#kit march verse

[sprout-fics]

Mind the Drop

(Captain Price x F! Reader)

Call of Duty Masterlist

Rating: M Wordcount: 7k Tags: BDSM AU, Dom/Sub, Subdrop, Comfort fic, Non-sexual kink, Non-sexual intimacy, Aftercare, Pet names, Platonic BDSM, Cuddling, Subspace, Sleeping together, Praise kink, Mutual pining, Safe Sane and Consensual Warnings: Subdrop A/N: This is an experimental piece that takes place in a BDSM AU verse, where a certain segment of the population is hormonally disposed to being a submissive or dominant. This is not inherently sexual, as you see in this fic. Dom/Sub negotiation is commonplace, but societal stigmas surrounding these roles persist, such as discouraging subs from entering certain industries, such as the military. For more details on BDSM AU within a CoD context, I highly recommend you read "Surviving You" by WhisperedWords12

“Do you know why you’re here, sergeant?” 

Price’s voice is calm, firm. There’s not a reprimand there, no gruff warning or the cold, leveled anger of immense displeasure. No, your captain stares at you with his hands folded under his chin, as you stand at a lazy parade rest before his office desk. His eyes are intent, focused in the way he always is, but there’s a concern there hidden by the attentive glint in his eyes.

You don’t look at him, staring down at the surface of his desk instead, not answering. Your eyes rest on a mug of coffee sitting atop a coaster, the steam gone. It’s long since gone cold. It speaks to his own distraction. With what, you’re not really sure. You can’t find yourself to care.

You haven’t slept in days.

It’s nothing to do with your workload. Nothing in regards to any sickness or fever of any sort. In fact, things have been rather quiet recently as the team awaits new marching orders. You’ve all been taking advantage of the downtime as much as possible, relishing the long lapse of respite for your own enjoyment. You’d even taken the chance to recently meet up with someone.

Being a sub requires a certain level of attentiveness to your self regulation. Doms, such as the ones on your team, can go long periods without needing a scene. Eventually they will need to scratch that itch, have someone soft and sweet kneel at their feet and be good for them. The aspect of control, of caretaking and dominance is a necessary part of their existence. It makes them good soldiers, able to take charge and provide insight into their missions.

Subs are uncommon in the military, and the surrounding societal stigma of their existence often relegates them to desk duty or intelligence work. It’s rare to find one in the field, and even then they don’t last long due to the frequent harassment from their dominant counterparts. It’s the reason you’ve concealed yourself for so long, posturing to stand alongside these men who are your comrades, feigning an aura of authority as you go willingly to your duty.

It doesn’t erase the thing inside you- the urge to kneel for someone safe, to listen to their low, rumbling voice as it rocks you into a floaty, warm surrender that relieves you of all tension and stress.

Too long without a scene, without subspace meant you were prone to an itchy, uncomfortable sort of irritation. It manifests as annoyance, a short temper, but eventually transitions into a depressive spiral with little end. Most of the time you can use one of the endorphin injections provided free by the infirmary to even yourself out. Such medical kits, known as SubStop and DomStop, were common in the field, designed to even out the irregular moods and imbalances left by a sudden twist in hormones. You’d gotten used to the nasty side effects, the inevitable crash that came in the wake of the adrenaline. It was easier than dealing with the team knowing your true designation, that you’ve been concealing yourself from them all this time.

Even so, sometimes you required a little extra handling to be able to regulate, feel comfortable and get out of your own head.

In your recent downtime you found someone just like that. A local dom who was calmer, more level headed than younger men on base who were interested purely in the sexual side of submission. You had talked for some time, had explored each other, and had ultimately agreed to meet up for a single session. You had both enjoyed yourself, had a welcome release of rushing endorphins, and for a moment you wondered if perhaps this would lead to something more. It all came crashing down as he began to dress following your scene.

“I don’t do aftercare.” He said blandly, and left.

You haven’t been the same since.

You’d gotten back to base tired, drained, and had curled into your bunk that night to cry yourself to sleep. In the days that have followed you’ve been exhausted, listless, entirely unfocused. Constantly dazed, you try to ignore the whimpering, festering emptiness inside you, feeling as if the world is too big, and you yourself are so very small. You turn into your bunk early in desperate search of sleep, trying vainly to power through the dark loneliness that permeates your entire being.

Subdrop. You knew as soon as your one night stand left, and promptly ghosted you. You knew by the sudden wash of cold, the tremble in your limbs, and the clenching, terrible regret of something wrong. Like tossed into an ice bath straight from the fire, the shock to your system makes you gasp, clutch at your chest at most random moments, wanting to double over due to the phantom pain there.

You know the solution. You know that pure, blissful aftercare will alleviate the effects of your scene gone wrong, but there’s no one to turn to. You can’t disclose to anyone on the team about this. They understand, they know, and they’d be ready to help you. It wasn’t that they weren’t available, but that disclosing yourself might somehow change your rapport with them. The idea that somehow they’d change their view of you, see you as less than was worse than the spiraling side effects of your freefall drop.

Maybe you can find someone to help off base, but even then you don’t trust your own judgment when your insides constantly feel scrubbed cold and raw. If anything, it might make it worse.

You have no choice but to just bite down and deal, and hope that in the coming days that the drop will naturally work its way out of your system. Nevermind the sleepless nights, the hours scrolling mindlessly in the darkness of your bedroom, the way you stare off into space and don’t hear the voices of others. 

The team is concerned about you. You’re not hiding your inability to cope very well. The bags under your eyes deepen with each passing day. You move as if pushing through water. You excuse yourself from the rec room when others enter for fear they’ll pull you aside and ask about your listless, depressive state. It’s all for nothing though, because here you find yourself in Price’s office, glassy eyes avoiding his stare.

“Sergeant?”

You blink as his voice prompts you from your reverie, and force yourself to glance up into his eyes before averting your gaze once more. 

“Apologies, Sir.” You force yourself to rasp, and frown, not knowing what you’re even apologizing for.

Price is silent. Observing. You feel pinned beneath his stare, try not to squirm under his scrutiny. 

“Sit.” He tells you, nudging a chair beside you with his foot. The command itself plucks inside your chest, the needed authority of his voice making something uncomfortable twist inside you. You slide into the seat, perching uncomfortably on the edge, hands folded in your lap. “Look at me.”

You do, you make the effort to look up into his unwavering stare, trying and failing to hide the fatigue in your eyes. 

“You’ve not been yourself lately.” He tells you, voice soft, and you grimace. “You’ve been walking around base like a ghost, barely completing your duties, and you’re clearly ignoring the rest of your team.”

The unsaid “Would you like to explain yourself?” Hangs in the silence that follows as you offer no response. There’s nothing to say, nothing you can say without the repercussions that follow.

“I’ve…just had a rough few days.” You tell him, voice tight. “It’s nothing I can’t manage.”

“You know you can rely on your teammates, love.” He reminds you gently, and you swallow hard at the endearment, feeling your shoulders tense. “Whatever it is, we’ll find a way to help. We all care about you.”

Find a way to help. Of course. With the one thing they can’t help you with.

“You can’t help.” You tell him, composure crumbling. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Price is silent, and if you were to look at him, you’d see the inklings of distress etched into his face. You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, mouth pressed into a bitter frown as you try and hide it from him with little success.

Price rises from his chair, circles the desk to you before hesitantly laying a hand on your shoulder. You shudder a sigh at the contact, feeling yourself relax under the needed contact.

“There’s always something we can do.” He reassures you. “But I can’t help unless you tell me what it is.”

If only he could. If only your unwavering, steadfast captain with his guiding hands and gentle, smoky voice could help you, could alleviate the festering emptiness inside you. If only he could hold you the way you so desperately want, remind you what happened wasn’t your fault, allow himself to comfort you from the hurt clenching deep in your chest.

It all comes crashing down.

It starts as a hiccup, a stifled little sound you try to hide, and then your eyes are warm, wet with tears. They spill down your cheeks as you take an unsteady inhale, trying desperately to rein in your volatile emotions, conceal them from the man you admire so much. Try as you may, it’s without any success, because soon you begin to sob quietly with your head bent, face scrunching in an effort to stop your tears.

“It’s alright.” Price encourages softly, hand squeezing your shoulder. “Let it out.”

You do. It’s not a proper cry, not the true chest squeezing kind of cry that entirely empties you, but it serves a purpose in relieving a bit of the pressure inside you. Price stands beside you throughout, his hand drifting to knead gentle circles into the top of your spine as you shiver.

When you finally manage to get yourself under control, you scrub at your face with your jacket sleeve, heave a final shuddering exhale before summoning your resolve.

“Sorry, Sir.” You try again, voice muted, throat raw. “Truth is I…had a bad experience off base. It just shook me. I’ll get over it.”

You don’t need to go into further detail. It’s common knowledge soldiers hook up off base all the time, and Price knows this.

Yet suddenly his hand is tilting your chin up so you look directly into his grave, serious eyes. 

“Did they hurt you?” He demands, voice suddenly deeper, grim with a scarcely concealed anger. You blink at the sudden change, the fierce protectiveness in his eyes that sets something in your stomach aflutter. 

“N-no.” You manage, realizing what he’s referring to. “No, nothing like that-” You feel warmth crawl across your face, embarrassment prickling your skin. “It was all consensual.”

“Then…?” He presses, and you bite down on the words, refusing to bare this secret to him.

Price pauses then, shifts every so slightly and narrows his eyes. He’s thinking, considering, and you fear he’s seen straight through you. You don’t expect the words that come next.

“Are you dropping?” Price asks, strangely hesitant.

You freeze.

The silence that follows, heavy and persistent, tells Price all he needs to know.

At last, he sighs, letting go of a breath you didn’t realize he was holding.

“Oh love.” He murmurs, voice sad. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

You hunch over at that, hiding yourself from him, curling in on the physical sensation of disappointment that he’s given you. 

Price sees it for what it is instantly, realizing his words have only furthered the festering ache inside you. 

“Easy.” He gentles, and his hand is firm as it strokes between your tight shoulder blades. “I’m not angry.”

You sniffle into your shirt. “You…you’re not angry I hid my designation?” You ask in a raw whisper.

“No.” He replies instantly. “Only that we failed to make you feel safe enough to tell us.”

“...’s not your fault.” You murmur quietly. 

“And what happened isn’t yours.” He offers, just as gently. His hand continues its long, slow strokes between your shoulders, and you feel yourself easing under it, comforted by the mere touch of another person.

“Do you have anyone to…?” He presses carefully, retaining space between you. Not advancing, not without your permission.

It takes you a moment to snap yourself out of the glow beginning to simmer across your senses to understand. He’s asking if you are seeing someone, if you have a partner to provide assistance with your drop. A bitter frown tugs your lips downwards, remembering the words of the man you met before he vanished. 

“He…he said he doesn’t do aftercare.” You confess, voice small.

Price freezes.

You hear him take in a deep breath to steady himself, releasing it just as long in an effort to measure his anger.

“He did not do right by you.” He tells you, and in his voice you hear the ire, the offense on your behalf that clenches his hand atop his knee. Yet he unfurls it, and reaches out gently between you to gingerly rest it on your hand perches in your lap.

“I don’t mean to overstep.” He begins. “However, I can offer some assistance with this. Entirely on your terms. If you need someone to help, I can act as a…stand-in, as it were.”

You blink, face falling open in surprise as you stare down at your lap where his hand is. Reassuring but respectful, not crowding into your space. Asking for permission.

“You mean that?” You ask, finally looking up at him, voice cracking in a whisper that speaks of hope.

Price’s eyes are steady, calm as he regards you, Unflinching, intent, an anchor from the storm of your emotions.

“I do.” He returns easily, voice firm.

You swallow, face pinching as you consider. “And…what about after? Will it…” You trail off, the unspoken thing hovering in the air between you.

Will it change anything?

“No.” He replies quickly. “This is strictly between us. If you want to pretend like it never happened after, that’s what we’ll do.”

You hold his gaze for another minute, finally able to bear the stare of his blue eyes. You look for doubt there, an inkling of hesitation. Yet all you find is resolve and open, offering hands.

“Take some time to consider it.” He tells you in the lapse of silence that follows. “If you decide you’d like some help, you can come to my quarters tonight. If you decide against it, let me know.”

You manage a nod at that, swallowing the thickness in your throat and adjusting your hand under his in a small squeeze of thanks. It seems to be enough for him, because Price offers a smile, one that feels like it eases the tension radiating from your form just a little more. It takes a moment, but you sniffle and return the smile shyly.

“Right.” He announces, and gently withdraws from you to stand, assisting you to your feet as well and gently escorting you to the door of his office. You lean into his touch eagerly, feeling the firm grip of his palm at the small of your back. His voice rumbles with a gentle authority as he guides you forward. “In the meantime I want you to take the rest of the afternoon off, and to visit the infirmary for a check-up. You’re sleep deprived and dehydrated. Let them sort you. Understood?”

