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quaranmine · 1 year

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The Incandescence of a Dying Light (Chapter One)

It's 1988. Grian and Mumbo are roommates living in the US. Mumbo leaves on a solo camping trip at Grian's suggestion to get away from his job for a while. But when he fails to check in at the end of his trip, Grian is forced to report him as a missing person. And now the clock is ticking.

It's 1989. Grian takes a job in Shoshone National Forest as a fire lookout, prepared to spend the summer alone in the wilderness. But his primary goal isn't finding forest fires: it's finding Mumbo, who went missing in this location a year ago, alive and well. He expects to be alone. What Grian doesn't expect is having the company of the other nearby lookout, a man named Scar. Their relationship grows through their conversations held via two-way radio, as Grian finally begins to let Scar into the truth about why he's really here and mystery he's unraveling.

A Hermitcraft Firewatch AU.

Chapter One: 7,162 words

Masterpost | Chapter Two >>

Welcome to the Firewatch AU! It's okay if you've never played the game, since the plot of this story is different than in the game. If you have played the game, you'll notice some similarities, especially in the setting. If you plan to play the game, this fic will not spoil it. I just really really like fire lookouts :]

Content warnings will be added per chapter as needed. I've done a lot of research on this topic so some there will also be some notes on a reblog. This fic will be Grian and Scar centric, but it's also very much about Mumbo as well. There will also be the inclusion of art with the chapters.

May 31, 1988

Grian remembers it because it’s 7:30 PM on a Tuesday evening, and he’s sitting at his desk in front of the window trying to catch the early evening slanted sunbeams on his sketchbook. The light is golden on the page and his hand casts a shadow on his work.

That’s when Mumbo crashes through the front door–quite literally, too. The door swings shut with a bang. It’s a heavy door prone to closing on its own.

Without looking up, Grian calls out, “Remember not to slam it! Mrs. Grant complained last week, you know.”

“Right! Right, sorry!”

“Bad commute?” Grian asks.

He hears Mumbo drop his bag in the corner with a sigh, and the sound of him flopping down on the couch. Grian turns around to look at him sympathetically. Mumbo has dramatically put his palms over his eyes, slowly dragging them down his face.

“Ugh,” he groans. “It was the worst. Someone wrecked on 25.”

“That sucks.”

“Oh, shut up,” Mumbo says. “How long have you been sitting here? All day?”

“Nuh-uh, I had a meeting today with Mr. Perry.”

“Did that go well?”

“Yeah,” Grian says, lying through his teeth. But only just a little.

Mumbo hops up off the couch and walks over to Grian’s desk. “Is that what you’re drawing now?” he asks. He picks up the sketchbook.

“Yes,” Grian says sagely. “I have many ideas.”

Mumbo squints at the page. “You’ve only got a tree, Grian.”

“Hey!” Grian says, snatching his sketchbook back. “Look around! There’s plenty of trees out here! Well, maybe not on this street specifically, but give me like 20 minutes and I’ll drive you to a big forest.”

“Oof. Make it an hour. The traffic’s awful today, I told you.”

Grian and Mumbo stare at the tree drawing for a few seconds. “Is it at least a nice tree?” Grian asks.

“You’re supposed to be drawing houses, mate,” Mumbo says, amused. “Your meeting went terribly, didn’t it?”

“I have absolutely nothing,” Grian says. “Zilch! Zip! Nada! Empty brain. I can tell you there will be at least one tree next to his house, though.”

“Imagine that,” Mumbo says. “Million dollar house on a mountainside. One tree guaranteed.”

It’s Grian’s turn to use the shut up line. “Shut up,” he says.

There’s something ticking in Mumbo’s brain, and Grian can tell. He looks past Grian through the window with the streaming gold light, out at the mountains in the not-so-far distance. And Grian remembers it, even when he doesn’t want to.

“We should go camping,” Mumbo says. “Get out of the city for a few days. See some trees with no houses next to them. Get away from all that highway traffic.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice,” Grian says. “This weekend? Do you want me to call and see if I can reserve a spot in the national park? Or a little more west and hit a national forest?”

Mumbo screws up his face a little at that. “Let’s go a bit further this time,” he suggests. “Do several days instead of just a weekend. We could even leave the state. Go someplace we haven’t already been a million times. Maybe even a little more remote.”

“When?” Grian asks.

“Is next week too soon? I could just take off midweek and we could go drive somewhere. Please? Think of all those early summer wildflowers up in the mountains.”

“Dude, I can’t take off mid-week,” Grian says sharply, suddenly feeling very frustrated. “You know that. I need to be finishing these designs! You gotta give me more notice than this, Mumbo.”

“Right,” is all Mumbo says, and he looks so tragic that Grian already feels bad for snapping at him.

“Is it that bad at work?” he asks.

Mumbo looks away, past Grian back back out into the mountains in the distance. “I just don’t know if I can take another week,” he admits. “I need to take some time off. And hey, maybe he’ll even fire me this time for giving him only a week’s notice that I’m taking vacation time!”

“You need that job for your visa,” Grian points out softly.

Mumbo rolls his eyes. “Fine, I’ll try to keep my job I guess. No trying to get fired. I’m still taking that time off though.”

“He wouldn’t fire you anyway,” Grian says. “You’re much too useful.”

That causes Mumbo to crack a little, and he starts to smile again. “Yeah, mate, that place’ll burn down without me. If I leave for a week they’ll be begging me to come back and fix everything that went wrong.”

“If anything, that’ll just ensure your job security!” Grian says. “Hey, maybe you could just go without me. I’d love to go, I really would, but I can’t lose this deal with Mr. Perry. I’m the project leader this time and he’ll likely drop the whole project if I don't so much as answer the phone on the first ring…”

“Rich people,” Mumbo says with a nod.

“Ugh, yes, rich people,” Grian says, and throws his head down on his desk for dramatic measure.

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Mumbo says. He thinks for a moment. Grian lifts his head and watches the way contemplation flashes across Mumbo’s face.

“Dude, just go by yourself,” Grian urges. “I can’t stand to watch you drive yourself insane another week. You’ve done it before, right? And why don’t you bring the bike? That way you can do all those difficult trails you’re always trying to drag me down without worrying about me wrecking it.”

“Should I?”

“Yeah,” Grian says, and he remembers this too, for as long as he lives, “I bet it’ll be fun."

»»———-　　———-««

June 16, 1988

Grian is bouncing his leg, trying to bleed off nervous energy with every shake. He’s bouncing his leg because at least his leg is hidden under the table he’s sitting at, whereas the pen he’d been tapping earlier was about to have resulted in an annoyed client and lost job.

The table is large, and oval. He’s in some weird conference room-home office place in Mr. Perry’s gigantic house, discussing the floor plan for yet another gigantic house Mr. Perry wants to build. Mr. Perry, of course, hates half of the floor plan Grian has proposed.

Grian hasn’t quite figured out why Mr. Perry needs two gigantic houses, but it really isn’t his business considering he’s being paid. And he’s being paid very well for this. It’s probably the best job he’s landed since he started and he’s grateful his boss let him take this client, annoying as he is. This newest house would be within walking distance of a ski lift though, and this house isn’t, so Grian can at least see the value there.

He bounces his leg. He tries to count how many times he bounces it in a minute, only to find that he can’t really keep up with the passage of time, number of bounces, and the bouncing itself all at the same time. He loses track instantly. But if he can just get through this meeting, then he can make an excuse to go home. Only 4,000 leg bounces until he’s passed enough time to leave. He’ll be out of this stuffy room like a bullet.

He’s thinking so hard about leaving this meeting and going home that he forgets that he has to actually be in the meeting first.

“Excuse me?” Mr. Perry says sharply. “Did you hear any of what I just said to you?”

“Hm?” Grian says back, before suddenly being slammed back into reality. “Oh, apologies sir. Can you repeat that, please? I must have been a little distracted.” He gives a wan smile.

Mr. Perry gives him a long look. “I was saying that I don’t think I like the placement of this room.” He jabs a finger at the blueprints. “I mean, who needs a parlor these days, let alone a second parlor? I want to change it.”

Grian squints at the room in question. “I think we could open it up to the kitchen and living room,” he offers. “Open concept and all that. There’s a lovely view to be had that’s being blocked by the walls right now.”

“Let’s make it a pool room,” Mr. Perry says.

“Uh, a pool room sir? On the second floor?”

“Not an entire pool, that’s nonsense,” he says. “Just a large indoor hot tub. It’ll be cold out when I’m visiting this house.”

“I…I think I can do something like that, sir,” Grian responds. “We’ll just ensure that the engineers clear it for the amount of water weight it would put on the floor and add extra support if needed.”

“Can there be some windows or screens in the room?”

“You mean on the inside wall?”

“Yeah. So I could see the hot tub from the living room if I wanted.”

“Um, sure. We can do that.”

He sneaks a glance at his watch. Only 35 minutes to go now.

He just…doesn’t want to think about it. He just needs to leave. He’ll get home, make the phone call, and it will be okay and he’ll feel silly. But every second he’s stuck in this godforsaken massive house is just another second he has to spend knowing that he’s delaying something very, very important.

If he thinks about it, he’s going to spiral, so instead he keeps trying to channel every bit of the nervous energy into his right foot.

“Grian,” Mr. Perry says, and Grian snaps his head back up from the blueprints, a little surprised that the man has used his first name.

“Yes?”

“Would you like to leave early?” Mr. Perry asks. “Since you clearly have somewhere else you want to be.”

Grian freezes. “My apologies sir, I’m not trying to make you feel rushed in this process. It’s very important to me that you feel like everything in your future home is exactly how you want it, no matter how many tries it takes for us to get to the perfect result.”

“I don’t appreciate it when my employees lie to me, you know,” Mr. Perry says. “Save the corporate spiel for later. You’re making me exhausted just looking at you. I think if you bounce that leg any faster it’ll fly off.”

“Oh,” Grian says with a hint of a nervous chuckle. “Suppose that’s true.”

“You can go home now,” Mr. Perry says. “You’re not paying attention anyway. Just get me some new ideas for that hot tub room and we’ll reconvene on Monday.”

“Yes sir, thank you so much,” Grian blurts, and grabs his papers off the desk, and tries to walk out of the door at a normal speed instead of sprinting.

»»———-　　———-««

He arrives home a little after 3:30 pm, tossing his bag and papers haphazardly on the couch as soon as he runs in. The door accidentally slams again, but he doesn’t really care what Mrs. Grant thinks today. His goal is the phone on the table by the kitchen; even all the way across the room he can see the message light blinking on the answering machine next to it.

He pulls the phone off its rack and presses to listen to the message on the tape. It plays, and…he sets the receiver back down.

It’s just his landlord, calling to say that he won’t be around to fix the door for another few days.

Grian paces once around the living room, then twice.

He pauses in front of the window. It’s clear and sunny out, with very little smog on the horizon. The mountains are in clear view.

Grian returns to the phone, and dials 411. Directory assistance. He’s not quite sure the number he needs to call for this, and his local phone books are of no use for out of state numbers. An operator picks up.

“Hello? Yes, I’d like to place a call to the Shoshone National Forest Ranger Station. Location? Uh, I think it’s in Cody, Wyoming. Yes, thank you.”

A minute or two later with the correct number for the office scribbled on a notepad, Grian is patched through. A young woman answers the phone.

“Good afternoon, how may I help you?” she asks.

“Erm, hi,” Grian says. “I’m calling because I’m worried about my friend. He was in the National Forest and he’s missed his check-in.”

“How long has it been since he missed his check-in window?”

“Several hours at least,” Grian answers. “He told me it might be late, or really really early, so I was expecting a call last night or this morning. But I didn’t receive one. I left for work early, thought maybe he’d taken a bit more time than he told me, but it just nagged at me. It was supposed to be hours ago. When I came home just now there’s no message on the answering machine.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that, darling,” the ranger says. “Can you please give me some information about him? Full name, age, appearance, vehicle, license plate if you know it, and the trails or locations he told you he would be hiking in? We can pass that information on and begin a search.”

A knot in Grian’s throat forms at the word search. “Of course,” he replies.

He rattles off the information as she asks for it, from Mumbo’s somewhat rickety AWD sedan that he was always convinced he could drag down any road he wanted, to his dark hair and mustache. He gives her Mumbo’s full real name, and feels a little silly when he includes the nickname right along with it, but he figures Mumbo might appreciate it. He tells her the trails Mumbo had mentioned doing, and how many days he planned to spend hiking.

“He brought his mountain bike too,” he says. “I don’t know if he took it with him on any overnight hikes but he had a setup for that, where he could strap his pack to the bike.”

“Thank you,” the ranger says. “Being on a bike could extend the range he could be in, but it could also limit which trails he could be on due to terrain. Here, I’m going to patch you into the local Sheriff’s office to make a report too, is that okay? I’ll call some of the field offices and get some rangers on this. We’ll start by checking for his car at the trailheads.”

“Thank you,” Grian says.

He calls the Sheriff’s office and makes a report. He tells them much of the same information he told the ranger, and the second time repeating it only makes it seem more macabre. He answers all the questions to the best of his ability. Yes, Mumbo was an experienced hiker. No, he was not having a personal crisis, just wanted a few days off work to unwind.

And then he sits and waits. The whole process had only taken a little over an hour.

He paces some more for a while. He goes to the kitchen to get some water, drinks that, and finds it only killed a couple minutes, so he goes and paces some more. He stares out the window for a while again. Then, he organizes some of the papers he hastily threw down when he got home, because it’s still probably not a good idea to risk losing or bending any of Mr. Perry’s documents.

He gets another call around 8 pm.

“We found his car,” the ranger says. “It's still at the trailhead.”

“So he never made it back to his car last night.” So he’s not just a spoon who forgot to find a payphone and give his friend a call.

“I’m afraid not.”

“So…so what now?” Grian asks.

“We’ll start sending some rangers and volunteers down the trail to look for him, in case he’s hung up somewhere and needs a little help. His bike wasn’t in his vehicle, so he must have had that with him.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Please keep me updated.”

That night, Grian doesn’t sleep, and the next morning Grian doesn’t go into work. He’s already driving northwest.

»»———-　　———-««

May 1989

11 Months Later

He’s grateful when he finally rolls up to the trailhead after being jerked around on the rocky, uneven road for the last 19 miles. He’s the only one in the small lot, which is less of a parking area and more of a clearing at the terminal point of the road.

He lays his head back on the headrest for a moment just to rest, eyes closed, and sighs. The sun through the windshield is warm on his forehead, but the day outside is pleasantly cool with the bite of winter still on the wind. There’ll still be snow on the mountaintops for a while yet.

It’s noon. He spent the night in Cody, in an old motel but different room and left in the morning with his whole life packed in a bag. He has a long hike ahead of him this afternoon, and he won’t get there tonight. But he might as well start.

Grian gets out of the car and inspects it. It’s a 1978 Chevy Blazer he picked up two weeks ago when he realized he was going to need a 4x4 to even make it to the trailhead and traded in his old sedan. Its red and white paint is covered completely in a coat of dust and topped off with several mud splashes from snow meltwater on the road.

Fortunately, nothing rattled off the vehicle during its inaugural off-road journey, so Grian is just left to hope it still has air in its tires the next time he hikes back out. And that might not be for a while, so he’s stocked it with a spare and patch kit. He has an elementary knowledge of how to fix a tire but he figures the motivation of being stranded 19 miles back on this empty road will breed enough desperate ingenuity to fix any problems he encounters.

Grian grabs his pack from the backseat, and starts down the trail.

Grian loses himself for a while during the hike. It’s easy to do that–to just walk and turn your brain off completely. One foot in front of the other over and over. The motions over and over tune the rest of Grian’s brain into a nice numbness. He listens to his boots crunch gravel and dry leaves. He looks at how the sun dapples the trail.

He hikes onward.

The forest is loud in a way the city isn’t. It’s not the type of loudness that announces itself, but the longer Grian hikes onward and alone the more its presence makes itself known. It’s like Grian’s brain is getting rid of the noise that’s filled it for so long and allowing him to really listen to the sounds of life.

The wind whistles through the trees, shaking the pine needles. It doesn’t blow on Grian; the taller trees around him shield him from the gusts. He hears the light gurgle of a creek well before he comes down a hill to cross it, and when he approaches it a frog leaps away from the bank.

At one point, Grian’s dragged out of his silent contemplation by the commotion of rattling leaves in the undergrowth next to him. It spikes his heart rate and he freezes in place, until a medium sized brown spotted bird explodes out of a bush at the side of the trail and flies away, low to the ground.

He smiles a little to himself. Just a bird, startled by a person. He is trespassing, in a way, it seems, to intrude his presence upon such a wild area. This is the bird’s home, not his. He’s just being offered a place in it to protect it.

He hikes onward as the sun dips lower in the sky.

»»———-　　———-««

June 17, 1988

Grian arrives at the Forest Service office in Cody, Wyoming at half past ten in the morning. The sky is blazing blue and cloudless, but there’s haze on the horizon.

He stumbles into the office, brushes a piece of greasy hair that’s fallen on his forehead back up, and tells a slightly-startled looking lady at the front desk: “I’m here to join a volunteer search. My friend’s missing.”

She looks him up and down with a critical, yet sympathetic eye. “What’s your name, sir?” she asks, in a way that suggests she might already know.

“Grian.”

“Grian, where did you drive in from?”

Grian stares at her. “Denver. Why?”

“Denver’s eight hours away,” she says. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t see why that’s relevant.”

She sighs, and gives him a look. A pitying one that he hates. “Darling, how much sleep did ya get? It’s not even noon yet.”

Grian huffs. “I don’t know. An hour or two. I’m fine!” He looks at her pleadingly. “Please, just let me know where I can go to help out.”

She just shakes her head, and picks up the phone on her desk. Grian watches her dial it, and hopes for a second she’s calling another ranger to come escort him or something, but that hope is crushed the moment she speaks again.

“Hello?” she asks on the line, and waits while the other person answers. “Yes, I was wondering if you had a room available. You do? Good. I’m going to send someone over your way. Yeah, I’m doing good, how are you? Glad to hear it. Thanks, darling. Yeah, he’ll be coming in a bit.”

She hangs up and scribbles something on a notebook, before tearing out the page and handing it to Grian. It’s got a short list of directions. Down the road two miles, turn right on the second road after the bridge.

“It’s a nice little motel not too far from here,” she says. “They’ll give you a room and you can get some rest.”

Grian shoves the paper back across the desk at her. “No. Tell me what I can do to join the search for my friend, please.”

