#I saw someone complaining the other day that there are less new stories in the fandom than ever 1. That's simply not true. 2. Even if it wa

[eddiemunsonsmum]

Just saw this comment on a story posted a month ago.

*cries in Eddie Munson Solo Series no one wanted to read, interact with or request for*

No shade to the person that commented this on their own fic if you recognize it. It's not their fault. I'm not mad at them. More crying in the tags.

[snickerdoodlles]

one of my most formative fandom experiences was a comment i had gotten on a fic i wrote for a halloween themed fandom event.

this was for a manga/anime, so the fic was a general ghost story obviously set in Japan. the beginning of it involved a pizza delivery and while writing it, i had spent like 30 minutes just double checking tipping customs and the types of pizza they serve and even fell down a wikipedia rabbit hole looking up the history of pizza in Japan.

now, i just like the research part of writing, i do stuff like this because i have fun doing it. and while i was writing this particular fic, i had laughed at myself for my 30 minutes of googling that amounted to 2.5 offhand lines in a 3500 word fic. i didn't think anyone would care about or even notice those particular details except for me, especially since none of them were relevant to the ghost part of this ghost story.

except, when i had sent this fic to a Japanese friend, the first thing she said to me about it was "OH MY GOD YOU GOT THE PIZZA RIGHT"

and that was the moment when it had really clicked for me. what had just been 30 minutes of effort on my part had become a moment of relief for her. my friend was far more used to reading ethnocentric fic that ranged from unintentional ignorance to outright superiority against part of her culture (the original story's culture no less). and even with the "innocent" ignorance (heavy quotes on that) far outstripping any outright maliciousness, that's still so many people saying her culture was not worth learning about. the pizza in my story was a small detail, but i had cared enough to put in some effort to check it. and for her, coming from a fic experience where her norm was bracing for hundreds of inaccuracies born of ignorance, especially at that time after a flood of stories centered around "Halloween as a cultural holiday in the US" premises instead of the "Halloween is a commercial gimmick in Japan" reality, seeing someone put in some effort even for minor story details meant something to her.

this also throws me back to the discourse that arose in a french show fandom a few years ago because there were a lot of fic authors that wrote 'dollars' instead of 'euros'-- but when people brought this up as a prevalent issue across the fandom but an easy one to fic/watch out for, many of these writers instead pushed back to complain that they were posting stories for free and it wasn't that big of a deal. which really upset a lot of people, but then this upset was met with a new wave of indignation that people needed to 'get over it' because they're writing fic ~just as a hobby~. but, even if 'dollars' instead of 'euros' wasn't a big deal, by digging in their heels about the issue, they were saying "your culture isn't worth even five minutes of my time or effort."

I've been thinking about these things lately because the ethnocentrism in Thai drama fandoms is...staggering. just over the turn of the year, there were waves of Christmas fic for Buddhist characters. and just. Christmas in Thailand is a tourist thing at best. sometimes a pop culture gimmick for international audiences or maybe an offhand high school thing to blow off steam between midterms. it's not a cultural thing. and even if a character is a part of the Christian minority, a Christian Thai's holiday customs and culture are going to be vastly different than a Christian's customs in the Americas or Europe. and while the Christmas fic is at least finished for now, I'm already bracing myself for the Easter fic wave that also seems to pop up for Thai dramas. it's so frustrating to see this sort of cultural overwrite all the time, especially since most Thai drama holiday works aren't about Thai holidays.

but the thing that really got me bristling about all of this again was i saw a post the other day where op said that they weren't going to write [thai drama] fic because they don't know much about thailand.

what an absolutely appalling statement to make.

google is right there. wikipedia is free. you don't even have to leave tumblr or AO3 to learn more because there are Thai natives in fandom who write essays to explain common elements of their culture. hell, even just watching these Thai stories and considering the values and messages imparted by the narrative framework and story lens tells you something about that culture. the audacity to look at a culture different from your own and say "this is not worth my effort or time to learn anything more about," are you kidding me?!?

the messages and values of a story tell you about the writer's values, which are going to carry their cultural values, beliefs, and biases. Thai culture is going to be heavily relevant to any Thai story, even the ones that aren't explicitly about Thai culture/customs/etc. (hell, Thai bl/gl as a genre alone-- just the fact that queer Thai writers are making these stories in Thailand's current political climate is highly political, even the "fluffy" ones that don't seem to make outright political statements.) to approach any story like it was made in a vacuum is to remove the writer(s)' culture and values and to overwrite them with your own.

especially because this is fandom. these are the lowest stakes to learn! it sucks to see people say things like "but i'm scared i'll get something wrong" and hold up that fear as a shield to justify their ignorance. no one's expecting anyone to get every detail right, especially not for a culture that isn't theirs, just make an effort to learn something new about it. pick out something that caught your eye as different to learn more about and see where it leads you.

and for the record--making a mistake trying to broaden your horizons is a far, far better thing to do than to superimpose your culture on everyone else's because you're scared to confront your ignorance.

edit: check out this reblog thanks

[ratridingaskateboard]

Tear You Apart

Eddie Munson x Fem! Reader!

TW: 18+, wet dream, p in v, cursing, bdsm, sexual acts, sexual fantasies, etc.

A/N: The trigger warnings would be too long if I mentioned every sexual act ever done in this story. We would be here all day!!

Synopsis: Eddie has had a crush on Y/n since the day she stepped foot into Hawkins High School. After constantly fantasizing about her, will fantasy finally become a reality?

-

The second Y/n waltzed her way into the main hall of Hawkins High, Eddie was awe-struck. She was clad in a bleached jean jacket capped in patches and pins of metal and rock bands. Many of them Eddie hadn’t even heard of. The Black Sabbath t-shirt she wore had been ripped to shreds, showing only a tanktop underneath. Her plaid red skirt swayed as she walked and had boys and girls anticipating for a gush of wind to reveal what was hidden under that scanty piece of clothing. To no one’s surprise, within minutes of walking in she was quickly pulled into the principal’s office for dress code violations.

The hall had erupted into gossip over who this mystery girl was. No one at Hawkins had a single clue who she was or why she chose their school to be graced with her presence. Eddie had never seen anyone like her in Hawkins, if he had he would’ve known. Just seeing what she was wearing made the blood rush to his cheeks but the second he saw her patched covered jacket he was practically on his knees.

This was his chance to finally get with a girl who he shared similar interests with. Don’t get him wrong, Eddie loved getting laid no matter what type of girl it was. But most girls had little to no interest in Eddie, they just wanted to see what it was like to fuck the school freak. They didn’t complain but they didn’t speak about it either. He was, to put it simply, a conquest. Now he had the ability to be around someone who, he hoped, wouldn’t shun him away like the others.

Eddie’s friends gathered around him at his locker, passing comments about the new girl and her clothing.

“God- I hope they don’t give her a pair of pants to wear.” Gareth hissed under his breath.

“I think I saw her bra underneath her shirt” Jeff added.

“The second you guys see a girl you are like dogs! I am surrounded by barbarians!” Dustin was quick to be the voice of reason. It was hard for teenage boys to view any girl as a person much less a girl who showed a little skin.

“You’re right Dustin. Did you see her jacket? It was covered in Metal patches. She seems cool.” Eddie finally added.

“Sorry Eddie- I was a little busy looking at other pieces of clothing she was wearing.” Gareth said.

Eddie rolled his eyes. One of the things Wayne had taught Eddie once he had reached puberty was to be a gentleman. Apparently, Gareth was not given this pep talk. Obviously, Eddie was attracted to her but he had to push down the want to tear her clothes off in order to form a relationship with her.

Hours had passed and she was still no where to be seen. Eddie assumed the principal must have sent her home with the list of violations she had achieved on the first 15 minutes she was inside the school.

Lunch was no different than usual except for the extra chatter of the mysterious new girl and her fondness for revealing clothing. Eddie pushed the food around on his lunch tray, disgusted by the unknown meat with the rancid smell.

“Hey-“ A gentle hand pressed against Eddie’s shoulder. The smell of cigarettes and vanilla filled his nostrils. Eddie looked up to see his friends wide eyed, staring at this unknown figure behind him.

“I like your Dio patch. That’s my favorite album by them.”

Eddie moved his neck to look at her but he found himself too embarrassed to look her in the eyes. Instead, his eyes focused on the jacket she wore, naming each band in his head- trying to get his mind off the absolute fool he was making of himself.

Shit, her hand was still on his shoulder. His face turned to a shade of red he didn’t believe was possible to achieve unless in scorching hot weather.

“Don’t mean to be an asshole but your sewing isn’t the best.” She traced a line with her finger against the trim of the patch. Eddie could still feel the softness of her fingertips even through the denim of jacket and cotton of his shift. Suddenly, Eddie felt the warmth of her breath against his ear.

“If you ever need someone to teach you, I would love to.”

Her hand moved back to his shoulder and lightly squeezed it, sending spikes of electricity through his spine. Then, she was gone.

Eddie’s face remained just as red as before. His fellow Hellfire members tried to help him regain consciousness but Eddie remained silent. He was stunned. He had never felt so weak. She toyed with him and he didn’t even fight back. He had never felt so powerless. In most situations he had had with girls, he was the one who approached and the one who lead. But, she… she was different.

“Eddie, dude, you should probably go to the bathroom.” Jeff patted Eddie’s shoulder, finally getting his attention.

Eddie looked down to find his dick as stiff as a board in his pants. Jesus Christ, he needed to get his shit together. This girl was messing with his fucking head.

After a moment in the bathroom, Eddie was able to go about his day as normally as he could. He still stumbled whenever he thought of the softness of her hand or the smell of her perfume. But as long as he didn’t see her he was fine. Right?

After Hellfire, Eddie returned to the trailer he shared with his Uncle and plopped himself on his bed. God- was he exhausted. Didn’t know being teased by a girl would make him so tired. His eyes fluttered closed and he gave in.

“E-Eddie please,” Y/n wimpered, looking up at him with big doe eyes, her hands restrained behind her back.

“Please what?” Eddie persisted, his leg pushing in between her thighs, feeling the warmth of her.

“P-Please fuck me!” She huffed, grinding her hips against his thigh. She seemed so helpless now. Her dominance was subdued by him and she had become a mess of herself.

“How much do you want it?” Eddie whispered in her ear, her perfume smelled even stronger when he was this close to her neck.

“I-I want it so bad, Eddie! Please I’m begging you!” She wailed.

He loved seeing her like this. Fuck, it made him feel like he was gonna cum in his pants. He couldn’t make her wait any longer and neither could he.

He started to reach his hand under her shirt when-

He woke up. It was a dream. It was a fucking dream. And one thing he knew about dreams like these, they always end the same.

Eddie lifted his comforter to find his boxers covered with jizz as well as the sheets underneath him. Eddie’s face crumpled into a frown. He had to get her back for this.

-

A/N: Dont worry there will be a part two coming soon!!! Hope u enjoyed

[cacti-are-like-flamingos]

Wasted Oxygen...

Gojo Satoru x Reader x Geto Suguru

The Cursed Trio | Mr. Sandman

...

Despite being the ever energetic guy he was, Haibara loved to sit down and people-watch. Silently observing others go about their daily business, unaware of their audience as they freely express themselves through large and small mannerisms.

He'd always make sure to find a nice cozy spot, somewhere a bit hidden so no one could see his lingering eyes. If Kento was here, he'd been stating how inappropriately creepy he was being. He could already hear him hehe

Regardless of what his partner would think, the raven-haired boy could easily spend hours observing the world interact with itself. If he was lucky enough, he'd see an entire movie unfold right before his eyes.

Most of the time, though, he tried to call upon his inner Sherlock. Using the art of deduction to figure out the possible stories from every passer-goer.

Usually, it'd be more fun with you considering your extraordinary ability to deduce people to downright filth.

The two of you hanging out, making up stories for every person that caught either of your eyes had become a little routine of yours, one that started from his days of teaching you Japanese. He'd tell you certain words while discreetly pointing to people who embodied said words --- he hadn't expected for you to suddenly start rambling about the possible nuisances of each and every person you saw

And the fact that you had no filter made it worse! The amount of times he had to cover for you after you'd accidentally said something rather insulting about a person who stood close enough to hear --- double digits!

Regardless, it's the same reason as to why you're the most attuned person in terms of others emotions --- once you notice the patterns, you'll see them everywhere is what you'd often say to him

Although, it did leave him wondering. Just how were you so good at people-reading? Is that how you got along with those two so well? Because you knew instantly what they were about the moment you met them?

No, that can't be. On numerous occasions, you've complained about how Gojo and Suguru confused you. You claimed that they were like a whole new different breed of soul that you've never come across before.

Haibara blinked

Souls. The first time he heard about your Cursed Technique, he had to admit --- he'd never heard of a technique like yours.

Cursed Sight: Chains, a cursed technique that bestows its user with the ability to perceive the spiritual and see the souls of living beings as well as curses. The way it works is rather simple, or so, that's how you mentioned it to be.

As one knows, everything is made up of energy. So by simply channeling your own cursed energy, you can manipulate the strands into forming objects. By focusing well enough, you could bring said objects into the physical world: however, there was a catch.

You could never break eye contact.

The technique had great potential. Just visualize the item you need and Wala! It's there. (You had a preference for chains ghost rider type beat. You'd chain curses down to limit its movements prior to going for the kill. In times where the Curse proved too strong, you'd hold it down while continuously attacking it with an already cursed energy-imbued weapon)

To be honest, your fights were quite the spectacle. The way you expertly used your chains to capture curses, the way you used the ends of the chains to destroy them with such force --- ooh la la (aizawa x ghost rider's love child)

We're getting side tracked --- point is, your ability allowed you to see people's essence. You knew when they lied, you knew what they felt, their soul usually said everything you needed to know (you confessed that the soul only shows the most general of feelings so that's why you depended on deducting to truly understand people's intentions)

One major down side, you could never turn it off. I don't think you've ever really seen someone's face much less your own. Bodies are shaped around the soul, and the soul is always so blinding with its different hues. At least, the silhouettes had somewhat of expressions. (Further clarification, it's like cutting out human shape out of colored paper. Just three-dimensional. AH, THINK GOD FROM FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST but include the shape of hair and outfits) You could see the shapes of their eyes, the slope of their nose, and the curve of their lips.

(and now, you're probably asking -- but OP, what about clothes? How do we have a sense of style if we can't see the look when we look in the mirror? That is true. Wearing outfits will just accentuate your soul's shape. But the moment it's off and on a hangar, you can see it plain as day since it's soulless on its own. Also Ieiri helps you, sometimes even Yaga if you're that desperate)

"You're going to hurt yourself from thinking so hard, Haibara." There you are! You even brought, "Hiya!" "Senpai!" Gojo glared at you, "Meh, why aren't you ever this respectful? Hm? You have to respect our customs, foreigner!"

You scoff, "I do respect your customs, just not you."

"Bitch."

"Masochist."

"Masochist?! The hell is that for?"

"You like me insulting you, your soul lives for it. Got a degradation kink, old man?" "Who the fuck you calling old man for?! I'm just a year old-" "Haibara~! Let's go get something to eat!" "O-Oi! Don't run away, pussy!" You stick your tongue out at him as you pull Haibara by the arm, dragging him to some nearby tall selling takoyaki

You spent the entire day ignoring Gojo, who sulked behind you and Haibara as you dragged said male all around Roppongi where you were supposed to meet up with one other. Yep, you guessed it!

Mei Mei!

(don't you just love mixing friend groups and praying to whatever god is out there that it all works out? 😁)

Mei Mei couldn't care less about Haibara, though she did seem to acknowledge him as somewhat worth having around in regards to his 'service potential', but honestly, her indifference was palpable

Instead, Mei Mei focused on you, whose face held a dreamy look as the pretty woman spoke to you with that lovely sing-song voice of hers (she still HELLA sus iykyk but for the sake of this, she ain't. She's just greedy here)

Gojo was irked by how close Mei Mei got to you, his face unbelievably stoic as he watched you and Mei Mei interact (cue that anime angry mark and eyebrow twitch)— Mei Mei acting like a sugar mama to you as the white-haired woman walked you around pointing at shit she knew you'd like.

Ah, I can already hear some of you confused --- specifically the ones who are really into canon.

You see, Mei Mei does nothing out of the goodness of her heart. No, no. Greed is the very foundation of her character. And so, it would make sense that she wouldn't just spend her money on anyone just for the hell of it.

And so, the truth. You and Mei Mei had this secret arrangement --- in return for a few favors and pieces of key-information that she can't quite get from her watchful crows, Mei Mei would pay for your services. Usually, she'd just send the cash over but whenever the two of you are together, she'd provide you a little shopping spree. (No-one knows about this btw)

Despite the previous, it was evident that Mei Mei liked you. She saw you as her favorite little Kouhai, mainly because of how resourceful you could be, and the way your personalities seemed to mesh well together was exquisite in her opinion.

(Side Note: Your relationship with her is incredibly on-the-surface. The reason why you get along so well is because you adapt yourself to her personality. I wouldn't say you're a people-pleaser, although you are, but more of a subtle manipulating type of thing. Idk how to put it)

You weren't at all annoying like the others. Additionally, you had a higher chance of reaching your service potential than any other (i don't even know if that's a compliment or an insult and I wrote it 🤪)

Gojo wasn't a big fan of Mei Mei spoiling you, and it led to a whole day of the two of them kind of fighting to show off who could spoil you the most (though it may or may not have been your plan from the get-go).

The situation became more obvious to Haibara when you wrapped your arm around his, a wicked smile upon your lips as you quietly inquired from Haibara what he wanted. Not fully grasping the scheme, he answered, and then you'd claimed as your current desire, which Mei Mei and Gojo would then buy immediately.