“Understood.” You echo dutifully, and once more that hand returns to your shoulder in a familiar grip, offering a small squeeze before he opens the door for you, his voice soft in a parting farewell.

“Take care, love. Let me know what you decide.”

—

In the end, you come to him.

It’s not a hard decision, but it does take some thought. You know his offer was genuine, with no ulterior motives. Almost clinical, doing his duty as your superior, in a way. You don’t deny that it hurts, considering the beginning of your feelings for him, but the doubt there is pressed down by the need for the assistance he offers. You hesitate only because you’re terribly afraid that things will change despite his words.

Would he try and bench you during missions? Have you hang back, underestimate you because of your designation?

You trust him, and that much is clear to you. You know Price won’t take advantage of you while you’re down. He’s a good man. You’ve handed your life to him in the field any number of times, trusting him to keep you safe and whole. This shouldn’t be any different.

…Right?

You swallow thickly as you knock thrice on his door, and almost instantly you hear his voice beckon you inside.

It’s dim, you notice, warm. There’s several blankets folded at the foot of his bed, a small assortment of snacks and water bottles set out on his dresser. Yellow light from his bedside light paints the room in quiet shadows. There’s a distant scent of cigars that lingers in the air, as if he’s done his best to air out the room before your arrival. It’s comforting in a way, a reminder of his scent in the few instances you’ve gotten physically close to him.

Price himself sits on the edge of the bed, limbs relaxed as much as he’ll allow them. He’s staring at you as the door shuts behind you, and if anything the dim shadows seem to make his eyes glint all the more. 

“How are you feeling?” Is the first question he asks you, and something aches inside you at the purposefully slow, soft tenor of his voice, still accompanied with a hint of his gruff rasp. 

“Shaky.” You tell him honestly, holding your trembling hands before your back. 

Price makes a small, considering sound, examining your rigid, tense posture and letting silence hang heavy between you both for a few moments. You squirm under his gaze, eyes averting shyly at the fixation of his gaze on you. 

Then he stands, takes two steps towards you. He stands just outside your personal space, tilts his head down to examine you with an unwavering, focused gaze. You have to restrain yourself from pushing forward, wanting desperately to fold into his arms, to let him hold you. It pulses inside your chest, tethered to the uncomfortably, empty ache sitting below your ribs.

“Will you let me help you?” He asks, voice a soft lull to your ears. It takes effort to not let your eyes flutter. You can already feel it creeping on you, that floaty, comfortable haze that offers to drown your senses in pillowy softness. You give him a small nod, only for a finger to tip your chin up towards him. It startles a breathy little sound from you, and you bite down on it a moment too late, teeth grazing your bottom lip. 

“Need to use your words, love.” He rumbles, and damn if your knees don’t wobble at that alone, the deep tenor of his voice, the gentle but authoritative force of his words. You can see the shadows of his eyes as he falls easily into his role, a gentle, insistent domination that you can’t help but follow like a moth to a flame.

“Yes.” You manage, heat rising to your face. “Yes.”

He smiles then, and this time you have to use your strength to stay upright, already wanting to go down to the floor in front of him, feel the wood beneath your knees. 

“We’re going to take this slow.” He tells you, his thumb brushing over your chin with a purposeful graze. “Need to work you through it, put you down and then bring you back up again. Can you do that for me? …Words, darling.” He adds when you once again nod silently. 

“Yes, sir.” You offer, trusting, sincere. 

There’s a dark look in Price’s eyes then, a hunger so swift and sharp it steals your breath in the single moment before it’s gone once more. 

“Good girl. Can you tell me your safe word?”

You blink at him a little dopily, distracted by his thumb circling slow circles on your chin. You wonder what it would feel like pressed on your tongue.

“Just colors, please.” You tell him breathily.

Price nods at that, satisfied. 

“Kneeling? Physical touch? Praise? Commands?” He goes on, and you nod eagerly at all of them before remembering to tac on your vocal approval. It seems to amuse him, your distraction, because you hear a chuckle rumble deep in his chest. 

“Very good, darling. Going to keep this nice and slow, get you all sorted. Can you be good for me?”

That does it, and you shudder a little into his touch, tilting your head so your cheek brushes against his knuckles with a whispered little “Yes, sir.”

Maybe it’s the drop, maybe it’s him, but you already feel like you’re gently descending into total relaxation, a surrender and trust to be taken care of. 

“That’s it.” He coos, wrapping one strong arm around your waist and gently guiding you back with him until his knees hit the bed. He sits, keeps you standing, one hand still tucked around your waist, just observing you. After a moment he reaches for a pillow, drops it to the floor just at your feet.

“Go ahead and kneel for me, sweet thing.” 

You try to gracefully lower yourself down, but with your wobbly legs you fall more than you descend. A careful glance up at him proves Price is trying to hide his mild amusement, his hand snaking from your waist up to your shoulder as you sink to your knees. It takes a few moments to settle, and once you do Price’s hand once catches your chin, tilting you to his gaze.

Oh. This…this is nice. You think, eyelashes fluttering. Here, kneeling comfortably, safe in his room, the quiet lull of base a distant murmur in the backdrop. It’s cozy, serene, and you can feel the low, cloudy sensation of subspace slowly wash over your senses. 

“Look at you.” He purrs, tapping your chin once to indicate you remain tilted up to look at him. “So far down for me already. Doing so well.”

The part of you that’s yet to let go, that clings on to that remnant, persistent tension of you swallows down the whine that threatens your throat. He seems to notice, tilting his head a little and blinking slowly, considering. 

“What do you need, love?” He asks, and you shake your head mildly, trying to find your answer amidst the confusion of your clouded senses.

“Don’t know.” You tell him honestly, and begin to fidget. “I…”

“Shh, that’s alright.” he soothes easily, knuckles grazing your cheek. “Need you to listen to me, angel. Can you do that?”

You nod quickly, eager, willing to entrust yourself to him, to listen to whatever commands he has to offer. 

“Good girl.” He returns, pausing to watch the shiver that traces across your limbs. “Go ahead and wrap your arms around my legs…just like that. Put your head right there on my knees. There you go.”

He maneuvers you slowly, gently, shaping you to his command as your arms settle locked behind his calves, chin pressed in the dip between his closed knees. He’s warm, and like this you can drink in the scent of him- smoky, musky, a hint of cologne he’s used to try and smother the smell of cigars.

In the dim, warm light you can see his eyes- dark, focused, unblinking as they gaze down at you settled comfortably at his feet. There’s a hitch in his breathing- a shallow indication of his reaction to the sight of you, with your hazy eyes and parted lips, well on your way down into subspace. 

“Give me a color, darling.”

“Green.” You breathe almost instantaneously. 

“Very good. How are you feeling?”

Your brow pinches at that, feeling the remnant tug of tension still pull as a dull ache in your ribs. 

“...Better?” You offer after an uncertain pause. Price looks a little dismayed at that, with his furrowed brow and down turned lips that tug the corners of his beard. It sends a little bit of alarm pulsing through you, afraid of his disappointment, perhaps a reprimand, and he feels it instantly in the way you stiffen against him.

“Easy, relax.” He gentles, a hand reaching to cup your nape. “Just checking in, love. There’s nothing wrong. You’re safe.”

You ease at that, eyelashes fluttering, sinking back into him once more.

“Good girl.” He purrs, thumb stroking in lazy circles across your nape.

“Thank you, sir.” You reply, voice slurring a little as you sink down.

If his fingers pause on your nape, you don’t notice, too distracted by the warmth and smell of him in your comfortable position.

It’s nice. You can feel yourself unwinding bit by bit, head propped in between his knees as you look up at him in the dim, warm light. There’s the beginnings of a relaxed sort of glaze to his eyes as he stares down at you wordlessly, taking in the soft, sweet sight of your open face. He’s falling into domspace, you can tell, allowing himself to relax into the role of taking care of you.

“We’re going to try some breathing exercises, sweetheart.” He announces after the long silence. “Deep breathe-” He sucks in a long, heavy inhale, and you mirror him, holding as long as he does, before releasing. “And out. Very good. Doing so well for me. Again.”

You mirror him as he breathes, feeling the tension slowly relax from your shoulders. With each inhale you drop your chin further into the cradle of his knees, feeling a warm haze descend over you. Each exhale releases a little more of the stiffness in your limbs, like loosening a knot tied in your chest.

You don’t even notice it when your cheek lolls against one of his knees, eyes half lidded as you gaze up at him. Nor do you notice the purposefully slow, even breaths he forces himself to take at your loose, pliant form crowded so close to him.

“There we go, angel. All the way down. So sweet and soft for me. Tap twice on my leg if you can still hear me.”

A small tap twice to the inside of his knee, and when Price smiles you feel gooey warmth bleed down into your bones.

“Very good.” He coos, knuckles grazing over the cheek not pressed to his knee in a featherlight touch. “Going to let you float for a bit. You can go down as deep as you need. I’ll be right here. Tap on my knee when you’re ready to come up.”

You cast a lingering gaze at him, eyes vaguely worried, but his voice hushes you easily.

“You’re safe. I’m right here, not going to leave. I’ve got you.”

You blink at him, slow, trusting, before you finally allow your head to drape across his knee, arms relaxing but maintaining their hold on his legs. A deep, fulfilling sigh breezes past your lips, and you feel yourself go sweetly down into a blissful haze of warm, dewy softness. Your breaths slow to deep, even inhales and exhales, and you feel your heartbeat pulse low in your ribs, where the ache and emptiness of your drop slowly begins to alleviate.

“There we go.” Price murmurs above you, a hand petting gently at your hair in a tender touch. “Went down nice and easy for me, didn’t you, sweet girl?”

You make a little hum against his leg, too comfortable and floaty to do much more than that. It seems to amuse him, somehow, and when he chuckles the sound warms you right through.

God this is nice. Just sitting here at his feet, pressed up close to his legs, snuggled in as close as you can get. With your cheek pressed against his knee you can drink in the heavy, comforting scent of him, let it cloud your thoughts and drift you further into blissful tranquility.

You don’t need to speak, to think or make decisions. Duties, secrets, resilience, you don’t need any of it. All you need is to just be here, pressed against Price, pliant and sweet as he rumbles soothingly down at you. 

“Doing well, love. Take as much time as you need. You’re safe.”

Yes. You’re safe. You’ve always been safe with him. There’s nobody in the world you trust more than Price. He’s saved your life many times over, has dragged you to safety, has slung your arm across his shoulder as he helped carry you, has offered careful, firm murmurs as he’s wrapped bandages across your wounds. He’s always taken care of you, in his own way. Each debrief comes with a hand across your shoulder, a long, sideways glance that says more than he can. 

You’ve never let yourself get close to him, too afraid of him finding out what you are, too afraid of his prejudice and judgment. 

Now that you’re here, curled up at his feet and drifting serenely, you wonder why you ever worried at all.

You stay like that for a long while, simply breathing, thoughts empty as you hug his legs, absorbing his warmth. The room is quiet, and in the soft after hours of base the only sounds you can hear is the slow, steady thump of your heart and Price’s low, measured breathing. 

You wish you could stay here forever, just being sweet and good for him, but eventually your knees begin to cramp up and you shift uncomfortably with a little whine.

“Eyes up, love.” Price tells you, words belaying a hint of firm command, and instantly you prop your chin to look up at him with soft, dewey eyes. 

You’re too lost to notice the way his eyes glint, the unblinking fixation of him as he simply takes in the sight of you- lost in the dopey haze of subspace, lips parted as you stare at him with a glassy, lidded gaze. 

“Look at you.” He breathes with a soft sigh, raising a hand to cup your face. You lean into it with a blissful little sigh. “Gorgeous thing.”

You squirm a little at that, skin warming with the praise. As you move to hide your face in his knees, Price keeps a hold of your chin, forcing you to stare up at him. 

“Mm, eyes on me. Just like that. Good.”

You wonder, amidst the cottony softness of your thoughts, what the purpose of this is, with him taking his time to just drink you in like he’ll drown without the sight. You can see his eyes tinted with the same wayward longing he offers you when you catch his gaze after missions- when he aches for you, longs to make sure you’re safe.

The ache in your knees returns, and a little whine bubbles up your throat, brow pinching with discomfort. 

“Feeling sore?” Price inquiries gently, and you nod into his hand. “Alright angel, sit up for me. Slowly…good. Good girl.”

You raise up a little on your knees, and soon Price leans over you, securing his hands on you to drag you further up and onto the bed. You allow him to arrange your heavy, sluggish limbs so you’re braced with your back against the headboard, nestled in his pillows. You go willingly, easing into his touch, content at letting him maneuver you as he pleases. 

