#and I only remember making this draft with the thought of “ill remember what I was talking about”

[katblazeparttwo]

hey does anyone know what the shit i was talking about

[waywardsalt]

oh yeah i’ve got a bunch of loz aus that i haven’t really talked about. a few of them are listed and slightly explained in this poll and explanation reblog but i haven’t gone out of my way to actually list the aus i have and really explain them. so that’s what this post is for. here are some... decently simple explanations of my major aus and what they're generally about

i have two kinds of aus: original aus (loz aus that are set in their own kinds of worlds with their own stories and twists on character roles) and then crossover aus (we all know how this works i just mash loz and a thing i like together)

original aus: (many currently dont have actual titles, so the titles will often just be concept shorthand)

in the court of the crimson king/crimson king au: probably the most developed and closest to being written out. it's got one of the longer premises; set in a industrial-esque hyrule city, following linebeck as the main character, as the adoptive older brother of link and aryll, living with them and their grandmother as the only one able to reliably make money to pay for rent and food, leaving every other week to do jobs, but he moonlights as the 'demon of the gray moon', a masked persona he'd created as a child that had long since become a city-wide urban legend, anonymously taking unsavory jobs from whomever can contact him and offer pay, often working directly for bellum, a childhood friend, the one who enabled and trained him to become the demon, and one of five anonymous leaders of the city. linebeck effectively lives a double life, and tries to stay out of too much trouble to avoid drawing attention to himself or making his adoptive family worry, but he gets dragged into more and more danger as bellum becomes curious about the identities of the city's other leaders, and linebeck falls in love with a man named ganondorf, suspected to be one of those other city leaders. ive got a few posts related to it already: this one being another vague concept descriptor, this one being an actual scene i have written out.

'gimmick' au: i cannot explain the gimmick without spoiling the au. put simply, in this au, hyrule as a whole has been at war for ten years, every race and kingdom taking sides in a conflict that seems to be going nowhere. link joined the hylian army young, and has made his way up the ranks to become trusted by queen zelda herself, and things in the war take an interesting turn as he and zelda discover a new faction, unaligned with any particular kingdom and with unknown motives, and zelda decides to set out to the different parts of hyrule, link and a chosen group of trusted allies in tow, intending to try negotiation one more time before things take a turn for the worse.

sci-fi/space au: the fun one that probably would need to be done in a visual medium. it takes place in a solar system of a few planets, link growing up on the planet hyrule and occasionally traveling to the others as a knight specializing in investigating and taking down dangerous bounty hunters, working for zelda as a friend. he and zelda uncover a plot by the yiga clan to accumulate a number of highly dangerous research and weapons held by each species as they aim to resurrect a demon to wreck havoc on the solar system- the b plot being about the top bounty hunters in the solar system screwing around, eventually colliding with link and zelda's a plot as it begins to involve them.

murder mystery(?) au: one of the older ones, maybe one of the oldest that i still stick with. this might actually be one of the first ones i tried writing. the plot begins when zelda returns to hyrule city years after her father- the former mayor- was murdered, finding that he has been replaced by ganondorf and that while things seem fine enough on the surface, random and organized crime run the show, and she begins a private detective agency as 'sheik', a masked young man, and with the help of impa, and old friend and confidant, she moonlights as sheik and uses her daytime identity as zelda to help chip away at some of the city's biggest problems and finds herself drawn into a long string of murders that appear to be anything but random violence.

ruined hyrule 1: i have two au’s with the premise of hyrule being ruined. neither of them have more specific names yet. this one begins with the majority of greater hyrule's population having long since locked themselves in hyrule castle town in order to escape the increasingly dangerous wildlife. zelda, a young girl at the beginning, becomes curious about what lies beyond the city walls, and makes friends with many other children within this sheltered hyrule, and as they grow up together, aim to eventually venture out into the wilderness to see what may have caused the outside world to become so incredibly hostile.

ruined hyrule 2: the other ruined hyrule. set in a devastated hyrule, roughly ten years after the royal family was killed, link failing to save them or hyrule in the time since. he now resolves to set out and indiscriminately destroy every demon that plagues the ruined hyrule, meeting and bringing along various allies, each of which has been uniquely affected by and have different lived in this altered, dangerous shell of hyrule.

modern (school): i also have two modern aus. this one isn’t plot driven, just a concept i have, would work best as little vignettes or something. essentially just the idea of a group of loz characters hanging out together in a modern high school (or college?) setting.

modern: this is the one with an actual plot. follows the general idea of zelda characters living in a modern world only for the typical legends to begin resurfacing and heralding dark events. plot specifics are murky, but that's the general idea.

dark mage: this is the au that where the seas meet the sands takes place in. basically just ganondorf x linebeck shenanigans in this alternate hyrule while actual plot sneaks up on them. named 'dark mage' mostly because the initial idea behind this au was that linebeck would learn magic.

horror au: doesn't have the best name, and it's ended up just being a personal sandbox for me. constantly changing, with the cast and setting often altering if i find that something isn't working or sticking. it's an au i've considered (and even briefly tried) writing in the past, but it's still too fluid, and writing horror effectively is difficult. it's a fun au, though.

mecha au: spawned because i watched neon genesis evangelion. a lot of this au's basic concepts can be found here: x but the short version is that hyrule is being besiged by massive monsters, but each race has created their own mechs to combat them. link is just a farmer who happens to have a strange knack for being a mech user, so is brought in by zelda as a gamble to bolster their chances, and he is tasked with working with a new and less-than-trustworthy crew to help fight those monsters.

'amnesia link' au: an au that sprang up in about a day and hasn't gotten too far since. basic premise being that three years prior to the story, link and a group of allies has faced off against ganondorf and, despite their best efforts, lost, with link being presumed dead by their enemies. now, link has woken up from his coma, his memories gone and hyrule taken over, and, with guidance, must once again travel across hyrule, aiming to rediscover his allies and try to face ganondorf once more.

A quick list of crossovers: I won't explain these in length, since they can range from having their own plot to just being a fun mental concept. So, the things I have made crossover aus with are:

Warrior Cats

Batman

Jojo's Bizarre Adventure

Persona 5

Pokemon

(there are other, smaller ones, these are just the ones i consistently pay attention to)

So! These are the majority of my legend of zelda aus, some of which I may write, some of which just exist in my mind for fun, all of which I wouldn't mind talking more about if anyone is curious!

[todayisafridaynight]

I should be studying right now, but… do you ever think about how Arakawa didn't have to die?

Not even in the meta sense that it's RGG "tradition" to take faceclaims/father figures/antagonists out of the picture and that traditions should sometimes be broken, or that Aoki would've changed his mind, or that Ishioda or Tendo could've been stopped. But because Jo is the captain (and later second patriarch) of an organization specifically stated to specialize in faking deaths. A practice that originated in the Bubble Era years after Jo had already joined, and that Jo was no doubt intimately familiar with.