She smiles saccharine-sweet and hands the paper back to him again. “Take it. I don’t want to see you back here for at least another few hours. In fact, I won’t give you any information unless you come back in a few hours. Get some sleep, you stayed up all night and just drove eight hours straight. You’ll be much better equipped to help out if you aren’t too tired to hike.”

Grian feels frustration well up in his chest, consuming the ball of anxiety in his chest. It threatens to break him too, so he looks away from the ranger and at the floor instead, though. Finally he speaks again. “My friend,” he whispers. “Will he be okay?”

The woman answers, “All our rangers are trained in search and rescue. They’re professionals. This is what they do, Grian, and they’re good at it. They’ll do everything in their power to find him.”

Grian nods tightly.

“Now get some sleep, darling.”

»»———-　　———-««

May 1989

It’s night when Grian arrives at the tower, on his second day of hiking. He’s been backpacking many times before, but the rough terrain on this hike was still a surprise. It’s difficult to scale rocky hills with a bulky pack, and his shoulders are sore and his walking is slower now–so it’s night by the time Grian arrives at the place that’s going to be his home through October.

It’s a wooden tower built on a hill. A staircase winds itself around, leading to the top where there’s a single room surrounded by boarded up windows. Nearby on the ground is an outhouse, small storage shed, a generator, a water tap, and nothing else.

Well, at least he’ll have electricity. He’ll have water too, but it seems like he’ll have to haul it. He knows from his lookout orientation a few days ago that there’s a water tank with rainwater catchment and filters, but there’s no way to pump it 30 feet to the top of the tower.

Grian turns on the generator, and heads up the steps with the single-minded determination of an exhausted man who knows there’s a bed waiting for him. When he arrives at the top he throws on the lights, tosses his pack down, and surveys the place.

He was expecting it to be pretty dusty and ill-maintained, but it seems pretty clean. There’s bedding folded up neatly on the mattress–Grian had been expecting to just use his sleeping bag. It looks like someone had been sent to the tower recently to clean and stock it in preparation for his arrival, which he appreciates.

He’s not really sure the level of effort it takes to maintain this place out here in the wilderness, and his mind goes down a brief rabbit hole. How was all this wood hauled out here? What about the nails, the rivets, the glass, the tanks? Was it hauled up on the same trail he just spent a day and half walking down? They must have used horses to carry materials but someone still had to assemble all this. He has a lot of respect for that.

Grian is just starting to lay out the bedding when something over on the table begins to crackle. He walks over to inspect it. It’s a small black handheld radio sitting on a charging stand. He was told he’d have one of these.

It’s not set on the frequency he was told to keep it at, but before he's able to tune it to the correct one, it crackles to life anyway.

“Two Forks, Two Forks come in! This is KSNF, broadcasting to you live from Thorofare. Your host on this fine spring evening is-”

Grian picks up the radio. “Hello?”

“-none other than Scar.”

Grian sighs. Of course, this is a two-way radio. He can’t respond until the other person on the line has stopped talking. He waits as the so-called Scar keeps going. It occurs to him that he might be trapped out here all summer with this guy.

“He’s brilliant, he’s handsome, and he’s calling you dear listeners, hoping to hear your thoughts. What ails you tonight? What are your hopes, dreams, loves, losses? Or perhaps, what is your name, Two Forks?”

Grian, sensing the pause, jumps in. “Um, hi,” he says. “This is Grian. The new lookout at Two Forks. And you must be…Scar, I presume?”

“Grian!” the radio chatters. “What an interesting name. Yes, I’m Scar. I’ll be your supervisor this summer, ‘cause I’m so good at this. I’m also practically your next door neighbor.”

Grian looks out the window, but it’s dark and the windows just reflect himself. He looks away. “Uh, yeah. How did you even know when I got here? Where are you?”

“I saw your lights flick on,” Scar replies. “Been keeping an eye out for when you’d arrive. Go outside, you’ll see my lookout to the north.”

Grian steps outside, feeling the chill in his bones again. Once he stopped hiking and rested for a few minutes, the warmth from the movement wore off and he’s reminded again how cold spring nights in the mountains are. Sure enough, out in the distance, snuggled amongst the dark peaks, is a tiny orange light.

“Oh,” he says. “There you are. I see your light too.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Scar says. “We’re the only lights out here tonight. Nothing else for miles around. Not even a campfire–well, of course not, ‘cause those are banned right now. Please report any of those you see.”

“I’ll be sure to do that,” Grian says. “That is the job, is it not?”

“Oh, we've got a smart one,” Scar replies, and it’s a sentence that would probably sound acerbic in anyone else’s mouth, but Grian detects no sharpness in the words. Just friendliness.

There’s an awkward few moments on the radio, before Grian speaks again. “Okay, erm, I’m gonna call it a night, then. See you in the morning.”

“Goodnight!” Scar calls, and then, “Wait, wait, don’t go yet. Your radio, um, write down the frequency band we’re on right now. Keep that.”

“Um, okay,” Grian says. “It’s different from the one I was told in orientation.”

“Yeah, we’ll use that one too. That’s the one you need to report on. This one’s just for us. You don’t want the whole Forest Service to hear us chatting all the time, do you?”

Great. This guy wants to chat with Grian.

“I guess not,” he says finally, not untruthfully. He doesn’t really want anyone to overhear him talking, because he doesn’t really feel like talking to anyone in the first place. Half the point of taking this job was the distinct lack of human contact in every possible aspect, after all.

“Good! Anyway, talk to you tomorrow, um….Grian. Your name was Grian.”

“Yeah. It is.”

“Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the mosquitoes bite, Grian!”

He flicks the switch on the radio to the off position before Scar can say anything else, and runs a hand tiredly through his hair. This might be a long summer, and he cannot allow this guy to distract him from the other half of the reason he took this job:

He’s here to save Mumbo.

»»———-　　———-««

“Two Forks! Two Forks come in!”

Grian wakes up to the tinny sound of his radio across the room, and streaming golden sunlight over his face. But mostly the radio.

“Oh wonderful lookout of the tower over yonder, wake up! It’s a beautiful afternoon today, the sun is shining, and I can let you sleep no longer! Alas, our duty calls. Two Forks, answer your radio.”

Grian rolls over and puts a pillow on his head. Scar continues.

“Perhaps this is like a fairytale,” Scar muses. “Are you sleeping beauty, locked away in your tower, desperately waiting for true love’s kiss? Well, I can hardly speak for your true love, so you’ll have to settle and wake for me instead. Do you like Disney, Two Forks? What’s your favorite movie?”

Grian kicks his blanket onto the floor and slides unceremoniously out of bed. He sways for a moment. His legs aren’t really sure they’re ready to support him today, not after all the mountain climbing he did the other day. Then he strides resolutely to the other side of the room, picks up the radio, and turns the switch off.

Ah, peace.

Grian wanders over and sits on the bed for another few minutes, letting his mind spin out and gain traction again. He takes his glasses out of their case beside the bed and puts them on. The sun is bright and high in the sky, so it’s not early. It casts the room in a nice light, and Grian takes his first opportunity to look over his new home. It’s painted an old and slightly chipped white, with little posters and photos pinned to open spaces on the walls. The room is mostly filled by its spacious windows. They frame every side of every wall, almost as if Grian is living in a glass house.

The view is, of course, spectacular.

The mountains are both jagged in some places and rounded in others. He can see hills upon hills for miles, wrinkling out into the horizon like a piece of crumpled paper. There’s pockets of meadow and open woodland that contrast with thicker pine forests, creating a patchwork. The hillsides are painted in different greens–an aspen grove there, fir here, golden spring grass, or the bright spring flowers he can see coloring patches of the meadow. The sky is a blazing blue, and there is no haze on the horizon.

It would be spectacular, wouldn’t it? Something so beautiful would have to be so cruel. Grian is already familiar with these views in the way of someone scorned. He’s been here before, and this time he isn’t leaving without dragging the secrets from the darkest valleys.

Grian stands up again, a little more clear headed, and heads to the stove. It’s propane powered, and he’s grateful it exists at all. He takes out a small metal pot and, upon finding it dusty, casts it aside and pulls his own camp pot from his pack. He’ll wash things later. He pours some water in it, sets it to boil, and tries to figure out where he’s set his tea.

With a mug of tea in hand–tragically no milk and a supply of sugar he’s decided to use very, very sparingly–and the radio in his other hand, Grian steps out onto the wraparound walkway at the top of his tower. It makes for a nice deck.

Lazily, he flips the radio back on. “This is Two Forks,” he says smoothly. “I’m awake now, what do you need?”

“G-man!” Scar nearly shouts on the other end. “It’s great to hear your voice this afternoon.”

“Ugh, afternoon,” Grian groans. He checks his watch. “It’s what, 12:30? Lunchtime? Already?”

“You’ll be okay,” Scar says. “You’re not really officially on duty until tomorrow anyway. I always like to check on the new lookouts on the first day anyway, though. You doing good?”

“Fine.”

There’s a pause, like Scar was clearly waiting for more than that. Grian is giving him nothing. After a moment he gets the memo and proceeds.

“Good to know, good to know. So, G-man,” he starts. “You’re a lookout now. That means your only job, from now until October, is to keep an eye on this forest for any fires. If you see a fire, report it to me, or to the rangers on the official channel. I’m talking campfires, fireworks, lightning strikes, everything. You got that?”

“I believe I can handle it,” Grian says drily. “I’m pretty good at looking out windows.”

“Do you see the round thing on a table in the center of the room?” Scar asks. Grian does not, because Grian is outside on his deck, but he’s seen it before already and doesn’t feel like walking back inside to play along.. “That’s your Osborne Fire-Finder. I assume they taught you how to use that?”

“Yeah. Always keep it calibrated, locate the fire in the rotating sight, and use the tool’s measurements to determine its location and precise angle.”

“Wow, you’re going to put me out of a job!” Scar says, and somehow Grian just knows he’s genuinely beaming on the other end of the line.

“I can’t be in two lookouts at once, now can I?” Grian says, words sharp. It doesn’t phase Scar.

He continues. “The only other real thing is that you need to report daily first thing in the morning with the weather conditions at your tower. This helps us keep track of what the fire danger is on any given day or week, so I expect you to take that seriously. Additionally, you’ll be expected to keep logs of conditions in your area. Anything else, well, I’ll just help you with it if it comes up!”

“Cool.”

“Any questions, G-man?” Scar asks.

“Um, yeah,” Grian says. “Just one. Have you been calling me ‘G-man’?”

“Yep!”

“Alright, follow up question. Can you stop?”

“Nope!” Scar says brightly. “Every lookout needs a nickname, it’s only fun. I suppose if you had a nickname you’d rather be called though, I can consider it.”

“Uh, no,” Grian says. “I don’t have another nickname for you to use.”

“Aw, too bad. I guess it’ll just stay G-man, then.”

Grian is nearly overcome for a moment, and, despite the objectively peaceful surroundings, desires to tear his hair out. He does not. Instead he replies, in his most carefully snarky tone, “Fine. Is Scar your nickname, then? What’s your real name?”

“Grian!” Scar exclaims, in mock offense. “I’ll have you know that this is my legal name, thank you very much.”

“I have so many reasons to doubt that.”

“I would never lie to you, G-man.”

Grian rolls his eyes at that, but he can’t stop the corner of his mouth from turning up. He takes a sip of his tea. It’s nice in his hands, warm, and the smell alone is making him feel more at home. There’s silence on the radio for a long time, and Grian almost assumes that Scar has gone. He’s fine with that being the end of their discussion for the day.

Scar isn’t gone, though, and after a while the radio crackles again. “Say, G-man,” he starts. “Now that you’ve asked me your questions, mind if I ask one of my own? A little equivalent exchange, you know.”

“Go ahead.” Grian sips his drink.

“Where are you from?”

“Denver.” It’s not untrue.

“Um, I don’t mean to be rude,” Scar says tentatively, “but…where are you from before that?”

Grian sighs. “England.”

“I knew it!” Scar cries. “Uh, sorry. Didn’t mean to shout, there, my bad! It’s just interesting to me, that’s all! You’ve got such a lovely accent.”

“I guess,” Grian says. “You never met a British person before?”

“Oh, sure,” Scar says. “I’ve met several tourists from the UK. But between you and me, most people flyin’ across the ocean for a vacation tend to just stop at Yellowstone or Grand Teton instead of here. And the ones that do don’t stray too deep into the Forest.”

“Yeah, well, s’bit far back here. Took me two days to hike in and then I slept until noon afterwards.”

“Yeah, that hike tends to beat people up,” Scar says. “So. What on earth brings someone from England to Colorado to Wyoming?”

“Maybe I just like the mountains.”

“You don’t have mountains in England?” Scar gasps in horror. “Oh my goodness, that’s a tragedy. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.”

“No, it’s like, well–we do have mountains in England. It’s just, well, they aren’t exactly like this are they? It’s a different sort of landscape. And besides, the place I grew up in just had hills.”

“Oh,” Scar said. “You know, I’ve never been to England. Never really left the western half of this country, actually. Is it pretty there?”

Grian thinks back, to cobblestone streets in town and misty mornings. He thinks of the way everything was just drenched in vibrant green in the summers. He thinks of old churches with ivy on the walls and fields of grass hemmed in by stone fences.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s pretty there.”

“Man,” Scar says. “I’ll have to go one of these days. I am wondering, though–it’s not, uh, very common to meet, um, someone from another country working this job. Since the Forest Service is a federal agency, you know.”

Grian scoffs. “Isn’t this line of question a little forward for a first introduction?” he asks. “Whatever. It’s not like they didn’t poke into my background enough during the hiring process. I have dual citizenship–free, clear, whatever you wanna call it, to work for the US government.”

“That’s so cool,” Scar says. “So does that mean you like, came here and applied for citizenship and got it or–or were you like born here, and then moved to England. Or, even, you got it through marriage? Are you married? Like how does this work?”

“I’m not going to tell you all the details of my life.”

“Oh. Sorry,” Scar says.

“It’s fine.”

“Hm,” Scar says. “You know, it’s interesting that I met you, almost like a coincidence, right? I remember hearing about another British guy in the park last summer–a tragedy, I tell you. I heard the rangers still haven’t–”

Grian’s blood instantly runs cold at the mention, and the warm mug in his hands isn’t doing enough to pull the heat back into his body. For a moment he wants to dash the mug onto the ground dozens of feet below, and cut his hands on the ceramic when he goes to pick up the shattered remains–leave no trace–on the forest floor, dripping blood onto the leaves.

He doesn’t do that. Instead, he flicks the radio off with shaking hands, cutting Scar off mid-sentence, and stalks back into the cabin.

»»———-　　———-««

Grian’s sitting on a rock next to a lake. The sun is slanted now, casting golden orange rays across the water. The air is crisp and, although Grian hasn’t touched it, he knows the water is cold. It’s snowmelt-fed, afterall.

He’d turned on his radio again an hour or two after he turned it off earlier, once he’d recovered enough to have a normal conversation. Scar had been worried, but he’d accepted Grian’s excuse that he’d left some water boiling on the stove and needed to attend to it immediately. He hadn’t known Grian long enough to see through his excuses yet, unlike Grian’s old supervisor.

Scar had been quiet the rest of the afternoon, though, as soon as Grian told him that he was going out to explore. Grian appreciates the peace.

He pulls a map out of his bag to study it. It’s not the map he was given of his lookout area when he started. No, this one is worn on the edges from countless foldings and unfoldings. It’s not so much a map as it is several maps–it’s several detailed topo maps taped together into a square.

In one map, the Two Forks lookout is circled in red marker. Grian did that a few weeks ago, when he’d learned which lookout he was assigned to. It’s a beacon on the page, his new base of operations for the next few months. And it couldn’t be in a better location.

The rest of the map is marked-up too. There’s highlighter along some trails, penciled in areas of interest, and shaded areas. They’re search areas. It’s not the first time Grian has been here.

He examines the maps, cross referencing his with the topo map he was given as a lookout. The Two Forks domain covers much of the locations that Mumbo’s search did last year, but more. There's still a lot of blank space on the maps, especially in areas that were inaccessible by trail. Just because it was off-trail doesn’t mean Mumbo never went there for some reason.

Grian takes a pencil out of his bag and begins to mark up the map once again. It’s something he’s done before, and there’s spots on the map where his eraser has rubbed off part of the ink. He pours over the contours, thinking, this valley has shelter from the wind, or there’s a source of water here.

When he’s finished he stares at the page for a long moment, and then back out at the lake in front of him. The shadows are even longer now. On the other side of the lake, the ground is cast in shadow already, with the sun disappearing early behind a mountain.

Did Mumbo enjoy these views, too? Was he here?

Grian would ask him when he found him.

Masterpost | Chapter Two >>

#hermitcraft #grian #mumbo jumbo #goodtimeswithscar #gtwscar #hermitcraft fanfic #hc_firewatch_au #quara fanfic

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nualaofthefaerie · 7 months

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Who am I, and why I'll always show where Nuala is mentioned?

So hello guys.

I came to the realization that a lot of people on Tumblr do not know me, and I came kind of suddenly to you guys. So, allow me to tell you who I am and why I hope to become a big part of your "Sandman" experience. I will attach some pictures for references 🩷🪷

My name is Li. My main platform is Twitter. Most of my friends are there too. I hope I can make a lot of mutuals here, too. I came across "The Sandman" one year ago. Now, the Sandman is a wonderful piece of media for people to explore a plethora of dynamics they enjoy. For me, it was a bit of an adjustment.

Before reading the comic, I tried to stan Dreamling. However, for me personally, I very rarely enjoy dynamics with no women in them. That is, of course, me personally. I am not the one who should tell people what they should enjoy. Bi/Pan WLM and WLW, those are dynamics I truly enjoy. However, at the time, I was trying to fit in with what was popular. Truly, it didn't make me very happy because I just don't see it the way Dreamling shippers see it.

So I tried changing my angle. I tried to get into Calliope and Morpheus (I apologise, I do not know if they have their own little ship name). This one fitter me a bit better. However, I have personal issues with the concept of divorce, and I could never quite brush aside the fact that at the end... they were divorced. I even made a Calliope cosplay at the time and met Tom (loveliest person on Earth).

(I envisioned this ballerina Calliope cosplay, and for the most part, I made it work. This was my VERY first attempt at anything.)

He kind of convinced me to just read through the comics. And I did. And it all really fell into place. And Nuala of the Faerie became my spark. I want to make it clear that I love Nuala so much more and so BEYOND Sandflower. She is just so exceptional, so complex. I became SO excited to explore what the Internet could offer on her only to get...nothing. Absolutely nothing. Whatever little official art there was (three-five drawings and it was usually not even Nuala centered, she was just there) and two three pen drawings on DivienArt made in 2010.

