Winter came to Frabjous Hall, home of the illustrious Archduke Talgai, blanketing the grounds with a carpet of white just in time for the Winter Ball. The glittering mandibles of the Christmas Day Spider hung, chittering, from the chandelier above, dripping with crystals and gems, but definitely not candles because spider webs are highly flammable and we're here to have a good time and not all die like Miss Havisham. The opulence in the room was overwhelming — you haven't seen such bling since you watched MTV Cribs — the decor and the guests alike were inordinately beautiful.

Including yourself. You looked down to find yourself dressed in an exquisite ball gown embroidered with gold and silver threads and encrusted in jewels, like your little sister had gotten hold of the Bedazzler again.

You wandered through the crowd of guests when a hush fell over the room. Following the gaze of the crowd, your attention was drawn up to the ballroom’s staircase where four gentlemen stood, waiting to be announced.

"Presenting Captain John Price," the crier stated very loudly so that everyone who hadn’t already shut their pie holes could hear.

You did a double-take. Surely not THAT John Price. But your squinting and neck-craning told you that it was indeed THAT John Price, friendly mutton chops and all.

"A hero back from the battle front!" you heard one guest nearby whisper excitedly.

That's amazing! You died and were now in a romance novel with Captain John Price from Activision's own hit game Call of Duty Modern Warfare II, available on PC, PS4, PS5, Xbox One, and Xbox Series X/S, whatever that is!

But the wonder did not stop there!

"Presenting Laird John MacTavish of the Clan Mactavish." The familiar mohawked figure, dressed in a formal kilt and jacket, descended the stairs to mingle with the guests quietly, his shapely calves turning the heads of both lords and ladies in equal measure.

Wow, it was Soap. You started to wonder what character you played in this story when you heard the next announcement.

"Presenting the Viscount de Chubeldedooble, Simon Riley." You didn’t actually catch the whole thing because you had horny time in your head, but your brain tried to fill in the gaps for you.

The Viscount was built like a brick shithouse but looked way better. Attractive in a very murdery way, his dour expression and hard eyes could only mean that this was Ghost. You didn’t even care that you’d never seen him in-game without a mask on, and this could literally be any other grumpy bear out there. No, you’d know those eyes anywhere. The kind that could strip the paint off the walls and your dress off your body at a mere glance. Besides, it had to be Ghost; the plot demanded it! Visions of Mr. Darcy flitted through your head as you imagined you and Ghost snug in his bed. Or maybe him snug in—

A sudden tension filled the room like everyone was about to have orgasms. "Presenting the Archduke of Talgai,” the crier announced, “the mononymous König.”

The room came alive with sudden chatter, and you realized it was more than just the Christmas Day Spider making such a hubbub. Everyone from all sides was murmuring about the Archduke of Talgai. He sure was a tal gai.

You watched, riveted, as his towering figure descended the staircase only to find his gaze fixed on yours with a hunger that said he hadn’t had his midday snacky yet.

Uh-oh.

There was something itching at the back of your mind, like someone else was supposed to be here, but you couldn’t quite place it, not with those arctic blue eyes boring into you like the Eye of Sauron in stereo.

“You,” the Austrian said as he cut through the throng, appearing bigly in front of you.

You stared up into his… well, his hood. You stared up into his hood, which blew in a phantom breeze as his long blonde hair (which took the place of his game-canonical military sniper helmet) was backlit in soft New Age lighting like a Yanni album cover. Basically he looked like if Fabio was a butterface.

“You will dance with me,” he said, his accent thick enough that you could almost feel it solidifying the air between you. It made your teeth ache and your heart race, and think that maybe you actually did have that biting kink.

“Uh,” you replied eloquently as he took your hand to escort you onto the dance floor. A sudden waltz started up, and he swirled you about the floor 1-2-3, 1-2-3, leading you expertly as if he himself invented the dance.

“You dance well,” he said as you fell all over every single step like the clumsy but beautiful maiden that you were.

“T-thank you, Your Grace,” you stuttered out as you stepped on his foot.