Like, isn't that why Arakawa was able to take that risk shooting Ichi? It just feels like things could've gone so much differently had Jo "accepted" Aoki's orders and "confronted" Arakawa with some kind of escape. Perhaps the Ijincho homeless camp would be off-limits, having drawn too much attention recently, but an assassin would surely know how to lay low for a while.

And maybe Aoki, Ishioda, and Tendo would've been undone by their own ambition anyway. And Arakawa could've kept his word and ran the security company with the pillars of the Tojo and Omi, while Jo could've been the chairman of the Tokyo Omi Alliance; light and shadow, opposite to their respective sons. And so many more yakuza wouldn't have been left with nowhere to go.

And hell, maybe none of it would've worked out in the end, maybe it would've all folded like a house of cards, but wasn't it worth a shot? Perhaps it was Yokoyama he who didn't think of it (or couldn't/didn't pursue it even if he did), perhaps it was Jo. But there's something so tragic about being so fundamentally opposed to lifting a finger in violence towards your co-parent and patriarch that you decline the opportunity to save him.

I wonder if the thought has ever occurred to Jo.

I wonder how much he regrets it.

UGH RIGHT IT'S SOOOO....

Like of COURSE I'm upset about Arakawa's death in that we lost a wonderful character and father figure in the franchise, but also it's cause it's just... for all the scheming Arakawa and Jo have been doing behind Aoki's back this entire time, Jo folded on this opportunity to get Arakawa out of Aoki's radar for good this time- or for at least the time being.

It's a testament to the humanity he convinced himself he threw away, and that's why it especially makes me want to scream. From our understanding, Jo is supposed to be very pragmatic and tries to deal with matters as efficiently as possible and generally seems emotionally detached from his work (of course we know that's not the case, but just from a surface-level perspective that's how it appears). So the one time Jo does show an ounce of humanity, it has the greatest consequence.

[lara4eclipze]

“Our Spot?”

— ( ⛽ ) “meet me at our spot ” sent 11:48 pm

— ( 🚏 ) fluff , kissing , established relationship, lovey dovey , car rides , swearing , etc

— ( 🌃 ) this has been collecting dust in my drafts , I think if I remember it correctly this was a request by 🫢 anon

the loudness has calmed down , shops closing down and people going home — it was finally night time those who were out are either going to clubs or just wants to explore the place silently

it became a tradition for you and daniela to call each other every night , her overwhelming schedule always results in her being drained and you were her safe haven

overtime the usual call turned into you two meeting in casual spots like the convenience store , the park or even in her studio — yet it didn't feel right , you always felt like you never truly had the time with daniela , the peace and quiet where you both can only hear the beat of your hearts

your phone rings , assuming it was daniela you answered, it wasn't weird for her to call in the crack of dawn to be honest you were used to it

"hi dani how are you?" you ask , your voice was groggy and a yawn slips past your lips as you talk

"I'm good , can I pick you up by 30? , i wanna show you something" daniela explains , she sounded happy and very tired

"hmh- yeah , ill wait for you" you reply stretching out your arms and blinking to adjust your eyes to the light

"okay get ready!" daniela says before hanging up

standing up you wince at how cold the floor is , making your way to your bathroom you brush your teeth and wash your face , throwing on some random sweater and walking to your door

y/n: I'm outside now :)

danii: okay I'm omw!

you sigh putting your hands in your pockets as you wear your headphones, tonight was particularly cold , the winds were way harsher today

"my lips your lips—apocalypse" you mouth out the lyrics , as you see a familiar m3 pulling up you smile warmly

"hii!!" dani quietly screams running up to you with surprising energy , she hugs you and you reciprocate it hugging her back and greeting her too

"soo what were you gonna show me?" you ask intrigued onto what she was talking about earlier

"ill show you just follow me" daniela replies , holding your hands and leading you to her car , as you both sat down she revs it up and drives , fast enough but not too fast to the point of disturbing your train of thoughts

"how was work?" you ask , you still to this day couldn't believe that she was part of katseye yet she is

"you know , practice , eat , sleep" the blonde replies , her hands steering the wheel , she chuckles after

the next few moments the drive was silent the only sound was your heavy breathing and occasional yawn— the car stops at some bridge it was secluded but had an amazing view of the city

"were here" dani says turning off the engine and walking out of the car , she sat at the hood soon to be joined by you

"it's beautiful" you say out of awe , silent and perfectly cold , you rest your head at her shoulders earning you a hum

"I really enjoy this , I never really get a break — when I'm with you I feel like all my worries are gone" daniela says , her voice softening and sounding sincere

"i really love you" she follows, her hands now on your cheeks as she places a kiss on your lips

the kiss was magical , it wasn't sexual but truly her way of showing her appreciation for you — it was perfect

"I love you too" you reply , now with a spot to go to every time it felt official it was officiall

this her spot , or should you say our spot

[satforsatoru]

𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐝𝐞

➪ 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐭. 𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐦𝐢

warnings: brief, nondescriptive mention of throwing up

a/n: the end feels a little rushed but i've had in this in my drafts forever

A chest-rattling cough left you, one harsh enough that you collapsed backward onto your bed. You were supposed to be doing homework, but you’d had a virtually unshakeable cold, and it was making everything that much more difficult. 

Between classes, exorcizing curses, and extra work, you’d hardly had the time to recover and it had long since begun to take its toll. The buzzing of your phone broke you from your thoughts and you dug it out of your pocket with a pitiful sniffle. 

You weren’t surprised to see the text from your boyfriend, Megumi, especially since you’d been holed up in your room since classes had gotten out hours ago. His text, though short, radiated concern. 

‘Hey, is everything okay w you? You’ve been locking yourself in your room for the last few days… im getting worried.’

Ordinarily, his attention to you would make you swoon, but making him worry was the opposite of what you wanted. What you actually wanted was for your cold to go away quietly without anyone noticing. 

You were busy, but you couldn’t imagine that it compared to what Megumi faced, and you hated the idea of adding another thing to his plate when it was such a minuscule matter.

You quickly typed back a lame excuse about homework and how busy you were before tossing your phone to the other side of the bed. As you curled up with a soft wheeze, you rolled your eyes at the notion of studying. 

At this rate, nothing was getting done until tomorrow, most likely. You let your eyes close, hoping that when you awoke, you’d be feeling better. 

+

You shot up, wide awake before you could even process the act of waking up. Soft knocking cut through your daze, and you blinked, confused for a new reason. “Yn? Can I come in?” Megumi. Shaking your head to further orient yourself, you responded. “Come in!” 

As the door instantly realized that shaking your head had only made you more dizzy, but you didn’t have time to dwell on that now that your lover was already walking up to you. 