When he moves away from you, however, you startle a little at the sudden absence of his touch. 

Price notices instantly, and once more you feel his hand stroke across your face, thumb descending to press against the plush bed of your bottom lip. 

“Just getting some snacks and water, love. Count to ten for me, I’ll be right back.”

That eases you some, and you nod, slowly counting. You get to eight before Price returns, dropping a bottle and a snack bar on his bedside table. 

“Scoot forward for me.” He instructs, and you obey as best you can, allowing him to shuffle you a little forward  further down the bed. It takes some maneuvering, but soon you find Price sitting up behind you, dragging you back so you sit inside the nest of his legs, back pressed to his front.

If you thought kneeling at his feet was nice, this must be heaven.

He’s so big and warm, and when an arm wraps around your front to keep you from falling too far down the bed, you distantly wonder if you ever want to come up at all.

Price adjusts, and you hear the sound of a wrapper being put aside before the snack bar appears in your line of vision. 

“Just a few bites.” He tells you, but makes no motion indicating for you to take the bar from his hands. 

You lean forward obediently, taking small bites from his hand as he provides them to you, quiet and appreciative, until the entire thing is gone. 

“Very, very good.” He murmurs, chin braced atop your head, huffing a pleased little sound when you squirm a little in his lap at the praise. “Like being told you’re good, don’t you, angel?”

You want to hide your face in his chest, but unable to do so your instead let your head drop forward a little, avoiding his eyes. 

“Shy thing, aren’t you?” He rumbles, pleased, and it only makes a rush of warmth trace across your skin at the deep, purring tenor of his voice in your ear. 

You get the feeling he wants to tease you a little more, but opts instead to wrap a hand under your jaw in a careful grip, lifting you up so he can graze the water bottle across your lips. 

“Just a few sips.” He encourages. “Then we can lay down and take a little snooze. How’s that sound?”

You nod eagerly at that, and readily drink down the water when he offers it to you. You’re about halfway down when you finally tilt your head away, and Price wordlessly deposits the bottle on the table. 

“Tell me a color, love.”

You have to think about it, past the hazy softness of you, brow pinching as your brain turns over the question.

“Green.” You reply with a little sigh, one that Price mirrors behind you. 

“Good girl. You ready to come up yet?”

You shake your head at that, frowning. Honestly, a part of you knows you have to come up at some point, but if you had it your way you’d stay like this forever, caught in his arms, warm and fed and cared for as his chest rises deep with every inhale. 

Price chuckles at your pouting little expression. When he bends forward to reach for a blanket at the bottom of the bed, he’s forced to curl over you, pressing you down with his weight. It’s startling how quickly you have to stifle a moan at the sensation, with his larger frame bracketing you in, engulfing you with the firm line of his body against yours.

He pulls back all too soon, drapes a blanket across your lap and up to your shoulders. It’s soft, a little worn, but it smells like him, and that’s all you need. You snuggle happily into it with a little hum, leaning back against him a little more until you’re completely situated. 

“There we go, angel. How’s that feel?”

“ ‘S nice.” You slur, tucking your head a little further down to nestle into the blanket. “Comfy.”

Price hums a pleased little sound, one hand still wrapped around your front, and now the other resting easily on your thigh, pressing in soft, lazy circles. It’s instantly soothing, and once more you can feel yourself drifting a little further down into that wordless, worriless meditation. 

“Close your eyes for me, love.” Price murmurs gently. “Slow, deep breaths.”

You comply readily, and as you feel his chest rise slow and deep behind you you force yourself to match it, dragging in a warm inhale that’s heavy with his scent. You follow him as he exhales, and then repeats once more. 

“Just like that.” He murmurs as you grow completely limp in his arms. “All the way down. Perfect.”

You’re too far under to even acknowledge him, senses heavy and sated as he curls himself a little further around you, hand stroking lazy patterns along your thigh.

“Rest now, darling. I’ll be here when you come up.”

Regardless of the command, you find yourself drifting easily into stillness, a languid little sigh releasing all the tension in your body before sleep descends dusky and tender over your senses. 

—

It’s still dark when you finally wake up, sluggish and heavy. The room is still warm and dim, quiet with the low, steady thump of your heartbeat. It’s the first thing you notice aside from the contented weight of your limbs.

The second is the pair of arms wrapped around you, tucking you close into Price’s front as you both lay on your sides. 

“Awake?” He rumbles, and with the soft hoarse of his voice you can tell he’s been dozing as well, not fully asleep, still present for you to wake up and he told you he’d be.

“Mhm.” You mumble, ignoring the self conscious little flutter at being caught in his arms like this. 

“Feeling better?” Price asks, and makes no move to shift away or dislodge you from his hold. 

“Much.” Your eyes are level with his collarbone that peeks beneath his shirt, and there you see an old, silvery scar that snakes up towards his jugular. You wonder about the story there, about how this man has seen so much violence and yet somehow can still be so gentle.

“Thank you.” You whisper, feeling that warm haze now gently ease, and in its place a comfortable awareness free from the empty, clenching side effects of drop. “For all of this.”

Price is silent for a moment, and you wonder if perhaps you said the wrong thing. His voice is low, deep as he speaks.

“He shouldn’t have treated you like that” He rumbles, and there’s a hint of darkness there, one that melds with his hold on you tightening just a fraction, as if he’s too possessive to let you go. “If I-”

He stops himself then, words biting into nothingness. You hold your breath, waiting for more, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the silence envelops you both, soft and warm, a touch bitter with unspoken words. 

“I understand why you didn’t tell us, love.” He speaks at last. “And I trust you’ll understand when I say we will never judge you for anything but yourself.”

Emotion, hot and thick, rises up through your belly. It scrunches your face, warms your eyes as you sniffle against him.

This is what you wanted. The entire time, all of this hiding and secrecy and anxiousness. You wanted to be accepted, to be held, to be cherished, by him.

“I wish it was you.” You whisper, scarcely audible. “The entire time, I wished it was you.”

Price stiffens at that, and you’re certain he’s going to pull away, to declare this scene is over and gently escort you out. You wonder vaguely if you’ll hurtle straight back into drop with his rejection. 

“If I had known-” He murmurs in an echo of his previous words. “I would have offered myself much sooner.”

You look up at that, tilting your head so your eyes no longer look at his chest, but into his eyes. Soft, sincere, achingly tender in a way that plucks the defenseless heart strings inside you.

“You mean that.” You state then, voice scarcely containing your hope. 

Price makes a little rumbling hum down at you, his hand flexing at the small of your back. 

“Only if you’ll have me, angel.”

Angel.

Now, here, out of subspace, away from the cottony softness of him guiding you down. Instead he calls you this beloved endearment because it’s you, because he wants you.

It’s all you’ve ever wanted- to be here, to be in his arms, to entrust yourself to him so wholly and completely that he becomes the only thing for you with his gentle guiding hands and stern, smoke laden words. 

“I’m your captain.” He tells you, one hand grazing your cheek in a beloved touch. “But if you ever need more, all you need to do is ask.”

The words inside you seem to buzz soundlessly in the cavern of your thoughts. There’s so many things you want to say, to confess, to ask of him. Yet here, in this moment, the only thing you can offer him is the thing you’ve said from the beginning.

“Please.”

And- oh. Oh, his smile, the way it tugs at his beard and makes the smile lines crinkle at the corner of his eyes, pleased and soft even as his eyes glint in the darkness. A quiet, profound gratitude of which he speaks little, and yet feels so deeply. 

“Can I stay?” You ask, voice small but hopeful, and Price’s eyes twinkle with an amusement that swoops low in your stomach.

“Who said you were leaving?”

You smile at that, and if anything it makes the corners of his lips tug tighter, a low, pleased rumble vibrating through his chest pressed close to yours. 

“Rest, darling.” He encourages once more. “There will be time in the morning.”

There will be. There will be time come morning, and there will be time after. There will be time for the touches that follow, and the words that precede them. There will be time for his familiar control to settle comfortably over you, for you to slowly but fully surrender to him. There will be time for you to become his entirely, and for you to go willing into his guiding hands. 

Yet here, in his arms, safe and whole, you silently wish that dawn will never come.

I already posted this over on AO3 but figured I would post this on here as well. Enjoy!

#price x reader #captain price x reader #john price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x you #to add to masterlist

[sofasoap]

Come back to me.

Pairing : John Price x F!Reader ( Oc/Mini MacTavish)

summary: You share a pre-mission ritual and farewell with your husband before heading off into danger.

part of the Mini MacTavish verse.

After Little swallow

Warning: Mature. Age gap warning.

not Beta'ed. I am sick with pandemic virus. BAHHHH. brain not 100% ( it's never been 100%)

A/N : Inspired from @captainpriceslover post of Barry Sloane as Joe "Bear" Graves patting himself checking his gear.

“masterlist” for Mini MacTavish expanded verse.

“Got everything?”

Price opened his eyes, finding you standing in front of him, waiting.

You notice he always has this interesting pre mission ritual,  closing his eyes, mumbling to himself, patting up and down, making sure all the gears and equipment are in place.  

“I am not sure, why don’t you double check it for me?” he smirked.

“Gladly. Hmm. Got your boonie hat on. Can’t forget that.” Slowly from top of his head, down to his face, you gently caress his beard. “ You need to have a good trim when you come back.”

“I know love.”

Moving down towards his vest, taking extra care he has his emergency kits with him. Patting his side, silently ask him to turn around,

“Not going to check down there?”

“Hush. be patient.” You shushed him as you gave a light tap on his rear side. “ Happy?”

He chuckled. “That will be sufficient for the moment.” He turned around, pulling you as close to him as possible without making you uncomfortable with the vest. “ Until I come back.”

“You better make it back in one piece. Along with the boys.” You whispered as you lean in, resting your forehead against his.

“I will always come back to you.” He replied.

“There is no guarantee in that.” you murmured, with a hint of sorrow.

“I know, I know love.”

Taking his dog tag out from the pocket, you gave it a light kiss before putting it around his neck, tucking it safely under his top.

“Just hoping Nikolai won’t throw any of you out the halo this time round.”

“It’s hard to say. But a kiss from Lady Fortuna,” he pecked you on the mouth, “ I am sure we stay in this time.”

“Even Lady Fortuna nearly died from it.” You grumbled.

“Still holding grudges against him?”

“... No.”

Shaking his head before giving you a deep kiss, as if his life is dependent on it before pulling away.

“Ready for action, Captain Price?”

“Always, Doctor MacTavish.”

With that, both of you march out of the tent, switching into soldier and medic mode, ready for whatever the enemies throws at you.

This becomes a ritual for both of you before mission starts, if SAS/SpecGru had joint mission with KorTac until both of you retired from frontline.

and Price doesn't dare tell you how many near misses he had (aka Nikolai flying around like crazy) .

#captain john price #john price x you #john price x reader #john price imagine #john price #captain price x reader #captain price #captain john price x reader #captain john price x you #captain john price x female reader #call of duty #Mini Mactavish verse

[not-alien-girl-v]

The Evans as Ethel Cain Songs

Tate: HEAD IN THE WALL!!!!!!!!! ok this is so so like omg right ok so like if you get it you get it so. so the raping part was so tate langdon and "Shooting up our old school when we get bored of shooting up Fuck the cops, and fuck god, and fuck this town for ruining us They'll put holes in all we own and in our heads, pumped full of lead You always told me i could only leave you once we're both dead" tate langdon coded you can try to argue with me about this but you're going to be wrong about it so

Kit: most of miss anhedonia's songs are all too toxic for kit so all i'll say is like specifically the one part of crush where its like he looks like he works with his hands and smells like marlboro reds is so kit but the rest of the song is more tate you feel me. and also thoroughfare because kit is american man with a truck coded. you get it.