“Tell me your name.”

“My name? My name is Y/N.”

“Whaien? A name befitting a woman of such irresistible pulchritude, such as yourself.”

Just as you were about to thank him in a shy and demure manner, a footman tapped him on the shoulder. Or… on the back because there’s no way for a short king like him to tap a man the size of a mountain on the shoulder very easily without jumping.

“Your Grace, there seems to be a ruction at the door,” said the footman.

“A what?” the Archduke asked, glaring down at his servant in obvious annoyance.

“A ruction.”

“Erection?”

“No, Your Grace. A ruction. A quarrel.”

“Ah. Take care of it then, can you not see that I am currently engaged?”

The footman was nervous but would not give up. “Your Grace… The man will not leave until he sees you.”

With a heavy sigh, König nodded, bending down low to kiss your hand through his hood, which everyone just pretends is not there. Like, what’s with that?

“Forgive me, Lady Whaien. Wait for me, liebling; I shall return.”

A part of you preened inside over being put into the “worthy of a pet name” category, but the other part — the one with crippling social anxiety — realized that now everyone was staring daggers at you for your sudden elevated status. You, the poor, new, and very beautiful girl who was always abused and never loved because you were too pretty. The unfortunate, pitiful creature whose big, sad, and yearning eyes could do nothing but give men hard-ons against their will, and then they make their will your will.

Three women broke from the onlookers to approach you, their faces masks of propriety and cuntiness.

“Of what noble house, lady, are you?” asked the virago in the middle with the powdered wig. “If you even come from one,” she tittered behind her fluttering fan.

Twatty-Dee and Twatty-Dum tittered behind her, echoing her evil pink Regina George vibes.

Just as you were about to divulge all because you cave too easily under pressure, König returned, hip-checking all three women away in one go, and they vanished like a queef in a crowd.

“Liebchen, I have returned to save you from these truculent shrews!” he exclaimed, tossing his mane of hair over his shoulder as choirs of angels sang in the background.

“Truc— Truck-kun??” you gasped in surprise, reminded of your untimely demise. “My hero!” you swooned, and he scandalously pulled you up against his hard body. You could feel his cock twitch in his pants as if dancing to Mambo Number 5. But a little bit of Monica would have to wait; something in his eyes said he had to tell you something.

“Yes, I am. But there is something I must tell you.”

Damn, you were right. “What is it, Your Grace?” you asked, leaning in to make sure you didn’t miss a word.

“I am unequivocally, unquestionably, absolutely, unambiguously, straightforwardly, explicitly, conclusively, definitively wildly in love with you.”

“Oh, Your G–” He mashed his index finger over your lips, halting your speech.

“Unconditionally,” he continued, “in God’s most pure, unimpeachable, and immaculate love.”

“Oh… so like–”

“And before you profess your love in return to me, I must confess that I am not who you think I am, though my heart is unwavering–”

“Yes, your unimpeachable love. Got it,” you said. “Then who are you really?”

He gazed down at you, thumbs skimming your cheekbones as he cupped your face, and then he reached up and pulled off his hood and blonde wig, revealing himself as none other than Kyle "Gaz" Garrick! A heavenly light surrounded him, even brighter than before!

You gasped because the light was so bright that it made your eyes water, and you’re pretty sure it just did permanent damage to your retinas, your hand going to your heaving bosom. “But how did you become so tall?” you asked wondrously, blinking the colored afterimages away.

“I've been standing on Phillip Graves the entire time,” he replied. You looked down and, sure enough, there the American was, on hands and knees like an ottoman. “Ma'am,” he said.

“Now, let us away, my darling!” the Archduke said as he hopped down from Graves’ back and took your hands, pulling you into his arms as he rocketed from the room and down the labyrinthine ways of Frabjous Hall.

The Archduke’s rooms were marked by a sumptuous luxury that set his suite apart from the rest of the already-lavish estate. A gilded king-sized four-poster bed stood beckoning in the middle of the room, its ornate Baroque frame carved with the heads of angels and devils alike, and you knew that you would surely be shown both the ecstasy of Heaven and the sins of Hell atop its plush mattress.

