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convexicalcrow · 6 months

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The wind coming from the docks was cold tonight, Cub noted, as he made his way over to Willie's. It wouldn't matter, though, the club would be warm enough once he was inside. He was running a little late though, but it wouldn't matter. It was still early. Willie could handle things just fine.

The boardwalk was strange at this hour. The sun was rapidly setting, and the restaurants were just starting to open. A few early folk were around, but mostly it was quiet and empty. It wouldn't be in an hour or so, though.

One Eyed Willie's club was tucked away down a side alley and upstairs above a seafood restaurant that was also, technically, part of the club. Cub didn't work there, though. He was upstairs behind the bar, mixing the best cocktails this side of town. The restaurant was just there to keep all the straight people away from the leather bar above them.

Willie was waiting for him by the bar when Cub arrived, and he brought him into a tight hug that Cub was glad to reciprocate. God, he loved him. He hadn't been looking for any kind of relationship when he met Willie, given how happy he was with Scar, but a trans butch leather dyke who'd done spear fishing and pearl diving and sailed all over the world was not someone Cub could pass up conversation with.

"We expecting many tonight? Weather's not great out there right now," Cub said.

"We'll get the regulars just fine. Though if I could get you to do inventory before things get really busy, that'd be great. I need to do orders tomorrow and if we need any more drinks for the bar, now's the time to tell me, okay?" Willie said.

"Will do, will do," Cub said.

"Good boy." Willie smiled, and pulled at Cub's hips, drawing him close.

"Oh, feeling like that, are we? I see, I see how it is," Cub said.

Willie kissed him softly. "Well, you did say you were free this week."

"Yes, I did. Bring the trident. I miss her," Cub said.

"She misses you too. Don't worry, you won't be able to walk by the time I'm done with you." Willie kissed him once more, this time more teasingly, before he pulled away. "Alright, get to work, now. There'll be time to play later, alright?"

"Yes, boss!" Cub said, knowing what was coming once the night was over.

Sure enough, an hour later, the club was getting full. Cub had served so many drinks already, and seen a few of his friends, who always tried to get discounted drinks off him, a move which sometimes worked, depending on whether Cub felt he could get away with it or not. They were getting a few drinks in before heading over to drag bingo at Ren's, which Cub would have gone to as well if he hadn't been working. Ahh well. Next time.

"Oh, hey, there you are! Weren't you meant to be here an hour ago?" Cub said, seeing Scar scurrying behind the bar.

"Sorry, sorry, got stuck in traffic again, you know how it is this time of night! What needs doing?" Scar said, switching his jacket for an apron that was hung on a hook in a room just off from the bar.

"Drinks need doing. Go clear the tables, I haven't really had enough time to do that so far," Cub said.

"On it," Scar said and hurried off.

Cub didn't really stop until 1am. He'd like to open a bit later, but zoning laws, noise issues, it was all just not worth the hassle. And it always took an hour to clean up after everyone had gone, and finish up the banking.

"What do you even see in Willie anyway? I'd never have pegged you for him being your type," Scar said as he leaned on the bar, watching Cub finish up.

Cub shrugged. "I dunno, we just clicked, I guess. I mean, you like him too, right?"

"Oh, sure, sure! I wouldn't be here if I didn't. He just wasn't someone I expected you to get with, that's all. But don't worry, I'm not jealous! I just think it's fascinating, that's all," Scar said.

Cub smiled. "He's just... I dunno. He's really cool. And I think I just saw him for who he was, you know? Didn't make judgements, just let him be. The trident's also very good."

Scar laughed. "You masochist, you."

"That's me, yessir," Cub said.

"What have you done this time, hey?" Willie said, wrapping an arm around Cub's shoulders. "Nearly done? I'm dying to get out of here."

"Nearly done. Just need your signatures on the deposits and then we can stash these away and go," Cub said.

"Scar, you coming tonight? You know there's always an open invitation for you at mine if you ever want it. We're just gonna watch movies and crash, how does that sound?" Willie said.

"You know what? That sounds great, yeah! I could do with that after the rush tonight. Who knew Ren would just send everyone here after bingo!" Scar said with a laugh.

"I mean, he did give us a head's up about that, but we don't mind. It was good to see the club really packed. We'll get a few more regulars out of that I reckon. Anyway. I'm done with this, let's get out of here," Cub said.

There were no disagreements.

Willie had the biggest bed Cub had ever seen, and it was a good thing, because it meant he and Scar could snuggle up either side of him as they watched some trashy movie Willie had picked out to wind down the night. The kind of dumb action movie you didn't really need to pay attention to.

Was it what he and Willie initially planned for this evening? Not really. But did it matter? Not really. Cub was with his two favourite people. What more did he need in life than this?

#hermitshipping #fanfic #convex #cubfan135 #gtwscar #one eyed willie #decked out 2 #queer au #in which cub/scar/willie polycule #leather clubs #and cub the potion master #i had an Idea and had to run with it okay?#suggestive #a little bit #with a few lil kisses #but that's all #i just had to get this out of my head before i headed off to bed #hermitfic

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rustbeltjessie · 8 months

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Mixtape Monday! Can I ask you to make a battle jacket mix please?

I spent a really long time on this. It was exceedingly difficult to find songs strictly about battle jackets (I only found one!), so I included songs that mention adjacent topics. The Daycare Swindlers are on here because Mark Reiter of DC Swindlers once said: “It’s not about wearing your heart on your sleeve, it’s about making a whole fucking jacket out of it,” which pretty much sums up my entire ethos and is also where I got the title of this mix.

While looking for songs to include, I also remembered this Imogen Binnie quote:

“Her jacket is a work of art. There’s a Kids in the Hall skit where Satan gives a stoner the ability to grow weed out of his head in exchange for his perfect denim jacket: that’s the kind of denim jacket Maria has. Satan would kill for her jacket. Here are its patches: The Bouncing Souls, White Zombie, the word fuck, a little girl holding giant scissors (on plaid), Hello My Name Is DYKE, and, the coup de grace, the whole back is the cover of the first Poison album. It’s not even ironic. Poison rules.” – Imogen Binnie, Nevada

Which in turn led me to this essay (which is about metal battle jackets, whereas I’m more well-versed in punk battle jackets, but it’s still a really good essay).

I also came across this page, where you can peruse photos of some truly excellent battle jackets.

it’s about making a whole fucking jacket out of it

Daycare Swindlers - Big Show (Stomp your steel tip boots some more / Not enough movement on the dance floor)

The Queers - Punk Rock Girls (Leather jackets, stupid boyfriends / Poor report cards, life is just a ball / Hi- top Chucks and bubblegum / And oh my gosh, I'd love to love 'em all / They're so cool their style is never cramped / Too much of everything, and everyone is amped / Well, don't get hot and bothered / Listen, I know I got problems / I also know just what this goofy world needs / Yummy yummy punk rock girls)

Mary Monday & The Bitches - I Gave My Punk Jacket to Rickie

Who Killed Spikey Jacket? - Punks Dress Punk (Don't let them tell you how to dress / Let ME tell you how to dress / Wear studs.)

Mischief Brew - Punx Win! (So, I collect these crumpled, / Beer-stained flyers, / Seven-inches, photographs, / All your old letters that remind me / To look down and back. / Its then I realize our romance / Has its roots in one sub-humans patch.)

#replies #endreal #mixtape monday #ask game #playlist #punk #battle jackets #i had way too much fun with this

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scottwojahn · 3 months

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The White Sweater

My cell phone buzzed today with a text message announcing that my dad’s Rx was ready for pickup. “Type stop to cancel”, it politely mentioned, as if the only reason to do so would be my annoyance at notification overload. I suppose I should let them know he’s gone. Best to wait until my next trip in for groceries to tell them that Karl will not be needing anything further from the pharmacy? Or would a call suffice?

A few days ago, after a circuitous route through too many voicemail prompts, I finally reached a woman in customer service at Spectrum and explained I needed to cancel my elderly father’s cable tv service and landline phone. Reading from her script, she walked me through some prompts and offers aimed at keeping me from my goal, finally asking, “Has he moved to another place? We could transfer his account”. I said gently, “Yes, he moved….he moved to heaven”. She dropped the script from there, and was quite kind going forward. We worked it out.

I have found in my car and my nightstand drawer and on my library table, hospital release reports, receipts, and medical reminders - all important records - now unnecessary, irrelevant, moot. They serve no purpose but to remind us of a difficult few months. Tossing them in a wastebasket felt like a kind of betrayal.

Even the weather seems to have given up since he’s gone. Mother nature has howled in angst, with biting winter winds and harsh, mocking temperatures. This morning registered 8 degrees F. It’s as if Karl’s spirit itself was a finger in the dyke, holding forth for all of us against her impassive, fierce discipline.

Joan Didion wrote beautifully of the mild insanities that can follow in the wake of losing a loved one. In The Year of Magical Thinking (Knopf, 2005) she describes removing her husband’s items from their closet, but holding on to a pair of nice shoes because he might still need them. My experience is less dramatic, but the myriad questions of what is a keepsake is daunting. As if the world doesn’t yet appreciate what I know; that Karl Wojahn’s Oregon State University sweater might fit me someday and I’d proudly wear it out somewhere fun. Or that there’s value in the monogrammed brown faux leather jewelry case which holds his fifties-era tie clasps and jade cufflinks from Hong Kong, or his beautiful Navy service pin.

In the last year, as my father slipped into the confusion of dementia, there was little thought paid to the long term, the legacy. We were focused on the day to day. He stopped wanting to go out for breakfast to his favorite pancake house. He quit reading. Eventually he even stopped telling stories from his childhood, a quiver of twenty or so colorful reminders of how far he’d come, from a house with no indoor plumbing on the destitute plains of Eastern Montana, to a college graduate with a bright future and enough funds to buy his own convertible.

A friend observed that none of us will be remembered personally by more than two generations that follow. It’s unrealistic to expect my father’s life and memory to be shared by more than a few who knew him. He lived to be 97, after all. But perhaps the sight of his early 50s white knit sweater with the OSU beaver logo will open up a beautiful conversation someday, if I can ever fit into it.

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illisidifan · 1 year

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Need to talk about this

Ok. So, my fellow queer folk. I love all of you, I really do. And you can live your lives however you like. But I do feel the need to point out that this is just buying into bullshit societal ideas about what relationships are/can be. "Queerplatonic" is just friendship. It's just being best friends. It's just being bonded to someone through friendship. And being bonded to someone through friendship can be VERY intense, VERY deep, VERY meaningful and the people who dismissed you and your very deep friendships because it wasn't romantic are just wrong.

Use whatever words you want. But be aware that when you over-intellectualize like this, you are just playing into the "normative" societal bullshit. I feel this particularly as an older milennial having watched so many of my peers and younger constantly working to find as many labels for themselves as possible, to more precisely and accurately describe themselves. And to me, that is a completely understandable HUMAN response, to categorize, to MAKE SENSE of things that are really complex and fluid. But it's also limiting. And it's used against you. Our consumerist capitalist culture WANTS to atomize, wants you to label yourselves, wants you to get further and further separated into distinct advertisable bubbles. Because the more that happens, the more disconnected you are from your fellow man, the more you only identify with people who share your adjectives, the easier you are to MARKET to, the easier it is to make you miserable and then promise that buying things will alleviate that misery.

I understand the desire to be part of a group. Being outside, feeling like you are alienated from the predominate culture is really scary and upsetting. It's understandable to want to create new boxes to stuff ourselves into in order to feel a part of something again. And if that brings you comfort, by all means, live your life, ignore me. Do as thou wilt and all that.

But you don't HAVE to. You don't HAVE to label yourself. You don't HAVE to have identities or adjectives or categories. You can look straight at the people demanding to know what you are and just say "I'm a person, I'm a human being, if that's not enough maybe you need to examine why that is for yourself."

I feel like older generations, in particular generation x, understood this better and maybe it's because they lived through 70s feminism and the gay rights movement. Lived through the strong dyke women and leather daddies telling the larger society "No, FUCK you, we don't NEED to be anything that you understand. We exist so you should respect us and that's the end of it." It's antagonistic, it's uncomfortable, it spits in the face of politeness and whiteness and "respectable society" and that's the fucking POINT, y'all.

I guess what I'm saying is... don't label yourself to make it easier for others to consume you, to DIGEST you. Don't sand down the sharp jagged edges of who you are so you more easily fit into someone's picture of the world. Let your existence challenge them, let your presence as a human they can't relate to or understand stretch their fucking brain a bit. We can all stand together saying "You don't get to tell us who we are and we reject, TRULY reject, your ideas about gender and sexuality and friendship. We exist, this is how we are, and we're not going to give you new special words to use to make you feel safer around us because the fact that you don't feel safe around us IS the problem, not the fact that we exist."

Visible minorities don't get to claim their identity. They are whatever society says they are. People are uncomfortable around them and make assumptions about them based on things they literally cannot hide. It's not the responsibility of the minority to make themselves more palletable, more fitting to the predominate culture. It's the job of society to learn to stretch and accommodate them as human beings solely because they are HUMAN BEINGS. End of story, no coda, no PS.

YOU DO NOT HAVE TO FIND WORDS TO MAKE YOURSELF ACCEPTABLE TO ANYONE.

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gatheringbones · 2 years

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["On September 9, 1992, the first day of school in New York City, I scrounged a token and took the subway out to Middle Village, Queens, with Amy. Most of the school district was racially mixed, with shops as likely to have Mexican tortillas as Turkish preserves, or cartons of kimchi. Middle Village, though, was a mostly white working-class neighborhood that couldn't boast much except a cemetery housing Lucky Luciano and Don Carlo Gambino, and the Long Island Expressway.

We were the most interesting thing to happen there in ages. And while we would have made a splash if we'd come in black leather and raising our fists like the Black Panthers or ACT UP, the Lesbian Avenger Concept Committee decided what we really needed was Sousa. Sousa, and lavender balloons reading "Ask about lesbian lives." It was ridiculous, absurd, delightful, though I wouldn't have admitted it then.

Jenny Romaine, an artist Amy knew from Performance Studies, pulled together a brass band, kitting them out in the knee socks and plaid skirts of Catholic school uniforms. She herself carried a big brass drum. Some Avengers wore T-shirts that read, "I was a lesbian child." I turned one down, saying I couldn't afford it, but refused even when Ana Simo, that mild-mannered Cuban playwright, offered me a discount. I still cringed at the word lesbian.

When we were all there, the sixty of us marched down Metropolitan Avenue to the elementary school, P.S. 87, singing at the top of our lungs, "Oh when the dykes, oh when the dykes, oh when the dykes come marching in." We revised a few other Dixieland standards and proclaimed, "We are family, I've got all my sisters with me." One banner read, "Teach About Lesbian Lives" and another "The Lesbian Avengers." Somebody clutched an enormous bunch of the balloons, which had created a ruckus at the printer's, who kept misspelling l-e-s-b-i-a-n. We were met with disbelief, anger, fear, a few approving nods, but mostly the typical New Yorker's disinterest. Like them, I pretended I was totally cool with it. Hell, I did this kind of thing four or five times a week. No big deal. Like it was no big deal that when we got to the elementary school, the cops came with their big blue arms and shiny shoes and tried to get us to leave.