Kyle: hard times :((((( and i don't want to elaborate so much on it because it makes me sad that most of kyle's narrative is based on his trauma with his mother and even in death he just continues to get used for his body.

james: i am feeling knuckle velvet and also lilies ok so for knuckle velvet the line ‘you come in so hard, gore me through the heart’ that just yells james directly into my ears idk what to tell u and for lilies ‘you’re like an angel, nothing can touch you, but i wanna hold you, i wanna love you’ like ok sure that could be any evan character cuz he’s beautiful like an angel but when i hear angel and beautiful in the context of evan peters im gonna think of mr march and mr march ONLY also like the entire first verse is SO james it’s like i can picture the exact scene in his silly little hotel room so vividly in my mind it’s like it’s a real scene from the show

kai: my little piece of shit <3 so for kai im feeling dog days and sunday morning. from dog days ‘you walk a fine line between god and animal, you’re just a feral dog i worship in bedroom ceremonials’ and also ‘cut me up and take me like the bread and blood at church’ like ok the kinkiness mixed with violence mixed with religion mixed with worshipping a man who’s literally just Some Guy that’s kai anderson shit right there. for sunday morning ‘when i go home at night i think about the ways that i can get out of the hold you’ve got me in’ mixed with ‘everything hurts except for you’ ok kai anderson kai kai kai anderson

and that’s all i have to say i don’t fuck with the other characters so this is all y’all get from me

#ethel cain #ethel cain lyrics #ahs #evan peters fanfiction #evan peters #evan peters x reader #american horror story #evan peters x you #tate langdon #fanfic #tate langdon fluff #tate langdon x reader #tate landon fanfiction #kit walker #kit walker x reader #kit walker fanfiction #kyle spencer x reader #kyle spencer #kyle spencer fanfiction #james patrick march #james march #james march fanfiction #james march x reader #james patrick march x reader #kai anderson x reader #kai anderson smut #kai anderson #kai anderson x you #kai anderson imagine #kai anderson headcanons

[capricorn-0mnikorn]

Someone* expressed a differing opinion in an obnoxious way on the Internet.

(So I spent over a week collecting evidence and composing this rebuttal -- *"Someone"= an abstraction of several people)

Someone: Home Free and VoicePlay are like Night and Day! You can't compare them! Me: They are both "Day," but just different hours in different seasons. Someone: Home Free sings Country. VoicePlay sings Disney and theater. Me: That's each of their tendencies. But they each have too many exceptions for that to be accurate. Someone: Home Free sings their songs "Straight," VoicePlay makes everything "Flashy," with costumes and acting. Me: That's each of their tendencies. But they each have too many exceptions for that to be accurate. Someone: But you agree they're different. Me: Sure! Someone: How? Me: Vibe... Okay, let me get back to you.

[Insert Buffer wheel here] ... [And here] ... [And here]

Okay. I think I've figured it out. If you want to understand the artistic and musical differences between Home Free and VoicePlay, pay attention to their vocal percussionists. That's where their two philosophical approaches to music is most clearly expressed.

Adam Rupp, the percussionist for Home Free, can imitate an entire drum kit (and more) with astonishing clarity and precision. Likewise, the singing voices are equally clear and precise, and they keep their a cappella arrangements relatively close to the original song they're covering, especially in their more recent work.

To illustrate, I present their cover of "Never Gonna Give You Up" (April Fools' Day, 2021, recorded separately, because quarantine):

(Even though this was an April Fools' video, they treat the song itself with utmost respect, and sing it well. And I respect that)

Layne Stein, the percussionist for VoicePlay, on the other hand, is more likely to use invented sounds. Likewise, VoicePlay is more likely to experiment and, well, play, with their arrangements, rearranging the chord structures, sometimes, and/or slipping in musical lines from entirely different songs.

To illustrate, I present their cover of "Mr. Blue Sky" -- Layne Stein's vocal percussion is more subtle, here, but pay attention to what he's doing "under" the bridge (sorry, not sorry), and how that has a different quality from the main verses and choruses (March 8, 2019 [also the first VoicePlay song I found]):

Layne Stein's vocal percussion has gotten even more experimental over time, but I wanted to find an example where they weren't also in full theater mode, lest that be a distraction from my point.

So here are some more recommendations, in absolutely no order whatsoever:

5 From Home Free: Do You Hear what I Hear? (4 December, 2015) American Pie, featuring Don McLean (3 February, 2021) Helplessly Hoping (27 April, 2018) Folsom Prison Blues (25 September, 2020) One Man Band (13 August, 2021)

5 From VoicePlay: The Little Mermaid Medley, featuring Rachel Potter (18 September, 2020) I Can't Make You Love Me, featuring E.J. Cardona (12 August, 2022) If I Were a Rich Man/Girl, featuring Ashley Diane (13 July, 2021) The Heart of Life (10 July, 2020) Nothing Else Matters - Metallica, featuring J. None (January 13, 2023)

#a cappella #music I like #Home Free #VoicePlay #compare and contrast #Music video #auto-generated captions #eye contact #YouTube #Flashing #music covers #long post #many links

[coffeeandcalligraphy]

13, 12 and 20 for the pride asks!! :3 (if you already answered those pls ignore i cant count)

ty for asking! <3

13. Would your oc be open to a poly relationship? Why or why not?

omggg this is such an interesting question because I've been thinking about Kit & Bev in Seventh Virtue and I think they are going to be poly (I am ITCHING to write book 2!). I haven't planned that book that much so I'm not sure on details yet but I do have some very loose ideas I'm looking forward to exploring!

12. Does/did your oc ever wish they could change the way they are? Why? If it’s in the past, how did they get over the feeling? (this can be about internalized homo/transphobia)

okay obligatory Lonan answer because a good 80% of his plot in Moth Work/Feeding Habits is him strugggggllliiing with his queerness. For him, this stems from religious trauma and his relationship with his father (it's why in FH I "rewrote" bible verses in each chapter--that internal reckoning is really important to his character). This is a major conflict in MW and we see bits of it follow him into FH. A lot of this experience was my own :) lol (I went to Catholic school all my life before uni and needed a safe space to explore those feelings which is why Lonan is precious to me!!! <3). I WILL SAY that he does move past this, though canonically we haven't seen that just yet (in Seventh Virtue he's sooo comfortable with who he is, though that's an AU!). Hallowed Bodies, which is basically BODY BACK but in his POV, will show him exploring his queerness which I'M SO EXCITED FOR!!

20. Have your ocs helped you in self discovery? How?

omg perfect timing <3 yes!!! re: the above, but I soooooo needed Lonan to really deal with my own internal struggle. I sort of soft came out on here in March I think? But it's been a seven year journey for me, and I feel lucky to have a character to... go through that with lol. It made younger me feel a loottttt less lonely!

#asks #ty!!!! <3

[akocomyk]

Love Out Loud

February 17, 2023

My company’s LGBTQI+ community organized a Pride Community event with the theme Love Out Loud—a celebration of our continuous journey of inclusion and diversity. Its aim was to build self-awareness, have a well-versed idea about HIV, and to advocate a safe environment free of stigma, discrimination, and fear.

Weeks before the event, I was invited by the organizers to perform during the program, being the runner-up of last year’s Pride’s Got Talent—the winner was also invited.

I sang “Ikaw at Ako” by Johnoy Danao and, as an opening spiel, shared how that song became a bridge for Gerald and me to get to know each other and eventually fall in love. Days prior, during Valentine’s, I was serenading Gerald with the same song in a video call because we couldn’t have an actual date.

Going back, that was the first time I got to meet and bond with my fellow community members in our company. Technically, it was the second time we’ve all seen each other since we’re present during the Got Talent competition, but I was trapped inside my holding area that day and I couldn’t really mingle with them. Anyhow, meeting them was fun and liberating—like there’s a sense of welcome and respect.

Photos curtesy of Angelo Camaya

Staying true to the program’s mission, Pete Tan from LoveYourself.ph delivered a talk about HIV awareness—preventing transmission, getting tested, treatment, and living a life with HIV.

At the start of his talk, Pete asked who among the attendees were aware of their HIV status. Several people raised their hands.

I didn’t—for obvious reasons.

And that bugged me. Also, I was a bit ashamed, considering that I strongly advocate for inclusion & diversity and everything that goes with it.

Everyone also knows that I have a partner and we’re quite active in bed. Even though we’ve both been faithful to each other and have only had experience with one another, it’s still good to be aware of what our statuses.

March 4, 2023

I initially wanted to order a self-test kit from Lazada, but then people from the reviews section are saying that the kit is not approved by the FDA and that it’s better to go to a proper testing center. In addition, HIV screening and testing is provided for free at accredited facilities.

I went to the LoveYourself.ph site and found out that they have a branch in Bacoor—Hero by LoveYourself—so I booked an appointment yesterday. I’ll be around the area since I also had a physical therapy session—my PT clinic is also in Bacoor.

Anyhow, after my therapy, I ate lunch and went to Hero by LoveYourself. The staff were very friendly and accommodating and—I don’t know how—there was just a homey feel about the place.

Minutes after submitting my form, I was called—by my birthday—and we went into a small, enclosed area where all the unused testing kits were. The facilitator pricked my finger and drew a few drops of my blood which he put onto the kit. He was trying to comfort me throughout this whole process—apologizing for the prick and asking if it was too painful.

I was then asked to return to the lounge area and wait for around fifteen minutes for me to be called. 

A different staff member called me and then we went to a counseling area. She asked me about the history of my sexual activity. And seeing as I only have one sexual partner, I have a very low risk. That’s when she allowed me to pull the testing kit out of its packet and see the results.

She then proceeded with the precautions and advised ways to further prevent acquiring HIV. She was curious as to why I opted on doing a test, so I shared about hearing Pete Tan’s talk in our Love Out Loud event wherein he encouraged us to undergo HIV screening. And then she advised me to do this regularly—if possible, along with my partner—despite of the low risks, just for our peace of mind.

And then… That was it. I went out of the center feeling relieved and proud that I was able to undergo the screening.

#My Life #love out loud #pride #hiv testing #hiv aids #queer community #lgbtq

[theorderofrodentia]

2/10/24 - Chicagoland Rescue Roundup

Well, time to kick off my revival of the Chicagoland rescue roundup! I used to do these periodically to help signal boost pets in my area that are in need of a new home.

I will not be promoting any listings created by breeders (even if they insist the breeding was accidental).

I will be putting all these cuties up for adoption/rehoming under a cut, since these posts will be quite long. If you don't have space in your home for a new friend, please reblog if you can!

Our first friend to be featured is Nugget the female syrian hamster! $210 may seem like a steep price, but it looks like she comes with quite a few supplies - I frequently cite $200 as an expected startup cost for hamsters - and the owner is allegedly flexible on the price. (Western Springs)

Next up is a cute little corn snake whose owner is getting rid of her due to restrictions where they live. I'm personally not well versed in corn snake care, but it looks like she comes with a pretty well sized habitat! (Lisle)

This is a 1 ½ year old male cat who needs to go to a home with no other cats. (Chicago)

This is a 3 year old female cat who needs to go to a home with no other cats. (Mount Prospect)

This is a male cat who is 6 years old and whose owners can no longer care for him. (Oak Lawn)

And as a final plug - I love the Fur Angels Animal Sanctuary located in Aurora, IL! It's where I got Russ the mouse, and I've donated numerous supplies to them throughout the years. They keep their website well updated with animals looking for their forever home:

#rescue roundup #petblr #rodentblr #catblr #animal rescue #snakeblr #herpblr #animal adoption #hamblr

[kitomyx]

CHARACTER BIO TEMPLATE

GENERAL INFORMATION

NAME: Kitomyx NICKNAMES/TITLES: Kit / Kit Paine (when playing human) SPECIES: Nobody (Shapeshifter) AGE: 32 HEIGHT: 6' 3" (190.5 cm) PRONOUNS: Any (Most commonly goes by 'he' or 'they') DATE OF BIRTH: 13 March 1991 NOTE-WORTHY ABILITIES: Shapeshifter, artist (mostly sketches of what he sees), highly adaptive/flexible (both literally and figuratively), high tolerance for pain, high kinetic ability, good overall control of his body, appreciation for life CURRENT RESIDENCE: Verse-dependent OCCUPATION: Verse-dependent; generally an artist of some sort AFFILIATIONS: Verse-dependent SPOKEN LANGUAGES: English

PERSONALITY

ALIGNMENT: Chaotic neutral ASSETS: The clothes off his back, his jewelry FLAWS: Heartless/emotionless without his heart (though acts on memories of his emotions to hide this), generally shameless, has trouble dealing with emotions, lack of imagination, lack of respect for personal boundaries, often comes off as a creep due to habits such as people-watching/sketching and flirting LIKES: Change, people, pleasure, pain, physical sensation, living in the moment, colors, drawing, stories, story-telling, symbolism, symbols of change (mood rings, chameleons, butterflies, dragonflies, etc.) DISLIKES: Getting wet, being stared at, being called childish/compared to a child, children, being emotional/emotions FEARS/PHOBIAS: Being overcome by emotions

CONNECTIONS

FAMILY: Tymiko (heart), Rakiak (younger brother) FRIENDS: Verse-dependent ROMANTIC INTEREST: Verse-dependent ENEMIES: Verse-dependent

FACTS AND TRIVIA

-Kit's element as a Nobody is change, so his primary ability is to shapeshift his body. His most common form (when not pretending to be outright human) is humanoid with cat ears on the sides of his head where human ears would be and a fur-tufted tail. Occasionally, when feeling particularly ostentatious, he manifests three sets of wings: feathered, insect, and leather. These seem to be more symbolic or for show than anything, though he can and does fly with them.