“Now,” Kyle said lowly, cupping your face again, “where were we?” His eyes gleamed with a dangerous mixture of lust and mannishness.

“I believe, Your Grace,” you said, “that I was about to profess my love for you.”

He gave you a cheeky grin. “Well, let's hear it then.”

You felt your cheeks warm and squeezed your eyes shut. “I… I love you, Kyle Garrick!”

He chuckled warmly, and you opened your eyes to find him gazing at you with such tenderness that it could break your heart.

“Then let us forge our love in the flames of passion!” Stepping back, he reached down and revealed his purple-headed knight to you.

"But how did you find a helmet so small?" you wondered aloud.

"I hired the best blacksmith in the land," he replied, letting you marvel at the masterwork craftsmanship. Then he released the small chap, and he galloped away on his noble, albeit tiny, steed.

And then he pulled out his cock. “I just need to set my alarm for tomorrow morning,” he explained as he set the rooster down on the nightstand. “Busy day, lots to do.” The fowl promptly buggered off. “And now, dear maiden, I shall pluck your flower. But first, to remove your petals.”

Shucking your clothes off as if you were an ear of corn, the susurration of fabric folds filled the air as the layers of your dress were discarded in a heap, leaving your voluptuous body bare. Your perfectly clear and flawless skin glowed in the candlelight, as his eyes raked over your bathykolpian form with darkening eyes.

Moving closer, he kissed your lips gently, making you shiver.

“What are you doing, Your Grace?” you asked as he stood up.

“I was just saying hello to The Duchess, of course,” he replied, and then he kissed your mouth, his tongue rasslin’ yours like a gator in the bayou. He slowly broke the kiss, a stream of saliva connecting your lips, which made the author cringe openly. He rested his forehead on yours, gazing into your large and depthless eyes as his hand on your hip started to move over the fleshy globes of your callipygian body.

“By God above, you tempt me, Whaien.”

Parting your velvet curtains, he dipped his finger inside your honeypot, bringing his digit back up to his mouth. “Sweet,” he said roughly as he licked the sticky substance off.

“I keep it with me in case I get hungry,” you confessed, closing the jar of honey. “Or in case there is a sudden tea party.”

The Archduke gathered you up in his strong arms and carried you to the bed, laying you down on the covers. He wasted no time removing his clothes, and he stood before you, his throbbing manhood jutting proudly from his hips.

“Oh my!” you exclaimed innocently as if you hadn’t just been watching COD-themed porn the day before you died.

Kyle grinned and climbed on top of you, settling between your spread legs. He entered you like an intrusive thought — specifically like the non-deadly ones where you're only thinking about peepees — his heat-seeking missile sheathing itself in your weeping love channel.

Once his rod was fully ensconced within your hot taco, he let out a rumbling groan as you gasped.

“Your Grace’s manhood is surely the largest I've ever seen!” you cried out.

“Yes,” he moaned as he stuffed you full again like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. “I know.”

His thrusts grew stronger and faster, sending waves of pleasure through you both and you wrapped your legs around him, eager for another plunge of his rigid member.

“Ride ‘em, cowboy!” you urged, and he neighed.

“Come for me, Whaien!” he demanded, finding your nub. He smashed your like button, your cunt becoming bewitched by his perfect prick, and your orgasm was snatched from your depths like those alien toys in the crane game from Toy Story.

“I'm having a great time!” you declared.

Kyle looked down in satisfaction as he felt your pussy pulsate around his shaft, and he continued his rhythmic movements, plowing into your fertile fields until he, too, came with a roar, painting your insides with his baby juice.

“Yes, Kyle! More!” you shrieked, writhing in sheer ecstasy beneath him. It was like your pussy was on fire and the only thing that would put it out was more cum.

“Yes, my love!” And so he came even harder, jizzing like a spasmodic geyser of virility until he filled you so much that the internal pressure sent him shooting across the room, his back hitting the wall with a slap.