Now, one thing about me is that I am persistent as all hell. And it is completely out of line that Thessaly is a "main character," but Nuala isn't. So, in January, I had a very "If no one is going to do it, I will" moment. I began talking about her every day. Analysing, sharing panels, commissioning artists (uni student making commissions, I was kinda of crazy for that one. I made one commission once and then had 20 bucks left for the week to buy food) and every minute since January until today, I do it all for her. Because she deserves to be recognized. Nuala is no less than Lucien/ne or the Corinthian. I have an ask sitting in my inbox that I simply don't know how to answer:

"Why do you think "x" is more popular than Nuala?"

I do not know, to be honest. Frankly, I also try not to care. Because my love for Nuala is not based on bringing other characters of the Sandman down. I do this to uplift her to a status where one day, I won't be the only person on the Nuala tag (I was SO happy the other day when like five new people had made art, SO happy) and not the only one on the Sandflower tag (that is ONLY me for now). And until then, I will be the only one. It's okay. And when I no longer have to be, I will sit back and enjoy the fruits of my hard work.

This may appear very self-centered to those who do not know me, but those who do will tell you I work day and night for her. I have a 70k Sandflower fic, 50k of which is only its first arc, just sitting in my google Docs. I have sketches upon sketches. I talk with artists about more commissions and how to make it so she gets a new outreach. I have conversations and try to introduce her to as many people as possible until they notice her and care for her at least a fraction of how much I do. She inspired me to try sewing and really get to cosplay a SOLID version of her (still working on that).

(I sewed most of the outfit and and it was my second attempt to do anything from scratch. I'll get better at it 🪷🌿🩷)

I like to think she would love it. She only ever longed to be loved. And I love my girl.

So much. We help each other every day. We exist together. And when her actress joins our little triangle, we will make the perfect fairy. The perfect personification of womanhood the way I see it.

My Nuala (Lala, Lali, Lalita, flower, the pearl, sun, if I missed any of my moots nicknames for her, hit me up).

So that's it, dear Tumblr. I am afraid you won't be able to mention Nuala of the Faerie without me because somewhere in May, we started co-existing.

And we are not going anywhere.

Love,

Li and Nuala 🪷🌿🩷

#A little intro meta from me #the sandman #nuala #nuala of the faerie #nuala the sandman #the sandman netflix #the sandman comics #tom sturridge #morpheus #dream of the endless #cosplay #sandman meta #introductory post #admin intro

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th3-0bjectivist · 5 months

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youtube

Dear listener, I turned on my car radio for about five hours on a long drive this week and found myself suffering and appalled through the advert-heavy and song-lite nature of it all. Seriously, this is what passes for radio programming these days? The ninety-nine and one-half trillionth T-Swift breakup ballad? Pop-country tunes that manage to all sound the EXACT same as the previous pop-country tune?? Radio rock stations featuring tunes with less balls than a castrati troupe!? Modern hip-hop/rap music that all sounds roughly equivalent to setting up a lawncare sprinkler system in my car only without the water!!? Nine-to-ten agonizing commercials in a row before you get to the commercial-free hour, only to be then reminded between each individual song that it’s the commercial free music hour!!??!?!!?? I flipped from station to station hoping for some form of alleviation, for SOME hope that music is still alive and well on the radio in 2023. Y’know what I found out? The absolute BEST music programming on modern radio is based on tunes created around two to three centuries ago. That’s right folks! The best radio station I came across was a classical one. The classical radio deejay was informative, his voice was soft and pleasant, there were minimal commercials and the musical interludes lasted forty-five minutes at a stretch until the next commercial break. Inspired by this, until the end of 2023, I’ll be posting 3 classical tune sets (Bach, Vivaldi, and Brahms) starting with my personal favorite German musician of all-time, Johann Sebastian Bach.

Generally regarded as one of the greatest composers in the history of Western culture, this man was truly fit for the title ‘Master of Composition’. Starting off as a mega-talented organ player and violinist, Bach had a distinct flair for blending widely varying instruments and regional musical styles, regularly synthesizing multifarious sound techniques to make a noise ain’t nobody on Earth had heard before. Having been employed by local churches early on, Bach began composing his own ‘sacred music’ (see also ‘church music’) and being something of a musical jack-of-all-trades engaged in his own ‘non-secular’ works which did not jive with very simply defined and rigid church traditions. Having a penchant for engineering complex and experimental arrangements, Bach developed a special talent for weaving melodic lines and immensely complex interdependent harmonies together to provide compositional structures that were simply second to NONE in the early 1700’s and even up to this very day. His concertos for orchestras, sonatas, suites, cantatas, keyboard works, choral works and organ works really are the stuff of legend which is why they are hailed up to the current day! I could go on endlessly about his accolades, but instead I’ll just leave you with the following final thought. Some of Bach’s individual works are like observing an incredibly detailed drawing or painting, except with audio. If you concentrate enough on a single piece, you’ll very clearly hear the overlapping elements, the solid lines accompanied by the abstract rudiments floating softly in the background and be moved emotionally by the very physics of the harmonic motions. It’s not just the melodic nature of the man’s tunes, but also the harmony that accompanies them. Smash play and enjoy a variation of Cantata BWV 147: Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring and experience for yourself why people like Bach were truly the rock stars of their era. And if you want more, like way more, click just below for The Best of Bach and enjoy!

youtube

He also married his own cousin, had 20 children through separate wives, and died after eye surgery in 1750. I like to separate the art from the artist on my blog. Nobody’s perfect, it was different times back then with vastly inferior social and medical standards at play. I don’t judge too harshly. I mean, he was so talented that Duke Wilhelm had him imprisoned after Bach simply tried to leave the Duke’s royal court to find a better gig. He did something that the vast majority of modern musicians just can’t seem to be bothered to do… innovate (to simplify that word for modern musicians, it means creating brand NEW stuff that no one has heard of or tried before, you’re welcome…)! And for that reason, he has more than earned his placed in the annals of human history as one, if not the greatest composer, and my personal favorite classical composer of all time. Image source: https://www.nationalgeographic.co.uk/history-and-civilisation/2019/07/how-bachs-anatomy-may-have-handed-him-greatness

#j.s. bach #bach #johann sebastian bach #music on tumblr #classical music #audio video #audio on tumblr #cantata BWV 147 #jesu #joy of man's desiring #composer #violinist #legend #classical #baroque period #music from the 1700's #orchestra

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astridianmayfly · 2 years

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why is there a SNORLAX in the ARCHIVES

Summary: Jon doesn’t know what a Pokémon is, and he’s far too busy with these damn performance reviews to find out.

His assistants have other plans.

on AO3

---

15 minutes before Jon’s due to have his very first performance review with Tim, he’s crawling through WikiHow in a desperate attempt to figure out ‘how to give advice to someone older than you without sounding condescending?’ All it’s giving him, incidentally, are articles such as ‘ How to Deal with A Condescending Boss. ’ That’s concerning. He hopes Tim doesn’t share his sources.

He wouldn’t, though. Probably. Jon is a very good researcher.

Tim is too, of course. Jon’s always prided himself on his near obsessive work ethic when it came to cases–one that Tim just didn’t seem to share. Tim does normal people things, like make friends.

Once he’d expressed this to Sasha. Not that his research was objectively superior to Tim’s (Lord, she’d rat him out five seconds flat), but that “ha-ha, gotta love that #relatable moment when you focus on something so intently for six hours that you forgo all your bodily functions!” She didn’t exactly look at him blankly , but she very kindly and very gently asked him if he’d ever discussed ADHD with a doctor.

Jon had given her an out-of-character thumbs up.

Jon has no idea what ADHD is. Absolutely Delightful Human Dear? Whatever. It’s probably one of those ‘memes’ Tim was always roping everyone else into. Likely some ridiculous Twitter trend that involved hashtagging nonsensical acronyms. The other day during their lunch break, Martin announced that he was the “DUFF of the Archival Assistants” (whatever that was), and Tim and Sasha started refuting the declaration immediately.

Jon liked to watch Martin being berated as much as the next person, but he’d just retreated back into his lair the minute this debate started. See, he had very important work to catch up on. Like his personal research into red salamanders (Jon had been taking meticulous notes on the Plethodontidae family for the better part of a month now.) It was not something an ‘ADHD’ would do. Probably.

He’d been so lost in thought about salamanders that Jon notices it’s already 15:20. Shit. He hasn’t even memorized this article yet.

Tim shows up at 15:22, hand-wavingly punctual, with a bright, “How’ve you been, Boss?”

Jon puts on his glasses to disguise his unpreparedness, as if Clark Kent was also a sexy-in-a-librarian-rat kind of way. (And owned a glasses chain.) “You saw me this morning, Tim.”

Tim pulls out a chair and snorts. “Yeah, uh, that was a whole three hours ago! How could I possibly know what goes on in the secret life of Jonathan Sims?” He furrows his brow while plopping down (with the back of the chair facing Jon. Tim straddles the seat–naturally). “By the way…why did we see you running to the break room this morning?”

“Poor circulation. Now, if you’d like to get this over with?” Jon stares him down.

Tim just smiles back, amicable as ever. “Aye-aye Cap’n.”

Jon’s just about to pull up the color-coded spreadsheet he’d created so that these reviews went off without a hitch (he hadn’t started Martin’s yet, but he could probably draw it out on the extra piece of tea-stained, crumpled-up loose leaf lying under his desk) when Jon hears an unmistakable bzzt.

Tim raises his phone and immediately goes ashen. Suddenly, Tim stands up so fast that he knocks his chair down. He starts making a mad break for the door, eyes still glued to his home screen. In the process, he trips over the legs of his fallen chair. It doesn’t even slow him down–already halfway on the ground, Tim’s suddenly on all fours and bounding towards his escape like a rabid dog or wolf or something. He doesn’t even open the door with his hands, instead opting to headbutt the frosted glass with an entirely animalistic grunt.

As Tim tears out of his office, Jon doesn’t even get up from his desk. He just watches the whole scene unfold, his jaw hanging open.

The sound of laughter and screaming (???) startles Jon out of his paralysis. When he pokes his head out of his doorway, he sees that Tim is literally galloping towards the Archive bathrooms.

“Good Lord, Tim! What is the meaning of–”

Tim’s already turning the corner. “Sorry, Boss! There’s a SNORLAX! In the ARCHIVES!”

Okay. (A Snorlax?) That was…well.

Jon takes a deep breath and tries to regain his composure. Tim was guilty by reason of insanity, but…Jon stomps over to his assistant’s accomplices. Martin and Sasha are still sitting at their desks. Martin’s head is bowed–Jon can’t see his expression. Sasha looks him in the eye, face as placid as ever, but her lips are slightly pursed and her eyes are…watering?

This disrespect had gone on for far too long. “Why is there a ‘Snorlax’ in the Archives?!?!” He demands.

That’s what does it. Martin’s head falls into his keyboard, his shoulders vibrating with growing laughter. Sasha tries her best to hold it in, and fails: she lets out a loud wheeze and joins Martin in their mockery of Jon’s honor.

At that exact moment, the sound of a stampede comes from the ceiling.

There's a pause, and then the floodgates open.

Everyone, everyone, is running unencumbered into the archives. They hold their phones in front of them like beacons, a crazed, manic look in their eyes.

Jon's a little disturbed. This must be what it's like to watch himself in his element. He watches Rosie and David and Sonja and Arden and John A. John X. and John D. and John H. and Michael L. and Michael S. and Michael C. and Michael P. and a bunch of other people he doesn't know. Interrupting his workday! God forbid. They start wandering in between shelves, tripping over loose statements on the ground, and--my God, did Emma just get a staple in her foot?

Sigh...Maybe Jon's flights of fancy and general behaviors do have an affect on those who surround him. Maybe they can be as disruptive as...this.

A disembodied voice comes from the bathrooms. “Guys, guys! I caught it!!!”

#more where this came from.#tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #jarchivist #my writing #that escalated quickly #jmart #jonmartin #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #tim stoker #sasha james #tma season 1

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artificialqueens · 1 year

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Fantaisie in F minor, Op. 49 (Anetra x Sasha Colby) - Writworm42

A/N: 3 years after a life-changing and career-ending attack, Sasha comes back to the piano with Anetra's help.

TW transphobic violence, though not written about in detail. Chopin is my absolute favourite composer and in tough times, I cling to his music. I hope I gave him a fitting tribute. Title is one of his pieces; I tried to pick one that fit the fic's mood, but lmk what y'all think! I highly encourage everyone who's not familiar with his music to listen to the songs named in the fic as well, they're all beautiful.

Thank you Athena for beta-ing & hyping me up. Please note, I'm not a guide dog user, but I did try my best to research. If anyone who is a guide dog user has any feedback for me, please let me know!

It makes the news the night it happens, and stays on the news for weeks.

First transgender winner of International Chopin Competition attacked at awards ceremony. Even three years later, the thought of it opens a pit in Sasha’s stomach that makes bile rise in her throat. The hospital stay where all the nurses treated her coldly, where she didn’t speak the language they spoke to each other, sometimes right in front of her, and only knew what she was told despite having so many questions. The way she had been only half-conscious most of the time between the painkillers, anesthetics, and ICU delirium. The pain, so much fucking pain. Being wheeled from surgery to surgery, never knowing when the last one would be.

Blinking and blinking and blinking, but seeing nothing but clouds and muted colours. A fog she’d never be able to get out of, no matter how many ophthalmologists she consulted.

She brings her hands to her face, the phantom burn of acid tearing over the bumps of her scarred skin as her throat tightens, her heart speeding up. Her mind’s eye was 20/20, suddenly maybe more. She could see the crowd on their feet, hear the thundering applause, feel the weight of the award plaque in her hands. See the shine of the gold medal as it extended towards her, only for a collective gasp to draw her attention away, away from her joy and towards a man’s face twisted in disgust and anger, the open jar in his hand flying towards her--

“Baby, baby, breathe. Breathe.”

Sasha blinks at Anetra’s voice. The music that had been playing on the radio came to an abrupt stop. Chopin’s Grande Polonaise Brillante. The piece she’d been trying to forget for three years.

“You’re safe,” Anetra repeats, “It’s okay. I’m here.”

Sasha feels the phantom pain fade, replaced by the prickle of hot tears at the corner of her eyes. It strikes her as incredibly ironic in a cruel way--of all the things that attacker had taken from her, he had somehow managed to miss her lacrimal ducts. Or maybe the surgeons had just saved them. She supposes she should be thankful--no, knows she should be. And she is, most of the time.

It’s just that right now, she feels ugly all over again.

Sasha’s psychologist had encouraged her to start listening to Chopin again about six weeks ago. It had been extremely difficult at first; she barely made it through half of the Wrong Note Etude before Anetra had to step in and help Sasha calm down. But it had worked—slowly but surely, with Anetra by her side, she could make it through a playlist without needing to do much more than deep breathing. And even though sneak attacks from the radio were difficult, just picturing Anetra leading her through a breathing exercise was enough to help her come out the other side unscathed.

“Would it help if I hold you?” Anetra asks, as if the answer isn’t almost always yes. Sasha nods anyway, leaning in for Anetra to wrap her in a hug.

“We can reschedule, you know--if it’s not a good day, I mean.” Anetra says quietly after a few minutes, stroking her fingers through Sasha’s hair like she knows she likes. It’s a tempting offer, but Sasha just shakes her head.

“We already reserved the music room,” she sighs. “Besides, if we waited for a good day…”

Anetra nods, not even needing Sasha to finish the sentence. They set today to reach this goal so that there would be a firm time, less room for Sasha to second-guess and back out just like the last two attempts.

She’s made up her mind--for better or for worse, she’s going to sit at a piano today.

“I think I’m okay now,” she pulls away from Anetra after another minute, heaving herself up to stand again. “I’ll go get ready.”

The drive to the community centre is relatively short, but feels like an eternity for Sasha. They drive in relative silence except for the occasional yawn or sneeze from Sasha’s guide dog Busby, a chocolate lab with as much personality as Sasha and Anetra combined. They don’t dare put on any music for fear that something upsetting might come on the radio, and Sasha can’t think of much to say, anyway. So she reaches her hand out into the back row for Busby to move towards and hit his snout up against, allowing the cold, damp feel of his nose to ground her.

“We’re here,” Anetra advises as they turn into the parking lot, and for a second, Sasha falters. They’re doing this, they’re really doing this. it’s freeing to think of, yes, and she’s proud of herself, but… The battle’s not over yet. They’re still in the parking lot. They have to actually walk in, have to actually open the door to the music room, have to actually walk up and sit down and then what if the piano bench isn’t big enough for the both of them, what if there isn’t even enough space for Busby to sit by the piano and he has to stay by the door and so she’s trapped, trapped sitting on a bench because she doesn’t know her way around the room and Anetra will be far and Busby will be far and it’ll be a disaster--

“Hey.”

Sasha jolts to attention at the sound of Anetra’s voice and the feeling of her wife’s hand on her shoulder.

“The room has an upright, I think it’s a Yamaha. It’s arranged on the far side of the room so there’s room to move around freely. The piano bench fits two and Busby can sit beside you.”

“How did you--”

“I know you is how,” Anetra laughs. “I visited the room last week just to make sure all the logistics would be smooth for you. For us,” she adds, moving her hand down to grab Sasha’s and give it a comforting squeeze.

“I love you,” Sasha sighs, the warmth of gratitude and affection flooding her chest.

“I know,” Anetra says, and Sasha just knows she’s smiling.

They walk into the community centre together, Sasha holding Anetra’s hand in an iron grip. Even though she can’t technically see, Sasha swears she can feel a million pairs of eyes watching them as they move through the building. She can’t decide which of her insecurities is worse; the bitter anger that people might see a mangle-faced freak with a victim for a partner, or the painful dread that they might see her as a pitiful charity case with a saint of a wife. If they even see Anetra that way; Sasha swears that every time they’ve been out since they came back from Poland, people have assumed Anetra was her aide instead of the love of her life.

“We’re here,” Anetra gives Sasha’s hand one more squeeze as they come to a stop, Busby guiding Sasha right to the door of the music room and pointing his nose to indicate the location of the doorknob. Not that he needs to; before Sasha can reach out for it, Anetra has swooped in ahead of her, throwing open the door and stepping aside with a theatrical ‘ milady.’

“You’re such a dork,” Sasha snorts, giggling a bit despite herself as she steps inside. It’s strange; maybe it’s because she can’t really see, but as she’s walking deeper into the room, nothing plays in her mind and there’s no anxiety in her chest. She knows there’s a piano, yes, but somehow, for a split second, she convinces herself that the room is empty, just a regular room with nothing special or scary in it.

