#Oliver Sacks: His Own Life

[maaarine]

Oliver Sacks: His Own Life (Ric Burns, 2019)

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 68: Oliver's Speakeasy

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tw: mind control, blood drinking

October 1925

"You have to relax a bit, Oliver," said Roger. "If you're holding your breath while I lace your corset, it will be dreadfully uncomfortable."

Oliver let out his breath and tried to calm his nerves. "I'm not used to corsets. It's not anything I thought I'd ever have to wear."

"That's how I felt as well, but vampires do love their low-necked ballgowns on men and women alike. It's another thing I've become accustomed to -- out of all the adjustments that come with being a vampire's thrall, dresses are minor."

"That's true enough. I can only hope I look acceptable in it."

"Given how your master looks at you, I believe he would think you're fetching in a flour sack." He began to lace the corset tight. "You're quite devoted to pleasing your master, aren't you?"

"I find that I can't help myself. Isn't that the effect of the enthrallment?"

"One effect, certainly. Although after twenty years, I hardly know where the enthrallment ends and I begin."

Oliver nodded. He didn't need twenty years to feel that way. He already felt as though he hardly remembered himself before enthrallment. "You seem very comfortable with your master."

"Comfortable, yes, you could say that. It's my duty to take care of him, and it's an easier life if you keep a sense of humor about it. I suspect I've become fond of him apart from the enthrallment. And I know my master appreciates my efforts." He finished lacing the corset and put a hand on Oliver's head. "Your master appreciates you as well, I'm sure of it."

"I can only hope so."

Roger helped him put the gown on, a turn-of-the-century style done in midnight blue with embroidered roses, one tailored to his exact measurements. He then fastened a delicate gold chain adorned with sapphires around his bare neck. Oliver stared into the mirror. He was dressed like a princess or a wealthy heiress, looking nothing like himself. It was a stark reminder of how much he'd been changed since the night of his capture.

It had only been weeks, and yet his former life was already receding away from him, never to return.

Oliver then assisted Roger in donning his own gown, an ostentatious red number that had very clearly been chosen by Roger's master and not Roger himself, and they made their way up the stairs to their masters' chamber to help them prepare as well.

Alexander and Fitz were lounging on the bed when they entered, but they both stood up, wide-eyed, at the sight of the thralls. Fitz whistled. "Fantastic. Lex, are you sure you want Oliver to go out like that? He's going to turn every head in the place."

"Let heads turn. If they touch my thrall, they'll pay the price," said Lex with startling fierceness. "It's no different from when I went out with you."

Fitz laughed. "Somehow, I don't think Oliver will end up grievously insulting and humiliating a vampire in front of an entire ballroom."

"It's almost a pity," said Alexander thoughtfully. "Come here, Oliver, I wish to take a better look at you."

Oliver stepped closer to his master, who took him by the shoulders and swept over him with an appraising eye. He tilted Oliver this way and that, and took his chin in his hand to meet his gaze. Oliver felt just like that fateful night in the auction house, when Alexander had decided to make his purchase, when Oliver first felt his hunger and desire. Even though his master had taken blood the night before, the undercurrent of hunger and desire was still pressing down on him.

"Master, hold still while I fasten your cummerbund," said Roger, who had started to assist Fitz while Oliver was losing himself in his master. "It's difficult to fasten when you squirm."

"You should be helping me with my attire as well," said Alexander, running his fingers down the side of Oliver's face.

"Yes, sir." Oliver felt as if he were in a dream as he began to help his master prepare, slipping the neatly pressed coat on his shoulders and tying a neat bow around his neck.

Just as the vampires were finishing their preparations, the doorbell buzzed, and Oliver ran down the stairs to answer, careful not to trip in his embroidered slippers. He flung the door open to Miss Lily, dressed in a floral pink frock and tall pink heels, the sort of fashionable thing Oliver saw in department store windows. Behind her, Miriam, also fashionably dressed, poked her head out shyly.

"Oh, Oliver, you look positively dashing! This dress suits you so well," said Miss Lily, cradling his chin in her hands. "Where are your masters? They had better be ready, because I don't want to leave the carriage waiting long."

"Well, well, well, if it isn't my bad luck charm," said Fitz, hanging over the balcony.

"Oh, Fitz, dear, thank goodness you're here. Lex hasn't cracked so much as a smile since you last left, even with this delightful thrall at his beck and call. You'd better have relieved him of his malaise."

"You want me to relieve Lex of his malaise?" said Fitz, sauntering down the stairs. "You might as well ask me to remove the water from the ocean."

"I do see your point," said Miss Lily. She leaned in towards him and whispered conspiratorially. "Has he told you about his plan?"

"His daft plan to get all of us tortured? Naturally. And I support it, of course, because I'm as daft as he is."

Miss Lily sighed. "Of course you do. I expected nothing less."

"My ears are burning. I think you must be talking about me." Lex was walking down the stairs now, with Roger following behind.

"Oh, Roger!" Miss Lily went to him and squeezed him, a fondly dazed smile appearing on the thrall's face. "I do hope you've been well."

"Never better, Miss Lily," he said dreamily. Oliver wondered if Roger had been enthralled by Miss Lily as well. And on that note…

"You look lovely, Miriam," he said politely to the thrall, who was clinging to her madam and looking perhaps a bit uneasy at all the commotion.

Her face lit up in a smile. "Oh, thank you, Oliver. You look very handsome as well!"

Miss Lily clapped her hands. "Now that we've got everyone here, let's all pile into the carriage, shall we?"

Next thing Oliver knew, he was crammed in next to Alexander in the carriage, which was only just barely large enough to hold all six people.

"I've been looking forward to this," said Fitz, shamelessly snuggled up to Alexander's other side. "It's been ages since we've been out to the Tiger's Eye."

"Lex and I were there not so long ago," said Miss Lily. "If Lex gets as drunk tonight as he was then, you're going to have to help me carry him home, Fitz."

"Oh, with pleasure."

"If I might ask, sirs…" said Oliver, fidgeting with his dress hem, "What sort of place is the Tiger's Eye?"

"Why, it's a social club for vampires and their thralls. One of the most popular in the city," said Miss Lily. "Everyone who is everyone puts in an appearance now and then, even recluses like your master, and we all bring our favorite thralls, all dressed to the nines. There's entertainment and stiff drinks and even h'ors doeuvres for the thralls. You'll just love it."

Oliver nodded, far less certain than Miss Lily that he would love it. He'd never frequented bars and clubs, finding them loud and awkward at best. At least he wouldn't be going there alone, but could stay by his master's side.

"Make sure you stay close to me," said Alexander, as though he read Oliver's mind. "Don't entertain any vampires who show an interest in you."

"Yes, sir."

They stepped out of the carriage in front of an unassuming restaurant that seemed as ordinary as any other. Clearly human patrons could be seen through the window, enjoying Italian dishes. "This is the Tiger's Eye, sir?" asked Oliver.

"It's in the basement. The restaurant is simply a front run by the same vampire who owns the club." Alexander pulled him close as they walked to the entrance. "It offers cover, and brings in human money and human blood."

"I see, sir."

A mouth-watering scent filled his nose as the group stood before the maitre'd's station. Miss Lily moved a flap on her dress to reveal a ruby pin, and the maitre'd waved them to the back. They all descended a rickety spiral staircase, the sound of music and laughter growing louder.

The Tiger's Eye club was much larger than the restaurant upstairs. All of the tables were low, with the patrons sitting on piles of cushions. While some of the crowd were wearing contemporary fashions, like Miss Lily and Fitz, a good number of them were dressed in formalwear from decades gone by, much like Oliver's ballgown. More alarmingly, some of the patrons were dressed in very little, as though they were burlesque dancers. It didn't take long for him to realize that these were thralls, kneeling on the cushions and gazing up at their vampiric masters with adoration.

There was a stage at the opposite end of the club where a jazz quartet was playing. Waitstaff flitted among the tables, and like many of the thralls, their outfits were absolutely scandalous. Their glassy eyes and sleepwalking mannerisms indicated that they were heavily enthralled as well, and there were prominent bite scars on their necks and shoulders. In one of the back corners, a well-dressed vampire was drinking from a waitress.

With Alexander, it was sometimes easy for Oliver to forget what sort of situation he was in, and feel like he was perhaps an ordinary servant to an eccentric rich man instead of thrall to a vampire. His current surroundings made him intensely aware of his situation, surrounded by potentially hostile vampires and semi-conscious human slaves. Alexander, of course, wasn't distressed at all, taking in the scene with a smile on his face.

All vampires are dangerous -- that's what Roger had told him.

Nonetheless, Alexander was by far Oliver's greatest chance at safety, and so he shamelessly clung to his master as they walked through the club. He could feel the eyes of leering vampires on him and see their hungry grins. His master's grip tightened. It seemed like an eternity before they arrived at a table with a "reserved" placard on it.

The vampires arranged the cushions and made themselves comfortable, Alexander beckoning Oliver close and pulling him halfway into his lap. Next to them, Fitz flopped over into Roger's lap as the latter sighed.

"The music's good tonight. Who's playing?" Fitz asked.

"They're regulars here. The trumpet player is an older vampire -- I've trained up a few of his thralls, and he has a great sense of humor. The others are all fledglings, more or less…"

Oliver found he couldn't really concentrate on what Lily was saying over the din of the crowd, deafened by the sound of his own heartbeat and blood rushing through his ears.

"Say there, I can't help but notice what an excellent thrall you've brought with you."

Oliver nearly jumped out of his skin. The vampire addressing Lex was a larger man in a checkered suit.

"Thank you," said Alexander with a hint of threat. "He's my most treasured possession." And Oliver's heart twisted to hear himself described that way.

"Where do you get a fine thrall like that? I'm new to the area, just moved from down south, and I'm looking for some fresh blood."

"Oh, then I'm the one you want to talk to," Miss Lily interjected. "I handle conditioning for all of the finest high-end auctions and private sales in the city. I can't promise you'll find one as good as Oliver here, as thralls like him are in short supply, but I'm sure I could help you find something to your taste."

Oliver felt Alexander's hold on him relax as the vampire in the checkered suit started to happily chatter to Miss Lily about thrall sales. He noticed that, in addition to Miriam sitting in her lap, Miss Lily was now surrounded by several other adoring thralls, draped contentedly against her shoulders and over her legs.

"Who are…?"

"The thralls Miss Lily conditions are often drawn to her," said Alexander, toying with Oliver's hair. "This happens whenever we go to a place openly frequented by vampires."

"Good evening, sirs."

Oliver looked up to see a waitress dressed in frills that barely covered her most private areas, her eyes dull and glassy. He blushed and looked away.

"We have many top quality spirits available, as well as an assortment of blood on tap, including rare specialties. If there's anything I can fetch for you, esteemed sirs, it would be my pleasure to serve."

Alexander didn't seem the slightest bit put off by the waitress's plight. "I'll have a dry red, whatever's recommended."

"Certainly, sir."

"A light white wine for me," said Miss Lily.

"I'll take a sidecar," added Fitz. "And whatever beer you have on tap for my thrall."

"Right away, sirs."

"I can order something for you when she returns with the wine," said Alexander, and Oliver realized that the waitress had, of course, only asked the vampires what they wanted.

Oliver looked up again now that the waitress had walked away. "I don't drink, sir, but if I could have some tea, that would --" His eyes went wide and his breath caught in his throat. No, it couldn't be. But it certainly was.

While Oliver had been busy trying not to stare at the waitress, another thrall had arrived to cuddle Miss Lily. She was wearing a highly fashionable teal evening dress with elaborate gray embroidery and fringe, her neck and wrists were dripping with gold, and her red hair was done up in a curled bob. She looked nothing at all like the last time Oliver had seen her, but Oliver knew he'd never forget that face, her fear burned into his mind.

"Emily!"

Previous > Masterlist > Next

Next week: Emily!

Oliver last saw Emily all the way back in the auction house.

@d-cs @latenightcupsofcoffee @thecyrulik @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @wanderinggoblin

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@pokemaniacgemini @jumpywhumpywriter @basica11ywhumped @anoontjecanush

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

[From my flickr files]

* * *

There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate—the genetic and neural fate—of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death. I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude.

