that the problem is solved by cuddling them both together and that way everyone’s happy and content.
- Sam almost has a heart attack the first time she sees Tara with the dog, as do Chad and Ethan; Mindy’s a little hesitant and Anika’s the only one genuinely excited and happy about everything, wanting to pet it as soon as she sees her lying on the carpet.
- With that, Tara also defends your dog from anyone who dares to open their mouth and say something bad about her, whether they're your friends or the Karens you meet when you're out together (you have to stop her from throwing hands with them occasionally).
- Teaches the dog to purposely bark to scare Ethan every time he says something stupid and inappropriate and you're left wondering when the hell she had time to do that without you knowing, completely ignoring your claims of 'being a bad influence.'
- Protects the dog from absolutely any of your scolding, no matter what the reason, dramatically covering its ears and looking personally offended by your complaints. You can never stay mad for long with the sight of your girlfriend trying to cover up a dog who's clearly more intimidating than her and literal puppy eyes staring at you with intensity, letting go even if your couch or plants have been destroyed.
- You end up with a happy little family before you finish college without even realizing it, which ends up being the best thing that ever happened to you.
- Tara's favorite part of all of this is the slow and warm mornings when you two don't have to be anywhere and can sleep in, feeling your arm around her waist and your dog curled up between you – under the covers too because it got cold during the night – when she can sigh contentedly and enjoy what you have without any more fears about the future.
“You know, remembering how scared you were of Cujo in the beginning, I never would have expected it to end up like this.”
“That name still doesn't fit,” she says stubbornly, “And I’ve never been scared of our dog, I just wasn’t a pet person.”
“Our dog?”
“Oh, shut it.”
She would never admit it anyway.
- Tara could admit, though, that you were right: your dog really is a sweetie.
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nohva · 1 day ago
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Zoro drunkenly (or while tipsy) confesses his love to Sanji one night but, in the same breath, tells him it’s okay—he knows Sanji is straight and is fine with them remaining "only" crewmates, he just had to get these feelings out of his system. And Sanji is overwhelmed because ???? Where is this even coming from? Why is the mosshead suddenly saying these things? This isn’t how their relationship is supposed to work. They don’t do the whole talking thing, especially not about serious topics?? When they have emotions to work through they fight each other, maybe throw in an insult or two. But this? This is unfamiliar territory for Sanji, so he’s really not sure how to react, much less respond.
So he doesn’t; he just stares at Zoro, his mouth opening and closing. Zoro takes that as his sign, gets up from the stairs he’d been sitting on, and leaves for the sleeping quarters. It is quite late, after all.
The next morning while preparing breakfast Sanji is oh so tense. He’s still mostly confused because there’s just no way the green-haired brute could harbor any such feelings toward another human being—least of all him—could he? And what if this does change things? Zoro said it wouldn’t, but who's to say?
And Zoro acts like nothing ever happened, he's just the same old moss ball that drinks too much Sake and takes way too many naps during the day and Sanji is so confused and he's getting angry now, because how can he act so nonchalant while the cook is over here losing his god damn mind over this? Does Zoro maybe not remember confessing? Had he been that drunk?
And obviously Zoro DOES remember, and he's NOT calm at all. He's freaking out internally every time he and Sanji are in the same room, but he'd rather lose his remaining eye than have anyone notice. So he does his best to play it cool. And yeah, maybe he takes a nap or two more than usual, and maybe he spends even more time working out in the crow's nest than is strictly necessary, but that is nobody’s business but his own, isn’t it?
Bla bla bla cue Sanji questioning the universe and his existence, freaking out over his sexuality, sloooowly coming to terms with it and then freaking out again about telling Zoro and what it means for the crew dynamic etc etc.
Also Robin being somewhere in the background of the story, smiling to herself, sipping on her tea, because of course she knows something is up, and she has a pretty good idea of what it is about, even if she doesn’t know the whole story, because she knows pretty much everything that’s going on on the sunny, cause she’s the responsible older sister™️.
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I have never attempted to write anything before, not even a rough draft like this, but Zosan has been living in my head rent free for the past few months now, and once the idea for a possible plot popped up in my mind I absolutely needed to note it down. Oh well, I hope I am not embarrassing myself too much by posting this.
Anyways, this is the most I can offer due to a lack of actual literary skills, but I still hope you enjoyed!
The obligatory English isn’t my first language speech: please excuse any spelling and grammar mistakes, I tried my best, I swear!
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gatheredfates · 3 days ago
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On the Topic of Plagiarism:
I decided to make my own post rather that co-oping @thefreelanceangel's because, despite having her full and enthusiastic permission to do so, what I'm talking about is somewhat adjacent to her point and entirely inspired BY the fact she tagged @riftdancing—particularly Blink—and I wanted to demonstrate examples of incidence were coincidence and consent do not immediately equate to plagiarism; it's ultimately about intent, and you do not need to tear yourself up on the inside if you find someone with a similar idea to yours, provided neither of you have gone out of your way to copy each other.
First, please meet the troops:
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On the left is Miss Koret Swan. On the right is Miss Blink Vaniro. As I so delicately summed up:
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It would be easy to surmise, based on this alone, that one of us copied the other person. However, both of these are old characters, written in a time and space where neither of us knew each other, and the similarities have always been a cause for laughter and playful teasing rather than competition and spite. I made Koret in WoW as a sister to a wolf and lamb concept, and Pepper made Blink as a character to an overarching D&D campaign set in a sci-fi universe.
What I'm trying to say is that, whilst plagiarism is absolutely a bad thing, as someone with anxiety over this sort of thing, you do not need a wholly 100% original idea in order to write and roleplay publicly, and many ideas share overt similarities to others that deviate the moment you peel back the veneer.
Koret and Blink are both 'pirates'. Koret is a privateer (said with all the sarcasm a privateer entails; a pirate with the proper papers) and Blink is a sky pirate. All of Kor's theming is around the ocean, particularly the deep ocean, and Blink's is all about the sky and the freedom it gives. But they both have wolf motifs. Kor has had a sister, Blink has had a brother.
What makes these characters different is the way that we explore them and how these broad ideas become niche based on the concepts we want to expand on as writers. What makes them different is that neither was written despite (or even in spite) of the other, nor did one of us look at the other and go 'oh, i want to do x with y because i think it'll be better'.
There are dozens of femme fatal concepts out there. There are heaps of bad-ass men. If I had a dollar for every knight character that was in xiv alone, I'd still be a rich woman. Hell, I know for a fact that my star-gazing viera is certainly not the first of her kind, nor will she be the last. I can coexist in spaces with people who have these similar concepts because I know there's enough deviation between those characters, as I have spent the time cultivating a niche story for mine where broad concepts are more set-dressing than the actual meat and potatoes of the character.
If you have the ick about someone copying you, especially if you have a negative history with them or the person is being weird, you're probably right on the money. I have had characters of mine blatantly ripped off for the former. But this is more for the reassurance of people who are like 'I don't want a pink-themed miqo'te because I know one already exists' or 'I don't want to play with a spore druid concept because I know one exists' (i'm using my own miqo'te here as an example, LMAO). You can have a primadonna, pink miqo'te who lives in Ishgard and is clawing her way to the tippy top of the high houses and I wouldn't stress because my primadonna, pink miqo'te is currently knee-deep in a bog because she heard she can find peat mummies there. They're not the same. They share similarities, but they're not the same.
Write it because you think it's fun. Not because you've seen x's concept be popular and you want a slice of it. Not because you want a ship similar to y's and you're going to gush about how much you love it and try to mosey in with a knock-off (no, this has never happened to me, what do you mean?). You're not going to have the same amount of fun!! It won't be the same!!
But also, at the same time, don't rob yourself of an opportunity to play with a concept because someone else is already doing it, especially if it's just a trope. People can tell the difference and they will embrace it if you're earnest.
You may even find someone like I found Pepper. We laughed at it. Then we made an AU and shipped them. They're kissing. They are stabbing. They are kissing and stabbing each other.
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ohbueckers · 19 hours ago
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#⃝ HEART OF A WOMAN MASTERLIST. only thing that’s saving you is the heart of a woman. 〔 includes part links & all extras. 〕
ju speaks. 🙈🙈🙈 NEW FICCCCC & ITS SPARKS P. also new layout i think i like the smaller text more? i figured tcptg will take me a bit because it’s more of a slowburn, so i wanted to have something more fun and less challenging to write for me while i continue that. i have more of a layout for this so i should be able to get parts out quicker but sometimes life gets in the way so no promises. player p here i commmme, i’ve gotten a few requests for something like this so hopefully i can incorporate all of you guys’ ideas! ennnnjoy.
summary. paige and jodie “dee” have always been messy. since highschool, their relationship has been complicated by distance, other people, and paige’s habit of keeping jodie at arm’s length. now, with paige in the wnba and dee carving her own path in la’s sports world, they’re back in each other’s lives, struggling to stay away despite knowing better. some ties are hard to break, even when they hurt.
warnings. incorporated before every chapter. specifically sexual content, language, toxicity, angst, cheating (?), etc…
playlist. heart of a woman, summer walker. / and this is just the intro, tory lanez. / drew a picasso, drake. / everything, kehlani. / come thru, drake. / blame game, kanye west. / hate sleeping alone, drake. / east liberty, partynextdoor. / still yours, bryson tiller. / freudian, daniel caesar. / player’s prayer, lloyd. / stretch you out, summer walker. / love language, sza & more.
chapters. all parts linked here!
00. and this is just the intro.
01. probably put me in the past.
02. if i call, you gon’ answer?
03. come through.
04. one in the same / blame game.
05. you better start thinking.
06. somebody else’s girl (you were mine first).
07. we could quit delaying.
08. pick your poison, babe.
09. you win.
10. the reset button.
subject to change!
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irisbaggins · 9 hours ago
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Because I'm procrastinating on writing about the history of RPGs, I'm going to actually do a little analysis on that "accidental mind control" scene. Specifically, I want to look at it critically as a text and not as a bit. Why? Well, because I can, but also because it's a really interesting moment that somehow actually fits wonderfully into the narrative.
When it comes to who got mind controlled by Sam, it was just Evan and Jammer that got hit with it, whereas K managed to dodge it fully. And here's why that's so interesting to me, narratively; K is the only one of the three hit by the spell who has refused to let go of their burden. Whilst K has had it pointed out to them that they cannot do everything by themselves, they have still refused so see that possibility. They still end up taking things on by themselves, which has only been further proven by their experience in the hospital. Yes, it was fun for them to live in a fantasy for a moment, but isn't it very interesting that K chose to be a doctor and to specialise in the field they had earlier horrifically failed? Yes, it was partially a gag by Erika, but goddamn does it not fit K's character. In a world where K can be a saviour, a healer, a fixer, they decided to be specialised in a field in which their previous mistake had cost them their friend's life. Erika is excellent when it comes to subtle character traits and flaws peeking through, and this "gag" is proof of that; K feels an incredible amount of guilt, but they try to handwave it off when it's brought into the light - "Just messing around in a hot tub!" - because they cannot process their failure. Because if they failed, then what is their point? If they cannot help people, then what are they even doing?
A thing that will never leave my thoughts when it comes to K, is how we were first introduced to them; with Erika describing K as being "chronically online", fighting with people on social media and engaging in social justice. And I have no idea about you all, but I remember being very much the same as a teenager. Of thinking that every problem in the world was mine to shoulder, and thus piling on issues that were never mine to hold. I see the same happening with K, but K hasn't let that mentality go. They have only gotten worse. They have an Atlas Complex: they take the whole world on their shoulders, convinced that they alone can save it. They cannot let go of that desire to help, that desire to fix, that need for control. They were always like this, since the moment we first saw them; they just channelled that into the rest of the Misfits during the events of the first season.
But in this season? They've been alone for a while, with only Teddy for company and as a voice of reason. K has spiralled into thinking only they can save magic, and it's causing fractures that we - the audience - are only just starting to see the consequences of. Their attempt of healing Evan - which I discussed here - was a natural progression of their guilt at what happened to Magic and the Magic World, as well as their guilt for Evan and themself splitting up where the former clearly got into a lot of trouble without them. K falling into the fantasy of the hospital was them, for a moment, experiencing success, instead of the ever-present guilt that is their current adventure. K could exist within that world, not because they let up on their need for control, but because they embraced the need for control in a world that was familiar and predictable.
Which then leads into Sam's incredible feat of magic, and K's ability to sidestep being controlled. Whilst yes, it was the roll of the dice that decided their fate, I also think any other option would have maybe been less impactful: both Evan and Jammer have begun to realise they can depend on others and let go of their need to control everything, but K hasn't yet. K has begun to admit that it is a problem, but has yet to admit that it is something they must change. That they should not be carrying this burden for themselves. They started to open up to Jammer, but they still have not talked about Itsy and what their work truly entailed. They're still hiding some parts of themself, not allowing others to help with their problems. They don't know how to let others in - at least, not anymore - and so they end up refusing to let up control. They cannot give themselves in to Sam's spell, because they have to solve everything on their own. They're slowly opening up to letting others help, though; Sam was not only able to get K out of the hospital, but K also included Sam in their plan to find the source of the amplification magic. They're just not completely ready to surrender fully to letting others help. Not yet.
But hopefully, soon.
Anyway. This episode was so fun, and I loved the look into everybody's character as they were faced with the challenges of The Trope Hospital. I can't help but want to dig my teeth into what all of these islands brings out of the characters, and how the narrative unfolds. I could go on and on about Aabria's worldbuilding, and about the cast and how they play their characters. Just. Ugh. Misfits is so good, y'all.
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ghostyeyestohide · 3 days ago
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I Put A Spell On You
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Pairing: Terrance (Foe) x Valerie (Plus Size Black Fem OC)
Warnings: SMUT (not too extreme), 18+ (MINORS, SCROLL AWAY), buildup (if you got the attention span of a squirrel, DONT READ), titty fondling, oral sex (f receiving, m receiving), bisexuality (from m), masturbation, slight edging, spitting, slapping, smoking, choking, striptease, some femdom, dirty talk, praise kink, creampie, cussing, aftercare, mentioning of death, a hint of voyeurism (from Junior), and Non-Canon.
Summary: After a day of examining Junior, Terrance returns home for a sit down dinner with his wife, Valerie, who wants to do a little more afterwards.
A/N: So, I basically restarted this app with a new account just to snoop around and read smut. I noticed that Aaron became even more popular now, and since there is already a lot of Terry fics, I thought it would be perfect for me to finally show my idea of how I think Foe should’ve went if I was in the writers room as someone who has seen the movie and read the book. I’m making this a two (or four) part series as I got the perfect bisexual hookup scene for Terrance, Junior, and OC since Ian and Garth didn’t want to give it to us in the movie, so that’s otw! And this is a one time thing as I been retired for a decade from fanfic (smut) writing, so ENJOY!
🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲
Valerie was in the kitchen, spreading parmesan and fresh basil on top of the toasted cheesy garlic bread when she heard a car pulling up in the driveway. She walks to the window near the door, pulling the curtain back a little to see who it was.
The sounds of the door unlocking is heard, with it lifting up. Out comes Terrance, her husband and OuterMore’s hardest worker. He looked exhausted in his light brown top, black slacks, and black dress shoes, but happy. She smiles, walking towards the door to greet him.
“And there’s my beautiful girl in her pretty, ruffled dress.” Terrance states as he walked through the door, smiling as he puts his suitcase down and pulls her into an embrace.
Valerie chuckles before placing her lips over his, giving him a long but sweet kiss, to which he responds by doing the same.
“Sounds like someone had a good day today.” says Valerie, wrapping her arms around his neck and looking at him.
“Yes, I did. Love to tell you about it over dinner because my word, it smells wonderful in here.” he replies, getting a chuckle out of the both of them.
“Oh stop! It’s nothing crazy, just spaghetti with meatballs, cheesy garlic bread, some Caesar salad with the crisp parmesan, and that bottle of white wine you got from your previous assignment.” she replies sly, tracing her finger over his shirt.
“And I’m guessing you’re the dessert?” he asked in a low, seductive tone that enhances his British accent well while rubbing over her curves. Valerie laughs as she pecks his nose with a kiss.
“I mean…..I could be that, but I was looking forward to eating my homemade lemon loaf, drenched in homemade lemon buttercream, with that vanilla ice cream I also made, but we can go with your first option!” she responds with a smile.
“Dont tempt me with temptation already out there, Val.” he replies, kissing her again.
“What’s that suppose to mean?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.
Terrance stammers, looking for the correct thing to say.
“You know I’m talking about that cake, dear. But, I’ll go change so I don’t keep you waiting. I am hungry after all!” Terrance exclaimed, kissing her one more time before going up the stairs to their room.
“Hurry! I’m not one to be waited on, Terrance!” she replied jokingly as she picks up his suitcase and places it on the living room table before walking back to the kitchen.
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As the couple ate their dinner and drank their wine, Valerie started first with how she spent her day crocheting new clothes for herself to wear, reading some books, and prepared the food as Terrance talked about what him and Junior did, from him watching him do farm work to doing scans on his body for measurements, assuring he has everything that the real Junior gave them.
“And then, I had dinner with them. Of course, I didn’t eat as I told them you were cooking, just some wine and whatnot. For some odd reason, Junior started going off.” said Terrance as he bit into his slice of lemon loaf and ice cream.
“Going off?” asked Valerie, very confused since he told her he was perfectly fine all day.
“I told them the trip to the space station is coming sooner and he knew this when I told him on the farm. But now, he was mad, saying “I don’t want a robot living with my wife!” angrily and demanding that we go outside and fight.”
“With a broken arm?” she asked as she ate some of her slice. Terrance nods as he dranked some of his wine.
“You had to be there to get it. It was a bit scary, but…..it was very indecent that he was doing all of that while not looking at Hen not once.”
“Hm.” she nodded, looking down at her bowl.
“And what was Hen doing by the way?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.
“Oh. She was trying to calm him down. Saying “do the fight test with me, not him” blah blah, and then, I can’t remember the exact words, she said something and he basically called her stupid. I laughed, which I shouldn’t have and she got mad at me. So, she got up from the table, crawled across it slightly, and slapped me…..” Terrance replied, with his voice going quiet with the last few words.
