#the windows are open and it smells like mulch and trees

[marlynnofmany]

This Time

Found it! By popular request (@sleepy-sheep-inn @gryphonablaze @lil-dabbler), here’s the story about someone years after a portal fantasy adventure.

740 words

~~~

I hated driving this route. But part of me was still drawn to it, with a kind of sickly anticipation that hadn’t been completely ground down by the years of disappointment. Maybe this time would be different. Maybe I’d see more than trees and ferns and long, winding road.

Maybe this time I’d feel the thrum of magic in the woods, smell the crackle of ozone, hear the distant bugle of a dragon calling me home.

This world wasn’t my home anymore. Hadn’t been since I was thirteen — the first time I was thirteen. The second time, I had to relearn how to move in a body that was soft and small, with no scars. A body that had never lost a hand to mage-fire.

I tried not to think about it now, clenching my right hand harder on the steering wheel to prove that it was there. Of course it was — why would I think there was anything wrong with it, and why was I using my left hand so much now? Hadn’t I been right-handed as a kid? I shrugged off people’s questions, claiming to be learning to use both hands just for fun. I didn’t really care if anyone bought it.

There were a lot of things I didn’t care about now.

Like the work conference I was driving north for. I’d tried to weasel out of it, but no dice. I was stuck taking the highway through the redwoods again, on a gray afternoon that had rained once and probably would again. I scowled at the wet forest as it rolled by. Checked the gas level, turned the radio on, then off again.

I wanted a distraction, but…

If I missed something because I was listening to crappy music, I’d never forgive myself.

Three more turns in silence, with no other cars on the road, and I slumped in resignation. Sighed. Opened all the windows and slowed down, taking deep breaths and listening for all I was worth.

The air was rich with damp bark, wet mulch, and the tang of wet asphalt. The redwood trees stood brown-black under feathery green leaves. Blank sky peeked through, that kind of grayish that makes it look like someone took an eraser to all the blue, or dropped this part of the world into an empty void.

If only. I could probably find my way home from a void.

I shook my head, wanting to close the windows on the breeze that carried only normal Earth scents. But of course I didn’t. As hard and pessimistic as I fancied myself to be, there was still a spark of childlike optimism, the last remnants of the determination that everything will be okay because I say so that had helped save a world years ago.

All it did for me now was open old wounds.

Specks of rain pattered onto the windshield, some finding their way onto my sweater and cheek. I pulled in one last lungful of rainy-weather smell and fumbled for the window buttons.

Wait. What was that scent? It was faint, but familiar. I knew I was deluding myself, but I froze and drove even slower. Stuck my head out into the raindrops and breathed deeply.

Phoenix musk. It couldn’t be. Aside from the obvious impossibility, this forest was far too wet for a firebird to tolerate—

The echoing hoot of an offended phoenix made me stomp the brakes with everything I had, jerking the wheel to send the car skidding into the ferns. I was out the door in a heartbeat, standing in the road and casting about desperately. Everything was quiet except for the tap of rain and the click and hiss of my car’s engine cooling down. I stepped away from the car, moving with heel-to-toe stealth like I was avoiding enemy sorcerers. My right arm rose of its own accord, as if the casting-crystal prosthesis was there ready for battle. I consciously dropped my hand to my side and listened.

Nothing. Nothing.

Then a chirp and a murmur and a snap that I felt more than heard, and a rush of heat as magic flowed toward me like water to the roots of a dry tree. Humming filled my head.

I broke into a grin and dashed into the woods, plowing past wet ferns with abandon, not caring if the water on my cheeks was from rain or tears.

“Wait for me! I’m coming!”

#my writing #I wrote this years ago #*Stitch voice* 'Yah. Still good.' #portal fantasy #and what comes after #as someone who grew up reading books about that sort of adventure #and who took road trips through woods like these every year #this one still means a lot to me

[itsokbbygrl]

.

#what does it say about me #that my comfort movies during the pandemic have been the hunger games series #and my comfort tv shows have been sharp object #and the great British bake off #🙃🙃 #sos send help #yes I am rewatching sharp objects for approx the 800th time #it’s a breezy humid may day in the Midwest #the windows are open and it smells like mulch and trees #it’s just Right ok I don’t make the rules

[luc606]

An Autumn Morning

(by @luc606) Saeyoung feels like he doesn't deserve the life he's built, so you pull him out of it with warm fall drinks and some light yard work.

Saeyoung x MC (MC is referred to as "you" but never by name) 1649 words, FLUFF, a little sadness but not enough to call it angst, just domestic Saeyoung with domestic brother-in-law (to be) Saeran, takes place like a year after SE, roughly based on this ask

also technically goes for mystictober day one: favorite character

Saeyoung was not accustomed to paying attention to the changing seasons.

Before, there were only days, months, and years that were spent mostly in the bunker, the time passing carefully, but not precisely measured, like sand through an hourglass. Saeyoung was used to that kind of life, and once he met you, he had found new insecurity in how well that kind of life had seemed to fit him. Now that he was with you, finding his way into a normal life little by little, there were days where it was all he could do not to retreat back into his dark office and wait for you to inevitably get tired of acclimating him to being average.

Today was one of those days.

He’d woken up before the sun, though he could only tell this by the time programmed sun lamp you had asked him to build. He’d installed them all over the bunker, and it only somewhat made up for the complete lack of windows.

Inexplicably, you’d made the bunker almost cozy. Especially now, as summer turned to fall, you’d gently folded throw blankets over the back of the couch and bought seasonal candles for the kitchen and living room.

On days like this, these touches made Saeyoung’s heart ache. Couldn’t you see that this wasn’t right for you? His love deserved a sweet suburban house or a cheerful cottage with a bay window in the dining room, not a windowless bulletproof box that had once been home to daily illegal activity.

You stir next to him in bed.

“Saeyoung?”

On days like this, he doesn’t think he deserves that name.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says, rolling over to face you. To make himself face you.

“You didn’t,” you say. And then after a pause, “Are you okay?”

Saeyoung knows that he should tell the truth, tell you that he’s having one of those days where he feels like he doesn’t belong in your light. He doesn’t want to, he wants to lie and say everything is okay.

He says nothing, but his hesitation is enough for you. You’ve spent three years with the man now, you know how to tell when he’s feeling this way.

“Baby,” you say, pulling him into you. “Go back to sleep.”

Despite himself, he does.

In the morning, when the sun emulating lamp has begun to turn subdued shades of orange and pink, he finds that he is alone in the bed. You’d let him sleep in, which he almost never does. He lays for a moment, feeling foggy, but soon the door opens to reveal you in your robe with two cups of coffee. He almost smiles, smelling the pumpkin spice creamer you’ve sweetened the coffees with.

“Good morning,” you greet him with a careful smile, handing him his sweet seasonal drink.

The coffee is in a set of matching mugs that had been an engagement gift from Jaehee. His is red and yours is pink, and there’s a curve in both of them that forms a heart when they’re placed together. He loves that you go out of your way to use these mugs more than any others you own.

Saeyoung takes the coffee from you and takes a sip, it’s warm and almost too sweet. He knows you put just a bit more sugar in his coffee because he likes it better that way, even if he should learn to drink it more plain.

“I hope you slept well,” you take a seat next to him on the bed. “We have some yard work to do.”

“Yard work?” he asks, his surprise coming out as a laugh.

Before, the land surrounding the bunker was unruly. The trees and tall grass camoflauged the entrance, so he’d never felt the need to trim the grass or leaves. Now, though, the yard – he had a yard now – was fully under the jurisdiction of his brother. At the recommendation of his therapist, Saeran had begun the project shortly after you’d moved in as a way to redirect anxious energy. He’d planted flowers and shrubs all around the bunker and had laid a garden path around the front leading around to a small herb and vegetable garden in the back. It was Saeran’s pride and joy, and Saeyoung had stayed mostly out of it. He’d only mowed the lawn once, and even then Saeran had complained about the lines he’d made with the mower not being straight.

“It’s fall,” you say, emphasizing this by raising your mug of pumpkin spice flavored coffee. “The yard is covered in leaves, so you should rake them.”

“Isn’t that Saeran’s job?” Saeyoung asks, incredulous. “I mean he never lets me do anything in the yard, I really shouldn’t–”

You cut him off, “I told him you’d do it for him, I’ll help.”

Saeyoung knows what you’re doing here, you’ve done it before. When he gets down, you’ve found that keeping him busy and out of his thoughts helps him overcome the feeling faster. But yard work? This was a new low.

“It’ll be fun!” you add, taking his silence as dissent.

Saeyoung sighs, but nods. Success.

You and Saeyoung finish your coffees in relative silence, you sit perched in your robe reading something off your phone while your fiancé shivers against the cool morning air, bundled in your large comforter as if it’s a shawl. When he finally finishes his coffee (you suspect he’s sipping extra slowly, putting off getting out of bed) you take the mug from him and tell him to get dressed. He makes no move to get up, but he’s miraculously clothed when you return from the kitchen.

He looks good, it’s not often that your nerdy Saeyoung looks like this – rugged, a little messy. He’s wearing jeans and an old red flannel with the sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He’s pushed his hair back, as he’s accustomed to wearing it now, but without any product, a few of his curls are stuck up in the air while a few fall back onto his forehead.

You kiss his cheek gently as you slip past him towards the closet and he offers a small smile.

“Give me just a second and I’ll be ready,” you say, already slipping off your robe in the closet entrance.

Saeyoung pretends he isn’t looking as you change into a pair of jeans.

“Can I wear this?” you ask, holding up a long-sleeve red t-shirt of Saeyoung’s that he normally wears to work out or clean.

“I’m surprised you’re asking,” he jokes.

You do usually steal his clothes without permission, he doesn’t ever mind.

You shrug. “You’re right there, I’m just being polite.”

He laughs, and his face turns just a bit pink.

Once you’re dressed, you take Saeyoung’s hand and pull him out the door, through the living room, and all the way out to the small garden shed he’d built for Saeran as a gift on the twins’ last birthday.

From the shed, in which Saeran has lined up every tool neatly on pegs along one wall, Saeyoung retrieves the rake.

“How are you supposed to help if there’s only one rake?” he asks you.

You laugh, “I’m here for moral and emotional support, of course.”

Saeyoung, feeling lighter already, whips the end of the rake towards you and gently taps your backside with the handle.

“Lazy~”

“Hey!” You laugh, lunging towards him and catching the rake in your hands and pulling your fiancé towards you with it. “Saeyoung!”

Saeyoung laughs easily, and you can feel the waves of his bad mood melting off. His moments of sadness, depression from a life’s worth of grief and anxiety pushed away for years, are fewer and further between now. He’s seen a therapist a few times, a colleague that Saeran’s therapist recommended, but most of his healing was done by seeing his brother survive and learn to thrive outside of the harsh conditions of their childhood and his time spent in Rika’s misguided care.

“And it’s not that much,” you say, “I’ll put all the leaves in Saeran’s mulch pile while you’re raking and we’ll be done in no time.”

You pull the rake towards yourself again, this time catching Saeyoung’s hip to steady him while bringing him in close.

“Are you feeling better?” You ask, voice low. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

Saeyoung startles, like he didn’t expect you to acknowledge out loud that he was feeling any kind of way at all, but quickly recovers before saying, “Yes, actually.”

He smiles as you pull him down into a gentle kiss, you feel him fail to keep the smile off his face as he kisses you back. His face is warm from the last little bit of summer sun that’s pouring down on you both.

“I love you,” you say, finally pulling away.

His eyes are intense as he pulls back to look at you.

“I love you too.”

☆

Later, after the fallen leaves have been relocated to Saeran’s compost and are no longer threatening to ruin the lawn, Saeran thanks his brother for raking the yard, not with words, but with a warm cup of hot chocolate and a soft grin.

Saeyoung’s heart soars when he sees that Saeran has made a cup for you, too. He thinks he’ll never get tired of seeing his two favorite people continue to love and accept one another as family. It’s everything he’s ever wanted.

He finds himself in a completely different state now than when he had awoken this morning. He settles into the couch next to you, able to appreciate the cozy autumn decor that you’ve adorned the bunker with. He no longer feels like this place is stifling you, he understands that you’re grateful for the security the home provides you, and he feels grateful too.

#saeyoung x mc #saeyoung choi #mysme 707 #mm 707 #mystic messenger #mysmes #mysme #saeran choi #saeyoung headcanons #saeyoung angst #mystic messenger saeyoung #707 x mc #secret ending #luc606 #tagging #mystictober2021 #bc saeyoung is my fave ❤️

[dragons-bones]

FFXIV: A Riot of Blooms

#FebHyurary Day 3: Flower

A/N: Hey now, the prompt list includes writing, and I’ve had a pretty powerful idea for this prompt for a couple days now! This story also contains references to “Resolution” from FFXIV Write 2018.

RATING: G WORD COUNT: 1356 WARNINGS: Mild hints towards PTSD; baby carbuncles being disgustingly adorable.

---

Mommy?

“Yes, Amandina?”

Why do you love flowers so much? The tiny black carbunclet reached up, whole body stretched out, to gently paw at the enormous yellow dahlia woven into Synnove’s crown braid, practically glowing against the rich brown and dyed blues of her hair.

“I wouldn’t say I love them…” Synnove said absently, gently pushing morning glory seeds an ilm and a half down into the soil of the new trellis base.

Amandina plopped back down and blinked huge, dark eyes, then glanced around the yard.

The vegetable patch and kitchen herb garden were rigidly laid out in razor sharp rows smarter than any Maelstrom formation, the type of perfection possible only with a geometric genius of an arcanist as the gardener. The mint and strawberries were properly cowed for the moment in their respective boxes, and the asparagus and spinach were already peeking above the soil. It was green with growth and brown from freshly-tilled earth…

…and it was a shock of order among the riot of chaotic color that was the rest of Synnove’s personal domain.

Spring had come early to La Noscea and the yard was already blooming. Purple-red pansies and pink azaleas huddled beneath the shade of the huge old oak that ruled most of the yard; yellow daffodils and fringe-petaled tulips in white and pink and orange shoved at one another in the open spots of sunshine; bluebells and crocuses shyly peeked out from whatever stray corner they had found when they had gone to seed last year, while the rose bushes were dotted with buds and the morning glories in the older trellises against the sides of the house were twining new vines up the lattices, ready to explode into bloom at a moment’s notice. Save for the paths from the gate to the front and kitchen doors, the deck, the birdbath, and a large picnicking spot beneath the oak, every square ilm of land was covered in plant life that if not in flower now, would be come summer or autumn, so that the yard was full of color from the last frost of winter to the first.

Amandina looked back up at Synnove and yipped. Sure, Mommy.

Synnove glanced down at the black pearl carbuncle and then flicked her gaze out over the yard before she grinned ruefully. “Obsession is likely the better choice of word,” she said dryly. But she leaned back on her heels and settled to sit on the ground cross-legged.

The carbunclet peeped excitedly and hooked her paws over her mama’s thigh to haul herself onto her leg and then tumble into her lap: that pose meant a story!

Roksana poked her head down from the platform built among the oak tree’s branches to see what had caught her twin’s attention, ears pricked upright, and peeped herself, scrambling down the ladder in a blur of blue-white fur. The white pearl carbunclet dashed through the flowers, white tails waving in delight, and burst into the open spot next to the trellises to crawl into Synnove’s lap next to Amandina. The pair craned their necks to peer at their mama, and they cheeped in unison, Story story story!

Synnove laughed at them and bundled them up in her arms, raising them to kiss the patches of red fur between their ears; Amandina first, then Roksana. The pearl carbunclets purred, high and squeaky, and nuzzled against her cheeks before Synnove set them back in her lap.

The Highlander took a deep breath and let it out in a slow sigh, petting her youngest girls as she stared off into the distance. “I don’t remember very much about our home in Ala Mhigo,” she said at last, voice soft, “but I remember the flowers.

“My grandmother loved flowers, and she was the only one allowed to tend to her garden; Auntie says that the groundskeeper’s job was primarily to keep the toolshed tidy and well-stocked with mulches and fertilizers, and do whatever Grandmother couldn’t because of age at her direction. I could see her most mornings from my window, with her big straw hat, puttering around the beds with a watering can in hand. There were so many colors in that garden: blues and reds and pinks and oranges and all the rest of the rainbow. And the smell… The smell was indescribable, especially in the morning during the first bloom. The morning glories covered the entire front wall of the manor, and every room—mine included—smelled of morning glories from sunup until almost noon before the scent finally dissipated.”

Synnove’s voice wavered on the last word and she swallowed heavily, reaching up to swipe at her eyes. “There was a bench beneath the old oak—”

An oak tree like ours? Roksana interrupted excitedly.

Her mama laughed, the sound just a little watery. “Bigger! It was as old as the manor, and the manor was old, very old. It cast all the front rooms of the manor in shade, I remember that, too, and it was perfect for climbing; the only ones who used the bench anymore where Grandmother and Grandfather. Even Uncle Tyr would climb with us, though he couldn’t go as high as me or Eydis. I bought this piece of land because of that oak: it’s wonderful for climbing now, but give it another decade and it will be almost as perfect as the manor oak was.”