~Oliver Sacks

(Book: Gratitude)

[entheognosis]

There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate - the genetic and neural fate - of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death.

Oliver Sacks

[jtargaryen18]

One Night With You ~ Pt 2

One Night With You ~ A Halloween Tale in 3 Parts

Masterlist

Read Part 1

Words: 3.1k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Neighbor reader

Warnings: A little language, references to the sound of people having sex, masturbation.

Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and any original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content in the third act. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I don’t consent to having my work reposted or translated.

Summary: For @iheartsebstan who was my very first follower here on Tumblr and one I adore. 💕 It’s all about a chance encounter and how it can make everything in your life so much better.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 30th

You’d left work and darted into the market on the way home. Tomorrow was Halloween and you needed candy for that because they did trick-or-treat in your building each year. You also wanted to grab something for your dinner since you were on your own tonight. You grabbed a sub from the deli, a pint of ice cream. You were all set.

“Hey, there,” a familiar voice came from behind you.

You froze. Bucky.

“Hi,” you said turning around. Your heart sped up. “How are you?”

“Good,” he said, unleashing a smile on you. “How are you?”

You nodded, next in line for the cashier. Bucky followed the line of your gaze to the items on the counter next to you.

“Candy,” he said. “That’s a good idea. I remember getting a text about the trick-or-treat tomorrow night. Hang on.”

Bucky darted back into the store, way too quickly for your liking because the man’s ass and thighs were exquisite. He was back in a flash, carrying a huge bag of mixed candy and getting in line directly behind you. It had you grinning.

“What? Is it too much?” he asked, nodding to the candy, those stormy eyes warm.

“Better safe than sorry,” you told him. “I know what to do if I run out of candy.”

Why was he looking at you like that? Did he do this a lot? It was hard to put words together to form a sentence with him smiling at you.

Bucky nodded to your wrapped sub. “Is that dinner?”

You nodded.

“Invitation is still open,” he said. “I could make you dinner.”

Your heart fluttered at that and no way you were making the same mistake twice. Taking a deep breath, you said, “Okay.”

His brows shot up, those stormy blue eyes widened. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you said.

“To dinner? Tonight?”

Did he have to be gorgeous and adorable?

“Yes,” you told him.

“Okay.” He looked like his mind was going a mile a minute. “Hold on.”

He grabbed a shopping basket and darted back into the store while the cashier checked you out. You’d just finishing paying for your groceries when he re-emerged, carrying the candy and a basket full of items.

You shook your head. “Don’t go to all this trouble for me, Bucky” you told him.

“It’s no trouble.” The cashier checked him out. She was really checking him out. Again, he carried a paper sack of groceries with his left arm and oddly, he wore a black glove on that hand. His other hand was bare.

The two of you were off, heading back to your apartment building. You went into your apartment to drop off your things and freshen up. You were just about to knock on his door when he pulled it open.

That smile. It froze you for a moment.

You followed him into his apartment to the kitchen table where he had a small metal device, a bottle of olive oil, and a shiny ball of yellow dough. He laughed at what must have been a look of confusion on your face.

“I’m making pasta,” he told you, grinning. “It’s not really something I make for myself.”

Crossing your arms over your chest, you shook your head. “That’s why you asked me over, huh? To make pasta?” you teased.

“It goes better with someone to help,” Bucky explained. “You’ll see why.”

A few minutes later, you did see why. You were standing there while Bucky ran the dough through the pasta maker over and over again, making it thinner and longer. It had to be ten feet long now and you stood on the other side of the table, holding the slack up as he worked.

You loved watching him work. He’d removed his jacket and the dark flannel shirt he wore stretched across the muscled wall of his chest in a way that made it hard not to stare. The glossy locks of his dark hair just reached his shoulder. His right hand was bare. He wore a medical glove over the other one. You stopped yourself before you said anything. He probably lost his hand or arm in an accident and the last thing you wanted to do was make it awkward.

Once the pasta was to his liking, he collected it from you, motioning to a bottle of wine on the counter behind you. You opened it and poured each of you a glass while he proceeded to assemble mushroom ravioli like a Michelin-starred chef.

“Do you cook?” he finally asked as he worked at the stove on the filling.

“Not much,” you told him. “I can make a few simple things. I’ve never really tried going beyond that.”

“Your boyfriend doesn’t cook for you?” Bucky asked as he continued. He wasn’t making eye contact as he finished the raviolis, so it was less intimidating.

“To be fair, I’ve never really had any guy cook me dinner,” you said. “Until now… And I don’t know that I’d call Denny a boyfriend. It’s more of a casual thing.”

Bucky did stop there to meet your gaze. “Are you happy?”

Don’t ask me that. Don’t look at me like that with those smoky blue eyes.

Taking a drink of your wine, you shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“You know I would have gotten you flowers,” he said with his back turned to you. “But you work at the flower shop so…”

You had to laugh at that. “You’re here making me dinner. And you thought about flowers?”

“That’s the way you should be treated,” he mused.

“Denny missed that memo.” The wine you drank on an empty stomach went to your head. “Maybe I should get an official boyfriend.”

“Do you want one?” He gazed at you over his shoulder, a slight grin there. His eyes were soft, sincere.

“Let me see how good the ravioli is first,” you told him with a smile.

Bucky had a light-hearted laugh that had your heart clenching in your chest.

You cleared the small kitchen table and set it for dinner, asking him where things were. His apartment wasn’t any nicer than yours. But it was warm, welcoming. Or maybe it was just him.

He peeled off the medical glove before putting the final touches on the dinner he made. You saw the dark metal hand under it, precise threads of gold adorned it.

“It doesn’t bother you, does it?” Bucky held up the hand.

You shook your head. “Of course not. What happened? If you don’t mind my asking.”

Surprise lit up those blue eyes. Were people normally rude to him about it?

“I was in the army,” he explained. “Lost it in an accident.”

You nodded. “Thank you for your service.”

Now that you were watching, you saw that hand wasn’t just a prosthetic. It seemed to function just like a regular hand. It had you wondering if he’d been a war hero to have something like that, so technologically advanced.

As he served you both and you took your seat, met his gaze squarely. “It doesn’t bother me.” You nodded to his hand.

The meal was delicious, and it had been fun helping him put it together. Unlike what you normally did with Denny, there was no TV on. Looking around, you didn’t see one. The two of you talked over dinner. Good conversation, good food. You talked about the flower shop and working there. He asked where you were from, about your family.

Bucky honestly made you feel seen, valued. It was different. The saying “if it seems too good to be true…” floated through your head a couple of times. What if he was too good? What if he was a serial killer or…

After dinner, you helped clear the table. You intended to do dishes; it was only fair. He cut you off, telling you to bring the wine to the living room. You took a seat on the couch, enjoying your second –third? —glass of wine. He joined you on the couch. You’d poured another glass for him, but his focus was on you.

“Was dinner okay?” he asked, grinning. He’d angled himself so he was facing you on the couch, his good arm draped over the back of the couch. After a moment, you realized he was carefully playing with the hoop earring you wore. His touch was delicate, nice.

“It was delicious,” you told him. And that was true. “I wish I could cook like that.”

“You can,” he said. “I could teach you a few things.”

The wine and your frustrated libido had your body taking the comment an entirely different way. Down, girl. He’s offering to teach you to cook.

But that would mean more time together, right?

Your phone hummed in your pocket, and you pulled it out to see a text from Denny. It was terse for him. He just cryptically said he was on his way to your place and that the two of you “needed to talk.”

What was this about?

“Everything okay?” Bucky asked, drawing your attention back to him.

“Yes,” you told him, shoving your phone back in your pocket and rising from the couch.

“It’s him.” It wasn’t a question.

“It is.” And the evening had gone so well. Did Denny really need to fuck it up? I could just text back and tell him to fuck off. That’s what your head told you to do. Your heart was drumming out a guilty tune. “I’m so sorry to be leaving so quickly. I really am. He’s just on his way to my place and apparently, we need to talk. I have no idea what’s going on.”

Bucky rose from the couch, towering over you and only a few inches away. You could read the disappointment on his face. But he was still smiling, his good hand smoothed over your hair as you stood in the peaceful quiet of his living room.

You really wanted to stay.

 “I’ve really enjoyed this evening,” he told you. “I’d love to do it again sometime.”

You’d been holding your breath, fully expecting to say something like “call me when you break up with your boyfriend.” But he didn’t.

“I would too,” you assured him. “Let me go deal with this.”

“So trick-or treat tomorrow?” Bucky offered, gaze down at you.

You nodded. You liked that idea.

“Thank you,” you told him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Goodnight.”

The line had been meant to mark your exit. He didn’t say anything until you got to the door.

“I’m here if you need anything,” he told you. “Okay?”

That had you smiling. “Okay.”

You’d just made it into your apartment when someone pounded on it, had you jumping where you stood. You were frustrated because you were having such a good evening and here was Denny all upset. Why? You had no idea.

When you opened the door, you found Denny there. If he hadn’t texted you with “we need to talk” you might have thought he had another fight with his sister. But this time, his source of tension appeared to be you.

“One of my friends saw you walking up the street with another guy.” He just got straight to the point.

“I was,” you admitted. “He’s my neighbor.”

Anger flashed in his dark eyes. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“Denny, I should be allowed to talk to my neighbor,” you pointed out. “And it was your idea for us to be non-committal.” You put air quotes on non-committal. “I don’t understand why you’re upset.”

His ire seemed to fade at that, and he scrubbed a hand over his mouth and chin. “You didn’t tell me your fucking neighbor was the Winter Soldier.”

Wait. What?

Denny rolled his eyes at you. “Bucky Barnes, Captain America’s best friend, world famous assassin. Ring any bells?”

You just stared at him as you considered what he was saying. You’d never heard the term “Winter Soldier” before. But Bucky Barnes? His metal hand. Now it all made sense.

I had dinner with Bucky Barnes? And he’s interested in me?

Denny knew you well enough to realize correctly that you didn’t know. Slowly, the tension in his face eased. Shaking his head, he smiled.

“You didn’t know,” he said. “Okay, because Derek said you walked in here together.” Denny looked around. “And he’s not here so…”

Yeah, he’d wanted a no-strings relationship but the minute he thought you were trading up for Bucky Barnes, he’s upset?

“No, he’s not here,” you told him. Angry.

You were pissed that Denny ruined what had possibly been the best date you’d ever had. And come to find out your neighbor was an Avenger with a past shrouded in mystery…

Blowing out an exhale, Denny smiled, moving closer. “Sorry, I lost my cool,” he said. “I just… never mind.”

When he started kissing you, you played along. He corralled you toward your bedroom. You went along but with the realization it was the very last time.

Tonight showed you two important things. One, after having dinner with Bucky next door, you realized you wanted a different type of relationship. You wanted to have dinners like you’d had this evening and to have the other person in the relationship actually talk to you like Bucky did, to want to know who you are.

And two, Denny was going to be so upset when you ended things in the morning. He’d accuse you of ending things to pursue Bucky Barnes. And you were.

If you ended things now, you’d be in for hours of fighting, and you had work the next morning. If you ended things on the way out, you had a good reason that you couldn’t stay and say more.

As Denny undressed you and urged you toward your bed, you weren’t thinking about sex with him. You were thinking about Bucky and hoping that you hadn’t allowed Denny to totally ruin your chances with him.

***

Bucky sat on his couch, his head in hands. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand at all.

Yeah, okay, he’d followed you from the flower shop and “accidentally” ran into you. Sam suggested it as a way to talk to you again without seeming too eager.

Honestly, Bucky didn’t care if he seemed eager. He was. He’d been on a few dates since he slowly got back into the world. None of them had been like you. It had been so easy with you.

Denny had texted you and ended the evening way sooner than he wanted. Bucky would have happily talked to you for hours. Instead, you got that text and went running back to your apartment. Back to him. He thought your cryptic mentions of Denny were a sign that you weren’t happy in that relationship. That maybe he had a chance.

Maybe you’d just been playing him.

Still, Bucky had been trained to read people. You were interested in him. It wasn’t artifice. He would have picked up on it. Something else was going on here.

