#Top Hair Institute

[mdilip948]

Vlcc hair Institute provides short to advance hair  courses for beginners also as professionals in Hair Dressing and Hair Styling Techniques. Career Opportunity: On successful completion actually in Hair Technology ,hair Course qualified candidates can work as Hair Stylists, Freelancers, Faculties, Technical Trainers, Salon Owners or in Media Houses. VLCC Institute course in Hair Technology is devoted for beginners where we teach standard techniques employed by trained faculties, supplying you with the time and space to actually perfect lines, graduation, layering and their combinations. Salon Ethics, Different Techniques of Coloring, Hair Cutting, Chemical Treatments, Hair Extension and Latest Up Styles are added together during this course. This course lays the inspiration for enhancing your skills and knowledge, by providing you with hands-on practical work experience and detailed tutorials from highly qualified instructors. Choosing this course will provide you with the arrogance to expand your collection and develop your talent.

[superbhandarihospital]

Fellowship in Laparoscopic Surgery

Bimast is the best medical training institutes in India and provides retina fellowship, vitreo retinal, phacoemulsification courses and retina training in India. We have offered basic and advanced Courses in Medical Retina.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 2 - Adjustments

Summary: You're struggling a bit in your adjustment to your new life, and you're finding some of them are easier to get along with than others. Luckily you're not in it alone.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, military inaccuracies, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Author's Note: I'm so just overwhelmed with the attention this fic has gotten, but not in a bad way I promise! I'm just surprised is all. Thank you everyone that has read and reblogged and commented. I love all of you and so, since I have no self control, here is Chapter 2. Lots more world building and dialogue in this part, but I promise good stuff is coming.

Also I promise Soap will get his time soon. He's just the hardest for me to write, and you'll see why in this chapter.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“She was lying.” 

Price doesn’t bother looking up as a dark figure leans against the wall next to him. He stares out at the empty space between the barracks and the mess hall, not much traffic between the buildings during this time of day. 

“About how she got to the institute.” 

“Or at least not telling the whole truth.” Price says, turning to look at Simon. “Something tells me she’d talk if we asked.” 

“She’s soft.” Simon says, letting his gaze drift off into the distance. 

“She’s a civilian.” Price counters. “The CIA did a little training, but she’ll need some work. We can’t leave her completely defenseless...” 

Simon turns to face him again. “There’s something else.” 

Price pushes himself off the wall, heading back inside. Simon follows, the two of them making their way down the hall to his office. “There’s hundreds of American military bases across the world, thousands of regiments they could have chosen from, and yet, they sent her to us.” 

Simon closes the door behind him as Price sinks into his desk chair. “You think it was deliberate?” 

Price pulls open one of the drawers, pulling out the file Kate had given him. “Laswell said the CIA has had eyes on her for years.” He slides it across his desk to Simon. “There’s a lot of why's in this situation, and a lot of how’s. Like, if what she’s saying is true, how did a Staff Sergeant get his daughter into FIOT practically overnight?” 

Simon glances up at him over the top of the file. “You think there’s something else going on with this Initiative.” 

Price nods. “I do. I think there’s more than one experiment being run, and we’re the guinea pigs.” 

You stare at your reflection in the mirror as you run a comb through your damp hair. You look tired, the dark circles that have plagued your face for the last few weeks looking even darker now. It’s been a long day, so long it’s hard to believe it’s only been a matter of hours since you boarded the helicopter in London. 

Your new pack had made themselves scarce after dinner, leaving you to your own devices. You had been left alone after lunch too, and you had spent that time laying in bed, resting after the overwhelming scenting. 

You’d played back the last few hours in your mind. Leaving London in the helicopter, meeting your new Pack Alpha, Laswell leaving, meeting your new pack, the scenting. You had plenty to think about, to stress over, and you had been surprised when the knock came at your door for dinner. You were equally surprised to see Gaz and Soap waiting for you. 

You’d been sandwiched between them again as you walked to the mess. It was busier for dinner, and the eyes weren’t quite so quick to look away with the alphas missing. You know they have to be curious, with an omega on base following around two members of a SpecOps team, smelling like them. You know what they were probably thinking of you, what they were thinking your presence means. 

You’ve begun to understand Price’s rules a bit more. 

Price and Ghost had joined you as Soap said they would, coming in late from whatever they had been busy doing. You had been seated next to Soap, Ghost taking his other side while Price sat next to Gaz. It hadn’t gone unnoticed to you how close Soap and Ghost sat, and you remembered the look in Ghost’s eyes when Soap had approached to scent you. How his defensive stare had turned icy, threatening even, when he’d gotten close to you as if you were capable of hurting Soap. It had been a silent warning. If you tried anything, you’d have him to contend with. 

Ghost is territorial, more so than most alphas. You had seen it just a bit in Price, but only because you had been watching for it. Ghost was silent in his claim, but his gaze spoke of his territorialism. As you sat at the table with them, you slowly felt the stares lessen, the curious alphas and betas around you slowly turning away from your table until you were left in peace. You knew it was all thanks to a well-pointed glare from the second alpha at the table. 

They’d escorted you back to the barracks before disappearing again, leaving you alone. You’d opted for a shower to try and clear your head, exhaustion weighing heavy in your limbs but your mind was racing too much to really get any rest. You haven’t been told what their normal schedules entail or even what they look like, but you expect an early morning tomorrow. Since Price had said at least one of them needed to escort you around base, that likely meant you were going to be constrained to their schedules. 

You know even when they’re not away, their days are probably full of training and briefings, much like yours had been for three months. They’re probably up early, earlier than you’d like to be, and then they go non-stop all day. 

You wonder if they ever get a break. 

Maybe this is a break for them. 

You sit on the edge of the bed after you finish your routine, eyeing the pillows and blankets stacked at the end. They’re military issue, not as soft or as plush as you might have preferred. This is your new normal, though. Comfort isn’t exactly going to be a high priority. 

Tears prick your eyes as you run your hand over the comforter. You know it’s the exhaustion, the stress of the day beginning to weigh on you. You’re worn out, and that’s causing a slip in the tight reins you keep on your mood. Omegas and alphas were both prone to being moody, and those who were unrestrained could lose control quickly. Alphas were quick to anger, while omegas could get depressed very easily. Exhaustion drives both to being grumpy, though alphas will descend into irritability and anger, while omegas will get whiny and weepy. 

You hate it, how easily you can be driven to cry. How easily you can lose control. It makes you feel weak and helpless, but that’s partially by design. It was supposed to be your pack’s job to fix that, to give you that support and take care of you. 

Except you don���t know your pack. 

What would they do if you approached them like this, all teary and needy? Would instinct take over and snap them into their roles? Or would they give you an awkward pat on the back and leave you to take care of yourself? Gaz would help you, you think. He had slipped into that role so easily during the scenting. Your fingers twitch on the bedspread, your mind telling you to seek him out, track him down, even if it’s only to catch a whiff of his scent again.  

Your phone screen lights up where it’s sitting on the nightstand, drawing your attention from the door. Kate had given you the phone just this morning before you left the hotel. It had her number on it, as well as your pack’s. You’d half expected to find messages already from them when you’d turned it on, but there had been none. They had kept that boundary of meeting in person first. 

You pick up the phone, checking the message. It’s from Price. 

Breakfast is at 0700. I’ll take you to see the Omega Specialist after. 

Seven o’clock. It’s not terribly early. You’d eaten around the same time at the institute. You’ll get to meet the Omega Specialist as well tomorrow. You’ve met plenty of them in your time as an omega, but something about the idea of having someone there who knows, who understands is comforting to you. 

You send a reply in acknowledgement for tomorrow’s plan before setting an alarm for tomorrow morning. There’s an uneasy feeling under your skin, a tickling in the back of your mind that you can’t seem to relax. Your eyes are drawn to the desk where the shirts still sit, and before you know it you’re moving to the desk, letting your fingers trail over each one. 

You grab Price’s shirt, taking it back to your bed. You curl up with your back facing the door, holding the shirt against your chest, letting the scent of tobacco smoke and whiskey fill your nose. Silent tears slide down your cheeks, your face pressing into the pillow to muffle your sobs. 

As you try to muffle your tears, you miss the sound of boots pausing in front of your door, the person on the other side standing there for a moment before continuing down the hall. 

You let out a groan as your alarm pulls you from sleep. You had drifted in and out for a few hours before finally managing to get a couple precious hours of sleep. You’d woken when the others got up. You knew they were trying to be quiet but you had heard them shuffling around, talking quietly amongst each other. You’re normally a fairly deep sleeper, but in a new place you always struggle. 

A new place surrounded by almost complete strangers. 

You turn off your alarm, sitting up and rubbing your eyes. They’re burning a bit, the exhaustion still weighing heavy on your shoulders. You pad to the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face to try and make yourself at least look more alive than you feel. The last thing you need is them getting worried about you. That’s attention you’re not sure you want right now. 

You blink sleepily at your closet, trying to decide what to wear. Were you allowed to wear anything? You didn’t have much besides the basics, since the only thing you had been allowed to wear at the institute was its uniform and the clothes they provided. Then when you were with the CIA, they had provided clothes for you to wear as well. The things you have now had been bought by Kate before you left D.C. 

Everyone on base wore similar variants of the same uniform. You’re not military, though, so you don’t think those rules apply to you. No one had said anything about your state of dress yesterday. You opt for comfort, knowing you’d likely find out soon if you were going to be forced to dress differently too. 

You’re tying your shoes when the knock sounds on your door. You had heard the others moving around, footsteps in the hallway, opening and closing doors, quiet voices talking and Soap laughing at something. You know it’s one of them, yet the nervous tickle at the back of your head is back. 

Soap is leaning casually against your doorframe when you open the door. His face lights up in a smile as he sees you. “Morning, bonny. Sleep alright?” 

“Yeah.” You shrug. “Tossed and turned for a while.” 

“We didne keep ye up did we?” He asks, his smile faltering just a bit. 

You shake your head. “No, I never sleep well the first few nights in a new place.” 

“Well, our beds are always open if ye need something more comfortable.” He winks at you playfully. 

Your face warms at his words, the double meaning not lost on you. You were right, Soap was going to be the one to push your boundaries the most. 

Gaz elbows him in the ribs as he passes. “She’s been here a day, mate, don’t go scaring her off now.” He leans on the other side of your doorframe, giving you a smile. “Morning.” 

“Morning.” You say, your face still warm from Soap’s teasing. 

“You hungry?” Gaz asks. 

You nod. You do feel hungry this morning, likely a side effect from your emotional night last night. You step out of your room, the two betas stepping back to give you space as you close the door behind you. Ghost is leaning against the wall next to his door, his eyes watching with the typical cautious disinterest that seemed to be his default setting. 

Gaz and Soap sandwich you between them again, close enough their arms brush yours as you walk. It was almost as if they could sense your inner turmoil, the neediness still tugging at the back of your mind. If Ghost hadn’t been trailing the three of you, you might have been tempted to give in and grip their sleeves, or slip your hands into theirs. How would Ghost respond to such a bold move? The mental image of your body flying through the air as he punted you into next week almost makes you laugh. 

Price is already seated at a table frowning at his phone over a cup of coffee. Gaz and Soap load up your tray for you, something you’re getting used to rather quickly. It was expected from the alphas, or at least Price, to coddle you a bit, but it seemed the betas were more than happy to get in on it as well. 

The thought makes something flutter in your chest. 

You’re seated between Gaz and Price again once you reach the table, Price greeting you with a tired smile. “Morning. Sleep alright?” 

“Not really.” You say honestly. “New place and all. I’ll settle in eventually.” 

“Maybe the Omega Specialist can give you some ideas to help.” He glances at his watch before looking at you as you spoon a heaping spoonful of porridge into your mouth. “Take your time. We have until 8.” 

You listen to the conversation at the table as you eat, Gaz and Soap talking about a football game that’s on tonight. You feel eyes on you, your skin prickling a bit. You glance up, half expecting Ghost to be glowering at you again, but his gaze is focused on his eggs. You cast a quick glance around the mess, turning slightly to look behind you. 