That is until Busby guides her to the piano bench, allowing her knees to graze its edges, and her heart drops into her stomach.

Breathe, Sash. Breathe . She closes her eyes and inhales shakily, imagining the things that make her feel calm just like her psychologist taught her. Listening to her favourite songs. Red velvet cake. Her family back in Hawai’i. The soft feeling of plumeria petals against her fingertips and sun-warmed sand between her toes. Her and Anetra’s honeymoon in Tahiti, making love under a deep orange sunset.

“I’m coming beside you,” Anetra warns, careful not to disrupt Sasha’s fragile attempt at inner peace, for which Sasha is incredibly grateful. She relaxes a little further, opening her eyes by sheer force of habit so as not to feel surprised by the sudden warm presence of her wife beside her.

“Take your time, angel,” Anetra murmurs, reaching for Sasha’s hand and giving it another squeeze. “We have the room for an hour, we can just stand here that whole time if that’s what you’re up to doing.”

“If I do, Dr. Da Luca will make me come back again next week,” she jokes, even though it’s definitely true. Though Sasha supposes that she’ll have to come back next week regardless of whether she succeeds today or not; that’s the key to exposure, Dr. Da Luca keeps reminding her--consistency and repetition.

She’s trying not to think about that right now, though.

“Would it help if we put on music?” Anetra chances, and honestly, Sasha isn’t really sure, but she nods anyway, willing to try. She’s curious, anyway, what kind of music Anetra will pick--Anetra’s a mood-listener, someone who forgoes genre or artist to pick solely based off of the vibe she feels. And considering that Sasha has absolutely no idea what to call the vibe in this room right now, if Anetra can provide some clarification, well. She’s sure Dr. Da Luca would support that.

“Remember when you taught me this song?” Sasha can hear the grin in Anetra’s voice as Go Tell Aunt Rhody starts playing off her phone, and Sasha can’t help it--she bursts into the kind of laughter she never would have thought she’d be capable of in this moment.

“Yeah, I remember,” she rolls her eyes, giving Anetra a playful shove on the shoulder, “It took you three days to get the hands-separate version even remotely acceptable. Which honestly was pretty impressive. Just, you know, for all the wrong reasons.”

“Hey! I got it in the end, didn’t I?” Anetra protests in mock offense. “Pretty damn well, too, I would say. Hands together, even!”

“And I was very proud,” Sasha giggles.

“You know, I think I still remember it, actually,” Anetra continues pensively. “Move over, let me check this out--”

Before Sasha can even think about what’s happening, Anetra is plunking her way through something that sounds more like one of Busby’s more theatrical whines than any song Sasha’s ever tried to teach her. It’s absolute chaos, and as much as Sasha knows Anetra’s doing it on purpose, she also can’t help but try to step in.

“Oh my God, stop, that’s not how you do it--”

“Mhm,” Anetra’s hands come off the piano, her voice smug as it suddenly hits Sasha that she’s not standing anymore. She’s not hovering, not bending over to correct her wife. Instead, she’s…

“Did I… Am I…?”

“You did it, baby!” Anetra squeals, practically throwing herself onto Sasha and squeezing her tightly. “I’m so proud of you.

“Oh my God,” Sasha laughs in disbelief. Her heart is pounding, and her throat feels tight, but she did it--she really, actually did it.

“How do you feel, sweetheart?” Anetra keeps hugging Sasha, holding onto her tightly as tears begin to gather at the corner of Sasha’s eyes again. She knows they’ll spill over if she tries to speak, so instead, she just puts her head on Anetra’s shoulder, sighing contentedly as Anetra brings a hand up to stroke her hair.

“Neech?” she finally says after a few minutes, when the beating of her heart has fully calmed and her throat feels relaxed again.

“Yes, angel?”

“Can you play it again?” Sasha buries her face deeper into Anetra’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of her perfume.

“Oh, you want a little bit more of this?” Anetra’s voice is dripping with mischief as she begins to bang on the keys again.

“Fuck off,” Sasha laughs. “No, for real this time. Just… play it again.”

So Anetra does, and it sounds absolutely beautiful.

#rpdr fanfiction #anetra #sasha colby #anetra x sasha #lesbian au #fluff #angst #hurt/comfort #disabled character #writworm42 #concrit welcome #tw transphobia

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lexintothenex · 1 year

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Today - the 4th of November, 2022 - marks the 20 year anniversary of the Ratchet and Clank franchise. I wanted to draw something for the occasion, but I’ve been working on art trades and other personal stuff and unfortunately didn’t have enough time. In the absence of art, I will instead get sappy and sentimental over a videogame franchise. This is a love letter to my favourite gaming series of all time. 💌

I’m sure I’m one of the younger R&C fans - I was born nearly exactly one year after the first game had been released. As a kid in the mid-late 2000’s, I got into videogames past the PS2’s prime era, instead having one of my first proper gaming consoles be the next-gen PS3. As a little youngin’ at the age of 7 in 2010, I had my first ever adventure with Ratchet and Clank - the demo for A Crack In Time. And when I tell you I *loved* it, I absolutely mean it directly from the heart. I played that demo over and over again - fighting Agorians on Planet Lumos and spending every minute of my time finding hidden Zoni and Constructo upgrades over and over again. I never got tired of it.

In 2011, for what I believe was my birthday, my grandmother got me the full game. English is not my first language, and at 8 years old, though I did know a large deal of English (when you’ve been playing videogames for so long, you pick up on some things), a lot of the game was essentially gibberish to me. And yet that never deterred me. I loved it all the same. I’m sure I misinterpreted a large deal of the game as a kid (I distinctly remember thinking Alister was Ratchet’s dad, heh) - but nevertheless, I had so much fun, even with the language barrier.

My next game in the franchise was Quest for Booty (yes, I played Tools of Destruction last - so I essentially played the Future series backwards, haha.) This game, along with Tools, I got to play in my native language - becoming much more acquainted and familiar with the story and lore than I was beforehand. I only fell in love with the franchise even more as time went on. Heck, the first ever fanart I made of a pre-existing franchise was of Ratchet and Clank (had it not unfortunately been thrown out years ago, I would have shown it here).

And so the years went by. And I played the original trilogy. And I played the spin-offs. I played All 4 One, I played QForce, I played Nexus. I played Playstation All-Stars Battle Royale to get to play as Ratchet.

Sure, as I got older, my interest in videogames declined a slight bit - I never got a PS4 nor a PS5 because I knew I wouldn’t get much use out of them - but my love for Ratchet and Clank never faded. So I watched letsplays, I watched 100% completionist videos of the games I didn’t have the opportunity to play for myself. I watched display showcases of every type of armour and weaponry you could buy. I know the ins and outs of games I have never touched in my life.

It has been nearly 12 years since I played my first Ratchet and Clank game. And I am forever grateful I was introduced to this franchise. It was what singlehandedly got me into gaming when I was young, it was what got me into fanart, and heck, my dream job of being a concept artist stemmed from all of the amazing concept art behind the scenes of these games.

Thank you to Insomniac. For everything. Happy 20th anniversary, Ratchet and Clank. 🧡💙

#will be posting this on twitter later today too but #wanted to unleash some FEELINGS. augh #ratchet and clank #mine

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clevercatchphrase · 2 years

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Ghost Switch’s 4th Birthday~

Ahh... Another year down and we’re about 2/3rds done with the Snowdin arc! GOD I hope I finish within the next year, preferably before the end of 2022, but I can’t accurately guesstimate that far ahead.

I don’t really have a full color comic like I did that last two years, but I DO want to take a minute to appreciate my art improvement this last year, ESPECIALLY with Asgore. Geez, I remember having THE HARDEST time drawing his face 3 years ago in 2019 when he showed up in the first memory, but now??

LOOK👏AT👏THAT👏GLOW UP!

Still no mustache but at this point there ain’t gonna be any on him in the comic. God, he looks so much more huggable now (and younger too!). And comparing the older pages side-by-side the newest ones, I just cannot fathom that I ever made my lineart so thin. Trying to do that now would be impossible for me. I like my lines THICK, if you know what I’m saying (what I am saying is that I just cannot set my brush size to anything less than 14 these days, and that’s only on the SMALL drawings. Big ones are a minimum of 20)

Looking over my art from the past year, have I learned anything new???

No. No, I don’t think so. Comic making is still fun, and I’ve gotten into a good rhythm of it~ Making 11 pages in the span of 3ish weeks was quite the challenge, though. It always feels so nice to have a big buffer, and not have to worry about falling behind on pages. It was rewarding and irritating that the third memory, which normally would have taken 2 MONTHS to tell got finished in 3 weeks. God, I wish I could keep up that pace for the rest of the snowdin arc, but that pace is just unsustainable for me in the long run.

SPEAKING OF THE THIRD MEMORY, I have a funny story to tell. For those unaware, I started scripting Ghost Switch in the middle of 2017 (exactly 1 year before the first page was posted, to be exact) and while I knew all the major story beats well before I started, some of the finer details, like minor characters, were still undecided even after I started making pages. One of those was to be Chara and Asriel’s private tutor.

I was already kinda spit balling ideas on a partner for Gerson, since Gerson himself is recognizable in Undertale and thus the fandom. Though honestly, I didn’t really want to make up OCs to be paired with canon characters. (no shade to those who do, I just don’t feel like I could ever create a OC who has the same... “status”? or “importance”? as a canon character does when it comes to acceptance by the fandom at large, and nor do I even want to try)

A year in, and I still haden’t solved the “Partner for Gerson” problem, so imagine my delight when deltarune came out

and I saw this beautiful man

It was pure serendipity.

Or so I thought.

And so, after learning about this new character named Alvin, I finalized my script and ignorantly went about my life, chewing away at this comic for the next 3 years.

Ignorance really is bliss, but last year, while I was listening along to the 6th Undertale anniversary Deltarune Chapter 1 live stream in which the Dog himself was apart in, Toby dropped this bombshell on me that I had never deduced;

I was a little upset by this.

Okay, maybe more than a little. I was absolutely furious at what this meant for me. And yes, I did see the drawing in the unused classroom that had alvin’s name on it. But honest to god, hand on heart, I thought it was a picture OF Alvin, and that the artist had titled it as such. It totally didn’t click to me that it was a drawing BY Alvin of his DAD. (And can you really blame me?? There weren’t too many identifiable features on that tiny square of pixels!)

But, hey, this is just Toby talking off the record. As long as the game itself didn’t confirm it, I was good, right? They could still be 2 unrelated gay turtle monsters in my comic, right?

Well, when I first played chapter 2, I didn’t really care much about what was happening in the dark world, but once I was back in the overworld, you know I bee-lined it to the church, hoping to find NOTHING honestly. But no. You talk to Alvin in the graveyard and he flat out confirms he’s Gerson’s son. There was canon evidence that they were related. I was devastated.

At a loss of what to do. My script was finalized for this memory, my dialogue typed, my dominoes set up. What was I to do? Should I alter some text? Or just keep it as is? Sure, what I have written down could be read as either platonically or romantically, but I don’t want people to think I’m implying things I’m not!

I JUST WANTED THE TURTLES TO BE GAY, NOT INCESTUOUS, DAMMIT!

In the end, I decided not to change very much. There was never any direct mention of what kind of relationship Gerson and Alvin had in my comic, and for all I care, they are not related in this story. I guess the joke’s on me for trying to take a “minor NPC” from an unfinished game and using him for my own ends. My, my, how god doth laugh at the sight of my suffering.

Thanks for reading my comic and continuing to stick around, guys. It really means a lot to me.

#long post #ghost switch #year 4 #fun fact;#the fact that alvin is gerson's son is the sole reason I dislike chapter 2 and why I'm lukewarm on deltarune overall

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river-in-the-woods · 2 years

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Hello! I'm curious about 🔮🗝️🦴 🌬️ from the witchy asks. Hope you have a nice day/night!

Thank you for asking! I had to give your questions some thought, I hope my answers prove interesting. Have a wonderful day or night wherever you are too!

1. (🔮) - when was the first time you had an experience involving ghosts, spirits, deities, etc? What happened?

Bit of a struggle to think of events from years ago, but one sticks out. I used to frequent a beautiful and secluded graveyard in my former hometown. I often went there to reflect, and I sometimes tended the graves. One day I got caught there in a very sudden rainstorm. I took shelter under an old tree. Then I heard the most bizarre moaning, loud and clear and human enough in timbre, but definitely not the kind of noise a human would make. It sounded like it was only a few feet away, but there was absolutely no one else around. I still have no idea what it was, really.

3.(🗝) - what's your clothing style and what aesthetic does your room/home have?

My clothes tend to be autumnal and earthy, dark colours and subtle patterns. I try to go for a style that is elegant, does not draw too much attention, but still feels homely. My room is much the same. I have a sort of organised clutter, lots of notebooks and craft-related things, and plants on every available surface.

19. (🦴) - what's something a lot of witches do in their practice that you don't? Why?

Probably cursing. Since I have a commitment to the Buddhist path, my moral compass is already spoken for. That’s not to say curses don’t exist in Buddhist magic, they certainly do. But generally any kind of magic that creates more suffering is to be avoided unless truly necessarily. We have powerful magic to protect, bind, purify and transform, and that is sufficient enough for virtually all problems. My gods prefer me to overcome any attachments to bitterness and anger, no matter how justified. My approach is usually to isolate the offending party to get them out of the picture, and care for the victims of the situation.

20. (🌬️) - what's something not a lot of witches do in their practice but you find very important? Why?

I practice everyday. I think people get a bit defensive when they hear about daily practice, because it’s difficult to build up the habit. Which I understand, because it did take me a few years to acquire the discipline, but I consider the effort to be well worth it. My baseline is about 15-30 minutes of Buddhist practice involving chants, visualisations, meditation, making offerings and dedicating merit. Any magical pursuits are added on top of that.

#ask game #inbox #buddhism #my practice #personal

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simkaswriting · 2 years

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Fake Christmas-(Steve Rogers)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 6.5k

Warnings: Fluff, Christmas

Summary: What happens when Steve agrees to be (Y/N)’s fake boyfriend for her family’s Christmas dinner?

A/N: Wow, my first fanfiction in almost three years. Thank you uni for draining my creative spirit lol. But here’s a piece I’ve been writing on and off since last Christmas, hence the theme ;) As always, please reblog or leave a comment if you enjoy the fic :)

Twenty minutes. Twenty painfully long minutes is how long I’ve been toying with my phone, contemplating how to reply to my moms long anticipated text. Mind running 20 miles an hour, trying to scramble for any half-plausible excuse to relieve myself of the yearly family gathering, something which I haven’t managed to successfully do to date. It isn’t because I don’t want to see my family over the Christmas period, but rather because they expect me to bring them a boyfriend, and when I inadvertently fail every year, they never seem to back down from discussing all of my possible shortcomings. And at this point, it’s getting tiring.

Interrupting my useless thought process, Steve’s grumble echoes throughout the large living room, no doubt unhappy with one of the players in the football game he’s watching on Tony’s state of the art TV. Ever the avid fan of the Patriots, perhaps to an extent that may verge on unhealthy. But I am not one to judge, considering the countless arguments Bucky and I have gotten in over old movies. Hands behind his head and feet taking up the whole sofa, he mumbles under his breath every time something goes wrong with his team.

Ever since I joined the Avengers two years ago due to my only slightly annoying element-sensitive powers, the two of us have gotten along like a house on fire. His borderline indestructibility has made him one of my only options for sparing partners given my occasional accidental burning through hand pads, something Natasha still brings up to this day. So, Steve has become my go to sparring partner, and through the hours of intense training, the two of us have slowly grown closer over time. Before I knew it, the sparring grew to cool down sessions, to walks, to drinks, to hanging out in each other’s bedrooms until ungodly hours. And now, Steve has become someone I know I can rely on, someone who I can share my worries and nightmares with, a comfort I didn’t know I needed. A royal pain in my ass too though, but purely because his stupid face and stupid voice and stupid charm has been the only thing occupying my mind lately, to a fault.

Setting my phone down with a dejected sigh, I slowly rise from the corner armchair obscured by a comically large fake plant Pepper no doubt chose. I set my sights on the kettle and tea box, needing some calming herbs to help me think clearer. A nice steaming cup of tea has never failed me before.

“Steve, do you want tea?” I call over to the super soldier who’s somehow managed to occupy the entirety of the L-shaped couch with his enhanced frame, to absolutely nobody’s surprise.

He lazily shifts his gaze from the TV to me, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Almost apologetically, he nods. “That would be lovely (Y/N), thank you. If you wait a few minutes I can help, but we’re in the last quarter now. It’s all or nothing now.”

I grin back at him. “It’s alright, go Patriots.”

This earns me a beaming smile and a fist in the air from the Captain.

I busy myself making us tea, a chamomile blend for me and blackberry for him, and think of some more excuses while the kettle boils. Chicken pox? Too worrying. Work emergency? Not severe enough. Sudden ruptured gallbladder? They would insist on coming to see me. With a small frown, I pour the water into our mugs and place it down on the table in front of Steve just as the game draws to a close. Judging by his smile, the Patriots did indeed win. Which spells good news for the whole team, as his good mood will no doubt reflect on the training sessions, which are about to become a lot less severe. My muscles silently thank the Patriots.

“You seem to be my lucky charm.” He grins as he takes his mug and takes a small sip, the games highlights now being played. Not finding it particularly interesting, I stand by his seat with a small blush and contemplate some more half-hearted excuses to feed my family.

After a few minutes of silence, highlights seemingly forgotten, Steve frowns up at me and sits up properly, freeing up a part of the sofa which he pats for me to sit on. “Are you alright?”

Sighing, I sit down next to him, heart a little unsteady at the lack of space between us.

“Yeah, mom’s hounding me for the Christmas dinner this weekend. She won’t take no for an answer.” I huff, knowing fine well I sound like a sulking child.

At this, Steve’s gaze shifts from curious to concerned so fast it almost startles me.

“Why don’t you want to go? I thought you were on good terms with your parents.” His voice is laced with worry, as if this conversation is his biggest current worry, which is sweet in its own way.

I nod, contemplating whether or not I want to share my yearly experiences of seemingly never-ending teasing. But if anyone has understood my struggle with relationships, it’s Steve. “I am, but when the whole family gathers together for Christmas, it feels like an event designed specifically to tease me about my lack of a boyfriend. It’s just gotten old now. I was so desperate last year, that I offered to pay Thor to pretend to be my boyfriend just to get them off my back. But he unfortunately wasn’t having it.” I chuckle at the memory of a flustered God of Thunder, and how that was the first time I ever heart him struggle with his words.