Eventually, Kento joins after receiving a SOS text message from Haibara. At the sight of the two wordlessly seething cotton swabs with you smirking in front of them, Kento dragged him away (he only greeted you, he could care less about the other two)

While Mei Mei was preoccupied with a phone call, and Gojo was off buying something sweet for you and spicy for Suguru, to eat together later — you found yourself sitting at the same spot Haibara had been sitting earlier.

There was someone next to it, but that didn't stop you as you plopped yourself down, attention focused on the people walking by. Blissfully unaware of the minor curses that plagued them.

Sometimes, if you felt merciful, you would destroy the curse. Weaker curses didn't require you to physically manifest your chains; a small, invisible chain was all it took to loop around the curse and squeeze them to death.

"Never seen a technique like yours, foreigner."

At the stranger's words, you paused. You hadn't sensed any cursed energy from the person sitting next to you, so how could they have known? Glancing to your side, you tilted your head in slight confusion as you examined the man sitting next to you

"what happened to 'hello'? 'how are you'? To introductions, in general?" There was a slight tease to your words yet your fingers subtly twitched by your side

The raven-haired man snorted in amusement, a slight smirk on his lips as he leaned back against the wall of the bench. His hands were in his pockets as he didn't once look your way.

"How long have you been here with them?" Something in his voice had put you on edge, but at the same time, you didn't feel imminently in danger.

"Long enough, give or take."

He made a face, "Like it, so far?"

You shrugged your shoulders, your eyes still on his silhouette as you answered, "Neutral, so far."

"So you haven't been here long enough," he sassed back earning a short snort from you.

"Oh? Why's that?" "You'll see, soon enough." And with that, he stood up, walking away from you without another word. You stared at his soul, watching it get tinier with every step he took.

You had met many dark blues, but the edges of his were... fuzzy. Not clearly definable. That was new.

Surprisingly, you didn't feel shook or concerned. You actually felt a rush of excitement, the sort you got from trying to solve the mystery of some crime show before the narrator could even reveal the truth.

Suddenly, Gojo appeared in the corner of your eye, his sunglasses pulled down his nose as his iridescent eyes gazed down at you.

His eyes were the only ones you had ever truly seen. You thought it was because of his Six-Eyes.

"Yo! Got the drugs," he said, to which you replied with a casual "Hm."

He narrowed his eyes, "What happened?"

So observant

You perked up, "What?"

He repeated, a small frown on his lips, "What happened?"

You shrugged, "Just an... interesting encounter, that's all."

Gojo knew better. But he also knew you.

"Alright, let's go. Mei Mei already left, and she wanted me to give you this," he said with displeasure in his voice as he threw a bag into your lap—a luxury brand bag. But not before handing you yet another bag, another luxury brand.

With a sense of curiosity, you gently untied the bag's ribbon and opened it, revealing a small box inside. Your fingers carefully lifted the lid, revealing the gift within as you opened the box

A single earring, a crescent moon hanging from it. It's metal glimmering under the setting sun (wow, time passed fast today)

"Now we can match!" Gojo said. Showing off his wrist, a silver bracelet with a sun hanging from it.

You snorted, "What about Suguru, hm?" (While you asked, you put the earring on without another moment's notice)

He rolled his eyes, revealing another bag matching your own, "His is here...ya like it, tho?"

Having stood up from where you sat, you smiled softly as you affectionately bumped your head onto his shoulder before motioning for him to walk with you. (You didn't get to see his grin, but you could feel it.)

"Let's go home, Gojo," you said, with Mei Mei's gift loosely wrapped around your wrist, knowing it could wait.

...

(A/N): Ugh, I keep having to come back to fix certain things so it can better fit my narrative. I keep writing these shits while being tired af, and when I wake up --- I forget my own canon 🙄

Anyways

Who do you think the rando guy is?

Also did you notice how you immediately checked Gojo's gift rather than Mei Mei's? In fact, you completely ignored her gift to you.

Moreover, have any of you noticed that whenever you get to know someone --- their name alters? I wonder what that implies for certain people.

And what does a fuzzy outline mean?

This was also supposed to take another turn but then the characters charactered and here we are now.

Drop a comment

Feel free to buy me a 🦩

Hope you enjoyed!

[roseeyes]

Hey guys so this is part two to the Logan slow burn I was really excited to keep working on this so let me know if I should make more anyways here we go

Logan grumbled to himself, a low growl resonating in his throat as he tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter. The place was quiet, except for the faint sounds of movement from the other side of the apartment. He had agreed to take on a roommate—a necessity driven more by his need for privacy rather than any particular desire for companionship.

The door to the bedroom creaked open, and Logan saw her. She was in her early twenties, with an air of effortless grace and warmth. Her name was Y/N, and she had a serene presence that seemed to balance out Logan's gruff demeanor. She looked up from her book, her eyes meeting his with a curious glint.

"Morning," Logan grumbled, shuffling into the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee. "You sleep okay?"

Y/N nodded, her smile radiating a sense of calm. "Morning, Logan. Yeah, I slept fine. How about you?"

"Can't complain," he muttered, though his gruff exterior softened slightly. "The place is small, but it'll do."

Y/N chuckled softly, her laughter like a soothing melody in the otherwise tense environment. "It’s cozy. Besides, it’s only temporary, right?"

Logan grunted in agreement and poured himself a steaming cup of coffee. He wasn’t much for talking, preferring the solitude of his thoughts, but he had to admit—Y/N’s presence was a refreshing change from the usual. She was easy to talk to, and her calm demeanor seemed to smooth out the rough edges of his own personality.

Weeks passed, and Logan found himself adjusting to the new arrangement better than he’d anticipated. Y/N was a great roommate—neat, respectful, and with an uncanny ability to make small talk that somehow made him feel more at ease. They would chat over coffee, share the occasional meal, and watch TV together, though Logan was usually grumbling about the shows she picked.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day, Logan returned home to find Y/N sitting at the kitchen table, her face illuminated by the soft light of a lamp. She was engrossed in a novel, but she looked up as he entered, her eyes filled with concern.

“Rough day?” she asked softly.

Logan shrugged, trying to brush off the discomfort of the day’s battles. “You could say that.”

Without a word, Y/N stood up and began preparing tea, her movements graceful and soothing. Logan watched her for a moment, feeling a strange warmth in his chest. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, and it both comforted and unsettled him.

“Tea’s almost ready,” Y/N said, glancing back with a gentle smile. “It’s chamomile. Thought it might help you unwind.”

Logan sat at the table, feeling the weight of his weariness lift slightly. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

As they sat together, sipping tea and talking about mundane things, Logan realized how much he had come to enjoy these moments. Y/N had a way of making the world feel a little less heavy, and for someone like him, who had always carried his burdens alone, it was a rare and precious gift.

Months turned into a comfortable routine. Logan found himself looking forward to coming home, not just for the solace of his own space but for Y/N’s company. They had developed a friendship that was both grounding and exhilarating. Logan, who had always been guarded, found himself opening up more, sharing stories from his past and even some of his struggles. Y/N listened with genuine interest and empathy, never pushing but always present.

One evening, as they sat on the couch watching a movie, Logan noticed how close they had become. Y/N was nestled beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. He could feel the rise and fall of her breath, and it was strangely comforting. The movie played on, but Logan’s mind was elsewhere, lost in the realization that his feelings for Y/N had deepened into something more than just friendship.

He shifted slightly, causing Y/N to stir. She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his with a warmth that made his heart skip a beat. “Logan? Is everything okay?”

Logan hesitated, his usual confidence wavering as he tried to find the right words. “Y/N, there’s something I’ve been meaning to say…”

Before he could continue, Y/N placed a gentle hand on his arm. “You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready.”

The simple gesture, combined with her understanding, made Logan’s heart ache with emotions he wasn’t used to confronting. He took a deep breath, his rough exterior momentarily giving way to vulnerability. “I care about you, Y/N. More than I thought I could.”

Y/N’s eyes softened, and she moved closer, her hand still resting on his arm. “I care about you too, Logan. A lot.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Logan, usually so self-contained and stoic, found himself opening up to the possibility of something more. It was a new and frightening territory, but with Y/N by his side, he felt a glimmer of hope.

As the days went by, Logan and Y/N’s relationship deepened. They spent more time together, both in their apartment and out in the city. Their bond grew stronger with each passing day, and Logan found himself falling for Y/N in ways he had never imagined.

One crisp autumn evening, Logan and Y/N took a stroll through Central Park, the city lights casting a warm glow over the trees. They walked in comfortable silence, each step a testament to their growing connection. As they reached a quiet spot by a serene lake, Logan stopped and turned to face Y/N.

“Y/N,” he began, his voice soft but earnest. “I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About what we have.”

Y/N looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and hope. “And what have you been thinking?”

Logan took a deep breath, his heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation. “I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that I want you in it. I care about you more than I ever thought possible.”

Y/N’s eyes filled with emotion, and she reached out to take his hand. “Logan, I’ve never met anyone like you. You’ve shown me a side of life I never knew existed. I want to be with you, too.”

The words were simple, but they held a depth of feeling that transcended any grand gestures. Logan pulled Y/N into a gentle embrace, his heart swelling with a love he had fought so hard to keep at bay.

As they stood there, holding each other against the backdrop of the city, Logan realized that he had finally found something worth fighting for—a love that was both unexpected and profoundly real. And in Y/N’s arms, he knew that he had finally found a place where he truly belonged.

Hey guys so idk if Wade is gonna be in it anymore but if you wan more of this let me know if I should write more

Xoxo

[abarbaricyalp]

Too Sweet

I finally finished it AO3 Link

November

"Don't sulk. And stop chewing on your nails," Rhodey said, appearing in the chair beside Bucky with a frankly uncanny quiet.

Bucky looked away from where his gaze was drilling into Sam and the man he was dancing with. "I'm older than you," Bucky pointed out. "You can't order me around."

"I outrank you too," Rhodey pointed out with a smirk. 

"You and most of the army. Tweety outranks me." He nodded off towards Joaquin, who was not watching Sam the way he normally did. Instead, he was three people deep into an animated story and an adoring crowd.

"It's not going to last," Rhodey continued. He usually had some remark about how Joaquin was a 'good kid' or something, but clearly he had a mission today.

Bucky took in a steadying breath as he dragged his eyes away from Sam again. "Have you met Winston? Even I like him. He was practically gift-wrap-made for Sam. Sam's crazy about him."

"Sam likes him," Rhodey accepted. "And they're pretty cute. But it's not going to last," he repeated. 

"Why do you say that?"

Since beginning to spend more time with Sam--and following him around like a shadow when he could--he'd learned that Sam and Rhodey had become close friends, despite all of the bullshit that tried to get between them. Rhodey was the kind of noble that Bucky thought only existed in fairytales, so it made sense him and Sam found camaraderie in each other. There was some super-secret Air Force bond that Sam wouldn't tell Bucky about, too. Bucky liked Rhodey. He thought he was level-headed and no-nonsense, which Bucky was appreciating more as he realized how rare it was nowadays. 

Still, Rhodey could be nosy when it came to Sam. Could be as bad as all the old folks down in Louisiana, who were the reason Sam was slow dancing and laughing with Winston now. Bucky always had a suspicious side-eye ready when Rhodey brought up Sam in a less than professional context.

Like talking about his relationship not lasting.

Bucky gnawed on his cuticle again and watched Sam get spun around in a dizzying turn combo. He watched him catch himself on Winston's chest and hide his laugh against Winston's shoulder.

"Because I saw the way Winston reacted to Sam getting home last weekend."

Bucky bit down on the side of his finger too hard and tasted copper instantly. "He came all the way to DC to see Sam?"

Rhodey shrugged. "Sure, but he was freaking out about it. We were a day late, comms were out of the question. Winston was losing it."

Bucky shot him a strangled sort of look. "You're complaining that he's a concerned partner?"

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Sam wasn't even hurt. Imagine how he's gonna react the first time Sam winds up in a hospital or a fall is caught in HD and plays on the news for a week straight."

"I get pissed off about things like that," Bucky pointed out.

"But you stick through it. I'm just saying, a lot of soldiers lose partners who can't handle the danger of the job. Imagine dating a superhero."

Bucky couldn't imagine it. Being best friends with one was exhausting enough and he was one himself. All of the people who kept his bed warm were hardly interested in his long-term wellbeing. It's not something he thought about often.

"Sam's always alright," he said. "He's the last guy someone would have to worry about. He's smart out there."

Rhodey leveled him with a skeptical look. "Isn't there a 'Days since last self sacrifice' countdown on your fridge?"

Bucky shrugged. "That one's got a money-pool attached to it. We have to pay up when we're the one who resets it."

Bucky looked away when Rhodey didn't. He could feel his gaze heavy on the side of Bucky's face. There was always something slightly appraising about him. He was a Colonel through and through, even on his easy days.  He never told Bucky what he was thinking about, which drove Bucky nuts. But he also never asked Bucky either, which was a blessing, so Bucky kept his irritation to himself.

Sam and Winston had stopped dancing--the song had moved onto something more up-tempo--and they were engaged in some inane conversation. Bucky could tell because Winston's eyes kept darting around for an out. But Sam was ever the professional. He was engaged and responsive, was making that lady feel like the center of the whole world. Bucky knew the feeling. His arm was around Winston's waist, thumb brushing over his side, just out of sight of their audience.

Bucky wanted to be sick with jealousy. He started to chew on the side of his thumb nail again. Rhodey swatted at his hand once but gave up and went to impart either wisdom or exaggerated stories on someone else.

. . .

January

Two months after the gala, Bucky was laying on the couch early one morning because he couldn't sleep. He had a marathon of sci-fi B-movies playing with the volume only on the first dial. It was enough to keep his ears distracted, but not enough to really keep him from falling asleep if he could trick his brain into it.

It had been a rough couple of days. A mission had gone sideways and Sam had ended up in the hospital. Bucky accused Rhodey of speaking it into existence, but he hadn’t fared well himself either. The parade of faces had followed, people Bucky knew and didn’t know. Mostly people he didn’t know. They had been in DC, so everyone from Delacroix had been absent. Sam had even convinced Sarah not to make the trek up. It wasn’t that bad, he lied, save your miles for something better.

Okay, maybe it hadn’t been a terrible injury. Lied was a strong word. Bucky was overreacting just a little because he’d lost comms with Sam and hadn’t been the one to assess him on the field. He hated it when it shook out like that. All of the anxiety about Sam’s condition got about sixty-five times worse when he couldn’t make his own call. Bucky’s bad mood also hadn’t been helped by the way Sam had perked up every time the door opened, only for the person on the other side not to be his boyfriend. Bucky also blamed Rhodey for this.

They’d only been back in Louisiana for a week and Bucky had kept a pretty intense eye on Sam for that whole time, but he’d relented recently, gave Sam space, which he used to hang out with everyone who’d been worried about him earlier. Bucky hadn’t kept an ear out for his comings-and-goings, but he’d expected Sam was out and about because the house had been quiet since dinner.

So he was surprised when someone stepped over the back of the couch and sat down next to him.

“You should absolutely not do that with those stitches,” Bucky scolded.

Sam rolled his eyes, Bucky assumed, and nudged him in the ribs. “I won’t tell you what I was doing at the docks then.”

Bucky glared at him, which delighted Sam, as it usually did. He existed to test the serum, see if he could make a super soldier need blood pressure medication. “I thought you’d be out tonight. Date night? Just some alone time?” he eventually offered as a bridge to a more relaxed conversation.

“I saw Winston,” Sam agreed. He shifted so he was against the arm of the couch and could shove his toes under Bucky’s thigh. “We, uh… We decided to end things.”

Bucky’s brain fuzzed out for a few seconds. “What?” he asked. “Why? You like him.”

Sam breathed out a sad, frustrated little huff. “Yeah. He’s just…not ready for this kind of thing. It takes someone specific to put up with it, y’know?”

Bucky wondered if he was stuck in a timeloop. Was he having the same conversation he’d had with Rhodey? Had the timeline shifted a little to the left, so now he was having it with Sam instead?

“He’s soft, y’know. Real gentle. I didn’t wanna hurt him by making him stay in this relationship where he’d be worried all the time. He didn’t wanna be hurt.”

Bucky found himself holding Sam’s ankle, which didn’t seem to have surprised Sam the way it surprised Bucky. “You’re worth worrying over,” he said seriously.

Sam nudged his ankle against Bucky’s hand. “Yeah, that’s why I have you,” he said. “You’ve got it covered for the whole rest of the world.”

“I don’t give you half of what you deserve,” Bucky scoffed, then heard the words ringing back in his head. He prayed Sam didn’t clock how sincere he actually was.

Here’s the thing. Bucky had known he was in love with Sam for probably the better part of a decade (give or take five years that didn’t count, though he imagined even while he didn’t exist, he loved Sam). And the thing about loving Sam Wilson was that Bucky never wanted anything less than the best for Sam and Bucky Barnes was definitely not the best thing for him. Sure, in the heat of battle, there was no one better to be on Sam’s six, and Sam had chosen him as roommate for some reason that Bucky couldn’t comprehend. Bucky was great as a friend and a partner. No one was going to protect him more than Bucky. But as a life partner? Sam deserved the sun, the stars, the moon, the whole entire sky, and all the universe beyond it. He deserved someone as stable and strong as him, as giving and free, as happy and earnest. Bucky was never going to be that person. He wasn’t sweet. He wasn’t the boy next door anymore. No storybook prince.

And he’d made his peace with that before the world had ended a few times and he was finally back in America. He could be this for Sam. He could give Sam all of him from a distance and make sure Sam found only the perfect love for himself.

He could sit on a couch and get angry at a guy he had actually liked because they decided Sam wasn’t worth the hurt. Bucky would live in a world of nothing but hurt if it meant Sam was part of his life. 

If Sam read any of that in Bucky’s words, he didn’t react. He just kind of screwed his mouth to the side in a deprecating half smile and picked at a snag in the upholstery. He didn’t say anything as he tipped his head back and closed his eyes.