“Yn? I brought you some snacks and stuff… you’ve been really busy and I don’t remember you getting dinner,” Megumi murmured, holding out an adorable basket of fruits, crackers, a blanket, and face masks. 

You momentarily forgot your illness and quickly stood up to throw your arms around the ravenette’s neck. “You’re too sweet, love, I really appreciate it,” You grinned, leaning into him. Without even seeing his face, you knew that his cheeks were tinted pink as he held you close, but it only made him more endearing.

“It’s nothing,” he smiled, pulling away, “what are you working on?” You accepted the basket and turned to gesture to your (forgotten) work when it hit you. 

A wave of nausea washed over you, causing your head to spin and your stomach to churn. “Yn? Are you-” Before Megumi could even finish, you were stumbling over to your trashcan, bile rising quickly in your throat. 

You hardly made it in time, dropping to your knees just as you began to heave. Footsteps echoed behind you and then hands were holding back your hair and rubbing your back. 

“Shit, you’re okay, just breathe, love,” Megumi whispered, fear seeping into his voice. After what felt like an eternity the ordeal was over and you slumped backward into your boyfriend’s waiting arms. He tucked you into his chest and gently wiped your face with a tissue.

“Hey, hey, eyes on me, yeah?” He soothed, caressing your cheek, but his face turned stricken. “You’re burning up… have you been sick?” 

You averted your gaze, shame burning through you at not only throwing up in front of Megumi but also how quickly he saw right through you. “Just a little under the weather,” You mumbled, “I’m sorry you had to see that,” You added quietly.

Megumi scoffed, but not unkindly. “You should’ve told me, love. Have you taken anything? Well, I guess you haven’t since you haven’t even eaten,” He answered himself, looking right through you. “How long have you been feeling like this?” He asked suspiciously. 

You hesitated, but his eyes narrowed and you knew that there was no point in lying. “About a week,” You revealed. “That long-! Yn, why didn’t you say anything?” Megumi rushed, conflicted about what to do. 

“It’s just… everyone’s busy and has stuff to worry about, y’know? I didn’t want to add another thing to your plate. It really isn’t that big of a deal, I promise,” You insisted. 

“‘Not a big deal’?” Megumi echoed, frowning deeply, “Yn, you just threw up after being sick for a week. You don’t have to hide this stuff, especially not from me, okay? I don’t want you to be suffering all by yourself.” 

Not giving you a chance to make another excuse, he easily moved you to your bed and carefully laid you down. Guilt began to sit in your stomach like a pit as you watched Megumi mutter under his breath, no doubt creating a plan to help you.

“I don’t want to lecture you, especially not when you’re feeling like this, but… I don’t want you to think for a second that you’re just ‘another thing on my plate’,” Megumi started, lithe fingers caressing your cheek, “you’re my priority, always, I want to help you as much as I possibly can because I truly care about you, more than you can possibly understand,” He finished, leaning closer to you. 

You felt your cheeks warm and you nodded in understanding. “Sorry for disappearing on you,” You murmured. Still, Megumi looked somewhat relieved as he brushed a cool hand across your forehead. 

“I’m just glad I know now… stay put, I’m going to grab a couple things,” He mumbled, already heading toward the door. As much as you felt slightly guilty to derail his day, you couldn’t deny that it was nice to have him take care of you. 

A couple of minutes passed, and you felt your eyelids begin to grow heavy and you were losing the battle against sleep. 

Just when you were about to truly give in to your exhaustion, a damp, cool towel was placed on your forehead. Your eyes blinked open, meeting familiar ones. “Feel good?” He questioned quietly. You nodded, lost in a deep yawn. 

“I brought some medicine for you to take, and then you can get some rest, okay?” Megumi decided, opening a small pill bottle. You sighed but relented and accepted the large-ish capsule and the glass of juice with a small ‘thanks’.

You quickly downed them both, but you couldn’t stop yourself from making a face at the gross aftertaste, to which Megumi let out a quiet laugh. “Not too much,” You huffed, but pulled him by the arm, contradicting your words. 

“Want me to stay while you rest?” He asked, sitting beside you on the bed. A resounding ‘yes’ rested on the tip of your tongue, but you didn’t want to essentially trap him here, especially if he had other tasks to attend to. 

“I don’t mind, I’m kind of tired myself,” He added reassuringly. You pursed your lips, but when the back of his hand carefully caressed your cheek, the rest of your resolve crumbled. “If you insist,” You grinned.

The ravenette rolled his eyes, but joined you beneath the covers, nonetheless. For a few seconds, the two of you maneuvered around until you were comfortably tucked away in his chest. 

Megumi’s lips pressed against your forehead for a long moment and he held you closer to himself. “You’re important to me, okay? I want to be the first person you come to when things happen,” He whispered. 

You finally felt yourself truly relax now that you were right where you belonged. You managed a whispered ‘I love you’ before you succumbed to your exhaustion.

requests are open and reblogs are appreciated!

[doublekanble]

dead meat

Alastor/reader (gnc)

romantic-platonic

word count: 11.1k

Or, the progress of going down and deeper. (please treat this as if theyre a bunch of drafts coupled together (they are) this read so much funnier if you keep in mind the fact alastor have genuine feelings/genuinely cares for you but he’s just batshit insane) its 13min til 2am if theres an error no theres not tw: gorish talks and imagery littered thru specifically 1, 5 and 7. alastor chased you down in 7.

1. Because you listen.

When you finally came back — frayed at the seams, run-through you with a headache and a rock in hand. You looked down, the warm wetness oozing from him and seeping into your pants quickly turn cold. You couldn’t tell what you’re looking at for a minute, adrenaline still running through you and your head ache just a tad. When you finally see the pink bits and the leaking blood, your breath runs ragged and your thought run miles. You try to remember all the warning your mother gave you about getting involved with a man like Alastor, you don’t know how you’ll tell mom she never gave you any advice or warning about this.

“God… Oh my God what did I—What—“

Not a single book warned you about the way you physically feel ill touching a body growing cold. So with guts churning and the prickling on your skins, you scrambled to throw yourself off and backing away from the body on all four. Desperately, you called out to whatever is there and beg in your head to wake you up from this nightmare of a show. And when you hit something distinctly warm and alive from behind, you call out to it, thinking it’s your mother, coming to save you from this, to tell you that it’s alright and that everyone make mistakes and this is nothing more than a bad dream. You’ll wake up from this soon, in your childhood bed, in your childhood room, in your childhood house and you’ll be anywhere else and not here.

But when the warmth embraces you, and you feel a warmer breath by your right ear, pressing a soft smile and a bliss-filled chuckle into it, it hit you that your mother would’ve hated you if she sees this. If she sees him.