Denny arrived and started shouting at you about walking with the “Winter Soldier,” the persona he was working so hard to bury. It hadn’t taken him long to figure out that you hadn’t recognized him during dinner. Bucky was surprised but pleased. You didn’t have preconceived notions. He could tell you at the right time about who he was and who he had been.

But no. Denny ruined that. He ruined dinner. And now, the final insult, they were in there having sex and he got to listen to it fucking again. Had dinner with him been that bad? He thought he made a good impression, that you were as interested in him as he was you.

It was times like this when he wished he could drink to take the edge off.

While he wasn’t trying to listen, he did notice one thing. This time, he could hear your breathing, but you made no other sounds. No moans, no gasps of pleasure. Once again, no release.

What did you get out of that relationship?

Bucky went to bed early, hoping to escape into sleep. They were done by then and he was grateful. Still, he couldn’t fall asleep. His mind was going 70 miles an hour.

A few minutes later, he heard moving around. Your tread. You couldn’t sleep either. You went into the bathroom, running a bath for yourself. The sounds of water were soothing. Bucky loved long baths in the tub. What he wouldn’t give to be in the tub with you right now.

The vision in his mind of you in your tub, buried under piles of scented bubbles helped him relax. The sounds of water sloshing with your movements were pleasant.

Until he heard the water perpetually moving, a cadence that was increasing in speed.

Bucky huffed in frustration, dragging a hand through his hair.

You’ve got to be kidding.

You were pleasuring yourself in the tub, trying to find the release that the selfish bastard in your bed couldn’t be bothered to give you. Instantly, Bucky was hard as a rock. He slept naked so it was easy to slide his good hand under the covers to wrap around his aching cock.

Matching his rhythm to yours, he worked himself, picturing your small hand wrapped around him, your mouth, your pussy. Your pussy. Bucky gasped for breath. What would working himself into that be like? You were petite. How long would it take him to reach the end of you? Could you even take all of him?

The thought drove him insane as his movements sped up to match yours. You had to be getting close. Were you picturing him as you fought for release? Bucky hoped so.

It was that tiny moan you allowed to escape, it was a raw, authentic sound that had him shooting off, gasping as the white stream of his come spurted over his abs, his thighs. Bucky lost himself to it because it was good, coming with you…

Grabbing his discarded boxers from the floor, he cleaned himself, savoring the rare moment of pleasure, peace. It pushed his longing higher, his desire for you. You would be that good for him, he just knew it. And he could treat you right, the way a gorgeous young dame like you should be treated.

Bucky just hoped he still had a shot somehow.

It was quiet in your bathroom as he settled down, thinking he could sleep now. And he did. He fell into a deep enough sleep that he didn’t hear you crying in your bath.

@valsworldofcreativity @21stcenturywitchcraft @coconutqueen21 @bval-1 @caffiend-queen @sadlittlecountess @candy-and-writing @capsicle-shield @chaoticfiretaconerd @chrisevansgirl @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @coldmuffinbanditshoe @daughterofthenight117 @hv-chw3 @iheartsebstan @imanuglywombat @just-one-ordinary-fangirl @justrae9903 @lokislastlove @mariaenchanted @maxwelllee2020 @nekoannie-chan @nerdwholikesword @notyourtypicalrose @optimistic-dinosaur-nacho @peaceinourtime82 @rainbowkisses31 @rayofdawnworld @richonne4life @rissysthoughts-blog @saiyanprincessswanie @scarletsoldier21-blog @shygirl-00 @supernaturaldean67 @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @team-iron-wannabe-man @titty-teetee @tonib666 @villanellev @vitamingummies @what-is-your-plan-today @what-is-your-wish @xoxabs88xox @rosalynshields @naturalthrone22 @marvelovernfan @gotnofucks @eralen @kawairinrin @bluemusickid @geminievans1 @daughterofthenight117 @sunmoonandbuckyrecs @jesevans @kandis-mom @salvatoreitmeanssaviour @kmc1989 @curiousandjoyous @marvelouslyme96

[seraphtrevs]

Since I’m a huge fan of your writing, I’m curious: who are some your favorite writers and what are some of your favorite books or short stories??

Oh man, I've done so much reading over my life that it's hard to narrow down. Like I'm for sure going to leave people out.

For fiction: some of my favorite authors are the Bronte sisters (slight preference for Charlotte - Jane Eyre was one of my first loves and hugely shaped me as a reader and a writer), Daphne du Maurier (favorite of her books - Rebecca), Sarah Waters (can't decide between Fingersmith and The Paying Guests), Angela Carter (The Bloody Chamber), Susanna Clarke (Jonathon Strange and Mr Norell), Toni Morrison (Beloved), Robin Hobb (the Farseer trilogy and Fitz's further adventures, but I've heard good things about the Liveship Trader books!), Terry Pratchett (the Tiffany Aching books are particular favorites), and Anne Rice (well, depending on the book tbh, she's not very consistent lol - the first three Vampire Chronicle books are my favs from her), with special shout-outs to Robin McKinley (Beauty), Avi (The True Confession of Charlotte Doyle), LM Montgomery (Anne of Green Gables), Frank L Baum (I have read every single Oz book - there are a ton of them!) and Madeleine L'Engle (A Wrinkle in Time), who were my favs when I was a kid (along with the Babysitter's Club book lol - but they're mostly ghostwritten so I'm not sure who to credit!)

Right now, I'm re-reading (for the millionth time) The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter, which is a collection of fairy tale retellings - but that feels like a really inadequate way to describe it. It's very visceral, primal, and poetic. My favorite story from the collection is "The Bloody Chamber," which is a Bluebeard retelling. Bluebeard is one of my favorite fairy tales, but it understandably doesn't get a lot of adaptation. (I'm very curious what Disney's Bluebeard would look like lmao)

I'm also listening to the audiobook of The Vampire Lestat, which is the reason that Anne Rice is on that list. She really lost me with her later books, but listening to TVL reminded me that actually, she can be very good! She really excels at evocative descriptions and conveying emotion - she's very shameless, in a good way. A woman who always writes with her entire pussy, whatever else you might say about her.

But I actually read more nonfiction than fiction. I'm a big fan of memoirs - not celebrity memoirs (although Jennette McCurdy's I'm Glad My Mom Died was probably my favorite book I've read this year), but memoirs that are more about someone grappling with the human experience - like, sometimes the author has been through something horrible and they've done a lot of mediation on what they've been through, or sometimes the author is just a very astute and entertaining observer of their own (and other people's) ridiculousness. Some of my favorites are Mary Karr, Caroline Knapp, David Sedaris, Cheryl Strayed, Jeanette Walls, Tara Westover, and Allie Brosh.

If I had to pick one to recommend - all of David Sedaris's books are extremely funny. He writes humorous personal essays, so I guess his books aren't really memoirs exactly (google says he's a humorist), but he usually writes about himself so I'm lumping him in this category lol. Me Talk Pretty One Day is a good place to start with his stuff - you will cry laughing.

I also love pop science and pop history - Mary Roach is a super approachable science writer with a quirky sense of humor. Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers is so funny and candid - she asks every question you've ever had about dead bodies and then some. I also love Bill Bryson - another very accessible and funny writer - I really loved his A Short History of Nearly Everything, which covers exactly what it says. I ADORE Oliver Sacks - he was a neurologist who wrote so movingly about what it means to be human through the experiences of his patients - The Man Who Mistook His Wife For a Hat reads more like a book of short stories, and I weep like a baby every time I read it (I actually started tearing up thinking of a few cases.) (Btw he's also written beautiful memoirs but I like his science writing best so I'm putting him here. Bill Bryson has written memoir too.) Carl Sagan is also approachable and humane - This Demon Haunted World is my favorite of his. Andrew Solomon's The Noonday Demon: An Atlas of Depression is required reading for anyone who's dealt with mental illness, although it's difficult and painful at times (his Far From the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity is also really good, but also difficult and painful - but worth it!)Diane Ackerman's A Natural History of the Senses has gorgeous prose and is a great book for artists and writers imo - it gets you thinking deeply about how we interact with the world.

For history, I am obsessed with this book called "The Dawn of Everything: A New History of Humanity by David Graeber and David Wengrow - it will completely upend everything you think you know about the history of homo sapians. Mike Duncan got his start podcasting - his series Revolutions is about major world revolutions and is essentially like listening to an audiobook, so it's not a surprise his books are pretty fun too. Sarah Vowell has some really fun books about quirky historical topics - her Assassination Vacation is great (she goes on a roadtrip to visit locations in America where famous assassinations took place).

And here are a few other miscellaneous non-fiction writers I enjoy - Sebastian Junger (just finished his In My Time of Dying about his near death experience - super thought-provoking - but it was A Perfect Storm that made me love him), Hunter S. Thompson (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas), Jon Krakauer (Into the Wild), Jon Ronson (The Psychopath Test: A Journey Through the Madness Industry)

This was a fun question to think about! I hadn't realized I had such a strong preference for female writers until I actually listed all my favs out, which is an interesting thing to know about myself, so thanks for asking!

[justforbooks]

The River of Consciousness by Oliver Sacks

These posthumously published essays range from psychiatry to plagiarism to near-death experiences

One March in the mid 1990s I checked into a hotel in Helsinki. I dropped my bag on the floor and, wondering what Finnish daytime television was like, switched on the TV. A darkened room with a dining table came into focus, and around it were six people having a conversation. To my surprise, all were speaking English, then a face I knew filled the screen – it was Oliver Sacks. Then another, Stephen Jay Gould, and another, Daniel Dennett. I had books by all three. It was snowing outside, and Helsinki seemed suddenly less inviting; I sat down on the bed and began to watch.

A Dutch TV company had assembled these men, together with Freeman Dyson, Stephen Toulmin and Rupert Sheldrake, for the round-table finale of a documentary series on science and the meaning of life. The series, A Glorious Accident, didn’t seem to have invited any women to take part but even so I watched it to the end – three hours later. The participants’ areas of expertise were diverse: biology, physics, palaeontology, neuroscience, philosophy. As the only practising clinician, Sacks made perceptive and valuable contributions – and was clearly having fun.

Sacks died nine years ago in August 30, 2015. A melanoma of the eye, diagnosed nine years earlier, had recurred and metastasised to his liver. The New York Times had referred to Sacks as the “poet laureate of medicine”, and carried an obituary that said that neurological conditions were for him occasions “for eloquent meditations on consciousness and the human condition”. In his last year he put the finishing touches to a memoir (On the Move), and completed some final magazine essays collected soon after his death (Gratitude). In one of his last newspaper pieces he wrote: “I have several other books nearly finished.” We might expect further posthumous essay collections to be on the way.

Millions of Sacks’s books have been printed around the world, and he once spoke of receiving 200 letters a week from admirers. For those thousands of correspondents, The River of Consciousness will feel like a reprieve – we get to spend time again with Sacks the botanist, the historian of science, the marine biologist and, of course, the neurologist. There are 10 essays here, the majority published previously in the New York Review of Books (the collection is dedicated to its late editor Robert Silvers). Their subject matter reflects the agility of Sacks’s enthusiasms, moving from forgetting and neglect in science to Freud’s early work on the neuroanatomy of fish; from the mental lives of plants and invertebrates to the malleability of our perception of speed.

The essay on speed has some characteristic flourishes: of Parkinson’s disease, Sacks writes that “being in a slowed state is like being stuck in a vat of peanut butter, while being in an accelerated state is like being on ice”. He is as good on near-death experiences: “There is an intense sense of immediacy and reality, and a dramatic acceleration of thought and perception and reaction.” Sacks has a Jain-like reverence for insects, and delights in comparative neuroanatomical facts: an octopus may have six times more neurons than a mouse; many plants possess nervous systems that move at a thousandth the speed of our own.