At the civil disobedience training session, Maxine Wolfe explained it was perfectly legal to have a picket and hand out flyers. It was a public sidewalk, for crying out loud. And she'd been doing demos since the sixties, first for worker' rights, then women, then people with AIDS. But who knows what cops will do? Nothing, as it turned out. Maybe it was our unshakeable knowledge of our rights, or how we continued singing, handing out balloons, giving interviews and flyers, while our negotiators negotiated with them. Or maybe they just took one look at this group of relatively innocuous females in knee socks and plaid skirts and thought, "What the heck. It's New York. Let's go get donuts."

More than one kid go their first lesson in the real world when an Avenger handed them a balloon and their red-faced mother grabbed it away. No way is my little Sean or Antonio or Karen going to be like that. As for the Xerox of our alternative alphabet— A for Acceptance, Action, and W.H. Auden; B for James Baldwin, Rita Mae Brown, and boycotting bigotry— some got tucked into pockets, others pointedly ripped into shreds. Though not in front of me. I stayed with the other picketers tracing that tiny oval on the sidewalk and avoiding confrontation. Maybe I held a sign for a while, feeling goofy and embarrassed, as I always did, at so much emotion being displayed.

The weather was nice, anyway, one of those perfect fall days with dark blue skies and white fluffy clouds that did not send forth lightning bolts or hail or anything at all to kill the lesbians. Nope, nobody died, there in front of the schoolyard. Neither were kids converted, or perverted, or particularly traumatized except when their angry moms grabbed their shiny balloons and let them float away. We just signaled to the world that we existed. We'd been kids ourselves in school. The only thing different about us as adult lesbians was a few additional years. And self-awareness. Which was just beginning on my part.

Funny, I write that like it's nothing. Just signaling to the world we existed. When it was like setting off a bomb. What else could it be? Lesbians plus elementary schoolchildren.

We left en masse when the last student entered the school. In those days, bigots would sometimes haunt queer demos, grab a few stragglers, and beat the crap out of them. So, together, Avengers set off for their day jobs, or classes, or coffee shops. The media dykes went to send more press releases. And I remember at the next meeting, Maxine or Ana or somebody arrived triumphantly waving copies of Newsday and other rags that had covered the demo. We'd done it. We'd launched the Lesbian Avengers, and the city had taken note."]

Kelly Cogswell, Eating Fire: My Life As A Lesbian Avenger, University of Minnesota Press, 2014

#kelly cogswell #lesbian literature #histroy stuff #terra preta

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justkeeptrekkin · 4 years

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Brief Omens

An ineffable wives drabble- Brief Encounters inspired- that I wrote in collaboration with the amazing artist @selene-yoshi-chan , her pictures posted here with her agreement! This was fun to write, and I can’t believe how beautiful the illustrations are- thank you friend.

You can read it on AO3 here, or read under the cut! MORE ILLUSTRATIONS BELOW!

***

The weather is grey today. A strong breeze rolls over from the hills, tumbling into the valley of Devil’s Dyke. Aziraphale chose the meeting place herself. She thought that Crowley might find it amusing.

This isn’t really a breeze, so much as a strong wind- it’s displacing her styled hair. Fashion has never interested Aziraphale in the same was as it fascinates Crowley, but the 40s really do have some smashing hairstyles and clothes. Now that the War is over, high-street shops are beginning to pop back up again, putting on their lights once more and dressing their mannequins with all manner of hats and a-line skirts. Of course, much of London remains destroyed from the Blitz. West Sussex, at least, has survived.

Aziraphale lays her manicured hands on the wooden bridge, peers down at the burbling stream below. The water is clear, enough that she can see the smoothe rocks at the bottom. She can’t see her reflection, only the vague shape of her cream suit, orange and brown leaves floating along the surface.

She breathes in. She breathes out. She is nervous.

“Morning, angel.”

She spins around- she doesn’t know why she’s surprised to see her here, she invited her. And yet Crowley has a habit of slinking up to her without warning, especially with this noisy wind covering the sound of her footfalls.

“Hello, my dear,” Aziraphale says too quietly. She clears her throat. “You got here quickly.”

“Yeah. I drove up last night and stayed the night a little further into the South Downs. Beautiful part of the world, this, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale simply nods. She continues to rest her hands along the rough, mossy wood of the bridge, but her gaze is on Crowley; her red hair spilling out of a silver snake hair-pin, curls tickling the sides of her neck. Red lipstick. Aziraphale wouldn’t dare to try a lipstick that shade, but she’s always wondered how it would look on her. How it would look if Crowley kissed her and left a taste of it on her lips.

Yellow irises dart over to Aziraphale. She stops staring and looks away promptly, watching the rolling green hills. With the lack of rain recently, the grass is turning a greyish green and blending into the sky. The clouds beyond make the horizon hazy, like a weak watercolour painting.

“What was it you wanted to discuss,” Crowley asks, all business. Her sunglasses don’t conceal peripheral gaze- Aziraphale can see her staring out at the view beyond. She’s avoiding eye contact, Aziraphale realises. And it’s not just the square shoulders of her jacket that make her look tense.

“Um,” Aziraphale says. She feels herself panic. She feels her eyes widen and her chest rise with a too-deep breath. “It’s- not all that important really.”

That gets Crowley to turn and look at her, brows furrowed. “What? Why are we meeting here then? We could have gone to any of our normal meeting places.”

“I know, but I rather thought that we might like to try somewhere new,” Aziraphale says.

What she doesn’t say is that she had an inkling that Crowley would like the South Downs- Devil’s Dyke and all. She felt that it might be nice to try somewhere different with expansive views, rolling hills, little tearooms. And none of the World War II rubble. Something a little more- romantic.

Crowley pokes out her bottom lip. Then, nods in concession. “Alright. Devil’s Dyke, though?”

“Yes.”

“A bit tongue-in-cheek for you,” Crowley says, sounding impressed. Then a smile grows on her lips. Firey red hair dancing in front of her face. “I like it.”

They stand side by side on the little bridge. They’re the only people (beings) here for miles. The wind pours down, and it makes Aziraphale’s ears ache. She looks down at her shoes- totally inappropriate for a country walk, but pretty. Crowley has been more sensible and put on some leather boots.

“Crowley.”

“Angel.” She says it like she’s been waiting for them to get down to business. Waiting for them to discuss something serious, perhaps The Arrangement.

“Back at the church, during the Blitz,” Aziraphale starts. She swallows, her throat raw from the cold air. The stream trickles happily, singing a gurgling song below. “At the church, you saved my books for me.”

Crowley looks dead ahead and doesn’t move. Aziraphale doesn’t miss the way her fingers clench on the wooden fence of the bridge.

“Yes,” she replies slowly, quite primly.

She has been dreading this moment. She has fought with herself over this decision for months. But after what Crowley did-

Inside her handbag, Aziraphale finds a tartan flask. It looks so innocent, nestled amongst the packets of tissues and lipsticks. She removes it carefully, placing it on the fence. And if Crowley wasn’t tense before, she certainly is now; she straightens beside Aziraphale, red lips parting in silent surprise. Brows pulled together, raised above her sunglasses.

Aziraphale keeps a hand on the flask, holds it there between them, waits for it to sink it.

“Angel…”

“Holy water won’t just kill your body,” Aziraphale interrupts. She has to say this, before Crowley thinks she’s doing something nice for her. “It will destroy you completely. But I can’t have you risking your life, not even for something dangerous.”

Crowley is staring at her- Aziraphale can sense it. She can see her floundering. She’s speechless in a way that Aziraphale’s never really known before. There isn’t even the usual garbled stream of noises coming out of her mouth when she loses her words; it’s just silence. Aziraphale has stunned Crowley to silence.

She clears her throat, feeling her wind-bitten cheeks heat up. “Don’t go unscrewing the cap.”

“You did this for me,” Crowley says, almost too quietly over the wind.

And then Aziraphale turns to look back at her. Her hair is caught in the breeze. Crowley is so beautiful. Aziraphale always knew, always found her beautiful, even when she pretended she didn’t. But now- now, it’s impossible to ignore. How had she managed to ignore it for so long? How deluded has Heaven made her, that it took this long? Aziraphale is a being of love; it’s absurd that she hadn’t been able to see the wood for the trees until that bomb destroyed that church, Crowley handing over a briefcase, hands touching. Just for a moment.

“Anything,” Aziraphale whispers.

She isn’t sure whether Crowley hears. If she didn’t, then that would be OK. Some things aren’t meant to be.

They look over at the view again. Crowley takes a moment to pick up the flask and put it in her own purse.

“I haven’t been as far as Ditchling before,” Crowley says suddenly, voice too light. “‘S where I’m staying at the moment. I’ve- I’ve only been as far as Hastings.”

Aziraphale goes along with it. “I helped evacuate some children here, during the worst of the War.”

“Ah. Yes. I was mostly in Liverpool helping out with that.”

Aziraphale frowns, registering this. When she tries to find answers in Crowley’s expression, she only sees her own white-blonde hair in her face and Crowley’s turned away. “You helped with the evacuations?”

“Yes,” she says sharply.

“That’s awfully… good of you.”

There’s a twist to her lips as she fights back a retort. “They were very naughty children, I assure you. Wales was traumatised by their arrival.”

She is too much. Oh, she is just too much. Aziraphale smiles at her, even though she won’t look back. “You are quite… something, Crowley.”

Crowley sneers. Aziraphale ducks her head and hides her smile.

A single seagull flies overhead. The aren’t that close to the sea- it must have flown over from Brighton. It coasts on the wind. The air is fresh here, unlike London. Aziraphale breathes it in deeply, and tries to save it there. Save it for when she needs it in the coming days.

“Are you happy?”

She doesn’t expect the question. She doesn’t even really understand it. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley hesitates, bites her lip. Then, “Do you ever ask yourself whether you’re happy? With the way things are?”

Constantly, Aziraphale thinks, but she never admits it to herself. No, she sees those kinds of questions float through her head and she banishes them to some bottomless pit in her mind. A pit that doesn’t feel so bottomless these days; all the doubt and confusion and questions she’s wanted to ask Heaven and Hell and God are piling up and starting to overflow. It’s only a matter of time before she decides she won’t be able to hide it anymore.

Crowley is watching her, waiting for her answer as she thinks on this.

“I don’t know,” she says, eventually. “Am I happy? Oh, Crowley. I don’t know.”

“Don’t you hate not knowing?” She rushes. “Don’t you ever just…”

Crowley trails off. Her hand rests against the fence beside Aziraphale’s.

“I suppose you don’t ask questions, not being the snake of Eden,” Crowley eventually finishes.

Aziraphale doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know what she thinks. Any opinions she has are obscured under layers and layers of Heavenly instructions and Bible verses and ineffable plans.

For a moment, she finds a reply in a hand hold; not quite a hold, rather, her own hand gently placed on top of Crowley’s. Just to let her know that she’s there. And then she removes it again.

She has been friends with Cowardice far longer than she has known Crowley.

***

The Bentley is parked somewhere over the nearest hill. They walk in contemplative quiet, Aziraphale trying not to trip in her silly shoes, Crowley sighing in frustration at her. And whilst Aziraphale has achieved what she meant to today, something sits uncomfortably in her.

The wind tries to push her back down the hill.

When they reach the car, Crowley gives her a lift to the nearest train station, just outside Ditchling. It’s not far from where she’s staying, she assures Aziraphale, and she can’t cope with the idea of Aziraphale wobbling all the way to the station in her heels. Crowley makes it sound like an accusation, but Aziraphale recognises the kind gesture in it. She looks out of the window and watches the hills fall away, watches their moment in Devil’s Dyke fall away as if she’s abandoning it.

The engine turns off and Aziraphale waits. Crowley says nothing. They both wait, although there’s no sign of there being anything to wait for.

“Are you sure you want to head back to London?” Crowley asks. She doesn’t say it like a question. She turns to look at Aziraphale suddenly, lips parted and brows raised, looking lost. And Aziraphale realises then that it’s her that she’s abandoning, not Devil’s Dyke. “I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”

And she sees it. Oh, Lord, Aziraphale sees it in her mind’s eye; the two of them in a cottage in The South Downs, walking through the neighbouring fields in wellies and Barbour coats. Trips to Brighton with ice-creams and sun hats, even if the weather is dreary. Trips to places they’ve never been before; days inside, drinking cocoa and reading and simply being together. Existing together, without any fear of the universe collapsing. Forgetting that this juxtaposition of theirs is a crime against nature. Aziraphale sees it, this daydream hanging between them in the Bentley, parked outside Ditchling station.

It would be cruel to even pretend that such a dream could exist.

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

She doesn’t stay to see the heartbreak in Crowley’s eyes, because she feels it herself- she can’t bear heartbreak for two. She gathers her handbag and steps out of the car, walking neatly towards the station. She has fifteen minutes until her train.

When she steps inside and turns around in the doorway, she sees the Bentley pull away.

Everything feels very sharp and clear. An awful lot like she has fallen into that little stream back in the valley, like she’s lying in the water and her senses are stinging with the cold. She feels too much until she feels nothing. And so Aziraphale stares at the receding Bentley, clutching her handbag like a liferaft and turns back around, onto the platform.

There are only two other people heading towards London from Ditchling. A middle-aged man with a case in his hand, and an older woman, who sits on the damp, dewy bench. She dabs at her nose with a handkerchief. Aziraphale finds herself drifting into the waiting room, where there is also a little cafe.

She orders a cup of Earl Grey from the waitress, finds a seat to perch on.

She holds the cup between her hands, but feels no less adrift.

Crowley keeps her tethered, she considers in that moment. That look of abandonment on Crowley’s face; the feeling that Aziraphale is floating away; the sky is grey and the world is grey and she is lost in it.

“I made the right decision,” she says quietly to herself.

“What’s that, sweetheart?”

Aziraphale takes a moment to realise that that waitress has spoken to her. “Oh- I’m sorry. I was merely talking to myself. A silly habit, I’m afraid,” she laughs emptily.

“Not to worry, not to worry, talk to meself constantly- sign of a sound mind, my nan always said.”

“Quite so,” Aziraphale breathes.

She doesn’t feel sound, she considers. She feels silent. A disorientating quiet, like those moments in the middle of the night, when one is awake when they shouldn’t be. When she has awoken and found herself alone, in a dark room. Echoing, claustrophobic. She feels it in her throat and she feels it prick her eyes with tears.

“I made the right decision,” she whispers.

The two of them walking down a muddy country road towards the nearest pub- talking loudly about anything and nothing, the usual silliness in all likelihood, arms swinging and cheeks rosy. The two of them side by side on a sofa, bowties undone and tights on the floor and wine bottles empty. The two of them at a dining table in the morning, reading the newspaper and buttering toast. The two of them at the Ritz, just as it has always been.

She made the correct decision. It is the decision that Heaven would choose for her. But is it the right one?

Aziraphale stands up abruptly, tea sloshing over the edge of the mug and into the saucer. She is going to catch up with Crowley- she can find her in Ditchling town somewhere, she could ask around and-

No. No, even if she has that dream, it doesn’t mean that Crowley shares it. Crowley might have offered to take her anywhere, but how far does Crowley mean? How could Aziraphale know whether this is the right thing for both of them? This would jeopardise Crowley’s life too.