She stared off into the distance again, lips pressed together into a thin line. Amandina and Roksana exchanged looks, nodded, and burrowed into their mama’s stomach, purring so furiously they vibrated with the sound.

As planned, their actions startled a laugh out of Synnove and she bent over cackling as she reached for them and tried to pull them away. “Girls! Girls, stop it, that’s mean! You know how much that tickles!”

The twins purred harder in response, and Synnove ended up toppling backwards, shrieking with laughter. The girls crawled up her torso to tuck themselves between the curves of her necks and shoulders, slowing their purrs to something softer and soothing, and Synnove eventually calmed, reaching up to wipe tears of laughter off her face and then rest her hands on the pearl carbunclets.

But her melancholy had vanished before it could transform into something darker, and that was what counted.

Eventually, she continued: “Other than the kitchen garden, most of the yard for the longest time was just clover; I had a flowerbed and the rose bushes, and one morning glory trellis, but that was it. And then Ala Mhigo was liberated, and I went back to what had once been our home, and.” She paused, swallowing again, and Amandina headbutted her cheek. Synnove smoothed her hand down the carbunclet’s purple-black ears and back and sighed gustily.

In a stronger voice, she said, “And I saw what had been done to Grandmother’s garden. It wasn’t until I got back here that I just…I just became so furious. It had been my grandmother’s, it had been mine, and it had been beautiful, and I was so angry it was gone. So, I went to the Botanists’ Guild and asked for a list of flowers they thought would grow well in La Noscea, and I went mad for a fortnight just planting. I couldn’t remember how Grandmother had laid out her garden, even if I had had the same flowers as her, but I knew enough that I should try to space things so when the spring blooms faded, the summer and autumn ones could fill the void.

“So that’s why I love flowers so much, my Amandina. They’re a bit of my childhood, and a bit of my grandmother, and a bit of reclaiming them both for the better.”

Amandina reached up and put her paw on Synnove’s nose, chirruping. That’s a sad story, Mommy. Her aetheric harmonic was matter of fact: observing, rather than accusatory or upset.

“Sometimes stories are sad, sparkler,” Synnove said, continuing to pet her, and petting her sister with the same motion now. Both baby carbuncles snuggled closer. “But it doesn’t mean they can’t have a little bit of hope in them, too.”

#febhyurary #final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #oc: synnove greywolfe #synnove's carbuncles #dt's writing #i really enjoyed how this turned out #melancholy but hopeful

[unholyhelbig]

Bechloe Apocalypse AU? I know it's been done before, but damn, do I love a good trope.

[A/N: This prompt has been in my inbox for a long time and I’m just now getting to it. But the main idea is from @auideas] 

Read on AO3 | Request Prompts here 

Beca was always the first to stir in the morning. It wasn’t by the light that streamed through the blinds, but her own biological clock that did it. A seven am on the dot, she would wake and stretch and feel her fingers met with the cold of the house. The blinds were drawn and a little slit of yellow, or sometimes gray depending on the weather, mapped itself on the wooden floor.

They hadn’t done much to the old Victorian manor at the edge of town. It came furnished and the only thing they bothered changing was the sheets on the four-post bed and the towels in the closet. They smelled so thickly of must that Beca made the begrudging trip into town for supplies.

Beca would pad down to the kitchen on the creaky wooden stairs and flicked on the coffee maker. She reveled in the darkness, in the cool relief from the South Carolina air. They kept the central unit on high and thick curtains over nearly every pane of glass in the house.

Chloe would stir an hour after her wife.

Maybe it was the absence of heat or her own lungs filling with dark roast. She followed the scent and grasped at the paper set on the kitchen table. She would skip to the sports section first but would always return to the front page for whatever story they deemed import enough.

“Ah, a firefighter with a cat.” She creased the paper “Charming and quaint.”

Beca grunted as she stood on her toes to grasp two mugs. They also came with the house, covered in dust until she scrubbed them. A cartoonish illustration of teddy bears dawned the front and she couldn’t bring herself to read the cheesy sayings past their first week in the Victorian.

She didn’t’ want to get to know the people in town. It was small enough that she got questioning stares from the gas station clerk whenever they ran out of allergy medication or on the rare occasion, milk. He bit his tongue but studied her face. Doveport South Carolina. Not even on the map.

Chloe figured that this is where people went to disappear. Not when they had fresh blood on their palms and dirt under their nails, but when the dust had settled, and they needed a place to ride out the storm. People lived on boats and deep in the swampy woods. They bought foreclosed homes with cash. They barely went outside, and hell- the air was too stiff.

“Did he pull it from a tree?” Beca asked.

“A storm drain, actually,” Chloe said.

The shorter of the two set down a steaming cup in front of her wife. It was loaded with French vanilla creamer and too much sugar for Beca to stomach. She swallowed two gulps of black coffee and cupped her hands around it to keep in the warmth. The house had to be cold. Though, her nose suffered the most from the stark temperature.

Chloe hummed into the steam rising from her drink “Coleman is supposed to drop of the sample today.”

“Coleman is s douche.”

“A douche with a sample. And besides, he won’t even come into the house. The light is too much for anyone to handle, much less the test slides. He’ll drop it by the greenhouse and be on his way.”

“I don’t even want him in my vicinity, Chlo. His male testosterone permeates the air.”

Chloe didn’t’ dignify Beca’s dramatics with a response. It reminded her of the days when she would run around on playgrounds, crunching over mulch and trying to get away from the boys with cooties. But then she had become a biochemist and even well before that, knew that that’s not how things spread.

Not cooties anyway. Maybe the flu or a common cold, but the only thing men were good for in this century was transporting what they needed. People in Doveport never gave a man a second look. Not when they dawned a hat and had grease on their hands. They wouldn’t question his duffel bag or the scent of gunpowder.

Beca went to take another sip of her coffee but stopped mid gulp when the familiar hum of the central cooling system sputtered to a stop. They had grown so used to the noise and the icy atmosphere. She exchanged a worried look with her wife and lowered the cup. “Well shit.”

“Was it supposed to storm today?”

“No. I checked.” Beca tapped the paper absently before pulling herself from the kitchen table. They didn’t’ have much time before their backup generators would kick on. But those hadn’t either. Not yet. Why hadn’t they? Fuck.

Chloe must have had the same thought. Worry crossed her features before she padded across the kitchen and pulled the door to the basement open. She creaked down the steps and was instantly overwhelmed by the heat that had already begun to fill the sod-coated room.

There weren’t basements in the south. Not usually but they had chosen the old Victorian because it had one in the first place. She walked towards the line of tables that were usually lit by a bluish-purple light. Those had gone off too.

In the stumbling darkness she grasped the samples carefully and placed them in the large freezer under the stairs. The ice that incrusted it wouldn’t’ last long but hopefully this power outage wouldn’t either.  She sealed it. She prayed about it too but wouldn’t’ let Beca know about that.

Science was magic and magic was science and religion fell somewhere in between but it eased her mind to speak to a higher power regardless.

“Chlo! I think you should see this!”

She didn’t waste any time sprinting up the slotted stairs and leaving the musty basement behind. Sweat had formed against her cheeks and made her skin tight when it hit whatever cold air was left in the nearly empty living room. Beca had peeled the blackout curtain back and the light stung her eyes.

“You opened the window?” Chloe asked.

“I was curious.” Beca Said.

Chloe sighed and squeezed close to her partner before she herself pulled back the dark cloth just an inch. Her heart rushes faster and there was a heat leaking through the windows. She hated the south and the lack of silence that it held onto.

It was the same street that she saw once or twice a month when she ventured from the house. There was another house across the way that had been empty since they arrived. There was a cop that lived next door and a nice family adjacent to them. But right now- there was blood.

The patrol car that usually sat in the driveway was turned on its side and a mass of guts and blood and teeth stirred in the front driveway. She saw fingers flick and smelled fire, or gas, or a mix of both. It made her throat burn.

A stranger, a man in fishing waders had half of his face missing and a dead look behind his yellowed eyes. He limped and groaned tepidly, continuing like he was going on a stroll. His jaw swung back and forth as a clock and Chloe grimaced.

“Well damn.” She let the curtain fall, “This is bullshit we were so close.”

“I know, but someone else was closer.”

Beca walked back towards the kitchen and grasped her now chilled cup of coffee. She finished it off and grabbed the newspaper, looking at the smiling face of the firefighter with a burnt-looking cat in his arms. It was filthy and its fur was matted. She frowned and placed it back on the table.

“Damn government funding. If I could have just gotten my hands on the Amscope.” She grimaced “we’re going to buy you a whole house but you can use a magnifying glass to create a zombie virus.”

“The institution is counting on you, Miss Mitchell.” Chloe mocked.

“Doctor Mitchell, I swear, they always forget that part. You know what we can’t forget? The nine years of our life that we spent getting degrees in science and then another three years held up in this place creating a bioweapon that we didn’t even get to release.”

Chloe lifted her eyebrows and leaned against the adjacent kitchen wall. She had to admit, it was a little disappointing. A letdown after all of this time. But she felt a bit of relief well up inside of her. They would send an extraction team for them at some point and then maybe they would be directed to create a cure. Maybe.

“I think we should get a cat,” Chloe said, picking up the paper and wiggling it towards her wife. “Look at his cute little face.”

“Mm, before or after the apocalypse?” Beca asked.

“During, probably,” Chloe said. “I’d consider a dog.”  

#beca mitchell #chloe beale #bechloe #bechloe fic rec #bechloe fanfiction #Pitch Perfect #pitch perfect fanfiction #request #apocolypse au

[codeandcreativity]

Reverie

Summary: Spencer and Maeve visit the Folger Shakespeare Museum. Written for @railmereid's 2K writing challenge/prompt: "Do you think we could pretend?"

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Maeve Donovan (PG-13)

Category: Fluff, Angst

Warnings: Allusions to stalking. No explicit spoilers, but this won't make sense if you're not familiar with the beginning of the Maeve arc (Season 8).

Reverie

Lovers and madmen have such seething brains, Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends. -William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream

"Do you think we could pretend?" she asks softly.

"Pretend?"

"That we're together."

He looks up, past the scratched and dirty fiberglass casing of the phone booth, down one of hundreds of similarly featured streets from which he might have called her. "How?"

"Your mind is an amazing tool, Spencer. Convince me," she says with a gossamer laugh. "Tell us both a vivid lie."

"A rare vision?" he suggests, warming to the idea.

"Take pains," she says. "Be perfect."

"OK." He slips his hand into his pocket to pull out his own phone. "I'm going to hang up and call you on my cell."

"That sounds like a great start."

He settles the heavy pay phone receiver in its cradle with a satisfying thunk and hits the first speed dial on his cell.

"Hey," she answers right away.

"Hey." He smiles to himself. "You're still there."

"I'm still here."

"Great." He exits the phone booth and walks towards his car, three doors down in front of a coin-operated laundry. "I'm parked outside of Georgetown Laundry," he says, unlocking the door of his horizon blue 1965 Volvo Amazon and sliding behind the wheel.

"I'm right around the corner," she says, voice light with mirth. "Come pick me up."

He follows those welcome instructions, turning the corner at a lazy crawl just in time to see her emerge from the door of her brownstone. Her face is hidden from him by a curtain of rich brown hair as she turns to lock the door behind her. Her figure is mostly hidden, too, beneath a loose white sun dress that falls just past her knees and a gray cardigan that is at least one size too large. She turns at last, her eyes shaded by sunglasses but her smile bright and genuine. She trots down the steps to street level, waving cheerfully as she crosses the sidewalk to his car.

He's out of the car before he knows it, rushing to meet her on the sidewalk. He holds out his hand and says breathlessly, "Maeve."

"I think we're a little past that, Spencer," she says warmly, ignoring his proffered hand and wrapping her arms around him in an embrace that feels like early summer. She smells of cotton and lilac, light and sweet. Without a thought, he buries his face in her shoulder and wraps his arms around her tightly, as if she will float away, an ephemeral thing he must cling to if he is to have any chance of keeping it at all.

"You're really here," he murmurs against her skin. She shivers. He wants to make her do it again, so he says, "Maeve."

She laughs, her hands dancing the length of his spine. "I'm here. Now," she says as she pulls back just enough to see his face. "Where should we go?"

He breathes deeply, soaking in the warm summer air and the tethered feeling of her finally standing beside him. "Where do you want to go?"

She pushes her sunglasses up to reveal pale blue eyes, crinkling with excitement. "Where do you want to take me, Spencer?"

He barely has to think, when she says it like that. "I know a place." He pulls open the passenger side door and offers her his hand again. "Get in."

This time, she takes it, her skin cool and dry against his as she lowers herself into the car. "I should have known you'd drive something with character," she says as he climbs in the driver's side, running her fingers along the vintage console.

"I don't drive it much," he admits, pulling away from the curb and pointing towards their destination.

"I know," she says. "I'm glad you drove it today."

He turns his head for just a second to appreciate the childlike wonder on her face. "Me, too."

"Can I roll down the window?" she asks.

"Of course."

She works the crank until the window is as far down as it'll go, turning her face to the breeze. "I haven't been out of my apartment in so long," she says wistfully.

After a beat, he answers, "I know."

She turns back to him with a reassuring smile. "I can't wait to see where you're taking me."

They drive through tree-lined streets to the historic part of town, calling out landmarks well-known and esoteric, until finally he pulls over and puts the car in park. "I think we're here," he says, squinting through the windshield.

"You think?" she asks playfully.

He chuckles. "Yeah. We're here."

Before them rises a long two-story building with a facade of white Georgia marble, worn by more than 80 years of east coast weather but no less stunning for its age. Tall vertical windows line length of the building, art deco grilles adorning those and the entryway closer to the ground. A series of themed bas-reliefs pose under the windows, figures of stone so well-hewn they seem to not to have been carved from the marble, but to have emerged from it.

"Oh, I haven't been here in ages," she says, hand in his as she leads him up the stairs. Her fingertips hover over the figures, but she doesn't touch. Hers won't be among the hands that slowly erase the figures from the stone from which they were birthed. All the best tragedies already constructed, in word and stone, from Macbeth to Hamlet to Romeo and Juliet , those stupid, star-crossed lovers.

"This sort of artwork is usually installed near the top of the building," he says, watching her face flush with happiness as she traverses the path towards the doors. "The Folgers asked the sculptor to place them closer to street level to give the public a better view."

She pauses a moment in front of crowned Titania, dwarfed by an attentive Bottom, idiots in love. The Fairy Queen's face is turned out, in soliloquy or reverie. Titania's body occupies the same space as her lover's, but her mind is far afield. What a privilege.

She hums appreciatively. "Is there a show today?" she says, turning her hopeful face to his.

He smiles. "What would you like to see?"

"Surprise me!" she says with a grin.

They tour the library until the sun sets, gasping softly at the details of the collection on exhibit in the Great Hall. They admire the finer points of the room itself, with its soaring plaster strapwork ceiling and intricate terracotta floor, inscribed with the masks of Comedy and Tragedy, secreting in its tiles the titles of the Bard's plays. They hover as close to the First Folio as they're permitted.

Their hands never part.

They take in the Elizabethan Theatre, with its three-tiered balconies and carved oak columns, but that's not where either of them want to spend their evening, so he takes her at last out to the garden. And for all the things they've seen today, it's the sight of the formal garden, the smell of lavender and honeysuckle and thyme that pulls the breath from her lungs and she says, "Oh, Spencer."

Palms pressed together, he pulls her closer to his side. He bends his head and whispers, "There's more."

They traverse the garden slowly; she pauses often, to touch an unfurled leaf or inhale the scent of a flower rising brilliantly from the heavily mulched earth. While she drinks in their surroundings, he only has eyes for her. Her dark hair, blunt bangs playful over clear blue eyes, the pretty pink of her cheeks when she catches him looking, the sly curl of her lips that tells him she knows she's got him wrapped around her any way she desires. She has only to say the word.

"They're setting up for the show," he says, pointing down the path with his free hand.

She looks up at him, so pure and full of hope. " A Midsummer Night's Dream ?"

"I can't imagine anything else," he says honestly.

She laughs, soft like a blanket. "I imagine we have our choice of seats."

They do, and when they're settled on a blanket the color of a late summer sunset, she leans over and whispers in his ear, "I brought us something to drink."

"I don't…"

"I know," she interrupts. "It's sparkling apple cider."

Night falls around them and the lights come up. The players on the stage dance and sing through the text seamlessly, interlacing the stories of lovers and actors, tales of fairies and humans, crises of self and burgeoning feminism that make A Midsummer Night's Dream one of Shakespeare's most widely performed works.

As the play proceeds, they turn towards one another, until they are reclining, somehow watching the stage as well as the stars above. Puck makes their appeal to the audience at last, an assurance to the perturbed that what they have witnessed may be nothing more than a dream, to be whisked away by another sleep. There is no applause as Puck sees themself out, only the lingering silence of a theater long after the audience has gone.

They are the players now, alone on the stage.

"Maeve," he says softly, just for her. "Can I kiss you?"

"I think you should," she says, and before he can make a move, she presses her lips to his. Stunned, he reacts only after a moment, his fingers threading into her hair as he pulls her closer. He follows her lead, afraid of taking this ephemeral thing they've made too far. The kisses are passionate but chaste, not that he knows any other way.