-He has a difficult relationship with Tymiko (the personification of his heart) which to an outsider may seem akin to a sibling relationship. As they are a part of the same person, he loves her as himself. However, their priorities, beliefs, and values differ quite a bit so they usually have trouble getting along (reflecting the self-conflict and inner turmoil they faced when they were one person). Kit embraces reality, change, and growth while Tymiko values staying the same, believes in defying reality with imagination, and fears growing up.

-The closer physical proximity he has to Tymiko, the more emotional Kit gets. Since he doesn't like to deal with emotions and fears being overwhelmed with them, he has a certain aversion to being around her which directly contradicts his instinct as a Nobody to rejoin his body and soul with his heart and his fascination with her as a person so opposingly different from himself. Thus he is simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by her at the same time, but constantly finds himself chasing after her and seeking her out when she escapes and hides from him.

-Though Kit fears being overwhelmed with emotions and dislikes having to deal with them, he considers the extremely emotional and temperamental Tymiko to be far stronger than him for enduring and experiencing those feelings (in contrast to her view that her strong emotions make her weak) and respects her for it.

-Despite his respect and love for her, Kit often doesn't know how to deal with Tymiko and her strong emotions/passionate outbursts/temper tantrums much like how adults often find it hard to relate to and thus deal with children. As a result, his default method of dealing with Tymiko is trying to temporarily shut her up somewhere (such as a locked room) when she seems as though she might get out of control.

-Kit dislikes children and being compared to them due to their generally egocentric perspectives and selfish natures. He considers these to be some of Tymiko's major flaws, especially when it comes to her wanting to stay a child forever because she doesn't seem to see what a selfish wish that is.

-Kit's dislike of being wet seems to have something to do with the symbolic connection between emotions and water as well as the fact that Tymiko, the personification of his heart (and therefore his emotions), is a water elemental. (She dresses as a pirate and goes by the title of 'Tymiko the Pirate Girl', however, due to her association with the worlds of Neverland and Pirates of the Carribean.)

-Kit's favorite/lucky numbers are 3 and 13 which may have something to do with his birthday (3/13) but also the symbolic significance of each number. (3: Heaven, Earth, Hell. Moraltiy, amorality, immorality. White, gray, black. 333: Only half evil. Etc.)

-Due to Kit's appreciation of change, colors, and physical sensation, his favorite piece of jewelry is a mood ring. Due to his appreciation of symbolism, change, and colors, his favorite animal is a chameleon and his favorite insect is a butterfly (specifically the Blue Morpho Butterfly).

-As a shapeshifter who can alter his appearance at will, Kit places very little value on people's personal appearances. He is, however, very interested in people themselves.

-Since (unlike Tymiko) he doesn't have much of an imagination, as an artist he mostly just draws what he sees and has become fairly good at it.

-Kit's favorite color is bright blue (specifically, hex code #0033ff) and he wears so much of it because it's Tymiko's favorite color. Ty claims it's her favorite color because, in her opinion, it's such a bright, intense, and highly-saturated blue that it defies the common association of the color blue with the emotion of sadness. As a result, the mere sight of it makes her happy and to her represents happiness itself. It also doesn't hurt that blue is the color most often associated with water.

-Being a character originating from the Kingdom Hearts multiverse/universe which in itself includes various worlds, Kit is also a multiverse character. Tymiko is the same, though her 'main world' is Neverland (despite also originating from the Pirates of the Carribean fandom which is where her title of 'pirate girl' comes from).

-Kit and Ty are both half Asian Indian, half Filipino in ethnicity.

-As beings of change and water respectively, Kit and Ty are both gender-fluid, but Kit most commonly associates with being male and Ty most commonly associates with being female.

-Because he can't feel emotionally without Tymiko around, Kit values what he can feel physically instead in order to make up for it. This is why he appreciates pain as much as pleasure - because both physical sensations remind him he his alive and living in the moment. And being a Nobody - a being who shouldn't exist but exists anyway - makes him value his existence that much more.

-As Nobodies are born when their hearts fall prey to darkness and despair, turning the corrupted hearts into Heartless and separating them from their bodies, Kitomyx (as a being made of a body and soul) was born when Tymiko (as his heart) succumbed to darkness due to her strong aversion to and denial of growing up, separating from Kit and becoming her own person. Since, as Kit's personified heart, Ty's newly-manifested body wasn't bound by the laws of reality that his was, she could stay a child, which suited her just fine. As Ty's actual body animated by the soul of the person she was, however, Kit continues to grow and change.

-One day, Kit would like to rejoin with Ty to become the former, complete person they once were yet again, but that would require Kit to be able to embrace, accept, and deal with the emotions Ty harbors while Ty would have to embrace, accept, and deal with the fact that Kit, as her body and soul, is an adult and doesn't deserve destruction just because of that simple fact.

-Just as Kit appreciates enjoying the present, living in the moment, and embracing the future, Ty prefers to reminisce on the past and her childhood and fears the future, change, and growth because she fears it will corrupt her as a person, further causing her to lose whatever innocence she has left as a child. As a result, she believes she is better off perishing in a fight against the reality that would force her to grow up than to actually do so and thus betray herself and her values of staying a child. Kit seeks to get her to see the merits of living a life past childhood, but it's difficult when Ty doesn't trust him because she believes him to already be corrupted by adulthood.

GENERAL INFORMATION

NAME:

NICKNAMES/TITLES:

SPECIES:

AGE:

HEIGHT: 

PRONOUNS:

DATE OF BIRTH:

NOTE-WORTHY ABILITIES:

CURRENT RESIDENCE:

OCCUPATION:

AFFILIATIONS:

SPOKEN LANGUAGES:

PERSONALITY

ALIGNMENT:

ASSETS:

FLAWS:

LIKES:

DISLIKES:

FEARS/PHOBIAS:

CONNECTIONS

FAMILY:

FRIENDS:

ROMANTIC INTEREST:

ENEMIES:

OTHERS:

FACTS AND TRIVIA

#General information #((Blank under the cut!)) #((Got this from codenamejudas but added 'height' to it)) #OOC

[chorusfm]

Blink-182 – [Untitled]

It really does feel like yesterday that I was just unwrapping the CD of this Blink-182 classic, known to many as their [Untitled} fifth effort, and grinning ear to ear about the sound that was about to surround me for the next two-plus years of a standard album cycle. Little did I know, this would be the last studio album Blink-182 would record for eight (!) years, until they returned with 2011’s Neighborhoods. This studio effort was a flawless execution of slick pop-punk hooks, experimental rock, hip-hop beats, and a top-notch collaborative song with The Cure’s Robert Smith. While some longtime Blink fans were disappointed with the final result of this record (that succeeded the bulletproof pop-punk classic, Take Off Your Pants & Jacket), almost all of these fans now point to this album as a seismic shift in the band’s songwriting and offered glimpses as to where they would take their sound for the foreseeable future. This fifth LP was produced by Jerry Finn, and it would also end up being their longest album to date, clocking in at a little over the 49-minute mark. Mark Hoppus, Tom DeLonge and Travis Barker should be looking back fondly on this momentous album today that would find Blink-182 breaking down the silos of what a pop-punk band should sound like, and blow the doors off the hinges in the process. From the now-iconic opening drum beat on “Feeling This,” to “The Fallen Interlude” in the middle of the tracklisting, all the way to the closing frenetic beat found on “I’m Lost Without You,” Travis Barker’s musical blueprint is firmly cemented on this album. On the opener and lead single Mark croons gracefully with the sunny chorus of, “Fate fell short this time / Your smile fades in the summer / Place your hand in mine / I’ll leave when I wanna,” and it makes for a memorable opening statement on arguably the band’s darkest LP in their discography. “Obvious” begins that march towards the darkest of thoughts with a more brooding tone over Tom’s distinct vocal nasal delivery, while the all-time classic of “I Miss You” follows it and features some brushed notes on the drum kit while Mark bellows over the first verse of, “Hello, there / The angel from my nightmare / The shadow in the background of the morgue / The unsuspecting victim / Of darkness in the valley / We can live like Jack and Sally if we want / Where you can always find me / And we’ll have Halloween on Christmas / And in the night, we’ll wish this never ends / We’ll wish this never ends.” The band was growing, both artistically and musically, at an alarming rate, and had come a long way from the band that threw dick jokes into more songs than not. Tom’s iconic “Where are you?” delivery is now a trademark part of their reunion concerts to connect with their fans. Other standouts like “Violence” and “Stockholm Syndrome” showcased the growth that Blink-182 were having at just the right moment in their career trajectory. The pop-punk adrenaline shots of “Go” and “Easy Target” were enough to appease the crowd that discovered the band during the Enema of the State record, while the Angels & Airwaves-esque “Asthenia” hits its intended target, and highlighted where Tom would take his solo project(s). If nothing else, it certainly got their rabid fanbase talking about the band’s limitless creativity. The beautiful ballad of “Always” paired up with “All of This” featuring Robert Smith highlighted a band willing to take more calculated risks in their discography, and not giving a fuck about what the pop-punk purists would have to say about it. Going against (creatively) what most of the Drive-Thru era bands were doing at the time was arguably the most punk rock thing that Blink-182 could have ever done, and for a band that got famous with the lyric of “Well, I guess this is growing up” lived up to the mantra in an enormous way on this LP. --- Please consider becoming a member so we can keep bringing you stories like this one. ◎ https://chorus.fm/reviews/blink-182-untitled/

[ukdamo]

The Extra Mile

One of mine from a long time ago.

I scrambled to my feet with frenetic alacrity, raising clouds of red dust in my haste to stand up. For all the world, I must have locked like some uncoordinated, inky octopus. Once erect, l rubbed lily ribs where the spear had prodded me and looked, blindingly, at the face of my tormenter. He smiled, somewhat incongruously and disconcertingly, whilst thrusting his battle gear upon me. It was plain to see that I was intended to be a beast of burden for the obligatory mile.

I had been so soundly asleep that I had failed to hear the footfalls of the thirty or so approaching legionaries. I was awoken sharply be the jab in the ribs that this brute had given me. Bastard.

As we set off to rejoin to the file of marching soldiers there was much laughter from my erstwhile friends at the wayside inn: I could hear one of them order a round of drinks on the strength of having eluded the obligation to go the statutory mile. I didn’t resent their jocularity: I'd have made the very same response had out roles been reversed.

When we caught up with the other legionaries they were singing. I did not understand the words. No doubt it was one of such songs sung by soldiers the world over. The man whose kit I was carrying had a fair voice - resonant and tuneful. When the song finished he looked me in the eyes add smiled again. I could not refrain from returning his smile, notwithstanding the feelings of disloyalty that this stirred in me.

I tried to look at him without appearing to do so, in case I upset him. (His short sword – the gladius - swung in its belted scabbard. I didn't doubt that he was well versed in its use). He had fine features; more Greek than Roman. He stood a little taller than I and was of athletic build. His eyebrows and the hair on his forearms had been bleached by exposure to the sun. He had stubble on his face, dimples, a strong jaw, and dazzlingly emerald eyes.

When he smiled, he showed his white, even, teeth to best advantage. I came to think that, for all his otherness, he was like me. I was younger and more slightly built, a typical Jewish youth - olive completion, hazel eyes, lithe, supple, a bit stringy. Yet rigorous exercise and training would produce a figure not unlike that of the man striding purposefully beside me.

I was soon conscious of the weight of his battle gear. I had got hold of it with little thought for convenience of carrying. The legionary sensed my discomfort and, to my surprise, quietly but assertively redistributed the load so that it no longer chafed my shoulders. I could smell the sweat on him when he was near me. He took the water-skin from me and drank from it; he offered it to me with a smile on his expressive face. After some hesitation, I nodded and drank from it thirstily.

My young head was now spinning, though not from dehydration. Enmity and a firm grasp of faith seemed to be deserting me. This man was gentile. An oppressor. But I felt myself liking him. If anyone were ever to know, my shame would be made powerfully evident by the bruises that would surely result.

Since the singing had ended the only sounds were the thud of feet meeting the dusty road, the creak of leather, the clank and slap of weaponry, and the patter of perspiration on breastplates. In that silence I could hear the wordless communication that was binding me to this stranger.

When we reached a milestone I made as if to stop and set my burden down. The young legionary spoke to me in Greek.

‘Walk with me' he said, ‘an extra mile for friendship sake’. I understood well enough the words he spoke; I was young but I was bright and I had some schooling.

The file of soldiers carried on. I watched the acrid clouds of desiccating dust settling to the ground in their wake. We two were alone. The dust of obligation I shook from my own feet.

‘Certainly’, I said, touching his arm and pointing after the others.