“I was probably gonna be up for a while,” Bucky offered. “You want some popcorn and latte creamer?”

Sam made a face. “That sounds disgusting. But, yeah.”

Bucky snorted and squeezed Sam’s ankle again before standing and heading to the kitchen. “M&Ms in the popcorn?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Do we have any?”

“Yeah, the boys left a bunch of tubes of minis last time they were here.”

“You bought them everything they said they wanted,” Sam corrected with a laugh. “Don’t you know kids’ eyes are bigger than their stomachs?”

“Yeah, but not bigger than mine,” Bucky shot back. He threw a bag of popcorn into the microwave and grabbed the fake latte drink from the fridge, along with two mugs, which he brought back to Sam. “Anything you wanna watch? This is a replay from earlier in the week.”

“Yeah, I remember you bitching about the officiating in it,” Sam teased. “Let’s put on some horror movie. It’s been a while since I’ve had running commentary about how implausible every death and gore scene is.”

Bucky took the ribbing in stride, passing the remote over and settling next to Sam, closer this time, pulling Sam’s legs over his own lap. “It’s not my fault no one ever gets the spillage right.”

“You’re so gross,” Sam laughed, digging his heel into the outside of Bucky’s thigh and pulling him closer in the same move.

Read the rest on AO3

[vasito-de-leche]

Ooooh, just saw your Self Aware!6 and I love how you portrayed him! You mentioned that he can hear the player, but not see them, right?

What if 6 encounters a player who has him as their favorite character (yk putting him as the main character in the interface), hearing them gushing about how 6 looks so handsome and how they prefer him over 37 and the people at Apeiron, mumbling about how he doesn't deserve the trouble, and actually rooting for him reading his event story? Basically just talking about him, unaware that 6 could actually hear them.

Anyways, I'll let you cook <3

;R1999 6 - Self-Aware AU (2)

Compilation of headcanons about how a self-aware 6 would react to a Player who gushes over him. Related to this Self-Aware AU post.

ty for your ask, nonnie! sorry if this isnt what you were hoping for, I cant exactly see a character like 6 enjoying this sort of treatment!

Right away, I think this sort of thing would make 6 extremely uncomfortable.

We know how he feels about receiving attention or being on the spotlight, how he prefers to stay by the sidelines and only put himself out there when others need mediation or whenever his people require him to play the role of leader--so to have a voice constantly praising and gushing over him would be really tiring. 6 is the type of person who enjoys--perhaps it's better to say that he needs--time alone, with nothing but his thoughts and some peace and quiet, after all.

Is this, somehow, his unchecked ego? Are these his own deepest thoughts manifesting as a voice coming from above, muddling the truth? No, that can't be. 6 knows that his self-esteem and opinion on himself is much more humble than this.

Once he finds out about the existence of the Player, he grows even more confused. Or rather, a bit more timid now that he knows you're watching over him, scrutinizing and observing each and every gesture, every little thing he says. He's your favorite character for reasons he cannot even fathom--not due to a sense of inferiority or inadequacy, but genuine confusion. Did he mess up somewhere? He's not supposed to receive this much attention beyond his contributions to the main story.

I think 6 would be indifferent to any comments about his appearance. His entire bloodline is praised for their unique complexion, this isn't new at all. Comments about how the Player prefers him over 37 or the people of Apeiron--HIS people, HIS community--wouldn't sit well with him, since they're people he cherishes and considers important, even if he keeps his distance from them.

Overall, treating him like this and putting him on a pedestal just further enforces those themes of isolation from the previous post, so to speak!

A much younger 6 would've definitely appreciated the support, to have someone in his corner, especially after losing his aunt to the Revelation. But I like to think that 6 as he is right now is mature enough to recognize the importance of everyone else's points of views. He, more than anyone, understands that he had his faults and that his actions should have consequences, and his humble and pacifist side would also lead him to defend the actions of others, such as 210, despite the previous tension between them. There's a reason his number represents harmony!

And because he represents harmony and perfection, I think he would just tolerate this for a long time. He's spent years in isolation, he's had people talk at him about things he cannot find himself to care about--this is no trouble at all. 6 would simply sit there, or go on about his day as you ramble about him. But I can see him wishing to be turned into a painting in the main screen as often as possible, just for a moment of reprieve.

The more you praise him, the less he talks.

For 6 to truly listen what you have to say, you'll have to talk about something that isn't him. He is curious, especially when he catches you murmuring about other things, such as your next strategy to win this UTTU Special Week, or complaining about the lack of materials to level up others.

I think what 6 would like the most is catching glimpses of the life you lead when you're not focusing on the game, when you complain about responsibilities and how eager you are to unwind by playing the game, when your pet interrupts and you stop playing to shower it with attention and love... These small, fleeting flashes of who you are when no one else is around. Aside from this, he would also love to hear your opinion on the events of the game, without this obvious favoritism for him--what do you think of the allegory of the cave? Do you ever wonder about your soul number?

These are the things that would get 6 to slowly warm up to the idea of the Player watching over him, that would get him to speak back to you one day, on impulse or on purpose. And only once 6 sees you as more than a distant voice, when you finally bond with him in a more meaningful way, perhaps your praise will actually mean something to him. Perhaps he will thank you directly with a small smile, perhaps he will ask you to explain why you feel so strongly about him, genuinely curious about your point of view.

But in the mean time, silence is a virtue.

[three--rings]

OFMD and Rime of the Ancient Mariner

I have to shout out @nonsensicalramblings79 who wrote their own analysis of the connections. It's very worth reading. But I want to talk less about symbols and more just bits of the poem that vibe with the season so far.

The "impossible bird" that Ed references in ep 1 immediately made me think of an albatross, because there was a sailor legend that albatrosses always flew across the ocean and never stopped on land.

And because there's a strong connection between sailors and albatrosses, most famously as a result of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's poem The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (1834).

So because the other post linked above didn't quote the actual poem much, that's what I'd like to do to point out WHY it feels like this is an actual connection.

First of all, the poem takes place At a Wedding, in which the Ancient Mariner is a fairly unwelcome guest. We learn at the end that he is cursed for the rest of his life to forcibly spill out his story to people when he sees someone who he's Meant to tell. So he's talking to a Wedding Guest in the middle of a wedding party.

It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.'

This is how it begins. The mariner has a "long grey beard and glittering eye." Okay, Ed-core. He's at a wedding and stops this bridegroom's next of kin, who complains why are you making a fuss, the party is going on right now, they're going to hear you. Definitely evoking Ed crashing the wedding in ep 1.

So the Mariner was on a ship, a storm came and blew them off course, then they saw an albatross in the sky and were able to get free of the ice. I find it interesting that the albatross:

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew... And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo!

The albatross ate the food it had never eaten, it flew around and came everyday when they called it for food and play. This evokes Ed and Stede in their honeymoon days on the Revenge, Ed trying new food, them playing different roles and eating good meals...

Then more fog and ice came and so the Mariner shoots the albatross. Everyone is happy about it because they think it brought bad weather until they become becalmed. We get the most famous lines of the poem:

Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.

That has nothing to do with OFMD it's just Good Poem. I do find the next stanza evocative:

The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.

Very Kraken-y. It will come up again. The crew decides the Mariner did this to them by killing the albatross that had been their friend and good luck. They tie the bird around his neck as a mark of his crime.

It goes on to describe them all dying of thirst and how then Death comes on them and all the men on the ship, 200 of them, die EXCEPT for the Mariner. All of them die looking him directly in the eye, cursing him in death.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.

So I said the slimy things would be back, the Mariner is relating himself to them, again like Ed and the Kraken. Here we get to the part of the poem that is about the Mariner's inability to die. He's been cursed and so he cannot die, despite his desperate situation. This is where it really resonates with Ed in the early eps of S2. He desperately wants to die. He feels he is a curse on humanity, which he acts out in his violence, and also a curse on his crew, who he is ruining. He wants to die but cannot, despite all his attempts at getting someone to kill him.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

He tries to pray, but his heart is "dry as dust" and he cannot. But after seven days he starts watching the snakes in the water and enjoys the beauty of the world around him, and the albatross falls off of his neck and he can pray. He prays and basically a spirit or God or Mary answers him. It rains and he drinks water and then the corpses of the crew, which have not rotted at all, stand up inhabited by spirits and begin working the ship again. Wind carries it back to his home.

Yeah zombie sailors, dead men crewing a ship, WAY before Pirates of the Carribean.

So anyway, eventually he hears two voices speaking on the air.

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.' The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.'

I find the lines about the spirit who loved the albatross, who loved this man, who shot him. So the Mariner killed something who loved him, and that was his sin that brought the curse on him. But now he's done penance and will do more and that's why he can be saved.

Could make a connection to Ed shooting Izzy, but also it feels like Stede is also the albatross, but rather than Ed killing him, the albatross failed to love him? IDK Maybe Stede is the spirit who loved Ed the albatross and Blackbeard killed the Ed that Stede loved....that fits best. And it's the spirit who saved him ultimately. As Stede in mermaid form saves Ed.

Getting to that, the boat approaches land.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?

Lighthouse imagery, of course. So a boat approaches this ship, with a "Good Hermit" in it. The ship however basically cracks in half and sinks right in the bay, and they fish the Mariner our of the water and think he is dead, but he wakes up and scares the crap out of them. Then he starts to row for shore.

'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.'

They call him The Devil, which I point out because Ed calls himself that.

Basically he tells his whole story and here is where we learn he's compelled to tell his story when he meets the right people. He closes by talking about how alone alone alone he was and how he appreciates being with people and walking to church with them, going to a wedding. And also learned how important it is to cherish all creatures in the world.

And finally the Wedding Guest who heard this whole story:

He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.

IDK I just like this image of being sadder and wiser when you wake up in the morning, which again feels evocative to how Ed is going to wake up maybe?

IDK. I don't think we can say "oh clearly they had this poem in mind while writing these episodes", but they feel to me like they were written with this somewhere in the back of their minds. The reference to the impossible bird feels very much like a literary reference to an albatross, which would immediately conjure the "what happens if you kill an albatross" from this poem.

If you're still reading, hope you enjoyed this little journey into poetry. I'd encourage you to read the whole thing. It's very very weird and unique.

[askstevella]

Steve & The Body Pillow // Stevella Fic

- Steve Rogers x Wife!OC

As of late Stella has been obsessed with her new Instagram account since she started posting pictures on there. She wasn’t much of a social media person but currently posting on her story and sharing pictures has become her favorite thing after noticing a couple of their friends do it.

Meanwhile Steve is not.

He could care less about social media platforms. However, he does use them for plenty of reasons himself such as posting pictures of events he’s at, announcements about things like getting a dog or building something for himself and videos of his friends and family members.

Of course he found it nice that his wife wanted to showcase her life on the internet and know what others are up to.

He liked it and told her if he liked a photo or not in her comment section with a remark about it.

One day he decided to have a little fun with his wife’s new tendency toward her phone.

After a long day of working, taking Astro for a walk with the family and helping their friends with dinner, Stella wanted nothing more than to cuddle up with her husband.

As her head hit the pillow, she lets out a content sigh. She smiles to herself and cozies up under the blankets.

Steve joins her a few minutes later and so does an obnoxiously large pillow. Stella has seen a couple versions of that pillow being past around the gang plenty of times before. Steve insisted it could help with his sleep and seeing how popular it was with blogs posts he saw in the group chat with the heroes.

Mia got it for Rochelle who later on gave it to Liane then it pasted onto Rick and so forth. Soon enough everyone was using it to sleep!

It got to a point where they had to buy a couple hundred more of the damn pillow.

Here Stella was staring at the thing. She didn’t think it would end up taking up half of the bed and keeping Steve away from her. She’s been so used to cuddling Steve for years, and now that damn pillow was preventing her from getting close.

Steve rolled his eyes, “I swear you’re someone else sometimes.”

“This isn’t fair. I wanted cuddles with my hunk of a man after a long day!” She complains.

“And I want to be able to sleep without my back hurting but here we are.”

“I’ll give you a back massage.”

“No thanks.”

“I’ll be the big pillow you need instead of that thing.”

“Nope.”

She huffed with her arms cross, “How am I gonna get any sleep now?”

“Close your eyes and count some sheep.” Steve curls up around his body pillow, his eyes closing and a soft smile of contentment appearing over his face.

However she was still pouting.

“What now?” Steve asks, his eyes still shut and a heavy sigh leaving his lips.

“How do you do that?” She sits up and leans in to wave her hand in front of Steve’s face. “Do you have an extra pair of eyes?”

He chuckled, “Stop babe. I want some sleep.”

“I wanted to be your body pillow and have some cuddles. That’s all I ask..”

“Why? So you can post more about it? No thanks.”

Stella’s eyebrow furrowed a bit as she let that sink in and scoffed, “Oh! So that’s what this is all about? You brought that damn pillow out of spite.”

“I knew you would figure it out. Why are you being so annoying?” He said as he sassed her and shoot his eyes open.

“And why you being so mean?”

“What! I am not being mean.”

“Oh right, no, you’re being petty.”

“Babe.”

“…okay fine, I can be annoying.”

“Try a lot.”

“Okay, I’ve been very annoying lately with my posting phase. I’m sorry.”

“I just wish you wouldn’t document every single thing we do.”

“But you said that you found it nice and I can post stuff about our lives—”

“I know what I said! But sometimes I want you to put the phone down and focus on what’s happening in front of you instead of experiencing it all through the phone.”

Stella felt slightly uncomfortable by his words, she knew he was right, but she hated that he had to go out and say it like that. She huffed and pouted, crossing her arms.

“Don’t even give me that look.” Steve said.

“What look?” She replied.

“You know the look. Sorry, sweetheart, but it’s the truth. Let me ask you something.”

“Mhm..”

“Why are you here being obsessed with this?”

“Uh…I don’t know, I fell in love with sharing our stories instead of the press releasing stuff about our experiences..”

That caused Steve to paused and rested his head against the pillow to face her better. He knew Stella enjoy the game of social media but hated the press coverage with great passion, hell they were the ones who told the world about them and their relationship first. Not them!

She didn’t get a say in what happened or could be said. He didn’t like it either—he hated it, he wasn’t one to be the news outlets dancing monkey.

He then asked, “So your doing this, for fans, friends and whatnot could get to know us better..? Not to have pressure of the press on our backs..”

She just nodded and covered her face. She sniffled chuckling at how easy and silly it sounded, yet it looked like a whole bunch of other things.

“Babe, I get it.” Steve said after a brief silence before letting out a sigh, “But I do want you to experience things in the moment and not across a phone. Not post about every single thing, okay?”

“It’s getting kinda annoying, isn’t it?” She muttered.

“Yeah. It is. Next time tell me what you’re doing or what you’re going to post.”

“Why? So you can have a piece of all the action too?”

Steve nodded and smirked, “I mean, yeah! I want to have a say in this.”

“Fair, you should.” She replied chuckling a bit, “I will let you know what happens and you can have a say in all of it.”

“And I was always the better photographer anyway.”

“Hey!”

“Just stating the facts!”

Stella playfully glares at him meanwhile Steve just laughed and snorted.

“Can I have my husband please?” She pleaded chuckling.

“Let me think.” He stated and then smirked, “No.”

“Excuse me?! We made up, this is part where we get to kiss and cuddle.”

“You need a tiny punishment, for at least a little while longer.”

“Steve…”

“You’ll get your cuddles in the morning instead.”

“I—!”

He suddenly looped his finger underneath her chin and pressed a soft kiss against her lips. She made a soft noise at the action then smiled pressing a kiss in return.

//

And we’re done! ✔️ Let me know what you think 💭

Tags 🏷️ @rickb-chaos @purpleprincessonfyre @marvelsfavoriteuncle @therealdaydreamstark @ask-missparker @ask-starrk @askstevella @sci-fi-lexcon @luna-d-marsh @ethan-lensherr @wizzzardofoz z @thechoooooosenone @jackiequick @gcthvile @cherrysft @blueboirick @meiramel @elzabeth-stark @missstrawbs2001 @trulysummersprivate @yetanotherwells @gaminggirlsstuff @fluffystevefest

[themirokai]

In anticipation of posting a new part of my His Professional Capacity series for the first time in three years, I'm posting the other stories in the series here on tumblr, in hopes of enticing new people to read them and check out the new one when it's posted.

First story is up over here. Next we've got:

The Dangerous Parts

Six months after the events of What He Does, a "business trip" of Mycroft's goes horribly wrong and Greg and Mycroft must deal with the aftermath.

Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Physical injuries, References to torture, Hospital visit, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Love confessions, Alternating POV

~ 3,638 words, minor tweaks from the version on AO3.

Note: As the tags imply, this is a heavier one. I used "Chose Not to Use Archive Warnings" for this story because while it does not contain graphic descriptions of violence, it does contain descriptions of injuries caused by violence. Please take care if that's not for you.

Read it below or on AO3.

~*~

Greg picked his ringing mobile up off the desk and saw that the call was coming from an unlisted number. He felt hope surge. Maybe Mycroft’s mobile had just been damaged. Maybe Greg had spent the previous two days sick with worry over nothing. 

“Lestrade.”

“Inspector.” The voice was female and crisp. 

“Anthea?”

“Yes.”

“Is he back? Is everything alright?” Greg could hear how frantic his voice sounded, and made himself swallow. Take a breath. “I thought he would be back in touch two days ago.” 

The PA paused and Greg’s stomach sank. She was preparing to handle him. 

“He is back. He will be fine. But he’s currently in hospital. I will pick you up in ten minutes.” 

Greg felt the world spin away from him. “I’ll be outside,” he managed to murmur before ringing off. He stared at the phone in his hand. “I love you,” he whispered. 