She sits back down slowly, just as the whistle of the London train screams down the platform. A shaky hand picks up the teacup and she takes a small sip.

She steps onto the platform and waits for the train to stop. The steam billows; she can’t see anything. She hears the train conductor shouting out of the window. She sees a door materialise before her, opens it and steps into the compartment where three other people sit and read. She takes her own seat.

She looks through the window and she feels like she is drowning. She feels as if the train’s steam is inside her. She feels the walls around her in a way she has never experienced a room before, as if it is designed to trap her. She hears the scream of the conductor’s whistle in her ears, rattling in her brain.

She feels herself breath in. She feels the air rushing into her lungs, like water filling a glass.

The train begins to pull away from the platform.

She grabs her handbag, opens the door, and jumps onto the platform.

Aziraphale hangs her head back and closes her eyes. The steam surrounds her in clouds and the mechanical chug of the train recedes; she feels it rumble beneath her feet.

“Aziraphale!”

That voice- she opens her eyes and turns to meet it, but she sees no one for all the smoke and steam.

“Crowley?”

And then again- desperation, relief- “Aziraphale.”

She turns on the spot and searches for her, but she can’t see anyone- she’s lost, alone in the mist, until she sees the silhouette approaching. The clouds part and there she is, Crowley, holding onto a handbag with both hands. An expression so soft it could have been painted.

“Crowley.”

Right or wrong, correct or incorrect- Aziraphale sees none of that, now. She walks towards her. Crowley walks towards her. And they meet each other, standing so close that Aziraphale can see through the lenses of her sunglasses.

“You got off the train,” Crowley says.

“You came back,” Aziraphale says.

When they kiss, it isn’t like it is in the movies. It isn’t desperate hands on each other’s arms, desperate lips pressed together as if they don’t care about breathing. When they kiss, it’s hesitant, careful not to break everything that came before. It’s unsure, but it’s also a promise.

Next time we kiss, Aziraphale thinks, I won’t be so afraid.

#Good omens #ineffable wives #ineffable partners #ineffable husbands #crowley #aziraphale #my writing #selene-yoshi-chan #THANK YOU SELENE

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fallout-fallen-knight · 3 years

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Meet My OCs masterpost!

It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these and I’ve gotten a lot of new followers and several new OCs in that time. Enough now that I should probably put them under a read more. OCs are divided up by main setting that they fall under - even though all my Fallout content takes place in its own ‘verse (distinct from the canon Fallout verse in that there are horses, among other differences), the various coasts tend to be pretty separate. Without further ado:

Fallen Knight

Fallen Knight is a longform fic that is currently and irregularly updating. It takes place in the Commonwealth in 2287-2289, featuring a mix of canon characters (often modified to my own convenience) and OCs. It can be found here.

Christopher Farris, aka the Fallen Knight (Lone Wanderer)

[image ID: a drawing of Christopher Farris by @scarecrow-forest. He is a white, blond man wearing a baseball cap, a green shirt, and a long tan vest. He is holding a baseball bat and has a pip-boy on his arm. End ID]

Christopher is my lone wanderer that I ported to Fallout 4. He is (currently) a Brotherhood of Steel Knight alongside Paladin Danse. He is the main character of Fallout: Fallen Knight. He has a strong moral compass and idolizes the knightly ideas of protecting the weak and confronting the strong. Content for him on my blog can be found at #fallen knight.

Kristine Finch, Minuteman General

[image ID: a screenshot from Fallout 4 of Kristine Finch. She is a light-skinned woman in a blue shirt and tan jacket, with a cowboy-like hat. She is standing in front of a ramshackle wooden building with a neon sign that says “Minuteman HQ”. End ID]

Kristine is my Minuteman OC and the General of the Minutemen. Under her leadership, they have worked to make the commonwealth safer by uniting various settlements to exchange resources and provide mutual defense. She has also published the Minuteman Guide To Commonwealth Travel, also known as the Blue Book, a handy pamphlet for settlers and traders making their way across the Commonwealth. Content for her can be found at #one if by land.

Thomas “The Trigger” Calvani

[image ID: a screenshot from Fallout 4 of Thomas Calvani. He is a white, brown-haired man in road leathers with various leather armor layered over it. He wears a pair of reflective aviator sunglasses and a green bandana covering his face. He is standing in front of power armor with flames painted on it. End ID]

Thomas Calvani is a ne’er-do-well from the Atom Cats who has somehow managed to continuously fall upwards, somehow culminating with him as the Overboss of the Nuka World raiders after trying to go to Nuka World with MacCready and Cait. Content for him can be found at #tales from the commonwealth.

Greetings from Appalachia

Hector Sanchez (Reclaimer)

[image ID: a Vault Tec ID card from Fallout 76. It belongs to Hector Sanchez, a latine man with brown hair, a Vault 76 jumpsuit, and a van dyke beard. He is smiling and giving a thumbs up to the camera. End ID]

Hector Sanchez is an amateur cryptid hunter from Vault 76. Raised in the vault on his mother’s stories of cryptids before the war, he left the vault with his best friend Hazel in search of cryptids to find. Content for him can be found at #greetings from appalachia.

Fallout: Brave New World

Brave New World is a collection of various OCs who end up in the Mojave wasteland at the same time, in around 2289 or so. While no unifying narrative yet exists, I am planning some ficlets/short form fic around these OCs.

Ace (Courier 6)

[image ID: a screenshot from Fallout: New Vegas of Ace. He is a latine man with an eyepatch, a black cowboy hat, and a black leather coat over blue jeans, with several belts and bandoliers. He is standing in front of Dinky the Dinosaur and pointing a gun off screen. End ID]

Ace is my courier, and a member of the Great Khans. Still a teenager when Bitter Springs happened, he was separated from the rest of the Khans and spent his remaining teenage years doing odd jobs around the Mojave and avoiding the encroaching NCR, culminating in a fateful job for the Mojave Express. He now finds himself down one eye, hunting the Mojave for Benny and the platinum chip. Content for him can be found at #ace in the hole.

Sophia Mobius

[image ID: a screenshot of Fallout: New Vegas of Sophia Mobius. She is a white woman with white hair and round, cat-eye glasses. She is wearing a red labcoat and has the holorifle strapped to her back. End ID]

Sophia is a Followers medic turned disciple of Doctor Mobius after a chance encounter with a crashed satellite sent her to the Big MT. She later traveled to the Sierra Madre casino with Arcade and Veronica to hunt down and stop Father Elijah. She is now working with the Veronica and Christine to convince Brotherhood members to leave, smuggling out technology if possible, to assist the Followers of the Apocalypse. Content for her can be found at #followers of mobius

Martin Goldberg aka the Silver Canary (Reclaimer)

[image ID: a drawing of Martin Goldberg and Emmerane Black, aka the Silver Canary and Coal Black, by @rotarydials. Martin is a dark skinned man with silver hair and a beard. He is dressed in the Silver Shroud’s outfit - a black and gray trenchcoat and fedora with a silver scarf. He carries a submachine gun, which he is pointing off camera. Emmerane is a white woman with short black hair. She has black goggles and a black cloak over a white shirt and red vest. She is doing air-guitar motions. They both have pip-boys. End ID]

Martin Goldberg, known better as the Silver Canary, was a pre-war vigilante and the inspiration for the Silver Shroud. As a staunch anti-fascist and anti-capitalist, he had several encounters with the movers and shakers of American industry, notably Robert House, whose suite Martin broke into while he was visiting a West Virginia plant. Upon learning about Vault-Tec’s plans for Vault 76, he broke into Vault Tec University, changing the list of vault residents to a list of random West Virginia citizens, as well as himself.

While in the Vault, Emmerane Black, a moody young woman born in the vault, declared herself his nemesis. When they left the vault in 2102, he learned of this, and instead decided to take her under his wing, forcibly adopting the young supervillain. Though they clashed often at first, they quickly found they had more in common than they realized, and soon teamed up to take on certain targets - most notably the Brotherhood of Steel.

At some point in the following years, both Martin and Emmerane ghoulified, and in the late 2200s, Martin traveled west, to find his old nemesis, Robert House. He now haunts the areas around Vegas, a mysterious spectre doling out justice to the wicked. Content for Martin and Emmerane can be found at #the silver canary and coal black. Emmerane belongs to @corsairesix

Caroline Keene, Ranger of the Wastes

[image ID: a screenshot from HeroForge of a black ghoul woman with short braids. She is wearing a cowboy hat, long duster, cowboy boots, and a shirt and pants that are all brown with tan accents. She has a revolver and a knife strapped to her hip and a repeater on her back. She is offering a hammered tin cup to the “camera”. End ID]

Caroline Keene was a park ranger in a firewatch tower in Monongahela National Forest when the bombs fell. After a few days of quiet introspection, her and some of her fellow rangers agreed to make their way to the nearest town to find survivors, slowly making their way to Flatwoods and then Morgantown to join the Responders.

After helping the Responders stabilize Appalachia in the wake of the Great War and faction infighting that followed, Caroline traveled west, continuing to help out those in need as he crossed the country that had once been America. During this time, she began to ghoulify; though initially and understandably distraught, a community of ghouls in what was once Texas helped her to accept her condition. Upon arriving in the Mojave, she found that her reputation as the “Ranger of the Wastes” preceded her, and she was recruited by the desert rangers, though she left again when they were incorporated with the NCR. Now, she has settled in the Mojave, starting a brahmin and bighorner ranch with her partners, and helping shelter, teach, and raise lost and disaffected youth in the Mojave. Content for her can be found at #ranger of the wastes

The King of the Road (Chosen One)

[image ID: a screenshot of Heroforge of a dark skinned ghoul in a black suit. He has a red tie and a red cape, and is wearing round glasses and an opulent crown. He carries a spear and has a holstered revolver on his hip. Near his feet is a pile of coins and a gray cat, ready to pounce. End ID]

The King of the Road was once the Chosen One of Arroyo, but became disatisfied with the duties of ruling and the pressures of being the tribe’s chosen one. In 2244, he left Arroyo, wandering New California as a drifter. He abanoned his name and title, choosing instead to take the name of the King of the Road as his renown as a drifter grew. He ghoulified due to his exposure to radiation over the years, but took to the change rather well. He continued to travel the roads of New California, eventually finding his way to the Mojave wasteland as the NCR did. Content for him can be found at #king of the road (when I make it).

Angelia King

[image ID: a Heroforge mini of a white woman seated on a white horse. She is wearing a tan jacket over a brown chest piece, chaps, and tan cowboy boots. She has a red bandana around her neck and several belts around her waist, one of which holds a holstered pistol. Her left eye is covered by an eyepatch and there is dark makeup around both of her eyes. She has short dyed blonde and red hair that is shaved on one side. She is brandishing a rifle towards the camera and there is a sawed-off shotgun on her back. End ID]

Angelina King, the leader of the Nightstalkers, a gang in the Mojave in 2289. When Ace drives the NCR out of the Mojave, she at first believes that she will be allowed to operate with relative impunity; however, when the NCR supply trains stop coming from the west (no longer needing to fight a war that has been lost), she starts hitting caravans first and then larger settlements, carving her way across the Mojave towards New Vegas. Content for her can be found at #the nightstalkers strike again.

Other OCs

Hannah Alton

[image ID: a screenshot from Heroforge of a white woman wearing a forest green cloak. She has a brown cloth wrapped around her chest and blue jeans on. She has a quiver of crossbow bolts on her hip and is holding a crossbow. She has red hair and several piercings. End ID]

Hannah Alton is my PC for our Fallout: New Orleans campaign run by and using the PBTA hack Powered by the Nuclear Apocalypse made by @corsairesix. Hannah is a “raider” from a gang called the Robbin’ Hoods, a gang dedicated to stealing from New Orleans’ ghoul aristocrats and redistributing their wealth to the town they’re based in. Content for her can e found on #fallout New Orleans and #powered by the nuclear apocalypse

#queue #fallen knight #one if by land #tales from the commonwealth #greetings from appalachia #ace in the hole #followers of mobius #the silver canary and coal black #ranger of the wastes #king of the road #fallout new orleans #powered by the nuclear apocalypse #the nightstalkers strike again

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paceypeternathanslawyer · 4 years

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Another Top 10 Male TV Characters (In no particular order)

I posted something like this before but I added some favorite characters and I had to get my feelings down in writing :) You can read my other post, but in summation, the characters I mentioned before were: Gilbert Blythe, Lenny Bruce, Logan Echolls, Mike Wheeler, Steve Harrington, Shawn Spencer, Burton Guster, Stanley Barber, Luke Danes, and Jim Hopper.

Pacey Witter (Dawson’s Creek)

I’ve found that my top 3 favorite male characters have something in common. They’re all funny men with a deep sadness underneath. Logan Echolls, Gilbert Blythe, and Pacey Witter. Pacey is such a kind guy. He is so caring and comforting. He is also so funny, snarky, and sarcastic. But then there is that vulnerability that he has and it’s so appealing. Pacey is this strange combination of complete confidence but also having a strong streak of insecurity. There’s this scene in season 1 where Pacey opens up to Joey and tells this story of how when he was 8 years old he lost a game of baseball and his father yelled and screamed at him and called him a disgrace. The next day he overheard him tell Pacey’s brother about the events and his father said “at least I have you.” The way that Joshua Jackson delivers that is so heartbreaking and makes you want to give him a hug. Joey and Pacey are far and above the most entertaining and interesting characters in all of Dawson’s Creek.

Jim Halpert (The Office)

Jim is such an important part of The Office in my opinion. He's the type of character that all those mockumentaries need. There are so many crazy characters and they need some normal characters that you can relate to. Yet Jim is also far from boring. He's hilarious and an extremely entertaining part of the show. Also John Krasinski is the freakin best :)

Ben Gross (Never Have I Ever)

Ben Gross is another character like Logan and Pacey who is funny and yet also has a deep sadness beneath all of it. You really don't start the season feeling too much sympathy for his character. Though I don't believe it's right to demonize Ben more than Devi. When the show starts they are very antagonistic to each other and they both say hurtful things to each other. But when Ben starts caring about Devi, he does not look back. Ben would do anything for her, even drive in bumper to bumper traffic even though he's terrified of it. In episode 6, we see Ben's home life for the first time. That's when collectively so many people started to feel immeasurably sad for Ben. He puts forth this facade at school, but we find he just a sad and lonely boy who deserves all the love in the world.

Nick Miller (New Girl)

Nick Miller is iconic. There's a reason that he was trending on Twitter 9 years after New Girl began and 2 years after it ended. I could never find the reason he was trending aside from the fact that he some classic and iconic lines and a lot of people are discovering the wonderful world of loving Nick Miller. Nick is an absolute gem and in my opinion the best character in New Girl.

Maxwell Smart (Get Smart)

Maxwell Smart is such a deservedly beloved TV character. Max and Get Smart are so important. So many of Max's lines have entered the English lexicon and taken on lives of their own, such as "Would you believe...," "Missed it by that much," "Sorry about that Chief," and "I asked you not to tell me that." He's hilarious and no can play him as well as Don Adams.

