1 - 20 of 222 Works by Tokay
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Zosia and Carol retreat to a familiar chalet in the dead of winter, escaping from the world, but not the problems that the world created.
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"Look,” Helen adds with a sigh, holding Carol closer, “I want to leave work at work and just…” Another sigh, heavy and relieved, but full of something else, something blooming and warm, now that Carol’s pressed against her. “I’m gonna shower. And then I want you to take me to our bed and fuck me.”
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In which Carol is Helen's rock.
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Carol, thinks Helen, taking another long drag, is like cold water, shocking to even consider approaching, let alone dipping your feet in, but Helen feels its pull, feels herself wanting to wade in, and finds herself asking, rather leadingly, “So… why are you here?”
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Baby Sturstead in the 1990s because I couldn't stop thinking about them
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When travelling for business, there were rarely opportunities to take pleasure in it. One’s thoughts were fixated on the lines they’d encounter just trying to board their flight on time, and then, in midair, with how they would arrive to the hotel and what restaurant they’d venture to for dinner before returning to a bed that wasn’t their own in preparation for a tomorrow filled with meetings in a strange city. Helen, despite the added weight of work, enjoyed this novelty, and often texted Carol the little pleasures she’d allowed herself, staying connected by a thread of short words and brief photos while occupying different time zones. But the real pleasure, of course, was stepping off the plane at the Sunport and striding across brick floors with warm, dry desert air filling her lungs and home filling her vision. This is my airport. This is what it smells like: cold brick and warm sand. These are my people.
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A tale of home, and all that comes with it.
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“You take the room. I’ll find somewhere else and take a cab in the morning.”
“This is the fucking Bowery,” Carol said under her breath. “And you won’t find anywhere else because there’s a blizzard on the way and whoever decided this conference should take place in December is a goddamn idiot.”
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In which Zosia, Carol's personal assistant, attends a publishing conference and quickly finds professionalism flying out the window.
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“No pastry chef should be that fucking attractive.”
Helen hid her chuckle behind her own chardonnay glass. “You noticed.”
“She should give it up. Become a model, or… or an actress.”
“Ah, but then you’d miss seeing what wonderful things her long fingers are capable of creating.”
A blush flooded Carol’s cheeks, red as sunburn. She was deliberately looking forward. Playing into the act of manager and client having a casual but professional conversation. “What are you doing?”
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Carol Sturka, disgraced and grieving, lives alone in a small room on a station thousands of miles from Earth. Intelligence, with its eyes and ears even on this lonely station, decides to interfere, with good intentions.
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The Stursia hard science fiction AU that no one but me asked for
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Carol’s standing at the sink, clothes in a pile scooted toward the wall, wearing only simple grey bra and matching women’s underwear. Impostor has made her mascara run beneath her eyes, has left her red lipstick in smears over her lower cheeks and chin. Her breathing is rough, like she’d been running from something and escaped by the skin of her teeth. It always fractures her heart, to see Carol like this, an exposed nerve wondering at its place in the body, waiting for someone to tell it precisely where it belongs.
With me, thinks Helen, reaching out, tentatively touching Carol on her right upper arm. With someone you don’t ever need to hide from.
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Near the end of the book tour for Carol's third novel in the Winds of Wycaro series, Helen is there during a fragile moment.
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The subject of eternal life, of course, was one that has existed for as long as humanity has been telling stories. Most weren’t cause for concern. It was the stories whose subjects were like Zosia, like Koumba and the others, where the concern lay. How much of the writing was sourced from the author’s imagination? How much was taken from extensive research? And how much of that research was accurate?
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In which I take on the daunting task of making Zosia a vampire
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“You’re dressed for snow, but I haven’t seen you outside,” said the instructor by way of greeting. Carol took note of the accent, couldn’t quite place it.
“Have you been watching me?” God, she hoped there wasn’t a wedge of fry stuck in her teeth somewhere.
“I know pretty much everyone who walks through these doors. You’re not one of them.”
“So you have been watching me.”
The instructor’s smile turned bashful. It plucked at something within Carol. “Only because I had thought you were waiting for a class, or for a friend. Was I wrong?”
Carol said, “I’m here for the scenery.”
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In which Carol, still grieving Helen, finds herself at Angel Fire Ski Resort and making a connection with someone completely unexpected: Zosia, the ski instructor, who just so happens to be a former Olympic skier.
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“Why did you choose me?” she greeted, before Carol could get a Hello? in.
“Zosia?”