“Oh, mon Chéri, I knew you’d have it in you” You hate the way the voice swallowed and a take a breath, as if mesmerized by the sight, like you but so wholly unlike you, it whispered in your ear, “What a show. What a show.”

Your eyes is focused on him, but not on him, not a person. That couldn’t be a person at all. Saliva tasting bitter, the bile rising in your throat hurts as you desperately tries and tear your eyes away from it. But enraptured by the intricacies inside his head, you only do so much before finding yourself looking closer for something you couldn’t understand.

“Don’t worry,” setting his lips on your temple, he sigh into your skin, one hand held onto yours and gently rubbing the red from your fingers onto his, as if helping you clean up, “It’s your first time, everything will be so much better once you’re used to it.”

Your eyes flickered between the thing and whatever of yourself visible to you. It’s all red, so much red. Its head, his head was caved in, you can see the front of his skull, everything else is everywhere. How could this ever get any better if it’s going to be this red? Was it going to be this red every other time too? You can feel your fingers going numb from the grip you have on that rock, you can feel the dent from where it dug into your palm, you can feel clearly the traces of well-kept nails running down your left arm from where he tries to pull you away. And every bit of it is red. And suddenly your clothes and his grip and the night air and your skin felt just a bit too tight, too suffocating. Your brain pulses and compressed against your skull. It hurts to think, it hurts way much more to speak.

“I—I don’t want to – I can’t-“

“I thought I couldn’t too, until I did it again, and then again. And then I realized that this,” raising the hand he held onto so kindly, almost like guiding your eyes to the sight. While the pain in your stomach is almost unbearable, he couldn’t sound any more ecstatic. “This, is freedom. Our freedom”

You were sure that the freedom that you’ve been yearning for wasn’t supposed to be associate with a corpse. No type of freedom will ever be going to drive someone to cracked open a skull in the middle of the night. There’s nothing but pure malice that will drive someone to bring a rock onto another man’s head and refuses to stop even when his ears bleed and he stop fighting and started begging. Your mother hated Alastor, and she never break his skull open. You hated your mother, and you never break her skull open.

You want to open your mouth and tell him to shut up. You want to say your mother was right, you shouldn’t have gotten involved with him, no matter how inviting his offer is. You shouldn’t have run off night after night chasing the daylight with him. He is a scoundrel, he is disgusting, he’s the worst type of delusional criminal there is, the most pretentious man in all of Louisiana. But you can’t, because you just maimed a good man and refused to hear his pleas. With nothing left to you, you all but break down into his arms.

“There, there~” he coos into your hair as your wailing get swallowed up by the cold night air, “I’m right here, aren’t I?” if only he’s anywhere else but here with you, mouth spewing reassurances one after the other.

(It’s alright, he’ll take care of it today. It’s ok, he’ll teach you about some other day. From now on, you’re going with him, whether liking it or not.)

2. Because you wouldn’t

“Isn’t he one of those highbrows you like to rub shoulders with?” her tone accusing and upset, you almost choked on your tea when she slapped the papers down in front of your food and walk out the living room. Even though you have an idea about what she talk about – the news came out just in time for it to be covered on the radio first, you still pick it up and scanned your eyes along.

“So I’m supposed to remember every face I came by now?” you glowered to yourself, “How do you know who I’m ‘rubbing shoulders’ with anyway?”

Over the sounds of your heart beating wildly in your ears, over the humming in your head, you hear her mumbled something about “that boy” as she starts to vacuumed the carpet. It’s a ridiculous thought, but for a brief second, you were sure she’s going to ask you about your numb fingers.

‘SON OF FAMOUS MUSICIAN, REPORTED MISSING AFTER NIGHT OUT-’

It’s so odd to you, how much he worth, yet how little people care. Name printed in bold font atop news about the fast declined of the economy and crashing stock markets a full week after he disappeared. He never told you his full name, nor does anyone around him ever make mention of it despite their occasional jeering and jokes. You didn’t bother with it at the time, you two weren’t the most talkative person in the room, let alone together.

Then again, it does make sense. He told you before that he’s not proud of what he came from or what he became, under drowsy lights and forced to sit side-by-side like all the other night. You still can’t drink, he still can’t dance while being miserably drunk, and nobody else wants to babysit a miserable drunk. You don’t get why anyone needs you to look after him, despite being so out of his head, he seems perfectly well with handling himself.

Your lift the tea cup to your dry lips and take a sip, the tea tasted bitter.

A voice loudly called for you, irritation written clear in it. You swallowed the lump in your throat and all but jump to her spot in the small hall, unwilling to let the two talks for more than necessary. Your mother stand with a huff to her posture.

“It’s him again.”

You laugh dryly, “It’s always him, mom.” tugging the receiver from her hand, you bring it up to your ears. The moment you do, a chuckle rang out. You shivers.

“There’s the lad of the hour! Why, I almost thought your mother was trying to stringed me along before shutting the line off again!” the mother in question grunt and grumble about how annoyingly persistent he is, you agree. Last time she did so, the phone kept ringing until she relented. “In any case, I hoped you’re all up and ready today!”

“We have nothing planned today.” Your reply was immediate and flat, hoping he would leave you alone, but Alastor only laughs in an almost affectionate tone.

“And I’m here to changed that!” he exclaimed, you run a hand down your face and try to keep your calm.

“Alastor, John’s missing. This is not the time.” you whispered sharply into the receiver, hoping to whatever’s true he’ll shut his trap for once. You’re not interested in getting caught by the neighbours over the phone of all thing.

“John? Now that sounds familiar…” he pauses, you can almost see the way he turn a brow up and pretends like he’s lost in thought, it’s almost endearing, “Why, isn’t that the lad I named on the radio yesterday?! What a horrible case! Some people are saying he finally throw himself onto a train and-“

“Alastor!” at the sound of your own voice scrapping in your ears, you pauses. You relax your grip and lower your voice, doing your best not to pay attention to the figure peeking out from your kitchen, “Listen, I don’t have the time to play around. Get to the point.”

“Clearly, you’ve the time for nothing, you and your mother…” sighing heavily, he dropped the act. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop kidding. We’ll talk once I get there. Be ready in twenty.”

“Wh— Alastor!“ The phone turn dead in your hand and you’re left standing in the hallway.

You stare at the receiver in shock, then, you grip it. Holding back the urge to break it open over the table it sits on, grinding your teeth, you place the receiver back. You clutched at the end of the table and count to ten, jaws aching and head spinning from anger. Even with your head hanging low, you can hear footsteps falling along the hallway. Your mother red house slippers stand in view from the side, you wondered if you can burn it and buy another pair.

“You’re going out with that creepy radio host again.” she’s standing with her hand crossed and an exasperated look, you just know it.