Plagiarism troubled Sacks, and an essay on memory dovetails with one on creativity, examining how someone can copy another’s work through unconscious repatternings of memory. “Memory arises not only from experience,” he concludes, “but from the intercourse of many minds.” He quotes the letters between Mark Twain and Helen Keller on plagiarism, and his own correspondence with Harold Pinter (whose play A Kind of Alaska was inspired by Sacks’s Awakenings). Most of his books are mentioned in passing, and the chosen essays stand as a kind of testament or gazetteer to their range. Reading them, I was reminded of something Annie Dillard said about the essay form: “The essay is, and has been, all over the map. There’s nothing you cannot do with it; no subject matter is forbidden, no structure is proscribed.”

Some of the slighter pieces here suffer from being placed between more substantial work, and in one, only one, Sacks’s argument loses coherence. But even then I was conscious of the great premium he placed on flights of ideas: “If the stream of thought is too fast, it may lose itself, break into a torrent of superficial distractions and tangents, dissolve into a brilliant incoherence, a phantasmagoric, almost dreamlike delirium.”

Sacks was deliriously in love with details – to the irritation of his editors – and he crammed his books with them. When the text couldn’t take any more, he spilled them over to the bottom of the page. It’s in the footnotes that his treasures are often to be found: in a two-page footnote to his essay “Scotoma: Forgetting and Neglect in Science”, Sacks outlines how urgent is the need for reconciliation between psychiatry and neurology, divided now for nearly a century. A “scotoma” is a blind spot in the vision, an area of darkness conjured by irregularities in brain or retinal function:

If one looks at the charts of patients institutionalized in asylums and state hospitals in the 1920s and 1930s, one finds extremely detailed clinical and phenomenological observations, often embedded in narratives of an almost novelistic richness and density ... this richness and detail and phenomenological openness have disappeared, and one finds instead meagre notes that give no real picture of the patient or his world.

Through the course of the 20th century, the US Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (a book conceived to facilitate health insurance billing) has, Sacks insists, impoverished clinical language. “Present-day psychiatric charts in hospitals are almost completely devoid of the depth and density of information one finds in the older charts, and will be of little use in helping us to bring about the synthesis of neuroscience with psychiatric knowledge that we so need.” Earlier in the book he singled out one of the defining moments of that schism, when in 1893 Freud gave up looking for elements of brain pathology that might be relevant to mental health: “The lesion in hysterical paralyses must be completely independent of the nervous system,” Freud wrote, “since in its paralyses and other manifestations hysteria behaves as though anatomy did not exist or as though it had no knowledge of it.”

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[notstarcey]

She Magnus on my archives til I

I itch all the time. Deep beneath my skin, where the bone sits, enshrined in flesh, I feel it. Something, not moving but that wants to move. Wants to be free. It itches, and I don’t think I want it. I don’t know what to do.

You can’t help me. I don’t think so, at least. But whatever it is that calls to me, that wants me for its own, it hates you. It hates what you are and what you do. And if it hates you, then maybe you can help me. If I wanted to be helped. I don’t know if I do. You must understand, it sings so sweetly, and I need it, but I am afraid. It isn’t right and I need help. I need it to be seen. To be seen in the cold light of knowledge is anathema to the things that crawl and slither and swarm in the corners and the cracks. In the pitted holes of the hive.

You can’t see it, of course. It isn’t real. Not like you or I are real. It’s more of an everywhere. A feeling. Are you familiar with trypophobia? That disgusted fear at holes, irregular, honeycombed holes. Makes you feel that itch in the back of your mind, like the holes are there too, in your own brain, rotten and hollow and swarming. Is that real?

I’m sorry, I know I’m meant to be telling you what happened. What brought me to this place. This place of books and learning, of sight and beholding. I’m sorry. I should. I will.

I… I haven’t slept in some time. I can’t sleep. My dreams are crawling and many-legged. Not just slithering and burrowing,. though it is the burrowing that draws me. They always sing that song of flesh. I hope you will forgive me for such a rambling story. I hope you will forgive me for a great many things, as it may be I do worse. I have that feeling, that instinct that squirms through your belly. There will be great violence done here. And I bleed into that violence.

Do you know, I wonder? As I watch you sitting there through the glass. Eating a sandwich. Do you know where you are? You called me “dear”. “Have a seat, dear.” “You can write it down, dear.” “Take as much time as you need, dear.” Can you truly know the danger you are in?

There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. A fat, sprawling thing that crouches in the shadowed corner. It thrums with life and malice. I could sit there for hours, watching the swirls of pulp and paper on its surface. I have done. It is not the patterns that enthral me, I’m not one of those fools chasing fractals; no, it’s what sings behind them. Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me.

I don’t know how long the nest has been there. It’s not even my house, I just live there. Some sweaty old man thinks he owns it, taking money for my presence as though it will save him. I used to worry about it, you know. I remember, before the dreams, I would spend so long worrying about that money. About how I could afford to live there. Now I know that whatever the old man thinks, as he passes about the house with brow crinkled and mouth puckered in disapproval, it is not his. It has a thousand truer owners who shift and live and sing within the very walls of the building. He does not even know about the wasps’ nest. I wonder how long he has not known. How many years it has been there.

Have you ever heard of the filarial worm? Mosquitoes gift it with their kiss and it grows and grows. It stops water moving round the human body right, makes limbs and bellies swell and sag with fluid. Now, when I look at that fat, sweaty sack, I think about it, and the voice sings of showing him what a real parasite can do.

How many months has it been like this? Was there a time before? There must have been. I remember a life that was not itching, not fear, not nectar-sweet song. I had a job. I sold crystals. They were clean, and sharp and bright and they did not sing to me, though I sometimes said they did. We would sell the stones to smiling young couples with colour in their hair. I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely. Not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear. It didn’t matter, because no-one in the shop wanted to hear about the ants below it. I tried to tell them, to explain, but they did not care. The pretty young things complained and I left.

That was when I still called myself a witch. Wicca and paganism, I would spend my weekends at rituals by the Thames. I wanted something beyond myself, but could not stomach the priest or the imam or pujari of the churches. I knew better. I knew that it was not so simple as to call out to well-trodden gods. I never felt from my rituals anything except exhaustion and pride. I thought that those were my spiritual raptures.

I wish, deep inside, below the itch, that they were still my raptures. I have touched something now, though, that all my talk of ley lines and mother goddesses could never have prepared me for. It is not a god. Or if it is then it is a dead god, decayed and clammy corpse-flesh brimming with writhing graveworms.

When did I first hear it? It wasn’t the nest, I’m sure of that. I never went in the attic. It was locked and I didn’t have a key. I spent a day sawing through the padlock with an old hacksaw. My hands were blistered by the end. Why would I have done that if I didn’t know what I would find? The face of the one who sang to me dwelling within the hidden darkness above me. I had seen no wasps. I know I hadn’t. There are no wasps in the nest. So how else would I have known that I needed to be there, to be in the dark with it, if it had not already been singing to me?

No, that’s not right. The nest does not sing to me. It is simply the face. Not the whole face, for the whole of the hive is infinite. An unending plane of wriggling forms swarming in and out of the distended pores and honeycombed flesh. The nest is nothing but paper.

Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners, around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards. ‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think. ‘What are you seeing in the dark? Is it food? Prey? Predators?’ I wondered if it was the spiders that made the gentle buzzing song. It was not. Webs have a song as well, of course, but it is not the song of the hive.

I used to pick at my skin. It was a compulsion. I would spend hours in the bathroom, staring as close as I could get to my face to the mirrors, searching for darkened pores to squeeze and watch the congealed oil worm its way out of my skin. Often I would end with swollen red marks where it had become inflamed with irritation or infection. Did I hear the song then?

Was it when I was a child, such a clear memory of a classmate telling me a blackhead was a hole in my face, and if I didn’t keep it clean it would grow and rot. Did I hear it then, as that image lodged in my mind forever? Or was it last year, passing by a strip of green they call a park near my house, after the rain, and watching a hundred worms crawl and squirm to the surface.

Perhaps I’ve always heard it. Perhaps the itch has always been the real me, and it was the happy, smiling Jane who called herself a witch and drank wine in the park when it was sunny. Maybe it was her who was the maddened illusion that hides the sick squirming reality of what I am. Of what we all are, when you strip away the pretence that there is more to a person than a warm, wet habitat for the billion crawling things that need a home. That love us in their way.

I need to think. To clear my head. To try and remember, but remember what? I was lonely before. I know that. I had friends, at least I used to, but I lost them. Or they lost me. Why was it? I remember shouting, recriminations, and I was abandoned. No idea why. The memories are a blur. I do remember that they called me “toxic”. I don’t think I really knew what that meant, except that it was the reason I was so very painfully lonely. Was that it? Was I swayed and drawn simply by the prospect of being genuinely loved? Not loved as you would understand it. A deeper, more primal love. A need as much as a feeling. Love that consumes you in all ways.

You can’t help me. I’m sure of that now. I have tried to write it down, to put it into terms and words you could understand. And now I stare at it and not a word of it is even enough to fully describe the fact that I itch. Because ‘itch’ is not the right word. There is no right word because for all your Institute and ignorance may laud the power of the word, it cannot even stretch to fully capture what I feel in my bones. What possible recourse could there be for me in your books and files and libraries except more useless ink and dying letters? I see now why the hive hates you. You can see it and log it and note it’s every detail but you can never understand it. You rob it of its fear even though your weak words have no right to do so.

I do not know why the hive chose me, but it did. And I think that it always had. The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps’ nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.

[be-side-my-self]

Watching Season 4 of Only Murders In The Building. (E8)

Rewatch of ONLY Murders In The Building to prepare for season 4:

<Part I> // <Part II> // <Part III> // <Part IIII> // <Part V> // <Part VI> // <Part VII> // <Part VIII>

<S4 E1> // <S4 E2> // <S4 E3> // S4 E4 // <S4 E5> // <S4 E6> // <S4 E7>

This is no rewatch but my new posts can also easily be blocked because I'll continue to use #OMITBRewatch as a tag. I'll also tag #OMITBS4. While quoting, I use M, O, C for the main characters.

Beware spoilers! (even though it's saturday... I am sick but finally find the time to watch the episode)

S4 E8

Okay, let's go!

I don't think I watched even one Hitchcock movie.

We know how Vince and Richard know Dudenoff but we are still missing the connection to Alfonso, Inez and Ana?

Ah, Helga! Hammy Faye belonged to her?

M: "How do neither of you know how to pop the hood of a car?" O: "Because real men hire other men, Mabel." C: "Triple-A says they're 15 minutes away, and it's good to leave them something to do 's cause it makes 'em happy." Tbf, I have to search for the lever in my car every time I have to pop the hood... but at least I have an idea where it is.

Always the iphone ring tone.

Aw cute Charles and Vance were wordle buddies.

lmao the stars and the originals meet at the set of Charle's apartment instead of Charle's apartment.

Loretta and Oliver are getting married this weekend? That is fast... okay they are old but it's also very fast.

Love how Mabels stare put Zach in his place.

The "Lady Longoria 19-in-1 Multitool." is going to be Checkov's gun, is it not?

Omg. No, Eugene! Don't try to get Charles angry!

Ah! Dudenoff and his wive went to the restaurant owned by Alfonso and Inez.

Alfonso: "Tony Dancer would be an investor."

Love that Rudy is doing the whole monologue when most only do one or two lines.

Dudenoff, being philosophical: "Let me ask you somethin'. If your life were a movie, what would be your happy ending?" Eva, saying what I also thought a moment earlier before I rememberd that Dudenoff is probably not that kind of guy: "And that's when he touched your Santa sack, and you had your 'happy ending.'"

Vince what you describe is depression.

Love that Dudenoff is calling Vince 'kid'.

So, the westies did not do it?

Helga!

C: "You're Helga? I imagined you toothless with a club." WHY CHALRLES?! O: "Disregard him, Helga. His brain is covered with plaque. Please go on." I don't think that is the explaination but okay.

I like Helga. A girl with the dream of bekoming a locksmith since her childhood is something special.

Aw :( why the unneeded sarcasm Helga..? that makes her less sympathetic. But she is a locksmith.

Again the "Perfect Strangers" song.

What I'm confused about is that Helga has such a strong accent when we can assume that she grew up in America. What was she? Dutch? Norwegian? Swedish? I forgot... either way they all learn english very early on too.

lmao Charles folding stuff in the background.

What now?

Where are they?