Steve nods along, running his hand through his hair, something he often does when he’s thinking. It’s a habit he’s had for as long as I can remember, a cute one at that, especially when his shirt rises a little and exposes a sliver of his tones stomach. It definitely beats the nail biting both Bruce and Clint are so fond of.

“That bad?”

I look at his raised eyebrows and solemnly nod. Unfortunately, yes, that bad.

Looking at me, a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. Slowly he faces me, his tea somehow already finished. “Call me crazy, but you gave me an idea, so hear me out.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “Okay, go on.” Curious and mildly scared of what idea he could possibly have; I take another sip of my tea.

“I can pretend to be boyfriend to stave off your family, and you don’t even have to pay me. I’ll do it for your mom’s Christmas cookies you always talk about.”

The tea seems to go down the wrong tube, my throat not agreeing with the combination of the hot liquid and Steve’s out of pocket proposal. For a few seconds I sputter and cough, trying to wrap my head around what he said. Patriotic, Mr American Values Steve Rogers, wants to willingly lie to my entire family and pretend to be my boyfriend just to help me out and save me from embarrassment?

“Oh no, breathe. Breathe, (Y/N).” Steve takes the cup from my hands and gently places it on the table and starts rubbing soothing circles on my back.

After a few seconds, I calm down enough to look at him without going into another coughing fit.

“Are you sure about this one, Cap?” I question, obvious doubt clouding my voice, only because I know how my family can get. And how easily embarrassed Steve is sometimes. And how much I actually like the man in front of me despite nights spent convincing myself otherwise. It could be a recipe for disaster, especially since he is the one and only Captain America.

“Yes, of course. I reckon it could even be quite fun.” He shrugs and cracks one of his signature smiles that makes my heart do somersaults.

Taking a moment to really consider it, I weigh up my options. My family would definitely stop pestering me if I brought home the one and only Captain America, national hero and the original gentleman. They would no doubt love him. Plus, it could potentially be fun. However, long term it isn’t doable. But beggars can’t be choosers, so I mentally kick myself for agreeing.

“I hate how little convincing you’ve had to do. But sure, what could go wrong.”

---------

Steve pulls up outside of the lake house, parking his car in the row of Jeeps and Hummers already occupying the small car park, all dusted with tufts of snow. His American classic, that probably cost more to repair than it’s worth, sticks out like a sore thumb. “If this is what CEO’s and doctors can afford, I think it’s time I reconsider my career path.” Steve mutters under his breath, gawking at the expensive cars surrounding him. He’s shown an interest in cars and bikes since the early days, or so Bucky said. Maybe this could be some common ground for conversation once the starstruck awe subsides.

I glance at Steve whose eyes are full of child-like glee as his neck cranes to get a better look at my uncles Rolls-Royce Phantom. He really looks like a child on Christmas morning. And not just because of the hideous Christmas jumper he let me force onto him.

Just as I begin to think that I might ask him to turn the car around and leave, because dear God is this whole plan crazy, Steve pulls the keys out of the ignition and opens his door. The bastard probably knew my train of thought and wasn’t going to give me an easy out. But then again, he always seems to have an inkling of what I’m thinking. And we did drive three hours to get here

He walks around to my side of the car and opens the door for me with an encouraging smile, offering his hand to me like the gentleman he is. I take it, noticing how warm and steady it is compared to mine, almost as if he’s not worried about the next few hours ahead in the slightest. Not worried about tarnishing his God-like reputation or lying to my whole family. My stomach flips from the feel of his hand in mine as we slowly walk towards the lake house.

“You’re fine, remember to breathe. Just pretend this is one of our normal undercover missions, like the one we pulled off in Amsterdam in January.” Steve smiles at me reassuringly. Despite appreciating his reassurance, I can’t quite feel like the situation in Amsterdam was nowhere near as dangerous as this one. Amsterdam wasn’t quite the fake boyfriend and girlfriend scenario we’re going for here. It’s ironic, because it’s usually the guy that’s shitting bricks when it comes to meeting the parents, not the girl bringing him home.

Taking a few deep breaths which don’t work to calm my nerves in the slightest, my voice wavers with uncertainty. “You’re right, we went over the story like a million times. We’ll be fine, right?”

The two of us walk up the large wooden stairs towards the glass door, his hand giving mine a reassuring squeeze. The two of us spent hours coming up with a plausible backstory for our ‘relationship’ over the last few days, to Bucky’s and Nat’s immense amusement. We both know what to do, what to say, and how to act to make this the most believable fake relationship possible. It really is almost like a mission. So why does my stomach feel so light?

Steve rubs his thumb over my knuckles, as if reminding me that everything will turn out fine. The action brings my attention back to our intertwined hands and I can do absolutely nothing to stop the blush creeping up to my cheeks.

Before I have the chance to gather my nerves and knock on the door, a silhouette appears behind the stained glass door and swings it open, revealing my slightly dishevelled aunt Janice in an awful Christmas sweater rivalling the hideousness of Steve’s and my own one. Her hand clutches a half-empty glass of amber liquid which I assume is whiskey, as she takes another sip before pulling me into a bone crushing hug. The smell of cigarette smoke stings my nostrils in a nostalgic way.

Pulling away, I notice her eyes are already slightly glazed over as she looks me up and down with approval. Glass balanced on her ring and pinkie finger, she holds me at arm’s length, appearing genuinely delighted to see me. “I’m so happy you made it! Your mom persisted you were very taken with work but look at you! You’re here!” A smile of my own works its way to my lips, her drunken happiness contagious. My aunt has always been my personal favourite.

As she lets go, her attention shifts over to Steve. “And who might this be?”

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise of their own will as I follow her gaze to the tall man next to me. Does she not recognise him? Captain America himself?

Steve smiles politely and tugs me closer to his side. “This is the boyfriend, ma’am. Steve Rogers, a pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand out for a handshake, polite as ever. But instead, to my surprise, Janice envelops him in a hug of his own with a delighted squeal. I watch to make sure the contents of her glass don’t end up on Steve’s sweater.

“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.” She laughs as she lets go of Steve and opens the door a little wider. The smell of spices and warmth that flow out makes my stomach burn with nostalgia. “Come, let’s introduce you to the rest of the family, they don’t bite. Well, maybe Coconut. But I wouldn’t worry about her.”

As we walk through the threshold, Steve gives me a questioning look as my aunt rushes into the living room. No doubt excited to inform the cohort that the last unmarried member of the family that’s of age finally brought someone home to the family.

Hanging mu jacket up on the coathanger by the door, I just nod to the small white Dachshund curled up at the bottom of the staircase, barely registering us. “That’s Coconut. She’s known to bite a few ankles here and there.” Vicious creature.

Putting on the bravest smile I can muster, and with a reassuring smile from Steve, we head to meet the rest of the family, chickens entering the wolves den. I hold Steve’s hand tightly in mine, so tight it might cause the average man pain, But not-

“Captain America!” A chorus of excited yells surrounds us as my nieces and nephews rush at the man standing next to me. Their eyes wide in awe, and I don’t blame them. Steve is truly incredible.

Steve chuckles and bends down to high-five the army of five starstruck kids, this no doubt being better than any Christmas present they’ll receive. The youngest, Adam, asks if Steve brought his shield with wide doe eyes only children are capable of, to which Steve promises him he will bring it next time. Despite the empty promise, seeing the way he’s interacting with the kids sets my heart into overdrive, and I have to force myself to stop ogling the incredible man next to me, despite the sight being the cutest I’ve ever witnessed.

Instead, I look across the room at mom and dad, who both wear shocked expressions, their previous conversation forgotten. A quick glance around the room confirms that everyone is indeed gaping at the embodiment of patriotism I brought along.

Once Steve’s sure the kids are happy with the answers to their seemingly never ending questions, he stands back up and haphazardly wraps an arm around my waist, smiling at the people gathered in the large room with one of his signature charming and disarming smiles.

With a small breath to calm my crazy nerves, I also smile at my family. “Family, this is Steve. My boyfriend.” I gently pull his hand from my waist and intertwine my fingers with his as if it were the most natural thing to us. “Though you probably know him better as Captain America.”

My parents both eagerly shoot out of their seats and rush to Steve and I, looks of awe that could easily compete with the kids plastered across their faces. Dad immediately begins to shake Steve’s hand with a wide smile, and I swear he’s holding back from physically vibrating with excitement. “It’s an incredible honour to meet you, Captain.”

I silently thank that Steve is used to these types of reactions.

Mom gives me a quick welcoming hug but her attention is painfully clearly on the handsome man I brought along with me.

“Likewise, Sir. Please, call me Steve.”

Mom leans a little closer and whispers. “You did good.” There isn’t any doubt whether or not she approves of Steve, who most likely heard her. It isn’t every day your child brings home a legendary super soldier. This may even make up for previous years of disappointment, where she would sigh dramatically every few minutes to remind me how I’d disappointed her.

And I fully agree with her. I can’t even begin to imagine anyone else standing next to me, holding my hand, faking this relationship with me. Nobody could possibly be up for this, as Thor showcased, and I don’t believe I’d feel this comfortable around another person. I don’t even have to think about it very hard, but Steve could very well be the perfect man, and I can’t lie to myself that some deeply buried part of me isn’t sad that this is all just a charade. But I push that thought to the back of my mind and instead turn my focus to the job at hand.

The two of us make our rounds until he’s met everyone, with my grandad being the most excited to have met him. And I’m pretty sure that if I don’t bring him along with me to the next family Christmas, I’ll be getting disowned and written out of 20 different wills. Much to their disappointment, I have a feeling this is a one-off favour that he won’t want to keep up.

“Dinner is getting served, please head to the table.” My gran calls from the doorway to the kitchen, and we all simultaneously make our way into the newly renovated dining room. To my surprise, the ceiling has been replaced from brick to glass, white now thanks to the snow. The room itself has been extended to accommodate our ever-growing family.

Steve pulls out the chair for me with a small smile, and I take a seat with flushed cheeks, which to my horror burn brighter when he places a gentle kiss on one of them as he sits down.

He turns to face me with the softest smile, amusement dancing in his blue eyes. “You okay darling?”

I blink once, twice, three times before I can muster a simple ‘yes honey’ in return. Despite the attention on us, nobody seems to pick up on the strangeness of my behaviour. And I internally curse at myself for letting him catch me off guard like this.

The next few minutes are full of everyone getting settled in and food being distributed around. I have to hide my smile when I hear a few of my relatives quietly bicker over who gets to sit on Steve’s other side while he innocently discusses classic cards with my dad and uncles.

Once everyone’s settled down and eating away, I bite my lip nervously as the questions start pouring in from all sides, like an interrogation.

“How did you two meet? And when?” Comes from my cousin, her eyes devouring every inch of Steve as if her were a gazelle and she was on the hunt. And I really can’t blame her, Steve is insanely attractive by any standard, and even those without any taste couldn’t disagree. Instinctively, I take a hold of his hand and smile sweetly at him, a foul acid burning deep in my stomach at the thought of her hands on him. My heart continues hammering against my chest as if trying to escape, but this time it’s not because this charade is making me nervous. It’s because of him.

Steve takes a small drink from his glass of what I assume is whiskey and launches into our well-practiced story.

“It was around nine months ago. I was out for my morning run and we happened to bump into each other. She didn’t recognise me at first, which I was thankful for, at least I knew her initial interest came from an honest place, and not just because I’m Captain America. Now though, I’m not so sure.” His soft smiles slowly turns teasing, and I nudge his shoulder playfully, hoping my blush isn’t too noticeable. Even though we practiced out story, nothing could have prepared me for the physical touch that came along with it.

“Wow Steve, and here I was thinking I’ve been sly about it all this time.”

Laughter echoes around the dining room, and my nephews launch into 101 questions, mainly focusing on how fast he can run, and if he can beat the Flash. And having had the pleasure to watch Steve train, and once stupidly challenging him, I’m beyond aware of his full capabilities. He lightly squeezes my hand before letting go and tucking into the plate of food before him like a man possessed. I have to bite into some potatoes to keep my laughter contained.

“Nine months? And why am I only hearing about this now?” Mom’s eyes wide like saucers burn holes through me, voice shrill, as I fight the urge to avert my gaze.

“I’m sorry! We just wanted to make sure what we have is solid and that our schedules wouldn’t clash too much. You do know his whole gig is sort of saving the world? And God, let’s not even mention the publicity that’s heading our way once we go public.” I rush out, throwing my hands up and gesturing wildly, hoping that will somehow help communicate my point across.

Steve chuckles next to me, eyes warm and comforting on me, those angelic blue eyes that hold the power to render me speechless and burn scorching holes through me. The familiar flutter of butterflies in my stomach disrupts my trance.

“That’s true, just imagine the headlines. ’97 year old Captain America catches himself a girl born seven decades after him’, or maybe ‘Captain America can’t find anyone his own age to date’. Better yet, ‘award for oldest cougar in the world goes to Steve Rogers’. It’ll be rather amusing that’s for sure, but far from easy.” I smile at Steve as he speaks and roll my eyes at his creativity. The family seems amused, while some of the younger kids ask to their parents horror what a cougar is. Perhaps working for the New York Times was his true calling, with his expert avoidance of the word paedophile. Though some part of me worries that a few months from now when my relatives begin asking where such headlines are, I’ll be forced to come clean.

I take a sip from my glass and continue gently smiling at Steve, though this time it isn’t forced for our performance’s sake. No, this time it’s a real smile. Because the man next to me truly is incredible. He’s seen me at my lowest when Pietro died, or when my dog went missing only to resurface with his head missing as a threat from one of our many enemies. And in turn I was there when he so desperately tried proving Bucky’s innocence against the wishes of the mighty Tony Stark himself. But he was also the one to hug me first when I got my PhD, and I was the first person he lent his infamous shield to for a long mission. And through the turmoil and good times, we’ve come out stronger than ever, with newfound strength and closeness. And a different kind of love on my behalf. I would walk through Hell and back for him, and I have no doubts he would do the same.

Grandma smiles from behind her glass of white wine, and I swear I can see the shadows of devil horns take form. “So Steve, what are your intentions with my little (Y/N)?”

My breath catches in my throat. We didn’t rehearse this question, stupidely. Why didn’t we think to cover this base? I force myself to swallow the delicious food and begin to shake my head. “Okay Gran, that’s not-“

Before I have the chance to try and stop the train collision about to happen, Steve interrupts me, perhaps for the first time since I met him.

“I’m glad you asked. It has only been nine months. However we have discussed what the future holds for us, and as long as (Y/N) still wants me around, then ring shopping definitely isn’t out of the question.” Steve sends me a cheeky wink, softly brushing his thumb over my knee to ease some of my tension, not knowing that the touch of his skin on mine is throwing me into a frenzy.

“In my decades-spanning life, I have never met a woman so passionate and determined, not only in her personal life but in her career too. She knows what she wants and goes for it without asking permission of anyone. Waking up next to her every morning really makes the 66 years I spent under the ice worth it, almost like fate. Every day I look at her and fall deeper in love, and who could really blame me. She makes me feel like the luckiest man alive, which I no doubt am. Not every woman would sit through a Patriots game just to make their partner happy.”

It takes all of my goddamn self-control, of which there isn’t a lot, to keep my jaw firmly attached and away from hitting the table. Self-control that multiple people at the table don’t see to quite possess. The sudden dryness in my throat forces a cough out of me, and I desperately hope my attempt and playing it off as a laugh at his Patriots joke is believable. But the cruel reality is that my heart is hammering against my chest faster than Steve can run, and my palms are as wet as my throat wishes it was. How did he come up with this on the spot and deliver it so effortlessly? Almost too smoothly. We didn’t rehearse this. What am I going to do next year when he doesn’t show up to the Christmas dinner with me? Keep the lie going and tell them he’s on some top-secret mission, or be forced to come clean when he finds a woman for himself? Despite it feeling like he was speaking from the heart, I have to convince myself it isn’t true. Because there sure isn’t an ounce of truth to what he said.

Steve smiles at my gran, sweet as honey, before pulling me closer and placing a soft kiss on my forehead. My heart, not heading for a cardiac arrest, skips a beat at his sudden burst of affection. But I can’t deny I love the contact, and I don’t try to stop the smile fighting its way onto my face.

There’s a brief moment of silence, before the sound of cooing attacks us from every direction. My mother actually has tears in her eyes, and I have to bite my lip to keep my own at bay, if only after seeing hers. But if anything, his lovely speech and the reactions of my loved ones reminds me of our actual relationship; two close friends, nothing less, nothing more. And it leaves an unpleasant pit in my stomach.

The poor guy barely has time to swallow, and the others to recover, before Aunt Janice takes another drink of the auburn liquid in her glass and waves her hand frantically for attention. Now that I think about it, an online ad for a fake boyfriend probably would have been less stressful.

A playful look on her face, Janice winks at him. “Your alcohol tolerance, soldier? What do ya say to an old-fashioned drinking game?”

My eyes widen instantly at her proposition. Does she realise that Steve is a superhuman? An enhanced soldier? Scientifically altered to be the perfect man. A man who could drink Asgards alcohol of the gods with no effect?

“You might not want to do that, ma’am.” Steve looks at her with amused eyes and smiles shyly, obviously not wanting to offend her, but also trying to put her off one of the bigger mistakes of her life.

I nod furiously in agreement. “Please don’t, that’s not a good idea. A really bad one actually.”

“I’m just saying, I don’t believe everything the media say. Your tolerance is surely not that high?” She presses, and I recognise that she’s one step away from pulling out a bottle of Jack for each of them. But thankfully, my grandmother chimes in, chastising her daughter.

“Janice leave the poor man alone, alcohol only lowers potency and I want to spoil my grandchildren next Christmas.”

I just about choke on my own saliva, as does my dad.

“Mom please, they need to get married first and move in together before trying for a family.” My mom shakes her head at grandma in disproval, to which grandma rolls her eyes and swats my moms hand off her shoulder, before once again setting her sights on me and Steve.

“When I was your age, Janice and Clyde were already crawling around and I was expecting with your aunt Angie. You two have a lot of catching up to do.”

I look at Steve, for reassurance or some solace, I’m not sure, but he looks more amused than worried.

“I understand ma’am. I was born during an era where you were expected to marry, settle, and have children within months of knowing one another, and at a very young age. Today’s culture did come as a shock to me.”

Before Steve has a chance to promise great grandchildren and a wedding, I slide out of my seat and take Steve’s hand in mine.