Three tables over, you find the gaze of some soldier focused on you. You haven’t paid much attention to anyone else on the base, but then again you haven’t had much time or reason to yet. You can’t read the expression on his face as he stares at you, but you feel a shiver run down your spine as your eyes meet his. 

He stares at you for a few seconds before his gaze moves slightly past you, quickly dropping back to his plate. You turn around, finding Ghost staring just past your head. His eyes are narrowed, his scent coming off stronger than it had been. You can practically see his hackles raised, the warning clear in the air. You feel the urge to curl in on yourself, the threatening aura radiating from him makes you want to cower. 

It doesn't go unnoticed by those at the table either. 

“Easy, Ghost.” Price says calmly, Gaz turning to follow his line of sight. 

“Bloody wanker.” Ghost grumbles before rising from the table. 

You turn back around, but the soldier that had been staring at you is gone. 

You nervously pick at your sweatshirt sleeves as you sit in the plastic chair next to Price. You’re still on edge a bit from what happened at breakfast. It wasn’t so much being stared at that bothered you. After now three meals in the mess, you’ve almost come to expect it. It’s Ghost’s reaction that has your mind still reeling. 

“I’ve always hated the medical center.” Price says with a sigh as he leans his head back against the wall. “It smells too sterile. Makes my nose burn. Reminds me of too many close calls.” 

His words jar you a bit. You hadn’t even thought about that aspect of his job. He’s used to getting shot at, to getting into fights, running head first into danger that would send most running the other way. You wonder how many times he’s been the one with the close call, and how many others he’s had to watch have their own. 

You wonder how many times he’s had to make that trip to tell someone’s family. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts as the door across from you opens. Price pushes himself to his feet, and you follow as a kind looking woman steps out. You breathe a quiet sigh of relief. You don’t have anything against male Omega Specialists, but you were already surrounded by men. Sure you have Kate, but she’s half a world away. 

She’s tall, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. Despite being a doctor she’s dressed casually, no white coat or gloves to be seen. Her eyes are light green and crease in the corners when she smiles. 

“Hello, I’m Dr. Keller.” She introduces herself, shaking Price’s hand. 

American. You think, silently breathing another sigh of relief. Kate really had pulled some strings with this one. 

“Captain John Price.” He says. 

You introduce yourself when she turns to you, shaking your hand. Her voice is soft and gentle, the scent of beta coming off her in waves. 

“Come on in,” She says, leading you into the office. “Sit anywhere you like. Make yourselves comfortable.” 

Her office isn’t what you expected either. Instead of the harsh fluorescents, the lighting is softer, warmer. There’s paintings and posters all over the walls, along with several plants. There’s a desk covered in books and paperwork in one corner and a bookshelf with several books packed into it in the other. There’s a couch on one wall, and a couple plush looking chairs on the other. 

You move to one of the chairs, sinking down onto it. It envelops you in softness, and you feel as if you might sink into it and never be able to get out. After a day of hard plastic and stiff blankets, it nearly makes you weep. 

Price takes the chair next to you, Dr. Keller sitting on the couch across from you. The office smells good, a light, neutral scent in the air aside from the pure almondy scent of beta. 

“Alright,” She says, holding a tablet and a stack of files in her lap. “I always like to start by introducing myself and telling you a bit about me, then we’ll get into the important stuff.” 

She jumps into telling you about herself. Where she grew up: California. Where she studied: UC Berkeley. What institute she did her residency at: West Coast Training Academy. Where she worked last before Kate called her in: some poor inner city institute in LA. 

“Now, on to the more important stuff.” She says, turning on the tablet. “I got your medical records yesterday. You’re quite the healthy girl.” 

“Yes ma'am. I have good genes. That’s what my mom used to say.” You respond. 

Dr. Keller smiles. “Hardly even been sick. Your heats are all normal, too, correct?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You say. “Except for a three month stretch two years ago.” 

“Yes, the heat sickness epidemic that hit America.” She says. 

You nod. “FIOT locked down completely and everyone was supposed to quarantine, but I heard a rumor that it was one of the beta food workers. She snuck out to see her alpha boyfriend and brought it in with her. We only think it was her because she disappeared not long after the first omega got sick.” 

Dr. Keller hums. “I know not everyone was so willing to take it seriously. You made a full recovery, though. No lasting side effects, I’m sure thanks to the state of the art medical facilities that FIOT keeps.” 

“Yes, ma’am. We were lucky it was just a mild case.” 

“That is lucky.” She flips through something on the tablet. “Your lab results all look phenomenal. I like to do checkups monthly, just to ensure everything is working as it should. I know the CIA gave you quite the cocktail of vaccines while you were with them.” She turns her gaze to Price. “Captain Price, I’ve sent in a request for your team’s vaccination records as well. I’m sure you’ve had everything under the sun, but I’d like to ensure there’s no risk of any accidental exposures.” 

“I don’t see a problem with that.” Price says. “If RAMC gives you any trouble, just let me know. I’ll get them for you myself.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” She says. “One last bit in this part and then we can move on. I see FIOT issued an implant before you left, as is standard practice.” 

You nod. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good. You’ve had more than enough time for it to take effect so we won’t have to worry about any accidental slip ups during your next heat.” 

Your cheeks warm at her words a bit. You’ve been trying to avoid thinking about that inevitable side of things. 

“And your next heat is roughly six weeks away.” She says, looking at the calendar. “Don't be surprised if it comes a little earlier now that you’re being exposed to alphas again.” 

Your stomach twists nervously at that thought. It was common for heats to be triggered early after exposure to alphas, especially after such a prolonged period without exposure to them. It wasn’t likely to start tomorrow, but you knew it could jump a week or two due to the natural pheromones alphas put off, and the instinctual call for the alpha/omega bond. 

“You’re planning for the claiming to take place during the heat?” Dr. Keller asks. 

“Yes, that’s the plan.” Price says. 

“That is the most natural time for it.” Dr. Keller says. “Of course, it is always up to omega preference in the end.” 

You don’t miss the way her eyes dart to you for a second. 

“Now that that’s over with,” She says, putting the tablet to the side. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to do this next part with just the two of us.” 

A beat of silence passes before you realize she’s asking you. Her eyes are on you, and so are Price’s. She’s asking you. She’s asking you what you want. 

“I-I guess...yeah.” You stutter over your words, not quite sure how to answer. Is there a wrong answer? Would Price be upset if you said yes? Would Dr. Keller be upset if you said no? Your eyes turn to Price, trying to gauge his reaction. 

“It’s up to you.” He says softly. “We’re here for you.” 

You sit up a little straighter at his words, nodding your head. “Y-Yes. That’s okay.” 

Price pushes himself to stand up. “I’ll be right outside.” 

The air inside the room seems to lighten as he leaves, Dr. Keller reclining back on the couch as the door clicks shut. She pulls out a stack of papers and a pen before she looks at you. Your palms are sweating, and you’re starting to think you’d like the chair to swallow you whole. 

“This next part can feel a bit personal, but I just want you to know that everything you say in here is as confidential as you’d like it to be. Captain Price is right. I am an Omega Specialist, I’m here for you. I’m not just a doctor, I’m here to help you in all aspects of being an omega. I know FIOT teaches a lot, mainly obedience and compliance. I want to make it clear that you can be honest with me.” She holds up the stack of papers. “No one is going to see these papers but me, alright?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You nod. 

“You don’t have to be so formal with me.” She smiles. “You can call me Dr. Keller, or Doc. You could even call me an evil bitch if you want, it won’t phase me any.” 

You can’t help the small smile that forms on your face. 

“I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you. They’re a sort of tracker to measure how well you’re settling in and bonding with your new pack. I’d like to meet once a week until your next heat just to see how well you’re settling in. After that we can meet as often as you’d like. Sound good?” 

You nod in approval. It sounds like a lot, but you also know you’re going to have a lot of downtime, even with your pack on base. 

“Alright, let’s get started. How are you settling in? I know it’s barely been a day, but I want to know how you feel here.” 

Your heart begins to pound in your chest. How do you feel here? How do you feel after being pulled from the institute and taken to a training facility where you found out you’d be moving halfway across the world to be a military pack’s omega. 

This wasn’t what you had expected when you reached the age where you became an available omega. Most omegas at FIOT came from rich, powerful, important families and your purpose there was to be groomed into the perfect omega to return right back to that world. 

You thought you would be chosen quickly. You had expected it. With your scores and your high ratings and your status, you were what most alphas dreamed of. Yet, the years had passed and though there was some interest, nothing had ever come of it. You weren’t alone in it. There were others like you, those who excelled at being an omega, but then seemed to stall in the selection once they came of age. 

Of course, now that you look back on it, you can’t help but think it might have been done on purpose. The Omega Initiative was new, you had been told during your first briefing explaining why you were taken to a remote building somewhere outside of D.C. and greeted not by your new pack, but swathes of CIA agents. Military packs were nothing new, but they wanted to utilize the naturally formed packs and make them stronger and more stable by adding in omegas. 

Only highly skilled omegas were considered for the program, but of course you had no say in whether you were going to partake or not. They chose the omegas and they decided where you would end up. 

It wasn’t that dissimilar from being chosen from an Institute. At FIOT there was a screening process packs had to go through to be determined eligible to have access to omega files. Then the pack would have to send a neutral emissary, usually a beta, to meet the omegas in person and choose on behalf of the alpha. Most institutes don’t have that strenuous of a process, and some don’t have a process at all. In some, alphas themselves could walk in and choose an omega without even so much as a background check. 

Omegas never got a say. As soon as you were handed over to an institute, the ability to choose was taken from you. Whoever your caretakers were as a pup signed over their rights to you and the institute became your legal guardian. They dictated your life up until you joined a new pack. 

You had hoped it would be someone rich. If nothing else, you’d get to live a cushy life and you’d never have to worry about anything. When they told you what was really going to happen to you, you had almost cried. You did cry, late at night curled up in your bunk after hours of training and briefings. 

Kate picked you for this pack specifically because she knew them and she knew you could handle them and their world. 

Maybe if you had been worse at being an omega, things would have been better for you. 

Or maybe they would have been worse. 

“It’s...different.” You finally say, picking at your sleeves again. “But in a lot of ways, it’s similar to The Institute. It always takes me time to settle somewhere new.” 

“Me too.” Dr. Keller says, writing some things down. “And with the time change, it’s just so much harder. I feel like I should be in bed right now, but it’s 8 AM. Have you started nesting?” 

You shake your head. “No. I don’t even feel the urge to.” 

“That’s fine.” She says, writing something else down. “In truth, I’d be more concerned if you were.” 

Your eyebrows raise a bit. “Why?” 

“During an adjustment period for an omega, especially in a new pack, there can be something that happens called false instincts. The sudden urge to nest, a drive to bond with pack members too soon, false heats. It’s usually brought on by a sudden change in environment, like when omegas are taken from a place where they’ve spent sometimes years with no exposure to alphas and are suddenly thrown into a space with a lot of alphas. It’s more common in larger packs where you have alphas, betas, and other omegas.” 

“Could it happen in smaller packs?” You ask. 

“It’s possible, though rare. It can cause some serious issues down the line when those instincts are actually supposed to begin to show up, like adjustment sickness. I’d say if you’re starting to feel the urge to nest or bond before the first week is up, then come talk to me, alright?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” You nod. 

She smiles, turning the page. “How far have you gotten with the bonding process?” 

“Just the scenting yesterday.” You answer. 

“And how did that go?” 

You pick at the loose thread on your sweatshirt. “Fine. It was...overwhelming.” 

“They can be.” Dr. Keller says. “The new members of your pack, how are you getting along with them?” 

“Fine, I guess.” You shrug. “I like Soap and Gaz. Price, he’s...he’s nice, and Ghost...” You trail off, not sure how to answer. If she’d asked before breakfast you might have said he doesn't like you. He doesn’t want you to be part of his pack, but after what happened at breakfast...