“Mom, please,” heaving a sigh of your own, you don’t want her to rub it in your face, even if she doesn’t know it, “Alastor’s not creepy. He’s a good man, I promise.” you have to believe he’s a good man, after everything. If you don’t, you’ll lose the rest of your mind. You prayed that she leave you alone, but she kept pressing.

“You keep saying that, but I know he’s nothing but trouble. I mean- look at you!? You looked so exhausted every day. Every time you leave with that scurf, you came back looking more lost than before!”

Turning to her, you have a retort at the tip of your tongue, you always do. But the looks on her face was nowhere near what you thought it was, so you stumbled. For a second, your vision blurs and your head spins. When it cleared up, your eyes met.

“That good for nothing man, dragging you out every night! Have he ever asked what you want before?!”

Standing like a cornered rat, you try to find your voice.

“I-“ you swallowed again, “I don’t mind it, mom. I like going out.”

Have your mother always looked this tired and worn beyond her age? It almost as if she’s been holding the world alone. She said your name, and you feel all lost again. Like a small child with bare knees stripped red and wailing for her to come and save you.

“You don’t even like parties.”

You remember how much she always scolded you when you got yourself into troubles, but your mom always patches you up while she does so. In the time frame before your home became more of a house and your front door is a front door without any sort of implications. And then it hit you just how old mom looked now. She used to be so tall compared to you, but now you’re over her slightly hunching figure, a little bit or a lot, it’s just enough to look down on her. Suddenly, the world feels too constricting and your skin feels too tight.

All this time, she wasn’t angry at all, was she? Your mom haven’t been angry for a long time now. But it doesn’t change you, it doesn’t change anything else. You closed your eyes and push a breath through your nose.

“Maybe I’ve changed, mom,” you walk past her into the living and tug on your overcoat with fingers stained red, fighting against the waver in your voice and hoping she won’t hear it, “maybe you should be happy for me.”

Alastor always take less than twenty to show up, but you didn’t know how long he was watching you for before clearing his throat. You didn’t bother to respond, only lifted your head up to make sure it wasn’t some random prude before shifting aside. He have the decency to stay silent and sit down with you on your front porch, offering a sympathetic smile at your sorry state and gently wiped away your tears with his red handkerchief when you refused to move and take it yourself. It wasn’t the first time you sit out and wait for him on the porch instead of listening to her outburst, but it was the first time you ever cry over it.

You wanted so desperately to turn back and tell her that you haven’t change, that you’re still her little kid. The same one that want to sit out the parties and the smokes and the dancing and the jazz just to spent the days working on something with her nearby, in the kitchen working on something or sleeping in the armchair, always in the old set of red house slippers. You want to show her something you make, only for her to not get a single part about it. You want to fall at her feet and begged her to tell you you’re still the same kid. You want her to go back to closing the front door and locking you away from the world again.

But you’re nothing but a rat, fresh off from a murder. You’d soon throw yourself in front a running train than to ever let mom know her child will ever do anything wrong. So you swallowed everything back, stand up, and walked away from her porch with Alastor hot on your trail, smiling all the while.

(you want to tell her you haven’t changed at all, but you know better than anyone else. you thought you know better.)

3. Loosely, you’ll fall.

The show was an utter bore, you’ve concluded. The allure of watching history made quickly died out when it pertains to dancing, something you’ve been watching people do with much more grace. It might’ve been much more interesting too, if the dull drums in your head invites itself out. But even when you step outside into open air outside the theater, it remains.

“Well, that certainly was… something.” Walking after you in a leisured pace with one hand behind his back, another going back and forth on brushing off his coat or adjusting his glasses, to anyone else, he looked completely normal. But you know him long enough. “I could’ve sworn it’s a musical show.”

Usually, it’s fairly hard to catch Alastor in a flustered state, facial or demeanour wise. You supposed years of practice couldn’t really stamp out personal discomfort. You would’ve felt bad, but you don’t have enough strength to bother.

“There is musical, alright,” you grumbled, a hand to your temple as you walk on without waiting for him, “I’d say it’s too much even.”

Obediently, silently, Alastor traces your footstep as you seethe to yourself. You were supposed to be back in bed and sleep away this headache and your free day at this hour. It’s a shame you just can’t help from talking back to your mom and chased yourself out of the house, onto the street, and right into his games.

You wish you could rub those kissing scenes into his face and mocked his offbeat timid nature and tell him to go shove it. For once, the mere thought of intimacy itself reminds you of that night and forced you to think about how Alastor always stands just a bit too close to you, always just behind you. It takes everything in you to not scratch at your wrist and tears your skin open, so you opted for patience and sympathy, no matter how much the image haunted your eyelids said otherwise.

Before you know it, the voices and the hollers and bumping shoulders traded itself for a single bell chiming, then hushed murmurs and echoing clinks of porcelains and glasses filled the space. You invited yourself to a small spot off in the corner with a lone seat and hunched over with your left hand over your face, while Alastor comes up to the counter. When he came back, he pulls another chair from the table right next to yours and all but covered you from everyone else’s sight. You stare at him in between the webs of your fingers while Alastor rest his chin in his right hand and hums all softly at you.

“You should’ve told me it’s still there, dear. I wouldn’t have bother dragging you out.” His free hand brush against yours in a gesture you can blindly guess as benign and kind. Unlike the Alastor from this morning, unlike him in the theater. Unlike Alastor from the broadcast and unlike the man holding onto you that night. You’ve seen this so many times before in so many people, it’s just make-believe for adults and you’ve already seen this in him. You thought you have, anyway, so you take your hand away from him and look at the approaching waitress. It must’ve been a trick of the light, the way his eyes grows just a bit darker. But you still think hard about what you would’ve said back then.

“I need to get out anyway, better here than there right now.” You would’ve been fine with the idea of going back in, but by the time you do, Alastor was standing in front of you, and you would rather let him think whatever he wants than to pissed him off even further somehow.

“Better with me~” When push comes to shove, he is a bitter man with a silver tongue, you’ve seen him pour drinks onto people and getting away scot-free. It’s always funny to everyone else in the group, until they’re at the direct end of his bitter temper.

Alastor have never even so much as raising his voice at you in anger, but you also thought he would never kill anyone, so you refuse to take any chances. As long as you stay cordial and don’t step past your line, Alastor won’t ever have a reason to. So long as you keep to your leash, he’ll be pleasant and let you go home soon. It leave a nasty taste on your tongue, how you know exactly what to do with him.

“Whatever you say, Alastor.” Gently nursing your headache, you sits a bit straighter. You really couldn’t tell what’s worse, the oddly plastic smell of the café, or the light from the bulbs burning your retinas. “You never told me why we’re out here in the first place.”