It had been six months with Mycroft. Six mad, blissful months of dinner dates, and late night drinks, and truly spectacular sex, and the rare, rare morning when Mycroft was still there when he woke up which often lead to more spectacular sex. It wasn’t all perfect. Mycroft traveled a lot and worked even more. Greg didn’t see him nearly as much as he wanted to, and couldn’t help but worry every time Mycroft went dark for a few days. But it was good. It was really, really good. Early in those six months Greg had started calling Mycroft “darling” which he could tell Mycroft liked by the way his eyes crinkled just a little in the corners every time he did it. He had referred to Mycroft, sort of jokingly, as his “lover” when he mentioned him to others, since “boyfriend” felt too juvenile. 

But he had never said it. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He had whispered it while alone in the shower numerous times, practicing for when he finally decided that it was The Time. The Time, however, remained elusive. He knew Mycroft liked him, cared about him, enjoyed his company. Greg was pretty sure that with all the responsibilities and machinations and decisions with enormous stakes that Mycroft dealt with every day, Greg was a respite: pleasant, uncomplicated, good for a meal and a shag, someone to complain to about Sherlock who really understood, easy on the eyes if Greg was feeling full of himself.

If Greg tried to make it more than that, if he whispered that electric phrase - much less shouted it from the rooftops like he wanted to - what would Mycroft think? How would Her Majesty’s Spymaster (or so Greg thought of him, Mycroft had never said what his title actually was, or if he even had an official title, or, for that matter, technically confirmed that he was a spy) react to some inconsequential detective saying words that would make their pleasant fling something serious. What if Mycroft pushed him away? 

And now something had gone wrong on one of Mycroft’s trips to god knows where. Mycroft was hurt, badly enough to be hospitalized, and Greg had never told him. Had never said it. 

But here he was in the back of a black car, being taken to see Mycroft in hospital. That had to mean something, didn’t it? You didn’t have your casual fling brought to see you convalescing, did you? Or maybe Anthea just liked him? Greg tried to calm the swirl of emotion and process what the woman was actually saying. Broken bones. Internal bleeding. Bruising. Dehydration. 

It sounded not fatal. Greg rubbed his forehead and tried to force himself to feel relief. “But. How? He - he has protection. What happened?”

Anthea stared out the window for a moment, considering the version of events she could tell him. “He was in another country, conducting a negotiation. With people. It was not going well. For the people. So they decided to take him hostage and try to use him for leverage. They overwhelmed and badly injured his team.”

“His team… was it just the two blokes who are on his security detail now? The blonde and the one with the broken nose?” Greg had managed to clock them on every date so far, but hadn’t gotten their names. 

“I can’t tell you that, Inspector.”

Greg sighed, and silently hoped for the security detail’s safety. They seemed like decent enough chaps, even if only seen from afar. “What else can you tell me? How long did they have him? How did he get back?”

“As soon as we found out what happened we sent an extraction team in. They were successful in recovering him and the team and getting them back. It took 33 hours to plan, deploy, and execute the operation.”

The hitch in the normally crisp voice told Greg how hard those 33 hours were for the woman sitting across from him, even though her face was hard. 

“Have you phoned Sherlock?” he asked gently. 

“No.” The crispness had returned to her voice. 

“Would you like me to?”

“Mr. Holmes’s explicit instructions in the event of his serious injury or illness are that his brother is not to be informed unless his particular talents would be in some way useful or unless Mr. Holmes clearly and cogently requests Sherlock’s presence.”

Greg frowned. Explicit instructions? Of course Mycroft would have a plan for something like this, he certainly had the scars to prove it was necessary. But that would mean… well, he was here talking to her, wasn’t he? He pushed down his cowardice: there were already too many things he wasn’t saying. “Are there explicit instructions about me?”

Anthea’s eyes softened minutely. “You’re to be told as much of the truth as is safe and brought to him as soon as it is safe to do so. He’s been in surgery to repair the internal injuries and set his broken arm and leg. He’ll be out by the time we get there, but likely not awake yet.”

Greg took a breath. “Alright. That’s… alright.”

Anthea’s heels clicked down the wide hallway of the hospital. “You should prepare yourself, Inspector. He has extensive bruising. It looks bad.” She cleared her throat. “But the doctors are confident he will make a full recovery.” 

Greg nodded, his heart in his throat. At the end of the hall was a door guarded by two burly men in suits he had never seen before. As they approached, Greg saw that the men had done nothing to conceal the guns they carried. 

“Not the normal security detail, then?” he asked Anthea quietly. 

“No,” she answered. “The security provided by field agents is best when Mr. Holmes is in the field, which he won’t be for some time. Until he’s back on his feet he’ll have more … traditional guards.” She paused in front of the door and addressed the guards. “This is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard. As discussed, he is permitted full access to Mr. Holmes.” 

Each of the men gave a small nod. Greg cleared his throat. “Yeah, thanks,” he mumbled. 

“You can go in,” Anthea told him. “I’m going to speak to the surgeon.” 

Greg stepped between the guards and opened the door, but then stopped halfway into the room with his hand on the doorknob. There was a rushing sound in his ears and his knees had gone wobbly. Mycroft, oh Mycroft. 

No, no, that wouldn’t do. He couldn’t fall to pieces. That’s not what Mycroft would want. Too much sentiment. Complicated, not easy. No. Greg shut the door behind him, squeezed his eyes shut and breathed, in through his nose, out through his mouth. Alright. He had seen scores of car wreck victims, assault victims, victims of attempted murder. Corpses. Greg Lestrade had seen more broken bodies than he could remember. One more wouldn’t upend him, even if that one more belonged to… to… I love you. NO! Not that. One more wouldn’t upend him, even if that one more belonged to Mycroft Holmes, the man he was dating. Greg could do this. He opened his eyes again. 

The figure in the bed was as white as the sheets on which he lay, except for where he was covered by ugly purple and black bruises. ‘Extensive’ was a good word for the bruising, Greg decided. There was a cast on Mycroft’s right forearm. Thank god he’s a lefty, Greg thought. Mycroft’s left leg was encased in a large metal cage that extended up to his hip. Broken femur? Greg wondered. It’s almost impossible to break your femur. Christ, what had they done to him? Mycroft’s eyes were closed and wires and tubes connected him to several machines next to the bed. Greg forced himself to move closer. Rope … rope burns on his neck, along with bruising. Oh god. No, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Greg pulled up a chair next to the bed and sat. He reached for Mycroft’s hand. Oh, that beautiful hand, those long slender fingers… the knuckles were bruised and scraped, the normally pristine  fingernails broken and torn. Oh he fought back. The bloody idiot fought back! Would … would it be this bad if he hadn’t fought back? Would his fucking femur be broken if he had just gone along? 

Greg took another breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth and felt something start to boil in his stomach. Why hadn’t Mycroft been protected? How could he have been taken captive? Why had he had to fight? There had been rope around his neck, clearly he was fighting for his life. Why? Who was responsible? Who had let this happen to him? 

The door opened and he heard Anthea’s heels click into the room as she came to stand beside his chair. “The surgeon said that everything went well. She was able to stop all of the internal bleeding. He’s badly bruised but no major organ damage. His arm set well and should heal with no problem. The leg also set well and will take time, but ultimately should be fine.”

“Why?” Greg’s voice was a low growl in his throat. 

“Inspector?”

“Why did this happen to him? Why wasn’t he properly protected? Why did he have to fight for his fucking life with a rope around his neck?” Greg slowly stood and faced Anthea. 

She was about his height in her heels and gave him an even stare. “I have told you as much as I can, Inspector.” 

“This is bullshit!” Greg growled. “You people can keep him under armed guard 24/7, but you can’t prevent this? You can’t keep him from having to fight for his life with his bare fucking hands?!” 

A muscle in Anthea’s jaw twitched. “He wasn’t fighting for his life,” she said quietly, looking away from Greg.

“What? He-”

“He wasn’t fighting for his life,” Anthea said more forcefully, meeting Greg’s eyes again. “He was forcing them to hurt him.” 

“What are you talking about? That’s absurd!” 

One of Anthea’s eyebrows quirked up in a clear gesture of ‘Do you think so?’ Out loud she said, “He fought back so that they couldn’t use him for publicity.” 

“What?” 

“He goaded them into beating him so that they couldn’t put his picture on the internet without looking like monsters.” 

“No! No, that’s - that’s -” 

“Gregory…” 

___

Mycroft woke to the sound of Gregory breathing. His eyes were still too heavy to open so he couldn’t see his visitor, but no one else besides Anthea and very carefully screened hospital personnel would be permitted in his room when he was in such a state of vulnerability. And neither Anthea nor hospital personnel would be taking deep, calming breaths from three feet away. Hm, one foot away, Mycroft corrected himself as Gregory moved closer. Mycroft heard a rough, almost pained inhale and wondered what Gregory had noticed that upset him. Mycroft assumed that the rope he had been choked with had left marks on his neck. That was likely what Gregory found distressing. There was the deep breath again. 

Ah, he had pulled up a chair. The fact that Gregory kept moving closer instead of fleeing was surely a good sign. Wasn’t it? Oh dear, he was taking Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft’s own breathing became slightly more rapid at Gregory’s touch, but the detective was too absorbed to notice. 

Oh heavens. The number of times Mycroft had thought of this over the last several days. Through terror and pain and the harrowing fight to maintain control of himself, to maintain the smallest particle of control of a nightmare scenario, to keep those unfortunate enough to be with him alive - Mycroft had thought about Gregory’s touch. When his body wanted nothing more than to lose consciousness, he had thought about Gregory’s hand on his stomach. When he was lying broken and bleeding, alone in the dark, he had thought about Gregory nuzzling his neck. When his people had found him, fought to free him, and were moving him - mindful of his injuries and trying to be careful, but still in haste - through the excruciating pain Mycroft thought about Gregory kissing each one of his fingers, telling him he had beautiful hands, and Mycroft had allowed himself to feel hope that he would have that again. 

But Gregory was not kissing his hand now. He was taking another calming breath. If Mycroft’s hands had ever been considered beautiful, they certainly were not at this point. Mycroft could feel Gregory’s tension where their hands touched. What did it mean? Was Gregory going to pull away from him? Was all this going to be too much? Mycroft had certainly not intended to put their relationship through this trial by fire, but since it was happening it would be a useful source of information, and Mycroft had spent his adult life dedicated to the gathering and use of information. 

His association with Gregory Lestrade had been immensely pleasurable, unexpectedly so. When Gregory had first asked him to dinner (“You know that I mean it as a date, right? Not just as friends, or colleagues… can I take you out on a date?” those warm brown eyes shining from under the perfect lashes) Mycroft had anticipated a pleasant dalliance at most. And perhaps it was just a dalliance. But Mycroft quickly discovered Gregory to be warm and kind, a generous lover who treated Mycroft gently and tenderly in all their interactions. Mycroft Holmes had never inspired tenderness in others, not even his family. Often respect, sometimes collegiality, intimidation, defensiveness, coldness, fear, but never tenderness and warmth. Gregory felt like spring sunlight, and Mycroft had come to bask in it. He wanted more.

But his life was not conducive to more. He loved his work. Loved the challenge, the power, the information and knowledge. Loved that he was respected and trusted by the nation’s most powerful people. Mycroft’s work meant, of course, that he dealt with things every day which he would never be able to discuss with Gregory. He would be unable to reveal where he was traveling more often than not. Was that a foundation on which to build a relationship with someone as kind and good as Gregory Lestrade? Didn’t the man deserve better?  

And didn’t Gregory deserve someone who would not without warning turn up physically broken as a result of his work? While the assignments that had led to several of Mycroft’s more notable scars were largely in his past, and this most recent occurrence was outside the norm, he could not completely guarantee his own safety. Gregory had accepted Mycroft’s security detail willingly enough following the initial snafu, but what would he make of Mycroft’s current state?

Mycroft felt almost ready to open his eyes when Anthea entered. A positive report on his surgery. Good. And - oh my. Gregory was… angry? Distressed, Mycroft thought. Distressed about me and expressing it as anger. Interesting. Ah, I was correct about the source of Gregory’s upset being rope marks on my neck. As well as the state of my hand. Anthea, of course, was completely unphased. She was, by far, the least flappable person he had ever had the pleasure to work with. 

On the plane back to London, after the field medics had stabilized him and administered enough painkillers that he could once again think, and he had been provided with a satellite phone that connected him to Anthea, Mycroft had toyed with the idea of having her tell Gregory that he had been in a car accident. It was the cover story he would be using for his broken arm and leg - almost nothing else could explain a broken femur - and he wouldn’t be seen in public until his other bruising had dissipated. But the thought of actively lying about this to Gregory when he had so much else he had to conceal - the thought of denying himself Gregory’s warm light until after his injuries better matched his cover, was unbearable. 

And now she was telling him - oh no, she was telling him the truth, as instructed. No, Anthea, the things you admire about me are things that will make him think he should not be tender and gentle with me. 

He had to stop this. He forced his eyes open. “Gregory...” 

___

Greg whirled around to see Mycroft’s eyes bleary but open. “Mycroft!” he gasped. Greg dropped back into the chair, Anthea all but forgotten. He took Mycroft’s hand in both of his own, holding it softly: mindful of the bruising. He forced a grin on to his face. “Welcome back, darling.” He looked at Mycroft’s hand for a moment, searching for an unbruised place, then gently kissed the back and turned it over to kiss the palm. 

Oh, Gregory was kissing his hand and smiling at him. Mycroft’s heart thundered in his chest to the extent that he marveled that some medical alarm was not set off. “Gregory… I … thank you for coming.” His voice was hoarse. 

“There’s nowhere else I would be, darling. Your thugs outside will have to haul me away if you want me to go.” 

Mycroft’s lungs seemed to seize for a moment. “There’s nothing I want less,” he managed. Oh more, he wanted so much more. His gaze flicked to Anthea and he cleared his throat. “Anthea.”

“Sir.” 

“Thank you.” He held eye contact with her. “For everything.” 

“Glad to have you back, sir.” One corner of her lips edged up slightly. 

“I’ll speak with you soon, but for now please give us a few minutes.” 

“Of course, sir. I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” 

Greg couldn’t take his eyes from Mycroft’s face. There was a bruise on the left side of his jaw and a lump on the right side of his forehead, a cut across his cheek. The circles under his eyes were so dark they might have been bruises as well. He found an unmarked part of Mycroft’s cheek and leaned forward to kiss it. Mycroft’s breath shook on the next inhale and Greg cursed himself. “I’m sorry!” he said quickly. “Did that hurt? I shouldn’t touch you anywhere without asking.” 

“No!” Mycroft replied a little louder than he intended, his hoarse voice cracking. “No, it didn’t hurt. I - um - I suppose I was just surprised that you still want to kiss me.” 

Greg smiled. “What, just because you got a little banged up?” That startled a laugh out of him, and the laugh produced a wince. 

Mycroft grimaced. “I haven’t seen a mirror since…” he cleared his throat, “but I can easily imagine what I look like.” 

Greg kissed the back of his hand again, then the palm. “You look beautiful to me. You always look beautiful, you always will.” 

Mycroft knew that he was exhausted, extensively drugged, and in immense physical pain which he was experiencing as removed from himself, due to the drugs. So perhaps his reaction should be taken with a grain of salt. However, he still felt that it was notable that prior to this week, he could not remember the last time he had felt the pressure of tears in his eyes. It tended to happen when he felt powerless. Prior to a few days ago, when he knelt on a cold floor and watched people who looked up to him be hurt, Mycroft had not been powerless for decades. But now, Gregory Lestrade held his hand and kissed him and called him beautiful. And Mycroft was rendered powerless by relief and happiness. “I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, looking away. 

There it was. The Time. Greg carefully found an unbruised part of Mycroft’s chin and gently brought it back to face him. Greg took a breath, then started. “Mycroft, there’s so much about you I don’t know. So much I expect that I’ll never know. I can’t tell you what you deserve in the great scheme of things. I can just tell you that you have me. For whatever you want that to mean. If … if you want to keep things casual between us, then I understand. But I need you to know -” he paused, breathed, “I need you to know that I love you. I want to be with you.”

Powerless. Completely, utterly, at this man’s mercy. The tears fell. 

The sight of Mycroft’s tears started Greg’s and he quickly wiped a wrist across his eyes then reached out to very carefully wipe his thumb under Mycroft’s eyes. “Don’t do that,” he sniffed. “Anthea will probably give me a broken arm to match yours if she thinks I upset you.” 

Mycroft laughed and winced, then became serious. “I love you too, Gregory.” 

“Can I kiss you? I’ll be gentle.” 

“Yes, I know you will be.”

~*~

Thank you for reading!

The next story in the series is now up on tumblr.

[kpopimagi]

A Flower Under The Rain [Part 13]

Characters: Baekhyun, Kyungsoo and Kang Gyuri (OC) Genre: Angst, Romance Au: Hanahaki!Au  Type: Series  Word count: 4,208

It all began with a cough and then, a subtle sting in her chest. Kang Gyuri cried, knowing that in a matter of months, she would be another figure in the death toll of the most dangerous and cruelest outbreak in human history.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8-1 | Part 8-2 | Part 9 | Part 10-1 | Part 10-2 | Part 11-1 | Part 11-2 | Part 12

Baekhyun had been crying for so long that he felt dry and exhausted. When the doctors came into the room and practically snatched her body out of his arms, he couldn’t do anything else but watch them work on her. He had begged them to do something. He tried to let them know. They had to do something.

Someone pushed him out of the room as people in blue surgical gowns carried Gyuri back to the bed. He couldn’t see much after that. Someone hugged him as he cried, and he held on to those comforting arms until he couldn’t cry anymore. After that, time just flew by as he stayed in the same corner for God knows how long, too tired to move.

Slowly, the blaring machines went silent, and minute after minute, the voices from the doctors also quieted down until the hallway was in a sinking silence that was oddly foreboding. Eventually, they came out of the room, and one of them, the impossibly handsome one, approached the parents.

“She’s alright for now.” The doctor said with a grave look on his face, “We all know that she should’ve died. We have seen it, and you have heard the stories, but despite all that, her heart did not give out, which is something unheard of.”