Too soon, he feels her stiffen against him. "Spencer."

"What's wrong?" he asks, looking down at her face. The tone of her voice has painted her features ashen. She's only a shade now. A phantom.

He hears a series of beeps, a staccato succession of three.

"I… I have call waiting," she says, her voice truncated with fear.

"Maeve?"

"No one has this number."

"It's OK. Don't hang up. I can get someone to trace it," he tries to reassure her, but the terror in her voice has infected him.

"Spencer, I have to go."

Before he can say anything…

"Goodbye."

"I love you."

"I'm sorry."

"How will I know you're OK?"

…she's gone.

He's standing in a phone booth three doors down from Georgetown Laundry, listening to a dial tone.

-End-

Read on AO3

#renswritingchallenge #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid fanfic #criminal minds fanfic #romance #angst #fluff #writing prompt #writing challenge #codeandcreativity #cc reverie

[geronimo-11]

These Secrets That We Hide

Chapter: 1/?

Pairing: Jeremy Danvers x OFC

Summary: Katherine Adler thought she was moving to upstate New York with her brother for a chance to start her life over. But when events from her past catch up to her and secrets about the family down the road come to light, her dreams of a fresh start start to crumble. It seems like everyone has secrets to hide.

Warnings: None

A/N: This has been a long time in the making, but it’s finally finished! The first chapter of Katherine’s canon!! Big thank you to @mtwalker for brainstorming with me and just being an all around amazing person and friend.

This strays from canon quite a bit, but just stay with me okay?

Read it here or on AO3!

Chapter 1: Loyalty

No one under the age of fifty willingly moved to Bear Valley.

Most of the inhabitants were elderly retirees fleeing the pressures of city life, or locals whose families had been there for generations and just couldn’t picture a life outside the familiar comfort of their small town. The few young people who did live there were born there, but even then they were looking forward to the day they could bolt to greener, more exciting, pastures.

So when Nick got a call from a friend saying that he was making the long trek from Tennessee to upstate New York with the idea of putting down roots closer to the Pack, he was definitely surprised. He was excited to see an old friend — and at the prospect of having someone new to talk to besides Jeremy, Clay, and Elena — but surprised nonetheless.

Most of the Pack wanted to live as far from being under the Alpha’s thumb as they could get, so they could live their lives as ordinary as possible. Well, actually, so they could break as many rules without getting caught as possible. For someone who didn’t have as close of a relationship with Jeremy as the rest of them, it was odd for any member of the Pack to suddenly want to live so close. But, regardless, Simon was coming, and he seemed very adamant about the fact. 

Nick waited until the day after Simon had told him he would be officially moved in before getting in his car and driving down to greet him, just so he’d have enough time to get settled. The house Simon purchased bordered Stonehaven property and was barely a five minute drive from the house. It was closer to town, but there was an abundance of trees and land this far north, meaning there was plenty of space for a wolf to run and not be seen. As part of the Pack, Simon could even venture onto the Stonehaven property for a run if he wanted. All in all it was a pretty nice setup he'd made for himself.

The road to Simon’s house was long and straight and Nick’s car kicked up dirt in the dry August heat as he turned off the main road and onto a gravel driveway. He thought briefly of having to wash his car again when he got back to Stonehaven. Or maybe he’d run it through the carwash in town. See if he could finally learn the name of the girl working the desk… Focus.

The house came into view and Nick whistled under his breath. From what he remembered, the old farmhouse had belonged to an elderly woman in town who had died almost a year ago. She hadn’t been able to really take care of the house due to her age, and after remaining unoccupied for so long Nick was expecting the house to look a bit worse for wear. That didn’t seem to be the case.

The outside of the house had a fresh coat of white paint and the new porch was large enough to accomodate a wooden swing and two rocking chairs. Nick could smell the strong scent of new mulch in the flower bed as he parked his car and noticed that there were freshly planted bushes decorating the outside of the house. Simon had apparently been hard at work.

Nick shut the car door as he took in all of the new renovations and made his way towards the house. He hadn’t made it far before the front door opened -- heavy dark oak that didn’t creak on the hinges, also very new -- and Simon stepped out.

Simon hadn’t changed that much from the last time Nick had seen him three years ago. His messy brown hair was pushed back from his face --  uselessly, it would seem, since several strands still hung down in his dark brown eyes. A gray t-shirt clung to his broad shoulders and outlined the muscles in his arms. The only difference Nick could really see was that he hadn’t shaved in a while. Heavy stubble clung to his jaw and Simon swiped a hand over it as he hopped hastily down the porch steps. 

“Hey, man,” Simon greeted, holding out his hand and flashing teeth in a grin. “Good to see you.”

“Yeah, you too. Been a while.” Nick grasped Simon’s hand tightly and pulled him into a hug. He clapped a hand on Simon’s back and stepped away, looking around at the house once again. “Looks like you’ve been busy. This place was practically falling apart from what I heard.”

Simon turned back to the house and smiled sheepishly. “Yeah, it needed some work. I can’t take all the credit, though. I had some guys come in and do some work before we got here, I just okayed everything over the phone.”

Nick raised a brow, doing a quick scan of the outside and then back towards the house. “We?”

Simon’s eyes widened and he turned to Nick with a nervous laugh. 

“Yeah. Um…” he paused and cleared his throat. Another laugh bubbled anxiously passed his lips and he ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. I thought I’d have a chance to…” 

Nick crossed his arms across his chest. “A chance to what?”

Silence. Simon bounced on the heels of his feet and gave Nick a wary glance. 

Nick frowned and took a step forward. “Simon?”

With another glance in his direction Simon gestured for Nick to follow him towards the house. He didn’t say another word until the front door shut behind them.

“I found my sister.” The words seemed to tumble from Simon’s mouth before he could stop himself. He was practically vibrating with excitement, eyes lit up with barely restrained joy.

Nick raised his brows and smiled. Simon and his sister had had a falling out about six years ago, severe enough that his sister had left their hometown, cut off all communication with her family, and remained completely off the grid. Simon couldn’t find her anywhere. That is, until about a year and a half ago, when he’d come to Nick wanting to reconnect with his sibling, and Nick managed to pull enough strings to get a general location for him. He hadn’t heard anything afterwards, when Simon went basically off the grid himself, but Nick was happy that the two seemed to have reconciled.

“That’s great, Si. I’m happy to hear it. But, uh,” He looked around the small entryway Simon had shuffled them into. “Why did we have to come in here for you to tell me that?”

“Because that’s not all I have to tell you, and I thought you’d feel better hearing the rest sitting down.” All the previous excitement Simon had shown when they first entered the house was gone. Even though he was still trying to put on a light-hearted air, he looked more serious than Nick had ever seen him. 

A pit settled in the middle of Nick’s stomach and he cast Simon an apprehensive look as he allowed himself to be led into the living room and seated on the couch.

“Is everything okay? Are you and your sister good now, or..?” Nick prodded when it seemed like Simon may fall silent again. Dancing around the subject was making his fingers twitch. He clasped his hands between his knees and waited for Simon to, hopefully, tell him what was going on.

“Yeah, Katherine and I are fine. Better than fine, actually.” Simon sat in an armchair across from Nick and grinned. “I apologized and we talked and cleared the air. It’s almost like nothing happened at all.”

Simon’s smile faltered slightly and he looked down at the floor. 

“But it just didn’t feel like enough to say sorry. Not after everything…” He trailed off and shook his head, his eyes glazing over as he lost himself in thought. After a moment he blinked, coming back to himself, and looked up at Nick. “That’s why I bought her this house.”

Nick stared at him. He… he must have heard wrong.

“You bought her… this house?” He gestured around the room with a single finger. Simon nodded. Nick’s eyes widened and he felt his jaw drop. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than, “That’s an awfully big gesture for just an apology.”

Simon’s eyes darkened and Nick watched as his jaw clenched and unclenched reflexively. 

“There’s more to it than that.”

Before Nick could snap and ask what the hell was going on, they heard the rumbling of a car engine coming down the driveway. Nick glanced out the window behind him and then back to Simon, only to find the other wolf’s eyes were already on him.

“I haven’t told Jeremy any of this,” Simon confessed cautiously. Nick pressed his lips in a firm line, the pit in his stomach growing with every word.

“I was planning to, I swear,” he placated with open palms when he saw the look on Nick’s face. “But I wanted to call you first and have you come over so I could tell you everything. You just beat me to it.”

Nick shook his head, eyebrows scrunched together in confusion. “Why would you call me-” The realization clicked and Nick felt his face drop. “You want me to tell Jeremy first. To cushion the blow for when you talk to him.”

Because Simon will have to talk to him. If he brought a human into his house -- a house that was basically on Stonehaven property -- without telling Jeremy, it definitely wouldn’t go unanswered. It probably wouldn’t have gone unanswered if he had told Jeremy. Regardless, either Simon would go talk to Jeremy or Jeremy would go talk to Simon, and the latter would be infinitely worse.

The engine was getting louder now and Simon glanced anxiously out the window. 

“There’s one other thing that I haven’t told you about,” he started slowly, standing up and walking towards the door. Nick stood to follow.

“You mean other than the fact you have a human living with you on Stonehaven’s doorstep?” Nick quipped. “I don’t see how it can get much worse.”

Simon offered him a wry smile. He paused with his hand on the doorknob and met Nick’s gaze.. Something flashed in Simon’s eyes then -- anxiety, protectiveness, fear -- but they all vanished before Nick could pinpoint just one.

“I just… I need you to keep an open mind.”

With that said he opened the door and stepped out on the porch, leaving Nick following after him slightly bewildered. There was an old, red jeep sputtering down the driveway when they went outside. The brakes squeaked as it pulled to a stop next to Nick’s car, and the jeep hissed and groaned so badly as the engine was shut off that Nick wouldn’t have been surprised if the entire thing fell apart right in front of him.

“I wish she’d get rid of that thing,” Simon mumbled beside him, shifting side to side as the engine gave a final sputter before it died. The driver’s side door creaked as it was forced open, and a woman stepped out. 

She was fairly tall, with long dark hair and sharp cheekbones. A smile lit up her pretty face when she saw the two of them on the porch and she held up a hand to wave. Nick held up his hand in response before realizing just exactly who she was. He looked at her and then again at his friend, brows raised.

“That’s your sister?” He asked. Simon shot him a half-hearted glare.

“Don’t.”

Before Nick could defend himself there was another loud, metallic groaning sound and one of the back doors of the jeep popped open. Considering Katherine was leaning over the passenger seat and grabbing a bag, there was no way she could have opened it. So, who..?

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. A pair of small legs poked out from the side of the jeep, and then a mess of sandy brown hair was barrelling towards them, shouting excitedly. 

“Uncle Si!” 

It was a little boy, probably no more than six or seven years old. He was bolting through the grass with the same blinding grin on his face that Katherine had given them moments ago.

Oh.

This must be her son. Nick looked over at Simon, who was actively avoiding looking at him. He was grinning, holding out his arms for the boy as he raced up the steps and into his uncle’s arms. 

When the breeze picked up, Nick realized why.

He had thought at first that maybe Simon was avoiding his gaze because he’d let not one but two humans into his home. But that wasn’t it. The wind picked up, ruffling the boy’s hair and carrying his scent towards the house. At first, Nick thought he was imagining things so he took a deeper inhale. His blood turned cold and his gaze immediately snapped to Simon, not even bothering to hide the panic he was feeling and wishing he had bit his tongue because things just got much, much worse.

The boy was a wolf.

-------------------------

“Does she know?” Nick asked, glancing down the hall where Katherine had disappeared. 

After brief introductions Nick offered to help carry in the luggage and boxes Katherine had stacked in the back of her jeep. She had offered to make dinner for him as thanks for helping them unpack, but Nick politely declined, saying he couldn’t stay long and just wanted to catch up with her brother for a bit. He’d turned on Simon the second she was out of sight. They hadn’t even made it past the entryway.

“Of course she doesn’t know. Do you honestly think I’d bring her here if she did? We’d be on the other side of the country by now,” Simon scoffed.

Nick threw his hands in the air, exasperated, “I don’t know! I’m still trying to figure out why you would bring her here in the first place!”

Simon shushed him, glancing down the hallway to make sure they hadn’t been overheard. He turned back to Nick earnestly, raking a hand through his hair.

“Listen, I just… I couldn’t just take Caleb away from her. And even if I had wanted to, there’s no way I’d have been able to do it without a nationwide manhunt being called down on me. Believe it or not I actually brought her here to keep her from finding out her son is a werewolf.”

Nick gaped at him.

“By surrounding her with other werewolves?” his voice strained, rising in pitch and cracking slightly in disbelief as he tried to keep from yelling. “I’m pretty sure she’s gonna notice when he hits puberty and you have to put deadbolts on his bedroom door.” 

Simon’s lips pressed in a firm line, biting back a retort, but remarkably he said nothing. Sighing heavily Nick brought up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Do you honestly think Jeremy will be okay with this?” he asked. Simon laughed bitterly.

“Of course not,” he admitted. “There’s nothing about this situation that’s okay. Hell, I’m not even really okay with this. But I wouldn’t be here if I thought I had another choice.”

Nick rubbed his palms on his eyes and took a deep breath. He shook his head and looked Simon in the eye, making sure every word he said would register, that Simon was aware of the danger he was putting his family in.

 “You are knowingly backing him into a corner, Simon. And you might not be glad you did.”

A warning was all he could give him now. Maybe if Simon had bothered to call him earlier, Nick could have listed all the reasons why this was an absolutely horrible idea. But he hadn’t, and now they are where they are, with Simon digging himself a hole and Nick apparently the one handing him the shovel. Jeremy was likely to bury them both if they weren’t careful.

Simon swallowed and offered a sharp nod. “I know. But what was I supposed to do, let my nephew become a Mutt?”

Nick rubbed at the side of his face, exasperated. He threw his hands in the air helplessly. 

“No, just… I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

Nick placed his hands on his hips, words dying in his mouth as the boy -- Caleb, Simon had told him during their introductions -- ran down the staircase beside them.

“Look!” he held up a small plastic dinosaur to Nick, a grin stretching across his face. “Uncle Si got this for me! They’re all over my room, even my bed has dinosaurs on it!”

Nick smiled at him. “That’s really cool, bud.”

Caleb offered Nick another toothy grin and took off down the hall, yelling excitedly about his new bedroom to his mother in the kitchen. Once he was out of sight Nick ran a hand over his jaw and shared an uneasy look with his friend. 

“What exactly are you going to tell Jeremy?”

Simon exhaled a long, sharp gust of air and rubbed a hand at the back of his neck.  

“The truth. All of it.”

Nick laughed once, a humorless puff of air past his lips. Katherine emerged from the kitchen then, with Caleb gripping her hand tightly and dragging her down the hall. His face was alight with excitement and his mouth was moving a mile a minute as he urged his mother towards the stairs.

Katherine’s eyes held the patience of a saint as she looked down at her son, smiling encouragingly at him and nodding every so often as she allowed herself to be drug across the hardwood floor. Nick felt his chest tighten, his thoughts turning to his own mother. The brief time they’d spent together in Ontario felt like a lifetime ago now, and he knew he’d never get the chance to see her again. He couldn’t, for her sake, and it killed him inside every time he thought about it. And not just her, either. Jeremy was still trying to decide what to do about Rachel. He hadn't made any decision yet, but he had to eventually.

As they passed, Katherine looked up and met Nick’s gaze. She smiled at him, the corners of her hazel eyes crinkling, and Nick felt himself smile in return. He looked between Katherine and Caleb one more time, saw the joy on each of their faces, and knew he’d made his decision. There was no way he could pass up an opportunity to help a wolf stay with his mother. He'd lost his own, and he may have no real say in what happens with Rachel and her son, but he has a chance to do something now. When they’d disappeared up the stairs once more, Nick sighed resignedly and dug his car keys out of his pocket.

“Well, it better be convincing. For your sake and for theirs.”

-------------------------

Katherine offered to make dinner twice more before Nick left and he turned them both down as kindly as he could -- although when she mentioned grilled steak he felt his resolve falter and mouth water. But he took one glance at Simon and shook his head, telling her he’d be more than happy to join them some other night. For now, he needed to think. About, well, everything. 

First he needed to figure out how to tell Jeremy about the situation that he had inadvertently dropped on their doorstep. If he’d known the real reason why Simon was looking for his sister-- no. He couldn’t go there. Not when he didn’t even know if Simon knew Katherine had had a son. He would give him the benefit of the doubt. For now.

The drive back to Stonehaven seemed shorter than the drive to Simon’s house, and before he even realized it Nick was turning onto the driveway. He felt his stomach clench and his grip tightened on the steering wheel. It was one of the few times in his life where he was genuinely nervous to go home. 

With any luck no one would be awake, and he could think about the best way to approach the news tonight and tell Jeremy about everything tomorrow. Simon hadn’t mentioned when he was thinking about coming to Stonehaven, but Nick knew he’d need to fill Jeremy in before that happened. He didn’t want Jeremy getting blindsided like he had been, especially considering the Alpha’s influence would literally mean life or death. 

His car rolled to a stop in front of the house and Nick felt his stomach sink. There was a light on in the living room. Maybe it was Clay or Elena, sitting up for a drink. Although, if they thought they were alone, he should probably knock before he entered the house. He snorted his amusement and turned the car off to head towards the front door.