You can’t be sure he did it for you. He could have thought that soldier was staring at Soap or Gaz or even Price. He could have thought the soldier was staring at him and was annoyed with it. He had scared off the stares at every meal you’d eaten together, but how often did they get stared at? You couldn’t know if that was a daily occurrence and he was just growing sick of it. 

He could be annoyed with you because you’re drawing in the stares. 

“I don’t know what to think about him yet.” You answer. 

She writes something else down, going through a few more questions with you. How is your appetite? How are you sleeping? Are you taking care of your needs? Do you have any concerns? 

Before you know it the hour has passed and you’re walking out the door into the fluorescent, sterile hallway of the medical center. 

“Remember, you have my number. If you need anything, I’m here for you.” Dr. Keller says as you part ways. 

You walk with Price out of the medical center, glad to be out in the fresh air. It’s not particularly warm, and the sun is hidden behind a layer of clouds, but it’s better than the medical center. 

“What do you think?” Price asks as you follow him back to the barracks. 

“I think it went well.” You say, mind still reeling from an eventful morning. You’re beginning to feel your restless night. 

“Do you like Dr. Keller?” He asks, probing a bit. 

You nod. “Yes, sir. She’s nice.” 

“Good.” He says, opening the door to the barracks for you. “I have to leave to oversee training for the next few hours.” He glances at his watch. “One of us will come get you for lunch.” 

You nod. Of course you’d find yourself alone again between meals. You’re beginning to notice a pattern. “Yes, sir.” 

His hand is warm as it settles on your shoulder, squeezing gently. You’re surprised by the touch, as small as it is. Were they too fighting the urge to get close to you, like you had this morning? 

You can still feel the warmth of his hand even after it’s disappeared and he’s gone. You head for the rec room, deciding to avoid the constricting feeling of being shut in your room for the time being. 

The TV is on when you enter, but the room is empty, playing some morning talk show. You move to the bookshelf against the wall, letting your eyes scan the titles. There's a surprising lack of military-based books shoved into the packed shelf. Of course there's a handful of old manuals and handbooks, nothing that you're particularly concerned about needing to read. You let out a sigh, standing on your toes to reach a Brandon Sanderson novel. 

You look around the room but the remote for the TV seems to be missing, and it’s too high on the wall for you to reach the power button, so you leave it on, curling up on one corner of the couch as you begin to read. 

You’re not sure how much time has passed when something moves in your peripheral. The sun has come out briefly, shining in through the windows. You look up from the book, suddenly feeling very small under Ghost’s gaze. His eyes are narrowed as he stares down at you, a thousand things flashing through your mind. Are you in his spot? Is this his book? Had he come to the rec room hoping to be alone and here you are infringing in his space? 

“Come on.” He says, his voice rougher than it had been this morning. “Lunch.” 

He’s already turned and heading out the door as you scramble up, leaving the book on the coffee table as you hurry to catch up to him. His steps are quick and wide, and you find yourself having to almost speedwalk to keep up with him. 

Your thoughts are jumbled as you follow him out of the barracks and off towards the mess. Why would they send him to get you? Was he the only one available? Yesterday they had time before lunch to return to the barracks, or had that only been because of you? Or were they perhaps hoping this might offer a chance for the two of you to bond a bit? 

Or were they entirely blind to Ghost’s disinterest in your existence? 

Perhaps they were used to it. After so long together, perhaps they just thought it was normal. If you were brave enough to bring it up, would you get a “oh that’s just how he is” in response? 

You can’t see the others as you enter the mess, Ghost leading you to the line. He stands behind you like a hulking shadow, his scent covered by the smell of gunpowder and sweat. You fill your own tray for the first time, grabbing things that look appetizing. You’ll have to get used to it eventually, even though the others insisted on doing it for the time being. When they’re not here, you’ll have to do it yourself. 

Ghost leads you to an empty table, and you opt to sit across from him. You begin to eat, taking big bites to avoid the need for conversation, not that you really thought Ghost would strike up a conversation with you. Your eyes flicker around the room nervously, glancing over the entrances time and time again, waiting for the others to arrive. 

“Stop twitching. They’re on their way.” 

The words cut straight through you and you snap your head around to face Ghost. He’s got his mask pulled up to his nose, your eyes immediately drawn to the exposed pale skin. There’s light stubble on his chin. You remember how that had felt on your own skin when he’d scented you. He’s blonde, you think, or at least has light hair judging by the color of the stubble. There’s a scar on his chin, almost hidden by the stubble. 

Your face warms as you realize you’ve been caught in your nervous fretting. Of course, you should have known he would take notice. There’s not a lot they don’t notice, you think. Though, when your survival depends on noticing even the smallest detail of anything or anyone...

You jump as a tray is set down next to yours, your eyes snapping up to see Gaz with a smile on his face. You turn back to look at Ghost, his mask pulled back down but you see a slight shake to his shoulders for a second.

Was he...laughing at you? 

Your attention is drawn from him as Gaz takes a seat next to you, sitting close enough his arm is almost brushing yours. Price and Soap taking their usual spots as well. You’re beginning to pick up on the patterns that existed around them, and their own patterns. Perhaps that will make it easier for you to fit yourself into their lives. You knew from the start they weren’t going to change to fit you into their lives. They couldn’t. You were going to have to find a way to fit into their lives. 

Gaz walks you back to the barracks after lunch, abnormally quiet as he watches you warily. He walks you to your door, leaning on the doorframe as you step inside. 

“You alright?” He asks, big brown eyes shining with worry as he looks you over. 

“Yeah.” You nod, shifting on your feet. “Just tired. I think I might take a nap.” 

He nods, and you’re sure he doesn't quite believe you, but he doesn’t press any. “Alright. Happy napping.” 

You close the door as he leaves, sinking down onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. It’s been a long day and it’s only lunch. Between the probing questions from Dr. Keller and the few minutes you had spent alone with Ghost you feel exhausted. It was good to know you weren’t entirely broken in your lack of nesting instincts, and perhaps your turmoil with belonging in this place wasn’t quite as abnormal as you thought. 

What to do about Ghost.

He’s said more words to you today than he did in the entirety of the previous day. In fact, you think today might be the first time he’s spoken to you at all. You know he doesn’t approve of you, and you’d go so far as to say he doesn’t like you. You can imagine he fought the hardest against you being added to the pack. They were fine without you. It didn’t take a genius to see that. 

You’re an outsider. A civilian. A risk. 

An unneeded disruption to their lives. 

You pull your phone out of your pocket, staring at the dark screen. You know Ghost might never accept you. He won’t want to claim you, he won’t mate you, but...perhaps you might just get him to tolerate you. 

You unlock your phone, sending a quick text to Kate. 

“Can you get a book for me?”

You regret your decision momentarily as you step into the rec room. Gaz and Soap are lounged on the couch, beer bottles open on the coffee table. The TV is playing ads, their attention on each other. You almost feel as if you’re infringing upon a private moment as they laugh, half tempted to race back to your room and hide until your hunger draws you out or someone breaks down the door to get to you. 

“Hey!” Gaz’s face lights up when he sees you, Soap turning to look at you.

“Hey, bonny!” His face lights up with a smile. 

“Do you mind if I join you?” You ask, shifting nervously on your feet. 

“Not at all.” Gaz says, patting the empty spot on the couch next to him. “You want a beer?” 

You shake your head. “No thank you. Never could get past the taste.” 

Soap throws his head back as he laughs, slapping Gaz’s shoulder. “I keep tellin’ ye!” 

“Yet you keep drinking it!” Gaz attempts to defend himself. 

“Cause it’s th’ only thing we got!” Soap argues, leaning around Gaz to stare at you. “So, ye a football fan, bonny?” 

“Well, I watched the World Cup a couple times as a kid.” You say. “My household was more of an American football and baseball household. Two of my older brothers played soccer, though they never were very serious about it. Mostly just did it to fulfill my dad’s physical activity extracurricular requirement.” 

“What did you do to fulfill that requirement?” Gaz asks as he takes a sip of his beer. 

“Softball. I was...not good at it.” You laugh. “I could catch and throw, but I don’t think I hit the ball a single time I was at bat.” 

Both of them chuckle, turning back to the TV as the ad ends. “Don’t worry, we’ll turn you into a proper football fan yet.” Gaz says. 

You watch the game with them, and it doesn’t take you long to realize they’re rooting for opposing teams. They explain things to you here and there in between yelling at the TV and each other. Despite how loud they are, you find yourself relaxing further and further, the tension from the last two days easing away, even as the two betas yell at each other over a soccer game. 

Gaz tenses for a second as he feels a sudden weight on his shoulder. He turns his head slightly, noticing you’ve fallen asleep, your head drooping onto his shoulder. His lips quirk up in a smile as he gently nudges Soap. 

“Wha?” Soap asks, turning to look at him. 

He jerks his head to the side, leaning back just slightly so Soap can see. A grin breaks out on the younger man’s face and he pulls out his phone. “Aww, look a’ that. Think we should wake ‘er and get ‘er tae bed?” 

“Nah.” Gaz says. “Let her sleep for now. She probably needs it.” 

You sleep soundly through overtime, Gaz not moving until the post game is over, letting you sleep as long as possible. He knows you have to be tired, after the last few days and the time difference. You looked tired today, with dark circles and droopy eyes. He hates to wake you, but he knows you can’t sleep on the couch. 

He nudges you gently, trying to rouse you. “Hey.” He nudges you again, your head finally lifting off his shoulder. 

You blink sleepily, rubbing at your eyes. You make a quiet sound in protest of being awake, eyes drooping closed again. 

“Come on, love.” He says, keeping you upright. “It’s time for bed.” 

You cover your yawn with your hand, blinking at him sleepily. “Bed?” You murmur sleepily, Gaz smiling softly at how adorable you are in this state. 

“Yeah, you’ll be more comfortable in bed.” He pushes himself to stand, hands on your arms to pull you up. 

You make another sound in protest, nearly falling against his chest when he gets you on your feet. He wraps an arm around you, letting you lean on him as he guides you back to bed, Soap cleaning up the mess they had made. 

You’re more awake once you get to your door, blinking up at him with bleary eyes. “‘S fun.” You murmur, rubbing your eyes. “Should do that more often.” 

“You’re always welcome to join us.” He says. “Get some rest. You’ve had a long week.” He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Night, love.” 

He waits until your door is closed before heading back down the hallway towards the rec room, a small smile on his face. 

NEXT ->

Taglist:

@bobaprint, @ashy-kit @anunintentionalwriter @mockerycrow @hayleybarnesx, @protokosmonaut @fruitymoonbeams-blog, @blue-blue0, @hindi-si-ikay @hanellokey, @thatonepupkai @redwites @kattiieee, @141trash @ghostlythots, @lothiriel9, @dillybuggg, @beebeechaos, @konigsmissedbeltloop, @kaoyamamegami, @thychuvaluswife, @idkkkkkkk8363, @wallwriterstuff, @bisky-business, @smile-child-13, @anomiatartle, @dangerkittenclaws, @bless-my-demons, @mystic60, @evolutionarry, @red-hydra @lunaetiicsaystuff, @cadotoast, @linaangel, @rancid-wasp, @codsunshine, @thriving-n-jiving, @slayerx147, @ferns-fics

(If you'd like to join the taglist, let me know!)

[iwpacademy12]

Looking for the Best Institute for Makeup Courses in Delhi? Our institute offers comprehensive training in beauty therapy and makeup artistry. Learn from experienced professionals and develop the skills to succeed in the beauty industry. Join us now and take the first step towards a rewarding career as a beautician.

[venusinmyrrh]

You said you love a good fashion doc- do you have any more to recommend?

Designers and tastemakers

Very Ralph (2019). The preeminent American designer of our time, one of the very few who can stand toe to toe with the titans of Paris and Milan. To call Ralph Lauren's work "sportswear" is to call the Sistine Chapel "kind of a big painting".

Halston (2019). Speaking of going head to head with Paris, Halston did it first. Skip Ultrasuede-- this is a much better doc about the king of American 70s disco glam.

McQueen (2018). When people talk about fashion as an art form, chances are they're thinking of Alexander McQueen. Worth watching for the pulse-pounding runway shows alone.