Valerie sat there expressionless, taking in the words that just came out of her husband’s mouth. Hen slapped Terrance kept replaying in her mind, slowly adding to the burning sensation that was growing inside her. Finally, she got up and put her bowl in the sink.
“Val, are you oka—“
“You let that miserable bitch slap you…..you let Hen, who changes emotions like she has a permanent period, slap you?!” Valerie cuts him off, looking at him with anger all over her.
Terrance gets up, slowly walks up to her in order to not make her even more mad.
“You have to understand: I deserved that slap. He basically insulted her and I had no business laughing!” he responded with.
“I don’t give a fuck if you’re the one who insulted her, she had no right to put her hands on you! And you’re calm about it?” she said, slamming her hands on the island in front of her, startling Terrance.
Valerie shakes her head, thinking if he should continue his assignment of watching Junior and Hen or stay home permanently for her sanity.
“I can’t do anything or we’ll accidentally reveal what he truly is.” he replies, throwing his hands up. Valerie scoffs, just in shock at how calm he’s being about this.
“Why couldn’t she take it out on her walking sex toy since he the one who said it? You’re the not the one in a loveless marriage.” she states.
“……do you see yourself as that?” he asked her.
“In a loveless marriage?”
“No. What you called him.”
“…..no. I’m just…..ugh. How can you hate your actual husband, but fucking on a replica of him?. Is it love? Is it hate? Or is she just confused…..” she said, stopping in her tracks before looking away from Terrance.
Terrance looks back at her confused, trying to figure out how would his wife know that if he never told her much about Hen. Then, it hit him.
“…..you been reading my files behind my back again. After I told you not to do that”
Valerie lets out a cold laugh before looking at Terrance again, tears swelling up in her eyes.
“That’s the only way I can keep pretending to live the life the real Valerie would be as the man, who makes endless promises to not push her to the side, fawns over his growing sexual attraction to his newest assignment in Junior.” she responds with, tears now falling down her face.
Terrance exhales quietly, leans up against the counter as he faces away from her.
“You read that in the notes, huh.”
“…..is it true? Or are you just toying with him and keeping proof?”
Terrance sighs, rubbing his face as he stands near the island in front of her. Taking in what she said, he pulls out a cigarette, lights it up and smokes it, blowing the smoke away from her.
“Okay. I am attracted to him. I’ll admit it.” he replies.
Valerie wipes her tears, inhaling and exhaling quietly before clearing her throat.
“Always knew the minute you can home and told me about meeting them. The way you mention his name, what he does, how he acts, his instant rejection to being chosen to go to space…….almost similar to Valerie’s story. Which I’m assuming you have yet to mention that to them.” she said, locking eyes with him.
“They don’t need to know that.”
“Why not? Will it make things worse when you ask him to run away with you?”
He looks at her in disbelief, caught off guard with what she just said.
“If you think I’m leaving you for him, I’m not. I can’t have any type of sexual contact with any of our subjects or I get terminated. And they take you back since you’re their property. You knew this the minute you were made.” he says, blowing more smoke out.
Valerie looks down, slightly embarrassed about throwing that accusation out. She was afraid that he was going to risk everything by being with Junior, putting everyone in danger. Terrance blows out smoke one more time before tossing the cigarette and stands in front of Valerie.
“Hey.” he gently holds her chin up, looking into her eyes. “I can’t throw off this feeling I get when I’m around him. He just brings something I never seen in other subjects out of me. But, I have control. You know me too well for me to abandon you like that.”
He wraps his hand around Valerie’s face, wiping away tears as he kisses her.
“Those notes don’t mean shit to me right now. You do. You’re the only thing I have left of her, replica or not. You been with me all these years and never once have I ever did anything that seemed like I don’t value you anymore. I never forgot about the things you love, the things you do, and the things I do for you that make you happy. I always go home to you, which OuterMore hates since it violates the ‘staying at the subject’s house’ rule, but I refused to let you be here all alone out here. And this won’t change that.” he says as he begins to rub on her body.
“I know you’re being genuine, but this……this is becoming an obsession and it needs to stop.” she responds, pointing at Terrance’s suitcase on the table.
He laughs, gently rubbing his hands all over her body as Valerie tries to fight against it, but fails.
“I’m serious, Terrance.” she states, gently pushing him back.
Terrance turns Valerie around, with her back against him as he has her pressed against the sink. He begins placing soft kisses all over her back and neck, making her let out some soft moans.
“He’ll be home soon. That Junior will go back to the factory and we’ll move on from all of this. It will always be just the two of us. You. Just. Need. To. Trust. Me. Val.” he responds, with each sentence and word ending with a kiss as he slowly lowers himself to his knees, positioning himself in front of Valerie’s ass. He starts tracing over her legs, brushing closer and closer to her pulsating heat.
“Uh-uh” she responds, placing her right foot against his chest and gently pushing him back, creating some distance as she turns around.
“I can’t get a taste first?” he asked, looking into her eyes with a pathetic, begging look.
She shakes her head ‘no’. “Go sit on the couch.” she says as she gently removes her foot from his chest.
Terrance smirks before carefully getting up and walking to the couch. She grabs their wine glasses, pouring the remaining bottle in each one before bringing it over to where he’s seated at.
She places his glass on the table before walking over to their vinyl player, turning it on before placing the needle on the disc, tuning the volume as the song begins to play:
Turning around to face Terrance, who has his wine in his hand now, she begins dancing seductively while drinking, hitting her marks as she lipsync to the voice of Nina Simone.
I put a spell on you
Cause you’re mine as she points at him, earning a smile back from him, who is slowly becoming even more aroused at her movements.
As she slowly walks over to stand in his view, she notices a male stranger is standing outside of their window near the door, watching them. He looked intrigued, with his messy clothes, dark brown hair, Roman-sculpted face and piercing blue eyes staring at her. Noticing a bandaged arm wrapped against his chest, she realizes who this stranger is.
“Junior,” she said in her mind.
“Everything okay, baby?” said Terrance, very concerned for why she stopped suddenly.
She snaps back into motion, not mentioning to him that his subject is also watching her do a dance that’s only meant for his eyes. She doesn’t seem to care, only focusing on showing where the love should always be.
You know I can’t stand it
You’re running around
You know better, daddy as she gently sits in front of him on the table, placing her glass on her left. She begins to untie the knot on her strings that hold her breasts up, letting the top fall down to expose them.
He leans forward, tempted to touch her, but she slaps his hand away, belting out the next part:
I put a spell on you
Because you’re mine as she stands up and walks behind the table.
You’re mine as she removes the rest of her dress, leaving her in just her lacy underwear. She gestures him to remove his clothes, but play with himself afterwards.
Now even more aroused, he complies with her order, gently taking out his semi-hard length and begins jacking off slowly, growing with each stroke.
Sipping her wine, she locks eyes with Junior to see if he’s still watching. To her amusement, he was, gently breathing against the window while slowly stroking himself. This is exactly what she wanted to happen: two men who are avoiding each other to not violate the rules both salivating over her. Just one gets to fully experience her as the other one watches.
I love you, I love you as she sits in a chair that faces Terrance, rolling her hips as he watches with hunger in his eyes.
I love you, I love you anyhow
I don’t care if you don’t want me as she gently removes her panties.
I’m yours right now as she tosses them towards him.
Oh you hear me
I put a spell on you as she opens her legs, exposing her glistening bliss towards him, gesturing him to come to her, but slowly.
Terrance gets up, walking towards her as she gently rubs her clit, looking at his girthy, long length swinging back and forth.
Because you’re mine as he kneels in front of her, giving her a fat sloppy kiss before moving down towards her pussy, placing his mouth over her slit, making her inhale loudly at the friction of being touched.
He begins to flick his tongue in and out, burying his face deeper in between as she places her hands on his head, gently pushing it down a bit more.
“Wow, you really were hunger.” she laughs before being replaced by her moans.
He hums on it to vibrate around her, gently rubbing her folds with one hand as the other creeps up to her breasts, gently rubbing them.
“Fuck…you’re so good when you’re on your knees, pleasing me.” she whispered as she exhaled loudly when he inserts one finger inside, gently rubbing at her spot that she likes that he hits while fucking her.
As he adds another finger inside and speeds up the pace, she looks at Junior once more, see his self pleasuring has sped up too. There shouldn’t be a reason that Val is enjoying this so much, being devoured by a man who helped create her to replace the emptiness of his deceased wife as a replica of another watches them hungrily, desperately wanting to join them.
“I’m getting closer and close—oh, fuck!” she exclaims as Terrance begins sucking hard on her clit, repeatedly plunges his fingers inside her, watching her squirm with his eyes locked on her.
After her moans grow louder and louder, she finally releases, the sensation washing all over her and Terrance’s face. After a few minutes of regaining herself, he removes his face from her, which is covered in her essence.
“Come here.” he mumbled as he gently pulls her up for another sloppy kiss, mixing in her juices with her mouth. She responds by kissing him back harder, gently wrapping her hand around his length and stroking it, causing him to groan.
“Fuck, you’re perfect. You know that, right?” he says, throwing his head back as she strokes around his tip.
Valerie gives an ‘mmhm’ as she places kisses all over Terrance’s chest and abs, leaving a few marks as she trails lower and lower to his length. She lets go, tracing it with her tongue before engulfing him into her mouth, making him let out a soft moan.
“Just like that.” he says as he gently grabs a fistful of her curls before she slaps his hand away.
“I mentioned you have to work for it. That means no touching me and following my orders.” she said as she looks up at him, stroking his length in her hands.
“You let me eat you out. And push me down into it.”
“That’s your job. Being on your knees for me and me only.”
Terrance chuckles quietly, nodding his head as Valerie continues sucking him, gently massaging his balls as she strokes the rest of what she can’t fit into her mouth.
She looks out the corner of her eyes to see if Junior was still watching, but noticed his disappearance. I guess he couldn’t bare to see more of something he can’t touch physically. She looks up at Terrance and begins bobbing her head & hands faster, going off the adrenaline that sudden decided to pop inside her.
“You’re gonna make me bust fast, doing that.” he groaned, tensing up at his growing climax inside him.
Valerie laughed, speeding up the pace. Terrance began letting out some expletive, hinting that he’s near. Just as it was about to release, she stopped just in time, with him inhaling and exhaling hard.
“Told you you’re working for it.” she says, winking at him before letting it go and laying back in the chair. He laughs slyly, licking his lips as he examined her body. Her curves fit in the right places, her skin glowed like she was a diamond, and her busty elements enhanced her beauty. She was the perfect woman for him and he wouldn’t give that up for anything. Not even him.
“Where do you want me to be?” he asked, gently stroking himself.
Valerie repositions herself, put each leg on the post of chair, exposing her heat like she did previously before he ate her out. She gently taps her pussy, gesturing him to insert there first. She was eager to feel him inside her, waiting enough to get what she wanted.
He nodded, lining himself up to her entrance. Before he inserted, he let out a long trail of his spit out of his mouth, using his tip to rub it all over her clit and lips. He then inserted himself inside, both lovers letting out a loud gasp as she instantly clenched around him. He gripped her legs, gently moving his hips to get her adjusted.
“No matter how many times we make love, mm,….it still feels like you’re getting bigger and bigger each time.” she whispered, gently scratching over his abs.
“Oh yeah?” he asked before pushing all of him inside her, lifting her legs towards her chest. Valerie gasps, taken aback by the sudden move. He laughs before gently kissing her face, swaying his hips around a bit.
“What do you want me to do now? Since you’re in charge.” he mumbles against her cheek.
“You know how I like it. Don’t overexceed it.” she replies before moving his right hand around her neck, keeping both her hands wrapped around it.
He starts with a quick thrust, causing her to let out a low moan. Then, he picks up the pace a bit, continuously slamming his pelvis into her thighs. He squeezes her throat a bit as his thrusts become even more aggressive, making her let out a bunch of lewd sounds she never thought she could make mixing in with the sounds of her wetness being poked fills the living room.
“Fuck, you’re gonna break me, Terra-mmhm! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” she yelled as he hit her sweet spot over and over, moaning louder.
Terrance puts his left hand on top of the chair, holding it in place as he continued fucking her, slowly building up both of their releases as Valerie becomes a pleasure mess under him.
“Come on and let me release, Val. I already got your release coming and I’m not too far behind you.” he states as he looks down at her, giving her deep thrusts.
She lets out a hoarse chuckle before being cut off by how sloppy his thrusts were becoming, feeling herself on the edge of release. Just as it was about to occur, she pulls his length out, feeling it beating hard in her hand.
Terrance, puffing very hard, looked at her in disbelief, once again being denied release. He scoffs sarcastically, gently rubbing her breasts.
“You’re making me work hard for mines, you’re denying your own.” he said.
“Makes this even more fun. And worth the wait. Now lay across the table.” she replied, gently pushing him off her.
He bits his lip as he walks towards the table, grabbing a few pillows and placing them on it before laying onto, carefully positioning himself.
“Hands above head.” she says as she gets up.
He obliges, placing his hands above, anticipating what she’s gonna tell him to do next. The cool air in the air, settles on his skin, creating goosebumps as his heated length slightly moves up and down, yearning to be touched again.
As she walks over slowly, something in the window between the kitchen and the living room (by the fireplace) catches her eye. She notice its Junior instantly, admiring her and him. Had he been standing there the whole time or does he moves to get a better a view of the show?
Becoming even more aroused, she kneels down in front of Terrance, beginning to place a trail of kisses, from his thighs to his length to his chest to his neck and lastly, his mouth, positioning herself on top of him. She sits up, looking down at the man, who’s looking at her with a dark glare in his eyes.
“Are you gonna be a good boy for me? she asks, slightly moving her hips to grind on his length, making his hands and mouth twitch.
“Mmhm.” is all he could get out, fighting real hard to not touch her.
Suddenly, she slaps him across his face. It wasn’t hard, but with the way she gasped, that wasn’t her intention at all. Trying to play it off, she wraps her left hand around his throat, squeezing it. He lets out a stifled groan, breathing hard as the stinging brewed on his cheek.
“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, not a sound. So let me ask you again: are you going to be a good boy for me?” she asks, tilting down towards him.
“Yes. Yes. I am going to be a good bo—“ he’s cut off by her lowering herself onto his length, causing him to buck his hips upwards.
“Fix yourself right now. Or you don’t get a release.”
He relaxes, letting his hips lie down as she begins moving her hips back and forth, creating a aphrodisiac motion that makes her moan his name a few times and praising how good he’s making her feel right now.
“Touch me up here and look at your art, please.” she cries out as she pulls his hands towards her breasts, letting go of his throat. She looks at him quickly, who is mesmerized at what she’s doing, before look back at him, slamming herself down on him again.
Terrance gently massages them, breathing hard as he was in awe at how much she’s enjoying doing this. Every bounce, every speed, every curve, every moan, he was happy that this was pleasing her as much as it’s pleasing him. He can feel her release building up again as she begins to slow down her pace.
“Mm. Can you…can you finish……” she asks as she collapses onto his chest, breathing hard. He chuckled, amused that she lasted almost close to her release.
“Do I have permission to receive my release?” he asks, gently massaging her back.
“Yes. You deserve it, finally.” she replies in an exhausting manner.
He kisses her forehead before hooking his arms under her legs, picking her up as he stands up, not fully removing her from his length. He gently lays them on the couch, positioning a pillow under her before he started to pound her, causing her to let out some screams.
“Not so dominant after slapping the shit of me, huh?” he asked, aligning himself face-to-face with her as he wrapped his hands around her neck, still having her legs hooked in his arms.
Valerie lets out a stifled ‘no’, moaning loud as she watches his length go in and out of her, feeling like she’s losing oxygen at the sensation.
“Play with yourself for me. I wanna see this beautiful pussy cumming all over me, this masterpiece of a body shake, making its mark as I fill you up. Can you do that for me, Val?” he whispered as he deepens his thrusts, sweat dripping down his face and body on her, who is in a daze with her body’s reaction
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck. Fuck. FUCK!” she yells as finally, while rubbing her clit, her release washes over her, causing her to shake unbearably and squirt all over him and the couch.
Terrance moans “that’s my girl” as he thrusts a few more times before releasing inside her, letting out grunts as his load pumps into her womb, laying on top of her until he was finished.
The couple laid in silence, calmly rubbing each other, for a few minutes before Terrance removes himself from her, both groaning at the separation. He gets up and goes to a different room, disappearing for a few minutes.
As she waits for him to return, she looks again to see if he was still watching. He was gone this time, taking what he saw with him back home. She smiled, knowing this about to be so awkward when they finally meet.
A wiping between her legs snaps her out of her thoughts. She looks up and see Terrance, wearing a robe now, wiping off any juices or sweat with a wet cloth. He sits her up, lays a robe near, as he walked to the dirty laundry basket, tosses the cloth in there before walking to the kitchen. He grabs the both of them a bottle of water and sits next to her, taking out a cigarette to smoke.
“Drink.” he whispered, handing her a bottle.
Valerie nods, taking it and sipping some of it. She grabs the robe and puts it on as he lit his cigarette.
“Anything feel loose? Feeling low on your fluid? I can go grab your case so you can change your tab.” he said.
She shakes her ‘no’, tying the robe string around her waist to close it. She leans over to give him a few kisses, placing some over his face.
“…I’m sorry for slapping you.” she says, giving him puppy eyes.
“You’re good. You were just in your element, that’s all.” he replied, puffing out smoke.
“You sure? Cause I can see my hand mark slowly forming on your face.” she said, leaning over as she traced it with her fingers.
“At least you marked your territory.” he responded with, making both of them laugh.
Valerie laid on Terrance’s shoulder, slowly closing her eyes as she is exhausted from the partaking she did. He gently traces over her thighs, looking down at her.
“Did you see something out there while we were making love?” he asked.
“Hm?”
“You kept looking at something towards the window for a few moments. Was there something there?”
“….no. I think I was….getting myself caught in my own spell. And I kinda like it.”
“Glad you do. It makes you even more hotter.”
She feels him smile against her head before he placed a kiss on it, continuing his smoke as she fell asleep on him, tiredness finally taken over her. He looks at his suitcase again, thinking about what the next few weeks here is gonna look like.
🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲 🜲
A/N II: Started this at 8 PM on Saturday and I finished it this morning. This is how you know I’m a writer with experience (writing fanfics, essays, screenplays, reviews of film and tv) because I cannot believe I wrote all this in two days.
Part 2 is currently in progress and it is now a four part, but two of them will be like a little emotional so I can show a little more of my writing in screenplays style.
If you want to be tagged in it when I publish it, let me know so I can make a list. Have a good day/night, everyone! 🫶🏽🫶🏽🫶🏽
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yoonia · 2 days ago
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🖋️ one your stories that sticks to me the most was the (im)perfect ending. I really wish to see how you visualize their lives after. will Joon ever find out about the baby? will they reunite again? what happens when they do🤭? will Joon finally get his head out of his a** and end his marriage and be true to his feelings 🧐 or will OC has her own happy ending with someone else🤔?
💌 I think other people have said this before, but you are an admirable person that I've ever met online. You've worked hard on your stories and have always given us a lot. even now, you choose to spread positivity and share gifts for others to celebrate your birthday and I think that's the sweetest thing anyone could ever do. happy belated birthday, Dia. You deserve so much happiness and a lot more. I hope your coffee is always hot and your pillow always warm. wishing you and all your precious kitties an abundance of health and joy ��💝
omg I've been getting the same questions sent to me for this couple, so I guess this might be a good chance to provide some answers for those who have been waiting for it lol
I know that the last letter mentioned in the fic didn't specify how much OC shared about her baby, so I guess this is where we get to see what other things she sent with the letter for Namjoon. I hope you enjoy the snippet and the visualisation below!!
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— title: Our Imperfections| pairings: Namjoon x female reader| genre: second chances!au, infidelity!au, post divorce/break-up!au, angst | word count: 1,410 words — summary | Namjoon is on a mission to fix the mess he created. — ratings & warnings | +18 / M for mature; talk about divorce and custody, post break-up, mentions of infidelity
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— original: The (Im)perfect Ending by @yoonia — fic drop date: Oct 30th, 2024 — song companion: loved
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“Don’t forget that you need to pick up Sunny early Saturday morning for her class camping trip.” 
Hearing her voice on the phone, clipped with orders, used to make Namjoon wince. Now he is used to it. Always so business-like, even when talking about their only child. 
“Did you get that?” 
Her voice returns when he doesn’t answer. He holds back from rolling his eyes and calmly answers. “Yeah, I got that. Saturday morning. Early.” 
His reaction isn’t the only thing he is holding back. Asking why six-year-olds would go on a camping trip might only end up with him getting a long lecture through the phone. He doesn’t have that much time to endure that. And having his ear burning from it is really the last thing he needs right now. 
“Right. I’ll text you the details.” A sigh, then, “Sunny also wants you to be the one to drive her to school Monday. So I’m packing up extra clothes for her to stay with you another night. Is that good?” 
Namjoon closes his eyes. As much as he loves having extra time with his daughter, having the child’s mother schedule their time for him without consulting him first rubs him the wrong way. If he doesn’t know any better, he would have thought that she keeps doing this as a payback. Causing trouble and brushing his ego for choosing to step out of their marriage—the marriage that she had worked so hard to paint as perfect for the world to see. 
But Namjoon knows better. 
He knows that she has always been this way. 
Even when they were still together, she always had to be the one running the show, while Namjoon would have to follow. She was the one holding the pen, writing the story for them through her rose-coloured glasses, while forcing him into a role that he never felt like he could fit into. 
At one point, it caused him to lose himself. 
Only that he realised it too late. Far too late, because it hadn’t just started when they got married, but long before—when they grew up together and being fed their parents’ beliefs that they would end up together once they turned adults; when they became teenagers and she insisted that it would only be right if they started dating to make their parents’ dreams come true and when she started planning their wedding day just when Namjoon was starting to find a chance to write his own story, to walk a different path, with a completely different person. 
It wasn’t until he was able to find his old self and feel like himself again through the mistakes he made when he finally found the courage to leave that life. Yet, once again, he was too late. 
Far too late. 
“Namjoon? Do you—” 
Her voice breaks him out of his wandering thoughts, only for her words to get drowned by the sound of the announcement blaring through the speakers above his head. 
“Attention, passengers on Flight 345 with service to Sydney. We are now beginning our boarding process at Gate 12B. Please…” 
The voice fades as passengers rush in front of him to find the departure gate, and Namjoon waits until the announcement stops before taking his palm off his phone. 
“Where are you? Are you on another business trip?” 
Namjoon almost laughs. He finds it hard to believe that after spending an entire fifteen minutes on call with him, she never thought about asking him where he was or where he was up to. 
Business as usual. Even when it’s about our new arrangement. 
“Australia. I just landed. That’s why I couldn’t take your call until now.” 
“Oh…” 
“You do realise the longer you’re on this call, the more expensive it will be, don’t you?” 
Silence, then her bitter voice is heard. “How was I supposed to know where you were?” 
You could have asked. 
Sighing, Namjoon shakes his head. “Look, just text or email me all the details about Sunny’s trip. I’ll be back in Seoul Friday afternoon. Okay?” 
“Okay.” Her voice softens. “Take care, Namjoon.” 
The call ends, and Namjoon breathes a heavy sigh. Feeling exhaustion after speaking to her is one thing, but once it wanes, guilt always seems to take root. It doesn’t matter if he had fallen out of love a long time ago. He cannot deny that he has made too many mistakes that he is still trying hard to make up for. His decision to stay in the marriage for Sunny, using her as an excuse to hang on to the final threads that were offered to him instead of stepping away from that fallen marriage, was his last, yet probably most detrimental for his own mental health and any chance he ever had to make things right for everyone. 
Including you. 
Hoisting his duffle bag on his shoulder, Namjoon walks across the airport’s lot to find his ride. There is a reason why he is here, and he isn’t going to stop until he finds what he is searching for. 
It takes him nearly an hour to reach his destination. 
The small coffee shop looks quite inconspicuous as it stands between various other shops downtown, yet it still catches Namjoon’s eyes the moment he arrives. 
Quaint and delicate, with natural wooden colours chosen as the accents at the front side of the shop and dark window frames, it reminds him so much of you. 
The sound of the bell chimes above his head as he steps in, immediately welcomed by the fresh scent of coffee beans, chocolate, and a bit of cinnamon. Spicy and sweet and pleasantly warm. A young boy with a thick Australian accent welcomes him from the cashier, yet his eyes travel across the room, where the figure that has been filling his dreams at night appears. 
Smiling at the young barista, he walks up towards you instead. You have yet to notice him in the room. Your eyes are locked on the small child sitting on the sofa by the corner, swinging his legs as he receives a small sip cup from your hands. 
His eyes find him first, looking over your shoulder while you still have your back facing Namjoon and the front door. 
“Now you sit tight right here until Mommy finishes work, okay? And don’t—”
“Mama?” the boy cuts you off before you can finish speaking, his chubby finger pointing towards Namjoon, “Da..?” 
Your body freezes. Namjoon hears a soft gasp before you straighten up and slowly turn to face him. The moment you see him standing there, your eyes grow wide and you quickly move to hide your son behind you. Only the child is quick, as he hops off the sofa to stand right behind you, clinging onto your legs as he peeks at Namjoon. 
A line which he read from your letter echoes in his mind as he returns the boy’s curious gaze, just as it does many nights after you were gone—
“I have a boy. He’s here. He might have a dimple on his cheek too that might show up once he’s grown a bit older. His name is…” 
Namjoon bends down. “Sammy, is it?” 
The boy, Sammy, slowly nods. Namjoon smiles. “You look handsome. You’re being a good boy to your Mommy now?” 
“Yea…” 
Chuckling softly, Namjoon straightens up to face you. Your eyes are covered with tears as you look back at him. “How—” you gasp, “What are you doing here?” 
Because I’ll chase you to the end of the world if I could. 
Those are the words that Namjoon has always wanted to say to you. A promise that he never got a chance to say before you left him. It was a mistake that he had been dreading the most when he first received your letter, along with a copy of your sonogram and your final word of goodbye. 
“Keeping a promise,” he merely says. “I think we have a lot to talk about.” 
A deep sigh escapes your lips. The sound pains him. But the sight of every tension being lifted from your shoulders gives him a sense of calm. 
“I guess we do,” you whisper to him with a broken smile. 
A lot of them. 
He can almost hear those words coming from you. Just like he almost says out loud,
I have all the time in the world to talk and listen now. For you. 
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For your fall tune, I think this song will fit perfectly well for this.
𝖙𝖜𝖎𝖑𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝖋𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖘𝖊𝖗𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖉𝖊: dia’s birthday bash 2024 ⇝ closed!
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paperstorm · 1 day ago
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HELLO I am back jet-lag is under control and writing has resumed. Thanks for the tags @heartstringsduet @thisbuildinghasfeelings and @bonheur-cafe
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“Home sweet home,” Owen says.
TK nods. He wonders if his dad doesn’t know what to say, and that’s why he’s talking so much. He steps further into his apartment. It all looks the same – his dark navy walls, his stainless appliances, the view of the Manhattan skyline out of the living room windows. The only difference he notices is all his potted plants are set out on the table with what looks like a waterproof tablecloth protecting the wood underneath. TK hadn’t done that before he left – he hadn’t done much of anything before he left, hustled into rehab in such haste after his intervention – but his plants all seem hydrated and well cared for, when TK steps closer to examine them.
Owen is in the kitchen, across the open-plan apartment, unloading the bag of groceries he’d brought with them; milk and eggs and cheese and a few fruits and vegetables, enough to tide TK over until he can place a larger order for food delivery. TK watches him, unsure of what to say himself, and when Owen is done the smile he sends TK’s way is a shade too cheery.
“Did you do this?” TK asks, gesturing behind himself at his plants. He’s especially fond of a stubby cactus in a pot that looks like a vintage gas can, because it’s one of the few things TK took from his mom’s place after she passed. He’s glad to see it made it through his stint in rehab.
He had an assistant, Brianna, but she quit months ago to follow her boyfriend to Chicago. The band was supposed to hit the road only weeks before he went to rehab upstate instead and someone would’ve had to manage things while he was gone, but TK hadn’t gotten around to replacing her.
Owen nods affirmatively.
“Thanks,” TK says quietly. He looks back at the plants, lightly trailing his fingertips over the pink-rimmed leaves of a Chinese Evergreen.
“Of course.”
TK bites at the inside of his cheek. His eyes sting and he can’t look at his dad as he tells him, “Thanks for picking me up. You don’t have to stick around, if you’ve got shit to do.”
“I took a few days off.”
“You?” TK laughs softly and shrugs out of his leather jacket, draping it over the back of one of his dining chairs.
His father technically gets all sorts of days off, and the firefighters’ union regularly negotiates for more, but he can’t remember a time when his dad actually took them. Owen’s more married to his job than he ever was to TK’s mom – at least, that’s how it seemed to him when they divorced before TK had reached double-digits.
“I thought you could use some company, for the first little bit.”
“A babysitter, you mean.” TK tries not to let resentment drip bile into the tone of his voice.
He listens to his dad’s footsteps clicking on the hardwood until Owen is right beside him, wrapping his hand around the back of TK’s neck and squeezing gently. “No, I mean company. I’m sure things are going to be a bit weird, for a while. I didn’t want you to be alone when you first came home.”
TK squeezes his molars together and blinks the sudden sting of tears out of his eyes. “Right.”
“I’m proud of you, kiddo,” Owen tells him, emotion swimming in his own voice that he doesn’t bother to hide.
TK sniffs and feels about two inches tall as he asks, “You are?” He’s still staring down at his plants as his dad’s thumb rubs along the nape of his neck.
“I am.” Owen confirms. “For admitting you needed help, and for getting it. And I have faith in your recovery. I’m not here to babysit you. Just to be with my son.”
Biting momentarily at the inside of his lower lip first, TK makes himself turn his head. Owen is smiling at him with his eyes a little shiny, and TK feels like a little kid all over again. With the words catching in his throat, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I caused everybody so much ...”
Owen shakes his head and this time, when he pulls TK into a hug, TK hugs him back. He clings, desperate for the sort of comfort his dad’s arms brought when TK was five years old and awoken by a nightmare. Rubbing his back, Owen softly assures, “It’s okay, TK. It’s gonna be okay.”
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demigod-shenanigans · 2 days ago
Text
The choiceless hope in grief
Summary: Leo Valdez has lived and died for the gods. Their war has shaped his life since he was a baby. With Gaia defeated, he sort of hopes he can finally rest. He has friends and some semblance of home to return to for the first time since he was eight years old. Just this once, he allows himself to hope the good things might stick.
But the gods aren’t done with them just yet, by the time Leo finds his way back, Jason is gone.
This time, Leo decides he’s done just taking the Fates’ bullshit lying down. If getting his best friend back means striking a deal with the gods and venturing into the Underworld… well, it’s probably not even the most reckless thing he’s ever done.
The caveat of said deal? He has to trust Jason will follow him, or his self-doubt will doom them both.
And after the life he’s lived, Leo is so intricately familiar with self-doubt that he could probably trademark the word.
Or: The only possible way for Orpheus to succeed is if he learns to think of himself as a person worth loving.
Word Count for chapter 1: ~5k
Rating: Teen and Up
So! *claps hands together* I’ve been threatening you guys with my Orpheus Eurydice valgrace fic for a while! Technically I wanted to wait to post this until I’m completely done writing the fic, and I mostly intend to stick to that! I’m only posting this now because I have a minor surgery tomorrow and I’d rather be anxious about fic related things than about the surgery in question. So, take this chapter as a preview of sorts, more to come soon-ish but probably not immediately!
A couple of important notes before we start:
-TW for suicidal ideation. It’s less Leo actually wanting to die and more his canon behavior of “I’m doing something extremely reckless that might succeed but if it doesn’t, my death is an acceptable consequence”, paired with general grief related self-loathing, but if you think you’re not in the right headspace to read about that, come back when you are or at least tread carefully. This fic pics up at the end of The Burning Maze, so especially the beginning is pretty heavy on the grief stuff.
-Since ToA is vaguely canon to this fic, Leo and Calypso are technically dating in the beginning, but they don’t really interact positively as a couple (honestly they don’t interact that much in general) and break up pretty early on. Just be aware in advance that they’re still together for a little bit.
-Fic title is from Talk by Hozier which is maybe a painfully obvious pick but it was too perfect for me not to use it.
Chapter 1: Leo and Piper have an extended sleepover
It wasn’t a discussion between Leo and Piper whether or not to go to Jason’s funeral. They came to the decision that they wouldn’t silently—or as silently as one could come to an agreement when all parties involved were sobbing.
Maybe it should have been a discussion. There was a part of Leo that worried he’d regret this later—his refusal to take this chance to say goodbye and let himself grieve.
But Leo remembered his mother’s funeral. Remembered the way his aunt Rosa had looked at him like she knew his mother’s death had been his fault. Leo couldn’t stand the thought of people looking at him like that again.
He also didn’t remember his mother’s funeral bringing him any sense of closure or comfort. He’d stood at her grave, afterwards, just as desperate and afraid and utterly inconsolable as he’d been before the funeral, except it had suddenly felt sickeningly final. The wound it had torn in his soul had kept bleeding for years, and the scars would stay forever. He didn’t need any of Apollo’s shitty oracles to know Jason’s death would be exactly the same.
At this point, Leo was pretty sure his sanity was being held together by a combination of jokes and a truly questionable amount of duct tape.
Beyond all that, though, Camp Jupiter was a battlefield right now. It would continue to be a battlefield for the foreseeable future.
Leo wasn’t a coward. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go back and help. But one of his best friends was already in a box, and there was no way in hell he’d risk the other.
With how tightly Piper was clinging to him, maybe she was thinking the same thing. 
For all his big talk about dragon escorts, Festus did most of the actual escorting on his own, occasionally torching what Leo hoped were monsters and not random public monuments. Leo, for his part, spent most of the journey crammed into the backseat of the car next to Piper, sandwiched between her and a bunch of moving boxes that seemed determined to flatten him into a Leo-shaped pancake whenever they took a sharp turn.
He’d spent so long thinking about seeing her and Jason again. 
He’d talked Calypso’s ear off about them the whole journey, to the point where it had clearly started to annoy her. He’d thought about various ridiculous entrances he could make, and the fact that he’d probably get yelled at, but he’d also thought about sitting together by the campfire, sharing nachos. He’d thought about Jason hugging him so fiercely that he couldn’t breathe, and Piper cussing him out while she held him, making him promise never to do anything that reckless again.
Now Piper was actually holding him, and Leo couldn’t feel anything. There was a numbness in his chest. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to ever feel happiness again. Hell, even if he did, what was the fucking point? Every time anything even remotely good happened in his life, it got ripped away from him again.
They didn’t talk a whole lot for most of the drive. They cried until it felt like they couldn’t anymore, clinging to each other like desperate children.
Even if they’d wanted to talk about what had happened, Piper’s dad was right there, and despite the Mist usually working overtime for them, having him overhear seemed like a gamble. Or, well, maybe that was what Leo told himself. Maybe he just wasn't sure he was ready to hear it all. He still felt like he couldn’t think. He was overwhelmed to hell and couldn’t stop fidgeting.
Several hours into the trip, his stomach started grumbling. Piper dug through the bag at her feet and offered him one of her PB&J sandwiches, but Leo couldn’t eat. He hadn’t skipped a meal in forever—he’d been homeless and unsure when he’d even get access to the next meal enough times that it had been all but tattooed into his skull that he couldn’t afford to—but he couldn’t even think about eating without feeling sick. He thought about Jason. He thought about the state he’d left Camp Jupiter in and the fact that they hadn’t even been able to give the dead their proper funeral rites.
Had Leo’s help made any difference at all? Had anything he’d done in his life changed things even slightly?
Leo knew the Fates had intended for it to be fire that fell—for him to burn in a bright, hot blaze and turn himself to charcoal. But he’d refused to stay dead like a good little pawn, and now Jason was gone, and it was all his fault.