Baekhyun and Gyuri’s parents perked up at that. They wanted to hold onto the smallest sliver of hope; however, the doctor delivered more bad news than good, making them all slouch back in their places in despair as he explained the assortment of tests they had to run and samples they had to harvest from her already mangled body.

Baekhyun had been silently tearing up in the corner, mewling things over and over in his head. He tried to understand why he screwed everything up. When did he do it? Then he heard a male nurse walk down the hallway, pushing a cart full of medical equipment that almost looked like torture tools. The handsome doctor was following, and they looked at him with curiosity.

“What’s all that for?” Baekhyun asked.

“We’re taking some samples.” The doctor said.

Baekhyun simply stared at them in disbelief, and the way they just kept going as if it were any other day, when he could still listen to her painful screams inside his head.

“You can not do that.” He interjected, “She’s in pain right now.”

The nurse looked over his shoulder at the handsome doctor, and the knowing look in his eyes was more than revealing. As if in a queue, they heard Gyuri complain on the other side of the door, and Baekhyun was on his feet in an instant.

“You won’t run any more tests,” he said, finally making them hesitate.

“She insisted.” The doctor explained.

“Of course she did.” Baekhyun said, rolling his eyes, which made the nurse and the doctor give him a weirded-out look. “She can be very stubborn, you know.”

“I’d say strong-willed,” the doctor added.

The knowing, sad smile on the doctor’s face calmed Baekhyun in a way he couldn’t understand at all. It seemed to him that the man had had his fair share of dealing with his best friend and knew that Gyuri could be a handful if she set her mind to it. He had dealt with it himself for years, and he saw it in the doctor’s face as well.

“Can I come in?” Baekhyun said, letting out a sigh.

As if the doctor were expecting nothing less from him, he agreed and ordered the nurse to give him the instructions to follow during the procedure. Once again, Baekhyun found himself stepping into the room, dressed up in surgical gear from head to toe.

Gyuri was lying on her side with her back to the door, making it the very first thing he saw. The open wound was bleeding with the smallest tremors of her body and with every labored breath that came from her small figure. 

The doctor and the nurse greeted her so loudly and so carefreely that Baekhyun halted for a split second, unsure of what to do. It was the moment they let her know that he was there that Gyuri seemed to come alive. She moved, as if trying to sit in the search for him, making the skin around whatever was growing from her back tear the flesh open more. Instinctively flinching at how painful it looked, he was by her bedside before she could hurt herself more.

“Am I dead?” She asked, smiling softly at him.

“Nope,” Baekhyun replied, exaggerating the sound so his voice wouldn’t break as he gently nudged her back in the bed. "It turns out you’re quite tough.”

Gyuri chuckled, the innocuous movement making her instantly wince in pain, and Baekhyun fussed over her in response. He grabbed her hand and, as softly as he could, brushed his fingers through her hair, wishing he could take her pain away.

“Does it hurt?” Baekhyun asked, still trying to pacify her while mentally face-palming himself with the level of stupidity in his question.

And yet, she nodded as tears streamed down the side of her face, twisted in pain. The little whimper that came out of her broke his heart.

“I’m here now,” Baekhyun said, leaning closer so she could only hear him, “and I won’t leave.”

As if on cue, the doctor announced that they would begin with the procedure, and Baekhyun watched the gigantic needles the nurse prompted to the doctor, and in an urge of panic, he just diverted his attention to her hand and her knuckles covered in scabs.

“You’ll feel pressure on your back and then a crack,” the doctor warned. “I’ll try to be as fast as possible, so hang in there, alright?”

Gyuri nodded, and the crack of bones was immediate. She flinched, squeezing his hand, and Baekhyun found himself flinching just as much. He whispered whatever came to his mind to keep hers out of the procedure when he noticed something he had never seen before. 

"Uhm, doctor?" He said, unsure of how to even explain it, “Something is happening.”

"We're almost done." The doctor replied, his attention entirely focused on her back.

"I bet, but she's crying."

"You're doing great, Gyuri." The doctor assured her, his entire body completely still, "We're about to finish."

"They're white," Baekhyun said, making the doctor and the nurse look at him. "Her tears are white."

It was fast, but he saw the glint of surprise in the doctor’s eyes behind his face shield, but a flash of unweavering determination instantly replaced it. The doctor and the nurse resumed their work, and when they were done with the pipes, as if nothing unexpected had happened, the doctor went around the bed and focused on her face. Without any exchange of words, Baekhyun scrambled up to his feet and stepped aside to give the doctor some room, but Gyuri's fingers were constricted around his hand, not letting him go.

"Don't worry, I'm still here," he whispered, squeezing her fingers back.

Once the nurse labeled all the previous samples, Baekhyun observed the doctor scooping the white tears off her face, flashing a light into her eyes, and asking Gyuri things about the sensation behind her eyeballs as he gently dipped his fingers across her features as if looking for something while the nurse recorded everything with a cellphone.

When they were done, the doctor gave some instructions that only the nurse understood, and he went into full operational mode. He prepared a new bag of fluids and changed it, as well as injecting something else into her IV. Baekhyun watched every movement like a hawk, as if he knew a thing about what was going on.

"I'll give you a nice cocktail of sugary fluids to rehydrate you and painkillers so you can rest for a few hours. What does that sound like?" The nurse said with a tender smile.

His tone was so amicable that Gyuri found it reassuring but too exhausted to reciprocate the tone; she only nodded, closing her eyes and holding Baekhyun’s hand even tighter. However, the peaceful moment was broken in an instant when she hissed. The sound was so foreign for Baekhyun that he just stared at her body, seemingly coming back to life. She cried out, almost sitting up while rubbing a hand over her forearm. Unfazed, the nurse returned to the IV and adjusted the nubs. The quick fix seemed to work because Gyuri calmed down quite instantly, relaxing again on the bed.

"Jongdae," the doctor said with a hard tone no one had heard before. "Be careful. No more mistakes."

The doctor expected an apology, but the nurse didn't even move. He called him once again, his tone harsher, and Baekhyun simply looked to one and the other, not knowing what to expect.

"But it wasn't a mistake." Nurse Jongdae finally mumbled, with a deep frown on his face. "I used the same drip count as usual."

As if knowing the nurse was onto something, the handsome doctor grabbed the chart from the cart and read through it with a frown. Then they started an exchange of questions and answers that neither Gyuri nor Baekhyun understood.

"Are you sure about it?" He asked, his face twisting just like the nurse.

"Positive." The nurse said.

"What's wrong?" Gyuri asked, opening her eyes, and they could see the fright in them.

"We'll have to take another blood sample." The doctor said while still reading the chart.

"She asked what was wrong," Baekhyun said, getting closer without letting her hand go.

"It felt like something burned inside your arm, didn't it?" Nurse Jongdae asked with a light-hearted tone, preparing for the new sample. 

Gyuri nodded, and the nurse gently asked her to let Baekhyun's hand go. Just like he did before, he assured her that he wasn't going anywhere, and finally, she let him go.

"The IV was dropping into your system, but your veins couldn't handle it." The nurse explained as he prepared her arm to take the sample, "It felt like they were about to pop, right?"

"Is that something you can feel?" Baekhyun wondered out loud, scandalized, "Veins can burst open?"

"Vein shrinking isn't in itself bad," the doctor added, observing the nurse fill the tube with her blood. "There are many reasons why it could happen, but never on such short notice. That's why we need the sample to see what is causing it."

Baekhyun had a million questions, but as if that uncertain answer was enough, Gyuri closed her eyes and nodded. Suddenly, she looked way too frail, too pale, and too defeated, and Baekhyun understood, just with a glimpse of her small body sinking into the bed, that she didn't need all the answers or good news about her condition. She let out a soft sigh and let the painkillers take her away for a while. Feeling the back of his eyes burning, Baekhyun swallowed back the powerlessness and went back to his place next to her. He grabbed her hand again, whispered to her to have a good sleep, and stayed there until she drifted away.

It wasn’t that long before Baekhyun couldn’t handle the sound of the beeping machines and the nauseous smell anymore. The shock and adrenaline wore off, and the exhaustion finally started to kick in while his cellphone kept buzzing in his pocket. All of that and the heaviness in his limbs made him want to leave the room, lay down, and sleep for days.

Once he made sure Gyuri was completely under the medication, he stepped out of the room and found the nurse restocking the supply cart by the door. Without asking, the nurse helped him out of the surgical gear, and once free of it, he felt lost and clueless.

“Hey, what’s happening to her?” Baekhyun asked, unable to move. 

“Didn’t Kyungsoo tell you?” The nurse asked instead as he resumed his restocking duties.

The silence that followed was deafening. Baekhyun stayed rooted in his spot, and he wanted to reply, but he was even more lost than before. He didn’t know what was happening other than that Gyuri was dying. When the nurse noticed the lack of response, he dropped what he was doing to consider him, making Baekhyun feel exposed under his scrutiny. 

“I can’t really disclose that type of information.” The nurse said.

However, Baekhyun did not react. He just waited for the guy to give him at least some sort of answer. Realizing the guy wouldn’t drop the subject until he got an explanation, the nurse let out a tired sigh.

“Just wait here.”

The nurse left him without a word, and still kind of dazed by the rapidity of everything, Baekhyun waited in the same spot, afraid of moving, until the doctor, who in his opinion was way too handsome to be a doctor, came out of the office and greeted him with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He led Baekhyun to another tiny room where a bunch of beeping monitors were set up, and it took him a minute to realize that all those monitors were cameras recording Gyuri from every angle and keeping up with her vitals.

“I’m Doctor Kim,” the doctor introduced himself as he moved a couple of chairs for them to sit in, “and I’ll be in charge of taking care of Gyuri.”

Baekhyun bowed his head and looked at the monitors; some showed a fast-sleeping Gyuri, and others focused on the damned thing sticking out of her back.

“This looks like a lab experiment taken out of a sci-fi movie.” Baekhyun pointed it out, but the doctor didn’t seem to get offended.

“She signed up for the research program on the disease.” Dr. Kim said with a serious expression, and Baekhyun lowered his head, feeling his eyes burning.

“And you brought me here to watch her die?” Baekhyun finally snapped, rubbing the tears from his eyes. “Is that it?”

“We brought you here because we believe you might have some answers to her pain.” The doctor said.

“I thought the curse was incurable.” Baekhyun gasped, another tiny speck of hope lighting up in his chest once again.

“It still is,” the doctor said with a sigh as he looked at the monitors, “but her body is reacting to the disease in a way no one has ever seen before.”

“And you need me to know why,” Baekhyun added.

Dr. Kim nodded, expecting to find more resistance from the guy, but there was nothing else to discuss. Baekhyun didn’t need any convincing. He was ready.

“Let’s do it.” He said, feeling braver than he had ever felt in his entire life. “I’m in, or whatever it is for you to take samples of my blood and all that stuff. I want to do it.”

What had happened to Kyungsoo in the last few hours was a complete blur to him. His memories all blended together, from Minseok carrying him to blurry faces coming in and out of his vision. Then alarms were blaring. People argued. His heart was sinking. His world kept falling apart. The walls crashed down on him. Jolting himself awake, Kyungsoo opened his eyes and looked around. He recognized his bearings, as in one of the guest rooms on the second floor of the house. He placed a hand on his chest, making sure there were no roots moving underneath his skin, but nothing felt out of place. His body felt just as heavy, and his heart thumped just as hard, just as steady. Everything was alright.

It wasn’t dark outside anymore. The sky was bright, and sunlight was seeping into the room, welcoming a new day. It was a bright new day, and Kyungsoo wondered if he was dead. His head pounded when he sat up straight, feeling sick to his stomach. The discomfort made him groan, and his throat burned, coarse for some reason.

“Good morning.” A known voice said.

Kyungsoo looked up to find Junmyeon there, reading something from a folder in one hand and holding a cup of coffee in the other. His voice was stern, and putting the folder down on his lap, the doctor rubbed a hand over his eyes and furrowed brows. He looked exhausted.

“What happened?” Kyungsoo asked, clearing his throat.

“You had a good old panic attack.” He said, observing him.

“What?” Kyungsoo couldn’t hide his surprise. “No, I felt it grow, hyung. It was growing again.”

“You’re clean.” Junmyeon said, with a smile, albeit small and disappointed, “Other than the normal traces of chlorophyll in your blood levels like everyone else with the disease has, there are no roots, no dormant anomalous cells, nothing out of the ordinary as far as we can see. I would even dare to say that you’re as healthy as you could possibly be.” 

Kyungsoo felt his body getting instantly lighter and pressed both hands against his chest in disbelief that there was nothing foreign in there. He had spent years in the dark about the curse, fearing it would come back to claim his life when he least expected it, only to discover that he was okay. He was safe. 

Junmyeon wouldn’t lie about something like that. If he said he was cured, he knew he should believe it. But he couldn’t believe it. He rubbed his hands across his chest, expecting to feel the roots slowly spreading beneath his skin like he did years before, but there was nothing. All he felt  was his flesh, sensitive and alive, and his heart was unweavering despite his worst fears and nightmares. His eyes blurred with all the years of unshed tears and contained hopes, and everything finally seemed to burst in a sudden wave of joy. 

A bliss that did not last.

His happiness wouldn't be complete if she wasn’t there. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he relished in the relief she couldn’t get, and as fast as all of his emotions exploded, everything in him sank in worry. If he could beat it, so would she, and he would not be at ease until she was safe as well.

“How’s Gyuri?” He asked, and all of his senses suddenly became clear and sharp.

“Out of danger,” Junmyeon said, his entire posture changing, “for now.”

When Baekhyun accepted to be part of the research on the disease, he never imagined that said involvement meant being in an empty office, signing NDAs, reading contracts, and answering questionnaires. Once done with all the paperwork and rubbing the tiredness off his eyes, he was taken to a room on the second floor where he could clean himself and rest for a moment until the new shift would officially admit him into the program and finally begin with the research.

Struggling to keep his eyes open, Baekhyun noticed the two beds. He halted, observing the perfectly done bed and then the second one, which had clearly been used quite recently. He was too tired to care and dragged his feet to the washroom to take a shower. He hadn’t realized just how exhausted he was until he laid down on the freshly made bed and fell asleep almost immediately. Sometime later, a nurse knocked at his door and guided him back through the main hallway. They were about to reach the small office where he had spent several hours already when the suspicious penguin-faced accountant came out, dressed in a hospital gown and dragging an IV stand along.

“Wow, is he part of the research as well?” Baekhyun asked the nurse.

However, he got no answer as the guy walked past without even giving them a glance, and he was long gone before the nurse could even begin to explain.

“Wait a second, is he sick as well?” Baekhyun whispered loudly, his mind fully working after a good nap. “Was it Gyuri?”

“I can’t disclose that information.” The nurse replied as they reached the door to Gyuri’s room.

Baekhyun would’ve tried to pry the information out of her, most likely using his charms to get any juicy details on his best friend’s new, shady boyfriend, but getting back to the place where she was made him forget about it in a second. Those details lost all their value when the nurse handed him a brand new face mask and opened the door to let him into the room that looked nothing like the place he remembered from hours before.

Gyuri was still under the medication, but the bed and all of her beeping machines were moved further left to make some room for another bed. His bed, and just like hers, there were cameras and machines around it, as if on a grand stage, ready to record every little one of his movements.

Hesitant, Baekhyun went into the room, looking over at Gyuri and her small figure, barely giving any signs of life. He was about to walk over when the nurse pulled a curtain in his way, creating a divide between him and her.

“Let’s get you settled first, and once she's out of it, you’ll have time to talk to her.” The nurse said with forced politeness.

Leading him toward the second bed, Baekhyun followed the instructions, and in no time, he was wearing a hospital gown, laying down on a hospital bed, with an IV on his arm and another half a dozen monitors connected to his body. The smell wasn’t nearly as strong as before, but it was now mixed with what he guessed were cleaning chemicals that made it revolt in a different kind of way.

Suddenly, he wanted to call his parents. He felt the urge to talk to them, to tell them how much he loved them, to say his goodbyes, but then reminded himself that he couldn’t say a word about this. With the nurse gone and left with the only company of the sounding machinery around him, his mind started to reel with theories. Granted, he had never been part of something of the sort, but he knew all the NDAs were not normal. He also knew the shady accountant had something to do with it all, but his train of thought was cut off. The door opened, and then an unusual silence followed, which made Baekhyun close his eyes and pretend to be asleep. There was no need for that, but the soft sound of the footsteps of whoever came into the room made him do it. The nurses he had seen so far were loud and lively, as if their noise could cheer their only patient up to wellness. However, this person was too cautious and too quiet. He wanted to open an eye to see who it was when he heard the sound of the curtain between him and Gyuri being pushed aside. 

There was no greeting and no questions, just a heavy silence that was almost unbearable, and when his patience almost ran out, the curtain fell back in place and the person walked away. Relieved and holding his breath, Baekhyun opened his eyes. He was alone on his sterile side of the room and stayed still, trying his hardest to listen to what was happening on the other side of the curtain, but his curiosity eventually got the best of him. Baekhyun stretched an arm as far as all the wires stuck to his skin allowed him to and gently nudged the curtain aside just enough to peek out.

The accountant was there, propped on Gyuri’s bed, gently brushing her hair out of her face. She didn’t react, of course, but the guy didn’t seem to mind as he held her hand between his with the utmost care before leaning closer to press his forehead against her temple.

“I brought him here for you.” The guy said.

His words were a mere whisper that rang so loudly in the otherwise silent room that Baekhyun was afraid everything could be heard, even his heartbeat. He could even feel it ringing in his ears.

“You can’t leave now.” The accountant continued. “Please.”

Baekhyun saw the guy kiss the side of her head, and in a burst of shyness, he slowly put the curtain back in place, feeling his cheeks burning. As if he had intruded in one of the most intimate moments of the couple, Baekhyun wished he hadn’t seen or heard what happened, but the gentleness in the guy’s actions was quite impossible to forget. 