“Damn, not again,” he muttered, pulling himself off of the floor.

He approached the bed smiling at you laying like a pampered cat, running his fingers through his bank deposit, pleased at turning your gummy cunny into a runny cunny.

And you all lived happily ever after.

He looks at the children now, three in total: the oldest stands with the hopeful air of authority that only a young boy of about eight can have. The girl—most likely his sister, given the same brown eyes and black curly hair—stands half-hidden behind him. The third child stands off to the side, his fiery red hair about ten times as loud as the child himself.

The oldest one speaks first. "This here is our treehouse. What do you fink you're doin' here, eh?"

"Roddy!" the girl hisses around his side. "That ain't proper! He's hurt!"

The boy — Roddy — glares at his sister. "I told you, call me Snake!" Turning toward Gaz as if nothing happened, Roddy — or Snake — says, "You can call me Snake.” He points to the headband on his brow, which trails in twin tails behind him, much like a certain video game character. “This here is my sister Larry—"

"Alaria!"

"Quiet, you."

"I'm tellin' Mum!"

Snake looked ashen for a second before clearing his throat and refocusing on Gaz. "Like I said, this here is our treehouse. Who are you an' what're you doin' here?"

"My name is… Kyle Garrick, and I—" He pauses.  As Gaz tries to retrieve the information of how he got here and what he was even doing before this, all he can see is tv static, an empty void where his memory should be. "I... don't remember how I got here," he admits.

"Oh, you poor fing!" Alaria coos, finally coming out from behind her brother. "Bet you got your mem’ries lost from that nasty bump on your 'ead."

"Bump...?" Gaz reaches back, and sure enough, there is quite the sizeable knot on the back of his head, and he hisses, pulling his hand away with just a little blood and some wood chips from the tree branch.

"Head wounds always bleed more," Snake says, trying to quell the queasy look on his sister's face. 

Gaz suppresses a smile. So the kid actually does have a heart, after all.

Rummaging through her sequined unicorn purse, Alaria pulls out a long bandage that looks like it has seen its share of warfare usage – if the war in question involves glitter bombs. "Mr. Cuddles ain't usin' this right now, so I reckon we should patch you up." She begins to wrap Gaz's head wound awkwardly. He doesn't have the heart to tell her how to dress it properly since she seems so concerned about his wellbeing. Once she finishes, Gaz feels a bit like The Mummy, but Alaria looks so happy he can't help but smile.

"Thanks, I owe you one," he tells her, and the girl practically vibrates with joy.

"Right, Kyle,” Snake says. “Sounds like you've got amnesia, bruv."

Gaz cocks an eyebrow. "Thank you for your quick diagnosis, Doctor Snake."

"Ain't nothin'," the boy replies with an overly unconcerned sniff. "Right, lads—"

"Don't call me 'lad,' I'm not a boy!" Alaria complains.

"Oi, focus, yeah? This man's lost his mem’ry; I bet he don' even know where he's at, and you want to complain about something like that? Come on, Larry."

She scowls but seems to acquiesce.

"First thing's first, then, we gotta find out where you came from before this. Me mate, Dave always says that retracin' your steps can help you remember. Like when you go into a room an' forget why you came in there."

Gaz looks at the redheaded boy who stands watching the scene unfold. "Is that Dave?"

“Wot?” Snake looks over his shoulder and wrinkles his nose. "Nah, that's Collin," he says dismissively, giving Gaz a look that says he thinks he's a little slow on the uptake.

Gaz blinks politely, redirecting with, "Alright, Collin?"

The boy nods silently in greeting.

"Can you stand up, Kyle?" Alaria asks, taking on a nursemaid demeanor, which Gaz has to imagine she uses on her stuffed bears at home.

"I think so." Carefully, Gaz stands up, brushing the dirt and leaves from the front of his shirt and jacket.

"Oi, hang on!" Snake says, staring intently at Gaz's leg. "You got them sticky burrs on your jeans."