He wasn’t sure how Piper could even look at him right now, but he was beyond grateful that she was holding onto him as tightly as she did. It was the only reason he didn’t fall to pieces completely. The cog at the heart of Leo’s machine had broken in a way that made it utterly beyond repair, and now it felt like a matter of time before the whole thing came apart. Piper holding him was the only reason his remaining pieces were still functioning. 
It should have been impossible for Leo to fall asleep under these circumstances, but he’d been traveling for hours and fighting before then and he’d cried out his remaining energy, so eventually, the world started to fade around him, reduced to just the sound of Piper’s breaths, until finally, those went, too.
~~~~
It would have been kinder, maybe, if Leo had dreamed up some shitty visions promising violent death and/or the end of the world. That would have been business as usual. 
Instead, he dreamed of his time on the Argo II—of one of those early nights when the different groups were still getting to know each other, having a brief moment to breathe between their ridiculous tasks and saving the world. 
It had seemed reasonable to catch each other up on what had happened on their end. Percy, Hazel and Frank had talked about rescuing Thanatos, and Piper, Jason and Leo had told them what had happened with Hera in turn. 
This would have been a boring intel conversation at best, seeing as Leo had been there for all of their part, but they’d grabbed snacks and sat on cushions on the floor and made it a whole bonding activity. Jason had been wedged between Piper and Leo, and they’d taken turns storytelling. 
And Jason had bragged. So much. But he hadn’t even had the decency to brag about himself like a normal human being. Instead, he’d talked about how capable Piper and Leo had been, somehow managing to make Leo sound like the coolest person he’d ever met. Which was ridiculous, considering he’d met everyone else on their team.
And sure, Leo made it sound like he thought he was amazing all the time, but he was exaggerating, which everyone, himself included, knew. 
Jason didn’t seem to have gotten the memo, though. He had one arm wrapped around Leo the whole evening, and he got all starry-eyed when he talked. 
“Leo took on three Cyclopes by himself. Three!”
“Dude, stop!” Leo had laughed, shaking his head. “I know I’m incredible and you’re blessed to be friends with me and stuff, but you weren’t even conscious for that part.”
“Still happened, though.” Jason had beamed at him. “You’re amazing, dude. I would have died about fifteen times on that mission if it hadn’t been for you. You guys should’ve seen him.”
It would have been easier if Leo had thought Jason was just trying to talk him up to the others to make them more willing to trust him after how badly he’d messed up in New Rome, but Jason wasn’t the type. He’d looked like he honestly believed every single word he was saying.
So, of course, Leo had refused to seriously deal with any of the things that made him feel.
“Sorry, Pipes, but I’m pretty sure your boyfriend is in love with me. It’s the fire powers, I’m afraid. I’m just too hot to resist,” Leo had joked instead, and Piper had untangled herself from Jason’s other side to throw Doritos at Leo, and everything had been right in the universe.
~~~~
Waking up from that, blearily blinking himself awake in the car full of moving boxes and remembering… that was a worse punch in the gut than waking up from most nightmares had been. And Leo should know. He’d had so many of those over the years that he was basically a certified nightmare expert at this point.
Leo wanted to go back in time and spend forever in that one evening, living it over and over and over again until the Fates or a temporal paradox or something eventually killed him. He wanted to hold on to what they’d been back then—the three of them together and happy and whole,back before they’d realized what the prophecy really meant. 
He wanted to stay wrapped in Jason’s arm and hear him laugh at whatever stupid joke Leo came up with while he and Piper threw snacks at each other like ten year olds. He wanted to believe he could actually be the person Jason was bragging about—this invincible hero that could do just about anything and saved people’s lives.
But Leo had never been that hero. Even his sacrifice had been the selfish decision of a coward who wasn’t ready to die just yet. Jason had been their Superman. The guy who could fly and threw lightning and saved people from falling to their deaths. Jason had been the hero. And ultimately, that had been what killed him.
Leo wasn’t exactly sure what he planned to do once they got to Oklahoma. He should have been heading back to the Waystation, to give Calypso the normal life he’d promised. But he wasn’t thinking about Calypso, or the Waystation, and the thought of a normal life had gone out of the window the second he’d seen the coffin. Besides, the Waystation would mean people asking questions, wanting to know about his mission and asking him to talk about his feelings, and he didn’t want that.
The only thing Leo really wanted to do right now was not think. 
By the time they got to the house, it was so late that cross-country dragon flight seemed inadvisable for visibility reasons alone, so Leo agreed to stay the night. Festus nuzzled him for a bit, got a fuel snack from the canister Leo had brought and then folded down into his million pound suitcase form for the night.
It took a little under two hours to carry all the boxes inside, which was an annoying amount of time to be carrying boxes but seemed like an absurdly short amount to move the contents of an entire life.
They spent some time in search of the necessities that needed to be unpacked, but the house was still furnished and also had running water and electricity as of a few days ago, so it wasn’t that bad.
While Piper went in search of some ancient camping gear so Leo wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor—this seemed silly to him, the floor was far from the worst place he’d ever slept—Leo asked Piper’s dad if he could help with dinner. 
Tristan looked relieved at his offer, actually. He’d been staring at the assorted vegetables with a slightly lost expression, trying to hack at one of the zucchinis with a butter knife. It seemed like he was trying to remember how cooking worked and had just discovered he had absolutely no idea. 
Considering how long he’d been an insanely rich guy with a personal cook, Leo guessed that actually might have been a pretty accurate read on the situation. 
“You might want to try a sharper knife,” Leo suggested, which made Piper’s dad look absolutely mortified. “Try not to chop off any of your fingers, though. I think Piper’s been traumatized enough for one week.”
The words were out of his mouth before Leo could think to stop them. Tristan didn’t laugh, but at least it didn’t seem like he’d be tossing Leo out of the house over this. Maybe he realized people sometimes said stupid shit when they were grieving. Maybe Piper had just warned him in advance that Leo was like this sometimes.
Tristan just went to find a different knife, which would have maybe been concerning if he hadn’t gone back to hacking at the vegetables a moment later.
“Well, at least this one is actually cutting through the zucchinis. That’s already an improvement.”
“Yeah, I’m basically a cooking expert,” Leo said with a grin, only half-joking. He went to peel and chop up the carrots, and was done with those and about half the mushrooms by the time the poor zucchini had been hacked to bits.
“You and Piper went to school together, right?” Tristan asked after a while of them quietly chopping vegetables for the casserole, trying to make sense of things with information he didn’t have and that, judging from past evidence, probably would have made his skull crack. “You and her and Jason.”
“Yeah. We went to Wilderness school together.” Leo winced, trying not to think too hard of Jason while also trying to remember the lies they’d already told Piper’s dad. At this rate, he was pretty worried his own skull would crack, too. “Then all three of us switched to a different school. Then I was gone for a while.”
Tristan nodded like this made perfect sense, though he mostly seemed lost in thought. That was a little rude, in Leo’s opinion. If he went through all that effort to remember their elaborate setup of lies, the least Piper’s dad could do was appreciate it!
“I’m glad you’re here now, with everything that’s happened. Piper was really upset when you left,” Tristan said, still with that faraway look in his eyes. “The last few months were hard for her. Between the move and the breakup, she really could have used a friend.”
Leo promptly lost all rights to make fun of Piper’s dad and his vegetable chopping skills because at the word ‘breakup’, the knife slipped and he nearly sliced off two of his fingers.
“Fuck! Ow!” he said eloquently, trying to avoid bleeding all over the cutting board in his attempt to get to the sink. “Jason and Piper broke up?”
The question sounded absurd even to his own ears. Why would Jason and Piper break up? They’d been happy together.
Surely, Piper’s dad had to be talking about something else.
To Leo’s shock, Tristan nodded.
“A while ago, yes,” he said, but he didn’t go into details—possibly because Leo was bleeding all over the sink. “We should bandage that. Do you think you need stitches?”
“No, the cuts aren’t that deep,” Leo decided, turning on the faucet and holding his bleeding hand under the stream of cold water. Maybe he should have been more concerned about the injury, but his mind was still whirring at the thought of his best friends breaking up. Unfortunately, the cold water stung like hell. He hissed with pain. “Sorry for making your kitchen look like a crime scene right after moving in. Usually, I at least have the decency to wait a day or two.”
Because the house was a small, cozy place and Leo had not had the decency to curse quietly, Piper appeared in the doorway a moment later, an alarmed expression on her face.
“What happened?”
“I’ve been bested by a stupid potato,” Leo cursed, holding up his bleeding hand and wiggling his fingers for emphasis. He figured out immediately that this was a mistake. “Ow.”
“Stop that, dumbass!” Piper cursed, moving to stand beside him. “Sink was the right call, but you need to use soap or the cuts could get infected. Dad, any chance we have gauze lying around somewhere?”
Tristan didn’t seem to question why his daughter had immediately jumped into emergency medical treatment mode. He just abandoned the cutting board and headed for the front door.
“Not exactly sure what box our regular medical supplies are in, but I’ll get the first aid kit from the car. I’ll be right back.”
“Do we have to do the soap?” Leo whined, because fuck, that stung, but Piper nodded with a scary expression on her face, so he complied. “How do you even know this stuff? Are we sure you’re not secretly an Apollo kid?”
“I know this stuff because I’m friends with a bunch of morons who have zero sense of self-preservation,” Piper cursed, gritting her teeth. “You shouldn’t be around knives when you’re this distracted.”
“I can usually cook just fine when I’m distracted. Your dad was the one who told me you and Jason broke up in the middle of this stupid potato,” Leo said defensively. “Is that the Mist messing with him?”
That was the only explanation his mind had supplied so far that made any sense to him.
Piper shook her head. “We really did break up. That was a few months ago.”
Leo felt his jaw hit the floor. 
“What the hell happened? You were together for ages. I thought- you always seemed so happy.”
“I know, but-” Piper broke off abruptly when her dad came back inside with the first aid kit. Demigod stuff, then?
Leo’s mind was racing. The breakup was a completely stupid thing to focus on, considering everything that had happened in the last few days. He knew that.
But it was easier to try and make sense of this than it was to try and make sense of the fact that Jason was gone and he’d never get to see him again.
“Is it alright if we do this somewhere else?” Piper asked her dad, taking the first aid kit from him.
“Of course. It might be easier to patch him up when you’re both sitting down, anyway.” He turned towards Leo. “Thank you for your help, but I think I can take it from here.”
Leo sent a silent prayer to whichever deity was responsible for protecting vegetables—Demeter, probably?—and gave what he hoped was an encouraging thumbs up with his uninjured hand before he followed Piper into the hallway to presumably be reprimanded some more.
~~~~ They ended up sitting on an old bed that looked like it had lived a long, miserable life and was excited for retirement, but the wooden frame thankfully didn’t break down under the weight of the new mattress or the additional weight of them sitting on said mattress. Piper explained that this had been her dad’s room when he’d lived here as a child, and that it would probably become her room now. Then she went very quiet and focused on bandaging his hand, clearly avoiding looking at him.
“It wasn’t because of me, was it?” Leo asked. The thought made him feel ill. “Please tell me it wasn’t something like, I don’t know, you two being unable to stand being around each other after what happened to me. I think I’d actually have to blow myself up again if it was.”
He tried to make it sound like a joke, but it didn’t feel like one at all. The thought that he'd managed to ruin his best friends’ relationship on top of everything else made it hard to breathe.
When Piper shook her head, it felt like a whole boulder was lifted off his shoulders.
“I actually think we would have broken up sooner if you hadn’t gone missing. We leaned on each other a lot after you disappeared. It wasn’t until we realized we wouldn’t find you and things started to settle down a little that I had time to think. And when I did…” Her voice went very quiet, and she still didn’t look up at him. “I realized I wasn’t happy in the relationship. I don’t think I ever was.”
“How did I not know that?” Leo wondered quietly. “I just… you two seemed happy to me. What kind of garbage best friend am I?”
Piper shook her head. “It isn’t your fault. I was telling myself I was happy for a long time. It’s almost- sometimes I wonder if I was charmspeaking myself. That maybe I kept saying I was in love with Jason until I convinced myself I actually was. And with Hera and my mom setting it up… I love-” her voice caught in her throat, and Leo felt like maybe he needed to throw up, “-loved Jason, but not like that.”
“Pipes, I’m really sorry.” Leo squeezed her shoulder. “That sounds like it was super hard for both of you.” Leo felt awful about the fact that he hadn’t even been around to comfort either of them, but it wasn’t like he could fix it now. It was just another item on Leo’s unending list of epic screwups he’d never be able to make up for.
“Jason was… well, he took it exactly like I expected him to. He was surprised, but he didn’t get angry or anything. He mostly seemed okay. Part of me wonders if maybe…” But whatever Piper had been thinking about, she seemed to decide it wasn’t important. “It was hard to get a proper read on him, and as nice as he was about it, things were still super awkward after. I'm terrified he died thinking I didn’t care about him.”
And then she was tearing up again, and Leo thought he would shatter if she cried. 
“He knew you cared,” he said as earnestly as he could manage, pulling Piper to his chest again. “You love way too annoyingly for him not to have known. Hell, even I know you love me, and we both know I’m a fucking nightmare when it comes to this stuff.”
“I missed you so much,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around his back like it was the easiest thing in the world.
“Oh, I’m about to make you regret saying that,” Leo said, forcing himself to smile. “I’ll bring it up each and every time you say you find something I do annoying.”
“You’re annoying as hell, but you’re still my best friend.” He could feel her tears dripping onto his shoulder, and he knew that would make him start up again too. “I don’t know how I’d do this without you.”
And well, passing away from dehydration after crying too much would be a really lame way to die the second time, but everything was just too much right now, so if that was how he went, Leo wasn’t sure anyone could blame him.
~~~~
For the next couple of weeks, Leo stayed.
Helping Piper and her dad unpack was the perfect way to keep himself occupied and not have to think. Usually, a mundane task like this probably would have driven Leo nuts. But right now, it was a bit of a godsend—if not literally, at least figuratively. Being productive was always so much easier when it was done in order to avoid something you wanted to do even less. There was a reason his spaces in the foster homes had only ever been tidy when he had exams coming up.
He helped cook, too, and Piper’s dad became increasingly less garbage at it the longer this went on—like muscle memory was finally kicking in after years of disuse.
It was mostly good—listening to Piper reminisce about trips she’d taken with her dad and where she’d gotten the weird variety of items she kept in her room. When they weren’t unpacking, Leo and Piper played video games or watched movies or explored the area. Twice, during the night, they took Festus on a little flight to a nearby fast food place. Finding a parking spot was a bit of a nightmare, unfortunately. Leo would submit a complaint about their inability to accommodate celestial bronze dragons the first chance he got.
The first time they tried hiking—Leo didn’t even like hiking, he’d spent enough time outside for several lifetimes, why did he do this to himself—they got hopelessly lost in the woods, and of course, due to demigod bullshit, neither of them had brought a phone, so Google Maps wasn’t an option. It was probably for the better. The last thing that situation needed on top of them being lost was a monster attack. 
They were already jokingly planning out their new life in the woods when, thankfully, a girl their age came to their rescue.
“A human being! Thank the gods. The squirrels weren’t talking to us,” Leo greeted her, which had Piper shout “Please ignore Leo!” loudly from the branches of the tree she’d been climbing.
The girl lifted her head, spotted Piper and promptly burst out laughing.
“What in the world are you doing up there?” 
“Trying to get a better vantage point,” Piper sighed, making her way back down the tree. “We’re hopelessly lost.”
“Well, nice to meet you, hopelessly lost. I’m Shel,” the girl said, still grinning. Leo decided immediately that he liked her.
Piper had almost made it back down when she somehow missed a branch and fell the rest of the way. In comedic movie fashion, Shel moved before Leo had the chance to and caught her mid-tumble. “That was a bit of a dramatic way to get my attention, but you’re cute, so I’ll allow it.”
“Oh yeah, Piper’s got a bit of a thing with falling for people that way,” Leo commented, and Piper gave him her most murderous look while she got back on her feet.
“You guys need help getting back?”
“Please, yes,” Piper said immediately. “It turns out we’re both garbage with maps.”
“Maybe you just need a tour guide next time,” Shel suggested, winking at Piper, whose face turned scarlet. Leo wasn’t even mad about being the third wheel for once. He’d give her so much shit about this later.
And he did. And then Piper properly came out to him—no label or anything, mostly as extremely confused but sure she liked girls, which also made a few additional pieces click into place regarding her breakup with Jason. She ended her anxiety-riddled explanation by thanking Leo for being so normal and annoying about all this. 
Which was how Leo realized he’d apparently never told Piper he was bi.
Or maybe he had, and it had gotten lost along with their other memories of Wilderness. Stupid memory-stealing babysitters.
Well, at least they got to hug about it now. 
~~~~
It was strange how normal some days felt when nothing would ever truly be normal again. When in every moment Leo and Piper spent together, the gaping hole that had been ripped into their trio was so blatantly obvious.
The benefit and problem of this friendship was that Leo and Piper were both experts at not talking about things they were struggling with. 
This wasn’t exactly news. From what little Leo did remember of Wilderness School, they’d spent months not talking about his mom, or about the fact that Piper’s dad kept canceling their weekend plans. They’d both known there were things left unsaid, but as long as they’d been able to cheer each other up, that hadn’t really mattered. It made sense, honestly. Put two people who hadn’t had a shoulder to cry on for ages in a room together and see what happens!
Right now, this meant they were expertly ignoring the box of belongings Piper had picked up from Jason’s school. It had been pushed so far under the bed during that first night that it was no longer visible, and neither of them made any effort to move it out of its new home since. They ignored the topic of Jason, period, until it inevitably hit them in the face again. 
It was mostly dumb shit that set them off. Piper automatically reaching for vanilla ice cream at the grocery store because it was Jason’s favorite—seriously, who in their right mind even liked vanilla ice cream?
Sometimes, Leo would make a joke and burst into tears instead of laughing because he knew it would have cracked Jason up. They found old photos unpacking. One time, Piper’s dad suggested they make tacos and they started simultaneously bawling their eyes out.
Leo had spent a long time exactly like this—pretending everything was normal and okay when it wasn’t either of those things until he inevitably broke down. Then he’d started to actually feel sort of okay whenever he was with Jason and Piper. Now, he was sure he would spend the rest of his life pretending.