Finding himself frustrated once again by the penguin-faced accountant, Baekhyun rolled to his side in a huff and pushed every nice thought he had about the guy. Because no matter how nice he could be to Gyuri, he was convinced there was something shady about him. Something so big, even Gyuri tried her best to hide, and Baekhyun had to close his eyes to stop his mind from derailing even further. Because it didn’t matter what great mistery the guy could hide. All that mattered to him was to do his best for Gyuri. And if that meant he had to get along with him, he would.

He would do anything.

For Gyuri, he would.

So... Why do I keep making Baekhyun more and more flawed? Ayyyy....Don't hate him too much please, he doesn't know any better 😅  Anyway, we're in the last stretch of the story. Just a couple of chapters left and this will be over. If you're still here, reading this story and reading through this ending note, please leave a comment with what you think will happen next. I have a few loose ends that I still don't know how to settle so I would like to hear your thoughts on this. So just as I say every time, Thank you!

[rabbit-bf]

You Never Forget Your First Kill

Ship: Oddfellow/Caster

Warnings: Graphic description of violence, gore, murder, and drug references

A/N: This fic is a part of Caster’s canon timeline! It was originally just the art but I felt like the art needed the whole context. Also if any main fandom members find this, I know it’s not entirely canon compliant and Odd is ooc let me LIVE.

Music Fest ‘69, the weekend of a lifetime. Quite possibly multiple lifetimes. Quite possibly, the rest of time. Depending on who you showed up with, who you were there to see, and what your state of being was, you either made it through that weekend or you didn’t. It was either the end of your enjoyment of live music, or the start of an eternity of it. No one got out entirely unscathed.

For Caster it had been utterly unbelievable. The first hours had been, at least. Nothing but snorting and smoking whatever he could get his little paws on, never coming down from the lovely floaty feeling he craved. Good music by artists he’d been waiting years of his life to see, and interesting people to talk to all around. The plucking of bassists making his fingers tingle while the kick drums all around were felt in his chest. He got to speak with friends he hadn’t seen in months, and on top of all that it gave him an excuse to use the shiny new camera he’d bought himself for his 24th birthday, fresh roll of film and all.

He had even met a dashing young man in his travels. Earlow Wolfe, he said his name was. Ochre skin, much like the light coming from the sunset beyond, and a face that can only be described as beautiful. He proudly dawned a red marching vest that reminded Caster of Stg Peppers and a full afro that he had conveniently tied away from his face with a colorful scarf. He also, notably, had a dark scar that ran across his left cheek. The two sat in a field, passing a sparse joint back and forth, and only taking breaks to converse.

Caster had run off behind one of the smaller stages in an attempt at a break, a country-rock act on the ladder half of their set as he rushed by. He had headed off to find somewhere quiet, at the very least somewhere less loud than the concert floor. He had been going since dawn and by now was nursing a bit of a headache, alongside his usual state of overstimulation. The only person he saw in the blank patch of grass was the man and he decided it was better than the sweaty bodies, loud speaking, and reek of alcohol that the rest of the festival carried.

Once they got to talking, they clicked. Earlow offered him a pre-roll he had in the inside pocket of the brightly colored vest, and of course Caster wasn’t going to say no. It wasn’t ideal, but by this point in the day you really couldn’t complain if you were able to take anything you didn’t smuggle in yourself. Caster didn’t particularly care what he did, or who he it was from, but he still couldn’t help but giggle about it. He found it humorous that after hours of putting the harshest material in his body he was being offered some simple weed.

When they met, Earlow was frustrated. His breath was still short and his jaw still clenched so hard you’d think he was breaking teeth. He had been talking to someone about their “plans for the weekend�� and said other person apparently did not agree despite their supposed months worth of planning. So he stormed off, understandably, trying to find a secluded place to destress and smoke on his own. He was thinking of throwing away the plan all together, but then he happened to find Caster, and his mood changed entirely the longer they spoke.

To make multiple hours worth of stories much shorter, the two ended up talking with one another until it was almost nightfall. About life, about insecurities. Caster going on about how he wanted some purpose, some religion that didn’t need a church. How badly he wanted to stop his diseases and pain so he could continue his life of touring, and getting high, and selling his photos. How he wanted a purpose, and a job, but not to give in to the corporate world. The man couldn’t help but agree with some of the things being said, a lot about purpose, and power, and humanity. Their conversations flowed nicely, and naturally.

Cas thought they may stay there until one or both fell asleep, but right at sundown, Earlow was called away by someone at the bottom of the hill. They reminded him of the time, and that they needed to get going. Whatever plans he had with his friends were more important than him, which he wasn’t too offended about. Such is the way of the festival, after all. He decided to stay where he was, though. After all, the sets he wanted to see were done, he was pumped full of green by now, and he needed a nap. It would be inconsequential, right?

In the time that he was asleep, a hoard of vampires had invaded the festival grounds. They got in with ease, and now roamed every inch of the property His smoking partner was needed to direct and control them, and was doing wonderfully at is while Cas slept away in the grass. Screams and hisses echoes from one side to the other, no one could avoid the panic and terror of it all. The sound of a final breath was impossible to ignore. Unless you were Caster, of course, who was still high and now barely awake.

There were countless bodies scattered around the small stage by the time he had sobered up enough to come down the hill. He hadn’t noticed a single thing wrong, with how high and tired and fatigued he was. There was a large part of him that wasn’t even sure he was awake yet, the weed still fogging his brain. The only thing that tipped him off on anything being wrong was the appearance of a friend of his from the group of vampires he hung around. A friend that would never be at a festival like this, certainly not one including the artists she always referred to as “hippie shit” and poked fun at Caster for playing. It was far out of her tastes.

He could tell by her vicious demeanor that she was there for business, and yet when she found him buzzed and alone, she still usher him somewhere she deemed safe. After barking at him about how stupid he was, of course. One of the busses that lined the dark side of the bigger stages, full of the whatever bands personal belongings. She shoved him into the very back room, where there was a table and various leather couches built into the bus. What used to transport famous musicians now hid the young mortal that was away from the prowling, prying, eyes of the dangers outside.

Caster trusted his friends more than he did his own parents. Even if they were in the mix, hunting and killing, he trusted them. He was not going to move an inch from where she put him. Even as the screams got further from him. Even as his high faded into nothing but a faint mist.

Eventually, Earlow found his hiding spot. Before he even said a thing about the invasion, he asked a question. If Caster would like to become “one of them”, a vampire, that is. Caster had always considered it, being friends with no one besides a group of those with vampirism. This was on impulse, though. Some outside force telling him that this was the right path. Right now, with this man, as unprofessional and unsanitary as it was. It was either be turned, or die by his hand. He couldn’t help but wonder for a moment if he was the only one offered this way out, if their conversations in the daylight had influenced Earlow’s choices with the boy now. He didn’t have much time to ponder before letting his instincts win, and accepting.

It was just off from being erotic. The tension they possessed in the grass just as present, even after the mask had been lifted. His calm demeanor despite the dismal scene outside, and his straight forward manner of speaking was hard not to melt under. Gentle hands on Caster’s wrist as he brought it to his mouth, sinking his teeth into the dry flesh underneath. Feeling him puncture his veins nearly made Caster scream; From the pain or how much he enjoyed it, he has yet to pin point. His immediate blackout, and the knowledge that Earlow had stayed with him the entire time he was out didn’t help the connection he felt. The intimacy of it all.

He felt stronger upon waking up. More stable, fully sober for the first time in days. His body felt clean, like the last eight years of backlogged trauma had never happened. The thoughts that barked and barked were gone, his breath even felt lighter. The grogginess and indescribable pain he usually felt upon waking up wasn’t present. Even as Earlow relayed instructions and rules and information, the sting of anxiety he expected to feel at the unknown never came. His “go with the flow” persona was true now that the panic that always lulled in his bones was gone.

Despite this, he still didn’t feel “ready” by any means. He wished for some way to prepare, a practice round. He didn’t want to ask Earlow for any more instruction, but he wasn’t adapted enough to be on his own. Thus, he attached himself to Earlow’s hip like velcro, watching closely as he worked like a machine. Commanding groups like soldiers, even when they veered so far off course you’d think they had forgotten their task all together. Swiping lives like it was nothing as he took a kill or two for himself. His utter confidence as he oversaw the entire event.

Caster didn’t want to hurt anyone, it was one of the last things he wanted to do, actually. It was something he hadn’t considered when he accepted the trade for his life, the necessity of taking lives. His vampire friends talked about their killings all the time, and he always acted like he understood. He could never entirely understand what would convince someone to kill, though. Causing harm to another living being, no matter how big or small, felt vile. It made him feel even more tainted than he already did. He was always a true hippie in that way.

He knew that he had to, though. Killing, scaring, taking. It was all a part of his new way of life. The way his kin interacted with the world, the thing they do best. Especially in times like these, when they were all together with the intention of losing as many lives as possible. A successful raid, hundreds of souls being torn from their bodies. To water the plants with the bloodshed. He couldn’t be afraid forever, he would have to follow in their footsteps sooner than later.

Caster had been on Earlow’s heels for a good thirty minutes. He could feel the frustration rising in him, and knew he was holding him back. Still, he insisted on staying near, up until Earlow snapped at him. “I know you are scared but, for my sake, please do your job. At the very least find someone else to follow.” He wasn’t harsh, just frustrated. The plan wasn’t going as well as it could be. Caster knew he needed to put in the work. “We need more bodies. Can you handle one or two?”

Something in his tone of voice caused his mind to shift. Something clicked. That block in his mind that told him to put his own needs first, and survive any way he could, simply crumbled. Whether it was his self destructive tendencies, his guilt, or if Earlow’s words gave him the motivation and confidence to serve, the man could have asked him to do anything and he would have obeyed. A switch was permemantly flipped.

He nodded, much to Earlow’s surprise and relief. Bristly walking past and off into the dust that had been picked up. He didn’t have a plan, but he had the confidence, and for a Reed kid that was more than enough. When they want something done, they make sure it’s done well. He was going to get blood on his hands tonight. He would soak his clothes in it, keep pools in his mouth to bring back to the man, if it pleased him. He was going to be useful.

It didn’t take him long at all to find someone to test his new teeth on. It was a festival of thousands, not everyone could be lying dead just yet, even this late into the night. His target was meek, pathetic. Late twenties, maybe mid thirties. Probably here for the same country-rock act Caster had shoved past so many hours ago. Not the type he’d ever be friends with. He wore a tight fitting polo and a pair of jeans with a belt half the width of his waist. He appeared to be an easy option, if he was going for kill and not maim.

He was cowering by one of the big signs that advertised the many bands that were set to play the festival. Likely thought he couldn’t be seen from where he was, but he was gravely mistaken. Casters eyes were set on the scrawny young man, and he felt a hunger deepen in his stomach. An urge like nothing else he’d felt. So much stronger than any sex drive, more intense than any drug. It was close to consuming him, like he would soon be unable to control his own thoughts.

He continued to stalk him for a few moments more, watching as he self soothed, steadied his breathing. Calmed down behind the big painted piece of fabric. He eventually sat down on the ground, pulling his knees up to his chest and setting his chin down. Despite the outside demeanor, he was obviously still paranoid as his eyes darted left to right and back again every so often. Cas made sure to keep close watch on his eyes, to see exactly where they were pointed when.

He approached slowly. Step by step, inching his way closer to the yuppie looking kid. It wasn’t a hard task. The noise around the camp ground was still loud with screams and shoes hitting the dirt as victims and killers ran by. No matter how hard you can try to be vigilant in situations like these, chances are you’ll miss something in the sound of your own paranoia.

When his gaze was pointed the opposite, he pounced. Quite literally. Throwing his entire weight at the man, hands pushing his shoulders to the ground where he was sat. His back hit the gravel with a crack that echoed over the nearby hills. It felt a bit overkill, but Caster was just as nervous as this kid was. He couldn’t risk losing him, letting him get away. Especially when he didn’t know how many easy targets like him were left.

He snarled at the person under him, showing off his new sharp teeth with a dramatic hiss. It felt silly. Like a kid playing pretend. This scenario had been a fantasy in his head since he was a kid. Not the vampirism or murder, but being worth something. Having a purpose that was more than bagging groceries. He didn’t want to mess this up, wouldn’t mess this up.

The man began shaking, from head to toe, absolute terror plastering his now pale face. He didn’t have the strength to pull away, and he didn’t try. The force of the knock took the wind from him, and now Caster had one leg pushing both of his into the small rocks beneath them. The other was up by his chest, intimidatingly close to his heart. The boots he wore were thick, and heavy, and made the gravel crunch as he let all of his weight fall into them.

The hunger he felt became overwhelming. This close to a body so vulnerable, it overtook him entirely. His body no longer felt like his, it belonged to Earlow. It belonged to the cause, and would be used to further it in any way he could. He didn’t mind it. The only part he truly did mind was this urge. The deep starvation that he couldn’t push aside, that he knew he’d need to learn to wrangle and control. The urge that gave him the need for warm flesh on his tongue, sticking itself between his molars.

Looking at the boy, he was almost drooling. He imagined his untouched, moisturized, skin breaking with ease. The bruises that would be left behind once his teeth sunk in, painting the space around the wound. The way he would squeak and scream as he accepted his fate, it sickened him how appealing it sounded.

“If you want a chance to live, I suggest leavin’ now.” Cas voiced through a clenched jaw. Eyes not leaving his for a single second, the grip he had on his shoulders only getting tighter as he let his grown out nails leave crescent shapes in his skin. “You probably won’t get out, but it’s better than being the first person I take this shit out on.”

If he lifted his hands, they’d be trembling. That’s why he kept them as close to the ground as possible, to mask how nervous he was about going through with this. The kid only sat there, breathing ragged, and eyes filling half of his face with how wide they grew. He made no attempt to escape, or fight back, just sat as is his death looked him in the eye. Likely stuck in a freeze response, an innocent deer trapped in the viewfinder of a gun.

Caster took that as a go ahead. His queue to enter the spotlight, to take center stage for his first showing. He prepared himself, repositioning his body to easier gain access to the man. His left hand stayed on his shoulder, the right held both of his wrists together above his head. Legs pinning him to the ground with knees on either side of his waist, despite the pain it was causing Cas. There was no chance he was taking up the offer to run now, laid out and presented in the same way they showed meat in cooking magazines. He couldn’t have run if he tried.

There was hesitation. A moment where Cas thought, maybe, if he let the kid go and snuck off the premise that he could move on. Continue living as he was before just now with the added benefits of vampirism. An image of being able to go to festivals and shows with no fear, and stalking the night with his friends flashed by. He reassessed again, quickly. Running away to live in the mundane he always had was appealing, but sticking with Earlow was exciting. It was brand new territory, something he’d never experienced before. He may never get the opportunity to restart his life like this again.

He sent his tongue over his teeth, and let the hunger assume control of his body in its entirety. He decided he would worry about the consequences later, and savor the taste of flesh in the meantime. Finally letting his freshly sharpened canines pierce the man’s neck, the expected metallic tang filled his mouth immediately. It was dramatic, but classic, and he thought it was a good place to start.

No screams, rather no noise at all. He still didn’t make an attempt to run, didn’t move beside his eyes shutting so hard they wrinkled at the edge. He took in a breath so hard it whistled between his teeth. The hands that were picking at this side now balled into fists between Casters iron grip.

He savored the feeling of breaking through skin. Like the fatty part of a good meat, so well done it was nearly jerky. Tough to break through, but satisfying to puncture. He thought his teeth may shatter the harder he bit down, jaw strength not at the level it needed to be to complete such a task. The victims muscles only tensed, making it even more difficult to make it through his already stiff neck.

He removed his teeth off the man soon after he’d made the initial wound. Lapping at the blood that was generously dripping from the it. The only blood he’d ever tasted was his own, he’d never considered that it may taste differently, but it surely did. It was nearly humorous how quickly Caster realized it was the medications. This man didn’t take the dozen of medications that he did, the entire twcture of his blood was different. No thin consistency, metallic smell pungent, dark red rather than a watered down pink. He thought it was funny, smiling down at his victim.

He couldn’t imagine how he must look to anyone who took a glance at this moment. Straddling a conformist whose hands he had trapped between his. No sexual tension present, despite the display. Chuckling to himself, a grin across his face as the fluid of life clung to his yellowed teeth and dripped down his already bright red tee shirt. It must have been a sight, a beautiful one.

It was progress. Not much of it, but nonetheless, progress. The threshold had been jumped, he was on the easy side of it now. All he had to do was finish the job. All he had to do was choose what way he wanted to exterminate this man. Maybe find one of those dangerous pressure points he remembered from middle school health class. Maybe choke him until he simply blacked out. Maybe tear out the poor kids throat.

He was urged towards the later, his mouth watering at the thought of torn flesh. The smell that would permeate the area, even more so than it already was. A wild animal, that’s what he was. No craving he’d had was this strong. Uncontrollable, unavoidable. The boys soft ragged breathing was enticing. Inviting, like a friend offering you to stay for dinner. He was lured in, unable to focus on anything but the wound he’d already caused.

Before his morals could get in the way, he bit down again, hard. Using all the strength his jaw had, he sunk in as deep as he could. He clamped down like a bear trap. Pulling back, he felt the muscle rip between his canines, tendons snapping one by one, eyes closed tight with the effort it took. Blood coated his mouth, thick and abundant, as he continued to pull the flesh away from the body. By now the once tense muscles had entirely calmed, the quick breaths that taunted him just moments ago were gone.

Casters hands and shirt and face dripped with red. The concrete underneath the pair was likely stained, and the substance was soaking the now unmoving body. It was horrific and human and monstrous. It was disgusting and delicious and he couldn’t think of a single place he wanted to be less as he stared into the lifeless, stunned, eyes of the person he had just killed. Killed.