Nick peeked into the living room when he got into the house, and the door shut behind him with a foreboding click as he felt his stomach sink impossibly lower.

Luck, it seemed, was not on his side tonight. 

Jeremy was sitting at his desk, a lamp beside him providing a soft yellow glow, just enough for him to see the papers in front of him. He looked up as Nick walked in and smiled.

Well. There was certainly no avoiding him now.

“You’re back late,” Jeremy commented off-handedly. Nick scratched at the back of his neck as he walked into the living room, stopping just in front of Jeremy’s desk.

“Yeah, we, uh, ended up talking for a while. There was a lot for us to catch up on,” he mumbled the last part and Jeremy raised a brow at him.

“And? How is Simon? It’s been a while since he was here last. I was surprised to hear he wanted a change of scene so suddenly.” He looked down at the papers in his hand and Nick shifted on his feet.

“He’s… good.”

His hesitation made Jeremy pause and then Nick was on the receiving end of two intense, questioning eyes. Suddenly Nick was sent back to all the times he’d seen that exact look when he was a child, the few instances when his father wasn’t around and he’d managed to sneak cookies before dinner only to be caught after the fact with chocolate all over his face. He squirmed just like he did when he was eight years old and Jeremy zeroed in on the movement. 

“Nick?” he prodded, dropping the papers on his desk and giving the younger wolf his full attention.

Taking a deep breath through his nose Nick stepped forward. He pressed his palms flat on the cool wood of the desk to steady himself and looked Jeremy in the eye.

“There’s, um… There’s something you should know.”

#my writing #my ocs #oc: katherine adler #katherine/jeremy #these secrets that we hide #tstwh #it's very long #but i'm not sorry #reposting bc it somehow got deleted???

[owlbloop]

Part two of short story, please read the first bit if you read this. Sorry that read more won't work.

@seaside-writings

Prompt list creator, ^^^

-

-

Cold drinks

-

Fake pink lemonade

From the cheap waxy packets

That come in cardboard

-

Ice cubes splashing, pop

I startle, chair clattering back

Cold pink splattering

-

The glass in fragments

Where the sunlight falls on shards

Suddenly alive

-

I sweep them away

Just in case; Watched them tumble

Into my neon box

-

-

Pictures

-

We soak up starlight

Thinking our own little things

Last sun of summer

-

Red and orange sky

Bubblegum into clouds

Before night’s cool shroud

-

Will blanket the light

Till only pinpoints shine through

But for now we stand

-

The camera flashes

Snug within my brother’s hands

As he captures time

-

-

Pool party

-

The second summer

Starts with chlorinated blue

And sweet barbecue

-

Her skin is darker

From sunny all year travels

Now bridged with freckles

-

The winter pale sticks

Even now it clings to my face

We don't really care

-

I miss last year's floats

And sweet snow cone concoctions

Summer feels so good

-

-

Playground

-

Bright red six foot slides

Brother climbing up and up

Big rope spider webs

-

The white truck's jingle

Harolding neon popsicles

Frosty ice cream bars

-

The smell of old mulch

And lingering summer rain

New pine wood benches

-

We draw side by side

Pastel dollar store notebooks

Covered in graphite

-

-

Summer fair

-

Blue cotton candy

Stuck within her copper hair

On her dyed blue lips

-

Hot elephant ears

The size of her laughing face

My creeper shirt damp

-

The sun presses soon

On the windows of the wheel

I still don’t like heights

-

But to see her look

Face pressed to the sticky glass

With such open eyes

-

-

Boating

-

We might be part fish

Always longing for swimming

Should this surprise me

-

That we found water

Boats in an amusement park

Real bumper boats

-

Seems like an extra

Absolutely terrible

Horrific idea

-

We give it a go

Til we’re completely soaked

Wonderfully worth it

-

-

Night swimming

-

It's the dead of night

Warm steam drifting off the pool

My hair tied in back

-

The pool light is soft

Robing the tiles in flame

Bright but not burning

-

We slip into it

Into water's down caress

Waves sparkling bright

-

-

Summer wardrobe

-

Pale linen sundress

Pastel fabric flower crown

Brown eyes lined with gold

-

Black cotton crop top

Glittering hot pink flip flops

Hair electric blue

-

We both dress different

She is warm with toasted skin

I’m some midnight ghost

-

We both love lemons

I’m still flustered when she’s near

I still adore her

-

-

Ice cream parlor

-

Blue raspberry, grape

With whipped cream and a cherry

Sweet syrup soda

-

She eats red sorbet

A cookie dough waffle cone

And a large milkshake

-

I’ve learned to shrug

At how much sugar she eats

Somehow still a stick

-

Soggy plastic straws

Sun shining through the window

As her gaze holds mine

-

-

Lazy river

-

Drifting in circles

Bit too slender for the floats

The current flows

-

We bump one another

With the grace of cicadas

So basically none

-

The water feels good

As it swirls around my legs

Though my arms are sore

-

We manage escape

Into the warmth of her towel

A kid had soaked mine

-

-

Hammock nap

-

Swinging back and forth

Under the cool dark shade of

Magnolia trees

-

The light dances through

All the shades of waxy green

And onto her skin

-

I love the feel

Of big white velvet blossoms

Brown tinged on the ground

-

The weight pulls us close

Almost touching, but not quite

Just a bit too small

-

-

Sleeping in

-

I want to sleep more

Nap throughout eternity

Drown the sun in ink

-

But she wakes me up

With her mom’s strawberry cake

I have to smile

-

Because she looks cute

Buried in a stolen hoodie

Of cute lil skulls

-

The bright of the sun

Scalds me awake but soothes sweet

When shining though braids

-

-

Stargazing

-

Vast, blue, beautiful

A rising strawberry moon

We lie beneath it

-

She points out Venus

Who birthed the romantic rose

Through her mourning

-

Not quite so certain

She wants romance born of death

Rather something sweet

-

She doesn’t know much

When it comes to such mythology

So she offers snacks

[aroworlds]

What Makes Us Human, Part Two

Moll of Sirenne needs prompts in their girdle book to navigate casual conversations, struggles to master facial expressions and feels safest weeding the monastery's vegetable gardens. Following their call to service, however, means offering wanderers in need a priest's support and guidance. A life free of social expectation to court, wed and befriend does outweigh their fear of causing harm—until forgetting the date of a holiday provokes a guest's ire and three cutting words: lifeless and loveless.

A priest must expand a guest's sense of human worth, but what do they do when their own comes under question? Can an autistic, aromantic priest ever expect to serve outside the garden? And what day is it...?

Contains: A middle-aged, agender priest set on defying social norms around love; an alloromantic guest with a journey to undergo in conquering her amatonormativity and ableism; and an elderly aromantic priest providing irascible reassurance.

Content Advisory: Depictions and discussions of ableism, amatonormativity and dehumanisation, particularly with regards to autism and aromanticism. Please expect additional background references to partner abuse and dysfunctional relationships, along with a side mention of magic causing harm to animals. This piece also includes reflections on non-romantic love's being pushed as a second-best "humanising" quality on non-partnerning, aplatonic and neurodiverse aros.

Length: 4, 946 words (part one of two).

Note: This is the newest entry in my tradition of Not Valentine’s Day Aro Stories posted on Valentine’s Day. No familiarity with my other Marchverse stories is needed, although it does obliquely nod at events referenced in Love is the Reckoning.

Will you ignore their need of someone their own to reassure them that they are so wonderfully and deservedly human?

Moll checks that she follows and, wordlessly, heads towards the guest common room. Their heart thrums in their chest; they fight to slow their heaving ribs. What will they do if Gennifer isn’t finished with what caused her to miss breakfast? What if … shades, can’t they send an acolyte to find her or Oki? Waiting with James won’t lack unpleasantness, but Moll needn’t engage her in conversation. They can keep their silence while a brown-robe hunts down a senior priest.

Breathe.

For good or ill, they are both decided to follow a new path.

Gennifer, fortunately, sits in one of several armchairs, frowning down at the ledger in her lap. Two acolytes tidying feel more like shadows than occupants in a vast room of redwood tables and bookshelves, all crammed with books, games, paper, pencils and paints. Pots filled with trailing ferns hang from the high rafters, lending the room a touch of Sirenne’s soil-and-leaflitter scent; the large slate tiles, polished smooth and set close together, feel cool under Moll’s bare feet. Large windows reveal the gardens between wings, permitting light enough that demarcations of “outside” and “inside” lose relevance.

She closes the book and looks up, her thick brows raised. Moll has long learnt better than to voice these observations, but Gennifer resembles her pet chicken—a round, fat woman with nut-brown skin and hair, the latter trimmed to a fine fuzz covering her scalp and neck. The red robes, belted with an advising priest’s green sash, pick up the reddish tinge in the hen’s feathers; the neat way she tucks her arms at her sides, her hands drawn up by her chest, resembles the hen’s wings. No quality will so provoke this comparison if not for Gennifer’s mothering of anyone, guest or priest, she judges in need.

“May we converse in private?” Moll asks, turning their head to ensure that James follows them into the room. “Thank you.”

She stands a few paces off, tucking her hand—the tip of one finger smeared with her lip paint—behind her back.

The acolytes down their books and retreat to the hallway.

“What is it?” Gennifer waves at the chair opposite her table. “Sit down. Can I get you a cup of tea? A biscuit?”

“No. James has the opinion … that I can’t relate to their experiences. She wishes the guidance of another priest.” Only a lifetime of practice allows Moll to keep their voice flat and calm. “I don’t wish to cause her any further distress, so I ask that you assign her to someone of a more … suitable nature.”

Only the slightest shift of brow mars Gennifer’s quiet smile. “I see. Is this the case, James?”

How can Gennifer, as careful and controlled as most of Sirenne’s priests, so evade accusations of lifelessness? What difference exists between her expression and theirs? Why can’t Moll see, recognise and imitate it?

James hesitates for long enough that Moll wonders if she’s beset by a change of heart, but at length she nods and takes the offered chair. “Yes. Please. They don’t even know what day it is! They just ask pointless question after question, all stiff and wooden. How am I supposed to get anywhere with a priest that remembers nothing normal?”

She doesn’t mention, Moll thinks with a nauseating bitterness, that she accused all priests of such ignorance. They may not know what the date means, how better to have approached James’s guiding or why only Gennifer’s questions are worth answering, but they know one thing: their control teeters on collapse’s edge.

They bow, turn and stride to the doorway.

“It’s difficult,” Gennifer says with a non-committal softness, “to feel as though—”

Moll quickens their step, their red robes flapping about their calves. Another pair of acolytes enter the hallway, stop and abruptly reverse direction as though afraid to tangle with a priest in a temper. They fist their hands until their fingers ache, but their shoulders shake and their chest heaves. Why did they entertain the delusion that their thick, autistic body, with its oversized hands and stern face, can ever be anything but threatening?  

How much more damage need they cause before accepting the truth?

The feel of grass beneath their soles and the strengthening of the rich damp-earth smell tells Moll that they’ve left the building for one of the gardens. Rows of mulched corn, peas and beans grow in a sunny section of the monastery, angled away from the greenhouse. The gardens weren’t their intention, at least insofar that they possessed any, but a riot of unwanted seedlings sprout from the pea straw’s seeds, diverting water and nutrients from the vegetables. The acolytes are a few days behind in their weeding. Good enough.  

Moll—ignored by the priest and guests tending the greenhouse’s tomatoes—grabs a bucket and a trowel, kneels by the first pea-festooned trellis and starts pulling up weeds.

There’s no glamour in weeding, no proud presentation of the literal fruits of one’s labour. New weeds poke through the soil and mulch almost as soon as one finishes, and, as in laundry and dishwashing, Moll never finds the satisfaction of conclusion. A garden always provides distraction, however, and nobody stopped to marvel at a quartermaster’s labour. Why expect it now?

Peace, instead, lies in the feel of damp earth clinging to bare feet, the patter of water falling on green leaves, the smell of sun warming soil and straw, the pop as a root pulls free from its earthen cradle. Moll’s trembling fingers fight to gently prise weeds from the bed and shake soil from their roots, but they put their rage into their shoulder as they hurl each into the bucket left at the end of the row.

Pull, shake, throw.

Pop, patter, thwack.

Isn’t this suitable work? If their labour allows Gennifer to guide James by providing the food eaten by priests, acolytes and guests, how aren’t they following their calling?

Pop, patter, smack.

“Do all of those require pulling?”

They jerk, straighten and turn, started to find the Guide sitting in her wheelchair only an arm’s length distant, her attendant idling with a book at the other end of the row. She’s a small woman with white hair gone yellow, sunken cheeks and bony limbs; “elderly” suggests more youth than she shows. Her green robe, belted with red, catches the light through some trickery of weave; a darker green blanket, knit from witched wool, sits over her lap, although the summer warmth permits her to bare both marked shoulders. A ball of yarn, two knitting needles and a toe and heel in progress rests in the valley between her knees. Based on Moll’s infrequent glimpses of her work about the monastery, she too prefers her hands busy, perhaps despite her swollen knuckles.

She looks like a stiff breeze will blow her out of her chair, but she reminds Moll of a century-dead tree, its roots grown so deep that its trunk and limbs survive drought and cyclone.

They drop their plant and, suddenly aware of their aching shoulders and back, bow to Sirenne’s most senior priest.

“Oh, stop. Sit up and stay sit up. Sat up? Whatever.” The Guide sighs and peers down at Moll. “Aren’t your back and knees breaking? I’m hurting just looking at you.”

Moll realises then that they’ve worked down the row and halfway across the bed. Small bits of seed and gravel dig into their knees through the thin linen of their summer robe; their legs, beset with an unnatural stiffness, fight their attempts to sit. “I’m sorry, sir, for my unsupp—”

The Guide raises both hands and claps her fingers to her thumb in the gesture meant to indicate a bird’s opening beak—usually made to mock a person prone to gossip. If she owns something as ordinary as a shroudname, Moll has never heard it mentioned. She’s just the Guide, the leader of her flock on their journey to … well, the Sojourner isn’t the sort of god that provides clarity. No bright heaven or dark hell; just the bewildering grey of somewhere.  

Moll dislikes those vague, unspecific words.

“I’m sorry for abandon—”

She repeats the gesture several times, fingertip smacking against thumb.

“I’m … sorry?”

Moll has heard the monastery’s gossip about the Guide, but they didn’t expect … well, this.

“Stop it with the drivel.” The Guide sighs and shakes her head. “If you apologise again, I’ll send you to shadow with the calling-year acolytes. Don’t think I won’t!”

Just the thought of taking lessons with Ro and Alicia has Moll closing their mouth with a teeth-clacking snap. Moll’s calling-year included a grandparent twice their age, but Ro’s year leans young, and they can’t say that they’ll enjoy being so subjected to the acolytes’ discussions, explosions, giggles, jibes and pranks. Moll endured enough of that in the army, irritated even when they were of the customary age to partake!

Is this the Guide’s way of saying that Moll needs those lessons?

Are their missteps with James so serious that Gennifer went to the Guide?

“Moll?”

They sit up, rolling their shoulders back in a vain attempt to ease their stiffness. “I don’t think I need those lessons refreshed,” they say, hoping that their tone doesn’t convey their stomach’s nervous roiling. A priest shouldn’t be afraid to admit fault. How can one help guide another in open-hearted curiosity while bound to an unfailing sense of correctness? “I think I’ll do better in the gardens or the stables. Wherever you believe my work most needed.”

Not that Moll has done an exemplary job with the garden, given the halo of uprooted-and-thrown plants surrounding the bucket.

“Really?” The Guide sighs, looking down at Moll with raised eyebrows. “Because I came here to tell a guiding priest to pick the gravel from their knees, wash up and hop to the infirmary to be briefed on a guest’s needs from his new priest.”

Moll frowns. The infirmary? A guest’s new priest? “Another guest—”

“No! You want to specialise in the arts of weed pulling and shit shovelling! Far be it from me to stop a priest from following their road—even if that road takes them five clicks backwards.” The Guide shrugs and nestles her hands in her lap. “I’m sure there’s another priest with curiosity, patience and directness to help guide a guest as much harmed by Sirenne as the world—another priest that finds equal confusion in tedious definitions of normality. Gennifer’s unexpectedly busy—what about Oki?”

They stiffen, their eyes resting on the thick, bobbled stockings covering the Guide’s unshod feet. “I don’t understand,” Moll murmurs, beset with too many curiosities to untangle but certain that few priests have referenced Sirenne’s harming a guest. “If I knew what you’re referencing, perhaps I could say…? But … I don’t want to distress another guest, and someone must muck the stables.”