We jogged until we caught up with them. The words he spoke I understood immediately; I am still living with their repercussions. We spoke a little after that in a Babel-born tongue of dog-Latin, Greek and disjointed Aramaic. I learned his name, and he mine, and we shared scratchy details of our respective lives.

Looking back, I suppose I sealed my fate by taking that first step beyond the initial milepost. I crossed my own personal Rubicon; a crossing more decisive than that of Exodus. I became a sojourner in trackless wastes. The Mark of Cain furrowed my own brow from then on. Naturally, the legionary perceived none of this. He could not have been expected to be aware of such things. He was unknowing.

Prompted by another of his eloquent smiles, I allayed my inward fears and beamed back at him. Perhaps this man was, more truly, liberator than oppressor? We drew near to Jerusalem and squinted at the city; the afternoon sun made its wails glaringly white, whilst the gilded ornamentation on the Temple blazed like the wrath of God. Well it might.

The road was busier here. People began to stare. Some hostile, some pitying. I avoided meeting their gaze. When we crested the rise at the Place of the Skull, the legionary took the accoutrements of war from me. He nodded thanks and offered his hand. Emboldened by an inner realisation, I clasped it in friendship, not caring what the onlookers might think. Traditional loyalties put aside, he thumped me playfully on the back and, with great agility, scampered down the slope after his confreres.

I sat down, raising a flurry of dust, watching him depart. I sat there for a long time. There was a gladiatorial contest in my head: milestones versus tombstones; friendship versus fidelity; liberation versus tradition; love versus duty. I felt the thump up of his hand on my back anew, as of nails in wood. The unwitting instigator of this flight receded in to the distance and was lost from sight at the city gate. He had given his name as Justus but, in future years I often thought of him more as Pandora. I have never regretted exchanging the Ark for that seemingly insignificant little box.

Some years later, I witnessed a man, somewhere near my own age, toiling up that same slope. His crime was to have walked the extra mile. He had spoken of tolerance and respect, forgiveness and peace. He met with none of these things. They snuffed him out.

I am now an old man. In the evening, I sit and gaze as the children play in the market, as the stallholders leave and the shadows lengthen. I am waiting for my own sun to set.

No-one bothers with me much: I have neither family nor good name. Sometimes, though, young men who are not put off by tales of apostasy come quietly, seek out my company, and talk. I share with each one the same thing:

In life you may choose any direction you wish; it scarcely matters, and you may travel in it as far as you will. But if you should chance to walk, in that chosen way, the extra mile, it will bring you to but one place - Golgotha.

It is not so terrifying a place as the timid make out. From what happened to me there I recognise it as the place where mundane journeys end and divine adventures begin.

© Damian

#damian's writing #short story #fable #reflection #encounter #change #paradigm

[famoustimesofficial]

Famous Times: Stay Updated with Breaking News, Insights, and Analysis for the Business World

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June 19, 2023

General Mills is proving once again that breakfast can be just as delicious as dessert with its newest

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… The Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) released a jobs report in March, which showed that the US

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… On Friday, World Wrestling Entertainment (WWE) issued an apology after footage from the infamous Nazi concentration camp

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… In a deal worth $2.53 billion (£2 billion), the French beauty giant L’Oreal agreed to acquire the

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June 9, 2023

The life and career of Dawn Michelle Chamberlain remain a symbol of enduring resilience and dynamic transformation.

#business #buesiness new #trending #famous times #featured

[sxmthingwicked]

FEMALE MUSES.

1.Fay Cromwell.

Fc; Jessica Chastain.

Age: 25-33.

Birthday: May 11th.

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Coroner.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Verse: Ghost!Regency Era! Fay.

2.Kenza Ashita.

Fc; Karen Fukuhara

Age: 25-30

Birthday: June 14th.

Birthplace: Japan.

Occupation: TBD

Sexuality: Pansexual.

Verse: Yokai!Demon! Kenza.

3.Joy Nazaryan.

Fc; Angela Sarafyan.

Age:28-34.

Birthday: July 4th.

Birthplace: Armenia.

Occupation: Artist, Author.

Sexuality: TBD.

Verse: Witch!Joy.

4.Stephanie “Stevie” Mathers.

Fc; Deborah Ann Woll.

Age: 25

Birthday: January 15nth.

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Journalist.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Verse: TBD.

5.Billie Scout.

Fc; Suki Waterhouse.

Age: 25.

Birthday: November 13th.

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Musician.

Sexuality: Bisexual.

Verse:Siren!Billie.

6.Constance Flynn.

Fc; Emma Mackey.

Age: 24-29.

Birthday: September 2nd.

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Lawyer.

Sexuality: TBD.

Verse:TBD.

7.Harper St. James.

Fc; Millie Alcock.

Age:20-24.

Birthday: December 7nth.

Birthplace: TBD

Occupation: Student, artist.

Sexuality: Demisexual.

Verse:Vampire! Harper.

8.Clarice Copeland.

Fc; Brianne Howey.

Age:30-35.

Birthday: February 14nth.

Birthplace: USA

Occupation: Buisnesswoman.

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Verse:Vampire! Clarice

9.Josephine Clark.

Fc; Jennifer Connolley

Age:30-35

Birthday: August 22nd.

Birthplace: USA

Occupation: Ranch owner.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Verse: TBD

10.Teresa Delgado.

Fc; Christian Serratos.

Age: 25-29.

Birthday: April 1st.

Birthplace: Italy.

Occupation: Accountant.

Sexuality: Asexual.

Verse: Survivor! Teresa.

11.Cassandra Cooper.

Fc; Katie Douglas.

Age: 24

Birthday: April 18nth.

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: TBD

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Verse: TBD.

12. Phoebe Griffin.

Fc; Meghann Fahy

Age: 30-35.

Birthday: April 11nth.

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Model.

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Verse: TBD.

MALE MUSES.

1.Ezekiel Crane.

Fc; Isaiah Mustafa

Age: 30-40

Birthday: June 6th

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Construction Worker.

Sexuality:

Verse:

2.Rowan Adler.

Fc; Boyd Holbrook.

Age:30-35

Birthday: December 31st 

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Detective

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Verse: Gangster! Rowan.

3.Fernando Lopez.

Fc; Santiago Cabrera

Age:37-44

Birthday: April 15nth

Birthplace: Chile.

Occupation: Hitman.

Sexuality: Hetersexual.

Verse:

4.Santiago “Santi” Oliviera. 

Fc; Diego Luna

Age: 37-44

Birthday: January 9nth

Birthplace: Mexico.

Occupation: Lawyer.

Sexuality: TBD.

5.Leonardo Herrera.

Fc; Pedro Pascal

Age: 40-45

Birthday: December 29nth

Birthplace: Chile.

Occupation: Mercenary.

Sexuality: TBD

Verse: TBD.

6.Sean Lancaster.

Fc; Kit Harington.

Age: 29-33

Birthday: November 11nth

Birthplace: UK.

Occupation: English Teacher.

Sexuality: Pansexual.

Verse: Immortal/Warrior! Sean.

7.Damien Kane.

Fc; Pablo Schreiber.

Age: 34

Birthday: October 4th

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Lawyer.

Sexuality: TBD.

Verse: Death!Damien.

8.Hudson Cassidy.

Fc; Daniel Gillies.

Age: 32

Birthday: August 6th

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: TBD.

Sexuality: Heterosexual.

Verse: Archangel Michael! Hudson.

9.Abraham Barlow.

Fc; Charles Michael Davis

Age:29.

Birthday: July 21nd

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Hunter, Real Estate Agent. 

Sexuality: Bisexual.

Verse: Werewolf! Abraham.

10.Desmond Khatri.

Fc; Avan Jogia

Age: 27-30.

Birthday: June 22nd

Birthplace: India.

Occupation: Police man.

Sexuality:

Verse: Criminal! Desmond. 

11.Alexander Nilsson.

Fc; Madds Mikelson

Age: 40-45.

Birthday: September 15nth

Birthplace: Denmark.

Occupation:

Sexuality: Demisexual.

Verse: Demon! Alexander.

12. Elijah Pierce.

Fc; LaRoyce Hawkins.

Age: 25-30.

Birthday: March 22nd

Birthplace: USA.

Occupation: Police officer.

Sexuality: TBD.

Verse: TBD.

#muse list

[crackedfm]

muse name. mikey hargrove fandom. stranger things faceclaim. dacre montgomery / nick robinson (verse dependent) important links. verses - headcanons - mains & exclusives

                                 MAIN VERSE 2.0 - ABOUT.

full name. michael anderson hargrove

nicknames. mikey

gender & pronouns. cis male, he/him

sexual orientation. homosexual

age. verse dependent, 18-22

dob. march 29

astrological sign. aries

place of birth. hawkins, indiana

personality traits. loyal, stubborn, protective, confident, responsible, kind, trustworthy, open-minded, passionate, possessive.

tw. abortion mention, teen pregnancy

notes. when the fc being used is dacre montgomery, mikey is instead billy’s twin. please read this verse information here. 

hawkins, indiana was where mikey grew up with most of his family, aside from those that resided in california. he spent all his life in that town, and he couldn’t wait to get out of it to make something more of himself. that all turned on it’s head when, at the age of 17, his at the time girlfriend told him that a condom must have broken because she was pregnant. there was many lengthy discussions about what to do about the baby. mikey never wanted her to abort the child, he didn’t even suggest it; if she had decided that, he would have accepted that but as much as the woman didn’t want a child, she didn’t believe in abortions. she stated that they would have the baby, and give it up for adoption. 

a month or so before the due date, mikey managed to convince her to let him keep their baby and she would simply sign over all parental rights to him. their relationship had long been over, both of them aware they were only staying together for the growing life in her belly, so it was a way of freeing the both of them. his ex gave birth almost a month before his eighteenth birthday, and mikey was a single teenage dad to a beautiful, healthy baby girl he decided to name callie. 

his family didn’t have much, but they helped the best they could with babysitting duties so he could go out and earn money to provide for himself and callie. the family home was crowded, so as soon as he could he saved up for a deposit for a small apartment that gave enough room for a nursery, which would later turn into a bedroom, for callie. his family still helped out with babysitting when needed, until she was old enough to go to kindergarten.

at twenty, mikey decided to start following his passion of becoming a tattoo artist. he had already being doing it at an amateur level with a kit he bought for himself and the practicing supplies that artists used, but he had finally convinced someone to give him a shot in their studio and a year later, he’s already an established artist with amazing pieces of art in his portfolio.

mikey is now twenty-one, and callie is four years old and an absolute bundle of joy to be around. you won’t often catch him without his daughter, as he doesn’t like to rely on his family so much now that his baby girl is older and he has other options for her care whilst he worked but if he was ever stuck, his work is great about him bringing her in. in fact, his colleagues all love callie, and much prefer the days where she’s bringing light to the store with her beaming smile and infectious giggles.

he is secretly saving to move away from hawkins, because as much as things worked out for him, he craves better for his daughter. she deserves better than he had, and she deserves to escape the town before she feels like she’s trapped.

#⤷ mikey hargrove; all #⤷ mikey hargrove; biography #⤷ mikey hargrove; verses #abortion mention tw #⤷ mikey hargrove; main verse 2.0 #⤷ verses; all

[outside-of-a-dog]

Trauma made bearable by art

Ain’t Burned All the Bright by Jason Reynolds,  illustrated by Jason Griffin. Caitlyn Dlouhy Books, Atheneum, 2022. 9781534439467

Long ago, Jason Reynolds and Jason Griffin became best friends and collaborated on a book called My Name Is Jason. Mine Too. Then they went their separate professional ways even as they remained BFFs. Now they’ve teamed up on this visual poem addressing the Black Lives Matter marches of 2020, the upending of the world with the COVID quarantine, and what forces have helped sustain us during these traumas. 

Jason R.’s free verse poem has 3 sections. In Breath 1, the first-person narrator (a young black teen) thinks about taking to the streets and the risks of that activism. In Breath 2, he’s worried about his dad, who struggles in COVID isolation. Finally in Breath 3, he wonders about oxygen masks and about whether there’ll be one available, if he and the whole world needs one. Each page carried a few words from the poem on haphazardly cutout white paper, making it look as if Reynolds composed the stanzas using a Magnetic Poetry kit. 

Meanwhile Griffin created the images on 300 Moleskine pocket-sized pages, shuffling them around until he was satisfied with the way they supported and amplified the text. Sometimes illustrations are quite literal (burning row houses surrounded by smoke and flames), other times they are more abstract (a watercolor patchwork quilt as the narrator talks about home). The medium varies, but there’s sketchy pencil lines, collage elements, acrylic paintings; basically, whatever was at hand seems to have found its way into the sketchbook. Each page is rimmed in a thick, black outline that reinforces the somber nature of the poem. 