Did Dudenoff kill himself?

Wow that is harsh... Dudenoff just made everyone accomplices...

I'm not sure the camera would be good enough for that lighting.

okay but who killed Sazz?

Okay... Zach can connect (kiss) Oliver because they are both romantics...

Found families really is a topic in the whole show...

WHO KILLED SAZZ?!?!

What about Howard..?

Suddenly a completely new character?? Or it's Glen.

WAS I RIGHT AND IT'S ABOUT THE STUNTPEOPLE?!

Helga: "She talked about a stuntman on a movie called Project Ronkonkoma."

It's Glen!

Heck. What a twist.

But even if it was Glen who killed Sazz because of something, he would have no reason to stop the OG 3 from making the podcast so there is still a bigger storyline in the background?

[maaarine]

Oliver Sacks: His Own Life (Ric Burns, 2019)

[jojikawa]

𝘋𝘪𝘰 𝘪𝘯 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦𝘯 — 𝘗𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘸

art credits • dividers • The Bride of Dio

Maron’s Notes: This takes place AFTER The Bride of Dio (even though it is still on-going as of July 2023) I planned on making a post-JoJo Part 3 Series and this is a snippet of the beginning of it. It doesn’t spoil the events of the current story. You just need to have watched JoJo part 3 to kinda understand what’s going on!

This is where we begin to diverge from the ending of Stardust Crusaders and more into the territory of my own original content with my favorite characters. Thank you for supporting me and I hope you enjoy what I’ve been writing so far.

Started: May 6, 2023 at 3:53 PM

All of his life, Dio Brando, was described to be a demon. His methods, attitude, state-of-mind was reminiscent of the Lucifer himself. In the slums of London, he was once told that “the devil smiles upon him” through the birthmark that could be found upon his ear by a fortune teller. Then again by his associate named Enyaba. His actions for the rest of his life seemed to prove this fortune true. Dio became a menace.

Dio was always self-destructive and acted in self interest. He cared little of who he hurt, as long as he would get what he wanted from whoever he was taking it from. This caused him to ruin every good thing he’s ever earned in his life. The most notable thing being his wife. She was the only person that ever lived with the strength to love a hellspawn like him.

And he knew that.

Dio wanted nothing but to give her the world—in his way. He didn’t want to settle for mundane life with her. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to be a King—A God; her his Goddess. He wanted his beautiful wife to be just like him. He wanted her to be just as ruthless and cold to her subjects and enemies. She would mother his children; any that he gave her. They would all rule the world while his kin were able to take whatever they wanted for themselves.

It didn’t turn out that way…and it was the fault of the Joestars. The JoJo that he failed to kill: Jotaro Kujo, empowered with a stand reminiscent of Jonathan Joestar himself. Dio swore, that in his final moments, he could see Jonathan’s face of disappointment within Jotaro. The only thing he could think was that he should’ve killed Erina too.

But what of you, his wife? Well, Dio didn’t know. He didn’t know if he’d ever see you again. You most likely didn’t want to. Now, that he has learned that there is indeed an afterlife, he assumed you’d be in Heaven. Your crimes compared to his were mere child’s play. Any sims you committed could easily be forgiven. The two of you had been separated for some time. He didn’t think the day would come where he would see the end of his suffering…

…but it did.

Dio Brando atoned for all the sins he committed in his lifetime and was now allowed to go to Heaven. The Devil wasn’t as kind to Dio as he had been gaslit to think his whole life, no, he was treated the exact same. (If not, worse.) Perhaps, Heaven prove to be sweeter to him.

From the pits of Hell, Dio was rescued by an Angel that brought him to safety. He wasn’t able to see his Savior until the blood red sky he was so familiar with turned into one of baby blue. The Angel was abnormally big, being of blond hair and olive skin just like him. They were male presenting with enormous wings and a spotless white robe, carrying Dio as if he were a sack of potatoes. The two of them reached Heaven’s entrance where he was then thrown to the ground.

“Stand, worm.” The Angel’s voice was deep as it rumbled the ground. Dio, on his hands and knees, could only take in the scenery around him. It was beautiful. The sky burned his eyes before they were adjusted to the sudden change. Around him were clouds that you could stand on, white marble pillars and structures. This was Heaven?

Suddenly, an anger filled Dio that not even the seven Hells could contain. His ego was too strong to be humbled by Hell itself. His eyes narrowed at the Angel, his nose scrunching up in disgust as he jumped to his feet. He wore clothes that were torn, tattered and he was barefoot as well. Hell sure didn’t care about your quality of life.

“Worm!?” Dio repeated. He approached the Angel before him, not at all caring about how less intimidating he looked compared to this supreme being before him. “How dare you!?” He grabbed a fist of the Angel’s garbs. He pulled him closer as he screamed in his face. “Do you know who I am!? I am—“

Dio was struck across the face, once again being leveled with the ground. The man had only been hit a few times within his life but this was like no other.

“You are a worm. You are a sinner. The only reason why I have brought you here is through the request of another.” The Angel spoke through his clenched jaw, voice laced with venom and hatred for the mortal before him.

‘…request of another…?’

“Now, go before I change my mind and drop you back down there.” The Angel shoo’d Dio away, gesturing towards Heaven’s gates in front of him. They were marvelous and just the way they had been imagined in various medias in the world of the living.

With much uncertainty, Dio climbed to his feet and made his way through the gates. He suddenly felt more at ease, the same way one would after putting on nice clean clothes after a shower. Looking down at himself, he saw that his clothes were no longer shredded rags. They were now reminiscent of the things he wore as a young man. A white dress shirt and beige colored bottoms. It was definitely his style as he was unable to let go of the Victorian style fashion that he grew up in.

There was no one else around him and no directions. He would only put together that he needed to keep walking forward; and he did. Dio didn’t cover a lot of distance before he heard faint voices talking. He wasn’t able to tell what any of them were saying until he got closer.

“Calm down, child. You mustn’t worry yourself with such trivial things. I’ve already sent Azriel.” A feminine voice, one that sounded of a mother; a tone that anyone could recognize. “But you told me that he would arrive today!” The second voice was also feminine extremely familiar. Dio could recognize that whining anywhere!

Then he heard a male sigh. “Angela’s right, (y/n). You don’t need to be upsetting yourself. We don’t know when—“ the man then gasped. “There he is! Dio!”

It was you and…Jonathan.

“Dio!?” You perked up, looking to your far left to see it was none other than your husband. A well of emotions bubbled inside of you once you saw him. You gasped as well, running over to him for a sweet embrace. Dio looked extremely confused, hesitant to wrap his arms around you.

“This isn’t an illusion…?” Dio rested his chin upon your head, feeling your warmth once again. You couldn’t help but laugh. “Of course not, Dio!” You pulled away, holding his hands and intertwining your fingers. “I missed you so much.”

Dio’s eyes widened. You missed him?

Hi, again! This is just a tidbit for now. I kinda work ahead whenever I get stuck. I wish we got more Dio content in JJBA so I had more events to insert the reader into. Coming up with original content and scenarios is hard 🗿

[next-autopsy]

A/N: Well, hi there!

I'm back! Hope y'all enjoy this chapter, lmk what you think, I love hearing from you guys x

Based on the actors portrayal/hbo show and written with no disrespect to the real life veterans. Also all images found on Pinterest.

TW: swearing, casual 1940s racism, yelling/fighting, not much else tbh....

Tags: @malarkgirlypop, @panzershrike-pretz hmu if you want to be added

Made of Glass

Chapter twenty one: Chock-a-Block

The next month was uneventful compared to previous ones. June was slow and felt heavy, dragging on and seeming longer than it was. Birdie spent a lot of the month by George’s side The two became increasingly close, sharing all sorts of pleasantries and childhood stories. Birdie loved hearing about his nine siblings and the practical jokes he pulled on them. It reminded her of her own mischievous family who she was missing more than ever. 

July came and went by comparison. Birdie received a letter from her brother-in-law, stating his wife, her oldest sister, Helen had safely given birth to the couple's second child. They already had a little boy, Daniel and now were blessed with a girl. They named her Gracie, a variation of Bernadette's middle name and asked her to be the newborns' Godmother. Of course she was ecstatic and accepted gleefully. Sadly, she would miss the babies christening but the sentiment was there. 

By the end of August, rumours were spreading that they would soon be on the move. Their next destination was a curious speculation. A bet ran through the regiment: Europe or the Pacific? 

September started and the 506th was preparing to move once again, leaving Camp Mackall behind. Easy presented themselves prim and proper in their class A uniforms and packed everything they had in the basic olive green sacks provided for their belongings. 

A train awaited them, the soldiers climbed aboard without question. It was packed but no one minded too much, they just bunched up and invaded their neighbours personal space like it was a game. 

Bernadette shuffled through the teeny walkway of the moving train, legs and bags stuck out making her journey that much more difficult. 

“Birdie! Saved you a seat!” Her attention was captured by the brown haired man calling out to her. She smiled when she saw him, guarding the space next to him like it was his job. Bernadette tried to make her way closer to Luz but the train wobbled and threw her off balance. She toppled over ungracefully and landed atop someone's lap. 

She began spitting out apologies and her face turned red, rightfully embarrassed by the situation. When she looked up and saw Liebgott's face smirking at her, she wanted to die; right then and there. 

“Good trip?” That shit eating grin made Birdie want to slap him, she settled for rolling her eyes and scoffing instead. Birdie got up and balanced herself, making sure to use his shoulders to aid her ascent. She shoved him hard enough for him to understand she was less than pleased about the whole ordeal, but in a playful manner so that he knew she wasn’t really mad. Joe smiled at her, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and caused her to reciprocate. 

“Birdie!” George called out again, sensing she was distracted and needed some prompting. She whipped her head round to him and nodded to show she had heard the impatient man. 

“You better go before he screams so loud the whole train hears.” Lieb joked, he didn’t really want to send her away but there was no real reason for her to stay. The southern woman spoke softly, telling him she would see him around before joining her friend at the other end of the train car. 

Liebgott had been accepted into her posse with little resistance, he was already friends with most of the guys she hung around anyway. It was mainly Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere who didn’t love the fact that he and Bernadette were on friendlier terms, the two still held grudges against him for his previous treatment of the woman. He didn't really blame them, he had been particularly difficult when it came to Coldwell.

Over the past months, Joe had come to terms with the fact he actually wanted to be Birdie’s friend. Tipper kept trying to get a love confession out of him but he was adamant it wasn't like that. Sure he liked the woman, but in a totally platonic way of course. Besides, they were both soldiers being sent to the front lines, when would they have time to date and fall in love? Not that he wanted that. He didn’t. 

Joseph Liebgott was perfectly happy being friends with Bernadette Coldwell and that was that.

The train had taken hundreds, if not thousands of soldiers aboard to a shipyard in Brooklyn, New York. It was Birdie’s first time in the city, though she didn't get to see much of it as they were ushered onto the SS Samaria in an orderly fashion. 

The sun began settling, turning the sky a beautiful mix of pink and pastel orange, Birdie's favourite shade of the fiery colour. Luz had snagged a life vest for the woman and shoved it on her so he could pull her out onto the deck and watch as the ship passed the statue of liberty. 

It was a surreal moment, one Bernadette would always remember. The green lady loomed over them, as if bidding the soldiers goodbye and good luck. It felt real now, they were finally leaving their beloved home country and joining the war effort.

As the ship left the mainland of America behind, the sombre mood grew. George and Birdie shared a cigarette on the deck before returning to the bunks below. It was crowded, more than the train had been and now, the lack of space was starting to get on everyone's nerves.

Everyone tried to keep themselves busy, playing cards, writing letters home or reading whatever books they could find. Most of the men smoked freely which caused the already state air locked in with them to be tainted with tobacco. 

After five full days stuck in the overcrowded, sweaty mass of men, Birdie had had enough. She was ready to get off this ship, unsure if she could take another day. She had seen men get sick from the constant swaying and vomit where they stood and now she was noticing the raise in tempers as cabin fever descended. 

It was unbelievably hot and all Birdie wanted was some fresh air and silence but conversation continued on around her, disregarding her wants. 