Clapping his hand together, he grins. “Oh, yes! Terribly sorry my dear, I figured we shouldn’t talk about it over the party line. Who knows what else is lurking, yeah?” you stay seated despite your instinct telling you to run. You know this was coming anyway, “See, we didn’t get to celebrate the other day. You got so sick, after all-”

He kept on talking, seemingly perfectly fine with you tuning him out. Even if he’s not fine with it, he can’t do anything to stop the almost freakish way statics filled your head and washes your entire body in a cold and numbing wave of sweat, electrics ran through your head while you grips your hair. And it’s almost like he knows what’s going through you, because he wiped away a drop of sweat running from your forehead with a knowing smile.

“Be careful now, if you get sick, I’ll have to take care of you.”

“As if you can take a step into my house.” As if she’s ever going to let him take a single step inside after today. But he kept that irritating look on him, if only the thought of tearing it off his face doesn’t hurt you so badly.

“Who said it’ll be at your house~”

His chuckle right after shuts you up. Right, you forgot. Of course you did. He have a lodge somewhere near a bayou. You weren’t sure whether Alastor meant it as a tease or a threat, you don’t really want to think about it. So you forced a laugh when he grows just a tad silent. Tilting his head, he looked at you with something you couldn’t tell, and like aways, he switch topics without a bat of an eye while you sat there with sweats running down your back in the middle of winter.

You reach for your cup and bring it to your lips without bothering to know what’s in it, trying to follow along while Alastor rattled off a to-do list he made without your consent for today’s hangout. A visit to a confectionary shop, a trip to the tailor, quick stop at a small dinner he discovered recently and, if there’s still time, he can take you to your book shop. As your vision blurred for a second, the bitter taste of coffee hit your tongue, and it took everything in you to bite back a swear and to hold your mask of politeness. Accidentally flitting your eyes up, you catch him smiles. But it isn’t the kind of smile friend gives to one another, it isn’t the type where two people love and care for each other. So you keep your gaze low and keep drinking the coffee he ordered, at least they do a decent enough job at taking your mind off of John.

(somehow, it felt so familiar, it wasn’t until the moment you crawl back into your warm bed after a cold dinner that it hit you. it wasn’t against your ear this time, but it was the same smile. you swallowed the acid in your throat and thought about how many people saw it just before they lay six-feet under.)

4. And when you finally fall,

John wasn’t that much of an asshole, but he lives like he’s the most wretched man in all of Louisiana. A shadow of a person, beyond that of a ghost. Alastor told you that the only reason anyone ever stuck around is because John have more money than anyone could ever understand, and as long as you can withstand the awkward silent and the sneers, you can count your worries for the night’s drinks goodbye.

Coming from a long and well-known line of gifted artist, John was set for life, even with his less-than-responsible lifestyle. His great grandfather wrote plays, his grandfather paint, his father plays the piano and John drink himself blind. He stop touching anything that even insinuate the idea of creating art on his twenty birthday. Ever since, he wanders the night, going from place to place to emptied his family’s wealth into pretty floozies and drink away his own shame.

With an eerily out of place grin, just close enough to his normal happy demeanour to count, just a bit too wide to be normal, Alastor show you off to John like an exotic pet while his friends already dash off to dance.

“Oh! And how could I forget, this one might not be able to play it, but they have a fantastic taste in music!” then, he turns to you with a friendly hand on your shoulder and a sympathetic look, “If only you ever have the means to pick it up, you’ll be the talk of the town for sure!””

“Surely.” John reply with an odd laugh and look you up and down, suddenly the idea of sitting back with him and watching the others felt just a bit too much for you. But you only brushed their comment off with a wave of your hand. Acting like you didn’t pick up on how John down his drink with just a bit more fervour and Alastor smiles breached the border of normalcy before he pats your back gently, as if encouraging a shy dog to socialize, before inviting himself out and leaving you alone with a man you’re not sure was all there.

You tell yourself you just won’t go with Alastor to his night parties next time, but you pick up the phone every time. And every night you have to sit right by John’s side in complete silent when everyone spreads across the bar.

At first, it was somewhat scary and unpleasant. Then, it was awkward and uncomfortable. Every time you sit right next to him, he would scoff and chuff at you under his breath. Refusing to ever talk or look at you. Unless it was time to leave, John will never do anything more than call for a drink and then sip on it until he needs another one. Every time Alastor came to check up on you, he would smile at you sweetly and make a jab or two at John. You figured by now it’s a show of sort to him, but sometimes you still make a small effort to shut Alastor up and direct him back to whatever he was doing before. It became your new normal for half a year at least.

And then one night, completely worn out and tired with the day and the loud jazz inside a loud room with lousy lights and lousy companion, you stand up without a word to anyone and went out the back door. Outside in the cold air of October, you huddled by a wall inside the back-alley and pulled your knees to your chest. Staring at your hands, you can only sigh and ruffled your hair, digging the palm of your hand into the base of your skulls and wishing you can break it open.

“If you’re so tired, then why not haul yourself back home?”

Jumping up with a yelp, you clutched at your heart, completely missing the door creaking open the first time. You forgot how John even sounded like for a minute, voice low and gruff, completely contrasting everyone else in the group.

“…” halfway peeking through the door and staring impassively, you wondered why he even bother when he seems so done with you. Words right on the tip of your tongue, you him a passing glance, debating whether this worth an excuse out of your pocket. He cut you off before you even begin to open your mouth.

“What? You’re deaf now?” John shouldered the door and step outside fully, standing in front of you.

“…And if I am?” You frown, this feels too much like being scolded. At least his voice is kinder to your ears . “Better off if you are.” He chuckled, “…So?” You would be upset, but you’re too tired and he’s not leaving you alone, so you shrugs your shoulder apathetically.

“Horrible day at work, fight with my mom, then got dragged out here again.”

“Heh, figured.” You glare up at him, he raises his hands up in defence, whiskey with a single ice cube in its glass clinking as he does so, “You seems miserable whenever the lot isn’t around to see.”

You want to spat at him, what would he know about you? But you know he’s right. It really does feel miserable, going all the way out here just to sit and having nothing to do. So you dropped your head into your palm and groan.

“Ugh-…Is it that obvious?”

He cackle, you take it as a yes and sink your head a bit lower at the sound.

“Why not just—not come?” taking a sip from his whiskey, he sat next to you without invitation, “You can just say no to him, y’know.”

“As if I haven’t tried.” You grumbled, but stop when he raised a brow at you, motion for you to keep on. A bit clueless, you shrugs again, “What? You know him for longer than me. You should know that.”

John looks at you as if you’re stupid, and you’re beginning to think you are. Pointing a finger at you, he asked you about your job. Then with a nod, he stated outright.

“But you don’t do anything for him.”

You sputtered, the irony of a drunkard basically calling you useless and being right about it doesn’t escape you at all.

“What does that have to do with anything? He’s a persistent guy, that’s it.”