Gaz looks down and pulls off a few of the dark seed pods that cling when you walk past them.  “Alright, and?”

"I know a place nearby where they grow," he says. "We always avoid that area 'cause they're awful to get out of our clothes once we're up here. But we can take you frew, see if that jogs your mem’ry."

He looks at the boy with an impressed half-smile. "Sounds like a plan.  Good eye, Snake."

Snake swells with genuine pride at the praise.  "Right, lads, let's move out!"  With no objections this time, the four of them start the trek away from the treehouse and through the woods.

"So you really don't remember what you were doin' before?" Alaria asks as she walks by Gaz's side.

He shakes his head. "Unfortunately not. It's all a bit hazy, though I can remember who I am and what I do for work."

"What do you do for work then?" Snake asks.

"Military," Gaz says simply, watching veritable stars form in the boy's eyes.

"Wicked," he breathes with excitement. "Me mate, Dave, his mum works for the army as a nurse. I want to join when I'm old enough."

Gaz looks down at Snake, seeing in the boy the younger version of himself, wanting so badly to follow in his father's footsteps, to protect people. He swallows, thinking of the pain and sacrifices he's endured over the many years of his career, the boy's shining, starstruck eyes feeling like an even heavier weight because it's this innocence that he fights so hard to protect every day.

After a moment, Gaz shakes off his reverie and says, "Just remember always to keep your head and look out for your people. They're who you're fighting for, yeah?"

Snake nods solemnly as if he's committing this to memory; he may very well be.

"Oh, nooo!" Alaria whines. "They're all over me now." Sure enough, her leggings are sprinkled with burrs.

"Guess we're in the right place," Gaz says, looking around.

"Anyfing look familiar?" Snake asks.

Looking around the area again, Gaz tries to recall some image from the static in his brain. After a few moments, he sighs, shaking his head in frustration. "Nothing," he says.

"You know, on the telly, sometimes you get your mem’ry back if you get scared real bad," Alaria says hopefully.

"That's hiccups, Larry," Snake sighs with an eye roll.

"Oh."

"What you're finkin' of is when you get clobbered in the 'ead again."

Alaria gasps, stomping in front of Gaz, much to his amusement. "You ain't gonna touch 'im, you hear me, Roddy!? He already got a bump on his 'ead! He's been frew enough!"

"It's alright, love," Gaz says through a smile. "No one's getting clobbered."

"Tha's what I was gonna say," Snake huffs. "Honestly." Shaking his head, Snake looks over at Collin, who's been wandering around the brush with purpose. The boy bends over and picks something up.

"Oi, whachu got there, Collin?"

Collin holds up what he found: a grey baseball cap with a monochrome Union Jack patch embroidered on the front.

Gaz knows it instantly, moving toward Collin’s location. "That's... that's mine."

Retrieving it gratefully, Gaz says, "Thanks, mate." There's a small patch of blood on the back, which makes him sigh. "Blood stains are so hard to clean out."

"Me mate, Dave's mum says to use hydrogen peroxide," Snake offers.

"Ah. The army nurse, yeah?"

"No, she’s just a mum," Snake says, as if Gaz should already know this information.

Gaz stares for a moment, confused, but decides it’s best just to move on rather than argue with a surly child.  He curls the hat by the brim and shoves it into his back pocket. No sense in trying to fit it over all the bandages and blood.

"Awright, lads, we know he came frew here. The question is: where do we go next?" Snake looks amongst his squad's faces for ideas, but none are forthcoming.

After a moment, Alaria suggests, “We could go to the playground.”

"Oi, why would a grown man be at the playground, Larry?"

She scowls. "I dunno, maybe he has a kid or somefing!"

"No kids," Gaz mutters absently as he kneels, his eyes scanning the ground where his hat was found. He'll have to pick off all the burrs later.

"Have you got your phone on you?" asked Alaria.

"My phone?" Hands going to pockets automatically, Gaz looks for that familiar rectangle, but instead, he feels nothing. "No. Don't know where that could've gotten off to."  