“Actually, Steve honey come help me get the presents from the car? Sorry, I only just remembered we forgot to bring them in with us.” I shoot an apologetic smile to mom and discreetly nudge him, which he thankfully takes as a hint and also stands up. I can see Mom gearing up to protest, but I just smile and pull him out of the room, right out of the front door, not bothering to take our jackets. I feel like another layer on my already flushed skin would only worsen my state.

The fresh air hits me like a beautiful slap in the face that I whole-heartedly welcome. I bask in the cold breeze for a few seconds. It does wonders calming my rampant thoughts. And the slow snowfall around me only helps more.

“See now I agree with your mom, I was also thinking marriage, house, children is a good order to do things in. I’m glad some old ideals still live in todays society.” Steve quips, his tone oozing mirth. My steely glare does nothing to stop his infections smile.

“Don’t you dare encourage them or so God help me I’ll have Stark confiscate your shield from you. This, we, aren’t real and I don’t need them getting attached to you when they’ll only ever see you on TV again.” My hands take on a life of their own as I throw them around wildly to try emphasise what I’m saying, and just how serious of a conversation this is gearing up to be. As soon as the words leave my mouth though, they feel too harsh. Wrong, even. This is a fake relationship, but it feels wrong. The lake to our left unsettles, waves on an otherwise motionless pool of water rising higher and higher, my emotions clearly affecting my powers.

His hand wraps around my clenched fist and softly begins to rub soothing circles on my knuckles, calming me down, lowering the unnatural wall of water. Looking into his eyes I don’t see the amusement I heard in his tone though, and it throws me.

“(Y/N)....” Steve glances at our intertwined hands for a few seconds. My name hangs in the air as his other hand combs through his hair. The nervous habit. We stand in silence for a few seconds as the pit in my stomach grows darker and deeper. For a reason unbeknown to me, I feel unease. Foreboding.

“(Y/N) you make me want things I can’t have.” Steve’s smile is a sad one, and it hurts me to see. But what does he mean? Is it my family since he doesn’t have his own one?

“Steve I... What?”

My mind runs rampant and wild with no signs of stopping. Where is this coming from? What brought this on?

Looking at our hands something clicks. Could he possibly be talking about us? It’s an absurd thought that I already know is wrong, yet the tingle in my stomach is persistent. Could it be? I look up at him, his soft blue eyes, and dare to hope. ”Who says you can’t?”

His eyes shoot up to mine. They search my own ones for something, anything, that might give him the idea I’m joking. I fight the urge to look away, not because I’m uncomfortable though. Purely because the intensity he’s looking at me with flares up my cheeks. His eyes flicker with defeat.

“I can’t stop thinking about you, (Y/N). Training, missions, falling asleep... Normal daily activities and I can’t commit to them. I can’t do it. I just can’t, you’re always on my mind.” His voice is low with a tinge of defeat as his thumb continues to draw circles on my knuckles.

“Buck told me to either snap out of it or grow a pair. But how could I do this to you? Bind you in a relationship when I will outlive you? Outlive even our children? I can’t do that to someone I care for. Someone I... I refuse.” His brows furrow more and more until there’s a deep shadow over his eyes. His beautiful, troubled eyes.

The words hang between us, heavy, yet relieving, almost freeing. Hopeful despite the content of them. The heat drains from my face as his words really register in my mind. Does he love me? Is he consumed by love the way I am? Has he felt this way since the first time we met, or only more recently? Does anyone else know? Does he seriously think that this decision is only up to him? Questions fly around my head, dizzying me, ones I desperately want answers to, but that can wait. His eyes haven’t budged from our hands. I can’t read him. But I have to say something. I have to for the sake of my sanity, and our relationship, whatever that may be after his declaration.

“Steve this isn’t just your choice anymore. I understand what you mean but dear God, with this logic you’re destined to live a lonely life. A long, lonely life, when you could be happy. We could be happy.” I take a step closer to him, our faces inches apart. My desperate eyes search his face for any sign of agreement, any sign that his selfless act is dissipating. He sighs and begins to shake his head no, but the cracks are there, just beneath the surface. I just need to press harder.

“Do it, take a chance. I’m begging you, Steve. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. I want this, you, us. I want the things you fed my family in there. With you.” The crack in my voice betrays my confident bravado as I begin to feel the desperation. He has to say yes. He has to. There is no way we could go back to the way we were before, not with these revelations now out in the open.

Steve gently smiles down at me, meeting my eyes with a soft look that melts my heart. I hold his unwavering stare, but the corners of my vision begin to slightly blur from the tears of desperation.

His free hand reaches up to caress my cheek and jaw. I lean into his touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Our breaths come out in short puffs of white clouds as the silence stretches out. I have to do it. Now or never.

I stretch up and before I can back out or my heart palpitations succeed in giving me a heart attack, I press my lips against his.

The exact moment our lips touch, two things happen simultaneously. First, Steve wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him with a soft groan, which threatens to stop my heart beating right on the spot. Second, the snow around us intensifies from a mere dusting to a ferocious fall that has us both grinning into the kiss like two lovesick idiots.

I don’t care for his stubble as his lips feel so soft moving against mine, tasting vaguely of alcohol and mints and that odd combination of things I can’t put my finger on that scream Steve. My fingers weave themselves into the hair at the nape of his neck. I can tell he’s being a gentleman and holding back, and I don’t push him. There’s plenty of time for that.

He breaks away from the kiss, gently resting his forehead against mine as our breaths almost drown out the sudden storm my excitement caused. His voice is soft, and I have to strain to hear him.

“I love you (Y/N).”

I don’t even try to stop the smile spreading across my lips at those words. I’ve been wanting, no yearning, to hear those words from him for years. Hoping that amidst the heat of battle he’d shout them to me in fear that we won’t live to see each other again. That perhaps at one of Tony’s extravagant parties, he would find his way to me and whisper the words only for me to hear. But this somehow feels right. The two of us at my family’s lake house, acting as fake boyfriend and girlfriend in a desperate bid to save my sanity and reputation. Waiting this long has been worth it.

“I love you too, Steve.”

We’re both stand in the snowfall for a few minutes, grinning at each other like idiots. Relishing in the words we've both been silently begging to hear.

“Let’s head back before you grandmother starts picking out baby names.”

Hand in hand, the two of us head back inside to face my family once again, however this time it’s different. This time we don’t have to pretend.

#chris evans #chris evans x reader #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers imagines #chris evans imagine #chris evans one shot #avengers #marvel #clint barton #bruce banner #love #avengers x reader

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josiebelladonna · 1 year

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trying this yet again because i’m tired. 18+ please.

Would you say that you have or have not had a strong sexual drive in your life? How does and did this level of sexual drive affect your intimate relationships?

I’m going to try really hard and not be negative with these, because I’m exhausted. Insecurity and no confidence are no joke and not something easily fixed by telling me I need to exude confidence or to “just be myself” because those pieces of advice are anything but helpful. And we wonder why I get so angry about it. These are meant to help me and meant to let me audit this part of me, this part of me that I have never loved or felt proud of before.

Looking over the last thirty years and I guess I let my own insecurities get the best of me—this shit always happens to me, too. Despite wavering and ebbing and flowing like the tides, I actually have had a very strong sex drive in my life: I just think about how boy crazy I am, how my eyes wander onto girls, and how I always have been nuts about it since I hit puberty. It’s only gotten bigger as I’ve gotten bigger, too.

Thing is I never know what to do with it. I could never picture anyone liking what they saw with me, so I always keep it to myself. I was so disinterested in the people, boys and girls, at my school that I never could do anything: being treated like dirt by your own peers since you were ten years old, yeah, expect to check out all together. There have actually been a few times I thought I was lesbian because I am really intrigued by the female form and to be honest, there are times I’m actually drawn to it more than I am men’s bodies and I wonder what lesbian sex would feel like. I never could experiment because of my environment: being openly lgbtq+ where I grew up was like suicide, yes, even in California.

There were no resources and I was too ashamed to talk about it anyway. I just told people I was straight because I didn’t want them to know this part of me. But… I do love men, though. I really love men, actually. I think men are absolutely gorgeous. I fantasize about men all the time. Hell, I have a crush on a man right now. So, I thought I was bi for a while and then I started seeing nonbinary people with really beautiful bodies. Ran around in circles and I eventually landed on pansexual. It’s good to know that there’s a name for it, but I still hold back. I can’t picture myself with someone, no matter what gender they are, who knows how to put a handle on this… this… thing that is my libido.

What struggles have you had with your sexuality?

Way too many to list. Way too many. I guess the big one is just being comfortable with it, to the point of genuinely angering me. I reject my desires, like I don’t find them normal or pleasurable. I don’t find myself as all that attractive, either. When I was a teenager, no one ever made a pass on me. Girls didn’t like me, boys were either taken or they didn’t give a shit. I didn’t actually start getting looks until fairly recently, like two years ago.

I have this very distinct memory from high school—I don’t remember the context, may have been for spirit week, I have no clue—there was a day where we all had to dress up in either red, yellow, or green, like the stoplights: red for “taken”, green for single, and yellow for “talking”. I remember I used to have green pants and I wore those plus my Green Day shirt. I got to school… and I’m not exaggerating. I was the only person wearing green. I was just in a sea of red with a few yellow spots here and there. I remember people staring at me, too, like judging me, like, how fucking dare I walk around out here advertising my singleness. If I recall correctly, it wasn’t just students, either, I had a couple of teachers look at me funny, too.

In what ways do you nurture your personal sense of sexuality, and/or sexual relationships?

I draw. I write. …I live on a mountain top, 20 minutes away from a trump bastion. it’s not like I have a ton of options.

I like to wear jewel tones and low-slung jeans: I do not like high-waisted jeans or shorts because they cut me in half and bunch up around my crotch and my butt (every. single. time); I really just… don’t get the appeal and why everyone clutches at themselves at the mere mention of anything low-rise. I like camisoles. I like pajamas. I like underwear: as much as I cringe at the thought of wearing lingerie, I do like just wearing a bra, and I do have a teddy in my closet, too. I like to wear jeans: I have never felt good in a dress before. I dunno, it’s a bitch to walk around in and sit in, and I hate how the skirt always wants to blow up (I’ve lived in windy areas my whole life). After a shower, I let my hair hang down for a few hours before I brush it: if I haven’t showered in a few days, I comb my bangs up into this pompadour upon my head so I have this Elvis/Dennis Miller thing going until I feel like climbing in. I like tops that are low-cut and are a bit snug: I really don’t mind if they ride up my body a bit. Only makeup I have is chapstick and nail polish: when I was little, I’d put on lipstick and eyeshadow and mascara but I never could get into it, though. I always look over made. “You’d be so much prettier, though!” Heh, nope. Even just a little bit makes me look like I just walked out of the circus.

Write about your first sexual experiences. Interpret sexual experience any way like, even it’s about you first kiss.

(Resisting the urge to be angry, even though I kind of am annoyed just reading this)

I guess there was the first time I touched myself. I was in front of a mirror and I opened my legs and looked at myself there. I touched my clit the first time and I remember it really tickled me. I felt my labia and even stuck a finger or two in.

And then naturally, I got caught.

Write about your last sexual experience. How was it different from your first sexual experience?

I guess this could be the last time I touched myself: I was standing up and had my underwear on that time (just to play around a bit). Did very little but then I moved to my nipples and I was starting to go nuts a bit. I also tried between the legs again naked, with a shower head, and that really did something. So, I guess what I’m trying to say is I’ve gotten a lot more sensitive as I’ve gotten older.

What were you taught about sex as you grew up? What did you not know that you needed to know?

Sex ed from middle school onwards, plus I was told that guys just want to get in my pants by my drug addict father. I was never told about pleasure or anything good or that kinks are good or the range of sexual orientations or anything genuinely useful. Just your standard “insert penis into vagina” and that was it. I was also bombarded by these messages of “don’t be promiscuous or a slut, don’t get a reputation” and it was always in junction with being ladylike.

How has your views of sex changed over time?

Gone from free to repressed to “I don’t want this, ever” back to free back to repressed to disgusted, really just all over the damn place.

Describe a sexual fantasy you have.

Let’s see: Love is Not Enough, Blood & Chocolate, Pitch Black, Like Blood From a Stone, the one shots in eclipse, black moon, eerie inhabitants/my vampire fics, Chave do Mar, last day in paradise, the one shots in paraselenae, The Apple Shed, and As the Seasons Grey, are all self-indulgent fantasy. Hell, now that I remember it, there were some chapters in fever that felt like fantasy, namely the chapter where Sam and Alex are at the Bristlecone Pine Forest and also the final chapter when the fever finally erupts into flame. I remember there were some chapters of now it’s dark that were fantasy, namely whenever Joey was in Black Orchid.

Turn a sexual experience into a piece of short fiction. Describe the setting. Use dialogue. Write erotic description.

Judge me forever.

Write about the best sex partner you have ever been with. Describe a special time together.

So… I’m a virgin.

What changes if any would you like to make about your sexual self?

I really want more confidence and freedom, and I’m wary of saying that, too, because I know what the answer is going to be. It’s going to be this bullshit, hackneyed, so-called “advice” that’s only going to piss me off. But, aside from the changes in career, I have had my boundaries disrespected by family, friends, peers, classmates, everyone. Everyone apparently thinks it’s okay to invalidate my feelings and my choices, and that it’s okay to make fun of me when I change my mind and think it over again.

Take the whole thing with makeup: girls often asked me why I don’t wear it. “I just don’t,” and also “I don’t like the way it feels on my skin”. Cue the “there’s natural makeup” and the “you’d look so much prettier with it”. I GAVE YOU AN ANSWER.

Write a sexual confession to your partner or someone you admire. Be straight forward or as kinky as you would like.

So, this took me about an hour to write up because I initially came up dry and then I found myself in a very vulnerable position when I started thinking about what I… really wish I could tell you everything I feel about you. I have so much fear around how I feel about you, and I really, really don’t know how you’ll react to this should you ever see it. I’m not confident in my words. I could lose you. I could push you away. I think my desires are terrifying and gross, and I just don’t know what to say to you most of the time: really, I feel like I’m bullshitting with you all of the time because you’re so intelligent and cool and content and seem to have everything together… and I’m not. I feel like I’m just not worth your time most days: there are far more women out there who are far more interesting than me, women who are better than me, like they have degrees and they’re accomplished. What have I done?

I look into your eyes, those deep blue eyes, as blue and deep as the Pacific Ocean. I look at your handsome face, how it gets more handsome when you’re smiling. I look at your beautiful hair, at how it’s two-toned and soft-looking: I look at your hair from when you were younger and I want to play with it. Don’t cut your hair short again: it was cute, but you look so gorgeous and more “yourself” with long hair (it suits your face better, too). No, you don’t need to lose weight: you look so healthily plump with a little tummy.

I think of kissing you there, touching you and holding you around your full waist, especially after you’ve eaten.

I think of cuddling with you—I love to cuddle and be warm and safe.

I think of touching you below the belt, of feeling and fondling you there: I have often considered that tummy rubs lead to handjobs, and tummy kisses lead to blowjobs. I think of you doing the same to me: that velvet tongue on the insides of my thighs; those long spindly fingers on my clit or around the rim of my belly button or around my nipples, those soft cherry lips on my skin…

I think of making out with you, just really slow, soft, sensual love-making where we’re close and feeling each other.

I think about some of the erotic fics I’ve penned about you, especially the really kinky ones, and I can’t help but want a few of them to come to life (like voice kink: I meant it when I said I love your voice).

I think of role playing with you: you’re the hot professor or scientist, especially now that you have glasses. Or we’re vampires or merfolk.

I also just think of kissing you, giving you a little peck on the cheek or the neck for being such a sweetie. You’re kind of everything that I’ve dreamed of, everything I love in another person, and if I’m being honest, you don’t even seem real sometimes because you really are that perfect to me.

What would you like to learn about your sexual self?

Why do I never attract the types that I like—I’ll admit it, too, I have a type (boys with long hair, artistic types who are liberal but have an open mind, smart ones, sweet ones, kind of round ones, curvy women, slender women, women with dyed hair, women with something unusual about them like bright eyes with dark skin). My facebook is littered with people I have no connection with, like there’s only a few that I really do consider friends.

What part of your sexuality seems the most mysterious to you?

Those lesbian thoughts I keep having. Even with as much as I love men, I can’t help but feel aroused by women as well.

And also why I keep coming back to this. Why did I keep my incredibly high sex drive under wraps when sexual energy is incredibly powerful.

When you hesitate to write something, what reminder can you give yourself to be as completely honest as you can, both factually and emotionally?

“I have nothing to compare myself to”.

What, if anything, about sex distresses you?

I worry about getting pregnant, and I’ve always known that this is why I’m so bored with regular old penetrative sex, and why I feel genuinely repulsed by the affluence of it in fanfic: it’s the weirdest thing to me, it’s like everyone has baby fever, whereas I don’t want children. Plus, I’m just genuinely grossed out by the thought of being filled with cum.

My poor stomach has been through a lot, too: I worry about having to run to the bathroom because my own erotic tendencies are sending my digestive system into overdrive.

What change would you like to make in your sexual behavior?

Confidence—I don’t think for one second that I add anything to someone’s life.

What change would you like to make in your sexual attitudes or thoughts?

I wish I could be more open with them and not feel like they’re weird or gross.

What change would you like to make in your sexual emotions or feelings?

Same story there. Plus, I don’t want to be invalidated.

What memories came to mind from the previous questions?

Let’s see… my crying to my dad about feeling lost after I moved back to California and him being incredibly insensitive and telling me to “exude confidence” and accusing me of being an alcoholic (when I can easily tell you that I’m not) rather than be a shoulder to cry on, listen to me and give me space and tell me I’m not wrong for feeling this way. You know. Be a man and comfort the most important woman in your life.

All the times I was asked “why do you do this?” and I’d give a legit answer and then they would respond with unsolicited advice or opinions.

This isn’t sexual, but one time, I cried in front of my paternal grandmother and she rolled her eyes at me. That side of the family just never cared about me.

All the times I showed any emotion and no one knew how to react… or worse, they wouldn’t leave me alone to the point of harassing me.

Nothing good or happy. I was never allowed to be myself.

What do you like most about your current partner? Least?

I’m a virgin.

Make three (or more) sexual wishes. Don't hold back!

I wish I could talk about this freely. I wish I was hot. I wish I was accepted. I wish I belonged. I wish I didn’t have to worry. I wish I couldn’t feel hysterical laughter whenever I say I’m a virgin.

Make a list of your sexual partners and write a few phrases to describe the relationship. What patterns do you see?