Lucas Sinclair (Stranger Things)

Lucas is such an underappreciated character. On Youtube there is next to no tributes to his character. He's always been amazing but season 3 really brought him up to a new level for me. Lucas saved the day at the end of the season. I would also say that El's humanity and how she got through to Billy helped save the day. But it was Lucas' idea to use fireworks on the monster and that was huge. Plus he had the heroes entrance. When they reveal who is throwing the fireworks and Lucas says "Flay this, you ugly piece of shit!!" It's a truly iconic line for an iconic character. Actually Lucas continually saved everyone's asses in Season 3. Also he's so funny... especially in season 3. I feel like the writers did a good job of shining a light on Lucas and giving a lot more to do. I love that we got to see Mike and Lucas' friendship as well, we've heard so much about it in past seasons, but to finally see the friendship in action was supremely important.

Dustin Henderson (Stranger Things)

Dustin is a precious ball of sunshine and must be protected at all costs. He has the sweetest smile and the kindest heart. He’s also a literal genius. If your ever in a bad mood just google his name it’s just what you need to brighten your day :) Side note. Gaten is a comedic genius already!!

Winston Bishop (New Girl)

Winston Bishop AKA Prank Sinatra!!! Lamorne is such an amazing addition to New Girl. There are so many classic Winston moments, like his love of “puzzling.” His inability to do a prank without going way overboard or not going far enough. I also love the scene where he gets the glasses that counteract his color blindness, his excitement at seeing different colors for the first time is so pure!!

Jerry Helper (The Dick Van Dyke Show)

Jerry Helper is such a dynamic person and a lot of that is thanks to the fact that Jerry Paris (who plays him) is so dynamic. I think the saddest thing about TDVDS is that Jerry had less of a big part of show as it went on, because Jerry Paris became the main director of the show. It was his dream to be a director, so i’m happy for him, but it just means that he directed more of the episodes and acted in less of them. Jerry and Millie were perfect for each other, they were both such entertaining people and I loved their relationship on the show. In a lot of shows there’s always the token couple who seems to hate each other and fight bitterly. Jerry and Millie were the type of couple who fought all the time, but the unique part is they truly love each other as well. The way it’s written you get the impression that they fight passionately but they also make up passionately.... do I need to write Jerry and Millie fanfiction? I think I do ;) Side note: were Jerry and Millie the first couple on TV to go to marriage therapy? I feel like they were, which is another way that The Dick Van Dyke Show was ahead of it’s time.

Arthur “The Fonz” Fonzarelli (Happy Days)

The fucking Fonz!!!!! Icon!!!!! I don’t think there has ever been a more iconic character in all of television. It’s been said that after The Fonz talked about getting a library card in an episode the amount of library cards being issued spiked dramatically. Supposedly the library association said that it spiked by 500%, whether or not that exact amount is correct, it points to just how popular The Fonz was. His leather jacket is in The Smithsonian museum. But the The Fonz is not just cool, he’s also an extremely interesting character. Sadly he was abandoned by his father and by the sounds of it also his mother. He was largely raised by his grandmother since the age of 6. He dropped out of high school and he joined a gang. Fonzie is an incredible man and he adopted a son out of wedlock because he wanted to give a kid a better childhood than what he had. He truly was a symbol of kindness and he was the coolest fucking character to ever exist. He was a proponent of civil rights and advocate for people with disabilities, and he even learned sign language so that he could communicate with a woman who was hearing impaired. Henry Winkler was nominated 3 times for that role. Since then Henry has gone on to other amazing roles. He had a part in Arrested Development, he plays Jean Ralphio’s father in Parks And Recreation. And most recently he finally won a much deserved Emmy for his role in “Barry.”

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janus-manus · 5 years

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Maybe Anxceit? Get some good punk x emo high school Au? For prompt, maybe something like- “Who did this to you? Was it Zack? If I find that fucker, I swear, I’ll kill him.”

Pairings: Anxciet

Characters: Deceit, Virgil

Mentioned: Logan, Remus, Roman

Trigger Warnings: Transphobia, violence, cursing

Words: 1905

Notes: This was one of those fics that just,,, wrote itself.

Virgil had a sharp mouth. He knew that. It got him in a lot of fights. Although, “fights” is putting it kindly. It would be better described as getting his ass whupped. He wasn’t exactly a big guy, to put it lightly. He had a skinny frame, and the only muscle he had was on his legs. That’s what you get when you spend your life making rude remarks and running for your life.

Today was one of those days where a single look told you he meant business. He’d woken up with a killer headache and an urge to kill, not to mention he was on his period. He’d gotten out of the house twenty minutes late, and walked into class as the teacher was lecturing. Out of uniform. Late. Not paying attention. Ungodly attitude. He wouldn’t be getting high marks today.

At lunch, he found a seat in the corner with the other weirdos. Deceit (Who no one knew the name of.) and Remus sat only a few seats away. The three were sort of friends, Virgil thought, but he never knew for sure. They never talked, they only sat at the same table, and exchanged half-hearted hellos in the halls.

Logan was also sitting at the table, as he often did to get away from his friends. Virgil knew him and his group only by the fact that they were pretty nice. (Except Roman. He’d never beaten him up, he wasn’t a bad guy, but they definitely were not friendly.)

When Virgil walked out of the school with his hood pulled over his head and MCR blasting in his ears, it was gloomy and grey in the world. His eyes were glued to the ground, his head in a different space.

Suddenly he felt a firm grip on his arm. On instinct, he ripped his arm out of his attackers grip, spinning around to face him.

In retrospect, it would have been smart to run. Virgil could run, he’d been doing it his whole life. But no, rather than sprint the other direction, his fist met the meaty flesh of his attackers face.

It had seemed effective, the attacker, Zack, stumbled backwards. However, it didn’t take long for him to pull up his sleeves on muscled arms. Virgil was already in a fighting stance, ready to take the hit. Maybe, on a good day, he could take Zack without getting completely beat up. As already established, it was not a good day.

Two, three, maybe four–Virgil never counted heads, he just swung at them–burly figures were standing behind Zack, already preparing their fists should their leader make a move.

It was then, that Virgil could have run, he could have back down. He could’ve said sorry, pulled his hood up, and walked off.

But he was stupid.

“Hey dyke,” taunted Zack, “What are you doing trying look like a boy, lady. And you was a pretty girl, too.”

“Yeah, Daisy, what a pretty girl.” One of the others chimed in.

“And real pretty boobs you got, girl, why’d you try and make ‘em go away?”

That shit hurt. When Virgil had a bad day, that was one thing. Maybe he’d go cry in a corner. He might just take the insults, or the beating.

But today was a bad day on a period. Comments on his chest, name, and everything else…it struck like a knife.

So he threw a second punch.

***

When Virgil woke up, Deceit was softly examining his head. He’d taken his leather, finger-less gloves off and carefully parted Virgil’s hair.

Virgil groaned softly, his eyes still shut, slipping down on the wall that his back was against. Deceit’s hand carefully moved his bangs from Virgil’s face.

“Hey.” Deceit said softly, pressing his hand into Virgil’s cheek. “How do you feel?”

Virgil forced his eyes open, letting in a bit of light. He saw enough to make out Deceit’s face. His sharp cheekbones, the shiny burn on his face…

He closed them again. “Great,” he mumbled, “Just great.”

“Virgil,” Deceit said, his voice turning stern, “I need you to open your eyes.”

Virgil groaned in response.

Deceit let his hand fall to Virgil’s, and he gripped it tightly. “Virgil, I need to make sure you’re okay. Darling, tell me how you feel.”

“I–” For the first time since waking up, Virgil registered the pain in every spot of his body. Bruises, cuts, and soreness. He felt chilled in the cold fall air, and realized his clothes were wet. It’s rained. “It hurts.” He opened his eyes, noticing blood on Deceit’s hand.

“Sweetie, where does it hurt?”

“I–uh, everywhere.”

Deceit chuckled, but his voice was restrained. Deceit offered a hand, and Virgil noticed it was shaking. “Can you stand?” Deceit said, a slight tremble in his voice.

Virgil shrug and gripped Deceit’s hand. Deceit pulled him up, quickly wrapping him in his arms.

“Virgil,” Deceit said, looking into Virgil’s eyes.

“Yeah?”

Deceit spoke softly, but that didn’t make it any less terrifying. His voice was full of anger, coldness, and the ability to hurt someone.

“Who did this?”

***

Virgil was not friends with Deceit. He’d barely seen him when he was happy, much less angry. Definitely not like this. He was gripping Virgil’s hand with intimidating pressure. His strides were quick and purposeful.

“W-where are we going?”

“You, darling, are going home.”

As they walked, Deceit pulled Virgil close to him, keeping an eye on him no matter what. Deceit had been to Virgil’s house only a few times, mainly to return DVDs and books that Virgil had lent him. However, one time Virgil’s parents had pressured him to invite Deceit for dinner. That was the longest conversation the two had ever had.

If Virgil was honest, he barely remembered making it home. He could barely picture the door to his house. Before he knew it, he was laying in his bed. Deceit’s hand carefully traced his face.

Deceit lightly pressed on Virgil’s face, and he felt a sharp pain. He winced.

“Did that hurt?” Deceit asked.

Virgil nodded.

“Can you take off your hoodie? I want to check for wounds.”

Virgil groaned, carefully pulling off his hoodie to reveal several bruises. His skinny frame seemed fragile.

“I’ll be right back, love, I’m going to get a washcloth.”

Virgil stared up at the ceiling as Deceit walked out of the room. He traced his face where Deceit had touched it. He slipped far into his bed, pulling up the covers.

Today was a terrible day.

When Deceit came back, he carefully sat beside Virgil. He carefully wiped his face with a warm, wet cloth. “You’ve got blood on your face.”

Virgil nodded. He felt Deceit carefully wipe a part of his forehead.

“The cut doesn’t look too bad. Nothing a bandage can’t fix.”

Deceit’s small crack of humor didn’t hide the layers of anger and concern in his voice. Virgil didn’t know Deceit very well, but he did know him enough to recognize this wasn’t normal for him.

Deceit tenderly picked up Virgil’s hand.

“Hey, do you mind telling me what happened?”

“Mm.” Virgil said, his mouth closed tightly.

Deceit’s hand tightened. “Who… did this to you?”

On one hand, Virgil was a petty bitch, and could rant on and on about Zack and his “gang”, the bunch of worthless drug dealers and wannabe-gang members. But on the other hand, this could go a few different ways if he did tell Deceit.

Maybe he would do nothing but mutter a curse under his breath, but maybe he would do something. And that would either get him beaten up, or if he managed to take on Zack, then they’d just go beat up Virgil for snitching.

But of course, Virgil’s thought was immediately fuck it.

“Zack. And his gang. Transphobic wrecks.” Virgil said plainly.

Deceit’s hand tightened, but less in a reassuring way. No, this was more along the lines of anger. Seething anger.

“Hey hey, um.” Virgil’s eyebrow was lightly raised.

“Yeah?” Asked Deceit, clearly holding back.

“Don’t do anything… stupid? Okay?”

Deceit nodded, but it was insincere. He wasn’t paying attention, it was clear.

***

There was a bit of clearing up with Virgil’s parents when they got home, but Deceit managed to convince them to let him stay the night.

Virgil had woken up to Deceit curled up on a blanket by his bed. The two ate a breakfast of cereal together and soon left the house together.

As they approached the school, Deceit grabbed Virgil’s hand. He felt a light blush rise in his cheeks.

They went through the day as normal (Although Deceit did sit a little closer to Virgil at lunch.) and soon the two were walking out of the school.

The day was, like yesterday, gloomy and cold. Virgil soon felt a raindrop as the two teenagers made their way across the concrete.

Then came Zack.

Virgil wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting, but it probably wasn’t for Deceit to fling off his leather jacket to expose his black tank top to the world. He definitely wasn’t expecting him to be ripped.

Virgil blushed as Deceit handed him his jacket.

“Hold that, I’ve got some business to deal with.” Deceit’s face was cold and determined. It was kind of hot, if Virgil was honest.

“You should probably… not.”

It was as if Virgil’s words didn’t even touch Deceit as he shouted out. “Yo, motherfucker.”

Zack spun around.

“Yeah, bitch, I’m talking to you.”

Zack motioned to his gang and walked towards Deceit.

It was at that moment that Virgil realized how intimidating Deceit was. He was tall and muscular. And hot. Deceit took a few cocky steps towards Zack, remaining nonchalant and cold.

“Who the fuck are you? What chu want with me? You tryna start a fight?” Zack stood tall (not taller than Deceit) and put on an angry face.

Deceit gestured to me. “You see what you did? Mhm. That’s what I’m talking about.”

Zack put on a sneer, obviously putting his few brain cells to work. “Oh, you tryna take care of your little girl, huh? You think she cute or something?”

Maybe, Zack could have survived if he’d made a homophobic remark. Or insulted Deceit’s scar. But no. He had to misgender Virgil.

Virgil couldn’t tell you what happened, neither could Zack. No one in the area could have.

But it was epic.

Punches, kicks, even bites and scratches flew everywhere, up, down, left and right. You’d think five teenagers to one would be an easy win for Zack and his gang. That would make sense.

But as Deceit kicked, shoved, beat and destroyed every opponent, it was obvious who had the upper hand.

Virgil, being a gay disaster, could do nothing but watch in awe.

The last crony fell.

There was Deceit, standing. A touch of blood was on his forehead (not his own) and sweat covered his arms.

Deceit looked back at Virgil, and smirked.

Virgil, of course, was a blushing mess. As he stared at Deceit, he could swear there was some sort of magic halo around him. He barely could stay on his feet.

Deceit, looking back at the blushing Virgil, felt butterflies rise in his stomach. The normally composed punk felt his face grow warm with a blush.

“Wanna go get ice cream?” Deceit asked, breathing heavily.

“Sure.” Replied Virgil breathlessly, handing back the leather jacket.

517 notes · View notes

clansayeed · 4 years

Text

Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ― Chapter 1: The Nightmares

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil) RATING: Mature

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽

⥼ Bound by Destiny II, part 1 ⥽

While struggling with nightmares of lives she’s never lived, a shadow from the past looming over her city, and the proposed idea that her life may just be a little bit too weird to handle alone, Nadya makes sure to tell herself that everything is perfect just the way it is. If only. When the self-proclaimed King of Vampires (and Maker of her sometimes-girlfriend and always-boss, can’t forget that little tidbit) Gaius Augustine returns intent on claiming Manhattan as the throne that was promised, she and her friends find themselves forced into the task of saving the world. But with millennia-old vampires and an Order of hunters on their heels as well as allies hiding catastrophic secrets at their backs… it won’t be an easy task. Too bad destiny didn’t exactly ask for her input.

Bound by Destiny II and the rest of the Oblivion Bound series is an ongoing dramatic retelling project of the Bloodbound series and spin-off, Nightbound. Find out more [HERE].

*Let me know if you would like to be added to the Destiny II tag list!

⥼ Chapter Summary ⥽

Nadya has a nice job, a gorgeous date-friend, and a calm Feral-free life. But terrifying nightmares keep her from truly enjoying all the things going for her, and the strain of it forces Nadya and her friends to reach a tipping point.

[READ IT ON AO3]

Except for the drawer in the fridge now explicitly labeled ‘BLOOD BAGS ONLY. LILY’S. DON’T TOUCH :)’ (the last part of which is a joke albeit not one Nadya finds very funny) it takes Nadya possibly far too long to realize her life hasn’t really changed all that much since her discovery of vampires.