His appetite was too used to being stuck in survival mode for him to bow to nausea for long, so he went back to eating properly after a few days. He still cried himself to sleep most nights. He kept dreaming about Jason. The memories wrapped themselves around him like a safety blanket that he knew would get ripped away again in the morning. He always woke up feeling empty. Sometimes, he wished he could just go to sleep and never wake up again.
But other than that, it was mostly good.
Then demigod communications went back up, and everything went to hell.
———
Chapter notes:
Fun fact! I originally planned for this chapter (as well as the next few chapters) to just be backstory in my head and for me to maybe do a flashback or two. Unfortunately for me, Piper McLean waltzed into the room and refused to leave.
I do actually think the fic works better this way, but it will take a second to get to the plot! Hopefully you’ll enjoy the whole journey :)
I may not be able to have Leo and Piper go to Jason’s funeral without seriously messing with the plot of Tyrant’s Tomb, but I could at least pick the most evil reason possible for them not to go!
Side note: I sort of forgot that Hedge and Mellie were supposed to be here according to TBM, but by the time I remembered I already had this chapter written out and, as someone who cannot be bothered to figure out how to write them, I decided to just leave it. ToA is vaguely canon to this universe, but only for the most part. Some details are inaccurate, and I think that’s okay.
Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs super, super appreciated as always!!
List of people that at some point asked to be tagged when I post this: @poppitron360 @ginnyluna @keefessketchbook (feel free to comment if you want to get taken off or be put on the tag list for future chapters!)
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apparitionism · 2 days ago
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Bonus 4
First, a PSA: If you are eligible to vote in next week’s US election, please VOTE FOR HARRIS as well as every other Democratic candidate on the ballot, and do what you can to persuade as many other people as you can to do the same. I assume anyone who bothers to read my writing is smart enough to understand why that’s necessary—and why engaging in any sort of protest-vote or sit-this-one-out charade is counter to the interests of most living breathing people at this point in history.
Anyway. Here I offer the final part of last year’s Christmas story... again and as usual, where were we? I recommend the intro to part 1 for where we are, canon-wise (S4, essentially, but diverging); beyond that, Myka has just returned to the Warehouse after a holiday retrieval in Cleveland (Pete, in town visiting his family, was tangentially involved), where Helena, whom Myka hadn’t seen since the Warehouse didn’t explode, served as her backup—a situation facilitated by Claudia as something of a Christmas bonus. Post-retrieval, Helena and Myka shared a meal at a restaurant; this was a new experience that went quite well until, alas, Helena was instructed (by powers higher than Claudia) to leave. Thus Myka returned home, both buoyed and bereft... and here the tale resumes. I mentioned part 1, but for the full scraping of Myka’s soul, see part 2 and part 3 as well.
Bonus 4
Late on Christmas Day, Myka is heading to the kitchen for a warm and, preferably, spiked beverage, intending to curl up with that and a book—well, maybe a book; a restless scanning of her shelves had left her drained and decisionless, hence the need for a resetting, and settling, beverage—and to convince herself to appreciate the peace of these waning Christmas hours. She peeks into the living room, just to assess the wider situation, and regards a sofa-draped Pete. He returned from Ohio barely an hour ago, which Myka knows because she had heard Claudia exclaim over his arrival. Then things had gone quiet.
Now, he appears to be napping.
Myka tries to slink away.
“Claud mentioned about your backup,” he says as soon as her back is turned, startling her and proving she’s a terrible slinker. Small favors, though: at least she hadn’t already had her beverage in hand and so isn’t wearing it now. “That had to be weird,” he goes on, sitting up.
She’s been wondering whether the topic would come up, whenever they happened to get beyond how-was-your-trip pleasantries... she entertains herself for a moment with the idea of referring to Helena, specifically with Pete, as “the topic.” So she tries it: “‘Weird’ does not begin to describe the topic.” It is entertaining, as a little secret-layers-of-meaning sneak. But there’s yet more entertainment in the offing, with its own secret layers: “Incidentally, speaking of weird—which I’m sure was also mentioned—I met your cousin. Thanks for giving her an artifact. Very Christmas of you.”
He rounds his spine into the sofa like he’s trying to back his way through the upholstery and escape. “Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know it was an artifact.”
Myka is tempted to keep him guessing about her feelings, but she doesn’t really have the energy; she gives up on entertainment and tells the truth: “I’m not mad. I’m serious: thank you.”
“I think you’re trying to trick me,” he skeptics. “Soften me up for something. But if that’s for real, then you should thank my mom more than me.”
Pete’s mother. The extent of Jane Lattimer’s role in Myka’s life is... surprising. Then again the extent of her role in Pete’s life has turned out to be surprising too, and that’s probably a bigger deal, all things considered.
Pete goes on, “Because I was gonna blame her, but should I give her props instead? It was her idea to give the little feather guy to Nancy, because of how after I got it I saw that it’d probably PTSD you.”
“I appreciate the seeing, but... wait. After you got it. How’d you get it in the first place?”
“I was in this antique store,” Pete says.
As if that explains everything—when in fact it explains nothing. In further fact, it unexplains. “Why were you in an antique store? According to you, you hated those even before the Warehouse turned them into artifact arcades.”
“Mom was picking something up there, and this guy showed it to me.”
“Your mom, this guy...” Myka is now beyond suspicious. “What did this guy look like?” A pointless question. As if knowing that could help her... as if anything could really help her. This is madness. “Fine. It doesn’t matter what he looked like, because I’m stopping here. I can’t keep doing this. For my sanity, I can’t.”
“Keep doing what?”
“Tracing it back. You win. You all win.”
“Do we? Doesn’t feel like it. And that doesn’t seem like a reason you’d be thanking me.”
“No. That isn’t. But as of now I’m trying to keep myself from focusing on... let’s call it the causal chain.”
“I’d rather focus on the popcorn chain.” He points to the strands that loop the Christmas tree.
They are the tree’s only adornment. Every prior holiday season of Myka’s Warehouse association, Leena has decorated the B&B unto a traditional-Christmas Platonic ideal; this year, in her absence, Myka, Steve, and Claudia, trying to replicate that, had purchased a tree. And transported it home. And situated it near to plumb in the tree stand, which was an exhausting exercise in what they earnestly assured each other was complicated physics but was really just physical incompetence.
They had then settled in to do the actual decorating, starting with popcorn strings... but once they’d finished those, they were indeed finished, pathetically drained of holiday effort. And they’d succeeded in that initial (and sadly final) project only because, as they’d all agreed once they’d strung the popcorn, Pete hadn’t been there to shovel the bulk of their also-pathetic popping efforts into his mouth.
“Take them down, slurp them up like spaghetti if you want,” Myka says now. “Christmas is pretty much over.” The statement—its truth—makes her stew. At Pete? But the situation isn’t ultimately his fault, no matter what part he played. And why is she so set on assigning, or marinating in, this vague blame anyway? She got something she wanted: time with Helena. It didn’t work out as perfectly as she’d wished it would, but she got it.
She tries to resettle: her heart to remembrance, her brain to appreciation.
The doorbell rings, its old-fashioned rounded bing-bong resounding from foyer to living room and beyond, bouncing heavily against every surface. Myka lets the vibrations push her toward the kitchen; she’s had enough of interaction for now. Her beverage and book, whichever one will provide some right refuge, await. As do remembrance and appreciation.
She hears Pete sigh and the sofa creak; he must have shoved himself from it in order to lurch to the foyer. A minute later, he yells, “Guess what! Christmas might not be over!”
Still kitchen-focused, Myka yells back, “If that’s not Santa himself, you’re wrong!”
“Never heard of that being one of her things!” Pete shouts, even louder.
“Quit shouting!” Myka bellows, so loud that she drowns out her own initial registering of what he’s said, which then starts to resonate in her head, a stimulating hum that resolves into meaning... her things? Her things... Myka’s torso initiates a turn; her body knows what’s happening, even if her brain—
“Hey, H.G.,” Pete says, and now every part of Myka knows.
Except her eyes, but once she moves to the foyer to stand behind Pete, they know too: There Helena is. Her body. Embodied. The illumination of her, in the foyer semi-dark... her bright eyes catching Myka’s, warming to the catch... oh, this.
Seeing the sight—greeting, once again, her perfect match—she is struck dumb.
There’s movement behind her, though, and she turns to see Steve and Claudia poking their heads into the space like meerkats—well, no, in South Dakota she should think prairie dogs... but they’re both built more like meerkats than prairie dogs, so she should probably keep thinking meerkats out of... respect? Whatever: they’re animal-alert, heads aswivel, faces alight. It surely signifies something.
Turning back to Helena, trying to get a voice in her mouth, she coughs out, “You’re back? Now? I mean, already? How did you—”
“To quote myself: ‘when I can, I will,’” Helena says, as matter-of-factly as anyone could possibly speak while maintaining intense eye contact with one person, and Myka thanks all gods and firefighters above that she is herself that person. “Now, not forty-eight hours later, I could. Thus I did. I should note that I’m unsure as to why I could, but perhaps it’s a gift horse?” Her focus on Myka does not waver. Pete and the meerkats might as well not exist, and Myka in turn is mesmerized.
“Maybe that’s the horse you rode in on,” Claudia says. Is she trying to break the spell? Myka wishes she wouldn’t... she ideates shushing her, even as Claudia goes on, “But better late than never, Christmas-wise, right?”
“Did you enjoy your additional portion of squash?” Helena asks Myka, ignoring Claudia’s interjection. Her tone is formal, presenting public, but her question is for Myka alone.
“It was very good for my heart,” Myka says. She doesn’t add, though she could, And so was that question.
Helena smiles like she heard both good-fors—like she’s grateful for both—and Myka thinks, for the first time out loud in her head, She feels the same way I do.
It’s... new. Different. Perfect? Not yet, the out-loud-in-her-head voice instructs.
But she can make a move in that direction. “Please put your suitcase in my room,” she says. Out loud, outside her head. Realing it.
“I will,” Helena says. She takes up her case and moves toward the stairs, presumably to real that too.
It renders Myka once again enraptured. She is taking her suitcase to my room. My room. She is.
The first stair-creaks that Helena’s ascent occasions sound, to Myka’s eagerly interpretive ears, approving.
Claudia and Steve don’t even blink. Pete does—well, more the opposite; he widens his eyes in the cartoony way.
But then he turns on his heel, Marine-brusque and not at all cartoony, and exits the space. Myka doesn’t know what to make of that. She’ll most likely have to address the topic—in fact, “the topic”—with him later. Fortunately, later isn’t now.
She does know, however, what to make of Steve and Claudia’s aspect: “I’m sensing some ‘aren’t we clever’ preening,” she accuses.
“We are clever,” Claudia says, dusting off her shoulder. “More Fred. Don’t sweat it.”
Exasperating. “Don’t sweat it? As I understood the situation, Fred was a retrieval and an insanely expensive dinner. Are we doing that again, or is she back for good?”
“She’s back for nice,” Claudia says.
Steve jumps in with, “To answer your question: we’re not a hundred percent sure.”
“See, we made a deal,” Claudia says.
“With whom?” Myka asks.
“Santa?” Claudia says, but without commitment. Myka’s response of an oh-come-on face causes her to huff, “Fine. Pete’s mom and company. And Mrs. F. And even Artie, in absentia.”
“What kind of deal?” Myka asks, because while she can’t dispute the indisputably positive fact that Helena is here, she mistrusts any deal involving Regents. Pete’s mom aside. Or Pete’s mom included: She can’t stop her brain from stirring, stirring once again to life those causal-chain questions: What’s being put in motion this time?
“A kind of deal about which things they’re willing to let us—well, technically Steve—say are nice,” Claudia pronounces, as if that explains everything.
Myka is very tired of proffered explanations that actually unexplain.
Steve says, “Claudia finally found the file on the pen. Seems that Santa’s list, once made, is kind of ridiculously powerful. And it turns out you can put a situation on the list.”
“For example,” Claudia supplies, “H.G. and you. Getting to be in each other’s... proximity.”
Steve adds, “And yours isn’t the only one I put there. That was part of the deal.”
“So you’re letting the pen reward nice situations with... existing,” Myka says. “And are you storing it on some new ‘Don’t Neutralize’ shelf? So nobody accidentally bags the existence out of them?”
Claudia says, “Kinda. At least for a while.”
This all seems deceptively, not to mention dangerously, easy. “But: personal gain, not for,” Myka points out.
“Right,” Steve says. “So here’s a question: what does ‘personal gain’ actually mean? The manual doesn’t have a glossary. So we’re trying to work it out. Let’s say Claud uses an artifact and then makes this utterance: ‘My use of this artifact was not for personal gain.’ And let’s say I assess that utterance as not a lie. The question remains, are the Warehouse and Claud and I agreeing on the definition of ‘personal gain’?”
“The question remains,” Myka echoes, fretting. “And the answer?”
“We’ll see,” Steve says.
It’s destabilizing, but that’s the Warehouse’s fault, not Steve’s. “I just hope the artifact won’t downside you for any disagreement. Because you’re remarkably nonjudgmental, and—”
“With a Liam exception,” Steve notes. “Or several. Ideally, though, the Warehouse and I can work through these things like adults. Unlike me and Liam.”
Myka respects his honesty. And yet: “I’m having a seriously hard time ideating the Warehouse as an adult.”
“We’re working through that too,” Steve concedes.
“You clearly have the patience of a saint.”
Steve chuckles. “Pete’s your partner, right? And in another sense, H.G. might be too?” Myka waves her hands, no-no-too-soon, because suitcases notwithstanding, she has certainly in the past thought she was making a safe all-in bet, only to lose every last copper-coated-zinc penny of her metaphorical money. “No matter what we call anybody,” he continues, “I think you get a lot more patience practice than I do. I’m just dealing with one little Warehouse and its feelings.”
“Aren’t its feelings... unassimilable?” she asks. “Or at least, shouldn’t they be?” It’s a building. Whatever its feelings, they should be talking about it like it’s an alien, not somebody who’s in therapy. Or somebody who should be in therapy.
“Maybe,” Steve says. “Or maybe not. That was part of the deal too, that I would test out how it feels. About personal gain specifically here, eventually maybe more. But if it has a meltdown...”
“Ah. We cancel the test, neutralize the pen, and face the consequences.”
Steve nods. “But ideally, if that happens, we will have leapfrogged whatever the looming Artie-and-Leena crises are. The two of them coming back here safely are the other situations we niced, as part of the deal.”
Claudia adds, “My big fingers-crossed leapfrog is over their stupid administrative ‘keep H.G. away from Myka and everybody else who loves her’ dealy-thingy. We’re hoping they’ll just forget about whatever their dumbass reasons for that were when they see how great it is for her to be back.”
“Dealy-thingy? Have you been talking to Pete?” Myka asks, trying for silly, for light—so as to deflect that “love her” arrow.
“Not about that. But wait, are you saying he loves her too? I mean I figured he was okay with her after the whole Mom-still-alive thing, but his Houdini out of here just now makes me think he’s not quite all the way to—”
“Never mind,” Myka says, as a command.
Claudia squints like she wants to pursue it. Myka crosses her arms against any such idea, in response to which Claudia says, “Fine. Here’s some funsies you’ll like better. Making that list, you’ve gotta have balance. Naughty against the nice.”
“And you think I’ll like that because?”
“I talked to Pete’s cousin, a little pretty-sure-we-don’t-have-to-tesla-you-but-let’s-make-super-sure exit interview. Heard some things about a guy. Bob? Seemed like a good candidate.”
Well. Pete had been right on several levels about Christmas not being over yet. “That’s the best news I’ve had in the past... I don’t know. Five minutes?” Other than the Pete-vs.-“the topic” question, it’s been an absurdly good-news-y several minutes.
Claudia goes on, “Personal gain, what is it? There’s also a warden from that place I don’t like to remember being committed to who’s about to have a Boxing Day that’ll haunt him longer than he’s been haunting me.”
That definitely raises questions—flags, even—about “personal gain” in a definitional sense, but letting all that lie seems the better part of valor, so Myka asks Steve, “Any Liam on there?”
“Too personal to let the Warehouse anywhere near,” he says, but with a smile.
Myka smiles too. “Would that I could say the same about my situation.”
Claudia snickers. “Your situation is Warehouse-dependent. Warehouse-designed. Warehouse-destined.”
“All the more reason said Warehouse shouldn’t object to easing the pressure,” Steve says.
“Are you kidding?” Claudia says. “Its birth certificate reads ‘Ware Stress-Test House.’”
Myka appreciates their positions—Steve’s in particular, even as she internally allows that Claudia’s is probably more accurate—but she would appreciate even more their ceasing to talk about her situation like they’re the ones whose philosophy will determine how, and whether, it succeeds. Or even proceeds.
And she would most appreciate their ceasing to talk about her situation entirely. So that she can go upstairs and be in her situation, because Helena hasn’t come back downstairs, a fact for which Myka’s rapidly overheating libido has provided a similarly overheated reason: she is waiting, up there in the bedroom, for Myka.
Which thought is of course followed by Helena’s preemption of same: she descends the stairs and presents herself in the foyer.
Damn it, Myka’s disappointed libido fumes.
Sacrilege! an overriding executive self chastises, and it isn’t wrong, for again, here Helena is. To fail to appreciate that—ever—is an error of, indeed, biblical, or anti-biblical, proportions.
In any case, now four people are just standing here, awkwardness personified.
Helena flicks her eyes briefly toward Myka—it seems a little offer of “hold on”—then turns to Steve and Claudia. “I didn’t greet either of you directly when I arrived. I apologize. Claudia darling, it warms my heart to see you... and this is of course the famous Steve, whose acquaintance I’m delighted to make at last.”
Striking to witness: Helena has essentially absorbed the awkward into her very body and transmogrified it into formality.
Myka loves her.
“Famous?” Steve echoes, like she’s said “Martian.”
“I’ve heard much of you,” Helena says, with an emphasizing finger-point on “much.”
Steve smiles his I’m-astonished-you’re-not-lying smile, through which he articulates, “Likewise? I mean, likewise, but with more. Obviously.”
Yes, Myka loves her: for her charming self alone, but also for how that charm extends; her sweet attention to Steve has him immediately smitten. Myka’s the one to catch Helena’s gaze now, intending merely to convey gratitude, but to her gratification it stops Helena, causing her to abandon her engagement with Steve.