After all, she may as well be referencing Moll’s treatment of James.

The Guide stares at Moll, her brow furrowed, her expression well beyond their conjecture. “I think,” she says at length, “you should explain the source of your newfound enthusiasm for regression.”

By now, narrating a discussion with a guest to a senior priest feels habitual. Moll exhales, hissing their breath over their teeth, before beginning with the dining hall, backtracking to explain their anxiety and James’s prior behaviours, and continuing with the courtyard conversations.

Their voice, steady during all manner of absurd, eldritch and horrifying goings-on in their fifteen years with Seventh, wobbles on the words “loveless” and “lifeless”.

“…so I did the inappropriate thing of leaving without allowing for proper explanation or facilitation of—”

“Nep, nep, nep.” The Guide beaks her fingers thrice; Moll, startled, falls silent. “Drivel. You cluck worse than Gennifer’s chicken. That you can work on—tell Gennifer or your calling-year priests that you want them to help you learn to stop clucking.” She sighs and shakes her head. “You assumed yourself the cause of her mood. James felt distressed by spending Lovers’ Day separated from her partner and took offense to your thinking you’d caused offense. She wanted you to simply offer sympathy, believing her situation abundantly self-evident and unneedful of explanation.”

How many times, over the course of a life, have allistics and alloromantics driven them to aghast speechlessness at their absence of rationality? Lovers’ Day is but a petty holiday borrowed from Astreuch tradition, something about which the Sojourner says nothing. Moll doesn’t care enough to recollect its existence, but neither will they disparage or dismiss her pain—if only she mentioned the holiday when asked!

Sirenne should offer sanctuary, but they’re still caught up in the mess caused by love’s assumption, expectation and conformity.

Even here, they’re still rendered less than human.

“I … asked why…” Moll shakes their head, turns and pulls up another weed. “I don’t understand that. None of it. So I belong out here.”

“I didn’t say it was reasonable. It isn’t any more reasonable than your current occupational decision.” The Guide barks a laugh. “But since when do we expect guests to bring reason with them? They don’t. We help them find it.”

They don’t know what word names the mood that has Moll wrench, twist and fling a seeding somewhere towards the bucket before looking up at the Guide. “How could I have—”

“You should have,” the Guide says, her words soft, “taken her to Gennifer as soon as her judgement turned personal. You didn’t need to tolerate that half as long as you did. Take her to someone who gives her fewer excuses and isn’t bearing bruises the world never lets heal. No garden so needs weeding that you should be breaking your body, afterwards, to survive the punches you thought you had to let her throw.”

They sit up, bunching their robes over their legs. Her words ring of bewildering improbability, an unexpected response—like the giving of their girdle book, the leather cover now speckled with dirt and mulch—wildly contradictory to the world’s usual rules and processes. Ideal, certainly, but not in practice true.

“I’m meant,” Moll says slowly, “to be able to do my work. I can’t give every allistic or alloromantic guest to Gennifer because they don’t make se—”

“We both know you won’t ask that another priest take on a guest’s care because you don’t understand their reasoning, but you should if they don’t respect your humanity!” The Guide waves her hand towards the great hall. “How, if you break yourself dealing with every guest assigned to you, are you going to give your best service to the next agender, aromantic or autistic guest walking up our driveway? What if there’s someone there in need of you? Can you, right now, serve as they need?”

They freeze, open-mouthed.

Never did Moll think to look at their work from that angle.

“There wouldn’t be that many—”

“Drivel. Most of the priests not us can handle James. Gennifer, though, isn’t aromantic. She’s kind, sweet and open-minded, certainly—and that’s better than nothing. But she doesn’t speak from a place of knowing. We do. And now, you can give someone something neither of us had—a guiding priest who knows in the heart. Can’t you imagine what that must feel like?” She sighs, her crow’s voice cracking. “Some guests won’t be suited to your strengths, but they’ll respect your humanity. Some won’t suit you, and you’ll make sure they’re cared for by someone they’re less likely to harm. And others, yet unknowing, need you. Will you, Moll, ignore their need of someone their own to reassure them that they are so wonderfully and deservedly human—no matter what the world says?”

Moll draws a breath, the hairs on their forearms raised, their body alert and quivering. Despite the near-cloudless sky, they look up, searching for lightning; the air crackles with that wild, dangerous energy. They hoped, five years ago, to return this gift Gennifer offered to a discharged quartermaster stripped of home and place. The gift of reframing the world, tossing about all long-held expectations so one can put aside the misunderstandings and follow a new turning. The gift, a chance to see everything anew, they couldn’t offer James.

A gift, perhaps, they can still offer someone else—because she’s right, something Moll didn’t realise until she said the word “us”.

They didn’t know that they’d waited forty-four years to receive that gift from their own—to be affirmed human by their kin’s reckoning.

The garden shouldn’t be the entirety of their service.

“That’s better.” The Guide gives a small, satisfied nod. “You’ve forgotten, I think, that in your first year, we learn how best you work with guests. Knowing that better, now, I need you in the infirmary to work with a guest who also didn’t pair well with his first priest—a guest who needs you, not Oki. Or will you mumble about weeds and manure?”

Moll shakes their head. No, not on their life or name!

“Good. Get up, have a long bath, scrub your fingernails, eat a late lunch and then present yourself to Thanh. Tell hir that I sent you to be Esher’s new guiding priest and ze must explain to you the magic. I doubt he’ll be any kind of conscious today, so you have time to dawdle.”

What happened last night? “Magic? Conscious?”

“Thanh will tell you. Go. I’ve got too many priests yet to talk to.”

Far too curious to surrender to bewilderment, Moll bows their head, grabs their trowel and scrambles upright just as the Guide waves her hand to her attendant. “Thank you. Sir. Thank you.” They turn for their bucket, freeze and spin back to face the Guide. “Sir, can I ask something?”

“Yes, quickly, but it had better not be clucking.”

They don’t know what she means by “clucking”, but they’ll ask Gennifer and Oki. “If you weren’t guiding guests when I came, why…?”

“Why didn’t I guide you, you mean?” The Guide shrugs. “I don’t guide guests or teach the acolytes. I’m perceptive and intelligent, they told me, but disastrously blunt. Now, after years in the kitchens, I guide the priests—once you’re educated enough in yourself that I needn’t dance around my words.” She hesitates. “I think, perhaps, there’s some acolytes I should have taught. But I do know the worth and the necessity in ensuring my own number in the priests that follow me.”

“I think you guide well,” Moll says quietly. “For me, if nobody else.”

Their own expressions aren’t given to smiling, but the Guide’s broadening lips, perhaps, speak for them both.

#aro writing #aromantic #arospec creations #loveless aro friendly #lovelessness #loveless aro #loveless aro feels #nonpartnering #aplatonic feels #aromantic and aplatonic #aplatonic #aromantic and autistic #autism #aromantic and agender #fiction #original fiction #original fiction and prose #fantasy #short fiction #what makes us human #long post #very long post #amatonormativity #ableism #ableism mention #dehumanisation #aro antagonism #nonamory #nonamorous #valentine's day

[jamesmarlowe]

RADTASK002: A GIRL AND HER DOG

March was a month without a season. Couldn’t call it spring yet; most of the trees were still bare, their long, dark limbs scraping up against the sky. Temperatures hovered indecisively around the low-fifties, then plummeted steeply each night. But there was something stirring: a birth of new smells, a trace of green in the yellow grass. A feeling of change, or the very brink of it, which had possessed him like an infusion of fresh blood and driven him outdoors— despite his three-hour block of afternoon classes, despite all the half-finished projects waiting for him in the studio. Outside, clouds skimmed the blue sky and squirrels tightrope-walked the phone lines. Birds huddled on exposed branches, returned from their long winter vacations. There was a smell of mulch in the air, fertile and earthy. A warm wind was blowing— as he walked outside the art building, Marlowe could feel it blowing through him as if through an open window, airing out all the trapped gloom in his soul. 

Gloom could accumulate even in him, of all people. There was something elemental about his need for sun and fresh air and open space; it was a quality he shared with all the other wild creatures who, after several long months deprived of all these things, were now also emerging from their dens and burrows, hungry and restless, desperate to roam. 

Today he was wearing a paisley bandana fashioned around his head, Springsteen-style, and a silver hoop through his ear. Both of these accessories gave his appearance a swashbuckling, pirate-y effect. Marlowe seemed to embody the part as he cleared a railing one-handed like a rodeo clown, then took the rest of the stairs two-at-a-time to where a girl waited for him at the bottom, her blonde hair lifted by the breeze. She kept her head bowed over her hands, deeply engrossed in the cat’s cradle she was weaving. 

Spacey Kasey. She was a junior in the Comp-Sci program. Sometimes people reacted to this information with a slow raise of their brows, or an actual laugh— more out of surprise than anything else, but that didn’t make it any kinder. No one really knew what to make of her. She could write code like Mozart wrote symphonies, but might also ask you if you knew how pineapples got their name, since they looked nothing like apples? Marlowe had met her at a party where she’d wondered precisely that, out loud, before turning her wide eyes to him; she had a child’s inquisitive stare. Why not pinefruit? He’d been fascinated from that moment on. His love for her had been a product of that fascination; he’d sensed something dreamy and outcast in her, something rare, easily misunderstood. They’d coupled up in late September, lasted till early November, the days dwindling and the nights lengthening by the time his old restlessness caught up with him— not her fault or his, just the natural progression of these things. Now, their relationship had lapsed into something easy, casual. Friends, sometimes more. He still found her endlessly fascinating. It was just a matter of how many other things in this endlessly fascinating world were also competing for his attention.

At the sound of cowboy boots smacking the pavement, Kasey looked up. The thread between her fingers went slack and her blue eyes brightened the way they always did whenever she saw him coming. Marlowe could not prevent a smile in response. Blue, he’d once heard, was the true color of the sun.

He whistled a short, upwards swoop. “Kase the Ace! Right time, right place!”

She was wearing an outfit almost as egregious as his own, tie-dyed shirt in sorbet shades of pink, purple and blue with only a pair of Lycra bike shorts underneath, exposing legs pale and goosebumped. There was a face looking at him from the front of her shirt, sinister drippy eyes loaded with glamorous make-up. Kasey’s own face was bare, her fair eyelashes almost invisible. Her earrings were a pair of mismatched plastic dinosaurs— one a red triceratops, one green T-Rex. Marlowe watched with visible amusement as she struggled to untangle the knots around her fingers. 

“Jeez, I used to be so good at these! I once taught all the girls at my summer camp how to do a ten-step cradle and I was like, their guru.” 

Eventually the two of them set off for the trees that hemmed the edges of campus. He briefed her about the reason for today’s outing—  a hunt for materials, looking for found objects not yet found—  but knew it wasn’t necessary, because Kasey could always be counted on to show up when he invited her. She was always happy to tag along, if only he asked. The quad they passed looked soggy and matted down in parts, the streaming sunlight revealing all the bald patches of mud and first sprigs of dandelion shoots. Marlowe kept his gaze ahead, away from that wide expanse of grass, letting Kasey’s idle chatter filter pleasantly through one ear and out the other. His gait was lopey but brisk, hers uneven as she skipped ahead, long blonde hair streaming behind her like a scarf thrown to the wind. 

“So what are we looking for today?”

Marlowe angled his face up to the sky, watching a bird disappear into a cloudbank. “Y’know, the usual. Hidden treasure, lost artifacts. Ancient ruins. Maybe a secret Amazon warehouse deep in the woods, that’d be useful. Could steal a lifetime supply of bubble wrap.” Rarely did he embark on such expeditions with a specific item in mind; mostly he just wandered around, expecting unusual things to find him and reveal their significance. Maybe it’d be a loop of blue ribbon, snagged on a wire fence. Or a child’s plastic bucket abandoned by the side of the road, handle broken, too lost to find its way back to the nearest sandbox. He searched for these banal objects that existed somewhere between tenderness and neglect— overlooked by so many who passed them by without any idea what they might’ve been before, what they could be next.

Kasey had begun walking backwards. There was a white patch of vitiligo on her forehead. Combined with her skipping and prancing, she often reminded him of a painted palomino. “I brought granola bars! They’re a little stale, you’ll have to use your back teeth.”

Marlowe flashed her two-thirds of a grin, revealing teeth that were good and strong, if a little crooked. “What if I told you I don’t have any? Will you mash them into a pulp and spit ‘em in my mouth?” He mimed the open-mouthed, head-back position of a hungry fledgling.

Kasey made a retching sound, dissolving into a giggle.

Soon they were stepping off the paved campus sidewalk and crossing the marshy grass towards the surrounding woods. The trees were sparse, still just skinny bodies stripped in the cold, but slowly the forest became denser the deeper they went; thick-trunked oaks and dark beeches grew here, close together, their twigs sprouting tiny green buds and unfurling fists of leaves. Branches criss-crossed the sky. Marlowe led the way through the corridor between trunks, but Kasey immediately began crashing through the skeletal undergrowth off to the side. 

“How about this?” Marlowe looked to where she’d hiked her leg up onto a large boulder like a big-game hunter posing with a kill. The stone jutted out of the ground at an odd angle, making him think of a dislocated jawbone. Kasey looked down at it, her expression deeply pensive. She tapped the toe of her sneaker. “You could like, give it a face. Glue eyes on it!”

Marlowe imagined an oversized pet rock in the likeness of Rocky Balboa, Stallone’s heavy scowl painted on. Shaking his head, he rewarded her sincere effort with an equally sincere smile. “Babe, I’m flattered that you think of me as some kind of circus strongman, but I’d need like, triple my current muscle mass to carry that.”

They found other things. An empty gallon jug, the kind used to hold water or milk, split almost in half. A tattered piece of fabric too muddied to even tell the original color. And most interestingly, a thin sheet of metal with torn edges, sharp as shrapnel. It leaned against a tree like a large canvas; the patterns of corrosion on its surface— oxidized red, blue rings of mold— made it seem less like a raw material and more like an already-finished work. Marlowe stood back with one finger resting against his chin, head tipped to the side as he appraised it like an art collector at a gallery. But in the end, he decided not to carry it either. He wasn’t up-to-date with his tetanus shots. 

They began to follow their own trail, no map or compass, forging a path through the woodsy vegetation that grew close to the ground and left long, raking scratches on arms and legs, resisting intrusion. Kasey swept back the flexible branches of saplings and peered into rotted tree hollows. Marlowe was more inclined to follow a few steps behind her, no urgency in his loose-limbed stroll. He tilted his head back and admired how the naked branches looked like slats of a broken roof letting most of the sky in. By now, the chill on his face had turned itself inside out; he grew warm, renewed in some vital way. He wanted nothing more than to walk deeper and deeper through these woods and never turn around, never retrace his steps, never go back. If he had to, he could survive out here. He’d exist just like the wild birds and foxes, on a diet of small, hard berries and foraged mushrooms. 

It was often in these moments of complete distraction that discoveries happened. The trees stood back. A secret flagged him down from behind them, kept until today, confessed now in this partial glimpse. “Hey, I think I got somethin’,” he said out loud. He didn’t look to see if Kasey heard or noticed. Eyes fixed on the gap between trunks, Marlowe forced his way through a thicket of mulberries to get to the other side. 

In the clearing, there was a statue of a little girl. One arm outstretched, sunlight on the crown of her head. Her empty eyes grazed the sky. Some kind of moss crawled up her legs, giving her the appearance of wearing knee socks. There was a dog at her feet— a terrier with perked ears. 

“What did you find!” called Kasey, still wrestling her way through the brambles. The sound of snapping twigs and a soft ow! told him she was making slow progress of it.

“Something,” Marlowe replied. Unusual, he added only to himself. “Some kind of statue.”

The pose of the statue, he thought, must’ve been intended to look like the girl had just thrown a stick in a game of fetch, but there was something about the frozen gesture that told a different story. It was an open grasp, fingers straining; he almost turned around to see what she was reaching for.

“Woah.” Kasey exhaled the word in a single breath. She had finally spilled out into the clearing behind him, looking disheveled but no less enthused, tugging one checkered sock up around her ankle. “Who’s that?”

Marlowe was already crouched. He brushed dirt off the foot of the statue but there was no inscription; if there’d ever been one, time had worn it away. Now she was as nameless as the trees around her. Standing up, he slid hands into the front pockets of his jeans and rocked backwards, giving the girl the same look he’d given that piece of rusted sheet metal: eyes slant with a certain sharp curiosity, their color like a jar of dark honey with sunshine in it. “Don’t know. Maybe a memorial or something. Or,” He began to pace around the statue, boots leaving sunken footsteps in the loam. When his phone buzzed in his back pocket, he reached for it absently. “Maybe she got turned to stone by some wicked Baba Yaga ‘round these parts. Her, and her little dog, too.”

It was hard to read anything through the disaster of the cracked screen. His eyes scanned Syd’s incoming messages and when he got to the last two, Marlowe stopped walking. His heart stalled.

SYD: also ?? im at the studio and haven't seen my sculpture anywhere SYD: r u sure you dropped it off?

Of course she had noticed by now; of course she was looking for it.

“Who’re you texting?” Marlowe raised his eyes to find Kasey observing the standstill he’d come to; she was leaning down to give the little stone dog a scratch under his chin. “Syd,” he answered, simultaneously dropping his eyes back to his phone. “She named her cat Martin. I’m expressing my deep, deep disappointment with her lack of imagination.” I did, at the gallery, he texted back. forgot 2 text you but the eagle safely landed. 