Although this is a serious and often sad work, readers will be interested in what the Jasons have to say and will appreciate their efforts at documentation and expression. In its exploration of love and loss, this raw and immediate poem is as much a coming of age story as any of Reynolds’ more conventional novels.

Recommended for aspiring poets, poetry fans, Reynolds’ fans. 

[k-a-cook]

I’m going to write about this for this week’s blog post, in terms of what I’m going to do, some of the many changes I’ll be making to existing content, why I want to first do a second draft as a complete work and how I hope to post it all next year, but I’m going to make the official announcement post now:

I have finished a 190 000 word first draft of the first book/section of Kit March. (Although since a few of those chapters have been rewritten two to six times, even that isn’t quite accurate--I’ve probably written about 400 000 words to get to this point.) Twenty chapters. (Yikes those are some long chapters. I may or may not fix that in the second draft.) Five aro-spec narrating protagonists (two main ones, three who are significant characters but only narrate interlude pieces) who are all trans, various shades of queer and autistic.

(Well, the setting is a school of magic for autistics. And as if I’m writing any character who isn’t queer.)

There’s talking objects, lots of cats (seriously, Darius ends up carrying a black cat who is not called Midnight around everywhere in the last half of the book) and a conclusion that involves a leather belt blackmailing two magicians and an undead prince (while Tes eavesdrops because of course) before the depiction of the worst way to bind a dead spirit to a necromancer in order to stop said spirit instigating an immediate elfish attack. (I find magic so much more interesting when it’s terrifyingly fucked up.) Only one character isn’t swigging from the Very Bad Decision Juice; he’s gulping from the bottle of You All Screwed Up And If I Die My Mother’s Going To Send A Zombie Army After All Of You. This gives me several unresolved problems for the next book involving said necromancer, said magical objects and said Tes’s eavesdropping. And the elves. But there is a conclusion (which is more than I had last week) that I’m hopeful of teasing out and improving now I know where the first act closes.

It’s gotten massively complicated, so a lot of the second draft will involve structural changes to lessen said complication. I didn’t mean to write a “so many referenced characters you need a dramatis personae” fantasy novel, but that’s what it is. (When you have characters who aren’t starting the story as seventeen-year-old fresh-faced farmboys but have instead done a great many plot-relevant things before the story starts, it’s hard to avoid this.) Some shower thinking, though, has given me an entirely-relevant-to-the-plot way of framing the introduction of referenced characters through epistolary segments. Hopefully it’ll work as well in practice as in theory, but we’ll see.

I should mention that while this began as one story (oh, self ... so naive) it is, on account of inevitably of length, now three and will be, one day in the future, packaged as such. The first story is called Arrival because ... well, it’s about two people arriving at the College.

In unrelated news, I’m in a lot of pain. Can’t think why.

#writing #writing process #kit march verse #spoilers: kit march #series: the unnatural philosophy of kit march #long post #behind the curtain #sarcasm advisory

[eeee-lye]

Short Fiction: Old Fashioned

Summary: Amelia March is tired of suitors breaking into her house after dark to express their undying love. Sure, it might be the fashion, but whatever happened to getting to know someone first? Why won’t they listen to her when she says she isn’t interested? And what does it mean that her cousin Kit thinks there’s a word for her approach to romantic relationships?

Old Fashioned is a story about finding words and the importance of fake cobwebs in the windows.

Genre: Slightly absurd fantasy with trans, autistic and aro-spec characters.

Length: 4, 510 words.

Content advisory: This short story depicts a woman somewhat enthusiastically wounding a home invader, despite awareness of the fact that said invader isn’t there to kill her. It also depicts this love interest engaged in the creepy but traditional (at least in literature) act of invading her house, unasked and uninvited, as a sexual/romantic gesture towards a woman who doesn’t want it and is explicit about this. The protagonist also threatens and imagines violence and murder on several occasions as a form of bluster. There’s also a non-detailed reference to the fantasy-setting way a character lost a limb.

Note the first: Amelia and Kit are characters from my fantasy web serial [The Unnatural Philosophy of Kit March], which also contains trans, autistic and aromantic characters in an entirely no-romance plot. This story takes place forty years earlier.

Note the second: Posting for #AggressivelyArospectacular hosted by @aggressivelyarospec, in case people are interested in more aro creativity.

After the parsnips, though, Amelia fears the creaking can only mean one thing. The lovelorn.

When Amelia March, upon waking from a sound sleep, hears the second rustle, she reaches beside her bed and rests her fingers on the smooth wood of her favourite staff. In her old life, as a student in Siya, having a weapon by one’s mattress borders on the absurd; here, in a rural Greenstone village, anyone who doesn’t sleep within reach of a weapon—a broomstick, a knife, a furious cat—lacks something in the sense department. True, she’s an indifferent witch at best, but after dealing with ghosts, injured villagers, possessed chickens and That Time With The Parsnips, she’s learnt to be armed at all times. The bloodstained grimoire in her kitchen, after all, doesn’t frighten people nearly as much as a good clip over the ear.

She sits and raises the staff so that she can swing out with the knobbly end, listening to the soft brush of feet over stone. It isn’t Kit; she hears no tap of wood. It isn’t Midnight: no cat will rustle and risk being mistaken for an intruder. No mice or spiders dare her house, between her ward spells, her cleaning and the cat; even the local moths know better than to find shelter within her walls. Anyone with legitimate business, of the sort that involves accidents or illness of human and beast, will beat on her front door and bellow.

She hopes, prays, that it’s the Jackson twins trying to attempt another demon-summoning by stealing the requisite texts.

After the parsnips, though, Amelia fears the noise can only mean one thing.

The lovelorn.

Nighttime stalking has become all the rage amongst the lovesick, impressionable, young and downright foolish—a fashion worse than unnecessarily-constricting corsetry and wide-legged breeches. Worse than last summer, even, when everyone went about quoting romantic poetry in lieu of just asking someone to the town hall dance. Goddess save her, what’s so wrong with just asking? Now, though, love is all about climbing through second-storey windows and watching their lover sleep; roses are passé. Romance, these days, is about being new and innovative and showing to the world just how far one will go—even if it means proclaiming their star-crossed interest from the damp, oft-neglected village lock-up the next morning. Bruises, trellises bearing briar brambles, irate parents armed with brooms and even magic seem no deterrent.

The problem isn’t the trend: Amelia admits to a certain satisfaction when she wakes up in the morning to discover a forlorn youth on her doorstep bearing a sprained ankle or hideous scratches. Calling them five different ways of brainless is moderately entertaining and more than makes up for the waste of her time—if they plague someone else.

Amelia, curse the Goddess, is still young enough to be interesting.

A faint grunt echoes from the open door, as if muffled by a hand. In daylight, Amelia knows nothing more about fighting than the next person—save for a doctor’s knowledge of where she might best apply a blade or staff for agony or death. In the dark—and in a room with most breakable objects on the shelf above her head, because Amelia knows her aim to be atrocious with any tool larger than a scalpel—her lack of training doesn’t matter. She waits a moment longer, listening for the distinctive gasp as the intruder stubs their toe on the raised stone slab just before her bed, before aiming at what she guesses to be collarbone height and swinging.

The crack of the staff landing on bone is followed, immediately, by an ear-splitting shriek.

Amelia swings again. A thud sounds, followed by a series of thumps, something clattering, and then vicious swearing—not the words one uses to address the village witch—and a sniffle before several soft sobs.

“I just had to get another bloody weeper, didn’t I?” Amelia places the staff on the bed—right where she can grab it in her left hand if needed—and reaches up to tap the jar of dozing sprites into wakefulness before leaning over to fumble at the lamp sitting on her chest of drawers. “Do none of you ever think how much this is costing me in kerosene and matches and sprites?”

It takes a moment for the lamp to catch and light the room, which is just as well, for half the sprites sink to the bottom of the jar with only the faintest of yellow glows. Amelia sits back down in bed, pulls up the covers and stares at her intruder.

A young woman—one of the village shopgirls, although Amelia can’t remember her name—sits huddled on the floor, one hand wrapped around her opposite elbow. She is gorgeous, Amelia admits: round and curvy, with a mane of curly chestnut hair tumbling down her back and falling in her eyes. Big, beautiful, green eyes, paired with the kind of pouty lips Amelia enjoys pressed against her own when the kissing happens to be mutually agreed upon.

Well, she liked Lyra’s lips pressed against her own, even if she’s yet to meet another woman who makes her feel that kind of want.

The shopgirl is beautiful, but all Amelia feels is irritation. She should be asleep with a cat at her feet! She shouldn’t be staring at a girl who, for some incomprehensible reason, forgot to wear a few useful things like shoes, underwear and clothing! Amelia sighs, grinding her teeth. Perhaps something is wrong with her—her fellow students in Siya surely implied it when they didn’t state it outright. Some people, she knows, are less annoyed by the discovery of a naked person of the correct gender and age in their bedroom—especially if the intruder shows a willing intent of getting under the covers and beginning a seduction.

She doubts that the girl meant to touch her without waking her; this is misguided romance, not assault.

Assault she can handle.

Refusing the attentions of a sobbing girl, though, wasn’t covered in the university curriculum.

Everyone does this nowadays. Lovers skip the whole tradition of meeting, dating, getting to know each other over a meal or two, the nervous small-talk where two people try to figure out where the other stands with regards common interests and how soon they can talk of bedding without being offensive. They don’t become friends first and then wait to see if that spark of interest flares. No, everyone in the village sighs over the love and romance of a mysterious stalker. How else can someone prove their love for another, if they aren’t willing to take the risk of creeping into their love-interest’s house after dark?

Lyra didn’t do that. Lyra sat down beside her in the library, a pile of books between them, and they spent weeks talking about the best way to drain a corpse and the benefits of mattress stitch before anyone attempted even chaste kissing. They knew they were medical students bonding over their dabbling in witchcraft and shared belief in gnome voting equality before anything as messy as love entered the discussion.

Amelia suppresses a groan and looks down at the woman.

The shopgirl—Goddess, what is her name?—flutters her damp eyelashes but doesn’t answer. Amelia has read enough romance novels to know this as some attempt to look alluring, but she just looks like a near-stranger with an eyelash stuck in her eye. A pretty stranger, but a stranger. They’ve exchanged a bare handful of words at the shop, mostly requests for a pound of sugar, more tea-tree oil and can Amelia order in a selection of mandrake roots—none of the conversations leading to the kind of friendship needed for a midnight tryst. How does the girl know they’re compatible in bed? How does the girl know if Amelia is even interested in bedding? What if Amelia doesn’t have the required breakfast foods in the house for the next morning? Why would anyone risk such an act based on so little information?

“Well?” Amelia resists the urge to grab the stick and thump the intruder over the ear. She asked a question, a perfectly reasonable question. Social custom dictates that the girl answer. “Do you think about how much all this is costing me? Don’t you think it’s bloody inconsiderate?”

The shopgirl blinks and says nothing.

Just how are they all getting in? Amelia fastened the windows and bolted the front door before going to bed, checking every lock twice; she made sure that nobody can open the catches from the outside after the last debacle, and she won’t sleep through a window breaking—if anyone wants to annoy a witch by breaking her windows. Perhaps the intruder decided to risk the nesting devil in the cellar and entered by the cellar door? Just what has the world come to when not even a devil keeps out the lovelorn?

Why are these villagers are interested in her? She wears plain dresses and aprons for a reason! She doesn’t try not to bore people with talk about the best ways to disinfect a worktable! She wears the bloody black broad-brimmed hat and leaves a bloodstained grimoire—one with purification spells worked on the cover, of course, because a bloodstained grimoire isn’t all that sanitary—out on her kitchen bench! She named her cat Midnight! She’s an awkward, divergent witch who doesn’t try to be more approachable and friendly! She doesn’t get anyone to fix the crooked walls or floors, she keeps seasoning herbs in bubbled glass vials and she recites fake spells when cleaning wounds just to make her patients feel more comfortable with the efficacy of her work! Short of building an altar in the yard and sacrificing chickens to some dread demon every Sunday, she can’t be more witchy!

“If you’re not going to refund me for my swiving matches, get up, stop crying and go home. Try asking someone else out the proper way. Tell them your name first.”

The woman peers up at Amelia, now trying a wobbly sort of smile. “You’re the most beautiful woman I ever saw, and I love—”

Some tiny part of her, the part of her that looks in the mirror and sees late-afternoon shadow and square shoulders and a chest that requires padding to properly fill out a gown or dress, relents—but that’s silly. She’s a woman. The Goddess made her. Being a woman in a less-conventional way doesn’t mean she shouldn’t have standards. She doesn’t want someone who invades her privacy; she wants someone who takes the time to befriend her first. Lyra did. Why should anything else matter?