“Hello, Carol.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Considering your circumstances, not really—”
“Why did you choose me?” she asked again. “Please don’t lie.”
Carol’s voice was softer when she said, “I promised you I wouldn’t.” Zosia didn’t want to think about the way those words settled so warmly in her heart. “I chose you because… because I thought I knew you best, and that you—the real you—wanted to be free.”
Her smile trembled. “Carol, you don’t know me at all.”
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Zosia's been running since Carol and Manousos broke her from the collective. That doesn't stop her from missing the person who might, after all, truly know her.
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Carol broke her gaze away from retreating Old Town, the lights turning into shimmers as they grew distant, looking, now, at Helen, whose eyes were on the intersection, watching, in that cautious way of hers, for idiots behind wheels. “Just thinking about that thing you said earlier.”
“I said a lot of things.” Helen’s hand drifted from the steering wheel to rest atop Carol’s, where Carol had settled it on her wife’s thigh. “Which one got your attention?”
“How uh, HoustonMom would probably spread her legs for a grilled cheese sandwich.”
A snort of laughter, not mocking, but warmly amused, laced with an undertone of curiosity and blossoming arousal. “Really got you purring, didn’t it?” said Helen, smile bright beneath a mix of streetlights, stop lights, and headlights.
“It’s made me wonder what you’d spread yours for.” Carol said it casually, like she was remarking about the weather and the significant lack of rain, but Helen, knowing Carol as intimately as she did, would pick up on just what Carol was implying.
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In which Carol and Helen get some much-deserved time together.
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Fuelled by two glasses of pre-premiere champagne, with Zosia’s warm hand tucked into her arm, Carol glides easily across the long tongue of red carpet, pausing in front of dozens of photographers when prompted, and another dozen, the two of them steadily crawling their way to the end, where a gaggle of reporters and interviewers eagerly wait to pounce with their questions. Most, she thinks, will be directed at Zosia, as she’s the more famous of the two of them. But there will be some for her, too, being the author behind the book responsible for Zosia’s latest big screen role, and one question is inevitable.
Which man did you have in mind when you created Raban all those years ago?
Only three people on Earth know there never was a man, and one of them is dead.
It was always a woman. It was always going to be Zosia.
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In which Helen is dead, but not gone.
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Zosia can’t pinpoint the precise moment she began to sand against the grain, just as she can’t pinpoint when her attitude toward Carol Sturka shifted from tolerable dislike into… whatever grating feeling is currently wreaking havoc on her heart beneath her thick, black, military-issue sweater.
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A tiny Stursia zombie apocalypse AU that no one but me asked for
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“Do you feel desire?” asks Carol. “Are you even capable of that?”
“Are you referring to us in the plural or the singular?”
“Both.”
A moment. “There is a collective desire, so to speak, to better humanity. In terms of sexual desire… we don’t feel it. The bodies, this body, does.” A pause. “Do you ask because you’d like to have intercourse?”
Carol groans. “Not when you put it like that. You sound like a fucking anatomy textbook."
“Tell me, then.” And oh, it’s gentle, so open. A hook with bait and Carol opens her mouth, swallows the wriggling worm and the hook and is ready to choke to death on the whole goddamn line.
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“I mislike this, Highness,” said Immed, who’d slowed their horse so we could walk abreast. A fortnight on the road without a single glimpse of human life had made the both of us uneasy, but being a knight, and battle-scarred at that, Immed’s gloved hand choked their sword’s hilt, the fine steel of it turning molten when it caught the moonlight. “We ought to move on.” But the night was growing colder, weaving its fingers through our thick pelts and clothes; the promise of strangers, of their warm hearth, and the possibility of a meal that wasn’t dried pork and long-stale bread, drew us like flies to corpses.
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In a world riddled with plague, kindness is the last thing two nobles expect.
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the unrestful houses by Tokay
Fandoms: House of the Dragon (TV), A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
14 Nov 2025
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There would be no tenderness tonight.
Alicent found she did not want it.OR
Alicent, the queen in chains, navigates her life as the prisoner of someone who insists she is otherwise.
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All she felt, when her superior’s gaze studied her with a conqueror’s intent, was desperation. For a touch, for relief, for Admiral Hightower to plunge inside her and take and leave her devastated.
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The Last Drop remained on its corner, a monument of two visions, looking, outwardly, abandoned. No windows were broken, nor were the doors kicked in. It was as if its last occupant had simply locked up and left. And perhaps that’s what Silco had done, before death found him by supposed allies’ hands, but that wasn’t the reason she was venturing here with Vi. Not entirely.