She could hear Muck and Malarkey chatting to each other while they approached the area she was stewing in. The men in question climbed up the sides of the hammock like cots as you would a ladder and settled into the spaces next to and above her. 

“Hey guys, I’m glad I'm going to Europe.” Toye spoke up, inserting himself into the conversation. He pulled out his switchblade knife and flicked it open for dramatic effect, “Hilter gets one of these right across the windpipe. Roosevelt changes Thanksgiving to Joe Toye day, and pays me ten grand a year for the rest of my fuckin’ life.” 

“What if we don’t get to Europe? What if they send us to North Africa?” A voice from above Birdie called down. The woman tried to shuffle closer to Bill, her bunk mate, to see who it was but his body got in the way and unless Birdie wanted to mount the man, it would remain a mystery. Bill ruffled her hair and plucked the cigarette out of her hand.

“My brothers in North Africa.” Guarnere took a long drag of the stolen smoke, “He says it's hot.”

“Really? It’s hot in Africa?” You could actually see the sarcasm coming off of Malakey and he paused his reading of the comic he held in front of him to make fun of the man's obvious comment.

“Shuddup!” The Philadelphian shot at the redhead before continuing, “The point is, it don’t matter where we go.” Birdie reclaimed her cigarette while Bill was distracted, mid sentence, “Once we get into combat, the only person you can trust is yourself, and the fella next to you.”

Bernadette cleared her throat, raising her eyebrow at her talkative friend as if to tell him to rethink his words. Bill rolled his eyes and added, “Or lady next to ya. Happy?” She nodded, that would suffice.

“Hey, as long as he’s- uh… they’re a paratrooper.” Toye added from his place by their boots, trying to avoid a glare from the Mississippi woman. 

“Oh yeah?” Luz exclaimed from the opposite side of the aisle, “And what if that paratrooper turns out to be Sobel?” He was climbing up to his bunk on the top most rack, George hoisted himself up and past Christenson, who added his two cents to the discussion, 

“If I'm next to Sobel in combat, I'm moving on down the line. Hook up with some other officer, like Heyliger or Winters.” Pat had a special hatred for the CO after he was made to march twenty-four miles, full pack and in the dark, half of it completely alone; all on Sobel’s orders. 

“I like Winters. He’s a good man.” Bill began speaking once more. It was then that Birdie noticed Skip leaning over his hammock above her and poking his head down so she and Malarkey could see him. Malarkey eyed up the cigarette he had in his hand and silently asked Muck for a puff, she shook her head and giggled at the two. 

“But when the bullets start flying, I don't know if I want a Quaker doing my fighting for me.” Guarnere thieved Birdie’s nearly finished smoke yet again, she responded with an outraged, “Hey!” but he ignored her, pushing himself up and jumping down to the ground. Bernadette shuffled over into the empty space Guarnere had left.

“How do you know he’s a Quaker?” Skip asked, flipping down into Birdie’s, now vacant, cot and giving her an unlit cigarette to make up for the blatant robbery he had witnessed. 

“He ain’t Catholic.” Bill shrugged, snubbing out the butt of his pilfered tobacco stick on the floor with his boot. 

“Neither is Sobel.” Don called, passing his comic to Skip who immediately started flicking through the pages with interest.  

“That pricks a Son of Abraham.” 

“He’s what?” Liebgott, who sat across from where Bill now stood, had perked up at the term he used. He was happy to listen in to the conversation, it kept his mind occupied but when the expression was used like a slur he had to say something. 

“He’s a Jew.” Bill clarified, assuming Lieb just hadn't heard the phrase before.

“Oh fuck…” Liebgott muttered under his breath, he laughed but not because anything humorous had been said. He threw the cigarette butt he was fiddling with down before shuffling off his bunk and jumping. He landed with a thud and stepped over to Guarnere so they were face to face. Joe looked down at the man, chest puffed, “I’m a Jew.” 

Several men (and Birdie) sat up or shuffled closer to the two hot heads, anticipating a fight to break out.  

“Congratulations.” Pronounced bitingly, not actually intended to congratulate, “Get your nose outta my face.” Bill pushed Lieb’s chest, forcing him backwards. 

Birdie stared, she knew Lieb was going to swing, she could see him planning it out in his mind. She noticed his curled fist and knew an attack was imminent, before she could do anything, Lieb took a jab. His target blocked him and they grabbed onto each other attempting to… Birdie didn’t know what. Strangle each other? Hug? Who knew?

Multiple men also grabbed into the pair but no one could break them apart. Birdie scoffed and jumped down, she shoved people out of her way and when she got close enough to see her friends through the growing crowd, she yelled. It was the loudest her voice had ever gone; a screech, if you will.

“That’s enough!” Her words froze the horde of angry sweaty men. Bill and Joe still held onto each other, fists grabbed onto handfuls of shirt but now their focus was on the girl. She huffed and pushed surrounding men away from the idiots who began the kerfuffle until she reached them. Everyone else watched on, curious to see angry Birdie in action. 

Bernadette yanked them apart, fuming. She turned to Guarnere first, her eyebrows were furrowed and her teeth clenched.

“You!” She pointed to him, glaring, “Keep that prejudice bullshit to yourself! No one wants to hear your stupid ass opinions! What the fuck is your problem?” Bill shrunk back, he had never seen Birdie this angry before and he didn't care to see it again. The woman whipped around to face Joe, he was smiling at her rude comments aimed at the man he wanted to punch. His joy in the situation only pissed her off more, if that were even possible.

“You think this is funny, huh?” She hissed at him, Joe’s smile dropped. 

“Not everything is a personal attack so calm the fuck down. Why do you think punching him is the solution to everything?” The question was rhetorical so Joe only looked down to the floor, avoiding eye contact with the scary southerner. She was absolutely at her wits end and just had to get out of there. 

“It’s like a fuckin’ pissin’ contest in here, Jesus!” Birdie growled as she turned and stomped off to get some fresh air on the deck of the overcrowded ship. 

A/N: ooooo she's mad...

~ next-autopsy ~

Chapter twenty two

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

"When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate -- the genetic and neural fate -- of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death." -- Oliver Sacks

Make it a good one.

[orangepanic]

34, 36 (I am myself a very visual person, and I should say proudly that I have read all your fics during last 2 months, and I visualize Iroh very good, you even told his height, but not for Asami(as far as I can remember) I would love to imagine them beside eachother in your fics, so how tall you imagine her🧐)

39, 41

Please skip any, if you have already answered ❤️

That's such an interesting point! (also you read all my fics???!!!!!🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗) I wonder if I spend less time describing Asami because she has so much more screen time so I assume readers know? Anyway I have Asami as just a hair over 5'9" but as in canon almost always in heels, which puts her at perfect kissing height with Iroh :-)

34. What aspects of your writing are inspired by/taken from your real life?

At the same time everything and nothing. There are no characters who are inspired by real people, but at the same time there are little bits of people I know in so much of my characterizations. Asami has my messy purse and my coffee order. Iroh and I probably have the same number of books, though his are far better organized. His and Izumi's dislike of shoes is the same as my husband's. Some of the settings look like places I've been or seen (like all of Starvation Paradise is inspired by a real place in Russia). It's all cobbled together.

36. Do you visualize what you read/write?

Yes, which is often the hardest part. Writing for me is like watching a movie in my head and trying to translate. But it's also filtered through the characters' perceptions. Another reason I might describe Iroh differently than Asami is that they notice different things about one another. For example, I pulled these first re-meeting descriptions from the same fic.

Taller than average, he had thick black hair that he wore slicked back and the typical pale skin and golden eyes of the Fire Nation. Handsome in an angular sort of way, he had the kind of tense, uncomfortable look that she associated only with military men, nuns, and Lin Beifong.

Her black hair was bound up into a ponytail and she’d exchanged her heeled boots for hiking shoes. Even in the flat shoes she was tall, and though clearly younger than him she walked with a surety of movement that made her seem older than Korra and the others. A pair of olive green goggles perched on the top of her head. Iroh hadn’t wanted a traveling companion, but the thought crossed his mind that, if he must have one, he could do a lot worse than a pretty girl with common sense.

While it's only an example, I think Asami is slightly more literal and objective in her internal descriptions. Enter Mr. Tall, Tense, and Handsome from the Fire Nation. Iroh seems to be more relative, so while also noting features like tall and pretty, he's also describing Asami relative to his own expectations and feelings, so you get comparators like "younger than me but seems older than Korra and mature for her age so maybe okay to date?" and "I really didn't want to go with someone but hmmm okay yes I like this."

I can't claim I'm doing this on purpose but maybe I am? It would track with my characterization of Asami as slightly more analytical and Iroh as a big sack of feelings.

39. Is any aspect of your writing process inspired by other writers or people? If so, who?

Oh, all the time! First, I shamelessly steal headcanons. All the time. I see something I like and I adopt it. Second, I'm always reading things that make me want to write better or differently. If I read something I like I'll try it out. For example I just read a trashy mystery novel that, while I didn't love it, hardly used dialog tags at all and I was fascinated by that, so I've been trying it out. It's just fun to play with. Finally, I love chatting with other writers and people in fandom and bouncing ideas and getting feedback. They've all made me better.

41. Link a fic that made you think, “Wow, I want to write like that.”

I love the subtle intimacy of this one and have been trying to write like that ever since.

Fanfic writer asks

[jazminrhode1]

Chapter 5: Ruari

Cadets come and go, most don’t last, and some don’t deserve to. But there are a few you’ll trust with your life. Keep your eyes open for allies. You’ll need them sooner than you think.

Excerpt of recovered correspondence of Lieutenant Xaden Riorson to Thana Valaren.

~

Thana was jolted awake, her chest heaving, the torment of her nightmare still lingering. The vision of a locked, pitch-black room where her mind unraveled had been too vivid. As her breath steadied, she felt an arm wrap around her waist—Bodhi's, heavy and warm in his sleep. She hadn't meant to wake him. She'd woken up with him in her bed for the third time in as many nights, and she'd been meaning to call it off but...

Carefully, she slipped out from under Bodhi's arm, the chill of the early morning air biting against her skin as she stretched. She couldn’t fall back asleep. Not with her thoughts running wild. She threw on her fighting leathers and left the women's hall, making her way toward the gym. She needed to burn off the restless energy, to chase away the fear gnawing at her insides.

The gym wasn't empty when she arrived. To her surprise, Ruari, Hawke a fellow first-year, was already there. His tall, muscular frame moved with focus, sweat gleaming off his tanned skin. His thick brown hair caught the early sunlight as he trained, throwing a series of punches at a practice dummy. He'd gotten better since his disastrous first sparring match a few days prior, though he still had a long way to go.

Ruari acknowledged her almost immediately, pausing mid-swing to offer a nod. "Thana," he greeted her, his voice warm and genuine. "You're up early."

She just nodded in reply. She moved to stretch, eyeing him from her corner of the gym. His progress was clear, but there was still a hesitancy in his movements. She didn't know a lot about him, but she liked that he didn’t seem to care about the markings etched across her arm—a rarity among the Riders.

After a few minutes, she found herself unable to watch any longer. She stepped closer to Ruari, watching as he struggled with the stance. "Your footing's off," she remarked quietly, not wanting to embarrass him.

Ruari looked at her, startled for a moment before he grinned sheepishly. "I was wondering why I felt like I was about to drop like a sack of potatoes. You mind showing me?"

Thana hesitated but eventually nodded. "Sure." She guided him through the movements, her own thoughts momentarily forgotten in the rhythm of training. He followed her instructions carefully, and although they kept a comfortable distance, she couldn't help but respect his determination. He wasn't the strongest fighter, but he was improving—and that counted for something.

As they continued, the door swung open, and in walked Garrick and Imogen, looking far too comfortable with each other for Thana’s liking. Imogen’s pink hair was tied up, an undercut visible, and she laughed at something Garrick said, her eyes twinkling.

Thana rolled her eyes and as she went back to her stretching. "Impressive work this morning," Garrick remarked, though she couldn't tell if he was addressing Imogen or her.

Ruari packed up his things shortly after, offering Thana a small smile. "Thanks for the help. If you ever want to train together again..." He left the invitation hanging, an olive branch of sorts. Maybe more.