“And you’re a swiving stranger invading my house.” Amelia folds her arms, positioning her gaze above the girl’s head. Isn’t she cold, with only the rug between her feet and the uneven stone floor? If Amelia’s feet are freezing despite her knobbly-knitted bed socks and her patchwork quilt, why isn’t the girl shivering? “Now get out before I throw my cat at you.”

A soft thump sounds like Midnight streaking for the hallway, even though her cat should know better.

The woman’s smile fades as she struggles to her feet with her fingers still cupping her elbow. “But … I did all this for you. I love you.”

Amelia rolls her eyes and grabs her staff, staring at the girl and trying to look witchy despite her floral-print nightgown. No, Amelia isn’t a good witch in some ways, but in many ways being divergent makes her as much a witch as the real thing. The village doesn’t question her post because she is good at pretending to be magical, because she does know a little script magic and studied with the Sanguarian in addition to her years in Siya. The latter makes her seem just as magical as if she does know how to summon zombies—and a good sight more useful.

Has it occurred to the girl that she’ll have to return tomorrow to ask the witch who wounded her to do something about it?

Of course, working as a village witch instead of as a village doctor is its own gaping wound, because Amelia can’t forget that words matter, behaviour matters: that witches, not doctors, are permitted to be strange. This isn’t the job she wanted; this isn’t the job for which she spent ten years in Siya. It gives her a crooked house, a monthly income and a purpose, though, and all she needs do is decorate her curtains with embroidered cobwebs, resist the need to dust her crooked bottle collection and block a few glowing spells.

“If you don’t get out of my house in two minutes, I’ll turn you and your family into toads. Dead toads. They’ll have to bury you all in a shoebox.”

“But…”

“What has ‘but’ got to do with it?” Amelia slides out of bed, sure to place her feet on the rug, and reaches for the phial she keeps on the shelf above her head. Damn the girl, getting her up out of bed after midnight—the floor is freezing! “I hope this works properly, this time. Last time I attempted a cross-species transfiguration, the target ended up with the head and body of a toad and seven legs best described as belonging to an oversized tarantula…”

The shopgirl turns for the door, yelps as she snags her toe on the crooked stone in the hallway, and thunders her way down the stairs.

“Tell everyone that if they wish to romance me, they can send a request in writing!” Amelia sighs and returns the bottle—filled with nothing more ominous than dyed water—to its place on the shelf. “With references!”

The front door, with its ominous-but-useful-for-scaring-people creak, slams shut, followed by the crunch of the woman’s footsteps as she runs down the gravel path towards the village. Amelia waits until the noise fades before sliding her feet into her old boots, taking the lamp and following the girl downstairs. She chews her lip, grumbling, as she checks the windows, pets the devil, jams the cellar door shut with a sliver of wood, and sets down lines of pepper and dried basil leaves in the hope that the villagers think them a magical protection. Tomorrow, she’ll have to do something about the cellar. A dangerous-looking creature that likes the dark and doesn’t make too much noise will do nicely, although Amelia never imagined that the nesting devil won’t be threatening enough. Something must be done; no more having her sleep interrupted by the desperate whims of people thinking themselves in love!

She stomps back up the stairs and stops only to greet Midnight, now sitting on the topmost step with his long, black tail swishing back and forth. “Goddess! I wasn’t really going to throw you!” She sits back down beside her cat, rests the lamp on one step and holds out one hand for him to sniff; only when he starts rubbing the side of his face against her hand does Amelia offer an apologetic scratch under the chin. “Do they think that because they’re pretty, I’m not going to care if they invade my house? Do they think that because they’re naked, I’m going to tear my clothes off and ravish them? Why is this the fashion? Why don’t they want to get to know people first? Why?”

Midnight just tilts his head so that Amelia can shift her fingers into his favourite scratchy place behind his ear.

“I’m just too old fashioned,” she says, and even though Midnight doesn’t answer her, that’s the benefit of a cat: no contradicting, no arguing, just a quiet, tactile presence in return for food and petting.

“She is gorgeous. Well, if you’re into women, so my appreciation is aesthetic, but you are. You know you don’t have to kick these people out because I’m here? I don’t mind if you want to take some lovely woman and ravish away. Or just kiss. Or sit by the fire and stare into each other’s eyes while the stars whirl overhead…”

People, on the other hand!

Amelia jerks and turns her head. At the top of the landing sits two doors: one leading to her room, one leading to the guest room. Kit, Amelia’s cousin and professional annoyance, stands in the guest room doorway, wobbling, on two crutches. Even as she watches, he leans against the door frame, his nightshirt rumpled. His left foot rests square against the floor, bare despite the cold; his right leg, ending halfway below his knee and swathed in a bundle of bandages, just hangs. They’ll need to work, she thinks, on the way his upper body twists to balance himself, a way that will be a problem if allowed to become a habit.

He beams at her, though, a short man with pillow-flattened hair sticking out at a variety of angles, and that’s the most frustrating thing. Tears she can deal with. Misery and grief are expected. This insufferable good cheer, as though this is no more inconvenient to him—despite the ashy undertone to his dark skin and the weight he’s lost—than losing a fingernail, makes her want to beat him upside the head. Several times.

“What the swiving hell do you think you’re bloody doing? Get back to bed!” Amelia grabs the lamp and leaps to her feet as fast as is possible without slopping kerosene. She knew it was a bad idea to leave crutches within Kit’s reach after the horror of teaching him how to use them, but the fear of what happens if she’s called out and cannot get someone to sit with him made it seem the safest decision. Still a terrible idea, given his propensity to escapades and inability to consider the consequences. “Now! If you tear a stitch I’m going to punch you so hard you won’t have any teeth left!”

Kit just grins, showing most of those same teeth. He doesn’t move, leaving Amelia to wonder if it’s because he’s feeling good enough to annoy her or if it’s because he’s too worn out to do anything but lean. “No, you won’t. You won’t take the risk of my falling over. Of course, not wanting sex or romance is a valid option. Do you know that it’s an option, Amelia? Or—no, I think you don’t feel that kind of attraction until you befriend them first, based on the letters you sent Grandmother while in Siya—”

She doesn’t speak so much as give a rattling scream of frustration. Every time she thinks he’s reached a new degree of interfering, he always, always, finds a way to surpass it. Maybe she should make him walk past a basilisk guarding every entrance, even though Kit told the tale of his neighbour’s pets, a miscalculated step and Plumeria’s surprise axe-wielding skills with an uncharacteristic and sobering quiet.

No. Amelia sighs, catches herself grinding her teeth and starts chewing on her nails instead. Even she knows that’s meaner a thought than is warranted. She can fantasise, though. Given that Kit spent most of their childhood coming up with new ways to poke his nose into Amelia’s life, she’s earnt the right to imagine how she might best torture him.

Besides, they both know that she’s a master of bluster.

It occurs to her that might have something to do with why the villagers don’t fear her.

“Once you became friends with Lyra, good friends, everything took a distinct turn for the romantic, I remember. Maybe you didn’t notice? I mean, she’s the only woman you ever kissed, yes? There’s a word for it, now, although referring to someone as ‘demi’ is rather confusing, since demigods tend to do that, too.”

Amelia draws a breath and points towards the spare room doorway. What is he doing? “Get back to your bloody bed!”

“Demiromantic. Maybe demisexual, too?” Kit sounds not even slightly perturbed, and he makes no attempt to turn around. “Surely, it’s in your medical books, somewhere? Anyway, did I ever tell you how I found out about it? I was sitting in a taproom in Raugue with a swordsman I picked up in Arsh. I don’t recall how I got on the subject of listing previous lovers, mind you—probably had something to do with the unexpectedly good whiskey—but he nodded and asked if I’d considered the fact that there might be a word for the truth that I’m chronically uninterested in keeping a partner—”

The only thing to do is stalk past him, enter her bedroom, give Midnight time to join her and then slam the door shut loudly enough to make Kit stop talking.

“Demiromantic!” he yells, just as Amelia curses the too-wide crack between door and floor. “We know our own, Amelia!”

She chews her smallest fingernail down to the quick, straining to hear the creaking, tapping noise of a man on crutches crossing the less-than-flat floor. One thud, a grasping or dragging noise too light to be that of a body hitting the floor, silence.

“Amelia? I promise I won’t say anything if you’ll, well, help me…”

She opens the door and glares across the landing.

“Please?” Kit doesn’t so much as lean against the doorframe as clutch it like a drowning sailor clinging to a spar. “I tried to turn and it got dizzy.”

She doesn’t have to tell him he deserves it: Amelia just grins.

He doesn’t speak as they inch their way through the door and over four stone slabs of varying heights, and he still doesn’t speak once they reach the narrow bed, one taking up the entire length of the room. He must be tired, she thinks, because by the time he lowers himself down on the bed and releases his grip on her nightdress Kit still hasn’t broken this most unnatural silence—and this is the man who considers bathing a suitable time for discussing the specific usage in spell constructs for every possible synonym of the word “red”. No, he just settles himself, his teeth pressed against his lip, and slumps against the pillow.

She wonders if getting up, crutching across the room and talking at her, however unnecessary, was his way of trying to find a shade of normality in a life that has abruptly ceased being normal.

“Trade,” Amelia says, knowing she’ll live to regret it. She stalks over to the basin beside the bed, fills it with the remainder of the water in the pitcher and scrubs her hands until the room smells of tea-tree soap. “If you let me poke at you, I’ll let you tell me about whatever word you found for your bed bouncing. As long as you don’t tell me what you did with the swordsman in Raugue.”

Kit’s sudden smile is broad enough that Amelia wonders, for a moment, on the honesty of his quiet. She can’t put him past pretending just to manipulate her into talking, after all. “Nothing, actually. I was too taken aback by the idea that it is possible to be romantically disinclined. Aromantic. It explains so much about the time I panicked and, uh, climbed out the window to escape a Malvadan merchant who wanted to introduce me to his parents. I admit it wasn’t the most well-thought-out decision I’d ever made…”

His voice softens and his smile fades, his eyes flicking up to the rafters.

Amelia dries her hands, grabs the bean bag from the dresser and tosses it onto Kit’s chest. He grunts, but he picks it up and starts teasing at the beans encased in the flannel, while she pulls her chair up to the end of the bed, folds back the covers and starts unwinding.

She’s old fashioned. Simple, uncomplicated. In a world where a divergent shift woman who trained as a doctor and works as a witch offers complication enough, it isn’t a terrible thing to want to reject something that adds an extra layer of difference to the person she is. She’s just old fashioned, and that isn’t a bad thing to be—certainly not if it means she doesn’t find herself in the village lock-up after entering someone else’s home!

Yet there’s an understanding the village shares, a feeling that doesn’t include her. She understands running away from someone wanting something she can’t return—or forcing them to run away from her. She doesn’t understand running toward someone else in the hope that they too share her desire. She doesn’t understand, not in the heart, the books she reads. She doesn’t understand love or want at first sight, she doesn’t understand love or want without prior friendship or connection, and she doesn’t understand the love or want that drives shopgirls to risk it all on an irascible witch.

She doesn’t understand the kind of love and want that dominates song, poem, legend, novel.

Admitting that feels strangely liberating.

“You climbed out someone else’s window? Just to avoid meeting his parents? Because you didn’t…?”

“Yes, yes, yes.” Kit jerks the bag in time with each word, sighs. “I didn’t love him like that, but he thought I did. I haven’t loved anyone like that. I’ve thought, a few times, if I just gave it longer, maybe … but it doesn’t happen. Not the way books say romance does.” Kit shrugs, raises his right hand to his ear and rattles the bag. He still doesn’t look at her, her hands or the stump being revealed under layers of linen, and she can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking about the likelihood of his climbing out of future windows. “There’s words for us too, Amelia. Fewer stories, but words nonetheless. Maybe I should write a book while I’m cooped up here…”

Amelia draws a breath and wonders. There’s the love in books and songs and hope, wild and incomprehensible, but there’s also the love of a cousin who knows she doesn’t really mean it when she threatens to lock him in the cellar, or the love of a cousin who gets under her skin but knows her door is always open. There’s the love that’s history and the sharing of words with someone else, words spoken by someone who knows just how much they matter.

She isn’t soft, isn’t gentle, isn’t kind. She tries, though, to survive this confusing world of people who behave in ways unpredictable, and maybe that, too, is a form of love. The love of a pretend witch for her people, brittle and fragile and born of exasperation, but what else keeps her rolling out of bed to deal with her village? What else makes her sit in the evening and embroider cobwebs on her curtains? What else has her here beside a man who enjoys frustrating her? What else has her wondering that this story, this time, might be hers?

Amelia March knows she isn’t an agreeable person, but she isn’t void of love.

“Tell me about this, Kit. Demiromantic?”

Love isn’t something she ever considered in need of categorising and labelling.

Maybe it should be.

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