He leaned back, as far away from the body as he could get in one motion. As far away from the pooling liquid as he could get. Into the grass right behind them, pulling his knees up to his chest much like the dead had done while Caster was looming nearby. His eyes shut, and his breathing increased in pace. His nose wrinkles as if in disgust. Which wasn’t the furthest from the truth, the still human part of him was utterly disgusted at his actions. Asking himself what he had just done in a whisper.

Wetness on his face, sticky drying blood on his hands. Sitting curled up against himself, trying not to think about the consequences of the actions he’d just taken. He was disappointed in himself, he could have done better, he could have done worse. There were a hundred ways to take someone’s last breath, and he took the cheesiest way. There were a hundred ways he could have gotten out of this situation, and yet he still went through with it. The mental image of what he’d just done flashing through his head like a film reel. Over, and over, and over. Reminding him of all the things he did wrong, all the things he did right.

The conflicting thoughts became too much. They encompassed him. The battle against himself, the battle between him and the body growing cold next to him, was so angry it drowned out the sounds of whatever was happening on the rest of the festival grounds. The only thing he could hear was how horrible he was, one way or the other. He didn’t see the excited new group of guests arriving for what they thought would be a wonderful night of music. He didn’t notice the excited vampires running towards the entrance in hopes of fresh meat. He didn’t feel the cracking traces of blood that lined his hands and neck. He certainly did not hear Earlow’s large boots clanking against the ground as he approached him.

“Open your eyes, boy.” He demanded, usual tone traded for one soft and optimistic. A deep contract to the brash and commanding voice he’d taken on in the earlier hours of the night. Not quite the voice he used while they were smoking in the grass, but not much like the boom he had after true night fall. You could hear the smile as he spoke, and yet Caster was still surprised when he finally looked up and found Earlow’s upturned lips and shiny teeth. Welcoming, calm, a terrifyingly comforting sight in the middle of the chaos.

His eyes opened slowly, lashes flittering as he blinked away the stinging tears he didn’t even know were pooling. Earlow was crouched in front of him, leaning his elbows over his knees. Hair no longer pulled back, and spattered with blood and dirt all across his chest. His grin spanned his entire face, wicked and truly joyful. The frustration he carried when they had parted appeared to have dissipated as he stared back at his underdog with pride.

Caster wiped his face, quickly trying to piece back the facade he had taken on mere minutes ago. Attempting to seem like the tough guy he had been, and failing as the tears kept falling. It wouldn’t make a difference if he had been able to put the mask back on, as Earlow had already seen him. He didn’t seem to mind much, though. The young boy’s weakness, and show of emotion. He knew the strong point that it was, and that the soul he still possessed was a privilege.

“You truly did it.” His smile spread, showing off each and every pointed tooth in his mouth. He adjusted his position, now kneeling. He put his hands on either side of Casters sweet, blood stained, face. Thumb brushing away the stray bits that sat too closely to his eyes, gentle and uncharacteristic care in his action. His gaze looked soft, appreciative, like he was looking over a creation. A work of art. “You are brilliant,” he near whispered. “You will be brilliant.”

“Brilliant?” He asked just as quietly, voice cracking under the pressure of trying not to let the emotions overtake him again. No more tears or overreaction, his actions were already catching up to him. His hands met Earlow’s wrists, wrapping around them tightly. Not in any attempt to pull them away or defy the touch, rather, gently. Like he would melt if he wasn’t connected to another person. “I killed another man- killed him in a way so painfully he didn’t even scream.”

“That is exactly why you are the star of the night, my dear.” He spoke genuinely. This was no manipulation nor pandering. He was speaking nothing but the truth, the pride he felt for the young vampire was absolutely radiating. It brought him the utmost joy to see the boy give in to his urges, to let the hunger take over, and serve with his own pride. Even if it scared him. Such enthusiasm to work for him, even with the circumstances, was refreshing and irresistible.

Caster cocked his head to the side like a dog. He was confused. He had killed one single person, and was pouting about it next to the body. He cried about it, had sat spacing out for god knows how long. There were others that had taken a dozen, and gloated about it. There were others that had fun in their kills, and laughed about it. There wasn’t anything special about him, in fact he was more so pathetic; an utter waste of time. An utter waste of Earlow’s energy.

“You are the single person who obeyed. Others fell into their fear, turned away, ran off. But you, not you~” Earlow scanned over Casters face, looking over every detail with admiration. He looked even better when soaked in innocent blood, he thought. “You, little one, did just as I said and more. You showed such a strong hold of your anxieties, and all for me? I couldn’t be more flattered. You gave me a body with such little hesitation, and that is something to be noted.”

Cas couldn’t accept that. He had no response, besides his eyes that became more white space than pupil. He did a horrible thing tonight, and wasn’t even good at that. What did such a powerful person see in him.

“I’m obviously not the only one who’s- killed tonight.” Caster forced the word out of his mouth. It tasted like bile against his tongue. He shifted, knees hitting the floor as he kneeled. The knees to chest position he was in before was beginning to get painful, but he didn’t have the strength to yet stand. His hands still shook, and his limbs felt weak, he wasn’t sure he even could stand. “Are you just saying this so I’ll feel special or keep helping you?”

Earlow shook his head. His facial expression remained unchanged in a way that appeared so unnatural. Other worldly. He leaned in closer, so close that if Caster was still sitting up how he was moments ago, the man’s hair would just be brushing his face. “There’s no trick. I am proud of your work. I see potential in you- I see a future where you could do good for the cause.”

‘I am proud.l It repeated in Casters head, rung between the sides of his skull like the clapper of a bell. He wished to hear it again, and again. ‘Proud’ was not something he heard in his direction. He’d been praised, for many things, but has he ever had someone outwardly prideful of him? No, not that he could ever remember.

“I want to be a part of that future, if you’ll have me.” He said, almost weak in tone. Despite everything he had learned through the night, he still trusted the man. Something about his presence drew him in, calmed his mind more than any medication or drug. He never wanted to leave him, never have to part.

Earlow laughed darkly, reaching a blood covered hand out to Caster. He leaned back some, making himself a bit taller than he was. The gesture was subtle, in a way. No words, but Caster understood everything that was being asked by the outstretched hand. It was an offer of solidarity. An outreach in the name of partnership, becoming part a permeant fixture in the team. Familiarity, routine, commitment.

He thought back to the conversations they had earlier in the day. Caster spilling his guts on the grass, not having any clue he’d be spilling guts down on the concrete. He thought about all of the details he’d shared about his urge to find a purpose, and the need for family that was not by blood. This man was offering him everything he’d dreamed of since leaving home at nineteen. This was everything he wanted.

He reached forward, accepting the hand. Earlow’s grip was firm and sure against Caster’s shakes and weakness. He was pulled to his feet, feeling a sort of peace when looking at the taller man. Finally, he had something, someone. The days of wishing he was worth anything was over, as he was going to prove himself. After he tonight, he knew he could. He already had.

“Welcome, my dear~”

[trinity-mia]

a story as endless as the ocean

the lightning thief

0.1 kronos ate the kids

warnings : kronos... eating his kids

word count : 3.7k

0.1 kronos ate the kids... yummy ( ? )

-- sixteen years later

In the absence of the sun, the day could've been observed as night as dark storm clouds gathered overhead. I was glad I'd checked the weather before getting on my motorcycle— I would just barely miss getting caught in the storm.

Normally, in New York City, you only drove yourself places if you were one of two things: rich or stupid (although, to be honest, it's astounding how often those two things coincide). The traffic of Manhattan is unbearable, but if you're that much of a show off, and you really want people looking at your car, you drive. However, while I did fall under the "rich" category (thank you random casting agent in Central Park when I was 2... I guess?), I wasn't driving because I wanted people to see the Harley my mom had gotten me for my 16th birthday the August before. Being entirely honest, I just needed a break, and sometimes yelling at people about how awful their driving is can be very therapeutic. 

But the clouds unsettled me in a way that I couldn't explain. A way that had me shuffling on my Harley and shifting my weight much more than my ADHD would normally have made me do. The weather had been off since I'd come back from Philly in December, so I was almost used to it at that point, but it was like a sandbag had burst open in the pit of my stomach, letting all of the particles of sand spill out, every time I looked up at the sky. 

Still, there was no use complaining about the weather. If anything, I should've been complaining about the fact that I was still in the exact same spot I was ten minutes ago. Sometimes the City That Never Sleeps is really a pain in the ass. 

Danny was going to give me a real hard talking to if I was late for this field trip. It was supposed to be to some Greek and Roman history museum in Brooklyn, but most people weren't going to learn— they were going because it got them out of class. We only had a few weeks left of school, but Christ if we all didn't want the year to end sooner rather than later. And Danny only wanted me to go because of a role I'd recently gotten playing a Spartan queen, Aerlla, as though me knowing more about Greek mythology was going to win me another Oscar. 

I gave a sigh of relief as my next few turns weren't nearly as crowded. A bit of the traffic finally thinned out, so getting to school was much less difficult. Technically, with it being a boarding school and all, we weren't allowed to have our cars here. They figured we'd all try to leave and never come back if that were the case. It was only with a little extra money that I was allowed to be able to travel. No one else really got that privilege. 

Luck seemed to be on my side that day and I got back to the school just as they were loading the bus for us to go on our senior's (which was a whole story in and of itself, as I was supposed to be a sophomore. Thank God for online classes) end of the year field trip. While it might be the most boring thing you've ever heard of (yes, I thought that at first, too), Mr. Brunner, the coolest teacher I've ever had, was supposed to be chaperoning all of us. 

My luck ran out right after that, though, once I noticed our other chaperone was my insufferable AP calculus teacher from Georgia. She came to our school right after our first calc teacher had a nervous breakdown. She always wore a faux leather jacket and, although she was fifty, she looked like she'd drive my Harley into someone's locker whenever she wanted. 

"Allie, there you are! I was beginning to think you wouldn't make it on time," my friend, Grover, called as soon as I took my helmet off. I saw Mr. Brunner check my name off of the roll call list from beside Grover.

Grimacing as I realized I wouldn't have time to run by my room to put my helmet up and therefore would have to take it with me, I replied, "We wouldn't be in New York if I wasn't almost late."

We both boarded the bus, Mr. Brunner giving me a small smile as I passed, and luckily got a seat together. Much to my chagrin, however, it was right in front of the resident douche and pain in the ass himself: Nathan Bobofit. He gave me a gross smile and I could only just keep myself from getting up and bolting as the bus started moving. 

My teeth clenched together as Nathan reached around the back of my seat to grab my arm. "C'mon, Jackson, my lap's a whole lot more comfortable than sitting next to that weirdo."

I jerked my arm out of his hand as he tried pulling me up. "Don't fucking touch me," I snapped scathingly as I tried scooting as far away from him as I could. 

I'd had my share of rejecting him, but God if he wasn't persistent. And gross. Really, really gross. It was sad to say, but I was used to it. People on the internet don't exactly hold back either. And being an actress and model with a big following... yeah, not the best mix. People are creepy, I've learned that lesson many times. 

"I'm gonna fucking kill him this time. I swear to God, I'm not kidding," I grumbled as I felt Nathan's knee pressing into my seat, just enough for me to be able to feel. 

"Don't. Allie, these are the last few weeks you have to be in high school. If you get expelled now, you won't be able to go to Columbia next year and you'll be repeating your senior year at a different school. Just get through this, a few more weeks, and you're in the clear," Grover warned me. I huffed and leaned back, grumbling a 'whatever' to keep him satisfied. 

To be fair, he was right. Danny, my manager, would've been pissed at me if I managed to get expelled in my last semester of high school. He'd already done so much so I could graduate early and figure out a schedule for me to be able to go to some classes in person and finish the rest online. With how much time and effort he'd put into helping me get a good education, I'd hate to throw it all away because I couldn't keep my temper in check. 

And I'd hate for TMZ and all the other awful news outlets to get word of me having got expelled because I fought someone. God, I shudder to think of the fire that the media would light under my ass. Though, I thought, maybe if they figured out why, at least Twitter would be on my side. 

I was happy the trip was fairly short. I could only go so long ignoring the painfully obvious and gross comments about my body by the boys behind me. Grover and one of my cheerleader friends, Ivy, made sure they got directly behind me so Nathan couldn't. He'd been known to try things when left behind me and today I'd made a mistake by wearing a skirt. As we unloaded the bus, Mr. Brunner got us checked in and led the museum tour. 

Mr. Brunner was your average middle-aged guy, except for the wheelchair he had to be in wherever he went. It was a well-known joke for everyone around the school to try and guess why he had to use it. As far as we knew, no one was correct. Mainly because no one has enough courage to ask him. Popular theory was that he got stabbed during one of his sword demonstrations and accidentally got hurt. 

He rode up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery. It blew my mind that this stuff had survived for over two thousand or three thousand years. 

He gathered us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top and us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, Mrs. Dodds would give me the evil eye.

Finally, I got fed up, my patience run too thin, and I snapped, "will you shut up?" at Nathan, the loudest of them all. And though I had turned towards Nathan, Mr. Brunner had stopped talking and I could tell he was looking directly at me. I could also hear a few stifled giggles coming for the rest of the senior class. 

"Miss Jackson, did you have a comment?" I turned back towards him and noticed his amused expression. 

"No, sir," I replied, trying to keep a blush from coming to my face. 

"Do you mind telling us what this picture represents?" He asked, gesturing towards a carving right beside him. I let out an internal breath of relief. Thank God it was something I recognized. 

"That's Kronos eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," he frowned, and I knew he was going to ask for a better explanation. "And he did this because..."

"Kronos was the King of the Titans and he didn't trust his kids, the gods, because there was a prophecy he heard that said they would overthrow him and lead the world themselves. So he ate them. Except, his wife, Rhea hid baby Zeus and gave Kronos and rock dressed in baby clothes to eat instead. Once Zeus grew up, Rhea gave Kronos a mixture of wine and mustard so he would throw up the rest of his children." There were a few disgusted outbursts at this. "Since they were immortal, they had been growing in Kronos' stomach the same way they would have. So then there was a long war between the gods and the titans and the gods ended up winning." 

I heard a scoff from beside me. "This is so stupid. It's not like our job applications are gonna have 'why did Kronos eat his children' as a question you have to answer correctly to get hired," Nathan stage whispered to his friends. They snickered in response. 

"And why, Miss Jackson," Mr. Brunner said, "to paraphrase Mr. Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?" 

I sighed and racked my brain for at least a semi-logical explanation, because truthfully, I couldn't think of one. "There's always something that you can learn from history and myths passed down by generations. By listening to the stories, you can ensure you won't make the same mistakes— in this case, you learn not to let your own paranoia control you?" 

He tilted his head as if debating whether or not my answer satisfied what he was looking for. He finally came to a conclusion. "Not quite the answer I was looking for, but full credit all the same. Your explanation was wonderfully done, Miss Jackson. After Kronos' children were released from his stomach, the gods teamed up together to overthrow their father. And they did so by cutting him into little pieces with his own scythe. Now on that happy note, Mrs. Dodds, could you escort us outside for lunch?"

I speed-walked out of there, Grover in tow, before Mr. Brunner could call me back in. If he needed to say something super important he could tell me outside, but I wasn't in the mood to get lectured right at that moment. 

We all gathered in various groups on the steps of the museum. We were positioned in a way that would allow us to watch the traffic on Fifth Avenue. The weather still worried me as the clouds had only gotten darker, but I forced myself to ignore it once I noticed no one else was paying attention to it. 

Most of the girls were gossiping in groups, most likely talking about how Gabby hooked up with a boy in our class, Tate Dare. I'd heard the story a million times— I didn't need the story again. 

Being famous did have one major perk: everyone wanted to be my friend, which in turn allowed me to know all of the school's gossip before almost everyone else. The boys were trying— and failing— to pickpocket a few tourists who'd stopped in front of the museum to take pictures. Of course, Mrs. Dodds wasn't seeing a thing. 

I threw my head to the side, a gesture telling Grover to follow me to the fountain a little ways away, trying very hard to make it seem like we weren't part of the slightly-psycho group of teens. 

"Since you're my main source of news, what's going on school-wise?" Grover asked me once we'd gotten comfortable on the fountain. 

I shrugged. "Gabby, you know— the Gabriella who's on the cheer team with me— hooked up with Tate Dare. Lindsay Greene might be getting suspended for vaping in the bathrooms, but that's up in the air right now considering her daddy's a teacher. Uh... oh! Victor Ryles failed a drug test, so he can't try out for any sports next year. That's it, I think?" 

"Why do you know all of this? And can I have your apple?" 

I handed it to him and smirked. "Most people like me— well, they like my 'status' at the very least. If I want to know the gossip, they give me the gossip." 

Grover and I laughed and he was about to say something else but was cut off by Nathan 'tripping' over a crack in the sidewalk and tossing his food right on Gover's lap. 

"Oops. I got a little distracted by your beautiful eyes, Allie," he said in a faux British accent, his friends snickering behind him. 

The look on his face just made me angrier and he reached out to touch my face, but never got the chance. One moment he was in front of me, the next he was sitting on his ass in the fountain, spitting out water and a few coins. The weirdest part was the whispers. 

"Did you see—"

"— The water—"

"— Like it grabbed him!"

I clenched my teeth as I glared at him. I would've loved to say something super badass, and the words were on the tip of my tongue, but a strong grip on my arm kept me from saying it. I turned my glare to Mrs. Dodds, who was staring at me with the most triumphant expression. She looked as if she'd been waiting for this moment all semester. 

"Now, honey—" she said, using the nickname that never failed to enrage me. 

I rolled my eyes and interrupted her despite the situation I had put myself in. "Oh, whatever! What's my punishment going to be? See how long I can go without eating?" I snapped. 

That apparently wasn't the correct thing to say. The triumphant fire in her eyes only burned brighter. 