Thana nodded, watching him leave before turning her attention back to Garrick and Imogen, who were still engrossed in their conversation. Imogen shot Thana a curious look, but there wasn't any gossip to share. She wouldn't give Imogen the satisfaction of thinking anything had happened between her and Ruari.

Later that day, Thana sat by the banks of the Ikabos River, the soft breeze ruffling her hair as she absentmindedly twisted the ring between her fingers—the one Garrick had given her before she crossed the parapet. She hadn't known it was engraved with her father's name until recently, and now the weight of it felt different. 

Her thoughts were interrupted when Garrick came barreling down the riverbank, shirt discarded, and dove straight into the water with an enthusiastic splash, laughing with the others as he surfaced. Thana smiled briefly but couldn’t shake the anxious pit in her stomach.

Then she heard the crunch of footsteps behind her. She didn’t have to look to know who it was—she’d felt the shift in the air before he even spoke.

"Mind if I sit?" Xaden's voice was low, steady. He was always so composed, and it unnerved her sometimes.

"Go ahead," she replied, scooting over to give him space on the sun-warmed rock she was perched on.

For a few minutes, they sat in silence, watching the others in the river. Thana continued to fiddle with the ring, her fingers tracing the engraved letters, lost in thought. Xaden's presence was usually suffocating, but today it felt grounding. After a while, he finally spoke.

"You're thinking about the challenges," he stated more than asked, his gaze steady on her.

Thana hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "And Presentation... and Threshing. I don’t know if I'm ready for any of it." She paused, casting a sidelong glance at him. "What if I fail? What if no dragon wants to bond with me?"

Xaden shifted slightly but didn’t close the gap between them. His dark eyes softened, something almost like concern flickering beneath his usually hardened exterior. "You're not going to fail, Thana. Whether you know it or not, you've trained your whole life for this." He pointed at her father's ring, "he's trained you your whole life for this."

She let out a small, shaky breath, feeling the vulnerability she’d tried to suppress all day creeping in. "But what if I do? What if this whole time... all the training with Garrick, all the work I’ve put in... what if it’s still not enough?"

Xaden raised his hand, as if to rub her back, but hesitated. His hand lingered in the air before falling back to his side. "You're going to be okay," he said quietly, his voice firm but gentle. "I won't let anything happen to you."

The gesture was subtle, but Thana noticed it. His instinct to comfort her was there, but something held him back. It left her feeling both reassured and unsettled, a strange mix of emotions swirling inside her.

She looked up at him with uncertainty still clouding her eyes. "Xaden... how do dragons choose their riders?"

At that question, Xaden’s expression shifted. Something unreadable flickered across his face—something guarded, like he was choosing his next words carefully.

"It's... complicated," he finally said, his voice quieter now, like he was speaking more to himself than to her. "Sometimes it's instinct. Sometimes they see something in you that you don't see in yourself."

Thana’s gaze sharpened, her thoughts immediately going to the scarred dragon she’d seen. She remembered the way it had looked at her during Conscription, like it was evaluating her, judging her in a way no one else had. "And the scarred dragon?" she asked cautiously. "The one we saw on Conscription Day. How does a dragon like that choose?"

Xaden’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stared at her with that same intense look he’d given her the day of Conscription. The same look that had unnerved her then and unsettled her now.

He finally sighed, looking away towards the mountains. "That dragon... It doesn’t choose the way the others do."

Thana frowned, confusion knotting in her chest. "What do you mean?"

Xaden shook his head slightly, a shadow crossing his features. "It's already decided who its rider is going to be."

His words hung in the air, heavy with implication. Thana couldn’t help but feel a chill run down her spine. There was something more he wasn’t saying, something about that dragon and the way it had looked at her.

"Did Sgayel tell you that?" she asked.

Before she could press him to answer, he stood up, offering a hand to help her to her feet.

"Come on," he said, his tone shifting back to that composed, commanding voice she was more familiar with. "We’ve got to get to dinner."

Thana hesitated, still trying to make sense of what he’d said, but eventually nodded, taking his hand as he pulled her up. As they walked back toward the others, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to the scarred dragon’s gaze than she realised. And maybe... just maybe, it had something to do with Xaden.

[fruit-salad-ship]

Cute Roman AU thought. One of the gardeners that Peach talks to suggests planting something that she can care for, like an olive tree. Something that would grow with her as she grows more accustomed to her new life with Plum and Grey. Even better later when she can eat the fruits of her labor.

I dont knwo why Rome AU always gets SO out of hand writing wise. Im so sorry guys.

theres probably a billion spelling errors here, i scrambled to get this down, and have yet to read it back or check it over. so. good luck.

she started small, her days off were spent caring for the hot weather plants, her favorites were the lavender and herbs that left their earthy smell on her hands for hours if she's been working them. Its miles from the dirt and blood and sweat and grime of the pits, its clean and fresh and bright and she adores it, quick to volenteer to take any herbs needed to the kitchen if the task needs doing.

plum notices, of course she does, this is her newest and most damaged little repair project to date, and one shes become increasingly fond of. Peach currently lives in staff accomodation, admittedly more barracks with amenities, most staff go home after their shifts to actual homes and families, but peach is a permanent resident with her own room and key, a first sure, but perhaps she could do with something a little more...homely. So plum plans to move her to one of the guest houses, a small but homely space, no more sharing her room with others. Plum knows peach will be difficult about this, so asks her to accompany her to the guest house, one of several on her properties, to just help do it up a bit. A slight lie. It admittedly is one of the lesser used one, and a lot of furniture has been stored in there.

Its a dusty mess, some rats scamper out, the yard out back is overgrown, but its got good strong walls, roofs in perfect condition, keeps the rain out. Peach is the one to do the lions share, no way is this a Plum job, she didnt let her lift a single ipece of furniture, even though plum muddles about fussing with decorations and sweeping and such. By the end of the day the two have been cleaning and organising for hours, only really pausing to discuss what decorations to go with from the wide assortment of things stored there, peach finds it odd that Plum would make her choose, but her boss had a habit of trying to get her to show her opinions, so she tried to indulge. The space felt...cosy, little kicthen, a tall ceilinged living space, windows with lots of light pouring in. the log store was filled, cushions beaten of dust, debris swept out, and bed made, a bed with fine sheets of the softest cotton, a real luxury to someone who'd spent her life on stone floors and wooden benches. Peach found it oddly cathartic to sort the space, taking up her shield that'd been placed down to work, the space ready for future guests as she stood back taking it in.

A knock on the door pulled them both, seeing Grey stick his head in, expressing how nice it was in there now. In his hands was a plant, its roots wrapped in a sack so as to not spread dirt everywhere. He hands it to peach who says nothing, just takes it to hold, its her job after all, as he keeps snooping around with a jolly disposition. once returned he asks where she's going to plant that thing, to which Plum shoves him with her elbow to stop, and he gathers that the topic hasnt been brought up yet, immediatly shutting up. Peach just standing there, clueless, looking between them, this sappling in her arms, not daring to ask a question, it wasnt her place to do that. Plum kind of laughs, breathes, knows this will be less than painless, pulling a key from a pocket within her robes, placing it on the table.

You can see the realisation sink in, the cogs ticking as she explains that this place, his home, is now peach's, to do what she wants with, no more barracks, no more sharing space. its an outskirt space, no one ever uses it, and she believes its time this woman, who came to her so damaged and so skittish, had something she could feel truly proud of. Peach...doesnt understand. Tries to explain that she couldnt afford to buy it, is this maybe a house sitting gig until the real owners come home to it? perhaps....a joke? shes not too sure what constitutes a joke just yet, but this could be one??? they have to sit her down and clearly lay out that no ones coming for the building, theres a quarter acre around it thats hers to play with, that theres no repayment, no trick or trap, and if she leaves or moves, that it fall back to plum as her property. Until then, its in Peach's name. It's hers. No strings. Grey says the plant he brought was a house warming gift, apologising for runing the surprise with a laugh, it wasnt his intention.

Peach is left to sit in this space, still processing, the other two suggesting she move her things to here now her shift was over, they'd come back for dinner in a couple hours to celebrate the move with her.

Shes on the plush chair, sat with this plant in her lap, blinking hard as she looks around, unsure if she should move? if she can touch stuff, or like...what??? it takes a few minutes, well, half an hour, shes not sure what to do, but the plant needs water, its the one thing to spur her to move from her position, sat tightly wound, in a confused silence.

The garden was fenced off kind of, areas collapsed in on themselves, all long grass, the scattering of trees and rocky earth feeling very natrual. she stands in the kitchen doorway leading out to a cobbled area, what was once a clothesline fallen, holding that plant perhaps a little too tight without realising it, looking around with no clue at all what to do. Theres a well about five meters away from the house. Its a first step, having to rummage in the long grass to find the rope and bucket that would bring water up to her, dumping the plant in it while crouched in the sun. This had to be a joke right?

The pair return and shes sat out in the last minutes of sun on an old crate, just kind of staring off, only noticing them when they open the gate into the yard, sitting straighter, back on her best behaviour. Shes still in her work gear, her shift ended hours ago, but she sat in the armour this whole time, something Grey points out, adjusting how hes carrying a small crate of things, bottles and vegetables poking out from the top. She didnt realise, apolagising, so spaced out. Meanwhile Plums gone inside, a plate of ingrediants in hand, placing it down and noticing nothings been touched, and upon looking in the closet in the bedroom, none of peach's clothes are put in there, nothing of hers is here at all in fact. Peach is startled when her boss shouts out to her, asking why shes not got her stuff yet, unable to find an answer. What did she mean? like. her things? was she a stay in guard for this place or something?? It doesnt really click, but she can't argue as Plum grabs her hand and pulls her away from the place, Grey staying behind to start cooking up a storm. Peach is brought to the barracks, Plum nagging her to get out of her work gear, her days ended, its time to relax. But...if shes guarding the house surely shes got to be in work gear? After getting her back into normal clothes, the boss grabs an empty wooden box, going straight to the guards old room, placing it on the bed. Peach just stands there, not 100% sure why shes putting her books in there, or her little weird looking rock collection that lined the windowceil, or the spare dagger she kept under her pillow. She jumped to work when plum told her to start folding her clothes up and put them in the box too.

by the time the pair were walking back, the wreath peach made around her neck, placed there to carry it hands free by Plum, all her things in this wooden crate, wandering back in the low light of the creeping night hours, boss with a simple vase in her arms that she'd gifted her companion a while back now, stopping occasionally to pick a bit of grass or flower, adding it to the pot. each pause made peach stop, look back at her, try not to feel...nervous? her stomach turned, she didnt know that feeling, it was like nerves, but something was off about it.

The little house's chimney gently let smoke waft away, the light of candles and fireplace strangely inviting to the fighter, entering the space after her boss, seeing Grey turn to welcome them in once more, glad to see Plum pushing the big dope to the bedroom to unpack. Even while placing her clothes in the wardrobe there, a far finer piece of furniture, it wasnt sinking in, this felt like she was just some bit.

Grey and Plum watched from across the room as this huge woman, a usually daunting form sunk onto a couch, told to put her things where she wanted them, just kind of holding a bunch of rocks, glazed over, not sure what to do with them. even her posture looked timid, grey suggested she was just a little lost.

"She didnt have a room for years, then got a small space of her own and you saw how she was with it, everything taking up as little space as possible. And now she's got all this house to roam around in. Maybe she's just got too many choices to pick one?" A valid point, he'd been there where she was, he understood, though not to this degree, this was quite severe. Plum nodded, taking up a glass of wine as she approached the guard, watching her shift her posture again to seem more capable, not cowering or timid, back to guard mode. She'd break that behaviour yet, but for now, she sat, curled up close to Peach, her legs over the big womans lap, taking one of the rocks from her to look it over. She asked why it was special, tried to pry a conversation from her, pick something Peach could find words for, get the ball rolling. Slowly the woman managed to find a scentence, explaining its a rock that looks like the rocks from her home, dark, nearly a blackish purple. Plum kept choosing different rocks, each being placed on the table as peach told her of the reason she kept all of them one by one. 9 rocks, all odd, some sparkly, others a cool shape or from a place she got to visit and enjoyed. It seemed to calm her, enough to at least not sit so stiffly, though she was really taking up as little real estate on the couch as possible. It was just nice to be with Grey and Plum for her, the smell of cooking, the sound of them joking and laughing, it was nice. even if she was still a little lost.