After a few more minutes of searching, Gaz lets out a growl of frustration. "I can't bloody remember a thing!"  He stands up and drags a hand over his face, biting back the string of expletives just aching to come out. If only he weren't surrounded by children.

"Maybe we should call the police," says Alaria quietly. "I think he needs a doctor."

Snake grimaces. "We ain't got no phone, remember?"

"We can just go home!"

"And let mum see us wif a complete stranger??  Are you mental?  We'll get grounded for a week and a half!"

"He ain't a stranger, he's Kyle Garrick!  Besides, she'll understand when she sees 'im!"

"You're so stupid, Larry!  You fink that Mum won't tell us we can't go to the treehouse anymore?  A grown man got attacked where we play, and you fink that she'll still let us go out an' play wifout her?  Absolutely mad."

As Alaria starts to cry, it's clear that things have just crossed a line. Snake, the acting leader of this little group, stands off to the side with his arms crossed, leaving Collin and Gaz exchanging awkward glances.

"That's enough," Gaz says finally, earning a guilty-looking scowl from Snake. "It's alright, love,” he says, putting a gentle hand on Alaria’s shoulder.  “Brothers sometimes say things they don't mean.  Try not to think too badly of him, yeah?" He catches a tear with a knuckle and earns a small smile in return.

Collin, who had been standing and observing as he apparently tended to do, is now suddenly standing right next to them. It’s honestly a little unnerving how quietly he moves. 

"You smell like strawberries," the boy says enigmatically.

"Oi, what's he on about?" Snake asks from across the patch of woods.

Gaz looks over at Snake, repeating the other boy's statement. "Your mate Collin says I smell like strawberries."

Alaria leans in and sniffs. "You do."

"Alright, and...?"

"Hang on, lads. Didn't the Tesco have a special strawberry slush on this week?" Snake asks, coming to join the group.

"Strawberry's the best," Collin says.

"Aww, I wanted Mum to get us slushes," says Alaria wistfully.

Snake nudges Gaz's jacket open, squinting at his dark shirt. Suddenly, he grins. "Looks like you had a spill, mate. There."

Gaz looks down, and sure enough, there's the faint outline of a red stain which has the distinct smell of strawberries. He looks at Collin with respect. "Good nose, mate." It's hard to tell, but the boy gives an imperceptible smile. 

"Oi, Collin, how much did that strawberry slush cost?"

"Wot?" the boy answers.

"The price!  How much for the strawberry slush?"

”Price…,” Gaz mumbles, his mind spinning.

"Oh. Three quid."

"Hang on, I think I remembered something," Gaz says as if he can't believe it.

"Well, what is it?" Alaria asks, practically bouncing.

"I remembered Price.  Captain Price."

"Was he wif you at the market?"

Gaz grimaces. "I can't remember."

Snake raises his eyebrows. "Looks like you're startin' to wake up."

Chuckling, Gaz nods. "Looks that way."

"Let's go to Tesco!" Alaria says excitedly, raising her fist in the air.

It takes about five minutes to get out of the woods and into the main commercial area via a residential road, and Gaz couldn't be happier to see civilization again. The kids are fine, but he was starting to think he was stuck in some kind of Lord of the Flies alternate universe.

They approach the Tesco with Snake leading the way. "Awright, let's look inside, lads."

"Wait, we should take him to the counter, like what happens when you run off—"

"Yeah, yeah, enough." Snake scowls, covering his sister's mouth with his hand.

Collin snickers quietly.

"It's not a bad idea," Snake finally admits as he releases her.

"Agreed," Gaz says. "Good thinking, Alaria."

The group heads over to the customer service area, where all parents go to collect or report their wayward children. There, they see a rather miffed older gentleman with mutton chops.

"No, he's not a child—,” the man says to the customer service rep. “Look, I assure you, this is quite serious."

"Captain?" Gaz couldn't believe it. Of all the places, how could this actually be the right one?

The captain's head swivels around to face the group, the tension melting away on sight. "Gaz!" The tall man strides over to them with purpose.