“That bastard doesn’t bother hanging around anything that isn’t useful. He’s not that type of guy.”

“Then what type of guy is he?” you ask. He looks at you, licked the top row of his teeth, then heave a heavy sigh.

Dowing the rest of his whiskey, John stand up and offers you a hand. You hesitate before slowly taking hold of it and nearly fell over when he pulled you up. He mumbled a half-hearted sorry with a look.

“Not whatever you’re thinking of him, that’s for sure,” he drag you inside by the shoulder, snickering when you try to keep up and failing miserably before slowing down for you, “Now common, I need another drink.”

It’s all John ever told you about Alastor, it’s all you ever need, but you never listen.

-

John didn’t change fully after that night, but he still change somewhat. The John that was so drained and empty was still there, but he sits up a bit straighter, as if managed to confirmed whatever else he have in his head. For three months, you two never talked about what happened in the back alley, nor do you talk at all. He still down enough drink to kill an elephant and lost his balance to the point someone needs to take him home. But he nodded his head whenever he’s not tipsy enough that the ceiling spins like a globe and you catches eyes, and sitting beside him felt a bit less draining and off-putting.

You told Alastor about it later, the conversation you two have in the back alley, because of course you do, telling everything to your good friend. Alastor would then look over whenever John’s acting friendlier to you, because of course he does, and joked about it. You saved him five years of his life, he laugh. You laugh along because his tone seems just a bit off. You sometimes think about who Alastor is, whenever you have a moment to sit back and contemplates everything between you two. But not for long, because like clockwork, Alastor would pull you away to do whatever he wants for the day, and like always, you would follow along with little to no complains.

Sometime before John went “missing”, you break the thinning layer of ice between you two and tell him out of the blue that you never actually touch an instrument in your life, but you wished you have the chance to. You thought he would’ve laugh at you, but he sat through your recount of younger you being enthralled by a street musician, seeing it as a form of liberty you can only hope to capture through any other art you made. He asked why, you said there was no space in your life for making music. Not then, not now. He asked if it’s ever a regret, you stay silent.

You asked him to play you something, he huff a laugh behind his glass, but shut up when you didn’t laugh along. A false police alarm got the place empty enough for your group early that night, and the owner was desperate enough for extra cash, enough for him to mousey up and play a song you remember by heart. He played really well, you told him. His playing is the bare minimum, it lacks the souls his father have, he sneers at you. He doesn’t need to have a soul in it, just get used to being mediocre while having fun instead, you reply, leaning against the piano and staring at the group chatting away from you two. He didn’t bother with a counter, but he kept playing, this time it’s a melody you’ve never heard before. You saw Alastor turning his head to you two, but you pay him no mind and turn back to John. He looked so calm playing something like this.

John trips over his fingers and curses a lot, you tell him to keep playing. Until the song’s finished and you left standing in silence for just a bit, waiting for the other to say something. Turning the word over in your mouth, you’re a bit speechless, like you’re face-to-face with a kindred soul. But there’s no real comfort in telling a drowning man he can breathe, so you say his melody felt like home.

Worn beyond his age and exhausted in a way that’s so out of place for someone who have the world in his hand, his smile was genuine, facing towards you, like an old friend and a warm meal. The bar dives and the social circles Alastor loved pulling you along have always made you feel so out of place. Their grin’s too perfect and their voices too pleasant, all with an oddly rotten attitude. It’s like watching a picture show, it’s not how people genuinely act, it’s the semblance of one.

Maybe that’s why you and John never got along too well, he was too busy hiding his face behind glasses of gin and whiskeys, you’re too busy hiding in Alastor shadows. But you both never play along, and you both never faced each other fully before that night. You hope John never have that realization, the fact you’ve never faced him at all.

Then before you knew it, his face to the ground, all red, turned from you. That’s all you knew about John Holloway, that’s all he ever get to tells you.

(deep inside, you want to say that it wasn’t your fault. but the difference between getting swept along with life and standing in a back alley with blood on your hands is that somewhere in your empty head, you did register his scream. there’s a reason you can’t see his face and there’s a reason the rock was in your red hand, sitting in your red palm.)

5. so far down, you won’t know the way home

The forest floor was red, by the time you realized it.

It wasn’t by your hand, but it’s enough for you to step back and breathe. It always so odd to you, just how easy it really is to see in the dark, even when the moon hides away behind strips of clouds. In the dark, at the dead of night, your eyes should’ve been blind to the red that’s bleeding all over, but it never does. It took you a second to remember what you’re supposed to be looking at, and you turn the light towards the main figure, standing so proudly in the middle of this. In through nose, out the mouth. Don’t focus on the thing below, look at him and smile. He smiles back, genuine joy stiches itself on every corner of his face. If only this flashlight is weaker.

“Sorry darlin’. This one have more fight in him than I thought he would,” he strides towards you, the familiar metallic stench overwhelms your senses when his red hand came up to tuck a strand of loose hair behind your ear, “Good thing we got it done before he find his way out, huh?”

Good thing he got it done at all, you thought. You can only bother to hide your exhaustion with a mute nod and a grim grin. Knowing exactly how this will plays out again, you remind yourself to be ready. Alastor laughs and pat your cheek affectionately before pulling you by your hand towards the corpse quickly growing cold amongst the grass. As he does, you try to ignore the echoing in your eardrums.

It was gut wrenching at first. The panting, the gasping, frantic steps that echoes through the empty woods, devoid of bird calls, devoid of life. Just a hound, chasing its prey, and a vulture perched on a tree waiting, watching. The choked exhale when they fall, eventually tired out and tripped over themselves or getting a bullet to the thigh. The way they all looked so confused, then they bargain, then they get mad and calls him every name under the sun before shutting up and look at him in the eye. You weren’t sure just how he looked to them, but perversely, you’re glad you never get to see it.

They scream and yell and beg for someone to please come and save them until they can’t anymore, but it felt like they never stop at all.

“Come here.”

He sits you down by the body, open and ready, still holding onto your wrist while you fight every bone in your body to keep your hand still and keep your foot nailed down. His face, flushed with excitement and sweat running down his forehead as he rattled on about how soon, you’ll have enough guts to do this with him instead of only ever following after and picking up the scraps.

“Remember that feeling? Remember the rush?” lifting your clenching fist up to his lips, he smiles and chases your gaze, you stare back, “Etch it into your brain, don’t ever forget it.”

With that, he plunges your fist into the open cavern of flesh and red and it feels so incredibly blasphemous and wrong. While Alastor knitted his fingers atop yours and guide your hand through the process, you feel your senses grows fuzzy around the edge. Half of you wish that headache didn’t die after the 3rd time, at least then you have something else to focus on other than the sopping wet red mush slipping in and out between your frozen fingers. The idea that someone’s inside would immediately cool off after their death is a farce to you, their warmth still so tangible and so fragile it takes everything in you to stop the burning acid from bursting in your throat. He told you on your fifth time that if you vomit on the body, he’ll have you cleaning it with him, sounding just a tad bit considerate, as if the idea of forcing you into doing something you dislike hurts him.