Maybe she and Myka can stand here and gaze at each other forever. It wouldn’t be everything, but it would be something. Second on second, it is something. It is something.
Claudia interrupts it all, saying to Helena, “Can I hug you?”
Myka doesn’t begrudge the breaking of this spell, particularly not with that; she had been selfish, before, greedy to keep Helena and her eyes all to herself. She also doesn’t begrudge the ease of the hug in which Claudia and Helena engage; getting a hug right is simpler when its purpose is clear. And clearly joyful.
Over Claudia’s shoulder, Myka’s and Helena’s gazes lock yet again, and it’s spectacular.
However: it also seems to introduce a foreign element into the hug, some friction that Claudia must sense, for she disengages and says, “So. I have to go. I just remembered I have an appointment to not be here.”
Steve says, “I feel like I was supposed to remember to meet you there, wasn’t I,” Steve says, and Myka has never been able to predict when he’ll be able to play along instead of blurting “lie” (even if he does often follow such blurts with some version of an apologetic “but I see the social purpose”).
“I don’t think you were,” Claudia says, “because I’m revising the gag; it makes more sense if I just now made an appointment to not be here. So you couldn’t be remembering some nonexistent-before-now appointment.”
“But I still think the appointment ought to be with me, gag-wise and otherwise,” Steve says, doggedly, still playing. “In the first and second place.”
“Is this the first place?” Claudia muses, faux-serious, now rewarding his doggedness. “Is the appointment in the second place?”
They could who’s-in-the-first-place this for days, so Myka intervenes, “In the first place, if this is a gag, it desperately needs workshopping. But in the second place: Scram!”
“You mean to the second place,” Claudia sasses.
Myka scowls, wishing she could growl proficiently.
 Claudia’s eyes widen. “Scramming. Best scrammer,” she says, sans sass, proving the actual growl unnecessary. Interesting.
“Except that’s about to be me with the gold-medal scram,” Steve objects and concurs.
Myka pronounces, “I’ll be the judge of who’s what. Once you actually do it.”
“You’ll award the medals later though, right?” asks Claudia. Her words are jokey, yet her tone is weirdly sincere, as if Myka might forget they had scrammed on her behalf, and that such amnesia would be hurtful.
“Participation trophies,” Myka semi-affirms, “in the form of a healthy breakfast.” She adds, internally, Take the damn hint.
After much winking and nudging, the comedians at last absent themselves, and Myka and Helena are alone.
Unfortunately that doesn’t immediately yield the perfected situation Myka seeks, first and foremost because she doesn’t know what comes next. Take your own damn hint, she tells herself, but... how? They need privacy, and the only reasonable place for that is where Helena’s suitcase rests: upstairs. Myka can’t magic them there, so what incremental movement will be recognizable as an appropriate beginning?
She casts a wish for Helena to ease it all, as she had with Claudia and Steve, but Helena is stock-still, offering no increment. For both of them, upstairs seems to have become a different place... the promised land?
Nothing is promised, she reminds herself. Some things are newly possible, but nothing is promised. Certainly not when the Warehouse is involved.
So maybe the point, probably the point, is that it’s incumbent on Myka and Helena to realize the possibility.
Nevertheless, here they stick.
After a time—most likely shorter than Myka feels it to be—Helena announces, “Pete and I have had a chat.” Her articulation of “chat” shapes it into a synonym for “fight.” “Who won?” Myka asks.
“I believe it was a draw. He opened by saying he ‘didn’t get how far along this thing had got.’” Hearing Pete’s diction in Helena’s mouth is disorienting. “He then said he wants to protect you.”
That’s so Pete. “I don’t need protecting.”
Eyebrow. “I noted that I want to protect you too.”
That thrills Myka. At the same time, she wants to object to it nearly as much as to Pete’s assertion... internal contradictions, what are they? She lands weakly on, “I hope that persuaded him.”
“Pete finds deeds more persuasive than words,” Helena says. “Thus I’m ‘on probation where Myka’s concerned,’ until he determines I won’t damage you.”
That’s so Pete too. But. “That is my determination.”
“I expressed a similar sentiment. He responded, ‘And how’d that go last time?’” Helena’s wince after she says this is awful, and Myka dares to assuage it, stepping toward Helena with open arms, drawing her into an embrace.
This time, their hug—simpler because its purpose is clear—works, bodies soft-querying at the start, then firm, intentional. Not quite catching fire, but this is a palpable first cut into whatever membrane of uncertainty is obstructing their movement.
Slow, slow, they move apart. Yet they stay close, the embrace’s softness lingering as Helena says, “Selfishly, I didn’t concede his point, which is in any case indeed down to your determination. But I did note that circumstances have changed since then. And to be fair I must report that he allowed they have.”
“You’re both right,” Myka says. But: “Was this Cleveland mission contrived to... further change the circumstances?”
“I didn’t contrive it,” Helena says, fast. “I would have, if I could, but I didn’t.”
“I’m not saying you did. I’m saying I always wonder, because I can’t help it, how much, or how little, of what happens just happens.”
“And the rest—or if I’m understanding your implication, the bulk—would be...?”
“Some sort of social engineering.”
“On whose part?” Helena asks.
That’s disingenuous. “Your engineers of choice. Regents. Mrs. Frederic. Mr. Kosan. Ententes thereof.”
Helena runs a hand through her hair—frustration at the thought of those entities? Or just showing off? Then she shrugs, as if to dismiss both possibilities. “I favor any engineering that places me in private proximity to you.”
The words are beyond welcome. And yet. “I’m not objecting to it. I’m just...”
“Objecting to it.”
“No. Questioning its provenance.”
“Why?”
That brings Myka up short. “What?”
“If it produces an outcome you desire, what does the provenance matter? In this case, at the very least.”
It’s a reasonable question, and Myka’s most-honest answer would have something to do with the ethical acceptability of poisonous-tree fruits. For now, though, she goes with, “Because I don’t like being manipulated.”
“Don’t you?” That’s flirty, a near-whisper, compelling Myka to lean even closer. Helena knows—she’s always known—the power she has over Myka. And she’s always known how—and when—to wield that power.
“The manipulator matters,” Myka says, responding to the flirt, accepting the push away from ethics.
“Then would that I could in truth say I contrived that relatively banal retrieval. And sabotaged the elevator, so as to draw our attention to... that to which it was drawn.”
“I can’t say I was displeased with the drawing,” Myka allows. “So if you had...”
Helena moves her lips, a sly hint of curve, and says, “Oh, but perhaps I’ve manipulated you into that sentiment.” Again, an ostentatious flirt.
Myka’s knowing that flirt-show for what it is? That’s Helena-specific. In the past Myka has always had to be told when she was being flirted with: “He was interested in you,” an exasperated friend would explain of an interaction Myka found incomprehensible, and she would cringe internally at her inability to recognize such an apparently basic, obvious display. But with Helena she’s never needed a flirt translator. From the first lock of gaze, unto this night’s myriad connections; from that first brush of finger, unto the way Helena has just allowed their hug to linger; from the first just-for-you conspiratorial grin, unto this very moment’s slip of smile—all the advances, heavy and light, have been legible to Myka.
And based on what she is now reading, she has no ground left. “Fine. I like being manipulated if it means.” She clears her throat. “If it means I get closer to you. You win.”
“Do I?” Here’s the disingenuity again, but now Myka understands its intentional irony. Helena follows up with, “This establishment has no elevator,” Helena says, like it’s nothing more than a structural observation that checks a box on a form, a minor note in an overall architectural assessment.
“No,” Myka agrees.
“How fortunate,” Helena says.
Myka waits for the conclusion, the help... but it’s not forthcoming, probably in a that’s-down-to-your-determination-as-well sense. The next cut is clearly Myka’s responsibility too. So: “It has stairs though,” she offers. “That go. Up. Well, both down and up. Of course. As stairs do.” Stop talking, she tells herself, but her nerves don’t heed the advice. “As they have to? I don’t know; do they? Escher?”
“Ess-sherr,” Helena echoes, clearly uncomprehending. That she lets Myka hear her knowledge gap is a gift. For Christmas?
“He’s an artist. I promise I’ll explain later. Eventually. Anyway the stairs. I think you just used them? Without incident?”
Myka expects a comeback. She gets none, which leaves her in some non-place, absent as it is of Helena-attitude... but what form had she expected such attitude to take? Aggression? Naughtiness? Or “naughtiness”... does the lack of all that mean Helena is offering a self more authentic than the one who charms and flirts? But that doesn’t seem quite right, for the charms and the flirts have always seemed clearly intrinsic Helena-talents. Deployed, yes, but not inauthentic. So if this Helena is deploying fewer such talents, maybe it’s that she’s... less?
Ironically—of course ironically, because all of this is so, so layered like that—a reduced Helena is an even greater bonus.
All of this, which Myka had better figure out, fast, how to appreciate and accommodate. “Of course that’s no guarantee that travel will go well,” she begins. “So we should try not to trip on the stairs... wait, no, that would make it our problem, which I don’t think this ever was. Maybe better: we shouldn’t let the stairs trip us.” She considers. “But no again: what I really mean is, we shouldn’t give the stairs a reason to trip us. Right?”
Helena looks at her and blinks, charmingly blank. “I have no idea. Are you through?”
“I have no idea either,” Myka admits, still directionless without Helena’s attitudinal lead. Is this, like the semi-botched hug of two days ago, a seemingly terrible sign?
“Merely delay.” A little head-shake follows. Signifying disappointment? Making light of Myka’s inability to get through? Then Helena says, “And yet I don’t know how much more delay I can withstand.”
Those raw words are mediated by nothing more than molecules—the nitrogen-oxygen-argon-et-cetera invisibilities conveying waves to Myka’s ossicles—and for the second time, Myka ideates, in full awe, She feels the same way I do.
“Me either,” she says, literally heartfelt, sending the words back, a final push through everything, molecules and otherwise, that has stood between them.
Testing, she offers Helena her hand. Helena takes it.
These hands together: not a first. Not even a second. In the present circumstance, that translates to something very like “comfortingly familiar.”
Under the aegis of that comfort, they ascend the stairs, Myka leading the way, marveling that she can. Against her pulling hand, Helena offers what seems a single erg of resistance, a display, an I-am-letting-you affirmation.
They cross the threshold of Myka’s room, and then. Then, after Myka makes one turn and twist, a closed non-elevator door stands, for once and at last, between them and the rest of the world.
Closed, the door is, but not locked. In the door-closing instant, turning the lock—adding its presumptive click—had struck Myka’s hand as overly brazen: that’s a frustrating flinch her hand will have to work out with whatever part of her brain-body complex was certain enough to start this, start it by saying what she did about the suitcase... the same part that keeps telling her that Helena’s feelings match hers.
As Myka turns her back on the now-closed door, she sees her bed. She sees her bed. Disconcerting, in this new now, how large a percentage of the room’s space this one piece of furniture seems to be occupying...
But she’s self-aware enough to know that she’s overlaying the bed’s current brain space, the desires it signifies, on the physical. Whatever’s going to happen—or not—will happen, she tries to force into that space in her brain, pushing it down... for desire, sometimes indistinguishable from expectation, has devastated her before. But she tries too hard: missing the mark, she slips and falls into some past-obsessed cerebral fold, once again lost, quietly but deeply, in that devastation.
“Here we are,” Helena remarks into the silence. “Or, harking back to engineering: Here we are? I continue to be unsure as to why. I can accept unclear provenance, but I’d prefer more explication regarding my allowable movements.”
That’s help. That’s rescue. But oh: movements. The word nearly derails Myka in a different direction, but she gathers herself, resetting to reply, “It’s explicable, but I honestly don’t have the energy to explicate even my minimal knowledge of the mechanism. The most basic base is, Claudia and Steve worked out a deal to use that pen, and there’s a list that you and I are on. As a ‘nice’ situation. Anyway if you want real details, you probably should sit down with Steve.”
A mind’s-eye image comes to her, of Helena and Steve leaning toward each other, bringing complementary concentration to bear on some topic large or small... and then an incipient sound strikes her: the chime of their voices together, both seriously and lightheartedly, ringing notes she hadn’t before this new instant thought to anticipate. “Actually I think you and Steve sitting down would be really pleasant. Even productive. Given that you’ll be sticking around. I mean, if you’re willing, and if, or at least until, some definitional issues get worked out. As I understand it.” As I devoutly hope, she doesn’t quite utter.
“That addresses... some issues, I suppose. Yet a question remains.”
This is a bonus of a day: Helena turning into the queen of understatement? It’s freeing; Myka laughs and says, “Tons of questions remain. Which one’s on your mind?”
Head-tilt. “You said you didn’t have the energy... to explain the mechanism,” Helena says.
More delay, Myka knee-jerks... but she knows the reflex immediately as wrongheaded, for this is conversation, the value of which she should have learned by now not to discount. “Right. Sorry, I’ll try: so the pen, and honestly speaking of questions and provenance, I still have some questions about provenance, which I’m trying to ignore, but anyway, Claudia found the file, and—”
“That is not the issue I had in mind.”
“Sorry. I’m not getting anything right, am I?” Because of course she isn’t getting anything right.
“We’ll see,” Helena says.
“So what did I jump the gun on?”
“You don’t have the energy to explain.”
This muddles Myka; it will probably require another reset. “I did say that, but I can try to—”
“Myka,” Helena says, and her name in that mouth will never cease to be a singular wonder. “What do you have the energy for?”
Here again is the difference between the attitude that Myka, in her more cynical moments, might have thought Helena would maintain, and the reality she is instead offering: the question is suggestive, but guilelessly, graciously so; its import is genuine, not manipulative. “How do you do that?” Myka asks.
“Do what?” This question, too, is guileless, gracious.
“Stop me.” It’s the best definition Myka can produce of what Helena has in fact done, what she seems consistently able to do.
Helena breathes several breaths, like she’s waiting for the right words to arrive... no, more like they’ve already arrived, but she’s preparing herself, gearing up to deliver them. “I don’t want to stop you,” she eventually says, and Myka should have used that windup to prepare herself: for the admission this is, for how this don’t-want utterance nevertheless is want.
They are the most vulnerable words Myka has ever heard.
New, new, new... the fact is that historically, people have tended to twist and shy from revealing weakness to Myka. Fallout from her tendency to judge, no doubt, but it means that this, too, is new: here is Helena, and maybe in some other world someone else might have made such a mattering move but here in this best one it’s Helena, Helena ignoring that character defect, Helena blowing past it for a chance to change everything.
Everything. “It’s Christmas,” Myka says, because it is. And because now it is.
“So give me this gift,” Helena rejoins.
“You too,” Myka says.
For the space of one breath, they both wait—bracing for whatever fate intends to use to stop them this time.
But this time nothing stops them, for in the ensuing instant, they both give that gift, blowing fast past everything that, slow, might stop them, grasping at this chance to change.
The jolt of their contact reminds Myka of—no: the shock of it strikes her as—artifact activation, that calling of vested power into being, that enabling of such longed-for release. Before the Warehouse taught her to recognize this transubstantiating, she would not have understood this moment’s raw unleashing, its summoning and compelling of stored potential to manifest as what it has lain in wait, in desperate wish, to become.
But also: all the blood in her body knows she has never felt such power released nonartifactually before now, before this.
Before this world-encompassing, world-creating first kiss.
“You’re thinking,” Helena murmurs into the space of a pause for breath. “I can taste it.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Myka scrambles, kicking herself for not staying in the unprecedented moment, for letting thought intrude, as she always does, and it’s always bad, and Helena is now rightfully offended and disenchanted and—
“It’s delicious,” Helena says, punctuating—proving—by meeting Myka’s lips again, again again again, as if determined to never stop.
Myka would be perfectly happy, oh so perfectly happy, with that forever-continuation, but something in her brain has begun gesturing wildly, demanding her attention... something about her hand... brazen... she rips her lips away and yelps, “Wait! I have to lock the door!”
“The thinking continues,” Helena says, stepping back, freeing Myka, and spreading her arms in a ta-da endorsement. “You’re brilliant.”
A memory: “Bunny, you think too much.” No I don’t, she can now answer. Not for her. In time, given time, she’ll tell Helena how much this matters, but now is not that time. Not when Helena is saying, “However, as we’re behind a locked door, I’ll wager I can make you stop thinking... for at least one consequential moment...”
To Myka’s extremely consequential—and utterly, blissfully unthinking—delight, Helena wins that bet.
****
Later. Lazily, later: “I genuinely cannot believe we were stuck in an elevator,” Myka says. A thing to say, said. “As the prelude to all this.” Which is what she really means.
Against Myka’s neck, newly and blessedly intimate, Helena says, “Your limited capacity for belief is noted. Are you equally incapable of believing that we had the apparently obligatory, if not preordained, chat?”
“Obligatory... preordained...” Myka is still so lazy, she’s practically drawling, and the out-of-character surprise of it pricks at the edge of her ability to stay in such a state. Stay, stay, stay... “Honestly... just clichéd.”
“And yet I was able to add a reference to my Myka-index. Entry: Mirrors, your artifact-related discomfort with.”
Myka’s heart seizes: Helena has a Myka-index. That, plus their proximity now, surely requires her to do better than the little falsehood she’d rested on with regard to the mirror-discomfort. Pushing laziness aside, with something too much like relief, she acknowledges, “I misled you. There was an artifact, but that isn’t what bothers me. The real thing is that mirrors make me observe myself too closely. Too much. Which I do all the time anyway.”
“I wish you’d delegate that observational task to me.” Sweet. Helena sounds so sweet. And not just sounds: Myka can tell (hopes she can tell) Helena means it. Which is even sweeter.
And which in turn entails a need for Myka to think seriously about being observed. Being protected. Being willing—but more important, able—to delegate in the correct spirit, even minimally. “I can try.”
“I can accept that,” Helena says, and the approval is better than sweet: it’s buy-all-the-books-you-want indulgent. “But I must ask: do you honestly think any part of the Cleveland interregnum was the elevator’s doing?”
The true answer references Myka’s entire Warehouse experience, from day one: “Yes and no.”