Westwood: Punk, Icon, Activist (2018). Obviously you already know about this one, but it's gotta go on any comprehensive list. Without Vivienne Westwood, punk would have been nothing but a handful of noisy assholes.

Diana Vreeland: The Eye Has to Travel (2011). My icon, my north star, my personal hero. The empress of taste and high priestess of personal style. Watch this doc whenever you need encouragement to do and wear whatever the hell you want.

The Gospel According to André (2017). Diana Vreeland's protegé and a godfather of style in his own right. If it happened in fashion in the last fifty years, André Leon Talley was there for it.

Lagerfeld Confidential (2007). I have a high tolerance for difficult and unpleasant people as long as I like their work. Your mileage may vary, but Karl Lagerfeld's immaculate, relentless taste cannot be denied.

Institutions and events

The First Monday in May (2016). Witness all the hustle, bustle, savvy, and stress that goes into planning the Met gala!

The September Issue (2009). Same as the above, but for the famous September issue of Vogue. Watch this to learn who Grace Coddington is.

Dior and I (2014). How do haute couture collections get made? In 8 weeks from start to finish, I guess, if you're Raf Simons during his first season at the House of Dior. A documentary and a thriller.

Scatter My Ashes at Bergdorf's (2013). No matter what other retailers might want you to think, Bergdorf Goodman is the last great department store. A portrait, already halfway to a time capsule, of what luxury shopping used to be.

Peripheral, but may be of interest

Nose (2021). The passionate, delicate art of perfume creation for the House of Dior. The French landscapes where they source their materials will make you swoon.

Larger Than Life: The Kevyn Aucoin Story (2017). As the makeup artist to pretty much every single icon of the 80s and 90s, Kevyn Aucoin invented the image of that era as much as any designer.

Fabergé: A Life of Its Own (2014). Come for the dazzling jewels and sumptuous objets d'art; stay to find out how this illustrious name ended up on hair care products in the 70s.

Crazy About Tiffany's (2016). Another luxury jeweler whose name alone is the stuff dreams are made on.

Bill Cunningham New York (2010). The original street style photographer, since before "street style" was even a thing. A love letter to curiosity, and a testament to the power of taking an interest in the world around us.

Still on my watchlist

Salvatore: Shoemaker of Dreams (2020). Directed by Luca Guadagnino, which is enough to put this Ferragamo doc at the top of my list.

Advanced Style (2014). Portraits of seven women aged 62-95 with truly fab personal style. Top Letterboxd review is seething about how out of touch they are with the real world, which means I am probably gonna love it.

Suited (2016). A study of gender through clothing in modern culture.

Dries (2017). A year-- and four collections-- in the life of Dries Van Noten, who, interestingly, doesn't see the point of clothes that people can't buy to wear, and so does not do couture.

Yellow is Forbidden (2018). This doc about Guo Pei appears to use her career as a framework to understand the gatekeeping of global culture by the West. Dope as hell, if it can pull it off.

American Style (2019). The political, social, and economic history of America through its fashion. Another one that could be really awesome if done with insight and panache.

Quant (2021). She may share the credit for inventing the miniskirt with two other people, but it cannot be argued that Mary Quant invented 1960s Swinging London. And for that we say thank you Dame Mary.

[jellyfishsthings]

WARNINGS: this is quite angsty...no actual smut happens just a tiny scene. Also I messes around with some scenes so I feel like it doesn't follow the storyline in the series... that's about it... (should a do a part 2?) part 2 here, part 3

He was nursing a long drink of whiskey on ice as he stared at the blank wall. The year was 1963, and he was currently sitting on a lousy couch in Dallas. The apocalypse was going to take place once again mere days away. He felt bone tired, no one around him understood the stakes and the pressure he was under. He got out of his jacket a black and white photo. A young woman in her early twenties had a huge smile plastered on her face, her head was slightly cocked to the side and loose hair from the messy bun that rested at the top of her head framed her beautiful face. She seemed radiant, her eyes were crinkled from her smile and she seemed like a goddess to him. A piece of heaven that he left behind.

“Who's that?” Klaus whispered in his ear and Five jumped from the sudden sound and he glared at his brother. Out of all his siblings, Klaus was the only one who would understand him. “She is beautiful.”

“She is my wife.” Five said quietly. His voice was soft and colored in an emotion that Klaus couldn't recognize.

“Your what?”

“Are you deaf? I said she is my wife, or at least she was.”

“What happened?”

Five had been at the Commission for several years. After a failed experiment he had turned back to his twenty-year-old self. He had heard whispers of the Scarlet Angel all around him, everyone seemed to talk about his rival, especially in his presence. It was supposed to be the deadliest assassin of the Institution besides him. One gray day he was called into the Handlers office. That was when he saw her for the first time. A tall woman was seated on a chair, her beautiful face turned towards him as he entered the room. Five had never been one to find in someone's physical beauty but at the moment their eyes met he could swear that his heart skipped a beat.

Their first assignment together had been such a success, that they were stuck together permanently. Throughout the following years, Five found himself falling for her harder every day, with every word she said, with every laugh she caused from him, the way she always had his back and defended him whether she agreed with his actions or not. Their fights were the best thing that ever happened to him, she always found ways to leave him speechless, with her smart comebacks, the way she was animated when she got angry, her hands flew around her, her face got angry red and her hair bounced with her movements. He had never seen someone look so exquisite when they were yelling at him. She made him feel alive, adrenaline coursed in his veins. She always got the better of him. She was so… infuriating. On one of those occasions he finally had enough.

He grabbed her face and smashed their lips together to silence her. She was breathless when he distanced himself from her. Her eyes were wild and her hand flew to his cheeks, slapping him. Before leaving him frozen on his spot. They were supposed to be undercover as a married couple at the gala of their target. They had been discussing tactics and strategies when things escalated.

With a deep breath, he tried to calm himself down and headed back towards the ballroom, searching for his supposed wife. They stayed together all night, dancing and acting like a couple. It seemed natural to him to be this way with her. Having her in his arms, and showing her off. Finally a few minutes shy of dawn, they tiptoed towards a huge room where their target hid diamonds. Diamonds they were going to steal after killing him, so the crime would seem like a robbery gone wrong. Just at the last corner, they were almost caught. Five quickly hoisted her up before he pinned her to a wall and he placed his face on her neck. Her skin flashed and her heartbeat was rapid beneath his mouth.

“Play along.” He whispered sweetly to her skin but she was shocked by his actions. So he had no choice. He sucked at her pulse point receiving an immediate reaction. Her legs drew back on his hold, her back arched, her eyes closed and her lips released a quiet breathy moan. At that moment he knew he was already addicted to her. He couldn't hold himself back any longer. He bit and sucked on her neck and her hands tangled into his hair as she tugged at the short strands on the back of his head. She was moaning in his arms and her hips rolled against his. He raised his knee and she started riding his leg shamelessly. He wanted to be inside of her or he was going to burst. He wanted to shut her smart mouth so it would no longer fire comebacks at him. He unbuckled his belt and lowered his pants before pushing her underwear to the side and he waited for a confirmation to continue. She could ask him to kneel, to beg and he would gladly do so. Just to steal one moment with her.

A loud bang echoed through the walls and they snapped out of their daze. But the damage had already been done. Their partnership had been blown to proposition forever. And the rest was history.

Several years later, and many happy years together after being married in secret. It happened, their big bang, the thing that embodied the doom of their relationship. Five had always been a pessimist, even in his early childhood. He was a firm believer in Murphy's law, which stated that when something could go wrong in a situation, always expect it to go wrong. They had traveled in Germany during the Second World War. Five posed as one of the ranking officers in Auschwitz as his wife was expected to do the same. Only, she had been compromised and now she was one of the prisoners. The terrible labor that she endured every day was the thing that would plague him for years to come. After completing their mission and several wounds later they managed to get back to the safety of their home.

“Why didn't you listen to me?” Five snap in frustration and terror. His hands shook as he tried to stitch a big guss on her stomach. She looked paper thin, her bones were visible and her veins along with her arteries stood prominent against her pale skin that lost its color.

“I did. I disagreed with your plan either way. And we had to do something drastic. I took a risk and I lost. It happens.”

“And did it have to happen in one of the most terrifying places that ever existed on this Earth?”

“Snap out of it. You would have done the same. And always where we are atrocious things have happened. So you don't get to lecture me. I am my own person. I made a call and it happened to be wrong. But if I hadn't done that we would have eventually failed this mission. And you don't get to lecture me when you have done nothing but be untruthful to me since the moment this started.”

“Wh- what are you talking about?” Five whispered, his voice quivered with unshown emotions. He could see the inevitable impact between them before his eyes, he had just hoped he could have a few more moments with her. A few more minutes, a few more hours, days, or years. Anything really.

Her eyes were hard and full of hatred. She pulled herself to her feet. The pain that consumed her must have been blinding. The open wounds leaked with blood that stained her skin. She moved towards her coat where she retrieved a dark green notebook and she slammed it against their kitchen table, before placing her hands on her hips and firing a challenging look towards him.

“You know I want to get back to my family, sweetheart.”

“Don't sweetheart me. These equations are only for one person. So is there something you want to tell me, dear husband of mine?”

“Please let me explain…”

“Explain what? That this meant nothing to you? You are an egoistic son of a bitch Five. And I am done with you. And you know why? You made the mistake of placing a date when you started. Our wedding date. You have already shown your true colors. You can leave now. And you can take this, I don't need it any longer. Either way, it was fake and it meant nothing to you.” She said before throwing her wedding ring at him. It thudded against his chest and he caught it mid-air, as he watched her walking away from him and slamming the door of their bedroom in her way. He stood frozen in his place. It was done. The one thing that made him feel alive, the one thing that made him happy left him. He lost it under his own hands. The same night, he left a letter behind him before he traveled back in time, back to his family. To them, he seemed a shy seven years older than when he disappeared. But they didn't know about the two things he carried with him from his last life. Her picture in the breast pocket of his smart jacket and her wedding ring on his collarbones as it hung from a golden chain, both hidden from the world.

“Five. That is just … I don't know what to say.”

“Then don't. It is already hard to think about her.”

“How long has it been since -”

“Six years, eight months and twenty days. My early attempts to get back to you weren't really successful.” He whispered as he toying with her ring. It was gold and smooth to touch, his name had been engraved on the inside. It had been a blast to convince the person who made them that his name was actually Five. And he smiled at the fond memory.

“Will you ever see her again?”

“I don't know. The selfish part of me wishes that, but another part of me knows that it is better this way. Because she is free and safe from me. Klaus, if you don't mind … no more talk please.”

Klaus looked at the pained expression on his brother's face. He had never heard him utter the world “please”, at least not to him. So he simply nodded and stayed with him in silence before their peace was disturbed by their reality.

words: 1.781

[suksatoru]

001. CARNATIONS.

Touya did not like to be touched.

That was one of the first things you learned from your colleagues' mistakes. You were now the seventh doctor to try and understand the layers of the former villain known as Dabi.

The news outlets had failed miserably in catching the alluring hues of his cerulean gaze. That was the first thing you concluded when you first met him.

As his psychiatrist, your job was simple. To understand Touya’s emotional trauma and help him live the rest of his life to the fullest. He was an absolute wreck. That was all anyone would call him—a mess who didn't deserve a second chance at life. Yet here he was.

His family had more than enough money to put him into a good institution, one where he could possibly recover from the terrible life he once led. It's quiet. The hospital's sterile environment is both making his skin crawl and oddly comforting. The gentle hum of the machines hooked up to his body and the bandages wrapped around every inch of skin did nothing to lessen the unease he felt when he heard the familiar telltale sign of a new doctor coming into his room.

The door rattled quietly, the sound of keys clinking together on the other side doesn't even stir him anymore. He hears slow footsteps entering through the hallway, your voice following them as you call out his name questioningly to confirm you're in the right room.

The way you say his name so softly sounds like you're calling out to an angel, and Touya wants to tear the words from your throat the moment he hears them.

He doesn't respond. When you approach him, he's staring at the wall in front of him.