The thing about lying was that it came so easily, so naturally, he usually felt no guilt doing it.

“Tell her I say hi!” Losing interest in the statue, Kasey had found a divining rod. She was sweeping it back and forth now with brisk efficiency, like a metal detector. “How ‘bout this? Look, it’s almost perfectly symmetrical,” she asked. 

Message sent, Marlowe let his hand drop back to his side. He used his laugh to distract them both. “Does that thing have a crude oil setting? Fuck making art, let’s start fracking. I’d rather be a Texas millionaire.” Kasey whipped around, face lit by a wide, genuine smile; but as another text from Syd arrived, his own smile barely skimmed the surface of his face, too distracted to really stick. He typed back another answer. 

i'm sure it's just misplaced syd don't sweat

worst comes to worst, we can case the frats and make sure no one stole it to be their new beer pong deity or whtever the fuck those guys do

Like any good liar, he prided himself on being truthful most of the time— which made it that much easier for a lie to slip through, unsuspected. A wolf in honesty’s clothing. No less convincing than everything else he said. And wasn’t it a little bit of a favor, in this case? Better that Syd think some hulking frat brothers had stolen into the art studio under the cover of night and carried off her sculpture for a ritual sacrifice, some dark summoning to help the university through its football championships. Better that than the truth. 

Marlowe glanced over his shoulder in the same direction as the statue’s outstretched fingertips. Clouds worked across the sky, ragged and white, and behind them there was only blue, but now he felt like he could see what wasn’t there; a new, bad darkness, descending fast out of the western sky. Like those sudden thunderstorms in Virginia that rolled over the mountains, pouring like smoke over the lip of a bowl. The knowledge of the storm’s inevitable arrival sank low in his chest: present, but not yet fully understood. 

Even if she asked him in person, he’d deny it. He’d lie again. He’d help her look for a sculpture that he knew was already unsalvageable, dissolving with each cold rain that swept over the campus, turning to paste beneath the soil.

“Hey, c’mere.” Eager for distraction, Marlowe lowered himself down to the base of the statue, where there was deep cold beneath the velvety moss. Obediently, Kasey trudged closer, still holding the forked branch; when he pulled her down, she fell giggling and side-saddle across his lap. She circled his neck with her arms. He wrapped his own loosely around her waist.

“Would you ever hate me if I did something, like, really bad?”

Kasey pulled back to look at him, the wrinkle in her brow implying that she didn’t understand. “Like what?” 

Marlowe shrugged beneath the weight of her arms. “I don’t know, I don’t have an example. But like… bad. Something that really hurt you.”

Thoughtfully, she thumbed the silver hoop in his ear. The light was full on her face— she wore no make-up, and her lips were chapped. She must’ve been chewing them before, because he could see the faint bitemarks. His heart twinged, suddenly protective.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.” Her expression went away for a moment. There was a soft vacancy in her eyes that he’d gotten used to in their time together. When she returned, the look she gave him was earnestly sweet. Whatever the imaginary hurt, she was looking at him like she’d already forgiven him for it. “Because I’d know you didn’t mean to.”

Because you wouldn’t mean it, Syd had said close to his ear that one night at Splatterhouse. He did things without thinking. Did them so often, it had become his defining trait. Marlowe knew he escaped accountability because of it; he was one of those people the world tended to forgive too easily, meaning he’d always be protected from himself, sheltered from the consequences of his actions, because there was no real intention to hurt behind them— and that alone absolved him. You couldn’t blame the tornado that destroyed your home, not when it was only doing what tornados did.

Marlowe kissed the stain on her forehead, where the skin was pinkish like a newborn’s. He kissed her between the eyebrows, then lower, just underneath the chin, on the pulse that beat like a hummingbird’s heart. Kasey pulled away to look at him again. Her hands had strayed to the back of his neck, toying with the hair curling up at the nape.

“Ew, Marlowe, in front of a little girl?” Her big eyes lifted up towards the statue. The shadow of that reaching arm fell over them both. 

“It’s spring,” he replied in a what-can-you-do tone, though it was still only the end of winter. It was only March. His eyes met hers, glinting with uncivilized suggestion. There was a faint smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. “And y’know, considering how long she’s been here, she’s ancient. A withered old crone, hundreds of years old. If anything it’s weirder to have a dead dog watching us.”

She frowned. “Why’s the dog dead?”

“Dogs don’t live for hundreds of years.”

She pouted at it. Poor thing. It didn’t seem to occur to her that humans didn’t live for hundreds of years either. Then she leaned back in, meeting him in his daring with another kiss, hands twining into hair, one bare leg swinging over to straddle him. And all around there was the sound of unseen birds, calling to each other from the trees: mimicking, teasing, pleading. A riotous awakening of spring. The next text from Syd would go unread for several hours, left without an answer. The Burger King meal she’d promised him would be forgotten. And the encroaching darkness would also recede, withdrawing to the far-back reaches of his mind— for now, the coming storm was only a dim, gauzey threat on the horizon, rumbling with the promise of distant thunder.

#u can probably tell exactly where my stamina ran out....... not even at the halfway point #anyway. will probably end up editing this later bc im neurotic :/ #the only thing this turned out good for was introducing spacey kasey <3 #radtask002 #self

[cheeri0-queeri0]

(“And they were roommates” fic)

-

The universe had a twisted sense of humor, and it had decided Alex was it’s new punchline.

Her trip was...headache-inducing. To the extent that Alex had wanted to lose herself in the drive, she guesses that she succeeded. But, fuck. A flat from the construction on the nearest on-ramp, delaying her until right smack in the middle of rush hour? Being in a pissy mood to finally, finally, get out of the city only to immediately have the low fuel light come on? And then when she yanked her phone out of the center cup holder, to have her frayed charging cord snap?

Yeah, it was a long nine hours.

Alex lets out a weary sigh when the sign for Bensley Lake comes into view. In her chest is a tangle of emotions she doesn’t even try to unknot.

“It’s just a landing place,” she whispers, stopping at the familiar main intersection where on the other side the lake stretches into the horizon. A sharp pang needles her heart. Her grip around the steering wheel tightens, knuckles paling.

A landing place. Somewhere to get her head on straight.

Again.

“Fuck.” Alex flips on the radio, her phone dead in her backpack on the passenger seat. She doesn’t quite remember the stations, so she flips through at random. News, no; country, no; current top hits, no --

“--Lake’s Trudges, your favorite oldies-but-goodies station! Next up - ”

Her dad’s favorite. He had always had this station on, in his truck where he’d belt out whatever lyrics were on, or in the cabin, head bobbing along as he read a book in the living room, each page taking him a distracted five minutes.

Alex turns it over to static.

The wandering way to the cabin has her skirt the edge of town. Blue’s Scoops has gone out, replaced by a Starbucks. Stupid, Alex scoffs. Would she kill for an iced coffee right now? Sure, but what the hell does coffee have on Paulie’s homemade ice cream and his obnoxiously loud macaw?

Besides likely higher ratings on its health inspections.

The old park that marks their side street sits empty, the playground mulch overtaken by green. It’s roped off, some sign staked out that she passes too fast to read.

And then, impossibly, she’s here.

It’s like the place has sprung into being directly from her memory. The horseshoe gravel driveway curves towards the olive-green cottage style home. Maple trees dot the yard, while dogwoods stand flowering sentry closer to the cabin.

The only thing out of ordinary are the glaringly fuchsia planter boxes that hang from the front porch railing, marigolds and snapdragons poking their heads out.

Alex pulls into the driveway (she’s long since thrown away the garage remote) and shuts the car off, but it’s as if she’s been glued to her seat.

It’s dissonant. As a kid, this was her favorite spot in the world, a dreamy sanctuary with a never-ending yard to roam and trees tall as turrets to climb. As a teen, it was a backwater place she was dragged back to every other year for a happy family appearance for the neighbors.

Now - it’s just a house. Smaller than those right on the lake and even several on the block, with a sloping yard that must’ve taken her dad half a day to mow. It’s cute, perfect for a couple, but a two bedroom one bath with a thin-walled open concept and a rambunctious child? Yikes.

Our special place, her dad had called it one summer evening when they’d all been out having a picnic by the lake. One of the last times they had. You know I used to come here when I was your age, kiddo? It looked a lot different then -

Were there dinosaurs? Alex had impishly asked, and her dad had thrown his head back and laughed, her mom even chuckling --

Ugh.

Alex rakes a hand through her blonde hair, then shakes herself out of her stupor. Hoisting her backpack onto her shoulder, she gets out and treks up. The keys shake in her hands.

For one horrible second the key catches in the lock, unmoving, but then it turns.

Alex lets out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

The house smells fresh; her mother must have left a window open the last time she was here. It’s a weird first thing to notice, but it’s as if...as if she has to inhale it, to liven the breathless past she’d swept aside when she’d left home.

The layout is familiar - the door opens into a liminal space between the kitchen on the left and the living room on the right. Straight ahead is a hall that leads to the sliding glass door to the back porch, as well as her old bedroom. At the farthest right of the house is the bathroom and master bedroom.

Alex ignores her gurgling stomach and opts for the living room with a yawn.

Her mother has updated the furniture in the cabin. Alex shouldn’t be surprised - it has been ten damn years, after all. But it looks so… homey and eclectic and welcoming, with an overstuffed couch and evergreen fake plants and landscapes hung in bright bold frames.

Her mother’s dating someone new then. Someone she likes enough to let decorate.

Probably rich, Alex thinks as she shrugs of her bag and kicks of her shoes. Accidentally so, if his taste is anything to go on. Her mom wouldn’t date someone down to earth otherwise, god forbid.

She puts a hand on the back of the couch and leaps over, sinking into the cushions with a groan. Her muscles are tense from the drive, and it feels so good to just...relax.

Alex’s eyes droop, but her thoughts chase through her head too furiously to allow her to drift off.

Now that she’s slinked off to this far away corner, she starts to second guess herself. What was she thinking, coming here? Did it matter? Wasn’t it all pointless, anyway? It’s an embarrassment, really, running when all she needs to do is stand still and buck up.

Alex throws an arm over her eyes, taking a few deep breaths. Her heart races relentlessly on.

She loses track of time lying there. Alex refuses to be so yuppie as to call it meditation - a forced chill out. Or something.

“Uhh...make yourself...comfortable…?”

Alex jolts at the voice, releasing a sound from the back of her throat that she definitely never wants to repeat. She’s on her feet in an instant, whirling as the blood rushes to her head and her vision fades back in.

A young woman stands in the hall entryway. She seems to be in the ballpark of Alex’s own age, dark hair in a sloppy high ponytail, a brow arched in bewilderment. She’s dressed in an orange sports bra and black leggings, a small towel slung over her shoulder, sweat beading on her skin. And she’s got a death grip on a sturdy-looking water bottle, holding it upside-down, ready to slug Alex’s head like a softball if she needs to.

Alex sure as hell isn’t gawking, but holy shit.

“Who the fuck are you?” she snarls, hands balling into fists.

The woman blinks slowly, frowning. “...I live here, robber extraordinaire.”

Alex’s stomach sinks, an icy chill settling in her veins. “This is my family’s cabin,” she protests heatedly. Her mother wouldn’t - would she? This had been her dad’s, for christ's sake!

“Listen,” the woman holds up her hands placatingly, eyeing Alex warily. “I’ve been renting this place from Mrs. Raisson for three years, I don’t know what to tell you --”

She would, then.

Alex grinds her teeth. “Mrs. Raisson, huh.”

The woman’s brows furrow, and then, suddenly, her blue eyes widen. “Wait…” Before Alex can react, she’s scampering around the corner into the kitchen. From over the half-wall bar top separating them, she watches as she takes a business card off the fridge, scrutinizing it and looking up to Alex. “Are you...shit, are you her daughter?”

Alex shrugs, on edge. “Technically.”

The woman just gazes at her for a drawn out moment, crossing her arms. Then, “That’s rough. She’s a bitch, dude.”

Alex is so startled that she can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of her.

The woman cracks a smile, tossing the card on the counter and stepping up to the bar. “Mackenzie Jordan,” she greets, offering her hand.

Alex hesitates. “...Alexis Raisson. Alex.” She gives her hand a brief shake, dropping it quickly. The pit returns to her stomach, and she chews her lip nervously. “I’ll- I’ll get out of here.”

And go where? The campground, maybe, she can sleep in her car and figure out what she wants to do.

Mackenzie clicks her tongue, a glint in her eye that Alex can’t decipher. “Uh, you’re my hardass landlord’s daughter. I kind of have to grill you. Otherwise I’m passing up potential intel that could help convince her to allow me to have a dog. Stay for supper at least?”

Alex shakes her head. What kind of weirdo invites a trespasser over?

“I have beeeer,” Mackenzie offers with a lopsided, hopeful grin.

Well...shit. What can it hurt?

“Fine. One drink.”

Mackenzie pumps a fist in the air, grin growing. “Hell yeah! Just lemme…” she pivots, bounding over to the fridge and opening it with a flourish. She piles tupperware in her arms. “Meet me at the patio- you know your way around? I’ll grab everything.”

Alex watches her a second, then pulls herself away, shuffling down the hall.

What has she agreed to?

#wlw #femslash #writing #roommates au

[adcvis]

ONE DAY AT A TIME

Kaos Task 10 Raw they were in these hours. Stripped bare the the bones from where others so happily devoured their flesh- a ripe cherry.

we all know this bitch gets carried away with writing, so at the bottom there’s a nice summary for all of yall !! 

abuse tw, trauma tw

4:15 AM

Honey golds, dance with blues that ache for warmth in the dawning sky. Darkness still engulfs Roman’s room as they wake to the not-quite-night sky peering through their window, and desaturating the world as they sit up- their arms stretching out the stiffness that settles into their body as they sleep. They stand, bare feet setting in the carpet for a few steps, before finding the cool tiles beneath them as they make their way to the bathroom. They don’t much bother finding clothes to wear for modesty for the short work, their housemate would never be awake at this hour regardless.

The air settles crip in their lungs as they ride their bike under the eggshell moon that clings in the sky, and stars that glow orange even in this hour. It’s half past four by the time they make their way to their father’s, passing through the occasional glow of a street light, before the long stretches of nothing but the morning glow to light their way. It’s not every day they do this trek anymore, not since two years ago. Now it’s just every couple of days, they make their way over to fulfill their morning duties. Lend a hand to their father, how could he do it all on his own?

It’s Thursday, one of those days that claustrophobia settled into Roman and they quietly place their bike against the shed, and turn on the lights. Florescent tubes harshly flood the space, as they flicker to life with their gentle humming. If anyone was to see Roman stood in this space, they may perhaps see a truth that radiated from the steel walls that reflected memories of youth. Ones Roman’s learnt to look away from when their eyes dared linger too long on a wrench that clattered to the ground, now rest in a pile of motor oil- or the rusting bench that creaks and shakes the shed with the weight of a person thrown to it. It’s easy to see them here as they were as a child, demure, in their cream t-shit and jeans that held dirt and oil no matter how many times they’d seen the wash. Careful, not to be too loud, their hands taking years to find how not to be clumsy as they reached for anything near in sight and tightened white knuckled around the pain.

Breathe.

They remember to breath standing there. Their motions now close to mechanical, done in habit a hundred times over as they grab a bale of hay, lock the shed behind them. And begin making their way down to the paddock. They’re thankful they don’t have to rearrange the piles today, or bring in any new batches. But it’s this motion, as they’re carrying down in the dark, that sculpts the muscle in their body.

Gentle tussling, and moos are heard growing louder as he approaches, before hooves are heard hitting the dirt beneath them and coming over to greet Roman at the fence.

7:32 AM

He spends the next few hours in the fields, muddy flecks clinging to their clothes, and hands sweat dampens their shirt and runs from their forehead. The sun’s beginning to break the horizon, and the dew on the grass glistens with the days light. Grime wipes across Roman’s face where he can’t help stray hands, and dirt digs under their fingernails. And their body, like clay- malleable by the that hungered for him, is moving with such rhythmic ease. They hear the shed door opening in the distance, clattering metal singing through the still air. Their heart pounds against their chest. The birds silence and Roman just stands from where their knees rest in the dirt, and wipe the sheen from their cheeks. They remember to breathe.

8:18 AM

The island is somewhere Roman things they buried their bones a long time ago. Somewhere the birds sung to the sun that beamed rays of warm, and kissed the earth- and where trees and bushes grew wild, and roots would overcame their body and let their blood turn to nectar. Where they gave themselves completely to Kaos. They’d dream of such things, riding their bike home the long way around the island. When it started to become alive again. Vibrant under the glow of daylight. A delicate being, reflecting the sun in fractured iridescent light. Raw they were in these hours. Stripped bare the the bones from where others so happily devoured their flesh- a ripe cherry. Ready to sink your teeth into, and draw the marrow from their bones searching for that pit. It was the honesty of them. With melancholy to their eyes, and the lines of their face almost harsh that were so used to being hidden from the world. They were nothing more than a plump shiny fruit that’s already been passed through too many hands.

Devour me.