Helena nods, her hair sliding mink-soft on Myka. “I can accept that as well.”
“And whoever’s at fault, our chat was interrupted,” Myka says.
“As it was poised to progress beyond ‘chat’... but in truth I would rather this happened here than in an elevator. Better environs for still further progress. Don’t you agree?” Helena moves her unclad limbs against Myka’s, in transcendent emphasis.
Of course Myka agrees. Which leads her to a painful realization: “So maybe the elevator wasn’t as judgmental as I... judged it to be.”
Helena bestows a kiss to Myka’s shoulder—small, intimate—bringing Myka’s mind back, sharp, to what those bestowing lips have so recently accomplished, which threatens to render her again overcome. She shudders, which reduces her to embarrassment instead, but Helena is kind enough to feign obliviousness as she says, “You did note your own judgmental nature.”
Myka’s soul twinges in genuine regret, collapsing her lip-recall. She regrets that too. “Do you think I need to go back and apologize? I feel all guilty now.”
“The elevator has most likely moved on,” Helena says, quite dry.
“You’re saying it doesn’t have my memory.”
“I’m saying that even if it does—an open question, though the lack of elevator memoirs argues in the negative—it’s unlikely to care as much as you do about what it does remember.”
“Story of my life,” Myka sighs out. Now she’s really saying it, because memory, and caring too much about it, is that story.
“For the best, I suspect. Your life story and an elevator’s shouldn’t be entirely congruent, should they?” Helena questions, and that makes Myka laugh and want to read an entire library shelf’s worth of elevators’ memoirs. Feigning seriousness, Helena continues, “Although we might revisit so as to investigate whether its conveyance of Bob proceeded properly after our visit. That could be revealing.”
“Speaking of Bob, I feel bad for Nancy. Because of course he’ll blame her.”
“For elevator mischief?”
Ah. Helena doesn’t know. “For naughty.”
“Naughty what?”
“The list. He’s back on it, thanks to Steve and Claudia.”
“Is he.” Her satisfaction is evident, and for a moment she and Myka are one in their schadenfreude. That, too, is delicious. “Better they punish him than we do,” Helena then says.
This sends Myka back to guilt. “It feels like cheating. We didn’t use the artifact, but we get the personal gain.”
Myka’s shoulder now receives an indignant exhale. In its wake, Myka is dwelling on how she would have preferred another kiss, but Helena says, “I was speaking of soul-consequences, not this personal-gain fetish you all seem to embrace. Or perhaps it’s an anti-fetish, but in any case was no hard-and-fast dictum in my day.”
“I’ll reiterate that you should sit down with Steve,” Myka tells her, and Helena accedes with a nestle that erases the exhale.
Are words about such things—ambiguously motivated elevators, deserved punishments, fetishes of undetermined valence—a waste of time? No... for again, they are conversation... the value of which, Myka has lately learned, is even greater when the words it comprises land as soft breath on skin.
In fact Myka has learned a great many things in this locked-door recent while. There is, for one, the gratifying fact that she and Helena are physically compatible, at least as evidenced by this first performance, in terms both of wants and of abilities to satisfy them. But nearly as important, particularly in its physical component but not only that, is her new understanding that while her life has offered her several circumstances with which she’s been reasonably satisfied—that she hasn’t minded—this right-now is orders of magnitude above such contentment. She must have in some soul-stratum known this would prove true, or she would not have been panting in its pursuit so seemingly hopelessly, with such dogged desperation.
She says, with gratitude, “This is what I wanted.”
Getting what she wants: that, too, is new. And very. very nice.
“I would hope so,” Helena says. As if she had some genuine doubt about Myka’s motivation? “No, that’s rhetorical; rather, I did hope so. You’ve realized that hope, and... well. I should be clear: this is more than I dared to want.”
Myka, endeavoring to bring everything together, says, “So what you’re saying, want-wise, is that it’s a bonus. A nice one.”
“I’m saying, want-wise, that my wildest hopes have been exceeded. Surpassed. Transcended.”
It’s something, that reply. Also more than a little over the top, rhetorically, which Helena obviously knows. “Pleonast,” Myka accuses.
Helena laughs. “Not inaccurate. I suppose your ‘nice bonus’ translation is technically correct, if a bit... with apologies, pedestrian?”
“It’s less pedestrian than ‘Fred,’” Myka says. A “hm?” from Helena reminds Myka that she hasn’t yet made that translation evident. “I guess ‘Fred’ counts as esoteric instead, so never mind. You’re right, ‘bonus’ is pedestrian. So is ‘nice.’ But maybe it’s a good idea to call our whatever-it-is something pedestrian. I don’t want to scare it away.”
“And what precisely do you think would ‘scare it away’?”
“Bigness,” Myka offers, weakly. It’s what she means, but—
“‘Bigness?’” Helena says, quotes evident. “From the woman who so recently deployed ‘pleonast’? Should I fear that you’ll regularly revert without warning to Pete-reminiscent locutions?”
Myka chuckles. “Spend enough time with him, it’ll probably happen to you too.” The laziness is back. Earned back?
After a time—or perhaps Myka only after a time processes the sound—Helena says, “God forbid.”
A further lag ensues before Myka manages to respond, with a drowsy “I agree.”
Sleep follows. That is certainly earned.
****
Consciousness resumes for Myka with a banging on her door and a shout from Pete: “It’ s really not Christmas anymore, because Artie’s back!”
“Being Artie about it!” Claudia shouts in addition. “He says get to work!”
“I’m awake,” Myka says as she becomes more fully so. This is a Warehouse morning, and Warehouse alarms ring as they do.
Then: I’m not awake; I’m dreaming, because the back of Helena’s head and her naked shoulders greet Myka’s opening eyes. That’s a bracingly new alarm.
Helena’s voice comes next. “He says get to work,” she quotes, playfully, and Myka would be willing to wake to such an alarm with joy for the rest of her life.
But assuredly, if the content of that alarm is the dictate, then no one is dreaming. There’s really nothing for Myka to say except, “Sorry, but one more time: Story of my life.”
“Now? Our life,” Helena corrects.
That is a literally life-story-altering assertion, and a self-deprecating impulse tempts Myka to scoff it away. Behind that impulse, however, lies a clear-eyed recognition that she must meet what Helena has said. How, how, how...
...and then her mind starts fully working. She begins to formulate a plan. One that will, if possible, manifest her gratitude, but also, display her difference from the Myka she used to be, that one from so few hours ago, who had not yet known the dream-surprise of this awakening’s sight.
“I’m going to tell them I can’t get the door unlocked,” she says. Steve isn’t there. She can get away with it. She sits up, ready to head for the door and tell that story.
Helena touches Myka’s shoulder. “Would it lend credibility for me to suggest out loud that I genuinely can’t believe we’re stuck in your bedroom?” More play, but the touch is becoming a don’t-leave-this-bed grasp.
Myka leans to kiss the restraining hand. “I think that would make them think you planned it. And were being nefarious about it. Shocked incredulity isn’t really your strong suit.”
“It’s true that my capacity for belief outstrips yours.” She pulls down on the sheet, exposing both her body and Myka’s.
Talk about overdetermined. Or is it, in this as-yet-unmapped terrain, underdetermined? To be determined later, if at all... Myka somehow marshals sufficient will to rise from the bed, while telling herself that she is not, conceptually at least, actually leaving it. At the door, she fiddles with the lock, expressing frustration to support her claim, after which Pete and Claudia make noises about toolboxes and battering rams, respectively, and then mercifully depart.
“They’re going to try to get us out,” Myka reports as she returns to bed. “Maybe violently?”
“Let them,” Helena murmurs. “That elevator and its manifestation of mischief... comparatively amateur. You’ve bested it handily.”
That jolts Myka out of a back-of-mind consideration of whether she might be able to jam the bedroom door’s lock with something easily to hand, or perhaps whether her dresser might be pushed across the room to block the door entirely. She then considers, front of mind, the possibility that Helena—her physical presence, her physical provocation—is a bad influence... or at the very least a naughty one... for these thoughts are so, so out of character.
“That, on the other hand, is not the story of my life,” Myka says, and the fact of it does make her more than a little nervous.
“A new chapter,” Helena counters, reading Myka’s mind and setting it right—in three words. Such economy.
****
Myka and Helena are engaged in adding to that new chapter (or at the very least, drafting a steamy interlude of same, even if it isn’t essential to the plot) when a banging on the door interrupts them yet again. As does shouting: “We’re back!” yells Pete, unnecessarily.
“Hey, Myka, what’s going on?” That’s Steve. Far more quiet.
“I brought Steve,” Pete says, also unnecessarily.
“I gathered that from his voice,” Myka notes.
“But!” Pete says, in aha-I-got-you mode, “what if it turns out all I brought was his voice?”
“Then I guess he’d still be here in some sense?” she says; she’s thinking on the Helena-hologram, on what a lack of visual might have meant, on how a more ontologically disembodied voice would have made her believe Helena was there, there but standing on the other side of a door. How she would have wanted to take her own battering ram to that door. The hologram’s present non-presence had stranded her, stranded them, in a strange shared space, offering no barrier Myka could use her body to break violently through.
“But!” Claudia exclaims, jokey, fighting with Myka’s ache of reminiscence, “what if it’s just me, doing my Steve impression?”
“That’d be a different thing,” Myka concedes.
“You do a me impression?” Steve asks Claudia.
Who exhales so dramatically, Myka’s surprised the door doesn’t just blow open. “You have stood next to me while I did it.”
“I have?” Puzzled-Steve is honestly Myka’s favorite Steve.
“Are we not a team?” Claudia demands. “Myka does a Pete. Pete does a Myka. Naturally they both suck, but the point is, why don’t you do a me?”
“Because you’d kill me?”
“Guys,” Pete says, “this isn’t getting Myka and H.G. out of the bedroom.”
Claudia says, “But let me just. Myka, H.G., you guys do impressions of each other, right?”
Helena raises her arms, a gesture of observe-this!—or maybe it’s at-last!—and exclaims, “I feel compelled to express disbelief about this circumstance!”
It takes Myka a second to get it, but once she does, she shouts, “I love blooming onions!”
For quite some time, there’s silence from the other side of the door.
Then Steve says, “Am I the only one who’s extremely confused?”
“Usually, yes,” Claudia says. “Except now, no. I’m with you. Pete?”
“Myka loves blooming onions,” Pete says, slow; he’s the one having trouble now with belief. Myka can picture his gobsmacked face. “There’s my endless wonder for the day. Also, I gotta rethink a whole lot of stuff she said about what she was willing to eat.”
Myka presses an apologetic kiss to Helena’s lips (and how nearly unbelievable it is to feel comfortable with such a touch being swift, to not need to hoard, to believe there will be more), then extricates herself yet again from the sheets, the bed. She heads for the door: to make a show of unlocking it, to send them away temporarily so she and Helena can reassemble themselves to rejoin the world—but. Problem. Big problem. “Guys. I really can’t get the door unlocked now.”
“‘Now’?” Pete echoes.
“You mean you actually could before?” Claudia asks.
Moment of truth. So, fine, truth: “I didn’t actually try before.”
“Ha!” Claudia barks. “Are we still on impressions? That might’ve been a decent one, for real, because the attitude? Way H.G.”
“Thank you so much!” Helena chirps.
“H.G.,” says Claudia, with a whiff of pedantry—and that she feels free to express such an attitude toward Helena is most likely because she’s on the safe side of a closed door—“I was complimenting Myka’s impression.”
“But in it, you recognized my attitude.” Helena’s words are a full preen, and as she speaks, she’s rising from the bed, approaching Myka, slipping arms around her, such that Myka loses her ability to track what’s happening on the other side of the door, even as splinters of sound catch in her ears—“hinges inside,” “lock plate solid,” and finally, “break it down”—whereupon she realizes anew that neither she nor Helena is clothed, and that being caught and seen in that state will constitute a disaster that outstrips a great many of the others in her experience.
“We have to get dressed,” she breathes at Helena.
“Wait,” Helena says. “I suspect a realization is about to occur.”
At times, Helena can be eerily prescient. But what is it this time?
As if in answer, Claudia says, “I have a really depressing theory. Myka, can you get the window open?”, whereupon Myka understands Helena’s deduction: this isn’t mechanical; it’s artifactual. More specifically, list-artifactual.
She cannot open the window.
“Yeah,” Claudia says, a defeated I-knew-it. “I’d be all ‘try to smash it!’, but since I can’t see you try it and, like, bounce off the glass, what’s the point? I mean, go for it if H.G. wants the lulz.”
“I don’t know what that means!” Helena informs her. That too is a chirp, and Myka’s pleased to note it’ll probably head off the slapstick.
“Kind of a shame,” Claudia says, but with a drag, like she’s picturing it, and Myka is less pleased to have to devoutly hope that picturing involves everybody fully clothed. “Anyway I hate to say it, but it’s pretty clear this is on us, the list-makers.”
Pete groans. “You were supposed to check it twice! It’s right there in the song!”
“Listen, we seriously argued about the wording,” Steve says.
“And oh guess what!” Claudia says, defeat apparently tabled for the moment. “Everybody in the world is going on about their day as usual due to the unshocking news that I was right.”
“No, I was right. I was the one who said ‘proximity’ was likely to be too vague,” Steve says.
Myka’s inclined to agree with him.
“Bro, I was,” Claudia says, “because I said it was likely to be not vague enough.”
Well. Now Myka’s inclined to agree with Claudia.
She sees the conundrum. “I appreciate it either way,” she says, and that quiets the combatants.
“Regardless, we obviously need different wording,” Steve diplomats.
“I think our first mistake was thinking an artifact would word like we thought it should. You need to get more into its head than you did before.”
“I was in a hurry before,” Steve says, a little less diplomatically. “Because you were yelling at me.”
“I am so so so so glad,” Pete hosannas, “that none of this is on me.”
Myka cannot let that stand. “Who gave his cousin a thing?”
A pause. Then, “Whoops,” Pete says, very sad-clown.
Later, she’ll thank him again, but for now, she doesn’t mind having wielded this little shiv, inflicting this little nick, so he’ll remember that there is, or should be, always a downside.
“How fortunate they’re not asking for our help,” Helena says, bringing her back to the upside.
“Who’s better with words though? You certainly are,” Myka says.
“You hold your own, Ms. ‘Pleonast.’ But ssssh. Don’t remind them.”
“We’ll fix it, we promise!” Claudia says.
“Don’t feel compelled to hurry!” Helena directs, cheerily.
Steve says, “I think she means ‘Don’t yell at Steve this time.’” His hopefulness is clear.
“He isn’t wrong,” Helena notes into Myka’s ear.
Pete announces, “I think she means bow chicka wow wow.”
“He isn’t either,” Myka notes back. “Even less so?”
Helena answers by kissing her with intent.
Claudia snorts. “I think no matter what she means, Artie’s gonna kill us.”
“Alas, the least wrong of all,” Helena grants with a sigh.
The wrecking crew’s voices fade, and they may still be making non-wrong statements, but for Myka and Helena there is at last, again, peace. And once Myka pulls Helena back to bed—a delectable spin she is now bold enough to put on their dynamic—there is at last again not-peace.
Lazily later—and these lazy laters are vying to be Myka’s favorite at-last—she says, “Not to overinterpret the artifact’s thinking, but this feels very nice. As an in-proximity situation.”
“This particular proximity seems more than a bit naughty, however,” Helena says, incongruously matter-of-fact. She isn’t wrong. “Pete obviously made an inference to that effect. Perhaps if Steve and Claudia can use that as a way of writing us out of the current situation.”
“I’m sure that’s for the best,” Myka says, with no small amount of regret, first attached to her embarrassment at Pete, Steve, and Claudia’s involvement in that inference, but even more due to the sad fact that this beginning must come to an end.
“Are you...” Helena’s words are a smile.
“No. I’d much rather stay here forever with you.” Her practical side then takes over, as even Helena’s body twined around hers can’t prevent. “But if they don’t fix it we’ll die—pretty soon, unless they can figure out how to get food in.”
“Would the artifact allow us to starve? That seem the antithesis of a situation that might be termed ‘nice.’”
“‘Termed’? Isn’t problematic terminology why we’re still here?”
“Granted. But of course we’ll die regardless.”
The casual, literal fatalism trips Myka up. She temporizes, “The artifact might have something to say about that,” placeholding, as she finds her way to a real response: “But artifact aside... will you though?” It’s a question about... well, about whether Helena is, for want of a better word, real. Speaking of terminology. “Die,” she adds, not as a word she must expel, for its terrible taste, but one she feels a need to place. As a marker.
Helena takes a moment. Before, Myka would have read that pause as censure; it would have pushed her overboard into I-have-overstepped agony. But the plates have shifted, and her footing feels—strange but nice (oh, nice!)—sure.
The answer, when it comes: “Here with you, I don’t want to be bronzed again. So yes.”
That leaves Myka warm, yet shaking her head. “I honestly don’t know a lot about romance.”
“Don’t you?” Helena asks, all of her limbs beginning to move again against all of Myka’s.
Which, for the moment, Myka resists: “So I’m not sure if it’s weird that I find it incredibly romantic for you to have said yes to dying.”
Now Helena’s smile is a smile; she rears away, back and up, showing Myka her face’s full measure of delight. “Weird or no, whatever you find romantic, I’m inclined to approve. If that’s acceptable to you.” Helena bows her head, as if to formally request Myka’s benediction.
The very idea of such an ask floods her with happy tenderness. “Is it okay for me to find that romantic too?”
“‘Okay’ seems a sadly weak word to convey the extent of my approval,” Helena says. “Further, I find it romantic for you to ask my permission to find any thing romantic. Unnecessary, yet romantic. Is that ‘okay’ as well?”
“It’s a relief,” Myka understates. “Can I call it a romantic relief?”
“I don’t see why not. However, to what extent is it romantic, or non-, that we seem to be finding—or placing—ourselves in recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying?” Helena accompanies this academically focused, seemingly serious question with yet more limb movement.
Myka is actively in bed with someone who’s questioning the romantic quotient of recursive loops of romantic-allowable querying. It is a level of “nice” that she could never ever have ideated on her own. “I genuinely cannot believe any of this,” she says.