He's sitting up, eyes barely open after it being only an hour out of one of many surgeries he would have to go through. He lays limp and utterly powerless in this stupid hospital bed—one of the strongest villains in the world was reduced to this now. Touya wonders if he's ever felt more pathetic, and no—he has never felt quite this low before.

"I'm Y/n, Touya."

You're smiling. That's the first thing he notices when his eyes finally move to where you sat on the stool beside his bed. All the doctors before you were the same, mildly disgusted but putting up a front nonetheless to try and deal with him. He thinks you're a little insane for looking at him with such a tender look in your eyes—and if he had the strength, he would tell you to leave.

"I'm your new doctor, Touya. I know you've gone through quite a few before me, but I hope you and I are able to get along!"

You shift in your seat with a nervous smile when he just stares. His half lidded eyes don't even bother to look anywhere else as he slowly takes in every detail of your face. Half of your hair is pulled back to reveal soft and full cheeks—your eyes crinkle as you lean forward with a soft smile.

"Unfortunately, you're kind of stuck with me. You've gone through the entire rotation of the best psychiatrists we have here—but that's ok! I understand you've been through a lot, so you and I are going to take this journey together, ok?"

Touya wants to cry. He wants to rip his hair out and slice his throat open because everything hurts and on top of all this misery, he has a pounding headache. He musters up the strength to talk. His voice is hoarse from not speaking for weeks, raspy with an undertone of something so terribly mean that you can't help but lean back in your seat with wide eyes when the words leave his scarred lips.

"Get out."

CARNATIONS MASTERLIST.

a/n; anddd our journey begins! :)

[vaspider]

An important definition of terms:

As far as I'm concerned, an assimilationist is someone who believes that queer people must assimilate in order to advance the cause of queer rights. An assimilationist creates a dress code for marches like the Mattachine Society did, fights against queer self-expression at Pride because "it holds back the movement," and believes that the only way for us to move forward is for all queers to live as cishet people do, but with little rainbow flags taped on.

An assimilationist is not "someone who wants the functions and institutions of cishet society to be available to queer people." It's someone who believes the only way to live is assimilated into cishet society, and anything else "holds us back." It's someone who wants Sylvia and Marsha to march at the back, and who prizes cishet aesthetic over practical liberation.

A liberationist is someone who believes that queer liberation is not contingent upon public performance of identity.

Let me repeat that, so we're absolutely clear: a liberationist believes that queer liberation is not contingent upon public performance of identity. ANY IDENTITY.

That means a sufficiently cishet identity and a sufficiently "respectable" identity, but it also means a sufficiently radical identity. If you actually believe in queer liberation, you don't just believe in liberation for people who look, act, and believe like you. You believe in liberation for people who genuinely want to get married, have babies by IVF and live in the suburbs as well as for people who want to live childfree on an anarchist trans commune/Llama farm.

I hear people use the term "Assimilationist" and "Assimilationist Victories" to dismiss as meaningless those victories that are insufficiently radical for their tastes, and that to me is only proof that those people are not actually liberationists in any meaningful way. In liberation, there must be room for people who actually do just want to get married and live quiet, content lives going to their kid's baseball games.

The difference between Assimilationist thought and Liberationist thought cannot be simply replacing "we need to blend in" with "we need to stick out." It cannot simply replace "we must be integrated into cishet society" with "we cannot ever integrate into cishet society and anything which permits us to do that if we so choose is insufficiently liberationist." That's the organizational equivalent of yelling YOU'RE NOT MY REAL DAD, and I'm fucking over it, y'all.

My liberation doesn't have to be your liberation. Your liberation doesn't have to look like mine. What matters is that we are helping each other up the mountain and making long-term plans to get to where we can, and that we recognize that every choice we make is going to leave someone behind, and we account for that and plan for that so we don't leave them behind forever.

We cannot regard gay marriage or gays in the military or instituting a nationwide right to transition or any of our future goals as an endpoint. They are only goals part of the way up the mountain.

We don't get to the top until we are all free to live as we choose without government or societal interference or sanction, and without having to perform an identity for those rights and respect. The freedom to be ourselves must include the right to "blue hair and pronouns" but it also must include the right to "your kid's school plays and a duplex in a suburb." The latter is not an assimilationist lifestyle unless you try to enforce it on everyone.

I'm so, so tired of people acting like they're radical thinkers for poo-pooing the civil rights advances that the community has achieved through literally decades of work as "assimilationist victories." That's not clever, cute, or correct. Every. Single. One. Of those victories is written in tears and sweat and blood. Every single one is wrapped in the funeral shrouds of people who died fighting for it. Every single one was achieved not by assimilationists alone, but neither by people who think the only true victories are the ones sufficiently pure in their leftist credentials.

It is extremely possible and indeed likely that if you judge queers by their aesthetic, you will miss partnering with some of the most radical people and shackle your movement to people who cloak regressive politics in radical language. I've heard some truly noxious words come out of mouths framed by snakebites, and I've known extremely radical thinkers who look like your grandma. And I gotta tell you, in those local elections which keep school boards free from Moms For Liberty? The latter are useful people for liberationists to know and have in our camp, those people who think like liberationists but look like your grandma or your auntie.

Enforcement of aesthetic as a condition of liberation is assimilationist thought. It doesn't matter if the assimilation is to pink hair and tattoos or polo shirts and khakis - enforcement of aesthetic and philosophy as a condition of liberation is assimilationist thought. It's just replacing one kind of demanded conformity with another, and when we say "none of us are free until all of us are free," that also means free to be fucking boring if we want to, full stop.

We talk a lot about how much work goes into being disabled, how much work we have to put into making appointments, and fighting bureaucracy, but this is also true of queer life. Freedom comes with ease, with being easily able to update paperwork, with being easily able to find employment and housing, with being easily able to create the family structures we want to live in. When all of us can wake up in the morning assured of security in our beds, food in our bellies, meds in our med trays as needed, and a day ahead of us filled with chosen purpose and chosen meaning, which ends with us back in the bed of our choice at the end of the day, fulfilled in purpose and secure in our homes and chosen families, then we are free, and not before.

You may notice a seeming contradiction in this, in that my liberationist philosophy has room in it for the very people who are currently annoying the fuck out of me by demanding allegiance to a leftist aesthetic over practical liberation (that is, a movement based in harm reduction and long-term strategy over adherence to leftist purity of thought).

This is not a contradiction.

It is not a bug. It is a feature. My liberationist ideals mean that people have to have the right to be wrong without their liberty hinging on being right, that's all. :)

[elryuse]

Flower Of Evil

Yandere Bibi X Male Reader

Tags : Female Teacher Bibi, Male Teacher Reader, Yandere, Obsession, FUCKING CRAZY YANDERE GIRLSSS, Gore, Thriller, Killer Words : 5,808 Words

A Wonderful and Dangerous Looking Fic Commision for My Friend @Pizza_anon on Ko-fi. I hope You Guys Like it.

Hana All-Girls High School wasn’t the kind of place you expected to end up teaching at. The ornate gates, sprawling cherry blossom trees, and whispers of an elite reputation gave the school an air of refinement that seemed more suited for a period drama than real life. The school grounds were pristine, almost unnervingly so, with neatly trimmed hedges and meticulously arranged flowerbeds that were a riot of color all year round.

Being the only male teacher in such a prestigious institution came with its challenges—and unexpected perks. The students’ giggles and sly glances were harmless enough, albeit a little awkward at times, while the occasional over-the-top friendliness from certain faculty members made things interesting. There was a certain charm to being the center of attention, but you also knew the risks. Too much attention in a place like this could be a dangerous thing.

But there was one person who stood out above the rest: Ms. Kim Hyung-seo, known to the staff and students as “Bibi.” With her sharp wit, piercing gaze, and an undeniable presence, Bibi was magnetic. Her long, dark hair framed a face that was as elegant as it was enigmatic, and her wardrobe—always a perfect blend of professional and alluring—didn’t go unnoticed. Her intelligence and charisma made her popular among the students and staff alike, but it was the way she focused her attention on you that made her impossible to ignore.

You and she had struck up an easy camaraderie, often sharing coffee during breaks or exchanging quips during meetings. She had a dark sense of humor that matched your own, making her a welcome confidante in a school filled with pastel colors and prim behaviors. Yet, despite the undeniable chemistry, you kept things professional. You weren’t blind to the implications of being the sole male teacher in an all-girls’ school. Lines had to be drawn, and you were determined to stay on the right side of them.

It was during one of those casual coffee breaks that Bibi first hinted at something more. “You know, it’s not every day we get someone like you here,” she said, her tone playful but her eyes intent. “A lone wolf among a sea of flowers. Must be… intoxicating.”

You chuckled, brushing off the comment. “It has its moments,” you replied. “But it’s just a job at the end of the day.”

“Just a job?” she repeated, arching an eyebrow. “Come on, Y/n. Don’t tell me you don’t enjoy the attention just a little bit.”

“I enjoy the teaching,” you said diplomatically. “The rest… is just noise.”

She laughed, a low, melodious sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “You’re interesting, you know that?” she said. “Most people would jump at the chance to be in your position. But you—you keep your distance. It’s… admirable. And frustrating.”

There was a weight to her words, a tension that lingered in the air long after the conversation ended. You didn’t dwell on it too much at the time, chalking it up to harmless flirtation. But in hindsight, it was a warning you should have heeded.

It was late, the school’s faculty lounge dimly lit as you finished grading papers. The soft hum of the vending machine and the distant sound of rain against the windows were the only sounds breaking the silence. You’d stayed late to catch up on work, your desk piled high with essays and test papers. The exhaustion was starting to set in when the sound of heels clicking on the tile floor announced Bibi’s arrival.

“Burning the midnight oil, I see,” she said, sliding into the seat across from you. Her voice was smooth, almost soothing, but there was an edge to it that made you glance up. Her smile was playful, but her eyes… there was something in them you couldn’t quite place. Hunger, maybe? Or was it something darker?

“Just trying to stay ahead,” you replied, forcing a smile. “The workload here doesn’t leave much room for procrastination.”

“You work too hard,” she said, leaning forward. “You need someone to take care of you.”

You laughed awkwardly, shaking your head. “I’m fine, really. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. “I mean it,” she said, her tone softening. “You’re always so composed, so distant. You don’t let anyone in. It’s not healthy, you know.”

“That’s kind of you, Bibi, but I—”

“I’m serious,” she interrupted, her voice dropping to a whisper. “We’re good together. Don’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

The sudden intensity of her words caught you off guard. You hesitated, searching for the right response. “Bibi, I value our friendship, but I don’t think it’s a good idea to mix work and… personal matters.”

Her smile faltered, then disappeared entirely. For a moment, her face was unreadable, and then she laughed—a low, unsettling sound that sent a chill down your spine. “I see,” she said, her tone unnervingly calm. “You’re one of those types. Always keeping a distance.”

“It’s not like that,” you began, but she held up a hand to silence you.

“It’s fine,” she said, standing abruptly. Her movements were sharp, almost mechanical. “You’ll see things my way. Sooner or later.”

She left without another word, the sound of her heels echoing down the hallway. You sat there for a long time, the weight of her words settling over you like a suffocating blanket. Something about the way she’d spoken, the way she’d looked at you, made your skin crawl. You tried to shake it off, convincing yourself that it was just a misunderstanding, but deep down, you knew better.

The first disappearance was written off as a student skipping town. Hana High had its fair share of rebellious teens, and it wasn’t uncommon for students to run away from the pressures of their privileged lives. Emily Kang was one of your quieter students, a shy girl with a love for literature and a talent for staying invisible. When she didn’t show up to class one day, it barely raised an eyebrow.

The second disappearance, however, couldn’t be ignored. Sarah Lee was a star athlete, a bright and vivacious girl who had dreams of making it to the Olympics. Her sudden absence sent shockwaves through the school, and the administration scrambled to maintain control of the narrative. Whispers began to circulate, rumors spreading like wildfire among the students.

By the third disappearance, the school was in a state of quiet panic. Every missing girl was from your class, their last known locations eerily close to your classroom or office. The whispers started almost immediately.