Well… unless you wanted to count the time she was nearly killed by a bunch of rabid Ferals at a period-attire-required costume ball. Or the time her boss was wrongly convicted of plotting to kill a ton of people for some selfish gains (the details of which she’s still a little fuzzy, and by now asking would just make it uncomfortable). Or when she was one second away from being Evil Vampire Politician food only to be rescued by a Less Evil and Much Older Vampire.

But those weren’t out of the ordinary for someone hurled into this world headfirst and without the pizza that was promised.

Right?

Nadya still goes to work every night and comes home (almost) every day. Though lately with the hours they’ve been pulling she ends up investing in a comfy airplane pillow for quick half-naps at her desk when she can.

She still spends her weekends like a tv sitcom montage of varying positions on the couch while her room mate plays video games and occasionally hacks into bank servers on the side.

She still fumbles over her tongue tied up in a dozen knots every time she sees the gorgeous beauty that is her We’re-Not-Using-Labels-Yet, Kamilah. Though the fact that a 2,000 years-and-then-some vampire babe still finds Nadya’s utter lack of social skills charming in any possible way is a little suspicious.

Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Everything is perfect just the way it is — was — continues to be — will be going forward. Nadya says some version of these facts to herself every day; sometimes out loud and sometimes in her head. Repeats them like a mantra as she goes about her daily routines before and after work. Everything is perfect just the way it is. Everything is perfect just the way it is.

She does this with the hope that one day she just might believe it’s true.

That one day she won’t wake up in the middle of the afternoon screaming her lungs out feeling them torn from her throat that’s still there; scrambling for all ten fingers and all ten toes because some weren’t there a second ago only she doesn’t quite remember how long ago she lost the big toe but it was definitely before the Crimean War; starving with a hunger she can’t describe but she’s sure her friends understand because that’s why Lily (jokingly) put the sticker on her blood drawer the way she did.

Everything is perfect just the way it is. Except when Nadya dreams a thousand lifetimes she’s never lived and so so many of them end with her drowning in innocent blood.

Never has she been more grateful for Lily’s long weekends with her girlfriend, Maricruz, down below the restless New York City streets in the Shadow Den.

Nadya takes long full swallows of tap water in between breaths. Her hand is shaking bad enough to spill but it’s just water and it’s just the bathroom sink and she’ll clean it up later. She should be lucky — just a few minutes ago she lost that hand in a duel against Catherine the Great.

It would have grown back, but still.

THUD. THUD. THU—UD.

Oh great.

“Will you dykes stop screamin’ bloody-freakin’-murder every single god damn day?!” Bellows the ever-delightful upstairs neighbor. Nadya never replies; not even when he storms his stomping feet all the way down the stairwell to pound on her door enraged and miserable.

Still — she only needs one hand to rip out a human’s tongue.

Nadya takes it back the moment she thinks it. Scrambles like she could catch every letter in the air before it floats off to wherever terrible thoughts like that go because they weren’t her thoughts please, please someone believe her.

When she’s showered the sweat from her body, wiped tears from her eyes and wrung the water from her hair Nadya decides, like the masochist she is, to try that sleeping thing again. It’s gonna be a long day at the office if she doesn’t.

And she’d like to think she wars with herself longer than she does — that her decision isn’t already made long before she rummages around in the dark of her blacked out room and plucks her glasses case out from underneath Kamilah’s treasured copy of Hamlet.

But there’s no one around. And these days Nadya can only be honest when she’s alone. Even if it’s only to herself.

She opens the fake leather and feels around for two small pills; spills a bit of water on her sheets because of the shaky hands thing when she knocks them back with the rest of the glass.

She hates it — hates herself for even having considered it in the first place and then some more for actually doing it. But how else is Nadya supposed to hope for some slim chance of mercy and dreamless sleep?

Nadya tries a bit of meditative breathing to pass the time while she waits for the sleeping pills to kick in. Decides maybe now would be a good time to try that mantra of hers.

“Everything…” — inhale; she doesn’t even recognize the sound of her own voice, exhale— “is perfect… just the… just…”

The neighbor resumes his not-so-passive aggressive elephant dance above her head. But Nadya’s weeping so loudly she can barely hear him.

Adrian rests the back of his hand against her forehead lightly. The chill of his touch makes her shiver — and more importantly brings Nadya out of wherever she was that kept her from being there with him.

But Nadya’s relief is short-lived.

“It’s been some time since I’ve had a temperature to feel but I know a fever when I see one.” She tries to wave off his concern like she has every other time, but no dice. “Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

“‘Cause I’m not.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmmhm…” Though it would probably help if Nadya remembered what she was mmhm-ing about. But her desktop screen-saver hasn’t been updated since Windows 95 so there goes her hopes of pretending.

Adrian isn’t having it. Mindful of her not-tip-top-shape condition he grabs the arms of her desk chair and turns her slowly; his pace painfully careful and full of caution.

Like she doesn’t know the strength he’s capable of. Like she hasn’t felt it under her own skin.

“Nadya — please Nadya look here, look at my finger.”

She remembers the last time he sounded that worried. One of the rare times the things she sees are both from her eyes and not — where she’s both the main character in the story and just another villain. Back at the Musea Sanguis.

When Valdas did this to me, she thinks bitterly.

But Adrian can’t know about that; can’t see her as weaker and more fragile than she already is. So she sits up a little straighter in her chair — pauses Adrian’s efforts at playing doctor because there’s no way she would be able to see the sun with how badly her glasses are smudged from sleep — and dutifully follows the path he traces in the air.

Nadya (with the surprising aid of Kamilah no less) had eventually managed to convince Adrian whatever psychic mind games the strange and impossibly enigmatic vampire had played on her was nothing more than a one-off. He was no less attentive but that’s just who Adrian is; she could accept that.

Kamilah was a different story. She didn’t help downplay the situation to Adrian because she was content to let Nadya deal with everything alone. Back in the Shadow Den, Nadya had confessed the painful truths of her headaches and nightmares. Hoping, praying maybe, that someone with her wealth of experience and knowledge could give a name to her torment.

Only she couldn’t. And Nadya watches her carry the weight of it every single night.

What Kamilah refuses to understand though is that Nadya is just… so tired. She’s tired of the questions and studies and the three PET scans because why not buy an extremely expensive brain imaging machine for the secret lab underneath your financial empire for one single person.

Nadya knows she’s a terrible person for complaining. She knows Kamilah just wants her alive and safe and pain-free.

She’s just so very very tired.

Adrian groans with effort as he stands. Old habits in pretending to be human, he told her once. Not that he needs to — they’re all alone up here. Nadya is convinced he just likes doing it.

“Well doctor,” Nadya teases, “tell it to me straight. Will I live?”

He doesn’t find it nearly as funny.

“If you were feeling overworked you should have told me.”

“I manage constant anxiety — this is kind of just a state of being.”

“Then maybe we should get you properly che—”

“No.”

Which is her biggest mistake; and she’s made quite a few. But no one is so adamant so quickly without looking suspicious. Nadya is no exception.

She tries to backtrack. “I just… I don’t like doctors. Actual doctors — not my boss.”

“I am an actual doctor,” he corrects but it’s offhanded, “and that isn’t the point. You’re a grown woman — I know — and I don’t want to overstep.”

“Then don’t.”

Adrian closes his mouth softly; lets the words die in the back of his throat. Nadya avoids watching as he returns to his office because she knows she won’t be strong enough to keep up the act. Remember, she reminds herself, this is for the best.

It’s to Adrian’s credit when he emerges from his office come the end of the work night with his coat over his arm and a smile on his face. Even if it is a little strained around the edges.

“Ready to head out?” he asks like nothing happened. Like she wasn’t a stone cold witch to him earlier because he made the mistake of caring.

Nadya hesitates. She had already resigned herself to taking the subway home. But rather than make it harder on herself she just nods and gathers up her things; knows he watches her every motion with sharp eyes and preternatural focus even while her back is turned.

If he isn’t convinced of her ruse by the time she joins him at the elevator he doesn’t say anything. Just holds the door open for her and makes chit-chat to fill the silence. Maybe some day she’ll be able to choke out how grateful she is for it.

When Adrian finally pulls up in front of her building, Nadya is practically already halfway out of the car. He stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Is Lily still out?” he asks, but what he means is are you still alone.

Nadya tries not to make it obvious when she shrugs him off.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Adrian.”

“… See you tomorrow, Nadya.”

He doesn’t pull away until she’s in her building and the door is closed behind her.

Later on, in the middle of the day when she wakes from a deep sleep choking on the feeling of blood hot and wet and satisfying running down her throat a small part of Nadya can’t help but blame him.

She shouldn’t… but she’s doing a lot of things she shouldn’t lately.

Kamilah leans back in her chair and mulls over the flavor of the wine. She’s got that face on that Nadya always worries about when they do things like this. Enigmatic; like she has thoughts but they’re probably much harsher than the words she actually says; “It wouldn’t be my first choice to pair with our meal, but it has its merits.”

“You hate it.”

“Did I say that?” Kamilah quirks an eyebrow her way and that look makes Nadya squirm in her seat for ten thousand other reasons; none of which have to do with wine, the amazing fish entree in front of her, or the high-end restaurant in general.

Nadya calms herself with a sip of her own. She’s actually kind of a fan of it. Sure it was the first fruity option on the menu (after Kamilah translated, of course) but that didn’t mean it wasn’t as ritzy as every other bottle on every other table.

“You didn’t have to let me pick.”

“I wanted to see which appealed most to you.”

When Kamilah says things like that, Nadya can’t help but feel like she’s part of some grand experiment. An attempt at seeing how ‘the other half lives’ or something equally ridiculous. “Why?”

Why let me choose something when its obviously wrong?

Like everything she does, Kamilah chooses her answer carefully.

“You did not choose because you knew the brand, nor the label or even the translation of it. You did not choose this particular wine because you had tried it before, or because you hoped it would compliment some aspect of our meal.”

Nadya feels the tips of her ears burning hot and takes another large gulp to calm her nerves. “I picked the first thing I saw, Kamilah. It’s not that deep.”

Then Kamilah surprises her; she smiles. Not something overly brilliant and bright and yearning — but rare in public and rarer still these days.

“On the contrary. I have always known humans were impulsive creatures. But your impulses fascinate me, Nadya,” Her fingertip traces slender around the lip of her wine glass; holds Nadya hypnotic like everything else about her; her voice, her beauty… that striking sincerity.

“More than any other. Perhaps in ways I do not yet know how to articulate.”

At the other end of the restaurant the violinist returns from his break and resumes his melody; long, slow and rich. Like if he put Kamilah herself into song.

Without breaking their eye contact Nadya carefully turns the woman’s hand facing up by the wrist. Kamilah crooks her finger; scrapes just the tip of her nail tentatively over her human pulse point that has to be like a marching band in her supernatural ears.

Heck, Nadya doesn’t even have supernatural hearing and she catches every thump-thump of her own heart clear as day.

It’s so so rare that Kamilah shows this — and for this long. This kind of public affection; scandalous, salacious practically. Not like she hasn’t been constantly stroking the inside of Nadya’s calf with the tip of her boot since they sat down, though.

It had taken Nadya a couple of months (and more than a few evenings of forcing—actually forcing—Adrian to stop working, pull out the scotch, and explain exactly what the heck might be running through Kamilah’s mind for Nadya’s own mental peace) but she understands now.

Kamilah isn’t private because she’s embarrassed of Nadya. No — Kamilah is private because she is greedy for moments like these. She keeps them behind closed because they are for her eyes only; memories for her to brand onto her soul.

Kamilah weaves their hands together gracefully; the silver of Nadya’s charm bracelet curled in a possessive touch.

“Kamilah…” she whispers, and watches as the woman kisses the back of her hand reverently.

“Nadya.”

Only Kamilah can make her name both a warning and a promise.

[TEXT]: I c SOMEONES bed is still made [TEXT]: gedditttttt ;););)

[TEXT]: OMG Lily stop it

Lily takes her sweet time replying. Leaves Nadya waiting… and waiting… and then there’s the sweet sweet nectar of the gods coffee in front of her and there’s even a little bit of cinnamon sprinkled on top and Lily can wait.

The coffee needs her.

She takes the mug in both hands and drinks deeply — of course the brew scalds her tongue but how is it that Gerard can make such a darn good cup of coffee every time?

“Careful now,” says the Englishman while he goes about putting together Kamilah’s usual table setting; paper folded crisp to the financial section, “you’ll spill all over your nice blouse.”

She’ll give him that, actually. But as she brings her mug to her lips his amused smile falters, then vanishes altogether. For an old man who barely sees the sun Nadya didn’t think he could get any more pale until she sees it with her own eyes.

She follows his startled look to the red marks adorned on her wrists. Bracelets of bruises and Nadya herself was a little surprised when she caught sight of them but if memory serves Kamilah had… ahem, tied the scarves a little tighter than usual.

“Oh. Ha. Uh…”

“Oh I don’t think that is any business of mine,” Gerard recovers hastily, “so long as you’re aware of them, I suppose. Though I’d ask for my peace of mind that you ask Lady Kamilah to fix that for you before you leave.”

When the butler’s back is turned, Nadya touches the skin gently. It barely even hurts.

Kamilah joins them shortly after; returns the butler’s “Good evening, Lady Kamilah,” with a nod and the kind of smile she reserves only for him while she sits.

Nadya knows the routine quite well by now. Kamilah exchanges wordless pleasantries, then takes a sip of her espresso. When she’s cleared the first page of the paper’s financial reports she might join in on a conversation, but more often than not simply continues reading.

So it’s safe to say that when Kamilah pushes the paper aside and turns her seat to face Nadya fully it feels like she’s woken up in an episode of The Twilight Zone.

“Well good morning to you too, sunshine.” Nadya smiles… and doesn’t get one back.

“Why didn’t you tell me your nightmares were getting worse?”

The color drains from Nadya’s face. There goes the mood.

Behind them, Gerard makes a point of clearing his throat far louder than necessary. “You know — I think I might have forgotten to grab the laundry tonight.” He quickly rinses off the last of his dishes and takes his leave of them.

Kamilah waits expectantly in silence. She won’t be repeating herself. Only Nadya can’t muster up the courage to even look her in the eyes anymore.

Instead she fiddles with her nails in her lap. “I guess pretending not to know what you’re talking about is out of the question…”

“Astute,” replies the vampire curtly.

“Any chance I could beg for this to happen any other time but now?” But that just gets her a raised eyebrow in reply so, yeah no. And the idea of waiting out the patience of a woman like Kamilah is borderline laughable. Yet Nadya — she just can’t. Like the idea physically has her in knots and the biggest one is on her tongue which she kind of needs to, you know, speak.

“Please,” and she hates how pitiful she sounds; how weak, “please Kamilah can we… can we not ruin this?”

“I don’t grasp your meaning.”

“This. Us, right now. After a really good date and—and a really good night and… the morning or-whatever-after is supposed to be good too and if we start talking about it I just…” I’m going to ruin it like I ruin everything.

Though she’s thrown for a loop when Kamilah reaches out; places a firm palm on Nadya’s knee and waits, permanent and present, until she gets what she wants.

And maybe Nadya gives a little bit too much too easily. “You already know what’s happening. What else do you want me to say?” Yes, of course they’re getting worse. But if she admits that, she can’t pretend any more.