"Come with me."

"Wait!" Grover said, trying to force himself in between Mrs. Dodds and me, giving me a why-the-FUCK-would-you-say-something-like-that look. "It was me, I pushed him."

It wasn't the most believable lie in the world, especially considering I had much more muscle than him and it was very obvious he wouldn't have been able to push Nathan into the fountain. 

Because of the roles I'd done, I had to learn a whole bunch of shit I'd never use again, which include, but are not limited to, sword fighting, hitting many bullseyes with a bow and arrow, and lots of hand-to-hand fighting. From the weight training classes I take, I can bench press about 160 pounds, give or take, and cheerleading makes throw myself upside down while spinning. Grover looked like a twig compared to me (still love you, though, Grover). 

"I don't think so. Miss Jackson will come with me, and you can stay right here."

She didn't have to try hard to scare Grover, considering she already terrified him. He gave a small and stiff nod and looked at me petrified. 

"Thanks for trying, G," I whispered. 

He just stood paralyzed and kept glancing between Mr. Brunner and Mrs. Dodds, who was already at the front door. 

Wait, what? How did she get there so fast? I shook my head and walked after her. 

"Don't die in there, Jackson! Me and my friends still want to fuck you before we graduate! How about Thursday?" Nathan yelled at my turned back. 

I turned, gave him my deluxe I'll-kill-you-later stare and a middle finger, then continued walking. 

At first, I thought she was just going to make me buy Nathan a new t-shirt at the gift shop, but that didn't seem to be the case. Mrs. Dodds kept walking until we'd made it back to the Greek statues and paintings section. 

She crossed her arms with her back turned towards me until I'd gotten close enough. When she turned, I stopped walking. 

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she said after a few moments of silence. 

At first, I thought she was mentioning all the random times paparazzi would show up at the front steps of Yancy Acadamy and demand my picture, but something told me that wasn't it. I decided to go for the safest option and chose to be polite. 

"Yes... ma'am?" 

She started making a sound from the back of her throat, almost like growling. She tugged on the cuffs of her jacket. "Did you really think you were going to get away with it?" 

I furrowed my eyebrows. The only thing I could think was, what the hell? The fire grew brighter. She looked beyond mad; she looked evil. "I'll... it won't happen again... ma'am," I shot out, saying the first response that came to mind. 

Thunder shook the building. 

"We aren't fools, Astraea Jackson."

I flinched at the use of my real name. Virtually no one knew it, only my mother, the principal, and my manager. And usually it was because I was in trouble. I didn't like the way it rolled off her tongue. 

"It was only a matter of time before you were caught. Confess to what you've done and I might choose to be merciful."

"Okay, time for a pause. What am I even confessing to? What the hell did I do that was so—"

"Time's up!" 

And with that, she started changing. Her eyes turned red, her fingernails grew into talons, and her leather jacket started melting and turning into wings. 

"Holy shit!" I screamed, scrambling back a few steps as she shot into the air. Thunder rumbled again. 

"Allie!" 

My eyes didn't shift from the winged-bat-creature-thing my calculus teacher had just turned into, but my mind registered that it was Mr. Brunner's voice. I stepped back and turned and barely had a second to catch the sword flying towards me. Once I had it in my hands I turned back towards Mrs. Dodds, who was flying overhead like a vulture. 

Finally, she swooped down for the kill and I got into the stance my instructor made me do thousands of times over. Once she got close, I didn't feel any fear. It's just like a prop, do what you're supposed to and you won't get hit. 

My body did the only thing that came naturally; I swung the sword. 

She'd flown down in the perfect position, and the sword hit her left shoulder and passed through all the way to her right hip. She burst into a yellow powder and vaporized on the spot, leaving only the smell of sulfur and an uneasy vibe in the air. 

I didn't register the sword falling out of my hand, only the overwhelming desire to get back to my group. I felt like throwing up and like an awful migraine was about to hit. 

When the doors were in my sight, I sprinted the rest of the way and almost ripped the doors off their hinges to get out of there. Grover met me halfway down the steps and started to say something, but I just shook my head. I felt like I was about to pass out from the pain in my head, so there was no way I could've explained anything that had just happened to Grover. 

Just as I got off the last step, Nathan intercepted my path. "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your ass, bitch. Would've gotten you prepared for the main course," he said, still dripping from his swim in the fountain. 

I was about to punch his lights out, but a piercing whistle cut through the storm, re-irritating my migraine. I cried out in pain, clutching my head. I settled for shoulder-checking past him, leaving him to follow in Grover and my tracks. 

Mr. Brunner gave me a concerned look as I boarded the bus, but he didn't say anything to me. Once I got to my seat I pulled a Gucci hoodie out of my bag and threw the hood over my head. Grover sat down as I was searching for some ibuprofen. I relaxed as I found it and dry swallowed three pills. 

"You okay, Allie?" 

I shook my head. "Migraine," I muttered and our conversation ended there. The storm raged worse and the entire bus was silent as lightning cracked across the sky and thunder quickly followed.

*    *    *

previous | next

SERIES M.LIST | MAIN M.LIST | TIPS

[abarbaricyalp]

hey!! <3 Too Sweet for the wip game if you’re still doing it because i still remember you mentioning you were working on it (haven’t stopped thinking about it since)

I can't remember what I said when I first started talking about it, so apologies if this a repeat! WIP Game

Too Sweet is based on the Hozier song, obvi! It's told from Bucky's point of view as he watches Sam date, and recover, from a variety of partners who should be ideal for him, but just don't work out for one reason or another--usually related to what Sam was attracted to about them in the first place. Someone kind and gentle can't handle the Captain America danger. Someone in his running group is too focused growing better for themselves. Someone who knows/works with him as Cap only treats him as Cap, etc etc. And Bucky silently pines and aches (and hates all of these people for leaving Sam) because he thinks Sam is too good for him/he's too bad for Sam. It's supposed to be a 5+1 but I dunno how many more fake partners I have in me lmao

.

"Don't sulk. And stop chewing on your nails," Rhodey said, appearing in the chair beside Bucky with a frankly uncanny quiet.

Bucky looked away from where his gaze was drilling into Sam and the man he was dancing with. "I'm older than you," Bucky pointed out. "You can't order me around."

"I outrank you too," Rhodey pointed out with a small smirk. 

"You and most of the army. Tweety outranks me." He nodded off towards Joaquin, who was not watching Sam the way he normally did. Instead, he was three people deep into an animated story and an adoring crowd.

"It's not going to last," Rhodey continued. He usually had some remark about how Joaquin was a 'good kid' or something, but clearly he had a mission today.

Bucky took in a steadying breath as he dragged his eyes away from Sam again. "Have you met Winston? Even I like him. He was practically gift-wrap-made for Sam. Sam's crazy about him."

"Sam likes him," Rhodey accepted. "And they're pretty cute. But it's not going to last," he repeated. 

"Why do you say that?"

Since beginning to spend more time with Sam--and following him around like a shadow when he could--he'd learned that Sam and Rhodey had become close friends, despite all of the bullshit that tried to get between them. Rhodey was the kind of noble that Bucky thought only existed in fairytales, so it made sense him and Sam found camaraderie in each other. There was some super-secret Air Force bond that Sam wouldn't tell Bucky about, too. Bucky liked Rhodey. He thought he was level-headed and no-nonsense, which Bucky was appreciating more as he realized how rare it was nowadays. 

Still, Rhodey could be nosy when it came to Sam. Could be as bad as all the old folks down in Louisiana, who were the reason Sam was slow dancing and laughing with Winston now. Bucky always had a suspicious side-eye ready when Rhodey brought up Sam in a less than professional context.

Like talking about his relationship not lasting.

Bucky gnawed on his cuticle again and watched Sam get spun around in a dizzying turn combo. He watched him catch himself on Winston's chest and hide his laugh against Winston's shoulder.

"Because I saw the way Winston reacted to Sam getting home last weekend."

Bucky bit down on the side of his finger too hard and tasted copper instantly. "He came all the way to DC to see Sam?"

Rhodey shrugged. "Sure, but he was freaking out about it. We were a day late, comms were out of the question. Winston was losing it."

Bucky shot him a strangled sort of look. "You're complaining that he's a concerned partner?"

Rhodey rolled his eyes. "Sam wasn't even hurt. Imagine how he's gonna react the first time Sam winds up in a hospital or a fall is caught in HD and plays on the news for a week straight."

"I get pissed off about things like that," Bucky pointed out.

"But you stick through it. I'm just saying, a lot of soldiers lose partners who can't handle the danger of the job. Imagine dating a superhero."

Bucky couldn't imagine it. Being best friends with one was exhausting enough and he was one himself. All of the people who kept his bed warm were hardly interested in his long-term wellbeing. It's not something he thought about often.

"Sam's always alright," he said. "He's the last guy someone would have to worry about. He's smart out there."

Rhodey leveled him with a skeptical look. "Isn't there a 'Days since last self sacrifice' countdown on your fridge?"

[myimaginarywonderland]

I know people complain about the Queerbaiting done with Buddie which is completely fair but can we also talk about the horrible treatment that the openly queer characters get in 911, not only from the show but especially the fans.

Let's start with Hen. We learn from the beginning that she is married and probably has a son, so she has been in a committed relationship for at least 4 years and probably has been broken up with her ex for a minimum of 6 years. And then, in such a committed relationship where she should know how awful the consequences of cheating can be because of her son, we still see her cheat and even season later defend her ex girlfriend. Not only that but we also see her finally get an individual storyline with her med school decision and yet, there's barely any mention let alone showing of that later one and we only go back to showing the trouble in her year-long marriage.

Then we have Karen, someone who has been a side character,one of the most important ones, but is never given any scene that doesn't resolve around her marriage. We have never seen her at work, let alone learned anything about her life outside of who she is in the relationship. We don't know anything really about how she meet Karen or how they adopted Denny. We barely get hints.

Then we have Josh, my probably second favourite character. Let me just start of by saying that while he a gay stereotype, I truly do not understand how so many fans believe that people like him don't exist. I know from own experience that quiet often certain stereotypes might apply and that sometimes people truly seem like a walking stereotype until you get to know them better which is exactly what 911 did with Josh until season 5. We saw the typical gay best friend but then we not only saw him have relationships outside that, we also saw glimpses of his journey, the struggles gay man can face etc. We saw him grow, overcome his traumatic experiences, truly take on the burden of his job, we learned about a small part of his journey, we were finally getting attention to a side character again. We have always had a bigger focus on the dispatchers and I truly believed that with Maddie gone we would finally get more from him and the dispatchers because they are such an essential part! But no.

Just like with the other two characters his story just sort of stopped. Yes we still saw him being the leader of dispatch. But they regressed his character to give another character, May, a better storyline which I hate.

Let me start of by saying that no other character would receive the hate Josh did in season 5. Why? Good question. We have seen Bobby call out others of the fire fam even in rude manners and it was never talked down the way it was for Josh.

Josh rightfully called out Eddie about taking on a responsibility that wasn't his to take on. If we had seen Eddie talk to Linda or even Josh to give the information, nothing would be wrong with that. The problem was Eddie allowed himself to take over the dispatcher position which he isn't allowed. He wasn't trained. He had no qualifications or right to make that call.

What happened with May and Claudette would have been such an amazing opportunity to show how even a leader can sometimes miss something, can sometimes brush something off that is more severe. But yet, we never saw anything about that. Josh acted the way towards May he did that time because he did not see the extent. As far as we know he saw only what happened on the first day back where tension with a new worker might always be higher. Until May's outburst we never had any actual conformation that Josh witnessed the horrible treatment May received which honestly probably was the case. People forget that he had to run that center until Sue came back which probably meant he was way less on the floor that he was previously and therefore didn't see what maybe other like Linda could. And considering May never reached out to anyone after that, you can not blame Josh for taking no action when to him there wasn't a cause to.

Which brings me back to my biggest problem I have with the treatment of all the official queer character. Wasted potential.

There is so much but especially when it comes to the queer characters of 911.

We had the potential to see Hen struggle with medical school, we saw glimpse of her connecting with the fellow students and then nothing. We had the potential to see Hen and Karen actually address their problems but yet that cheating storyline was just kind of brushed off. We had the potential to see Karen struggle with a new job, during the pandemic but nothing. We had the potential to see a women struggle with the hostile engineering field eventhough she has so much experience and yet nothing. We had the potential that was teased by showing us Karen and Hen reconnect with Nias mom and yet that storyline was never followed up. We never saw any real look into their family that didn't involved relationship problems or concerned something at the 118.

With Josh this is even worse.

We know he was Maddies best friend and probably one of the most important people in here life yet we never once saw how he dealt with her just running away and essentially also leaving him behind.

We were told and shown that the Buckley-Hans were close to Josh (the poker scene and the mention of their group chat) yet we never got any scene of Buck or Chimney taking to Josh after Maddie left. Hell, we never were shown anything of their friendship after Maddie got pregnant really but especially then they all had to be close right?

We were even teased with Buck/Josh for a bit. Not only were they shown flirting but we specifically were shown that Buck was comfortable with dating a guy and that both were clearly to a degree comfortable with being matched.

Not to mention the fact that we could have had a great storyline with Eddie and Josh but nothing happened.

Or the storyline that was May's and Josh bond that only appeared every 6th episode.

There is so much wasted potential with the already queer characters that it just underlines the issue of Buddie being queerbaited even more.

[lyssiesleakedmemos]

Getting started in the industry

TW heavy topics such as Sexual abuse

Real life story

Not erotic but adult themes

Trembling, stomach in knots, only a bra and panties away from being from being completely exposed.. and even that small security blanket was going to be ripped away momentarily. "Breathe" I instructed myself. I braced for the impact of potentially the worst mistake of my life. And clicked, "Go live."

How did I get here?

It feels like a lifetime ago, only taking my first steps of adulthood, already weighed down with the pressure of coming up with a plan. I didn't have money for college, doubted every skill I had, and was recently taken off the medications that may have been the push I needed to be a whole lot more productive job hunting. I had been a legal adult for nearly a year, I was "running out of time." A sentiment I can't even wrap my head around today.

Hurry hurry hurry.

While panicked about my entire future prospects, I did manage to find time to embrace the new freedom and independence that suddenly felt abundant. My upbringing was certainly not strict but days and nights of making my own choices without so much as asking permission was a fucking rush. Party after party. Run from the cops. Repeat.

But it wasn't until the relationship that consumed my life the 4 years prior came to an end that I truly felt the world open up in front of me. Despite adoration from our peers who only saw the best of us and despite my limited experience convincing me that this must just be how some men are.. the truth is I was lying with a monster. It took time to see it for what it was sexual and emotional abuse. But even then, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders leaving. No longer would I be under his control, no longer would my body be close enough for him to touch after repeated pushing him away, no longer would I be the person he came to with his sick confessions of disturbing crimes he'd committed or sought to commit like a burden he gladly gifted me and he'd never have the opportunity to ignore my pleas or break the promise of "I'll never do that to you again."

With the heaviest of shackles broken, everything I CHOSE to do became liberating and quickly that became exploring sexuality on my terms. I started dating Walter, who, for all his flaws, wasn't a monster and was actually quite supportive of exploration and seemed like he was on a journey of his own. More on him later.. but when I came to him with the crazy idea to start Webcam modeling, he not only encouraged me, but he offered up his house as a work space.

I wrestled with the idea for awhile, likely made a pros and cons list if I know myself

Pro: Exciting

Con: Scary

In no time, my account was set up, and I was hyperventilating at my laptop. The first account I used was sketchy, one of those where you had a "manager" who would call you and demand you stream more (which for the record I thought was completely normal). This guy was a character, vulgar, crass, and unprofessional, even for such a profession at the time. He'd come into my streams and beg for free shows or call me and complain about other streamers. It was only a minor bump in the road, and it took no time to get comfortable performing, especially when I made the switch to a different platform. I think I even liked it.. for a job. My days were never short of interesting. My stories were plentiful, and i always felt connected to a world outside of my day to day life. Even the idea of being an adult performer gave me a sense of pride that I think most people in those days couldn't understand.. hell, if modern-day reception to OF girls is any indication, I'd say many still don't. Countless times, I found myself defending my choices in this era, something that may sound like a waste of time but went positively more than you'd expect. The truth is, regardless of your own preferences, most people can't argue with someone doing what they want to do because we all more or less fear losing the freedom to do so ourselves.

Now, the industry has been a part of my life off and on for over a decade, and I can honestly say I get that it's hard to get. There have been moments where I reflect on how much time I've spent solely catering to the male gaze or questioning the line between liberation and objectifican. It's not a simple equation, but I think I learned what the answer is for me.

Walking through life, especially as a female, means guaranteed objectification, leering men and societal pressure to look fuckable. Before ever signing a contract, making a cent or making a CHOICE, someone I was meant to trust took something from me.. so believe me when I say that when people use the menu I've provided for a mutually beneficial service, that difference is clear. Not to mention the power of the freedom to decline and, of course, the block button.

This expectation exists that trauma should make you cower from sexuality moving forward, and sometimes that's what we have to do, but in the end, I gave myself the gift of reclaiming someone that was always mine. I am every bit as sex positive and open as what some might interpret as a marketing scheme, I have built myself a life that allows me me to explore that as one big exhibition.

Someone somewhere is rejoicing in the stroking of their confirmation bias because I followed the often assumed trajectory of Trauma -> Sex work. I used to dispute the comparison because I knew many examples that weren't that case as I met other creators, but rather, the more important point is who does the fault than lie on? To say "this" is a product of "that" is to blame "that" and not "this." You've agreed the problem is abusers and I think that's a good place to start the conversation at least.

I don't regret stepping foot into this industry. Retroactively, I would have told my younger self to wait, learn, and heal more first, but I think I would have always ended up here. Despite everything that more directly brought me here, I'm at my core an entertainer, and if their is a stage, I was going to find it.. who knew it would be a mattress?