“Do you think Mr. [Your Last Name] had something to do with it?”

“He’s the only man here. Isn’t that… suspicious?”

You tried to keep your head down, but the weight of their gazes was suffocating. Even the faculty seemed wary, their once-friendly smiles replaced with strained politeness. All except for Bibi.

“Ignore them,” she said one afternoon, her tone almost tender. “They’re just scared. You’re not like that, and I know it.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, though her words did little to ease your anxiety.

It started with small things. Subtle, almost unnoticeable at first.

Bibi’s once-playful comments became sharper, laced with an undertone that felt heavier than before. Her lingering stares grew longer, her presence more pervasive. If you stayed late grading papers, she’d appear in the faculty lounge as though summoned, her voice warm yet uncomfortably intimate.

“Working late again, [Your Name]?” she’d ask, setting her things down far too close to yours. “You know, you’re going to burn yourself out.”

“I’ll be fine,” you’d reply, trying to brush her off. But she didn’t take the hint.

She started bringing you little gifts—a coffee placed quietly on your desk, a neatly wrapped bento left in the teacher’s lounge with your name on it. When you thanked her, she’d smile and brush it off, saying, “It’s nothing. You need someone to look after you, don’t you?”

At first, you chalked it up to her being kind—maybe overly kind. But then the notes began.

Folded pieces of paper left in your desk drawer, tucked between lesson plans, or slipped into your bag. At first, they were innocuous: “You work too hard. Don’t forget to take care of yourself.” Then they grew more personal: “I can’t stop thinking about you. Why do you keep your distance?” And finally, unsettling: “We’re meant to be together. You’ll see that soon.”

You told yourself not to overreact, that she was probably just being dramatic. But a knot of unease began to twist in your stomach every time she was near.

Meanwhile, the school’s atmosphere had turned tense. The disappearances of the students cast a heavy shadow over the once-bright hallways. Fear rippled through the faculty as meetings grew longer and stricter policies were enacted. The headmistress, Ms. Ahn, called for heightened vigilance, urging the staff to look out for anything unusual.

“Nothing about this feels random,” Ms. Ahn said during one meeting, her voice firm but laced with worry. “We need to be vigilant. Our students’ lives depend on it.”

The staff nodded solemnly, but the silence was heavy. You could feel the eyes of your coworkers on you, brief flickers of suspicion that burned into your skin. The whispers had grown louder, and no amount of professionalism could drown them out entirely.

“It’s always his class…” “Do you think he knows more than he’s saying?” “No one’s saying it, but come on—he’s the only man here.”

Bibi, however, remained steadfast in her support of you—or so it seemed. “Don’t let them get to you,” she said one afternoon, cornering you in the library where you’d sought refuge. Her hand brushed against your arm, lingering longer than necessary. “They’re just scared. They don’t know you like I do.”

Her words were meant to be reassuring, but there was a possessiveness in her tone that made your skin crawl.

The rain poured heavily that night, drumming against the windows of the faculty lounge as you packed up your things. The building was almost eerily quiet, the usual bustle of students and teachers replaced by the hollow sound of distant thunder.

You were halfway out the door when Bibi appeared, her umbrella dripping with rainwater. “Leaving already?” she asked, her voice light but carrying an edge you couldn’t place.

“Yeah,” you said, forcing a polite smile. “It’s late. I should get going.”

Her lips curved into a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me with something.”

You hesitated, every instinct screaming at you to refuse. “What is it?”

“It won’t take long,” she said, stepping closer. Her tone was soft, almost pleading, but there was something behind her eyes—a darkness that made your chest tighten. “There’s some old equipment in the storage room I need help moving. I can’t do it alone.”

It was a reasonable request, but something about the way she said it set off alarm bells in your mind. Still, you couldn’t think of a good excuse to decline. “Sure,” you said reluctantly. “Lead the way.”

She smiled, her expression brightening as though you’d just given her the greatest gift. “This way,” she said, turning on her heel and motioning for you to follow.

The storage room was in the oldest wing of the school, a part of the building that was rarely used and often avoided. The hallway leading to it was dimly lit, the flickering fluorescent lights casting eerie shadows on the walls.

“Why are we storing equipment all the way back here?” you asked, trying to mask the unease in your voice.

“It’s just temporary,” Bibi replied, glancing back at you with a smile. “Budget cuts and all that.”

The storage room itself was cramped and cluttered, filled with old desks, broken chairs, and other discarded items. The smell of dust and mildew was overwhelming, and you instinctively wrinkled your nose.

“What do you need me to move?” you asked, eager to get this over with.

Bibi didn’t answer right away. Instead, she closed the door behind you with a soft click, her movements slow and deliberate.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” she said suddenly, her voice calm but with an undercurrent of tension that sent a chill down your spine.

You froze, turning to face her. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she said, stepping closer. Her eyes bore into yours, intense and unblinking. “You’ve been pulling away ever since… that night.”

“I’m not avoiding you,” you said carefully, trying to keep your tone neutral. “I’ve just been busy. You know how things have been around here.”

She laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter sound. “Busy? Is that the excuse you’re going with?”

“Bibi, I don’t know what you want from me,” you said, your voice firm but steady. “But this isn’t the time or place for—”

“You don’t know what I want?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “I’ve made it so obvious, haven’t I? I’ve been patient, [Your Name]. I’ve been so patient. But you just keep pushing me away.”

Her words hung in the air like a storm cloud, heavy and suffocating. Your heart raced as you realized the door was still closed behind her, the only exit blocked by her presence.

“Bibi,” you said cautiously, taking a step back. “I think we should talk about this another time. Let’s just—”

“No,” she said sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. “We’re talking about it now. I’ve waited long enough.”

Her hand darted out, grabbing your wrist with a grip that was surprisingly strong. “You don’t have to be scared,” she said, her tone softening but her grip unyielding. “I can take care of you. I can protect you. You don’t need anyone else.”

Your mind raced, every instinct screaming at you to get out of there. “Bibi, you’re scaring me,” you said, your voice low but steady.

Her expression faltered, her grip loosening for just a moment. “Scaring you?” she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to scare you. I just… I want you to see that we’re perfect for each other. That no one else can love you the way I do.”

Before you could respond, the faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, growing louder with each passing second. Bibi’s eyes widened, and for the first time, you saw something resembling fear cross her face.

“We’ll finish this later,” she said quickly, releasing your wrist and stepping back. Her voice was calm again, but her eyes burned with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

And then, just like that, she was gone, leaving you alone in the dimly lit storage room with the echoes of her words still ringing in your ears.

The next day, the atmosphere at Hana All-Girls High School was thick with a sense of dread. What had once been a place of pristine order and careful decorum now felt suffocating, as if the very walls themselves were closing in on the remaining staff and students. The administration had called for an emergency assembly that morning, but no one had any answers. The disappearances, once seen as isolated incidents, had now escalated into something far more sinister.

The number of missing girls had skyrocketed overnight. It wasn't just a few anymore. Entire groups of students had vanished, leaving behind only the cold traces of their absence: empty classrooms, untouched desks, and silence where there should have been chatter and laughter. Word had spread like wildfire, and the police were now involved.

At first, it seemed like a routine investigation. Officers had arrived early, their presence a sharp contrast to the usual calm of the school. But things took a turn when an anonymous tip came in to the police station. The caller had reported that the school "reeked of rotting flesh."

The police, initially skeptical, decided to search the school grounds thoroughly. As they combed through the halls and classrooms, something felt off. It wasn’t just the unsettling atmosphere—it was the way the air felt heavier, as if something had shifted in the very foundation of the building.

Their search led them to the oldest wing of the school, the same wing where the storage room was located. It was there that they made the horrifying discovery.

Behind a hidden door in the back of the building, they found what they were looking for. A room that had been sealed off for years, its contents hidden from view. The moment the officers stepped inside, their stomachs lurched with the putrid stench that assaulted them. The smell of decay was unbearable, but it wasn’t just the scent. It was what they found that would haunt them forever.

There, scattered across the floor, were the bodies of fourteen girls—the missing students. Their bodies, though horrifyingly still, were unmistakably recognizable. Each one had been carefully placed, their eyes frozen in terror. Some of them had been there for weeks, the flesh decomposing and leaving behind an undeniable testament to the horrors that had been carried out in the school.

The police immediately cordoned off the area, their faces pale with shock. Their disbelief was palpable as they contacted their superiors and called for backup. Within hours, the entire school had been shut down, and a full investigation was underway. No one could believe what they were seeing. How had something like this gone unnoticed for so long? And who could have done this?

The answer seemed to lie somewhere within the walls of Hana All-Girls High School, and the staff, including you, were now the prime suspects.

As the school was shut down, a team of officers arrived to interview and interrogate every staff member, carefully scrutinizing their movements, their alibis, and their actions in the days leading up to the discovery. They were methodical in their questioning, but there was an unmistakable tension in the air. Everyone was a suspect, but no one seemed to have any answers.

You were pulled aside along with the other teachers for questioning. The interrogation room felt cold, sterile, and far too small for the weight of the situation. They asked you about your interactions with the missing students, about the times you had stayed late, and about any unusual behavior from your colleagues. The questions were pointed, but your mind kept drifting back to Bibi. She was the one who had been so insistent on keeping you close. The one who had shown a possessive streak that now made your skin crawl.

But the officers seemed to have no interest in her—at least not yet. They focused on you, on your proximity to the girls who had disappeared. Your heart raced as you tried to explain yourself, but every answer felt inadequate. How could you explain the unease you had felt around Bibi? How could you explain the mounting tension that had built up, culminating in her increasingly erratic behavior?

The more you spoke, the more it seemed as though you were digging yourself deeper into a hole. The officers' expressions were unreadable, but you could see the way their eyes flickered with suspicion, darting to the door and back to you.

After what felt like an eternity, they finally let you go, but the relief was short-lived. You couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched—by the police, by your colleagues, by the students. The whispers had grown louder, and now the school was a place of palpable fear.

You tried to leave the school grounds, but as you stepped outside, the weight of the situation hit you all at once. The police had set up a perimeter, blocking off the entrance, their flashing lights painting the campus in an eerie glow. Reporters had gathered outside, their cameras flashing as they tried to get the latest scoop. And then, there was the growing presence of the students—some standing in small groups, some sitting by themselves, all looking at you with expressions that ranged from curiosity to outright suspicion.

In that moment, you realized that the true horror was just beginning. The questions weren’t just about the missing girls anymore. The questions were about you, about everything that had happened in the school, and about Bibi.

Where was she? What had she done? And what role had she played in all of this?

The police were now focused on interviewing every staff member, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that Bibi was at the center of it all. Something told you that the nightmare was far from over—and that the darkest part of it was yet to come.

The atmosphere at Hana All-Girls High School had shifted from one of confusion to pure dread. As the investigation tightened, the police presence around the school grew heavier. The corridors that once echoed with the sounds of laughter and youthful chatter were now eerily silent, save for the occasional murmurs of officers and students whispering about what had transpired.

The school administration was on edge, its staff shaken to their core. Everyone was instructed to leave at the exact designated time, no lingering after hours, no exceptions. The rule applied to both students and faculty alike, creating an unspoken air of suspicion that everyone could feel but no one dared to voice.

It became clear that the police were doing everything they could to catch the killer. Surveillance footage from every corner of the school was reviewed, alibis were checked, and every faculty member, no matter how insignificant their role seemed, was interrogated thoroughly. But despite all their efforts, the police were no closer to capturing the killer. Every lead seemed to dissolve into thin air, like smoke vanishing into the wind.

What was even worse than the growing number of missing students was the fact that the disappearances were now no longer sporadic; they were becoming a regular occurrence. Each day, the list of missing girls seemed to grow longer. The school, which had once been a place of prestige and order, had now become a twisted, haunted reminder of its former self.

Then came the terrifying revelation: another body was found. It wasn’t just one. It was a massacre. Fourteen dead students, all from the same school, their bodies gruesomely arranged in various parts of the grounds, some in places so well hidden that it took days to discover them. The police were horrified, unable to comprehend the cruelty of what they were witnessing.