I’m a fucking virgin.

If you have a sexual partner now, write about this relationship. What works for you in this sexual relationship? What would you like to change?

Starting to sound like a broken record, I AM A VIRGIN!

Describe what your ideal sexual relationship would look like today.

You know, I’ve thought about this over and over again, and I still can’t picture this. It’s beyond my reach and my own realm to even imagine a regular old romance. But a sexual relationship? No. I can’t picture this.

I’d say maybe something with polyamory given I’m polyamorous, but that’s about where it starts and ends, though.

If you have been sexually dissatisfied, what has kept you in the relationship?

Doesn’t apply.

Are you able to ask your partner for what you want sexually? How do you do that?

The two times I have ever been out on a date, plus the time I cybered, I had the absolute worst time telling them about what I wanted. Well, for starters, the dates were first dates: even I can tell you that you don’t reveal too much too soon because that can push them away. It wasn’t like I could tell them anyway. But the second date, i.e., the time I was fixed up, I could feel that pressure, like… if this went past the first day, I would have to tell him. And I had no connection with him. I was bored sitting there next to him.

As for the time I cybered… I’m just going to assume that the first time is always awkward.

If you have difficulty asking for what you want, what are you telling yourself that makes asking difficult?

“Will they really know what I’m talking about?”

What are your sexual limits with your partner?

I don’t want to be filled with cream. No, I’m completely turned off at the thought of being pregnant. I’m almost mortified by it, actually: use a condom or pull out, or let’s use our hands or mouths.

I like a little pain… not too much, though. I like little nibbles or scratches down the back, or spanking.

No piss or shit, and none of that “daddy” nonsense, either.

What sexual behavior won't you do or would do only under certain conditions? Write about those to clarify your boundaries.

(see the tidbit with pain) Please don’t overdo it. My body is actually very sensitive and too much pain is too much.

As repulsed as I am by the idea of having penetrative sex, if there’s protection involved, I actually might reconsider.

I don’t like it too rough: I’m slow and sensual for the most part, but a little quickness goes a long way if I think about it.

In what way might your relationship with your partner deepen or improve by talking openly about sex?

Hang-ups about… noonewantingtobeinarelationshipwithme aside, I really feel like an open conversation could help a relationship. For me, it’s a “make or break” type thing: if they aren’t comfortable with it, they probably aren’t for you. If they’re curious, but they’re like me and they aren’t comfortable or sure in their sexuality, make them feel safe. Put your arm around them and help them because it’s very daunting, especially when you see they’re alone because everyone is either disrespectful and patronizing or “too busy”. Make it make sense for them.

Can you recall your first discovery of sexual fantasy? What was it about?

All I know is I was very young and I didn’t understand what was happening, either.

Write out three of your favorite sexual fantasies. If this is new to you, make one up now.

Here, here, and here. Speaking of which, I gotta update those latter two 😅

How have you used your sexual fantasies up until now?

Nope.

What began as a fantasy that you later took into action?

The time I told Alex I’m in love with his voice. It was way before I wrote voice kink one shot in eclipse, too. That one in particular was so much fun to write—kind of tricky, but fun, though.

What sexual fantasies work the best to arouse you?

I was pretty aroused writing Chave do Mar: Alex as a merman with a long shark tail, smooth milky skin, and black curls tousled over his shoulder. Same with Blood & Chocolate, too: Alex being over fed and it shows up on his body. The Black Orchid scenes from now it’s dark were pretty hot, too, when I think back to writing them: Joey surrounded by burlesque strippers.

Have you shared your sexual fantasies with a friend? What was the reaction?

…it’s pretty across the board.

Have you shared your sexual fantasies with a lover? What was the reaction?

I don’t know if I could be courageous enough to do that.

How important is it for you to share your sexual fantasies? What are your reasons for sharing or not? Does sharing fantasies break their "spell"?

You know that fanfic meme that talks about writing your dream fanfic filled with all your fantasies and dreams but choosing not to and keeping it locked away in your mind because you want it to yourself? Yeah, I don’t relate to that at all. I write them out because I want to make sense of them for the most part. I honestly don’t care if no one sees them, either, because I’ve never really seen my fantasies as all that mystifying: just these weird little scenes that roll around inside me and whether they face the light of day is up to me.

What, if anything, do you find distressing about your sexual thoughts or fantasies? Write about that to clarify it for yourself.

I don’t think they’re all that special or gossip-worthy or revolutionary or life-changing. They just… are what they are.

I think the one thing that’s distressing about them is how they almost always have an element of science fiction to them: I live in an imaginary world and to bring these out would defy the laws of science. They’re just not physically possible.

If you could say three things to the world about the nature of your personal sexuality and really be heard, understood, and accepted, what would you say?

I look and identify as female but I’m queer, plus I’m pansexual and polyamorous. Get used to it.

Please respect my boundaries and my choices. I don’t wear makeup because I just don’t want to, I didn’t ask for you to goad me into it because you think I’ll look prettier. I don’t wear dresses because I just don’t want to, I didn’t ask for you to tell me I look prettier when I wear one.

Make me feel safe and comfortable because… I never have felt safe to express this part of me. I have always felt judged, looked down upon, and made to feel small. We’re supposedly all about supporting women and their agency, demands, desires, et cetera… stop picking and choosing. What turns me on and what I find sexy is going to be radically different to what you find sexy and this does not give you the right to laugh at me or call it “cute” when I don’t intend it to be.

When was the first time you experienced feelings of arousal and what triggered those feelings? What did you think of it at the time? What was your emotional response to those feelings?

Like I said, I was very small. May have been from me sitting in front of the mirror and touching myself, I have no clue. I didn’t understand what was happening, either, or why the adults in the room freaked the fuck out over it, either.

The first time I wore a shirt that showed off my belly is another one: I was like four or five, and it felt right to me. Naturally, I was told that this is not okay.

Describe your first sexual encounter. How old were you? Was it consensual? If not, what resources have you used to help heal from that encounter? If it was consensual, what did that experience mean to you at the time?

So, I’ve talked about this, how it was cybersex that started life as a tangent during a serious conversation in the wake of tragedy, and—it almost didn’t mean anything to me at the time, especially since it started as a joke to lighten the mood a bit. Almost, anyway: I didn’t see it as this huge deal like, “oh my gorsh, I just had cybersex!!” But at the same time, I’m always hesitant to talk about it because it hinges on something bad happening (Dan Wheldon was killed and the boy I talked to saw him as his hero, and I talked with him for hours, and it went the way it did). This is something that’s showed up in a number of my fanfics, and it has gotten me called disgusting, too.

Who was your first romantic, sexual partner? What about him or her appealed most to you? What did you hope would happen with that relationship?

I wish I could answer this. Aside from the above, I’ve never had a boyfriend. Almost 30 years old and I have never even been kissed. I’ll admit it, it’s pathetic. I got sick and tired of hearing “oh, you’ll find love some day” when I was 17, and now I know in my heart it won’t ever happen. Really, I could have confidence through the fucking roof and no one will want any of this. Whoever said “everyone has sex” has obviously never met me. It’s so exploitative, too: this unfair assumption that way too many people have had about me and it only makes me hate myself.

Do you believe that sex and emotional intimacy are linked, or is it possible to have a sexual relationship without emotional attachment? What experiences influence your answer?

Linked but not exclusive, though. Casual sex is a thing, plus you can be emotionally attached but not want it; please don’t believe everything you see on Twitter (especially now).

If you could have the perfect sex life right now, what would that look like?

Something that lets me go about with my polyamory, I guess? I’m able to be with a man and a woman, or two men and a woman. (I’m just pulling stuff out of my ass here, tbh).

How do you define “awesome” sex (i.e. what makes sex better than good)?

Give me everything I want and maybe something the other person likes, like we’re all pleased—notice I said “all” and not just “both”.

How do you feel about PDA? (You can take this as far as “kinks in public,” too.)

Can’t stand it. Can’t stand seeing it, can’t stand the thought of it happening to me (insecurity and hang-ups might have something to do with that when I think about it), some things are just better left in private. As for kinks in public, though? I don’t know, that seems a bit much.

What do you think about when you masturbate?

Last time I did, I didn’t think about anything other than how funny my lips look.

What are your sure-fire turn-ons (and/or turn-offs)?

Turn-ons: touches on my head (you know when you get a haircut and they wash your hair really well beforehand? No joke, that genuinely arouses me). Touches on my breasts, especially my dark-ass nipples. Touches on my belly, especially around my belly button because it’s technically scar tissue. Fingers on my lips—not sure about tongues, though. Touches on my thighs and my knees (yes). Touches on my ankles. I like soft touch. I like being held. I like fantasy. I like intelligence. I like sweetness. I’m all about feeling and being close.

What are your thoughts about porn?

I still don’t see it as exploitative. One complaint I do have with it is unrealistic expectations. No guy is like that. No girl is like that.

What are your thoughts on foreplay? Favorite types? Best experiences? Wishes?

It’s so underrated. A few kisses or hickeys on a sensitive spot like on the neck or the belly, or fingers on the labia and lips on the thighs can take you a long way, and I can say that just from my own writing.

What parts of your lover’s body are you most drawn to? (If you don’t currently have a lover, feel free to consider past or future lovers.)

My eyes have always wandered to the middle of the body, their belly their hips and their thighs. I like it when it’s nice and slender, like I want to put arms around them there and feel them up, and of course, I like it when it’s a little full and round there (like a nice chubby little belly but he’s healthy as a horse). I like a little chub, and I think some people just look a lot better with it: it makes me want to touch and feel, and they look kind of… I want to say “juicy”. Looking nice and tasty—

If you were to “recreate” the early days of your favorite sexy relationship, what would they look like? Would you change anything?

It’s weird to think that I can actually answer this: I don’t think I would change anything. Maybe I could have been a little more upfront with him about how I feel about him earlier on because I just think about that one night in March-ish 2021, but there was a point to that, though. I wanted to ease into it, and there had to be some sort of opportunity to find with him because I see people hitting on him all the time, and I always think I’m being inappropriate with him, oh my god 🫣.

The beauty of it being online is it’s kind of the whole entire point to it.

Really, if Alex and I take it offline, we lose the clandestine nature of watching each other on stories or him fanboying over me like he’s a teenage kid again. Although I will say this: if it’s taken offline, given I’m a cuddler and very touchy-feely and sensual… I don’t know about him, but…

What do you want more of in your sex life?

A sex life? I feel like I’m boring and underwhelming, like you would think that someone who identifies as pansexual and polyamorous and has a high sex drive would have at least one conquest but… I’ve just never been respected or built up or even seen. Plus, there’s this whole thing about how women are not supposed to chase, either.

Would you ever visit a sex therapist? What would be the reason and what do you think their advice would be for you?

I’m on the fence. No, because my only real problem is the feeling of safety and wanting to be comfortable. And yes because sometimes a second opinion can help.

Is there anything about sex that embarrasses you, causes shame or fear, or makes you nervous? Or…what’s the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you during sex?

My fear of pregnancy plus I worry about shitting myself.

That first time you’re naked in front of them strikes me as nerve-racking, too, like that’s the moment of truth right there: when they see you naked the first time.

What do you tend to fantasize or dream about when it comes to sex? What kinds of porn or kink are you drawn to?

My fantasies are very sensual, almost artsy. There’s a lot of emotion involved, too, even if it’s casual, I still imagine so much emotion in there. (When you say, “sexuality isn’t my whole shtick” but you take a closer look and realize that yes, it very much is 😳)

If you were to create a sexy playlist intended for a hot date at home, what would be on it?

When my computer gets fixed, I’ll try this on my Spotify.

What are your love languages and how do they apply to your sexual needs? What about your lover?

30% physical touch, 27% quality time, 20% words of affirmation, 13% gift giving, 10% acts of service.

I want touch but no one is touching me.

How do you feel about being naked?

No opinion. It just … is what it is. I don’t fixate on flaws (I never could, either, even with my troubled relationship with myself), nor do I see it as a beautiful thing: it just it what it is. I take care of myself but that’s about it. What do you do with it. Why is this controversial.

Now, when I think about being naked with someone else, that’s where the fear comes in. I don’t think i’m a “prize” at all.

What’s your favorite way to be seduced?

You put your guitar on your lap, you brush your hair really nice, you have this little twinkle in your eye like you’re up to no good or you’re secretly going commando out of camera, you have a glass of wine in hand, and you talk in a very soft, husky voice when I ask you about your underwear.

Do you have any trust issues surrounding sex or your sexual relationship(s)?

A feeling of safety is a running theme here. I want to feel safe and comfortable… and I never have felt safe enough to even so much as look at a guy or a girl.

What do you look like, and sound like, when sex feels good for you?

Whenever I write something erotic, every so often I have to stop myself and close my eyes because I feel things moving. I get really quiet (everyone talks about screaming during sex: I’m the exact opposite, I get really quiet) and my hands start itching for the feeling. I bite my lip a lot, too—sometimes I do that without even thinking, like it just happens. It’s a long slow burn with me.

What is the most sexually daring thing you’ve ever done?

Flirted with Alex on stories. I’ve always sucked at flirting (I once went for five years without flirting with anyone because I suck so hard at it), let alone with a guy like him.

Any time I post risqué art on instagram because they’re complete pricks with that sort of thing.

When now it’s dark was being written and I posted those ink drawings on instagram (completely oblivious to the fact Joey was watching me).

There was also one time in school one of my friends had his pants hanging down a bit and I tried to pants him and he caught me. I did get to pinch his butt when no one was looking, though.

In your opinion, what does it mean to be good in bed?

When everyone is pleased and had their kinks out in the open. I think.

Have you ever had sex in a public place?

Sarcasm aside, why would I do this?

When and how did you lose your virginity, and how did you feel about it? How do you feel about it now?

Still a virgin here.

Have you ever had sex with more than one person at a time, watched others have sex, been watched? If not, would you?

I’m polyamorous so I’d definitely try it. As for voyeurism… maybe I’d like to be watched? Don’t know about watching others, though.

How often do you masturbate and what works best for you?

I go for long stretches of time without doing it, because I get bored with it. I’ve done it sitting down, standing up, on my back, stooped over, topless, with my pants on, in the shower, in bed… all with my fingers. Toys are one of my biggest hang ups: I used a vibrator one time and I threw it away immediately because it made me uncomfortable. At least with my fingers, I know where it’s coming from. But toys? I don’t know, I’m not really excited by the thought of sticking a piece of silicone or glass or plastic up my vagina or onto my clit. I’ve thought about it, for sure, because I’ve changed since that first time.

Maybe I’m just not trying enough, but I look at some on lingerie sites like Spencer’s or wherever, and I shake my head in disgust.

“Find one that’s best for you”, they tell me. Yeah, but nothing here is jumping out at me.

What are you most grateful or thankful for in your sex life?

Can’t say that I’m grateful at all. I’m all about finding joy and pleasure, and I have never found it here. Only pain.

What is your favorite sexual position, and why?

Amazon and doggy style, I guess. Amazon because I’m on top, but it’s also submissive. doggy style is like that, too, but the other way around.

Have you ever had an “inappropriate” crush? What was it about that person that drew you in, and what made it “not okay”?

All my crushes have been inappropriate lol

They all have been either older, or unavailable in some way like already taken or not interested.

I was never drawn to people at my school, so I looked beyond the borders: older people fit that bill for me.

Have you (or would you) ever tried role play? What roles are you drawn to?

I like fantasy and scifi characters (see my merfolk and vampire kinks; aliens and robots, too), and—you can blame you-know-who for this, too—I like the “sexy nerd” trope, too (the hot librarian or the hot scientist or the hot professor).

Are you more dominant or submissive (or a bit of both)?

I’d say “domme” but I’m definitely both. Yes, even with as much as I hate the female role and find it restrictive, there’s a sub in me.

How do you feel about your own body?

My hair, though very long, down to the halfway point of my thighs, is very thin at the crown of my head. I’m starting to grow out my bangs and I’m starting to get this Jeff Becerra c. Seven Churches look now.

I have a large head. A round face. Sharp eyebrows akin to Madonna or Zendaya’s eyebrows. A small nose. Brown eyes and coarse, wiry dark hair with blonde streaks and a reddish sheen. A thick bull neck and a slight double under my rounded chin. I get this weird growth of hair under my chin—weird because it’s like a Fu Manchu sort of thing in that it grows in two patches. Yeah, under my chin, too, so it gets really itchy and it’s a bitch to pluck.

Broad shoulders with soft collar bones. Lanky arms with slightly warped forearms—first time i gave blood, the nurse had to stick the needle in almost over the joint rather than in the pivot of my elbow; “knock-elbowed” as my mom calls it. Chubby little hands that are almost like paws. Soft skin but I can’t picture anyone wanting to touch it, though.

40ddd chest. A belly covered in stretch marks and was round even when I was thin: it’s even fuller and rounder now. Wide hips and thick thighs—my whole body is thick, though, my measurements are 55-43-57. I gain weight easily, almost way too easily—now you know the source of my anorexia and extreme angst.

My lips are small. And plain. And smooth. They just… are what they are.

I got fat knees. My lower legs are nothing to write home about, neither are my ankles. Slender, bony feet with toes that look like they just came off someone else’s feet.

This body is… I don’t know. Parents call me beautiful but if my piss-poor track record with my peers and crushes and this whole thing here is anything to go by… it should be clear that I have trouble seeing this myself. I only started actually getting hit on very recently, and looking at my appearance when I was a teenager, I did not look good at all. It makes sense that no one ever made a pass on me and I was the only one wearing green.

How sorry do you have to feel for a person having sex with you?

Kind of want to say “not at all” but I’m a virgin so I really have no idea.

Could someone know you sexually, properly know you, and still like you?

If you know me sexually, would you be willing to like me?

#personal #sexuality #journaling #text #lgbtq

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thejuliawhitewrites · 3 months

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Excerpt from 'The King Cometh' Chapter 20

"Do you remember the last time we were all up here?" Yusei asked as his eyes scanned the desert while he still could.

"It was the morning after my coronation. I'll never forget it," Atem answered with a soft smile. He planted both hands on the parapet and let out a contented sigh.

"Everyone was still asleep and we three idiots were on the roof," Jaden grinned. "The sun was barely up but the three of us sure were.”

"I don't think I went to sleep, to be honest," Yusei chuckled. “Maybe a twenty-minute power nap, but not sleep.”

"I know I didn't," Atem said with a nod and a blush. He’d spent the night making love to Seto after they’d escaped the festivities and spoke their vow. Best night of no sleep ever.