There are things that break these thoughts, like stopping to see friends at the cafe they now own- golden in these hours with bright smiles and a coffee waiting for them. And the woman who stood behind him in line, he so graciously offered to buy the coffee for, and accompanied her on her walk into town. Things that would break the honestly of Roman, not for it wasn’t true of them to be so charming. Rather, they’d stop being so raw, and hollow. And that cavern of darkness inside them where a pit should be, that longed to be loved in the only way they were taught, would stop aching. For at least a little while.

It was easy not to think in these times, when the words their mother taught them found place in their mouth. And the charming smile distracted from the dirt that clung to their clothes, and the red welting where a bruise would be forming on their forearm. They’d always know how to be what others needed, so much so that it was so easy not to see Roman.

09:06 AM

The coffee was cold by the time they made it back to their vineyard. Clad brick walls, that hide engulfed by trimmed leaves- still dewy from the morning mist. Or had Alexander already been down and watered the garden this morning? They could have sworn it was his day off.

Still they place the coffees on the bench, before they take a sip of their own as they start pulling out mushrooms, spinach and eggs to begin breakfast. Their employee taking the shop front for the day meant they were in no real rush.

09:41 AM

Kaos even at this hour would feel like it was sleeping, as Roman walks down to his vineyard with red wine slipping up the sides of a glass they hold as they tumble slightly in their step. It’s not unlike them, to have a taste of the newest batch as they head to the garden for some pruning. Their next harvest days aren’t until August, which means for now it’s simply upkeep. And the drips for the leaves tells Roman that Alexander was certainly here this morning. Yet they don’t want to leave, so they keep themselves busy.

11:29 AM

An ache settles into their muscles, and stiffens their back that they can still feel even after they stepped from the shower, they had in hoped that the hot water that rushed over their body would relieve their dull pain. But the hot water only reminded them of the bruise that would be known on their back, welling up to a vibrant red already. And the way their skin softened around where fingers grasped tightly. A reminder. Sometimes they forget to be quiet around him- since moving out their footsteps have found heavier treading, and they found it harder to be unknown. Not in a way they used to be at least. But they bite their tongue, and dry around where rough hands sculpted him- because by now it’s all too easy to accept.

Their own vineyard looked too perfect today not to share with anyone. Especially after they spent the last few hours in it. Pruning leaves, and mulching the earth. Caring for the plants, each a breathing part of this Island. Thumbs fiddling to find names as they scroll through their phone list, some seem familiar, others have drunken pictures to accompany them- others, Roman guesses they’ll remember the face to the name one day. They open up a familiar name though, looking to the previous sent messages with amusement clinging to their face. And they type out an invite.

03:13 PM

slightly nsfw

They know it’s not love. Tangled bed sheets, and wine soaked breath. Fingernails grazing their back, where bruises are now known. Their breath short, as they kiss tender thighs where the bury their head. Sweat is heavy in the air, that’s now thick to breathe. But all they can smell is the saccharine sweet scent of the other’s perfume flooding the air. Messy are their kisses, that taste of dried apricots, and fresh cherries that left their lips a vibrant stain of red. Roman thinks they could sink their teeth into them and devour them. Or was that the creature they called love that stirred inside them. Beating at their chest, it would threaten to shatter the sculpture that was Roman.

Made to be loved.

Adored.

06:05 PM

They wake to the cool breeze sending goose bumps tailing along their skin, where sweat still clung to cool them- and their arm stretching out to reach to the other. But their bed beside them empty. Their eyes open despite the groggy protest, and the room still smells of honey, and cherries- and overly sweet fruits that could have been fermented. Rotten. It’s the only way anything could be that sweet they think. If it’s truly rotten from the inside. They know that much to at least be true about themselves.

08:24 PM

God, you look just like him.

Delicate hues begin to waft through the sky each night at sun set, something Roman would never truly grow old of seeing. The street lights that ting to life around the roads and cast a glow on the person that stepped from the taxi into the middle of a street coming to life. Idle chatter surrounds them, and swarms their ears in comfort. Home. It would always be home. But there would barley be a shadow of resemblance left on them of the person that came to life in the sun that morning.

It wasn’t the way their pressed shirt seemed too sharp, or the way their shoes polished don’t look like they’ve seen a speck of dirt in their lives. Instead it’s that untraceable mask that lines their face- that smile, too sharp for their own likings. One they hated to see in mirrors, and stretched across their features. They’re not sure the day their father lost his mask, and Roman clung to it so desperately with white-knuckled fists. But it’s there now, staring at them in window reflections.

“Table for Veretta,” Although it’s not needed. They’re always at this restaurant, the same nights, just with different people. Night times in Kaos always were the best times for business, and tonight it wasn’t unlike many others. A big city restaurant owner, who’d travelled quite some distance to be here tonight. Of course it never was just for the vinsanto. It would be to see the island, or a long needed holiday, or somewhere to spend time with the mistress. and of course it was a coincidence, but they had to make time for a meeting.

10:43 PM

Warm chuckles and a honeysuckle voice, Roman and their guest had barley notice the time pass over dinner and the bottles of their own vinsanto that kept the table with flushed cheeks and dark stained lips. The two left with a deal for a few crates shipped every month, and the warmth that fills one’s body be it happiness, good conversation, or intoxication. And Roman can’t stand the idea of simply going home for the night.

FRIDAY

01:13 AM

The night air is cool on the breath, but it doesn’t phase the young couple that stumble around the tiled living room. Roman’s hair disheveled from where the other had their fingers tangled in it, and their laughter wafting through the house- echoing on the brick despite their drunkenly ushered hushes after the outbursts.

SUMMARY TLDR ; 

- 4am early riser, soft boi hours - the moon’s still in the sky as they start riding the bike to their fathers to work on the farm - sad boi hours begin, god it always hits hard in a place filled with memories - roman’s different in the morning, like someone who only becomes known when others tell them what they want. before no one sees them, they’re a blank canvas. working away on the farm, mundane work, keeping busy. - trauma thoughts - on the way home stops past their friends coffee shop - of course they buy coffee for the girl behind them in line, god who isn’t pretty here?? walks her back to her hotel room- oKAY now it’s time to go home to make breakfast - god it’s nice to be loved -  thought it was my employees day off today? oh?? guess not - oh they don’t even have to be working in the cellar because chester already went so ott here and didn’t wanna do mORE - that’s okay, gonna get some wine and make busy work in the garden anyway  - wow everything hurts in the shower, but that’s usual - you know- it wAS really nice in the garden today. can’t keep that all to themselves - mid day booty call anyone?? - wow,,, someone responded- yea okay - mid afternoon naaaaps - they’re not there when he wakes back up, that’s okay - god, is he turning into his dad? - no, no i can’t be. god he’s poisoned them though - good thing there’s a bUSINESS MEETING TO DISTRACT - dressing up, going out- wow he hates how much he is just like his father though.... he really is.... - that goes well, got a new client in a big city, couple crates a week - gonna go celebrate - oop what’s that, we going back to the vineyard at 1am, soaked in alcohol and giggling. yeah fam

#kaos:calendar #kaos:task #okay okay i sorta didn't know how to end it #but here ya gO #* ·˚. carved by the stars

[aloysiavirgata]

Korban

Title: Korban

Author: Aloysia Virgata

Rating: Teen

Timeline: Post The Truth

Summary:   Mulder puts his arm around her, drawing her head against his shoulder. “So do, uh, do you really believe it all? The Virgin Birth, the Temptation in the Desert, the literal rising from the dead?”

*** The room has been theirs for over two months. It’s a cash-in-paper-envelopes sort of place, where the mattresses sag and the windows are made of scuffed plexiglass. They spent Valentine’s Day here, a half gallon of Moose Tracks ice cream and used condoms in the plastic wastebasket. He wonders sometimes if she’s actually afraid of another pregnancy, or if it’s just the last layer of herself she can hold back.

He doesn’t ask, acceptance being a gift he can give.

For her 39th birthday, Mulder had managed a Carvel cake and a small bottle of good lotion. He made mushroom ravioli for dinner, with a side of overcooked peas. He narrated his preparations in a Julia Child voice while they drank  wine from a screw-top bottle. They ate the cake with plastic sporks until it melted into sludge.

He sang Happy Birthday to her again and she laughed, but her eyes were too bright. They sat bundled under the comforter on the concrete patio for a long time, watching everything but each other. Trucks thundered down the highway towards the weigh station, carrying milk and oil and Japanese electronics. Scully stared at the stars until her eyes swam. She fell asleep with her head tipped back beneath them, and Mulder carried her to bed. They began her 40th year in the shower, pliant and frictionless in the wafting steam.

Early spring now, heaps of dirty slush melted back into deep reservoirs beneath the warming belly of the earth. There are feathery leaves unfurling from fresh mulch, and whipped cream blossoms on trees. Teenagers loiter in the parking lot, smoking and drinking malt liquor. They wander to and from the fire department carnival, slouchy and giggling in the lengthening evenings.

Inside, little changes. The upholstery on the couch is still rough and nubby, a sort of gray ropey material that Scully softens with thrift store blankets. They have their feet propped on the scarred oak coffee table, Scully’s toenails painted pink with dollar store polish. A bottle of Manischewitz Concord Grape sits in the middle of the table, uncapped. On the wood cabinet TV, Nefertiti is wearing turquoise gauze and Revlon lipstick and a technicolor Moses shakes his fist.

Scully spreads a tea towel across her lap, picking at the loose threads on it. Her hair is choppy with long sideswept bangs, the color of the waxy chocolate Easter bunny by her foot. Their eyes are the same arresting blue.

Beside her, Mulder is sunken deep into the cushions, leggy and scruffy with a flop of bangs and a three day beard. In his big hand, he spreads his matzah with ham salad that resembles chewed bubble gum. Scully bought it from the deli attached to the Exxon station, along with the coconut lamb cake that stares at them with blank licorice drop eyes. It smells like cheap sunblock, a hint of the coming summer.

“Stop judging me,” Mulder warns it, poking its jellybean nose. The lamb remains inscrutable in a nest of Easter grass.

Scully swats his hand. “Leave it alone.”

He scowls, takes a bite of his food. “Oh, Scully,” he says in dismay. “This is really disgusting.” He opens his mouth and lets the bright pink mass fall into a napkin. He chugs a plastic cup of water.

Scully takes a bite of her own food, cupping her hand to catch the matzah crumbs. “My mom always made it the day after Easter. It’s no different than tuna salad or chicken salad.”

“It’s very different,” Mulder asserts, decapitating a yellow Peep. “It tastes like exhaust fumes and looks like something you’d jam a scalpel into.”

She crams a piece in her mouth, chewing it inches from his face. She huffs her breath at him after she swallows.

Mulder wrinkles his nose. “You make confession with that mouth?”

She crosses herself. “Bless me Father, for I am living in sin with an infidel.”

“I’m fidel,” Mulder protests. “Just to different things.”

“I know,” she says, and nudges his foot with hers.

“…son of Amram and Yochebel,” intones Charleton Heston from the TV.

Mulder picks up the bottle of Manischewitz. “Shot,” he says, taking a swig from the bottle. He passes it to Scully who does the same.

“Now that is disgusting,” she says, wincing. “Communion wine is better than this.”

“Yeah, it’s not great. But your Catholic asses harassed my people every time we tried to settle anywhere for more than a century or so. That’s not a stable foundation for outstanding viticulture.”

Scully, buzzy and puckish, whispers, “No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Too soon, Scully. Unless this is the lead in to a bondage fetish.”

“Don’t have my handcuffs anymore.” She picks up two forks from the table. “You wanna eat this lamb?”

Mulder regards it with mild disapproval. “At least Passover food has a reason for tasting like shit. Bread of affliction and so forth. But you’re celebrating the miracle of the Risen Lord with ham paste and sponge chickens. You need to get it together, Dana Katherine.”

“Well excuse me, but I don’t usually do my holiday shopping at a place where I can also get an oil change.” She stabs the lamb in the ear with her fork, removing a large chunk of it. She steers it towards Mulder’s mouth, making an airplane noise.

He takes an experimental bite, the gritty icing thick on his tongue. “This isn’t the worst,” he allows, chewing.

“Imagine my relief.” She eats the rest of the ear, a treat she usually lost to her siblings. The coconut is dense and chewy, full of sense memory.

Mulder puts his arm around her, drawing her head against his shoulder. “So do, uh, do you really believe it all? The Virgin Birth, the Temptation in the Desert, the literal rising from the dead?” He knows it’s an unfair question, knows her faith is raw and shaken these days, but he wants to understand. He longs to see the structure she does in the universe, the benevolent architecture of the grand design.

She sighs, burrowing in. Does she? Did she ever? “It’s complicated,” she tells them both.

He kisses her murky brown head. “I know.”

Scully pulls off the lamb’s nose, the same pink as her toenails. She turns it over in her fingers, frosting stuck to the smooth shell of it. She polishes it on the tea towel. “I believe in God. I believe that He acted through Christ to show us a better way to live. I believe that the stories about Christ, whether literal or allegorical, have value and purpose. I believe they can guide one through a meaningful life. So it almost doesn’t matter, in a way, how precisely they’ve been recounted.”

Mulder eats the jellybean from her fingers, tasting coconut and her tea tree lotion. “So like… the real Resurrection is the friends we made along the way?”

She slaps him lightly, laughing. “Something like that, yeah.”

He cups his hand around the sweep of her jaw, thumbs the tender spot behind her ear. She blushes. After all this time, still, she blushes. It moves him profoundly, re-confirms her as the center of his small orbit.

She smiles like the sun.

Across the room, in the tacky splendor of 1956, Moses is scowling at Pharaoh. His loyalties are torn between those that rescued him from that drifting cradle and those who put him into it. Mulder thinks of his own son, safe in a household of strangers, drawn from his basket of reeds.

He takes a long swallow of his wine, eats another piece of the lamb.

#My fic #xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #post the truth

[criticalbread]

body positivity & associated baggage

Just some thoughts and things I discussed with my super cool ex-therapist but-- body positivity is hard, y’all. We can believe one thing and feel another so easily, and then blame ourselves for what we feel. We can think, “I don’t believe anyone should ever be made to feel badly about their body”; “I believe every body size and shape is a good one”; “Every trans body is beautiful and perfect”; “Accepted beauty norms are not the only way to be”. Oftentimes, though, our emotional reactions seemed to contradict the things we believe. We sometimes feel bad feelings about our bodies, their sizes or shapes, we react to what we think they should be and aren’t, to those parts of us that don’t fit the hair-thin range of beauty represented in media. The entire body positivity process of trying to shift these things, what we believe and what we feel, shows quite clearly that belief and emotion are not the same thing, and that they don’t always shift at the same speed.

For me, a lot of body positivity seemed to imply the end goal of feeling, well, positively about my body. The fact that I haven’t been, and often feel negatively, can make me feel like I’m failing at the whole thing, especially as a trans person. There are some important points, though, that my therapist has walked me through that have really helped, and I thought to share them.

==Going from negative to positive in your thoughts and feelings can actually be pretty tough. It’s a huge leap from one end to the other. And why does it have to be? The first step in healing your relationship with your body is some times reaching neutrality. The body isn’t qualitative-- it doesn’t have any quality attached to it like goodness or badness, not until we ourselves attach it. Can you find ways to allow your body some neutrality? Can you try sitting in that neutrality when you find it and just experience it? 

For me, I like to go on walks around my very beautiful neighborhood and park and try to focus on the sensory experiences of my body. I hear my feet on the sidewalk or crunching in mulch, grass, or gravel (pavements are for squares); I hear myself breathing; I feel the wind on my arms, or the sun on my shoulders; I hear wind in the trees, and birds. Another one I try is taking hot baths. I like to watch shows or read in the bath, but I also try to take a moment when getting in to really feel the comfortable heat and smell anything I put in like lavender and just exist in my body. (If I’m feeling really bold, I try to look down at my body exactly as it is and sit in some neutrality and, if I can, gratefulness. Like, “huh. this body is pretty okay.” or “hey there, leggies. thanks for taking me walking.”) In the end, it’s not a good or a bad body because it doesn’t have to be. It just is, and I’m in it and experiencing it. Neutrality is a much better place to try and feel out positivity from than negativity. The leap is shorter! And it feels a lot better than negativity, too.

==It’s one thing to be able to change your beliefs about your body or other bodies or all bodies. It’s quite another to change your emotional reactions. A lot of the time, our emotional reactions are not based solely on what we believe. They’re influenced by a lot of things: by experiences we’ve had, by things we’ve felt in the past, by what we have seen or haven’t seen, by how we weigh the worth of our own happiness and selves, even by habit. They’re reactive. My therapist would often remind me when I was distressed by my feelings, especially when they didn’t match what I believe, that healing begins in the body. Reconnecting to your body through mindfulness, showing it acceptance and finding neutrality, finding ways to appreciate or feel grateful, even the old “fake it til you make it” (”You’re good thighs,” I thought fiercely at my thighs about 300 times before I actually began to feel that they were maybe okay thighs)-- all go a long way to finally budging some of those stubborn knee-jerk bad feelings. So as they told me, “Be kind to yourself. When you have they feelings, treat yourself with the same kindness you give your friends.” As you work towards a more positive outlook, remember that your feelings may feel bad, but you’re not bad for feeling them. Even negative feelings are not qualitative; they just exist as a neutral thing that happens and, more importantly, like all feelings they end.