The once pristine halls were now the scene of a horrific investigation. Officers scoured every corner, every hidden room, even areas previously thought to be irrelevant. Every moment felt like it could be their last chance to catch the killer. But despite their best efforts, they were always one step behind. The unsettling truth became more and more apparent: someone inside the school was orchestrating this, and they were good at covering their tracks.

The growing fear spread like wildfire, even among the teachers. Rumors started circulating that the killer was hiding in plain sight, and no one could be trusted. Some of the staff began leaving the school early, a sense of panic and dread creeping into their every step.

Bibi, who had been under increasing suspicion herself, continued to be a strange, comforting presence in the midst of the chaos. She never seemed rattled, never showed signs of fear. In fact, if anything, she seemed to take a certain satisfaction in the growing turmoil. She continued her “support” for you, always appearing at the exact moment you seemed to need her most. Her gestures, once harmless, had taken on a more possessive and unsettling tone.

She would bring you coffee, sit close to you in meetings, and offer a soothing word when you least expected it. But every time she looked at you, there was something in her eyes—something dark and knowing—that made your blood run cold. You could no longer escape the feeling that she knew more than she was letting on.

The police were starting to question her too. They’d asked her about her relationship with the missing girls and had found her interactions with you particularly troubling. Bibi’s charm, however, worked wonders on them. She played the role of the concerned teacher so well, with just the right amount of vulnerability to disarm even the most skeptical officer.

But you weren’t so easily fooled anymore. Her behavior, her obsession, and the way she seemed to draw closer to you with each passing day—it all pointed to something far darker than you could have ever imagined. And as the police continued to dig into the school’s past, they began to uncover unsettling details, things that didn’t add up about certain faculty members and their ties to past tragedies, but the most chilling part of all was that they were still no closer to solving the case.

As the number of missing students grew, the atmosphere grew even more suffocating. Hana High, once an elite institution, was now a prison—a place where students and teachers alike were held captive by fear, suspicion, and the chilling knowledge that the killer could be anyone.

And the one question that lingered in the air was the one that no one dared speak aloud: Who could be behind this, and what did they want?

The day the cops turned their eyes on you was one you’d never forget. It all started with a knock at the door. At first, it was like any other day—quiet, unsettling, as the weight of the ongoing investigation continued to press on your shoulders. But when you opened it, you found two officers standing on the other side. Their faces were grim.

“You need to come with us,” one of them said, his voice devoid of any warmth.

Before you could react, they grabbed your arms, fastening the cold metal cuffs around your wrists. Shock flooded your system, and your heart pounded in your chest as the world around you began to spin. You tried to protest, but the words caught in your throat. “What’s going on? What’s happening?”

“You’re coming with us,” they repeated, dragging you out the door and into their car.

Your mind raced as you tried to make sense of the situation. What had you done wrong? You had been trying to help, trying to make sense of the disappearance of your students, but now you were being treated like a criminal. The sting of betrayal was sharp, but deeper still was the sense of helplessness that washed over you. Had everything you tried to do just made things worse?

At the police station, they didn’t waste any time. They questioned you relentlessly, accusing you of being involved in the disappearances, of knowing more than you were letting on. They had been hearing reports about your close relationship with the missing students, and in their eyes, that was enough to make you a prime suspect.

“I’m telling you, I had nothing to do with this!” you protested, voice shaking. “I care about those students—I’ve been trying to help! You have to believe me!”

But every word seemed to fall on deaf ears. The more you tried to explain, the more the officers seemed to tighten their grip, their suspicion growing by the minute. They were convinced you were hiding something, and no amount of pleading was going to change their minds.

Then, in a moment of desperation, you spoke the name that had been haunting you for days.

“Bibi… she’s the one you should be looking at. She’s the one acting strange, saying all sorts of crazy things to me,” you said, your voice trembling as you finally named the one person who had seemed to know too much about the situation. “She’s been obsessed with me, always showing up at the right moment… trying to control everything I do. I swear, she’s hiding something.”

The mention of Bibi’s name seemed to catch the officers’ attention, but not in the way you hoped. They exchanged a look, their eyes narrowing with suspicion. But instead of the relief you thought you’d feel by finally telling them, it only made the air feel heavier.

“She’s a teacher, she’s not involved in this,” one of the officers snapped, his voice cold and dismissive. “You’re just trying to shift the blame.”

You could see it in their eyes now. They didn’t believe you. They had made up their minds, and no amount of protest would change it. The more you spoke, the more their distrust of you grew, like a web tightening around you. The name of the one person you thought might help you only seemed to make things worse.

By the time the interrogation was over, it was clear that they weren’t going to let you go. You were no longer just a witness, no longer just a concerned teacher. You were a suspect. And for now, you were going to jail.

As they escorted you to the holding cell, your heart sank. The door slammed shut behind you, and the cold, sterile walls of the small, dimly lit room seemed to close in around you. There was no escape, no way to prove your innocence. Your mind raced, the confusion turning into anger, into frustration. Why wouldn’t they listen?

In that moment, the only thing you knew for certain was that Bibi was out there, watching all of this unfold, and she had somehow twisted everything to make you the villain in this nightmare.

The worst part was, you couldn’t help but wonder: Had she been manipulating you all along? Was she really the one behind everything, orchestrating this twisted game from the shadows? Or was something even darker at play?

As the hours passed and the realization settled in that you were stuck in this nightmare, one thing became clear—you were going to need more than just luck to get out of this. You needed answers. And the only person who seemed to hold the key to those answers was the very person the cops refused to suspect.

The letter arrived on a cold, dreary morning, its presence in the small holding cell a stark reminder that you were still very much part of a twisted game you couldn’t escape. The envelope, sealed with a smudge of dark red lipstick, was unmistakable. It was from her—Bibi.

Your hands trembled as you tore it open, the words inside searing into your mind like a branding iron.

“You see, this is all your fault. All of it. You could have protected those innocent girls, but you couldn’t protect yourself from me. I gave you a chance, you know. I offered you everything. You could have been mine that night, but you were too weak to accept. And now, look where we are. This could have been so simple. But now, there’s no going back. There’s only me and you. Forever.”

Your chest tightened as you read on, the weight of her words pressing down on you.

“It’s too late now. You can’t stop what’s coming. I’ve taken control of everything. And the only way you can escape… is by accepting me as yours. But since you’re so stubborn, I’ve already gone too far. There’s no turning back now. Not for you. Not for them. Not for anyone.”

The letter ended abruptly, as though Bibi had been too eager to finish her message, her ink-stained handwriting reflecting the twisted delight she took in your torment.

The words echoed in your head. You could have protected them. You could have been hers.

Before you could even begin to process the full weight of her message, you heard it—the unmistakable sound of a car revving, tires screeching against the pavement, growing louder and louder by the second. Your heart skipped a beat, and the sound seemed to reverberate throughout the entire station, the noise growing louder still, until it felt like the walls themselves were shaking.

Then, with a deafening "Banggg!"—a sports car, sleek and black, crashed through the perimeter of the police station parking lot. It tore through the barricades like they were made of paper, coming to a stop just inches from the front of the station. The sound of the impact sent a shockwave through the building, making the windows rattle.

Within seconds, a dozen officers were on their feet, rushing toward the vehicle, their guns drawn, shouting orders to one another. But none of them were ready for what came next.

The door to the car flung open with a jarring screech, and there, standing amidst the chaos, was Bibi. Her once-pristine dress was now drenched in blood—dark, viscous pools dripping onto the ground, her hands gripping something heavy. Something… far too familiar.

You gasped as she stepped out of the car, holding the decapitated head of one of the missing girls in her hands. The lifeless eyes stared vacantly into the distance, the bloodied remains a grotesque testament to her madness.

Bibi's lips curled into a twisted smile as she giggled softly, her footsteps eerily calm against the chaos around her. The cops, now utterly frozen in shock, barely moved as she walked toward you with a slow, deliberate pace. Her eyes locked with yours, gleaming with a mix of satisfaction and something darker—something far worse than you could ever imagine.

You tried to speak, tried to call out, but the words stuck in your throat. You could barely comprehend what you were seeing, and the horror was suffocating.

"I've won," Bibi cooed, her voice sickeningly sweet as she finally reached you. She cupped your face gently, her fingers cold and wet from the blood that coated them. "You're finally mine, now."

Her grip tightened, as if she were claiming victory, sealing your fate with a simple touch. Your body froze in terror, every instinct screaming at you to escape, but you couldn’t move. Her eyes were locked onto yours, and in that moment, you realized there was no escape. She had already won. There was no going back, no saving anyone. You were part of her twisted plan now.

As she leaned in closer, her breath hot against your ear, she whispered, “You should’ve just accepted me. But now, we’re bound forever.”

The officers around you seemed paralyzed, unable to process what they were witnessing. They could do nothing but stand in shock as Bibi, the person they never thought to suspect, the person who had been playing them all along, took control of everything.

And as she cupped your head in her bloodstained hands, you knew, deep down, that this was just the beginning of something far darker than you could have ever imagined. You had become a pawn in her game. A game that, in the end, only had one winner.

And that winner… was her.

[m1ss1ng-d0g]

Here’s my thing about polyarchives is like I love it but in my head NONE of their dynamics have been talked about or agreed upon verbally ONCE. They just sometimes… do things together.

Sasha was good friends with Jon, and maybe brushed his hair out of his eyes for him once at the pub and when Jon started stuttering about it Tim would NOT let him forget it (much to his dismay and Sasha’s eye-rolls).

I saw someone say Tim would rest his head on top of Jons when he was thinking (gahh need to draw that). Jon tells him to stop it but sometimes when he’s alone and lost in thought he gently touches the top of his head. He doesn’t even realize he does it or why.

Martin started with a simple reassuring touch on the back when he brought him tea, but now he’s giving Jon shoulder massages and it feels too good for Jon to shoo him away. But they. Do Not Talk About It.

Everyone at the institute knows about Tim and Sasha that one’s easy… so everyone wonders but doesn’t ask when they suddenly don’t have that same rapport… and frankly Tim does too.

Tim listens secretly to Martin’s poetry when he can and starts to flirt a little harder and a little more desperately when he feels Wrong suddenly around Sasha. Martin thinks he’s not really anything more than a coping mechanism for him but is too lonely to give that up. And he’s half right.

Jon and Tim started making out when they fought once… whatever. That didn’t happen. We don’t talk about it. Martin totally didn’t overhear it. He’s not jealous about or aroused by it at all.

Sometimes at home in his room Tim paces, fuming about how Jon is acting. But he also can’t stop thinking of how Jon used to loosen his tie and unbutton the first few buttons on his shirt when they went to the pub (and was very clearly trying to look cool doing so). How he used to actually laugh. The sound of Jon’s laugh. Tim will then throw something at the wall violently. He walked into Jons office once planning to let him have it and when Jon looked up wearily and Tim sees he’d taken his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt… he just walked right back out. Immediately. Jon doesn’t know what that was about.

Look what I’m saying here is Polyarchives to me is the most unhealthy distressing There-But-Not-There sort of…. Thing. We-All-Ignore-The-Pit ass dynamic. Sometimes Elias refers to it as “whatever you’ve all got going on here” and everyone immediately protests angrily to the insinuation.

I love seeing polyarchive cuddles and fluff so much but I literally can’t think of a time they’d all actually be on the same page like that. (Tearily and longingly saying “they would not fucking do that” bc I wish they would)

As a footnote I really don’t see chemistry between Jon and any of the other female characters besides Georgie and they’re now in their “exes that are still friends” era. Idk in my head when a man hates another man it has the potential to be homoerotic. When a woman hates a man thats all it is. Maybe it’s the overuse of the “hard to get” thing with women that makes me wary of it. Not really offended by anyone who does ship him w Melanie/Basira/Daisy bc Jon is too pathetic in those dynamics to be forcing himself on them lol but just not my cuppa.