“You may sleep through these night terrors of yours, Nadya, but perhaps it would benefit you to realize it is you alone that does.”

No it doesn’t — it doesn’t benefit her at all. In fact the realization of it makes her queasy. Suddenly Nadya wishes she hadn’t guzzled half of her coffee and daily sugar intake.

“I didn’t mean to…” didn’t mean to choke on my words, “to wake you.”

“I believe you. If you had maybe you would have been honest with me from the beginning.” Kamilah definitely doesn’t miss the way her heart skips a beat; her frown deepens.

“I—I’ve been honest with you…”

“How easily you lie.”

“Okay — okay mostly; I’ve been mostly honest with you.” The more she talks the harder it gets for Nadya to keep the edge out of her tone. She’s not had a restful sleep in weeks, darn it, she’s owed a little snappiness.

Unlike Adrian though, Kamilah doesn’t take kindly to her attitude. She leans back in her seat with one leg over the other and if this is how she treats the people she does business with no wonder she’s one of the most powerful executives in the country.

“And pray tell how am I to fulfill my promise to you with only mostly-truths? How are mostly-truths able to better help me understand your suffering so that somehow I may discover a way to ease it?”

“Maybe because you keeping your promise isn’t my first priority right now.”

“But it is mine.”

“It’s not about you, Kamilah.”

“Isn’t it?”

Nadya grits her teeth. “No. It isn’t. None of this is about you. I’m the one going through it all, not you.”

Her words are bitter at the back of her throat all the way up to the tip of her tongue and beyond. Like something thick and dark and foul that seeps from her pores and just… out.

After a moment Kamilah takes her espresso and sips it idly. It’s something to do with her hands that isn’t harmful, something to do with her mouth that isn’t scolding.

Nadya thinks of a dozen different ways to apologize in the following quiet. One day she might even pluck up the courage to say them.

“What happened?” She asks instead, and watches Kamilah’s reaction. The stiffness of her breaks Nadya’s heart. “You said it yourself; I’m asleep. And I don’t always remember —”

“Last night included.”

She nods. “Last night included. So… please? Please.” Which is far too much begging for someone actually terrified to get their answer.

But she’s a glutton for punishment. That much is crystal clear.

For a moment it looks like Kamilah is ready to walk away; that she’s had enough. Then she changes her mind. It hits Nadya way too late that the woman is shifting in her seat; that she’s uncertain.

“That bad, huh?”

“It is not an incident I wish to repeat.”

“Like I do?” And she totally deserves the glare sent her way. “You know what I mean.”

“You were in immense distress, Nadya!” Kamilah very nearly shouts. Though even that holds her usual husked tone; her inner silence. She doesn’t raise her voice out of rage and that knowledge is scaring the both of them.

What it means is scaring the both of them.

“You tossed and turned and nothing would wake you. My every effort was wasted — I would have had better luck rousing a statue to life! I find myself despairing to think of what it must be like when you sleep alone in your own bed. Without someone to at least try… even if in vain. Without someone to…”

Don’t stop now. She has to hear it; she has to. “Without someone to what, Kamilah?”

“Without someone to hold you down and keep you from hurting yourself.”

Suddenly her wrists are a far less pleasant thing to look at; now that she knows they aren’t bruises of pleasure, but bruises of pain.

Kamilah watches as she rubs at the skin self-consciously. “I meant to heal you before you woke. So that you would not have to see what I resorted to.”

“You held me down hard enough to bruise.”

“And the very sight repels me.” Kamilah tries to take her hands but Nadya can’t help it — she pulls back with an impulse she doesn’t really understand, “When I had tried everything I could think of to no avail… I weighed my options. I would rather you know and understand what these nightmares are doing to you than find yourself unable to wake up at all.”

Unable to wake up at all. Hard words for Nadya to swallow. But they’ve got nothing on the pain Kamilah tries to hide with the long curtain of her hair. Something so strong she can’t push it back beneath the mask.

With a deep breath Nadya rests her wrists turned up in Kamilah’s hands. Rests a lot more in them too — and not even just tonight, right here right now. But it’s Nadya who solves everyone else’s problems — not the other way around. Can she be blamed for holding something back? For trying to keep herself from being vulnerable in the face of such invulnerability?

Slender fingers brush softer than a feather over Nadya’s skin.

“I anticipated… an uglier sight than this.” The vampiress admits and her voice is strained. The very thought is eating her alive.

“Well, it’s not. And, hey — did I hurt you?” She roams her eyes over every visible inch of the woman. Just because she can’t see anything, though, doesn’t mean nothing is there.

Kamilah can’t stand the sight any longer — regardless of lack of pain or noble intent. She holds back on answering Nadya’s question to bring a hand to her parted lips. The barest flash of pearly white, then red beading like a swollen jewel in compliment with her skin.

Kamilah takes great care in easing the blood over and into her skin; like a fine oil or lotion — something to make Nadya beautiful.

Maybe to a vampire this is beautiful.

The bruising heals rapidly before their eyes; holds Nadya captive in a reel on fast-forward that blooms to purpling blue to mottled red to greenish to yellow then poof. Like it never even happened.

Kamilah strokes the result with a tenderness that should be reserved for fine silks and glittering gold. Should be, Nadya thinks, and yet it’s her that gets that affection; that promise.

Who needs impassioned declarations of love when they could have this?

“I know you mean to ask if you somehow managed to injure me physically while you slept. But when I say I was wounded…” she knows Nadya so so well and keeps her from pulling away by lacing their fingers together, “when I say I was wounded, I do so in the hopes that you’ll understand I will no longer accept mostly-truths.”

She’s regretting saying that the more Kamilah repeats it. “I understand.”

“Best that you do.”

Nadya pushes herself into the woman’s arms in a tight embrace; buries her face into the coolness of her neck and it jostles Nadya’s glasses askew but she couldn’t care less. If she had looked at Kamilah for one more moment she would have broken down.

All this and they still don’t have any answers. They just have more questions and more symptoms and… and more resolve, maybe. But it’s not something they can solve in one night.

And just because Nadya doesn’t remember anything clear from her nightmares doesn’t mean they don’t linger. Something of a shadow in the corner of her eye when she looks in the mirror.

Maybe its time she forces that shadow into the light.

#bloodbound #kamilah x mc #kamilah sayeed #bloodbound fanfiction #playchoices fanfiction #fic: oblivion bound #oblv: bound by destiny ii #oblv: new chapter #bloodbound mc #mc: nadya al jamil #adrian raines #lily spencer #; my fics

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kafkian · 4 years

Note

double reversal au: it's the last day of summer before mac heads off to community college and dennis has nothing but long days interning at frank's real estate company to look forward to. dennis doesn't know what she's going to do without her best friend.

Mac’s popping gum leaning on the outside of the porch when Dennis opens the door. She got her dark hair trimmed on Friday, chopped right to the deadline of her jaw, bangs blunt across her forehead. Dennis wanted to hate it but it looks good, frames her face. Dykey as fuck. It suits her.

Dennis is already thumbing open the packet of cigarettes before the hot air hits her, the beat of her heart speeding up. She lets the screen door clatter closed, muffling the sound of her mom bitching at Jeopardy reruns with her feet propped up on the coffee table, premixed gin and tonic in hand. Dee’s bony limbs all crammed into an armchair next to her, chewing her nails and sneaking looks across the divide.

‘What, you couldn’t find Charlie?’ Dennis mumbles as she lights up and takes a deep drag. Mac’s still leaning against the side of the porch like she hasn’t got a care in the world but the line of her body’s gone tense, eyes on the flame between Dennis’s lips.

‘Charlie’s mom wanted him in the house,’ Mac tells her, levering herself up out of her slump. She’s too fucking ungainly these days, caught in some kind of latent growth spurt. They used to be the same height but Mac’s gained an inch on her over the course of the summer. She likes to get in close and look down at Dennis now, lord it over her with that slightly crooked pearly grin. Bitch. ‘You know, the whole spray can thing.’

Dennis grunts, taking another drag. She toes off one of her flip flops and presses the curve of her big toe into the foam, hardened with time. When she looks up, Mac’s gotten a lot closer somehow, only a few feet away. ‘Jesus, creep much?’

Mac sighs, tilting her head to one side as she pops her gum. The sway of her dark hair cuts into her cheek. She’s wearing the battered old leather jacket she thinks makes her look so tough – the one that used to belong to her dad and hangs off her in a way that makes that fact super obvious. All it really does it make her look small enough to put in your pocket, no matter how big she might have grown.

Dennis remembers when Mac’s shoulders weren’t even broad enough to hold the jacket up; it used to fall off her into a puddle of leather, make her scowl while Dennis laughed. None of her shiny new college friends’ll be able to say that.

‘C’mon, don’t be like that, Den,’ Mac whines. ‘It’s my last night of freedom.’

‘Oh, is something important happening tomorrow?’ Dennis asks sarcastically. ‘You must have forgotten to mention it every fucking day for the last three months.’

She yanks in a breath, puffing angrily on her cigarette. She’s been smoking so much lately that it’s starting to turn the whites of her nails yellow so it’s definitely time to quit, but there’s just no drama like angrily-puffing-on-a-cigarette drama. She’ll have to figure something else out. Maybe she can get a cigarette holder like one of those classy ladies in old black and white movies. Yeah, that’s it. She could look like a film star, beautiful and glamorous and aloof.

‘You’re just jealous you’re not going anywhere,’ Mac snaps. She spits her gum away and folds her arms tightly across her chest. It’s always kind of funny when she does that because it looks like she’s trying to push up her tits, except she doesn’t have any. Still flat as a board, same as the first day of puberty. ‘Just gonna rot away in daddy’s office, getting perved on by his rich old friends.’

‘Still more action than you’re gonna get,’ Dennis retorts. ‘Especially with your hair all chopped off, dyke.’

Mac’s nostrils flare. ‘Don’t – call me that,’ she says, and it comes out helpless, almost upset enough to make Dennis regret saying it. But Mac’s eyes are shining and now her fists are clenched at her sides and she looks so beatable like that, so easy to hurt. She’s gonna get the shit kicked out her at college, if not physically then emotionally. What the fuck is she going to do without Dennis there to kick back?

Dennis goes to take another drag but the cig’s all burnt out. She drops it on the ground and stamps on it, sighing. ‘You want to come inside?’

‘No,’ Mac mumbles, sniffing. ‘I want you to come with me.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know, okay?’ Mac sniffs again, an angry one. She runs her hand through her hair, fucking up her bangs. ‘I just wanted – I just wanted to see you.’

Dennis doesn’t say anything. She just stands there for a moment with her fingers twitching, staring at the edge of Mac’s jaw. Trying to put that sentence down in her memory rather than cling to it.

She shakes her head and reaches up, brushing Mac’s bangs back into place. Mac’s eyes are steady on her face, wide and searching. Her breath smells like loud fake strawberry from the gum.

‘I’m gonna come back, you know,’ Mac says quietly, catching Dennis around the wrist. ‘It’s community college, not fucking Mars.’

‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ Dennis mutters, pulling her hand back. She wets her thumb and wipes a smudge off Mac’s cheek. How the fuck does she always get so messy? It’s barely even five blocks walk over to Dennis’s house. ‘Come on, inside. If we’re going out, you need something else to wear.’

#sunidelphia #when i tell you i got this prompt and screamed ...#throws head back shrieks LESBIAN MACDENNIS #ps: this is in the same universe as my lesbian macden headcanons posts where they get married at 30 xoxo #macdennis #answered #my work #THANK YOUUUUUUU #addendum: for True Suffering i recommend that you listen to lucy dacus's map on a wall while reading this

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femmediaries · 4 years

Text

My Journey as a High Femme

I’ve always been THAT girl. As a child pink was my favorite color, I owned about 7 american dolls, Cinderella was my favorite movie, and I only ever wore pretty lacy dresses; despite the occasion. And as I got older it just got worse, especially when I discovered the fabulous world of makeup and fashion; you can only imagine the girly shenanigans that I got myself into. It’s what made me happy, it’s what makes me feel comfortable, it’s what makes me me.

That all changed when I met a certain handsome girl significantly older then me, who will forever make my heart skip a beat and my cheeks flush.( Girls are like, GORGEOUS you feel me? Ughh my heart 😭) It didn’t work out of course; she was like 25 and I was barely out of middle school . . .

Anyways, whenever I realized that I was a lesbian, I felt the need to conform to that stereotype, that idea that straight people have about what lesbians look like. Ya know, denim wearing, leather jacket owning,short haired dykes who just REALLY want to be men.

And so- despite being the girl that I was- cut my hair, bought some denim, and tried my hardest to look butch. I cut my nails, threw away everything pink that I owned( which was like, literally everything), and gave all of my pretty dresses away to homeless shelters.

It was a miserable fucking two years. I felt uncomfortable, I felt sad, I didn’t feel pretty, I would stare longingly in the mall towards Sephora or any other makeup store, just yearning to get my hands on a good pink matte lipstick and a matching eye shadow palette. I don’t even know how my high femme ass even managed to survive.

Finally I melted; something inside me just BROKE. One late night after underage drinking I grabbed my computer, and frantically typed in “girly lesbian,” into the google search engine. What I saw brought *literal* tears to my eyes, pictures of sapphic women with long painted nails, delicately styled long hair, and perfectly done elegant makeup; holding onto strong butch lovers, laughing smiling, being themselves.

It was then that I realized that there was more then one type of lesbian; that to be a gay woman you didn’t need to look like Lea DeLaria, or act like Jess from Stone Butch Blues. (my favorite book by the way) I could be myself too.

From then on I have truly and completely embraced my girly side; which is to be true, really my ONLY side. Pink is once again my favorite color, my hair is ALWAYS done and curled, butches are my jam,and lace is emblazoned on everything I own.

To all the confused little femmes out there- or to anyone reading this- know that you CAN be who you are, regardless of stereotypes regarding what you should be. It is perfectly ok to be a flaming dyke, but also look like a pretty princess at the same time. You can be both.

Take care ladies 😘

#femme lesbian #high femme #lesbian #gay #femme #fem #femme problems

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pug-bitch · 5 years

Text

That’s not why I’m staying (2)

Never have I ever punched someone

Book: The Royal Romance, Book 2

Pairing: Drake Walker x Amara Suarez

Rating: some foul language, some extremely suggestive. This is absolutely NOT appropriate for people under 18.

Word count: about 4,500 (sorry I am on mobile, so no cutoff :/)

Notes: This picks up pretty much where we left off, during the night at the bar in Ramsford, right after Liv joined. It starts with Maxwell’s POV.

*****

‘Hey guys,’ a familiar voice says behind them.

Maxwell turns around. ‘Rashad! You made it!’ He says as he wraps him in a tight hug.

Rashad chuckles. ‘Yeah, Liv said it was important. Hi guys,’ he waves at Hana and Michael.

‘Oh, where are my manners?’ Maxwell exclaims. ‘Rashad, I’m not sure you’ve met Michael Hansen-Suarez, Amara’s brother-in-law. Michael, this is Rashad Domvallier!’

The two men shake hands and exchange pleasantries until Drake, Amara and Liv arrive, multiple drinks in hand, which they distribute to everyone.