“I got a couple hours sleep, but I’m pretty sure I was still drunk when I woke up,” Jaden recalled, wincing a little at the memory. “Jehu had the worst hangover; I’d never seen him act like such a baby before.”

“I didn’t see Alto at all the next day, he was being such a pain in the ass about his hangover,” Yusei laughed. “Egyptian wine knocked all of us the fuck out. There was not a single Atlantean who was okay the day after your coronation.”

“Well, I mean, that’s what you get for never partying as hard as we did,” Atem teased, sticking out his tongue for good measure.

“Ain’t no party like an Egyptian party because an Egyptian party don’t stop until everyone is black-out drunk and passed out on the floor,” Jaden sang, giving both men a cheeky grin. They all shared a really good laugh.

~*~

I can't tell you how happy I am to finally post this drawing. I finished it months ago but I wasn't able to put it up until now. But we're here, chapter 20 is finally up and the end is in sight. The worst part of this was redrawing all the Atlantean's tattoos. When I designed them, I thought they looked sick. When I redrew them I hated myself LMAO! But I think this came out really well. I absolutely learned a lot since I finished this so maybe one day I'll redo it. But for now, it is done~

#yugioh #yugioh fanart #my fanfiction #yugioh fanfiction #fanfic #writers #writers on tumblr #ao3 writer

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whenyouaredonespn · 1 year

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A bit of Self Indulgence from the Artist:

So I wasn’t happy with the end of Supernatural. For what little my opinion on things like that matters; I hold no illusions. Though I did watch from pilot to finale for 15 years as it aired, It's my favorite show- full stop. I’m also one of the fans that other fans tend to hate. Though It had some truly amazing and great moments in later seasons, I feel it peaked in Season 5 and never truly rose to that height again. (holds up a shield to block incoming fruit.) Though there were several times it got very close. (The Demon trials, and Amara for example. Dean’s monologue in the church is maybe my favorite moment in all of TV. Possibly all of Fiction. There I go contradicting myself.

At around the same time the show was ending, I was trying to figure out something to work on, something to draw- I needed a project. But I was also so far out of the game that I had no contacts to hit up for a story or script. I was also about three years into a five year artist block which was the result of intense burnout. So I decided to make a fan comic based on Supernatural. It's something that I always wanted to see. Like the post-TV Buffy comics I felt and still feel that SPN would make a great comic. It could get bigger and more over the top. Without constraints of things like budget, actor schedules, make up or special effects or the need to fill up over 20 hours of run time with around ten hours of content. This is stated with full knowledge that there are indeed SPN comics- I have read a lot of them. Some are good, some are… not- (I won’t presume this to be one or the other) BTW to this day Dustin Nguyen’s covers are my favorite pieces of Supernatural art ever made.

This fan comic is NOT a “how it should have ended” It's just a scene that always sort of played out in my head. I always wanted them to go out like Thelma and Louise, or Butch and Sundance; no way out but through, launching the car into oblivion, sacrificing themselves while saving the world. I’m a sucker for that trope. (Buffy Season 5- also where it peaked) I also always wanted to see a BIG Monster- we got hints at times. SPN skirted up next to the Elder Gods once or twice- there were tentacles and big looming shadows in the distance.

If you imagine a story-line where the threat is a bunch of monsters (Capital M- mutated, lizard tail raptor clawed demon creatures instead of just black eyed people- though they are there as well) wreaking havoc on the world and eventually culminating in a Cthulu like hellbeast rising from the depths. What follows is the usual arc of them trying to figure out how to take it out. The usual wins and losses, starts and stops until they figure out what weapon will do the job, then it's acquiring the weapon. Finally stabby stabby. If that is the season- this is the last fifteen minutes of the finale episode.

In this alternate timeline or multiversal offramp, Chuck and Amaara effed off to some celestial beach somewhere, drinking mai tais and promptly not Giving a crap about Earth (Or doing the absolute very least required) Jack came and did his thing, and now Team Freewill is Sam Dean Cas and Jack. That's really all you need to know.

Finally, if you'll allow me to get personal… It took this thing about two years to make. No- not because it took me that long to draw 20 pages, but because I shelved it. The truth is multifaceted and long-winded. Suffice to say that burn-out is real, artist block is real. This is the first thing that I have completed in over five years. That in itself is the reason I made it, I needed the win, and this thing was about 60 percent done two months ago. Before I started yet ANOTHER new project, I was determined to FINISH SOMETHING; anything. The road of my artistic Journey is flanked by too many corpses of unfinished and shelved projects. Things that were taken too far to be just left unfinished. Like putting a book down with a single chapter left and never picking it up again. It's a source of shame and this is the win I need.

I Hope you like it. Or at least think it's nice to look at.

Hobbs

PS. A final note on the art. I wasn’t going for likenesses, I was trying to portray them as comic characters first- iconography. If Dean looks like Jensen at times and so on, that's great, but I wasn’t aiming for that per se. Castiel’s true form is based on multiple fanart conceptions. Basically he’s just a “draw this in your style”.

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theofficialpeanutgallery · 4 years

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Merry Christmas, @angeedogee! I heard you like Fenro!

For the @ducktalessecretsanta2019 exchange.

This isn’t my best work, sorry, but I do like how Gyro’s eyes turned out. Actually, scratch that his whole face is priceless.

Lil’ Bulb’s on Manny’s shoulder holding the fishing pole with the mistletoe on it, as is tradition lol.

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chiwhorei · 3 years

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the folly of man

pairing: e. todoroki x fem!reader

genre: smut, 18+ minors dni

word count: ~2.6k

tags: the softest!enji there ever was, crybabie!reader, age gap (20ish vs. 50), d/s dynamics, belly bulge, squirting, overstim, daddy kink, size kink, dacryphilia, a spank, breeding kink, creampie, i am dramatic and clinically melancholy so it’s a little angsty but it’s really just unabashed, self-indulgent fluff

a/n: i screamed about soft!enji to @messwriting a few weeks ago, then the other night enji took me to paris and wrecked my shit in my dreams. the result? complete self-indulgence. i will not be taking criticism on my desire to fuck this man, he is a drawing. (the banner image is from the lonely doll by dare wright, if you know this book we probably have very similar issues sksksksksk)

hymn: angel by finneas

“Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss,” ~ John Milton, Paradise Lost

He swears it’s your quirk that got him. Grabbed him by the collar, stole his soul from his chest— you swiped it right from his rib cage.

You sit across from him, legs folded under each other and pen pressing against your lips. Is it your lips? Or the way words curl past them?

A siren’s call in the form of a 20-something journalist. He hates the likes— prodding for sound bites and snippets to plaster across front pages. But your figure buckles in on itself, nerves weighing down the fabric of a light pink blouse and tight-yet-tasteful pencil skirt. Your presence is gentle and honeyed, it feels warm where Enji is usually burning hot.

Your fever spreads across his cheeks and nose.

“I’m sorry, sir, did you need me to repeat the question?”

Your bottom lip trembles nervously, pulled in between your teeth to gnaw on. Freshly graduated and on your very first assignment, it seemed hilarious to send the newly minted recruit into a white-hot tongue lashing.

“Mr. Number One has chewed the head off of every reporter in Japan, it’s a right of passage.”

The echo of your colleague’s stifled laugh rings in your ear as you stare back, you scan over the small wrinkles by his eyes and the jagged scar across his face. The silvered skin curves around his features like atonement. There’s something about the prolific hero that seems to pull you towards him. You grab the side of your chair so as to not fall forward right into his orbit.

Any attempt at distance was doomed from the beginning.

He shakes his head, eyes darting from either of yours to find the question you asked him. He coughs awkwardly, nodding his head for you to continue. Any desire to snap at you dissolves into the carpet with the very first laugh. You let out a small, tinkling giggle against better judgement that cracks the glassed tension.

“What is your biggest inspiration?”

The question hangs in the air a moment before a rehearsed answer falls from his mouth, something about the citizens of his community and the desire to keep his country safe. Whatever tumbles out is less interesting than how you smile in response.

Every person in the room-- agents, publicists, the poor intern holding a black coffee in his trembling hands-- watch on, collectively agape, at the scene before them.

Flame Hero: Endeavor breaks composure for a moment to send you a docile, lopsided smile.

You decide it’s something you won’t soon get tired of seeing.

“Did you get everything you wanted,” his voice trails off with a hint of uncertainty, one hand coming up to scratch at the back of his head, “I could answer a few more questions over dinner.”

Enji stands in shock at his own behavior, the inferno flickers little more than a candle in your eyeline. Every minute holds sixty seconds of opportunity, and Enji’s hair is graying at the ends. Even if you brush the dusty old hero from your shoulders with guffaw, even if you roll your eyes or kiss his insole with a pointed heel. He can’t afford to waste a moment more.

It has to be your quirk, he decides, reciting like a prayer the only logical answer to his sweating palms and clambering heart. Nothing makes sense but keeping you within arms reach. It must be some kind of hypnosis, maybe a pheromone.

Enji’s penance lies in the soft, supplied skin of a quirkless civilian.

***

There are few places that have felt like home, no matter what four walls build a house around him. He alone is responsible for each one decaying. He deserves a spot in every plane of hell.

Enji leans against the headboard, scanning over pages of John Milton and enjoying the quiet just after dusk. Looking over the top of his glasses, the book in hand falls out of frame, like most everything does.

Pink lace hangs like bated breath from your shoulders and hips. You look on to him for approval, the set your eyes had lingered on in a boutique window now brandishes the swell of your breasts.

“My perfect girl.” His words are filled with wonder, pulling at the ends of his mouth when you twirl, the ends of flowing lace pick up around you like wings.

Winter air creeps from the open balcony to hit your skin, spreading chills down every inch. Enji watches as you shiver, the cool breeze prickles past pick lace with little effort.

“Come here.” Enji tosses his glasses and book to the bedside table and pats his lap.

Nothing feels more like home than when you settle to lie atop his naked chest, cheek pressed firmly against his pulse.

You rest your chin against his sternum, hands crawling up to find warmth from his skin. He feels the thin, golden ring as your touch trails around his neck.

His own hands, calloused and battered, eclipse over your lower back to find purchase against your ass.

Away from the prying eyes of domestic paparazzi and forty minutes outside of Paris— Enji cuts out what feels like a stolen heaven.

Idle chat about the museum he took you to today fills the room comfortably. Your fingertip comes down to trace the lines of marred skin across the bridge of his nose, he hums and smiles as you talk about paintings.

None stood out to him.

He takes your hand in his much bigger one, kissing the band that mimics his own. You tangle your fingers together.

“This feels like a dream,” your voice is barely above a whisper, lest the night air hears the talk of lovers.

“I’m not totally convinced you aren’t a dream.” Enji pulls you to sit back against his legs, in this position you can meet his eyes without straining upward. Strong hands come down to rest at your hips, thumbs rubbing lightly against the lingerie’s fabric.

You scoff, batting at his chest, you laugh his comments off in moments like this. But Enji is convinced one day you will lift straight from the world with nothing left but your shoes keeping the earth weighted down.

Soft lips ghost over his, an invitation he’ll never refuse. Your mouth is against him, small hands coming to either side of Enji’s face. His graying stubble is coarse under your fingers. You inhale deeply, he smells like campfire and expensive cologne. Your tongue slips between his lips. His mouth tastes like the remnants of the bottle of red wine you shared after dinner

The hands around your middle pull your impossibly closer, pressing into your lower back to grind your hips down against the bulge in his sweatpants. Your body moves against him, panties rubbing against your already throbbing clit.

“Daddy.” The title wraps in chords around his vertebrae, the sounds of whimpering hits his ear, and he notices the wet patch rubbing right against his knee.

“What do you want, princess? Tell daddy what you want.” The maneuvering of your hips starts slow, but Enji has you almost bouncing on his leg before you can answer him. Both of your hands wrap around his left wrist, tugging it in between your legs.

“I want you to touch me, please. I- I need it.” You bite the inside of your cheek when the pads of his fingers graze the damp, thin material of your panties, his burning touch sets every blood cell aflame.

“You’re so wet, princess, what’s got you all worked up?” There’s a gleam of humor in his voice, seeing you desperate for him has Enji stiffening beneath you.

“My precious little thing, I’ll take good care of you.” His words write you a promise, it extends far past a night of love in Paris.

You can feel his assurance carved into your heart.

Enji’s hand dips into the front of your underwear, ghosting over your clit and running against your swollen lips. He marvels at your response, the smallest ministrations have your head rolling to the side.

His pointer and middle finger prod against you, inching inside carefully. Even with the utmost care, you wince at the stretch. No matter how many times he’s fucked you open in this whirlwind year,

“You’re tighter than a fucking vise, Christ.”

A long moan escapes you, knees moving to dig into the mattress below you for leverage to buck against his hand. Enji curls his fingers upwards, calloused tips finding the spongy patch of skin that has you squirming. His fingers cross over each other, pumping into you and easing you to relax against the intrusion.

“Daddy, I want your cock. I’m ready, please.” The heat in your core is rising, licking against your nerves like wildfire. Enji tutts in response to your begging, his thumb coming down to rub taught circles into your clit.

“I know, princess, but you remember the rules. Cum on my fingers, and I’ll give you what you want.” Enji picks up the pace of his fingers, his own patience thinning at the edges with each call for your daddy.

“Close, ‘m close,” your voice wobbles, aching legs pushing you against him, chasing desperately for that first release.

Enji feels you clenching tight in finality, a squeal breaching the steamy space around you. You crack in his tight hold, the taste of bliss coats your tongue-- it tastes like tears.

You slump forward against his chest, coming to float back down to earth before he sends you hurdling back towards the sun.

“You’re so beautiful, princess, absolutely perfect.” Enji’s voice is heavy, lined with a certain bitterness you are familiar with. His compliments always sound like apologies.

You lift your head, forehead pressing against his, the stray hair around your face tickling his skin.

There aren’t words that could heal decades. No amount of atonement, no prayers to any gods will fix a life of despair. He shoulders the blame of it all, heavy against bones and muscle.

Moving to kiss him tenderly, lips pulling him back into the world's sweetest direction. You shouldn’t let him use you as his redemption. If Enji were another man, a better man, he would have walked away from you that fateful afternoon under fluorescent light with just the fleeting feeling you dipped his heart in.

He’s not any kind of good in this world, Enji is a foolish bastard.

He’ll keep kissing you, he’ll touch and lick and fuck you until your wings pick up in the wind and fly you away.

“I want to ride your cock, Daddy. Let me make you feel good too.” You beg for him once again, you beg to be a distraction, the sweetest kind of diversion-- hidden snugly in the quiet of a French villa.

Enji is meticulous with stripping you of the dainty lace, brushing off the straps of your bra so the cups fall right under your pert nipples. He moves his hands slowly, snaking up your sides to swipe his thumbs against the pebbled buds. You don’t try to stop the wines falling like prayer, your body still on edge from your first orgasm.

He pulls off your soaked panties, eyes tracing the strings of slick collecting and breaking off from your glistening cunt.

“Such a precious little pussy, and it’s all mine.” Enji frees his cock from his sweats and boxers, the length springing to slap against his abdomen. He pumps his hand a few times before pressing it against your stomach. It’s no surprise that his size is impressive, long and thick in an ever-intimidating way.

Enji admires how his cock presses against you, tip nudging against your belly button. In comparison to your smaller form, it’s a wonder he hasn’t ripped you in half.

You’d let him.

“No more teasing, Daddy. I need it, please.” Desperation sparks against your nerves, igniting with the sharp sound of Enji’s hand against your ass.

“Don’t get mouthy now, princess.” His warning is light, he’s never been good at denying you.

He pulls your hips up, lining himself up so you can sink down onto him. If his fingers make you whimper, the first breach of his shaft makes you wail.

Your hands find his shoulders, digging in to steady yourself with every deliciously unforgiving inch. You’ll never get used to his size, you never want to.

Enji has held composure with white knuckles, but his resolve is rusting with every movement of your descent. His desire to tear into you becomes untamable, his mind swims in with the velveteen grip you suck him in with.

“You’re mine, fuck, you’re mine forever.” He will promise you until he believes it himself.

He’ll believe in forever if forever means you.

The folly of man is nestled at the apex of your thighs, is pleading gasps, is begging for more, is too much and too little.

And Enji is a fool in love.

The gates of heaven open between your quivering legs to let the devil in. He’ll take every moment he can steal.

As your hips settle down finally, the feeling of being so completely full has tears collecting in your lashes to run down your cheeks. It’s depraved, truly, how beautiful your destruction is.

Enji gives you a moment, adjusting to his size and relaxing, his hand comes down to rub against your stomach, tracing against the skin lightly.

“I can feel it,” his breath hitches, the pulsing around him is dizzying, he feels his tip as it moves inside of you, “fuck, I can feel my cock in your tummy.”

Shaky thighs start moving above him, the bounce of fat and flesh atop his hardened body. He can’t help the declarations flying from his mouth, he can’t stop the itching feeling to make you his completely.

“I want to fuck a baby into you, want to fill you so full.” He can feel the way your body reacts to his most perverse desire, “I want you round and swollen with my child.”

Enji grabs your hips, taking control and quickening the pace of his assault on your weeping pussy. You cry out, a string of babbled, “Please, daddy, please fuck me full, s-so full.”

You can feel your second orgasm bubbling up with each stroke of Enji’s cock against your abused pussy. All words are lost, all thoughts fuzzy aside from the man pounding himself into you from below.

“Cum around me, little girl, cum around my cock.” Enji’s words are little more than a growl, head thrown back into the pillows as you constrict around him. His fingers come down against your clit again, rubbing with fervor. He’s adamant on throwing you head-first, body limp and overstimulated in every way.

You feel it in the gnashing of your teeth, the wound chord snapping like floss around Enji. You feel yourself gushing, your cum leaking around him and dripping onto the bed sheets.

Enji cums with one final buck, hips lifting off of the bed as he spills into you. You can feel the thick spurts against your still pulsating walls, filling you to the brim and trickling out even before you separate.

He stays inside of you for a moment, large hands wrapped around your middle, pulling you to crumble into his chest. You collapse against his warm, jagged skin. He lulls you with soft strokes to your hair, behind the flush and sweat on your face, he sees the dizzy, love-drunk expression tugging on your lips.

No matter how many times you disagree, Enji knows it’s true.

The swelling, disorienting feeling of your smile. The visions of a future, of the life he doesn't deserve but wouldn’t give up for any deal the devil could make him. The sight of you, simply and without motive, every day.

It has to be your quirk.

#endeavor smut #endeavor x reader #enji todoroki smut #bnha x reader #bnha smut #enji todoroki x reader #enji smut

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