"Is that your husband?" Alaria whispers.

Gaz nearly chokes on air. "Wha— No! That's my commanding officer."

"There's no shame in it,” Snake says. “Me mate, Dave's got two mums."

"I'm not ashamed, I'm just— no, you know what? Just no."

The kids giggle as Price closes in, taking Gaz by the shoulders and scrutinizing him for injuries. The man frowns. "You broken?"

"I'm good."

Price smiles. "Good lad."

After all is said and done, the mystery is finally revealed.  As it turns out, Tesco was besieged by an overzealous strawberry slush thief just as Price and Gaz were about to check out.  As Gaz tried to restrain the thief, the slush spilled onto his shirt, but the criminal broke free of his hold.  Gaz pursued him through the woods but was ambushed with a very hard blow to the head, where he fell unconscious and suffered short-term memory loss.

Now, as they all enjoy some fresh strawberry slushes to celebrate a job well done, Gaz turns to Snake.  "Listen.  A man's mind is his greatest asset. Keep your head on, yeah?"

“Yes, sir,” Snake says, his little chest puffing out with pride.

But this time would be different because I was prepared. This one wouldn't end up like all the other projects I've abandoned over the years because I've Learned Things™.

And then came my entrance into the COD fandom. Fanfiction became both my new shiny object and a way to practice exposure therapy, showing my work to the ether, and it was anxiety-inducing.

Fanfiction, for me, was a joy and an exploration, but also my way to try to break through my creative blocks that have been holding me captive for the past few decades. Words do not come easily to me anymore, like something's gummed up the cogs that used to be so well-oiled. That kind of loss of self-expression feels like a kind of crippling self-abandonment and has left me clawing and grasping for something that, in the past, had been almost too present. I feel abandoned by the muses I once had, who had always been with me, and I am left wondering how to get them back.

I have WIPs that are outstanding (as in not fulfilled, not excellent in quality lol), and I had to stop taking part in things like WIP Wednesday because I always end up feeling like they're broken promises to myself and just remind me of how much I'm struggling to write.

There's no real point in this post I guess, except to say that I'm struggling. Fanfic was supposed to be haha fun, but it's become hard, just like any other writing I do, or try to do.

My very first drabble (and entry into fanfiction) will turn one year old at the end of this month, and my first serial fanfic ("Your Ghost" - tw it's an exploration of grief) will follow in June. I haven't updated it since June 26th last year. The last chapter I wrote took a lot out of me both cognitively and emotionally (it's a very, very emotional chapter), and though it was rewarding to have written it because it was my first published sex scene (something I struggle with), it was SO HARD LOL!! I feel so bad for not being able to update it in an entire year!

While I did start writing further chapters, I had to put it on pause because I had to figure out where I wanted the story to go instead of getting myself into the usual situation of writing myself into a corner and then abandoning ship.

And now I'm wondering if it's even worth it, if people would read further chapters, or if I'd be wasting my time. (But then I remind myself that I'm basically writing this for myself to process things, so that's its value to me; it shouldn't matter what other people do or think.)

My fanfic experiment has basically failed is what I'm trying to say. Because it was supposed to help me be able to write my novel by providing a safe space to practice and have fun (my sandbox), while getting feedback sooner on shorter works. And I haven't touched my novel at all during this whole time. All my spell slots were eaten up by fanfiction.

Or maybe it has worked, just on a very fucking prolonged timeline, which is kind of par for the course with me as a perpetual late-bloomer. (Thanks, Saturn complex.)

It's frustrating to have all these things I want to say and write, and then when I get to the blank page, my mind is just as blank.

Anyway, that's it. That's the post.

I'm not looking for productivity hacks or anything like that; believe me I've got plenty. Just wanted to see my blog have some kind of update because I feel bad for also neglecting it.

Be excellent to each other.

"Oh, yer here!  Yer really here!" he exclaims in a Scottish accent. "And ain't ye but perfect too!  A right bonnie thing ye are." His tail wags furiously behind him as he steps aside for you to enter the apartment.