==Related to finding neutrality, but-- as a nonbinary trans person, I have periods where I go through intense dysphoria. Clothes that had been fine that morning I suddenly can’t stand to wear a moment longer, and I want to disappear from the public eye the moment these feelings hit. I am mortified to think people have been looking at me and gendering me a certain way all day. I feel mortified at the body under my clothes which, more often than not, is why people gender me a certain way. I would start to feel that I wasn’t “trans enough”, that I needed to somehow do more and do better to be REALLY myself, A Nonbinary Person. These times are super hard to deal with, and give me a very low mood.

A recent breakthrough that came from talking with Ex-therapist is this: as an AFAB person who doesn’t bind and has a noticeable hour-glass figure, who wears a lot of clothing designed for my body shape from the “womens” section, I felt keenly even without being able to describe it the gendering and disbelief of people around me at work who know I am nonbinary. In their mind, they were gendering my body as a woman’s body and my clothes (as well as how those clothes sit on my specific body) as a woman’s clothes. Even my “mens” clothes became "women’s clothes” by dint of sitting on top of a pair of breasts, or large hips. How, then, could I be trans? If body is A, shouldn’t clothes be B? I actually had people ask me why I still, “dress like a woman,” when in reality I heard the question under that one: “why does your body look like what I consider to be a woman’s body? and why are you okay with that? are you even really trans?”

My intense dysphoria, I noticed, usually started in a public place when I would catch myself staring at a mirror or my reflection in a window. Without thinking, I looked at myself  and judged not from my perspective, but from an outside perspective. I became my own audience, complete with the midgendering that I had come to expect from my audiences. I was getting anxious and so mixed up by disconnecting from my own feelings about my bodies and clothes and focusing solely on “How would a stranger look at and see me? How would they gender me? Do I look nonbinary to the world?” 

One way to deal with this, I found, was to Distract and Drown Out. The moment I catch myself staring and judging and spiraling, I look away and find something else to focus on, like my phone or a book. Next is to drown out the thoughts and feelings spiral by focusing on repeating to myself the things I actually believe: “My body is not inherently gendered. It is a body. Because it is mine, it is a nonbinary body and an awesome one at that. I like how strong and dense my lower body is, and how easily I build muscle. I like my long curly hair. I like my soft thighs. No clothing is gendered. I picked these clothes because they’re cute/they’re comfy/it’s laundry day and I don’t give a fuck. They’re good clothes.” Usually by the end of this monologue, I’ve at least stopped spiraling emotionally and I’ve stopped the flood of bad thoughts. The next step: Distract. I might open a word doc and write some fic, or read some fic, until I get home. Maybe I Just write down all of the above-mentioned beliefs. The final step is to do some self care. Usually this means going on a walk with a good playlist, then taking a bath while watching Critical Role and laughing my ass off, and if I need to not looking at my reflection for a while until I settle back into neutral. If bad thoughts and feels start to resurface, I go back through the steps. 

**AS A NOTE, Ex-therapist ALWAYS needed to remind me: if all you can do to get through a bad feeling or low is to distract yourself, that’s good enough! That’s fantastic, even! It’s a very, very, VERY useful coping skill. It has its role just like every other coping skill. “But Leesh, I didn’t do any of the things I should have like studied or house work or-” But you did something very important, right? You had a need to cope with something, and you did so marvelously. You did what you needed to do. You took care of yourself. If all you can do to get through something is distract yourself with youtube videos or TV shows or video games or reading, then that’s good enough, and you’re doing good. Distract to take care of your mind, and keep some water and snacks near by to take care of your body, and know you’re doing your best and that’s more than good enough. There’s time later for all the things you think you should be doing now.**

As a final comment on this: my dysphoric periods can last a few days, or even just pop up randomly one morning while getting dressed. I’ll sometimes try on half a dozen different outfits and find myself unable to be happy in any of them. What to do then? 

Well, let’s unpack. A lot of the times, I’m still working through some of the outside misgendering of my body that I’ve internalized. As I put on my more masculine clothes, in my head I have an image of how they “should” look and what I want them to look like when I wear them. This image is usually based on how flat-chested or people who are binding look when they wear these clothes, people who also often have significantly smaller hips than me: the more stereotypical or accepted image of masculinity. Inevitably, I find that the clothes don’t look like that on me, because of my chest and hips. By going in to things with an unrealistic and impossible expectation, I set myself up for failure. I wasn’t working with my body. 

The method I’ve found that works best is this: I’ll take a step back from the tearing-apart-my-closet process and go, “Okay, I might not be able to like anything I put on my body today. I can accept that. It happens, and even though it sucks, I can get through it, and it will end. Instead of finding an outfit that I feel looks super good/perfect on me, and without deciding what I want it to look like on me before I try it on, can I find one that’s super comfortable for whatever activity I’m going to be doing? Can I just wear work clothes and let it be my IDGAF armor that I can just say I’m forced to wear and therefore don’t need to do The Gender Mathematics on? Can I find something I like on the hanger and decide to wear it simply because I like that it has Jeff Goldblum’s face on it or flower embroidery, and not try to compare how it looks on my body to some internal idea or checklist of how I want it to look on my body?” 

Usually, this works out for me with some finagling. I avoid looking at my reflection until the mood has passed if need be. If I start feeling badly about how I look in the thing, I Distract: “This is such a soft shirt. I’m super comfortable right now. I love that this shirt has Jeff Goldblum on it. When I wear my work apron, it looks like he’s suspiciously peeking over the top of it and that’s fucking hysterical because everyone at work apparently can recognize him by eyes alone.” As you can see, I and Ex-therapist are huge supporters for the Distract method. Derailing a thought spiral or feeling is often the easiest way to get it to end and to move past it towards some self-care and the rest of your day. (And yes, it does take practice to be able to do this! Oftentimes, the first step to learning the Distract skill is to just work on noticing when you’re spiraling or ruminating. Sometimes we aren’t aware of when we’re going down the rabbit hole. If you struggle with this, just give yourself the homework of trying to notice when you are. That’s it; you don’t have to then successfully distract or derail. Just notice and be aware. Once you’ve got that down, you can work on a successful Distract method of your own.) Once successfully Derailed, Distracted, clothed, and comfortable, maybe even starting to feel good about my Jeff Goldblum shirt, I am ready to go about my day with my game plan and then do some self care after.

**And this isn’t to say this only works for dysphoria! Being able to derail a spiral also helps with my anxiety, and may be useful for other things as well. The sky’s the limit!**

****And as a final note: all these coping skills that I’m supporting? Sometimes I forget they exist. Sometimes I’m so successful with them that I go, “Depression who?!” Sometimes I try them, and I don’t get all the way through them before giving up, or I’m not successful in distracting/derailing even when I use them. Sometimes I feel guilty and gross for distracting myself all day because I wasn’t productive and haven’t I been taught that that’s bad? If I can’t find neutrality and be grateful to my body this week, am I failing when last week I did so much better?

The answer? No. The truth is, no one succeeds 100% of the time. No one feels neutral or positive 100% of the time, not even whoever is the healthiest most well-adjusted people in the world! Bad feelings are a part of life and always will be, just like the universal truth that they will always end. If you tell yourself, “I’m going to use this coping skill next time,” or “I’m going to notice when I am spiraling next time,” and then you forget the coping skill or don’t notice the spiral-- maybe you will knee-jerk react by feeling like you’ve failed. But not managing a thing every time is not a failure! It’s natural. It’s part of the learning process, no in is successful every time, and it’s just part of the process of forming new neural pathways in your brain. Brains are things of habit, a bit like cats; at time intractable, at times resistant to new and to change, and often difficult to teach new tricks to. So be nice to your brain-cat. If it doesn’t work the first time, try again. Keep working at it as well as keep being nice to it and giving it nice things. If you don’t catch the spiral, maybe think back, note some of the signs or things that maybe caused it, and try to catch the next, and the one after. Say all the fake-it-til-you-make-it phrases even when you don’t believe them because you’re digging the trench of your next neural pathway and, yes, it’s repetitive hard work and not terribly fun, but you’ll get there. Accept yourself when you have a bad day, or when you start to go down the “I failed” route. Always try to find that neutrality and make it your home base.****

This has gotten super long and I still have some useful tidbits I picked up with The Best (ex)Therapist Ever, but I think I’ll end here for now. This post is largely written for my own needing to think through some things and put them into words, but if it helps some folks and give you some new ideas, I’ll be happy C: cheers and good evening, y’all.

#coping skills #body positivity #body image #gender dysphoria #body dysphoria #anxiety #personal

[mirai-eats]

4/6/19:: Garden

An AU I made on Twitter not to long ago, except they’re not human like I drew them lol. heavily implies Snufkin/Moomin, 1.386 words, for Mune

The Moomins owned a house so large it could fit a whole village comfortably within its walls, the garden so vast even Moominmamma herself didn’t know the exact square footage of the property. Moominpappa had gotten substantial money from his writings, especially the memoirs. He earned money by the boatloads from people clamoring for more of his work, more of his worded art and delicate imagery that pulled the heartstrings in just the right tune. Moominmamma was proud of her husband, and even more proud of the lovely estate they ran. The house was lovely, a bit messy despite the servants they paid to help keep the place tidy, it was always a little askew, a little dusty, and very much homely.

The estate was so grand, people were constantly coming in and out of the doors- for a good meal, a conversation, a little company, or just a place to stay a bit. Everyone knew the Moomins had plenty of room to share and were more than willing to let someone stay as long as they pleased. If they had harbored a criminal or two, well, Moominmamma wasn’t a snitch now was she?

Of all the guests who have passed in and out of their entryway the one who’s stayed the longest and kept coming back was Snufkin. A vagabond who pitched his tent up for the spring and summer then left in the fall to travel south. He refused to stay on their property without earning his keep, and thus Moominmamma and Moominpappa let him tend to the garden for the sunshine seasons and in the fall, he took care to prepare the garden for the snow before disappearing for a few months. He was the only one who ever tended to the garden, besides Moominmamma, and somehow managed to take care of every inch of space in his own wild way.

That is to say, he would keep the plants alive and thriving and let them grow as naturally as they wanted to. Sometimes Moominmamma would have to beg him to please prune the wild sweet peas from growing over the path. Despite that, he was a hard worker who kept the garden thriving as wildly as it pleased.

Wisteria dripped from the hanging arches that lined the cobblestoned path in a drapery of purple, the sweet-smelling purple drip drops of flowers fell into one’s fur in the height of spring. Roses took every color possible wherever it so pleased, the most stunning was the large, pale pink ones Snufkin had planted near Moominpappa’s office which bloomed right outside his window as his own little show. Honeysuckle and star jasmine crept up the side of the house and low fences low as they were nothing more than a space to give flowers to grow. They had gates and archways all over the property perimeter for anyone to stroll in and admire the garden or have a cup of tea with the Moomins. Hollyhocks took to the sky, larkspur, lobelias, bachelor’s buttons, tulips, and so many nameless flowers of every shape, size, and color bloomed their delicate fragrance and filled the manor with its tender touch when the windows were thrown wide open. A weeping willow bent over a pond, where a gazebo sat on the other side for afternoon tea when the days were just right, pansies, impatiens, gerbera daisies, and amaryllis cupped the white gazebo. Trees grew tall and small, blooming the smallest flowers to the largest, sweetest fruit and sometimes nothing but its seeds to blow away in the sweet breeze.

In the summer, the flowers didn’t stop, they simply changed to new flowers that enjoyed the warmer climate. Sunflowers chased the sun every day, lilies fo the Nile’s hands bloomed in bursts of long leaves and sturdy stocks. Cosmos, golden poppies, zinnias, petunias, and marigolds sprouted as they pleased, the black-eyed Susans gave the windows a warmer glow when the afternoon sun hit them just right. Bushes of lavender and astilbe waved their long stems at anyone who walked by, dahlias took on every color it could choose, it’s sweet, pom-poms growing large under Snufkin’s care and Moominmamma’s love. Of her favorite flowers, besides the roses that grew nearly all year round, the peonies took a close second in her heart with no petal looking like the next and delicate scent reminded Moominmamma of her marriage with Moominpappa, their wedding filled with these flowers in pinks and whites.

During the autumn things still bloomed but struggled to do so under the shuddering reds and golds of the dying trees and the raining needles that buried their petals. Snufkin took charge in turning the soil so the flowers may die in their mulch graves and be reborn again for the next year, dead vines are trimmed back and the remnants of the wisteria are plucked and put back into the earth. Then, once the garden is freshly buried, Snufkin packs up his tent he pitched in a patch of nasturtiums (or where they used to be by that point) and leaves to travel south for the late fall and the rest of winter.

Now, even though the garden is hers, she did not know every nook and cranny, every secret it held under every camellia bud and between each bunch of lilacs. Those secrets were kept by Snufkin and the only person he cared to share them were with her son, Moomintroll. A spry young boy, that one was, with wide blue eyes like bluebell flowers and a smile that put the sunniest day to shame. The two would run off in the morning and return by dinner with leaves in their fur and grass stains on their knees.

She had always wondered what they were up to, but never would she even dream of invading her son’s and his friend’s privacy to sate her curiosity. There is no reason for her to be breathing down their necks, she figured, she would much rather live with the idle wondering.

Suppose her questions were answered when she was wandering down one of the winding paths to a bench she adored, where the roses bloomed so brilliantly it was as if she was in a bath of their fragrance. The paths always changed, as Snufkin shifted the stones around each year to accommodate wherever the flowers decided to grow. There are plenty of dead ends and forks in the road to get anyone turned around, but the Moomins enjoyed the adventure.

With a cup of lemonade in her hand and a book she found interesting in Moominpappa’s library, she passed by the wall of hydrangeas, so tall and wide her ears barely cleared the top. They rose and fell as they seemed fit and was one of Little My’s favorite place to hide as the leaves her so wide and the branches so sturdy she could crawl around like it was her own jungle.

A whisper and a giggle broke through the spring air, not quite as devious sounding as Little My’s scheming laugh. A rustle from beyond the purple hydrangeas sparked Moominmamma’s curiosity to lean over and check between the leaves and fragrant bustles of flowers.

Hidden amongst the bush were Moomintroll and Snufkin, crouching in the mud with their backs to Moominmamma examining something at their feet. Grass and mud stained Moomintroll’s navy shorts, his back was scraped with dirt and there was a twig stuck to one of his suspenders, a stray pink petal sat atop his head. Snufkin next to him was as dirty as always, his trousers already the color of the earth and his shirt was bleached from the sun, the worn gardening gloves tucked away in his back pocket and boots were scrapped with dried mud. His hat which kept the sun and rain off his face was adorned with a crown of flowers from the garden, a gift most likely given by Moomintroll. They spoke quietly together, their shoulders touching.

When they leaned in close, the brim of Snufkin’s hat hiding their faces, Moominmamma pulled away and powerwalked as fast as she could to her spot.

“There was no need to share that secret with me, my garden,” she whispered. “It’s their secret to keep, and they may share their secrets as they please.”

#moomin #moominvalley #snufkin #moominmamma #snufmin #springdove #the moomins #fic #sorry im already getting v behind but here s achunky boy #mune

[headspace-hotel]

a list of places

gas stations/corner stores late at night. the light is too dim. the candy bar you put on the counter is months expired. 

streetlamps in places where there is no traffic, no people. just a pool of dead light. 

parking lots of dead/abandoned stores. what’s worse, emptiness or that one, solitary, black-windowed car on the outskirts? close to where I live there’s a large expanse of parking lot  servicing the dead end of the shopping centre, where empty buildings give way to buildings never built. little islands of staked trees. there’s something uncanny about it, as if parking lot could continue on, row upon row and tree upon tree, like the savanna. a regular, parceled wilderness. 

supermarkets in small towns, dingy and smelling of rotten meat. late at night there’s someone mopping the floors but no one else. no one else.  the back of grimy dollar generals, the dead hum of fluorescent lights. 

hospitals. sometimes i’m convinced i died alone in a hospital bed. i died in a place with white walls, where rooms are clean and darkened. in some past life. 

roads in the dark, the scalpel-bright opening of your headlights suckled by a close, tarry blackness. 

a house that is not abandoned. the faintest signs of inhabitance persist. but the vines and the shrubs and the bushes grow up and cover the windows and shade the yard, weedy and unkempt. and you haven’t seen anyone come out. if someone died, how long would it take for them to be found? 

bathrooms at a party in a place you don’t know, a sudden gulf of quiet after the noise. The bass throbs through the walls from another room. Insistent. You wash your hands and you wash your hands and you wash your hands, you scrub your nails against the skin, your eyes are strange and distant in the mirror. 

hotel rooms just off the bypass. the clean, carpeted smell. the sullen lights that grasp at being warm. that misshapen attempt at being a home, but the absence of signs of living. the furniture used but not smoothed into the comfortable edges of residence. the stairwells, the wrapped soaps, the chipped mirror, the hard carpet. traffic outside your curtained window. everything here has been abandoned again and again, discarded, forgotten by so many bodies. 

ragged, uninhabited patches of scrub in the suburbs. vacant lots that were never filled. vines and thistle snarl at the road signs pleading for you to stop, yield, drive slowly, children at play. and where are the children? 

parks at dusk. limp swings, empty plastic jungles, the kicked-up mulch. the park closes at dark. time to go home.  

#suburban gothic #writing #weird #settings #creepy #things i wrote #my writing #words #places