[mdilip948]

Vlcc hair Institute provides short to advance hair  courses for beginners also as professionals in Hair Dressing and Hair Styling Techniques. Career Opportunity: On successful completion actually in Hair Technology ,hair Course qualified candidates can work as Hair Stylists, Freelancers, Faculties, Technical Trainers, Salon Owners or in Media Houses. VLCC Institute course in Hair Technology is devoted for beginners where we teach standard techniques employed by trained faculties, supplying you with the time and space to actually perfect lines, graduation, layering and their combinations. Salon Ethics, Different Techniques of Coloring, Hair Cutting, Chemical Treatments, Hair Extension and Latest Up Styles are added together during this course. This course lays the inspiration for enhancing your skills and knowledge, by providing you with hands-on practical work experience and detailed tutorials from highly qualified instructors. Choosing this course will provide you with the arrogance to expand your collection and develop your talent.

[superbhandarihospital]

[octuscle]

Once Alpha, never Alpha again

Marc was an alpha guy! Quarterback in college, top of his class, career in the fast lane. All his colleagues admired him, those who knew him envied him. And Marc never let anyone tell him anything. He was Marc! That's all he needed to say.

Many of Marc's actions were not morally sound. But as the offspring of a good family on the west coast, he had a liberal social background and believed in Christian values without being militantly religious. But economic success was something he would go to any lengths for. His lawyers were there to ensure that it didn't look like murder, but rather self-defense or, even better, a liberation attack. He made no distinction between employees, competitors, customers or public institutions. He had no respect for the law. The lawmakers were weak and venal.

Unfortunately, the executive was not always weak and venal. Marc had long banked on an election victory for the Liberal Party, which he supported. And had done everything in his power to prevent an election victory for the populist left. Together with a few other tycoons, he had succeeded in the last election. He was sure that he would succeed this time too. He had been wrong. And the president-elect lashed out immediately after the election. He protected Marc's biggest rival. And agitated against Marc. At the summit, he threatened Marc with expropriation and prison. Marc remained relaxed for a while. But on the advice of his advisors and lawyers, he began to take the threats more seriously.

He was Marc, he was one of the Masters of the Universe. But every superman had a kryptonite. And he had no desire to have his Kryptonite tested on him. So he buckled. In a theatrical and excellently planned appearance, Marc announced to his hundreds of thousands of followers that he was making a massive change to his business policy. Of course, he never mentioned that he had bowed to the superiority of the new government or the competition. He had simply developed his vision further. That this happened to play into the hands of his competition and the government? Hey, was win-win punishable?

Marc's contact with the government and his competitors became closer. He coordinated all his moves. He began to enjoy being praised for doing what he was told. Bit by bit, he relinquished control of his empire. He enjoyed having more time to devote to his newfound friends. Instead of going to the gym and lifting weights with his trainer, he began to take up yoga and Pilates at the suggestion of his rival. Following the president's example, he began to dye his hair. He depilated his ass and asshole. And he started jerking off to fantasies with old men.

His empire was sold. Working was terrible. Marky could no longer make decisions on his own. Nor did he want to. His daddies decided for him. And if he was good, Marky got a reward. A new collar, perhaps. Or he was allowed to spoil one of his daddies. Marky loved his daddies. He didn't care about anything else! Other people anyway. He had always been indifferent to them.

[ghostwritermia]

Mia love, i came over from Mothers post and your call for Jegulus.

I have this DESPERATE need to bite Jamies hipbone. I have to excuses, but i realllllllly wanna 😭

So, what about Reader and Reggie who just bite Jamie all the time at random amd while James has just bevome accustom to it, Siri would be so HORRIFIED and try to progect sweet Jamie everytime and it kind of just becomes a game to Reggie and Reader: Operation Bite Beefy Boyfriend!! Alternatively how many times can we bite James before Siri has a meltdown.

I hope you get all your Jegulus wants!! 🫶

sorry if this sucks and that its so short, I tried 😭

It had started as a joke really, between you and Regulus. A game to see how long James could go without saying something about it. But he never did.

You and Regulus, both sorted into separate houses, had found your way to each other in 5th Year, and then during summer break between 6th and 7th Year, the two of you had fallen in love with the sweet sunshine that was James Potter, though you two would never admit that you fell first.

You had been neighbors with James for as long as you could remember, but had never actually visited his house until Regulus took up refuge there, therefore, you spent more time there. Hence, the blossoming of feelings and the addition to your relationship.

You were laying on the couch in the Gryffindor Common Room, your head in James’s lap, while Regulus sat in an armchair next to James’s seat on said couch. Absent-mindedly, James moved his hand to stroke through your hair when he then felt the gentle nip of teeth sinking into his forearm, stopping his movement.

Where James had gotten used to the game you and Regulus had started, some had not. Example being, Sirius screeching from his place in Remus’s lap on the opposite side of the room.

“Get your teeth out of my precious Prongs you demonic piranha!” he leaped from his place in Remus’s lap and strided over to you two and rolled you out of James’s lap and onto the floor with a thud.

Hearing the sudden commotion, Regulus’s head perked up from his book and looked to see you on the floor, simply laying there on your back, staring at the ceiling.

He sighed, placing his book down before sliding out of his armchair to reach a hand out to you. “Are you alright, Mon Amour?” he asked as he pulled you up. 

“I’m fine. Your brother, however, needs to be in a mental institution.” You hiss, rubbing the back of your head.

“Trust me, I know, Amour.” he sighed, and you two looked over to see Sirius curled into James’s body gently stroking from the top of his head down his face to his chin.

You, Remus, and Regulus let out a collective scoff before Remus makes his way back up to his dorm, and you and Regulus grab your things before leaving James and Sirius to be.

~~~~~~

It was lunch and today you and Regulus had decided to sit at the Gryffindor table with James. You sat on the right side of James whereas Regulus sat to the left. However, Sirius saw something before you did. Regulus biting into James’s shoulder. 

“Prongsie is not your chew toy, Regulus Black!” You hear Sirius squawk. You look past James’s chest and see Regulus simply lift his eyes from James’s shoulder to roll them at Sirius before looking over to you smirking, yet to remove his teeth from James’s shoulder.

"Well that would make sense, seeing as how you're the dog in the family." You retort, laying your head on James's shoulder.

James looks to each of you, smiling before affectionately leaving a kiss to each of your foreheads, much to Sirius Black’s protests.

[inkdrinkerworld]

can you do a logan imagine where we’re waking up for the morning and it’s raining and it’s fluffy or smth??

I think this is a little ooc but I like it

Waking up to the rain is a feeling that is unmatchable by many others.

The slight chill, the sound of the raindrops falling against the roof and windows, the grey clouds that reinforce your love for a simple day in.

Top it with your boyfriend holding you right up against him and there’s little else you could ask for.

“Morning Lo,” you whisper, stretching and relishing in the way that your limbs crack.

“Morning,” Logan stamps a kiss to your cheek and then hides his face behind your curtain of hair. “Don’t even think about it.” He gruffs when he feels you moving and you giggle.

“Just wanna look at you, wolf boy, m’not leaving.”

You feel his teeth sink into your shoulder lightly and know that’s your punishment for the wolf comment.

“What do you wanna do today, bub?” He asks, his hands crawling up the back of your sleep shirt that he’s sure is his sweater from the institute a couple years back.

They trace an invisible track up and down your spine and you find it a little hard to keep your eyes open- it’s soothing the way he does it so slowly and with just the perfect amount of pressure.

“Lay in bed? Watch movies? I have a feeling the rain is gonna last all day.” Your hands comb through his hair as you speak, fingers twisting around the fluffy strands.

“Good,” he mumbles, voice sounding even more tired than before and you can tell he’s falling back to sleep- honestly so are you. “Two more hours and then breakfast.”

[nanaarchy]

Hey chat !!!! I'm going insane.

Ever since my first listen to TMA, I've had a huge question that NEVER got answered.

Never. Not in the whole series, not Q&As or the wiki or anything. I thought I would never find answers. I thought it would be forgotten. I thought it was a small insignificant detail and I'd have to live with never knowing the truth about it.

Now with TMAGP 19, I might finally know the answer.

Maybe. Maybe maybe. But It Could Be. And now I'm losing my mind at the implications.

((For the record, I know that the stories and worldbuilding are inherently separate - hell, there are even timeline differences in the cases I'm using as evidence. But the overlap might be important, especially when it comes to the Web.))

Spoilers for both shows below!

Its branches were exquisite, and delicate, swaying slightly from small eddies in the liquid, and they shone with every spectra. I must confess that to look upon it, one was – (sigh) filled with profound wonder at its exquisite elegance. [...] Even I, steeped in worldly matters as I am, recognized The Lord’s words to Adam, and was much dismayed at the implication. Isaac then plucked the delicate fruit with ungloved hands and held it before me. [...] The creature was taking root. Strands of its mottled brown hair were extruding downwards between the floor, seeking the dark earth below. Then, too, its back began to sprout, radiant branches unfurling and thickening before me, reaching upwards towards the sunlight with a seemingly insatiable desire. [...] I tell you here, Robert, it saw me, and it knew me. (TMAGP 19 - HARD RESET)

It was an ornate wooden thing, with a snaking pattern of lines weaving their way around towards the centre. The pattern was hypnotic and shifted as I watched it, like an optical illusion. I found my eyes following the lines towards the middle of the table, where there was nothing but a small square hole. Graham noticed me staring, and told me that interesting antique furniture was one of his few true passions. Apparently he’d found the table in a second-hand shop during his student days and fallen in love with it. It had been in pretty bad shape but he’d spent a long time and a lot of money restoring it, though he’d never been able to figure out what was supposed to go in the centre. He assumed it was a separate piece and couldn’t track it down. (MAG 3 - ACROSS THE STREET)

Re: Magnus Institute Ruins. By RedCanary on Saturday April 23 2022 12:17pm. The photos from the spelunk seem properly gone, but I did find an old wooden thing with a bunch of similar symbols on. Some kinda empty box, not really sure what for, though. Gonna see if I can get the light right for a decent pic. Edit: No dice, I’m afraid. Must be something up with my phone camera. Really not helping the whole paranoia thing either. Anyone know anything about photographic distortion? Gonna see if I can borrow my dad’s SLR tomorrow. (TMAGP 1 - FIRST SHIFT)

Adelard Dekker stood in the corner. He was straight and motionless, his lips moving rapidly, though no sound came out of them. In the centre of the room, stood a table carved from dark wood and wrapped all over with a sprawling, intricate pattern. And in front of that table was the thing that had said it was my cousin. It was long and thin, the tops of it bent against the ceiling and its stick-like limbs flailed from too many joints and elbows. Wrapped around it were thick strands of what I think was spider’s web, stretching back into the table, which I now saw pulsed along its carved channels with a sickly light. The face at the top of that gangly frame was like nothing on earth. (MAG 78 - DISTANT COUSIN)

Now... Now I get it. I get it. I finally gave an answer. Or, at least, I think we'll get a concrete answer soon. But I think I get it.

I think I get where the web table comes from. I think I know what it's made of. why it glows. why it had a hole in the middle. I think I might know how the web gained control and sentience so much faster than the other fears. and, if it still manifests in the same way in the Protocol universe, how it also quickly became "the manager" of other fears, as theories suggest.

More importantly, I think I know what was up with the mysterious tree from so, so long ago.

Now I have an answer.

Why was there an apple buried in Hill Top Road?

I opened the box and sitting inside was a single green apple. It looked fresh, shiny, with a coat of condensation like it had just been picked on a cool spring morning. I picked it up. I wasn’t going to eat it, I’m not that stupid, but more than bleeding trees or phantom burning, this confused me. As I took it out of the box, though, it began to turn. The skin turned brown and bruised and started to shrivel in my hand. Then it split. And out came spiders. Dozens, hundreds of spiders erupting from this apple that was rotting right before my eyes. I shrieked and dropped it before any of them could touch my arm. The apple fell to the ground and burst in a cloud of dust. I backed away and waited until I was sure all the spiders had left before retrieving the box. I smashed it with a crowbar, and threw the remains into a skip. (MAG 8 - BURNED OUT)

And now I have an answer. Maybe.