‘Cheers guys!’ Maxwell says excitedly, before taking a huge sip of his margarita. Amara’s right, he thinks. No way he’s driving them back. Oh well, it won’t be the first time his car sleeps downtown.

‘This is a big gulp,’ Michael says playfully, as if he’d been reading his mind. ‘You sure you’re still our DD?’

Maxwell nudges him with his elbow and whispers, ‘Shhh, don’t rat me out!’

Michael chuckles. Maxwell is so happy to see him relaxed, finally. Plus, the emerald green was a good call.

‘You having fun?’ He asks.

Michael nods. ‘It’s really nice here, yeah. I could get used to this.’

Maxwell smiles. ‘Good. You should get used to having fun. Maybe later this week we can organize a real Beaumont Bash, to show you how it’s done!’

‘Oh God,’ Michael exclaims, ‘will I have to wear a sash?’

Maxwell laughs. ‘Only if you want to.’

‘Anyone wanna play pool?’ Rashad asks.

Drake and Michael nod enthusiastically, while the girls playfully roll their eyes. ‘We just got here!’ Olivia yelps.

Maxwell shrugs. ‘Oh well. It super gendered I guess, but I could go for a game of pool right now.’

‘Alright boys, don’t start any trouble with your good looks,’ Amara teases, already sounding a little drunk.

*****

The three women sit in awkward silence for a couple minutes before Amara breaks the ice. ‘Ladies, if we don’t start talking right now I’m gonna go crazy. Liv, I said I’m sorry, I made you hug me, please let it be ok between us now.’

Olivia rolls her eyes. ‘We’re fine, Suarez, I told you.’

‘Then why is it so fucking awkward?’

‘She’s right, Olivia,’ Hana responds after gulping down about half of her drink. ‘If something’s bothering you, you should talk about it. Come on.’

Liv raises an eyebrow. ‘Wow, Lee. I like you assertive. Maybe you’re not such a weak bitch after all.’

‘Olivia!’ Amara scolds her. ‘Hana is just as strong a bitch as yourself, so shut it.’

Liv pauses and bursts out laughing. ‘Alright, you sexy bitches, you want me to tell you what’s bothering me?’ They both nod frantically. ‘I’m not nearly drunk enough for it,’ she concludes.

‘Ugh,’ Amara sighs. ‘Drink up, then!’ She looks around to check who’s within earshot before continuing. ‘In the meantime, can we please talk about how hot Rashad looks in a leather jacket? You go, girl.’

Olivia pauses and chugs the rest of her drink. She gets up and leaves silently. Amara and Hana look at each other, puzzled.

‘You think I offended her...again?’ Amara asks hesitantly.

Hana shrugs. ‘Please. It wasn’t offensive, on the contrary! It wasn’t the first time you guys comment on the hotness of each other’s partners,’ she remarks.

Amara nods and quietly sips her drink, her head hanging. Why couldn’t she ever shut up?

A minute later, Olivia comes back with a tray of drinks. Two double vodka rocks for her, and four margaritas for the girls. Amara gasps. ‘What did you do?? And, most importantly, how did you get the bartender to serve you so quickly?’

Olivia laughs and gestures at her body. ‘Are you really asking? I’m a fucking knockout, Suarez. You should know how it’s done, with those tits on you, I’m sure you’ve used your wiles before.’

Hana giggles and chants, ‘Liv is getting druuuunk!’

Olivia laughs. ‘Lee, you’re already drunker than me. Alright, here we go,’ she says before chugging one of the double vodkas.

Amara’s eyes are as big as saucers. ‘Is it that bad? What you have to tell us?’

Olivia puts her glass down and gestures at Amara to drink faster. ‘No, in the grand scheme of things, it’s not bad. But for me, it is.’ She pauses for a long time. ‘Rashad and I boned.’

Hana gasped. ‘OMG, congratulations!’ And she whispers in a conspiratory tone: ‘he’s so hot!’

Olivia, serious as ever, looks at Amara, ‘Does she know she’s supposed to be gay?’

Amara smiles. ‘She’s gay, not dead, it’s a whole thing. Please continue.’

Olivia grunts. ‘Alright. Well, Lee, you’re right, he’s very hot. Even more so naked. An ass like you’ve never seen, and a dick, holy shit.’ She looks away in the distance before shaking it off. ‘I digress, sorry. What I mean is, despite his perfection, and him doing everything I like, it was… well, it was good. Not great.’

Amara nods. ‘You mean he didn’t sweep you off your feet?’

‘Yeah, something like that,’ Liv says as she grabs her next drink.

Hana nods. ‘It’s normal for a first time, I think. Plus, you guys waited a little while, so there were expectations. You gotta give it time.’

Amara chimes in, ‘Exactly, and maybe it’s like Carrie and Berger on Sex and the City, maybe the first time wasn’t ideal, and you two need to work on it a little more.’

Liv looks her dead in the eye. ‘Are you comparing Rashad to whiny-ass Berger, Suarez? Also, his name is Berger. Have some respect.’

Amara smiles. ‘That’s not what I meant. I was just trying to find an example.’

Hana nods. ‘Sometimes, when you really like the person, the first time is awkward because you’re so anxious to get it right, that you get in your own head. And before you protest, I didn’t say you. I meant maybe Rashad was in his own head.’

Olivia stares at her glass silently. She sighs and pursues: ‘Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should just fuck him again. Pull a Suarez and bone him in this filthy bathroom.’

Amara grunts. ‘Come on, now you’re labeling me as the bathroom fucker? That’s not fair!’

*****

Michael walks towards the group of guys with a tray of drinks for everyone. Getting the second round was the least he could do, after they welcomed him so warmly. He didn’t really want to play pool, he’s just not good at it, and he doesn’t find it particularly fun. But he wanted to hang out with them, be one of the guys. He’s never been the most social person. He has friends, of course, albeit not many, but ever since he had Callie, he’s thrived as a father so much that he barely needs anything else.

Tonight, he finds himself missing his daughter, as always, but not in a sad way. In a way that makes him grateful to be a dad, all the while being happy to be here. With Amara, with new friends. With Amara’s new love, whom he’s grateful to get to know.

So, if he has to suffer through a few games of pool, so be it. With a couple more beers, he shall be drunk anyways.

‘Thanks, Mike,’ Drake says as he grabs a lager from the tray. ‘Next round is on Max. Right?’

Maxwell laughs as he aims for the balls. ‘Of course! My treat.’ He misses all of them, shrugs, and grabs a margarita from the tray. ‘Thank you, Michael. Rashad, your turn.’

Michael leans back against the wall and enjoys the atmosphere. He glances outside where the girls are enjoying their drinks. He notices a guy getting closer to them, then talk to them, while Amara is visibly trying to turn him down. Michael raises an eyebrow. He turns to Drake. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He exits the bar area to meet the girls on the patio. Something about this guy’s demeanor isn’t right. He stays at a distance as he listens to the interaction.

‘Come on, babe,’ the guy says to Amara. ‘Don’t tell me that you and your friends don’t want a drink from a guy like me.’ He opens his arms as if to display his body. ‘I’m no Prince, but I’m definitely capable of rocking your world. How about you, sweetheart?’ he asks Olivia.

Liv snorts noisily and responds, ‘My friend already told you we’re not interested, so fuck off, will you?’

The man laughs sarcastically and says, ‘Right, right, like you have such high standards.’

Olivia gets up menacingly and says, ‘Excuse me, asshole? What is that supposed to mean?’

Michael notices that both Amara and Hana get up also, their brows furrowed.

The guy spits out in an insulting tone, ‘I know you girls. You’re just a dyke and two whores, don’t pretend you’re anything more.’

Before anyone else can react, Michael’s blood boils and next thing he knows, he’s marching towards the man, putting his beer down, and connecting his fist to the guy’s face. He says, ‘What the fuck did you call my sister?’

The guy, taken aback, shakes his head. ‘What the hell--’ he says before he recovers and raises his fist to return the blow.

Amara leaps in front of Michael and places the guy in a strangle hold before anyone can react. The man yelps helplessly.

Michael’s head spins. It’s the first time he’s ever punched anyone. Suddenly, Drake is besides him. ‘Mike, buddy, are you ok?’

Michael shakes his head. ‘This asshole was insulting them, I--’

Drake turns to the guy, still held up by Amara. ‘What did you say to them?’

He struggles to breathe, and painfully says, ‘I was just--I was just trying to buy them a drink.’

Amara rolls her eyes and lets him go. He rubs his arm sheepishly. ‘He insulted the three of us because we refused to have a drink with him. Typical entitled dick.’

The guy mumbles, ‘Fuck you guys, I’m getting out of here. Bunch of assholes and whores.’

Drake places himself right in front of him, and he clearly towers over the guy. ‘What did you just say? Did you just call them whores? What’s your problem, man? You wanna get punched again?’

Olivia gets closer to Drake and pulls a dagger out of her jacket. ‘Or stabbed?’ she says. Michael gasps.

The guy runs off, still mumbling. Olivia puts the dagger away, as Michael is still reeling. He sits down. This is a lot to take in. His first sucker punch, a concealed weapon, and a whole bunch of dramatic confrontations. Not his typical Sunday at all.

The bartender comes out, closely followed by Rashad and Maxwell. ‘Sir,’ the bartender says to Michael, ‘you can’t stay here, we don’t tolerate violence in this establishment. As for you, Lady Nevrakis,’ he says to Olivia, ‘you can’t bring weapons here, please.’

Olivia rolls her eyes and takes a sip of her drink.

Maxwell grabs the bartender’s arm. ‘Loïc, please, they didn’t do this unprovoked. You know me, I wouldn’t bring troublemakers here.’

Loïc frowns and looks at Amara. ‘Oh, like this lady who likes to pull judo moves on people?’

Maxwell continues to barter: ‘This guy was bothering them, right Amara?’

Amara nods. ‘This douche called us whores, as well as derogatory homophobic terms. Do you welcome that in your establishment?’

Michael holds his breath as Loïc seems to take in the info. Finally, he rolls his eyes. ‘Fine. But Maxwell, next time, you’re all out. I mean it.’

As the bartender walks away, Michael takes a long, relieved breath. Amara sits by him. ‘Are you ok, Michael?’ she asks, looking at his hand.

He nods. ‘It doesn’t even hurt. I’m just in shock. Did I just punch a guy, or did I dream it?’

Drake laughs. ‘You definitely jammed your fist in his face, man. He deserved it, too.’

Hana squeezes Michael’s shoulder. ‘You’re our knight in shining armor,’ she jokes.

He turns to her, ‘I’m sorry for the name he called you. That was unacceptable.’

She shrugs. ‘It was. But you can’t change the fact that there are some terrible people on this Earth. All you can do, I guess, is…’ she pauses. ‘Punch them.’

Everyone laughs wholeheartedly. Michael takes a long sip of his beer and asks, ‘Can we talk about Olivia’s dagger, please?’

*****

‘Your Majesty?’

Constantine sighs, as if out of habit. He wishes he could get up, at least to seem like he’s doing alright, but his body is too weak. So, he calls out. ‘Come on in, Lady Madeleine.’

She walks in briskly, closing the door behind her. He specifically asked her to come by right after dinner, but it’s over an hour past, and he needs to get himself to bed. He tries to hide his annoyance and gestures for her to sit down.

‘Thank you,’ she says as she complies. ‘I won’t keep you long. I’m making progress.’

He nods. That’s all he wanted to hear. His country in good hands after he passes. That’s all he wanted. ‘Good, I’m glad,’ he says, hoping she will stop there and leave him alone. This could have been a phone call.

She nods. ‘Me too. He seems to have forgotten all about the incidents of the Ball, and I intend to help him forget some more.’

Constantine grimaces. He doesn’t need to know her methods, thank you very much. ‘Anything else?’ He asks impatiently.

Madeleine takes a breath. ‘Yes, potentially. He’s been talking to his brother a lot. He’s pensive after each of their talks. Last night, and then again this morning, and before dinner. I’ll keep an eye on it, but I thought you could ask your staff to do the same.’

Constantine nods. ‘Alright. It could just be that they’re speculating about who leaked the pictures, Lady Madeleine, nothing more. But you’re right. I will keep an eye out.’

‘Great,’ she says curtly as she gets up. ‘Enjoy your night.’

*****

Madeleine heads towards Liam’s suite. She finds herself hoping he won’t be as passive as last night. She shakes it off quickly. Who cares if he’s not enjoying himself? It’s not exactly a party for her either, but she will truly be happy when the crown is on her head.

He’ll learn to love her. If not passionately, like he would have the others like Olivia or the Mexican whore, at least he will love her respectfully, like a King loves his Queen. She doesn’t care if he fucks around. Perhaps she will, too.

But for now, she needs to keep Constantine happy. He wants the other women out of the picture, he doesn’t trust them. She gets it. She doesn’t trust them either.

She rattles her fingers on Liam’s door and waits for the weak signal to come in.

She plasters on a smile. ‘Good evening, love. I was heading to the gardens for a late night drink, do you want to join?’

Liam, already deep in a whiskey bottle, looks at his glass, chugs it, and gets up. ‘Sure,’ he says.

*****

‘Alright, alright! Rashad’s turn!’ Maxwell exclaims.

Rashad nods pensively. ‘Let’s see. Never have I ever… shaved my legs!’

Amara yelps, ‘That’s not fair! It’s clearly a twisted way to get us drunk!’

Rashad chuckles. ‘Yeah, you guys, and Maxwell,’ as he gestures towards Max taking a sip.

‘What?’ Maxwell asks. ‘I wanted to try it when I went through my bicycling phase!’

‘Ok, ok, my turn!’ Hana almost screams, leading Amara to think she’s had more than enough margaritas. ‘Never have I ever…’ she smirks at Michael’s direction. ‘...punched someone!’

Michael bursts out laughing as Drake pats his back. ‘Time to drink, buddy. I’ll accompany you, for obvious reasons,’ he says as he drinks.

‘Well played, Hana,’ Michael chuckles.

Hana mimes brushing off her own shoulders. ‘I try, I try. Amara, all you!’

Amara thinks for a second, trying to determine who she’s going to target. ‘Hmm, let’s see… Never have I ever had a child!’

Michael sighs. ‘Really, Amara? You know I’m a lightweight.’ He drinks reluctantly. ‘Ok now, my turn. Never have I ever…’ he smiles at Amara. ‘Thrown up in a parking garage.’

Amara gasps. ‘No fair! I told you this in confidence.’ She drinks. ‘Besides, it’s not my fault. I was sick.’

Michael fakes a cough. ‘Hungover sick.’

Amara rolls her eyes. ‘Fine, fine, since you’re determined to make me look disgusting.’

Maxwell puts his arm around her. ‘You could never be disgusting, Little Blossom, you’re the cutest! Even though, you know, you just had a guy almost choke in a badass move, I’m still allowed to call you cute.’

‘Alright, that’s my cue to go get another drink, you guys are too sappy for me,’ Liv says as she sighs deeply. ‘Rashad, help me carry the next round?’

Rashad follows suit, and Amara shares a knowing look with Hana. When the two are back inside, Hana asks, ‘Do you think they’ll be back?’

Amara chuckles. ‘I think if we’re expecting another round of drinks, we’re in for a big disappointment.’

*****

‘Feeling better?’ Rashad asks as Olivia is paying for the next round. He offered to pay but she looked at him with such a furious look that he put his hands up in a surrender pose.