“I can assure you that I will be taking some time—if allowed, and thus perhaps only in an ideal world, some great length of time—to determine whether your incredulity will ever cease to be tedious and elevate itself to ‘romantic.’ Some great length of time,” she repeats, playfully.
Myka knows Helena’s appreciation for time’s length is far greater than any ordinary individual’s... so this smacks of a promise. Myka’s gratitude rises, as does her willingness to pursue any and all romantic activity, despite her apparently romance-dampening incredulity... but then the limbs pause. “However,” Helena says.
“What’s this ‘however’?” Myka asks, now selfishly impatient.
Helena has, obviously and of course, heard and felt the impatience. Myka’s neck receives a press of lips, a curve of smile. “However: fortunately, at this juncture, belief isn’t required. Participation, on the other hand, is. So?” This is something Myka has always suspected was a Helena tactic, but here in intimacy she recognizes as true: challenge not for its own sake, but as an attitude in which to wrap something different, deeper, some authenticity Helena isn’t fully willing, or doesn’t quite yet know how, to express.
Myka moves her own limbs, her limbs that are even longer than, and just as flexible as, Helena’s. She moves them against Helena’s. She cannot believe she is doing so; nevertheless, she is. She is participating.
She places a chock under this particular incredulity, for unlike facts, the quality of emotions can escape her if she doesn’t consciously tie them down. She paints the word “bonus” on the emotion-wheel as she secures it, to ensure she elevates that felt quality too. Then she eases herself back to the full experience of the physical, this smooth beauty—and that is the word for every touch-heat-rise their bodies execute—that she and Helena together are creating... are enjoying.
She sighs soft against Helena’s neck; in return, Helena offers again her lips-on-skin smile.
They are participating. In this. Together. Lips on skin.
“So,” Myka agrees.
END
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gayferrari · 1 day ago
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"except you ravish me" director's cut
Thank you for asking!!! I had so much fun writing that fic I love that I get to chat about it.
except you ravish me, 15k, rated E. omegaverse AU.
that's. look that's the chastity belt fic. u all know it. charles/seb, charles/bryan, charles/others.
This one was written for a kinkmeme prompt. When I saw it, I'd never written omegaverse before, never felt the impulse to, and I was a bit intimidated by the #lore, so shoutout to all the people whose brains I picked asking for feedback about anything from omegaverse anatomy to preferred tropes. And yes as u can see from my blog. I've been on the omegaverse train a normal amount since.
This was written before the Bryan/Charles of it all really took off. I was like, I need a hook to write terrible workplaces practises, and I didn't want to focus too much on driver x driver ships because I wanted the vibes to be, like... Charles and Ferrari's dirty little secret :3 So I wrote like 5k of Charles having a weird TPE thing with his new handsome race engineer and then they started flirting on radio #my impact
I almost named this fic "company car", except there's already a sebchal fic with that name and so I went with this one instead — not that I am arguing fic titles should be unique only, BUT within the same ship, and if the ship is small enough that I have read the other fic, I personally like to use something else. The title is from John Donne's poem Batter my heart, three-person'd God because I thought it was a funny title for a fic that could, generously, be described as "character driven smut" and at worst as just "15k of porn." The relevant lines are:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, Take me to you, imprison me, for I, Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
knot. ahaha (I am 13).
Some line-specific thoughts under the cut
“Do you have it here? On you?” “On the keyring with my car keys. I know it’s important to have it on hand, and…” His car keys, Christ, like Charles is a fancy engine he gets to take for a spin.
What if you lived inside a porno?? The whole point of this fic is the pornification of *gestures vaguely* fucked up workplace BDSM that's treated as the best course of action by everyone involved.
This is 1) because it's the best way I could make the prompt work but more importantly 2) I think it's hot and 3) also kind of funny to consider. I usually write fics based on "how much I'd enjoy reading this, as a reader" so things that are funny to me personally feature heavily in anything I write.
Officially, only a handful of omegas have ever driven in Formula One. Charles always wondered how many more there have been who kept themselves hidden, back in the day when it would have been feasible to keep up a ruse that huge. He is only the third omega to debut in F1 this century, which makes his rookie season somewhat of a novelty.
As with most omegaverse fics u get to play "who on the grid would be what" etc etc. I didn't think very deeply about who' else's the third omega (officially) to debut in F1 in the 2000s, but it's somebody who didn't have a very long career. And some RPF favourites who I headcanon as omegas for the purposes of this AU either didn't get to F1 at all (Yuki) or had considerably shorter careers — I couldn't fit this in, but omega Lando has his rookie season in 2021 instead of 2019, and is NOT the Mclaren number 1 driver in 2024.
Again, I didn't want to go into the worldbuilding but my worldbuilding for this fic is that it's highkey a dystopia. WITH SEX <3 so it doesn't matter how #unfair it is bc everyone has orgasms.
Charles imagines asking their team doctor for a new chastity belt so he can get fucked better when he’s dying for it. The thought makes his head spin — he squirms on his back, cunt gushing with slick, and Seb’s low laugh makes it worse. “Oh, you like that,” he says, teasing just on the edge of mean. “Don’t worry, they all know already that you’re dying for it. Engineers talk, too.”
TERRIBLE MENTOR OMEGA SEB. HI. I'm going to make a separate post about the Seb of it all because someone else also asked, but I will say I had so much fun getting to use Seb to flesh out the worldbuilding.
This is a smut fic and the setting is just there to flavour the porn; buuuuut I wanted this world to look lived-in. Bad Workplace Boundaries Omegaverse is ALL AROUND THEM. Charles's POV is limited and single-focus and claustrophobic by design but it's not just Ferrari; things have been unsettlingly horny for Seb before he got there and will keep being unsettling horny after he leaves. He's kind of a cautionary tale of what Charles's future in this AU might potentially look like, which Charles is very deliberately ignoring. Absolutely normal mentorship dynamic (Seb fists him regularly and ignores him in public)
I made up an OC gross team doctor to perv on Charles in this one because I could never in my worst moment bring myself to write Charles/Binotto. At one point I considered it but it simply would not have been sexy
He can tell when Carlos finds out about the whole situation because he starts acting weird, not quite meeting Charles’s eyes, getting flustered way too easily and, once or twice, sniffing when he walks into a room like he’s trying to scent him. Once, he even sees Carlos’s gaze drop down his body like he’s trying to see through Charles’s clothes, only to stop immediately when he catches himself doing it.
CARLOS IS THE ONLY NORMAL PERSON IN THIS FIC. This is very important (and — again — funny to me personally) I didn't want to write Charles/Carlos bc it would become the focus of the whole fic. Instead, Carlos is just baffled. He's alpha though he's bad at it. So are both his parents. He's never had an omega teammate before and has never considered this weirdness. He cannot believe HR would sign off on that (don't ask him what's going on at Mclaren with the bratty omega rookie who just replaced him and Zak Brown) In-universe, Carlos refuses to see some things. From a meta point of view, he's an audience POV.
“It doesn’t hurt?” “No.” It’s not a question Charles was expecting. “It is designed not to. It’s like seat fitting, yes?” The model has been revisited over the years as his measurement changed, as comfortable as any cage can get. “It’s just… It’s a lot.”
Clapping myself on the shoulder for this part.
The whole "everyone tells Charles it's for his own good so he keeps believing it" part is like. just porn logic. so clearly I had to throw it in like 4 or 5 different times
One of my favourite parts was writing the part where Fred arrives to replace Mattia and Charles doesn't even let himself consider that maybe things are going to change. And then Fred is like :) yeah good solution carry on! jovially omegaphobic of him. Also this bit
Pierre was one of the first people Charles went to after he presented, scared that his designation meant he’d never make it as far as he wanted to. [...] Pierre, an alpha who’d never considered anything like that for himself, obviously thought that Charles was overreacting, but he was kind enough to listen anyway, and try to understand. Charles wonders sometimes if Pierre feels vindicated now, as if Charles’s success is proof that he didn’t need to worry so much back then, but he’s never asked. It doesn’t matter, anyway.
me @ me: Piarles in this AU would be INSANE
He’s thrilled beyond belief still, humming as Bryan fusses with the fucking chastity belt. He thinks about the rows of journalists waiting for him — they’ll be able to smell the sweet scent of an omega who’s just about dripping for a good fuck. Seb was infamous for it, back in the day.
Seb haunting the narrative. He was not having a good time back in the day (or ever) but he wanted very hard to have people THINK he was <3
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me getting to the end of my own fic. hit by memories. yeah I sure did
THANK U AGAIN!!!! for asking I had so much fun making this post. Also AO3 tells me this fic has now a ratio of private/public bookmarks of 70/30 which makes me very happy too <3
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doverstar · 7 months ago
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actually I love Tentoo and he is the Doctor and it was the only ending for Rose that worked and it is a huge gift to be able to have the man she loves grow old with her, they were always heading for that, y'all be quiet. I 100% understand the angst but it's okay, they're okay, good ending-
#did you want her to...not end up with the doctor?#she ended up with the doctor. she ended up with the doctor and they get to AGE together#they get to have a real honest relationship the way they both always genuinely wanted#it's hard that the full time lord version has to carry on without her but that is the way that character's story ALWAYS goes#the doctor does not get to keep ANYONE. it would be a different show if he did#meanwhile there is a version of that same face of his - the one that was MADE for love? particularly born out of love for ROSE? the one 1/2#2/2 that always wanted a FAMILY? and stability? and a normal life? the tenth doctor longed for that specifically because of rose#now he gets to have it AND be part-human so he doesn't have to watch her get old. he gets old WITH HER#and they're canonically growing their own Tardis so you don't even have to be sad that they're not adventuring in time and space as usual#because they ARE. it's the kindest ending for either character. and if the full time lord hadn't left without either of them-#-he would have had to lose them eventually. lose Rose because she's human? hello? painful? but instead he was selfless and left her-#-with a proper happy ending. which she CHOSE to have so you can't be like “he tricked her!” she chose to kiss one of them and it was Tentoo#they are the same man. Rose won in this scenario.#and I GET IT I am with Billie Piper I think it will always feel a little off that she was left with Tentoo and not the full time lord#I understand. it still makes me a little sad. but I know it's a good ending writing-wise. really the ONLY ending.#yes I know about the popular idea of Immortal!Rose or Bad Wolf Rose or whatever and that's cute and all BUT - it's not a GOOD thing#it's not PREFERABLE to be immortal. Rose doesn't want to live forever. she wants to be with the man she LOVES forever.#she doesn't want to not die or adventure for all time. she wants to be there to hold his hand. and when Tentoo is born she gets THAT!#Immortal!Rose is tragic. the Doctor would not wish the burden of immortality on the woman he loves HELLO#anyway#I ship timepetals. that includes Tentoo/Rose. because he is the doctor#so there#I have more thoughts on Tentoo specifically but I digress#maybe if provoked in an Ask or something idk#doctorrose#timepetals#opinion piece#tenrose#tentoo#handy
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faaun · 6 months ago
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procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally
#on my friends living room floor they love together but one of them has been london for weeks or maybe months#to be with her love. im on a foam mattress from one of their beds next to a glass bottle of water opened by one of them#in a mug given to me by another. the weather felt like my childhood today and it also felt like 2 years ago.#(put space in the heavens Einstein's idea and hes your friend too so nothing to fear) around the table they drank and laughed and i thought#i hope you keep growing so full with the love you receive . i hope your appetite becomes insatiable from how used to it you are#and i know youre all leaving soon but i hope one day you miss this and that youll be happy you miss it#its worth missing i think#i thought he didnt care but he said after exams hes going walk around this area over and over#(this is near where he lived and where we visited almost daily for a year)#(hed come across the bridge on a lake)#we went where she used to live and at the entrance a fox sat calmly. it just yawned and stared.#it felt important somehow. i think maybe their impressions of me will never be close to how i feel inside but i think#i love them enough for that not to matter. i dont think theyll ever know this. i dont think if they did it would change much.#and seeing them smile makes my heart glow anyway. today i tried their malaysian tea the ginger burned my throat#they warmed my heart. hes going to canada soon and hes going to the US soon and shes going everywhere soon ill never understand#how were supposed to live with memories and with seperation and with the past but we do it anyway so i think it doesnt matter much#i wanted to write a poem for the lab rats with the fibre optic wires lit with blue forcing them to turn around and around#something about how im sorry that the two photon arrays burned the inside of your brain. im sorry about the sharp points of multielectrode#arrayes. im sorry about everything we do to you. she asked to see me tomorrow. im trying to have self control but i miss her so awfully#last night my friend talked to me and i updated on everything that happened with love and the lack of it and she just started laughing#and she told me about the same thing from her side. and she told me about how she loved london because she would walk the streets#and she felt like the people were her. and her eyes would go over the people and the bag of bagels and the construction men they probably#have a kid at home maybe shes a daughter. this kid is crying for her mother and the building you just walked past caused#blisters and pain and people died in it and very likely people were born in it. we talked for hours and i felt like#i was holding her hand just like that time she held mine watching a horror film. i love her so much#my friend is a genius and i remember her picking up the charms of my phone and staring at the leaf hanging from them. shes side stepping to#music drinking dangerous cider and cocktails from a movie and chit chatting with billionaires and undergrads#i love her dearly. his head covered in electrodes. she tells me about a syrian guy shes in love with and she says#what you feel and what i feel is like cocaine. ive tried a lot of fucking cocaine.#she says ive reminded her of what living actually feels like and to never put energy into someone who doesnt see me this way.
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bunnyboy-juice · 10 days ago
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spent the first hour and change at work deleting some old files and am having a grand ol time laughing at myself for not realizing i was a lesbian sooner
#vulnerable tag rambles ahead please be kind abt them i didnt intent to ramble this much but i dont wanna delete it eitehr#me to every single man i have ever dated after 6mo-1y: yeah hey this really isnt working out i dont really know why but i really hate mysel#and i dont want to blame you because i dont think you did anything inherently wrong here; i think this is something about me but i need#space to figure out why im feeling this way [every single one reacted by telling me No i wasnt allowed to leave btw]#i hold very complex feelings about these relationships esp bc of them ending in very violent/chaotic ways most of the time#but its interesting to look back at it all and realize ive left every man for the same reason (which is that ive hated myself Every Single#Time ive dated a man) and its funny bc i recognized the self hate pretty early on w/ cishet men but when it came to queer men it was#much more confusing (esp w/ nto knowing Any lesbians at that point in my life). im so happy im a lesbian tbh#i have a lot of issues w/ the racism fatphobia and transmisogyny present in lesbian groups#and also coming out as a lesbian really truly saved my life. before i met my wife i was quite literally in a 3yr abusive relationship that#definitely would have died in if i hadnt realzied i was a lesbian and ran from him#its also weird seeing liek the hard evidence of the things that happened to me btween 2016-2020 tbh#cause that was such a bad time of my life. i truly dont know how i survived it but im so glad i did#like the three major relationships in my life b4 meeting my wife was: guy who was in college when i was in HS who stalked me when i left;#guy who was a year younger than me who cheated on me the entire time while telling me he was being victimized (he wasnt; this was very mess#guy who saw the very messy toxic ldr i was in and helped me dump my ex then decided that meant we were in a relationship [insert 3 yrs here#and admittedly all 3 years with him werent the same level of abusive but it was definitely unhealthy from the start considering I Didnt Kno#we were together until he wanted to celebrate vday and got mad i didnt know our anniversary - and like this isnt including the other stuff#that happened between those Relatonships[tm] (cause ive never been monogamous; these were just the Major Relationships)#like i genuinely think if i hadnt come out i'd be dead rn given just how dangerous my relationships were/continued getting#i am also so tired now that ive seen all this cause like. fuck i can barely believe it and i not only lived it but have PTSD about it#i should write about my life sometime. i feel like it'd be cathartic to try and make a tangible timeline and stories from the years ang stu#anyway yeah. be nice about the tag rambles. dont message me with pity or curiosity or anything about this. i dont usually talk abt this stu#publicly bc i hate the ways ppl start tryign to baby me when they realize my life has been extremely fucked up until only a few years ago#n im still working on accepting kindness from others bc of [insert life traumas here] but its a long process so pls respect my need for jus#being heard rn w/o too much pressure< 3 (but ig if u do read this can u like it cause i feel a little crazy seeing all the evidence of the#stuff i experienced now also cause fuck ik logically it was but also i cant believe it was all real still yk)
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batcavescolony · 10 months ago
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Ok let's be real a second. Someone made a comment that I saw that said something along the lines of 'Fanfic isn't that deep it's not Social Commentary, it's just writing' and they couldn't be FURTHER FROM THE TRUTH.
First the definition of Social Commentary
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Every song you listen to, every book you read, every art you like is social commentary. When you headcanon a character as POC or Queer, when you base a fic of something that happened to you, the second you begin to write your fanfic you're now producing Social Commentary.
Fandom and Fanfic isn't in a void, it interacts with the world. Anne Rice the writer of Vampire Chronicles (+others) sent Cease & Desist orders to popular fanfic writers. You know how writers put 'I do not own [original work], it belongs to [author].'? That's because of her! How many books now are ex-FanFic! How many fics are written to spite the writers? How many fandoms have raised money for a cause? How many people write to feel seen?
While fanfic IS a fun way to express yourself, whether you see it that way or not, that's not the ONLY thing it's is. it's an act of defiance, it can change how people see the world, it's can actually change the world! Fanfic IS political, it IS social commentary, IS that deep and don't forget that.
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wild-at-mind · 4 months ago
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I still want to talk about protesting Pride, and I will, but to get off my chest now:
I dont think you need a tonne of presentations and complicated documents and academic language to talk about pinkwashing in Israel and use to justify bombing of Gaza. You can literally just say 'no nation or people deserves to be bombed and murdered because some people in that country/people are homophobic/queerphobic/whatever term your audience for the statement is using. Seriously if you say that you're disgusting.'
You can run the risk of being incredibly bogged down in this stuff, making it so much more complicated than it is. It's not complicated. I know this is an issue. I've had YouTube ads alluding to 'SOME countries who are homophobic and bad blah blah' without stating a country name outright but clearly designed to take progressive sympathies from Palestine. But it won't work and we know it won't. No need for like workshops full of academic slides that no one who doesn't already agree will do.
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