"I'm Johnny," he says as he closes the door, and the minute he does, the heat of the space engulfs you like a fist, making your ears draw back.

"Oh," Johnny says, picking up on your reaction, "dinnae mind the heat. Need to keep it on full blast all winter. It's hell on the bank account, but that's why yer here!" Again, there's that hopeful gleam in his blue eyes as he stares at you, tail wagging. “Come on, I want ye to meet Simon.”

You follow him through the small apartment, the warm, earthy smell growing as you advance further.  He looks over his shoulder at you. "I'm so glad yer here.  It's been a little hard to manage him by myself.  He gets so thrawn this time of year." Johnny shakes his head and stops outside of a door with his hand on the knob. "Are ye ready?"

"Of course, why wouldn't I be ready?" you ask, tilting your head curiously.

Johnny nods and opens the door, stepping inside the room and standing aside once again to let you pass. The bedroom is lit with a few heat lamps, casting the room into stark shadows and red highlights, making it feel like a mix between your toaster oven and a cabaret. A massive pile of blankets lay atop the mattress, and you nearly choke on the dense, earthy smell hanging thickly in the air.

"Is that the help, Johnny?" you hear a low, gravelly voice from amidst the nest, the fabric shifting slowly.

"Aye, LT," Johnny says.

"Good boy," comes the reply, making Johnny's tail swish violently, knocking into the furniture.

You start to wonder if that hurts when you see a hand emerge from under the pile of blankets, followed by another, black tattoos writhing up the adjoining arm. They grip the mattress and pull, the figure surging forward underneath the blankets revealing a man with dark, cold eyes which flit over your body in a scrutinizing gaze.

Your nostrils flare, scenting that boggy, musky smell which screams "reptile" just as his forked tongue flicks out to do the same to you. 

Simon tastes the air, slithering forward on a powerful scaled tail which is coiled under the blankets. He begins to circle you as you stiffen, your tail puffing up.

"Hello, kitten," he says lowly, tongue flicking your feline ear. "Do you know why you're here?"

"Because you're cold," you reply as smoothly as you can, trying not to think about all the cucumbers people liked to place behind you as a kid to scare you. "Johnny said you're trying to minimize your heating bill."

"That's right," Simon says as he coils around you another turn. "And did he tell you how you'll do that, pet?"

"By sharing your bed," you reply, recounting the terms you'd read in the personal ad and over texts with Johnny. "And my body heat."

Simon hums in approval. "Affirmative. It's a pesky thing being cold-blooded," he muses, coiling tighter around you. The man is incredibly tall -- or... long? Whichever. Both, even. "Winters are fuckin' cold here. If it was just me, I'd pay the heating bill, but Johnny gets hotter'n the Devil's bollocks and I don't wanna give 'im heat stroke."

You stare up at him; he’s made himself taller, using all that tail to push himself up to tower over you. 

“Do I scare you, kitten?” Simon asks, testing you.

“No,” you lie.

Simon’s tongue flicks out to taste the air again, his slitted pupils narrowing.  “Johnny, call the fire department. Someone’s pants are on fire.”

Johnny laughs behind you and you feel your face get hot.

“Fine,” you say, “I’m a little nervous, but I’m not scared, okay?” You shift your stance, your tail swishing behind you in agitation. “Besides, you’re not the only ones with bills to pay.  I can do this.”

Simon inspects you in such a way that you think he probably would have done well as an Inquisitor.  Finally, without breaking his focus from you, he says, “Johnny. Dogpile.”

Without another word, the other man barks and flings himself into the mass of blankets, digging into them with his hands to remake the nest.

Turning his back, Simon starts to move forward, but pauses to look over his shoulder at you.  "Well, come on then, kitten, it's time to hibernate.”

Taking your shoes off, you join Johnny on the bed, his tail thumping wildly as Simon begins the long process of coiling around you both, locking in as much of your body heat as possible against his skin before snuggling down with the two of you.

Johnny looks ecstatic as you’re both nearly constricted in Simon’s tail.