Liv shrugs. ‘Yeah. Glad she’s back to her senses, and she apologized.’

Rashad smiles. ‘Good. Now can you tell me what else is bothering you?’

Olivia turns around briskly. ‘How do you know something’s bothering me?’

Rashad looks around for any wandering eyes and, when he realizes the coast is clear, puts a reassuring hand on Liv’s arm. ‘Because I’m starting to know your moods, Nevrakis. Now please tell me.’

She looks down at his hand. For one second, he wonders whether she’s about to tear him apart limb by limb for daring to touch her tenderly.

But she doesn’t. She looks into his eyes and says, ‘Did you really love last night?’

He gulps. He really did. It was amazing sex. But it was also somewhat awkward, and definitely not what he had been expecting from their extremely steamy makeout sessions. ‘You didn’t, right?’ He asks cautiously.

She whispers, ‘Don’t get me wrong, it was fucking good. But…’

He nods. ‘Yeah. I know. The anticipation was better.’

‘Right.’ She pauses. ‘Suarez thinks it’s just the curse of the first time.’

He nods. He should be mad that she already told her friend that he sucks in bed, but he figures, coming from Olivia, the fact that she talks about him at all is a compliment. ‘You think we should try again?’ He says, raising an eyebrow.

She nods. ‘Yeah. Let’s drop off those drinks and go fuck in the bathroom.’

He laughs heartily. ‘Um, as much as I’d love to, that’s a lot of pressure on a bathroom hookup. It might turn out to be even more awkward than the first time. Think hand dryers, weird smells, wet sink…’

‘Ew,’ she interrupts. ‘No need to get graphic, I get it.’

He gets closer to her and whispers in her ear. ‘I don’t want us to plan anything. Let’s just wait until we can’t help but fuck each other’s brains out.’

She gives him a mischievous smile and grabs a tray. ‘Well played, Domvallier. You got me wet already.’

*****

Liam zips up his pants, in silence. He looks around at the maze. Well, he thinks, there goes his maze fetish. She ruined it.

Madeleine gestures for him to help her zip up her dress. He complies. ‘That was...something,’ she whispers seductively. She looks at him over her shoulder. ‘Did you have fun?’ She purrs.

He plasters on his fake smile. ‘Of course I did, love. It was wonderful. Now let’s go back to the palace, you wore me out. I need to get some sleep.’

She seems satisfied enough with his answer. She locks arms with him and they walk on together.

Liam’s thoughts are racing, over his silence. How could he have thought she was genuine? How could he have believed her concern? All she ever wanted was to be Queen, he knows this, he’s always known this.

What he didn’t know is that she was willing to destroy others in order to get what she wants.

For now, he can’t break the engagement. But he will, right? He and Drake and Leo will find out who was in on the whole thing and Amara’s name will be cleared. Madeleine’s name will be the one with scandal associated to it. The woman who sabotaged everyone else for the throne. All they need is proof. Amara’s a detective, she can help figure it out.

His heart sinks. Amara.

She made it clear. She doesn’t have an interest in him. But maybe things will change, once she has a duchy and citizenship, and they can become friends first.

Right?

Something’s gotta give. He can’t be stuck in a loveless marriage.

*****

Madeleine runs her hand through her hair. She can’t arrive at the Palace all disheveled, although it would make for a nice statement. Sure, she’s not the first woman Liam fucked in the maze, but she’s the first fiancée he shags out there.

She didn’t hate the sex. He’s good at it. Still, this is a means to an end.

*****

‘Oh God, I shouldn’t have had that fifth beer,’ Michael slurs as Drake holds him up after the Uber ride.

Drake chuckles. ‘You’re good, I got you. Just put one foot in front of the other.’ He glances at Amara. ‘You ok, babe? Still standing?’

She gets out of the Uber and thanks the driver, a little wobbly on her feet. ‘I’m good,’ she laughs.

Hana stumbles out as well, giggly as ever. ‘Guys, I had the best night,’ she yells out.

Drake helps Michael up the steps, where Rashad, Liv and Maxwell are waiting for them.

‘Wooo you made it,’ Maxwell cheers. He holds out his arm for Michael to grab it. ‘Here, Michael,’ he says softly. ‘Let’s get you some water.’

Michael blushes. ‘Sorry everyone. I guess I’m still jetlagged.’

Olivia snorts. ‘Or maybe we wiped the floor with you at Never Have I Ever.’

Michael shakes his head. ‘I still think ‘Never have I ever been a lawyer’ was unfair.’

Maxwell opens the door delicately, so as not to wake Bertrand. He whispers, ‘Rashad, thank you so much for driving my car back. I owe you one. You can stay over if you want, Liv has a room here!’

Rashad nods. ‘Thank you Max, but I have an early meeting. I need some sleep.’ He looks into Liv’s eyes and captures her lips in a deep kiss.

Drake’s eyes widen. He looks at Amara, who’s pretending to fan herself. When Rashad’s mouth finally leaves Olivia’s, everyone else’s is still wide open.

‘Bye, Domvallier,’ Liv says in a low voice.

He winks at her and waves at everyone else. ‘Good night guys, it was fun.’ He takes out his phone and calls his driver.

Drake takes Amara’s hand and they go inside. ‘Wow,’ he says, ‘that was some PDA.’

Olivia snorts. ‘Ugh, of course you’d say that, Walker. Clearly, you have no idea what we’ve all been through with you. All your makeout sessions with Suarez, they aren’t PDA?’ She walks upstairs in the direction of her room and turns around midway, just to rolls her eyes at Drake one last time.’

He sighs. ‘Fine. I’ll shut up. I’m gonna turn in anyways. Babe?’

Amara squeezes his hand. ‘Yeah. I’m exhausted. Michael, you need me hun?’

Michael takes a deep breath, and uses the hand that isn’t holding Maxwell to hold the wall as well. ‘I’m fine, I just need water. Go to sleep.’

Maxwell shoos them with his hand. ‘You crazy bitches go to bed. I’m gonna water the kids,’ he says as he gestures to giggly Hana and wobbly Michael.

*****

‘Hana, hold still, OMG.’ Maxwell whispers, trying to help her out of her heels. ‘If we wake Bertrand he will kill me.’

Hana laughs softly. ‘Grandpa Tassel! I love his face so much.’

Maxwell can’t help but smile. ‘I do too, but if I see him burst out of his room, his lovely face furious at me, I swear to God, woman, I’m abandoning you to his wrath.’

Hana feigns shock. ‘Oh! You wouldn’t dare!’

Max blows her a kiss. ‘You have no idea what I’m capable of.’

Michael giggles, sipping on his glass of water. ‘Guys, I’m so drunk,’ he slurs.

Maxwell smiles softly. ‘It’s ok. Drink your water. I need to do the same, I’m fine but I’ve had a lot of margs.’

‘I swear Maxwell,’ he continues, ‘I never get this drunk. You have to believe me.’ He takes Maxwell’s hand. ‘It’s the jetlag, and that game.’

Maxwell looks at Michael’s hand, a pang in his heart. He puts his other hand on it, and carefully places it back on Michael’s lap, patting it gently. ‘It’s all ok, Michael. You can also blame the shirt.’

Michael makes a shocked face. ‘The shirt! It was infused with your party spirit, Maxwell. That’s it!’

Maxwell chuckles. ‘Yes, you got me.’ He finally manages to get Hana out of her shoes. ‘Hana, drink your water. I’m gonna go get you guys some of Drake’s leftovers. Be right back.’

‘Oh, I’ll come help,’ Michael whispers, getting back on his feet with difficulty. ‘Plus, I want to make sure you also bring some of those cookies we got at the farmers market.’

Michael stumbles a bit, and finds Maxwell’s arm. They walk to the kitchen together.

‘You ok?’ Maxwell asks, his heart racing.

Michael smiles faintly. ‘Yes. I’m embarrassed. I told you, I never get drunk. It’s embarrassing.’ He puts his hand on his face.

‘No!’ Maxwell protests. ‘Nothing embarrassing about having fun. You’re safe here, you can let go a little.’

Michael nods and, once in the kitchen, lets go of Max’s arm to hold on to the island. ‘You’re always so nice to me, Max. Thank you. You’re a good person.’ He pauses. ‘You don’t treat me like a pathetic widower.’

Maxwell grabs the pack of cookies and a tupperware of leftovers. ‘Michael, you’re so much more than a widower. And you’re not pathetic. You’re strong, smart, and loving. Look how far you’ve come just to reconcile with Amara.’

Michael sits at the island. Without a word, Maxwell brings him a cookie. Michael breaks it in half and offers him some. They both take a bite. Michael sighs. ‘I feel so much better,’ he says.

Maxwell smiles. ‘The power of the cookie, my friend.’

*****

Taglist:

@drakeandcamilleofvaltoria @andy-loves-corgis @jovialyouthmusic @mariahschoices @drakesensworld @thequeenofcronuts @notoriouscs , @drakewalkerisreal @nikkis1983 @simsvetements @alesana45 @iplaydrake @emceesynonymroll @lily1999love @drakewalkerwhipped @drakxwalker @drakewalkerrosenberg @drakeswalkers @drakelover78 @silviasutton1989 @dcbbw @texaskitten30 @furiousherringoperatortoad @hollygirl1269 @sirbeepsalot @ladyangel70 @thisperfectmemory @of-course-i-went-to-hartfeld @i-bloody-love-drake-walker @mrsmairstanley @addictedtodrakefanfic @msjpuddleduck

Thank you for your encouragements, everyone! Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist :)

#that's not why i'm going #drake walker x amara suarez #drake walker x mc #dramara #drake walker #trr fanfic #trr drake #drake x mc #drake walker trr #drake x amara #that's not why i'm staying #amara suarez

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outweek30 · 5 years

Text

We all know why lesbians don't have Ms. America pageants, There is a Ms. Leather or something like that; women who I am alternately frightened of and desirous to be, who I always end up confusing with Mr. Drummer 1989. While some lesbians would be wont to tell you firmly (very firmly), that the reason S/M girls have these pageants is because they're too male-identified to begin with, I would think it more likely that it's to meet each other and have wild sex before, during and after the dungeonwear category. Not a thought to be dismissed lightly when planning your next trip to San Francisco.

Now sit down. Close your eyes and think. Can you see it yet?? I hear the music fading in already. I can see that coffeehouse stage flooding with light...Yes it's true...it's...

...THE MS LESBIAN NATION USA PAGEANT

This nightmare fantasy immediately splinters into two separate shows:

1) The Politically Correct (PC): "An Evening With Other lesbians From Around The Country, To Share Talents And Hopes With, in the Struggle to Form Community Nationwide..."

2) The Wildly Incorrect (WI): (competition would be divided into butch/femme ...): "100 DYKES From All Over the Nation Converge to Get Laid and Win Sex Toys!!!" (This would alternately take place in New York and San Francisco.)

The shows would obviously be sponsored by some greatly differing institutions. the PC version by Olivia Records, Edensoy (this is soymoo; think about a soy bean mooing...), Birkenstock International, L.L. Bean and Fruit of the Loom. The WI show would have backers like: Sebastian Hair Products, Victoria's Secret, Good Vibrations/Eve's Garden, Levi's 501s, Schott Motorcycle Jackets and Chanel.

YOUR HOSTS:

PC Kate Clinton (the funniest lesbian in recent memory; you only have to have seen two in twenty to know the full depth of her comic repertoire) and Rita Mae Brown (ex-Martina casualty, famous lesbian writer who doesn't seem to write about lesbians anymore, fancy that...)

WI Madonna and Sandra Bernhardt (yeah, right, who else???)

THE JUDGES:

PC Lee Lynch (famous author of The Bull-Dyke and The Lady, among other works), Jane Rule (without whom there would be no "Desert Hearts"), Lily Tomlin, Sophia Collier (of Soho Soda fame), Urvashi Vaid (head honcha for the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force), Alix Dobkin and Chris Williamson.

WI Pat Califia, Deb Parker, Betty (Alison, Amy and Bitzi), Fran Lebowitz, Phranc, k.d. lang and Susie Bright.

CATEGORIES FOR COMPETITION/SHARING:

PC Poetry Reading: This being a time honored lesbian tradition spanning thousands, of years, Adrienne Rich will be guest judging the reading of her works, as well as those of the contestants. Painful coming out poems will be worth bonus points, as well as those using the words "patriarchy," "woman-identified" and "clitoris," but only if a rhyming scheme is employed.

Comfortable Clothing: The real meaning behind this is how comfortable you look in these clothes; no fashion consultants and extra points are given for how little time is spent on fIxing your hair right out of the shower. Birkenstocks are provided free of charge.

Casserole Preparation: Areas of expertise include: How to manage macrobiotic/vegetarian members of your party without sacrificing taste, ability to travel well on mass transit and weight of leftovers after dinner. Special consideration will be given to creative tofu preparations, excluding such pre-made products such as tofu franks.

Relating to Your Ex-lovers at Parties/Gatherings: Is there life after lesbian breakups? This category seeks to explore the sisterhood in all of us, even between you and your ex-lover's new lover, who is odds on your (former) best friend. This "role-play" is held in a cramped space somewhere in Park Slope.

Question (to be asked of all contestants): "What role do you see the lesbians of the future playing in the subversion of the patriarchy, considering the fact that they seem to be the most embracing of stereotypic female imagery at the moment???"" (30 seconds to answer)

Cruising/Flirting: Seeing as this is a slowly reviving art form, judging will be done on a free form basis. Guidelines, however, will consist of:

a) time spent before talking... b) time spent after first words... c) time to get phone number...

Advanced competition will include amount of time spent from leaving place of meeting to bed.

Butch/Femme Drag (contestants choose one, bonus points if you can do both equally well...)

Avoiding Your Ex-girlfriends at Parties: Suddenly raging thirsts, a need for pigs in a blanket; spotting your college roommate (who owes you quite a bit of money), and grabbing the nearest girl, sticking your tongue down her throat and whispering (loudly) "Where have you been sweetie? I was looking all over for you ..." all will earn points at this party.

"I Enjoy Being a Dyke": a multi-media performance art piece which must be conceived and executed by each contestant separately.

S/M Negotiation: Two women, upon their first sexual encounter, must decide "will we or won't we?" And if so, how far can we go??? The lesbian equivalent of high school sex.

As with all pageant shows, there will be a rousing grand finale before the "moment we've all been waiting for..."

A satellite link-up with women's peace encampments all over the world for a multi-lingual rendition of the medley "We Are A Gentle, Angry People/Lean On Me (I Am Your Sister)."

Our gracious hosts Sandy and Madonna do a medley of "Like a Prayer/Virgin/Express Yourself" clad in suits and lingerie, while molesting each other on international television, finally giving positive confirmation to what we already knew was true.

AND NOW THE WINNER IS...!!!

PC: There are no winners. It would destroy the sisterhood and sense of community created by the very sharing of space we have experienced on this night.

WI: A scandal ensues when Sister Codie, a drag queen, wins on write-in votes sent from a single address in the East Village.

— Liz Tracey, "Dykes on Parade," OutWeek Magazine No. 16, October 8, 1989, p. 46.

#outweek #issue 16 #lgbt history #lesbian #humor #culture #liz tracey

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