That clueless nature didnt seem to leave Peach, not during dinner, not after while they drank and laughed, not when they all made it to the bedroom, nor when she woke up with them both there still fast asleep, creeping off in the morning to pace around the little living space. The sun poured in through a window, calling the woman outside, the kitchen door opening to reveal the start of a new day.

Her eyes caught birds on the janky fence, a couple fields over a few deer grazed, wind in the trees, and then finally, the shrub in the bucket that she'd forgotten about. Bare footed she slunk out through the long grass, into the light to pull it from the water, setting it down gently as she looked around, if she did put it in dirt, would it be nice to have it close? maybe she'd put it somewhere she can see it from a window...hypothetically speaking.

Thats where they found her, Plum woke to find the fighter gone and immediatly panicked, rushing to throw a robe on before tracing behind her clear path, the back door open, she always drifted towards the light, and sure enough there peach was, out in the garden carrying around this plant in a bucket. she'd put it down, look at it, tilt her head, then pick it up and move it, and repeat this many a time, sometimes returning to an original spot to try to decide. Grey soon found his way out, putting water on for morning tea, joining plum in the doorway watching her watch the once nervous guard plod around trying to decide just one thing.

You can only imagine peachs horror when Grey called her, realising she'd gotten caught up in such a stupid thing, putting the tree down and coming over immedaitly. He handed her a cup, herbal smells rising from it, something she sipped gingerly. They asked where she'd put it, and she waved it off, she was just being stupid, it didnt matter, it was wherever they wanted it, not her decision. a dismissive behaviour that once again needed to be confronted, Plum taking her hand and pulling her back out to the garden gently. Yet again, she had to explain this was hers now, she HAD to decide where to put it, it was no one elses choice. Peach clams up, doesnt know what to do again, giving no answer, retracting in on herself as best she could to be quiet and not say what she was thinking. A face Plum had grown use to translating, asking her to say it, just spit it out, whatever was going on in her head, Grey in the door enjoying the sun, hoping this would be easier with time, a quiet pain as he heard what came next. It hammered home an unchangable fate, one both he and Peach could not truly escape.

"I can't own this. I don't have any rights to do so, i've been property since I was a child. I can't find love, or have freedom, I can't marry, I can't own a home, I can't start a buisness, or sign contracts to even rent this place, or to try to improve what i've been handed in life, I can't make decisions or choices that matter. This is just...something that'll be taken away the second someone finds out. And then you'll be in trouble and it'd be my fault. I can't accept this, in another life maybe, and in this one i'm truly grateful for the thought, I can't even begin to express what it means that you'd go this far for someone like me." Peach pulls her hand away from plums grasp gently, feeling the pit in her stomach grow deeper, aching. "I'm just sorry, you both did so much and I cant repay the favour. Even if I can't accept this you both spent so much time and effort on it all, it was wasted and I can't fix that. Trust me I would if I could."

The options she had were limited, a constant cause of anger and frustration normally, but this time, Peach just felt sad, defeated, doing her best to not let her feelings creep in. Plum said nothing, turned and made her way along the overgrown path, out to the gate, trudging back to the house across the property, a look of fury on her face as she met another guard on duty and got escorted away, something Peach caused in her own mind. There was no way that wasnt her fault, only flinching slightly as Grey put his hand on her shoulder, reassuring her that it was ok, this wasnt her fault. He knew, he'd seen Plum this mad before, she was about to do something decisive with that look on her face.

Work was difficult, Plum didnt say a word to anyone, she stayed in her study, and seemed to have several people in to see her in the morning, and just as many in the evening, her guards being posted up by the doors outside, Grey passing by on occasion to check in, to which she seemed fine. still mad. Peach didnt meet her gaze for two days, didnt want to make it worse, trying to take up jobs that kept her well out of the way. That was untill she was called by name to the office. Plum left through the big doors as she turned from a hand full of men all sat in fancy robes, smiling sweetly as she got a brief moment to face the guard who had no clue what was happening, her back to the guests, gone was her anger, this time worry set across her features. She had a moment where the doors shut and it was just her, Peach, and two guards either side of the doors stood to attention.

"You need to be on your best behaviour." Said as Plum pulled the sheathed sword from Peach's belt, taking her shield with the other hand, handing them off to a guard to hold, before fixing her hair a little, pushing strands from her face, wiping dust from her cheek, pulling the short cloak on her back over her shoulders a little to mask the sheer strength of her. The warrior had no idea what was happening, Plum gesturing for her to follow her after tepping back to look her over once more. Reentering the room the girls were met with stern looks, Peach didnt feel comfortable, her eyes set on the floor, not at all ready to meet the eyes of any of these well dressed, clearly powerful men. They wore jewels and gold, fine silks, watching as Plum took up her seat back at her desk, Peach doing what she was told, staying quiet, by her side, stood back and to attention.

They discussed, some asked questions about Peach's time with her newest employer, others wished to have an account from the old owner, sadly discovered dead not too long ago. Without a second testemony they tracked to her long, prolific stint in the arena, she was well known, many had seen her fight, some even challengeing her in the streets when she worked in her new guard role, not that she ever took the offer to battle up. Her bouts were brutal, efficient, she fought like ten men and didnt hesitate when confronted with danger. more than half the men that sat discussing her had seen first hand how vicious she was with a sword in her hand. The conversation seemed critical, negative, they didnt once ask peach anything, all questions directed to her owner, who was giving nothing but shining responses to paint a better picture.

Peach was eventually freed to resume her shift, leaving her boss in that room with the small group, all still discussing, mostly at how dangerous Peach was. She took her sword back from the guard outside, shield on her back once more, feeling safer with the items on her person, thanking them for keeping them for her before leaving.

another two days passed by, Peach didnt know what to do or where to stay, every time her shift ended Grey would find her out in fields and gardens, trying to avoid going home, and every time he'd have to drag her back to the new residence, sitting her down, getting her talking and distracted from the stress of the situation until she'd admit defeat and rest up, usually on the sofa, and not the bed. She struggled to be in that thing alone, it didnt feel like hers to use without explicite permission from her boss. a boss she'd not seen since the weird meeting she was dragged into.

Finally, on the third day, Peach was called early into the main house, up a flight of stairs into Plums office once more. She said nothing, handing a wax stamped letter to the guard, a hand gesture encouraging her to open it. Plum watched the woman do as she was told, doing her best to read what was there. Admittedly she was improving, but some of the words were new to her, the purpose of the letter escaping her, looking back to her boss a little confused, watching as the elegant lady sat, writing something on parchment, gesturing for her to sit down at the table opposite her. The guard very carefully perched on a fancy chair, feeling out of place, putting the letter on the desk, an action her boss noticed and looked up at.

"You...read it right?" Peach nodded, and then sort of glanced away a little embarrased. "I dont know what its about, my names in there, but half the words were... I dont know what they mean." The slow blink of her boss and sudden laughter was a shock, somethign Peach felt was her doing, being dumb enough to cause someone to laugh was about right, sinking in on herself a little for what was probably stupidity. Plum realised what may have just happened and opened the letter up, coming around the desk. "What words, point them out and i'll explain." Trying to backtrack and get the purpose of this visit out in an educational way at least. Her little form stood so close, arm around peach's strong shoulders, watching her peer over to the paper and muddle through it once more. Several words were simply legal jargon, no wonder peach hadnt seen them before in those corny romance novels she would read, but the one that stumped her the most was one she'd probably never even been told exists, one she'd never once have seen writted down in her life thats for sure, people would have made SURE she'd not know this one.

"manumission." Plum said it out loud, watched Peach look back at it, parrot it back to her, clueless, waiting for the definition, the purpose of that one word. "It means you're free." The guards brow furrowed, reading and rereading the scentence, piecing together wether or not that was a thing you could do. The little woman didnt take her eyes off her, smiled sweetly when she looked back up at her still confused. "I appealed for your freedom the first day you came home but you had a pretty dangerous reputation so city leaders were cautious about just letting you go. The appeal got denied on several attempts... So this time I went about it a little differently." And by differently, Plum meant bribes, blackmail and gentle threats, to which Grey had been helping with in his free time. "I'm sorry it took this long."

"What?" Was all peach got out, feeling plum slip between her and the desk, directly ahead of her, taking both her shoulders firmly to focus her attention. "You're free. I don't own you. No one owns you anymore." Her grip was grounding, Peach needed that right now. Her quiet turned to involentary tears that she didnt notice falling, not a word from her, she didnt know what to say, or do, or feel.

Maybe she'd wake up and be back in the pits, but the touches felt real, and the arms that held her were warm, and the crying stung. Plum did not let her go, not for a second, she still fought for Grey, he was yet to be freed, but this time, she got lucky, picked the right city advisors who thought all women weak, they didnt see peach as a threat, her displays in the pit flukes, clearly set up shows for the masses. They had no idea just how dangerous she truly was, but youd not think it now, not while this big usleess lump of a woman sobbed uncontrollably, even when she tried to stop, it just wouldnt quit, not then, not when plum got her to sign for the property she could now legally own, not when she was given a contract to sign legally to be an employee of plums house, a few tears landing on ink and blurring the words. She didnt stop when she went back to work, trying to reel it in around the others. amongst them from what she saw it was only her and grey who had this fate handed to them, the others were people simply hired, living their lives. no one else carried such a burden, so telling them seemed pointless. She just did her job, and tried her best to stop crying. The tears made every guard around her nervous, she was always so stoic and calm. The youngsters rallied to her as support, trying to cheer her up with jokes, unaware that she didnt need cheering up, she was happier than she'd ever been. The older staff tried to pry it out of her in more subtle ways, find out if they could help, if they had someone to beat to a pulp for hurting her, a rare offer they didnt give her much due to the fact that she would happily fight her own battles. She laughs, it throws them all off as she thanks them for their concern, that shes fine, that shes better than ever. and finally, Grey. Her captain gets wind of the state shes in, his subbordinates coming to him to express concern, to ask that he checks on her to make sure shes ok. Its not like shes not working, shes just crying the whole time, so he wanders over to her post, approaching to the sound of sniffling and sobbing, caught off guard by laughter from her, she's at her post, patrolling as expected.

She hears him approach and turns, he doesnt expect the tears, even hearing them didnt prepare him, but the smile was what threw him the most. He immediatly goes to her with arms open, and she doesnt hesitate to take him up on the welcomed hug. A first, usualy tentative or at least hesitant before taking the offer he extended. Theres no words he can find that express just how happy he is to hear that all the hard work plum had put in, all the threats and bribes made, amounted to a success.

Plum watches from a balcony, can see them at the boarders near the gates discussing, unaware that behind walls and shrubs other staff watch on, all overhearing their conversation. She sees grey exclaim, heard his shock, his joy, peach is still crying luaghing, smiling, years of grief coming out, and in no time at all, the hidden staff are on them. Several guards, a couple of the house girls, one of the gardeners, a stable boy, all on them, one big group shout, cheer, all for that big dope who refuses to see that her place in the world is forming. People around her care, they're in her corner. Plum retires as the commotion dies down, a deep sigh of relief, that finally something has come of all the hard work she's put in to fix this.

It isnt hard to guess where the boss ends up by the late hours, creeping out into the dark to finally join Peach in the house she now legally owned, happy to see her off duty guard answer her knocks at the door, a drink already in her hand, hair down, as if she'd been having her own little celebration, looking a little red in the cheek. Plum is met by a smile, no stiff posture, no immediate retraction to straighten up and look ready for work, just the door held open, no words. Boss goes in, and doesnt come back out until the late morning, revelling in her guards day off with her, not even considering leaving that bed.

Peach plants that shrub Grey got her by the little wooden gate into the property, every day brushing past it with a smile. She can see it from her home, so even when it rains and shes in, she can look to it. The mark of freedom for her is a tree, one that seems to remind her that progress is often steady and slow.