It's almost too much to think about, how you’re becoming something so different, something that’s just enough to his liking, to the point where all you have left are instincts and the alarms in your head. It felt like years ago when your weekdays are filled with nothing but sitting inside your cozy home and looking out the window, hoping one day you’ll be able to experience that high life and being cared for by someone who love you with everything they have, even if it’s the worst experience of your life. It’s almost like decades ago when your thoughtcrimes are no more than passerby on a long day and your smile is a sham but it’s ok because everyone bought into it and you do too. Now you spent your days looking behind your shoulders for excuses while pinprick runs up your neck, waiting for the day you’ll be buried with the people he hate.

You hope when, not if, you do have to, you’ll manage to come up with an excuse to mom for the body in that alley way. You clenched your fist, only the red squelching and spongy inside of a man you barely know respond.

(the hound stare up at the vulture and leave with a red maw, it watches the vulture from the shadow of the trees. the vulture learned to ignore the hound and feast away at leftovers.)

6. I hope you’ll call out for my name.

Unconsciously, you tap your index finger to a rhythm a man showed you some years ago. One you called beautiful, and one that made him smile. Like always, your weary and sunken eye catches red painting your left hand, but you only sigh and return to penning out your letter. A ringing echoes throughout your bleak and empty house, but no voice call out for you. There’s no point in picking up, you simply let the call die on its own. If it’s him, he’ll crawl his way to the front door with or without that call either way.

When the noise abruptly ended and didn’t pick up again, you put down your pen and hold the letter in hands that never lost its stain. Staring down at the words you’ve painstakingly poured over since her funeral, you crumbled the page and held your head. Over and over again, you write and write, hoping that some way, somehow, something can change.

But like always, nothing is enough, so you throw the paper into the small bin next to your seat, holding back the urge to throw everything else on the table with it too; your mom raise a murderer, not an ill-manner rodent. There’s no longer a point in lamenting things that can never be change in your lifetime. You can do this tomorrow, or the next day, or the day next to that, you’re considering how to go out still. As long as he’s not here, that is. You check the clock, eleven and a half, you have around fifteen minutes before he’s here.

Alastor was always suffocating, you thought, dragging yourself to a wardrobe that haven’t felt familiar for more than half a year now. Nosy and meddlesome, it’s something you picked up on even when you were a doe-eye little rat running across the night without realizing you were walking with a hunting hound, but you always thought it was simply how Alastor cares about people. Your mom was right, you were so naïve about him, thinking he can care for anyone else aside from his mother and himself.

He was always suffocating, but ever since the funeral, he all but latch onto you.

The pure black outfit he gave you was something you would wear to mom’s funeral. But coming from him, it makes you feel like a stranger was staring back from the mirror’s view, out of your own skin. So you boxed it and hid it under the sofa after the whole thing.

And of course, Alastor knows this. So whenever he browse through your wardrobe on his own accord, he would always make sure to make a comment about how these plain and boring clothes never look right on you with a good-nature smile. You no longer have the mind to bother with a reply, so you let him do whatever he wants. As long as he get his digs in, you get your peace of mind. The things in here means the world to you, but what use is there to defend something you’ll soon have no use for.

Clicking your tongue, you pulled out something that looks decent for the street and locked the door to your room. You fixed your clothes until it fits right on you and sat on your bed, wondering if you should just stay inside and make him take some couple extra steps. But decidedly, being in your own room with him will always be so much more unnerving of an experience rather than just letting him shuffling through your stuff on his own. So, the door to your room open with a click, and you step out into long familiar but distant hallways. You wish you can unlearn the concept of loving something that isn’t tangible anymore. It’ll make the hallways a bit brighter.

Like usual, you peek into the empty, almost sterile kitchen and walk up to her armchair. After confirming that you’re alone today also, you found yourself back on the sofa with nothing else to do, simply waiting for Alastor. Checking the time again, it’s exactly mid-day now, so his mother must’ve needed help with something, you’ll have to wait for a bit. Gulping down the uncomfortable heavy weight that settled over your heart since a year and a half ago, refusing to ever die, you lie down and close your eyes.

A year, a half, two week and three days, it’s really a wonder how you work. Maybe that’s what Alastor sees in you, a walking list of contradictions, or maybe this is how everyone works, and you were just cruelly kept out of the loop. Even though you never bother to consider her in your own life, ever since a year and a half ago, you wake up staring at the ceiling with bleary eyes wondering what’s she’s doing every day and why you can’t hear her. Then, remembering that she won’t be doing anything from now on, you get up and make yourself breakfast. Sometimes you would still hear someone calling for you, along with the constant ringing from the phone, but then one day, you forgot how she sounded like, so you starts to ignore the calls.

The day you realized you can no longer hear her voice, calling out to you from the door to your house, you’d tried to trace her footstep by opening her cookbook and making the dish she love. One moment, you were staring down into the pages, the next, you’re seated at the counter, surrounded by Alastor’s companions. You’d call for a  whiskey. Everyone find it absolutely hilarious and jokes about your new life while you held the glass in your hand and stare down into the amber-colour liquid. Just as Alastor laugh and reach out for your hand to take it away, talking about how you simply won’t be able to handle the aftermath, you knock your head back and the glass ran clear in one gulp. His friends all cheered for you and shoving another glass into your hand, assuring you’ll get used to this soon, but you don’t know how much you can trust them.

Quite frankly, the whiskey was beyond repulsive. As if you just swallowed flaming charcoal, your throat burns so badly, it’s stopping you from forming a single coherent sentence. You can’t stop yourself from tearing up over it, either, vision blurred and unsteady while a beginning of a headache started creeping up on you, so you down whatever’s in your hand again in the hope of becoming familiar with it fast enough to never have to think twice about it. Before a pretty dame in the group can pass you a third drink, you were hauled up by the shoulder and drag out the door, Alastor hissing a goodbye to the group through his teeth.

Storming off ahead and ranting about how utterly irresponsible you are while you stumbled behind him like a fawn, Alastor would slow down and stare when he can’t hear your soft footstep anymore. You remember walking by a closed tailor shop and flopping yourself down, back against the glass window and weeping without a word. He walked back and sit next to you after a while. You know he’s waiting for you to say something on your own, but you only shrink into yourself. You don’t know what was worse in that moment, the burning in your throat, the head splitting ache slowly brewing or the fact you never know your mother favorite food. How are you supposed to grief someone you don’t know anymore?

In the midst of it all is Alastor, who seemingly lost all of his previous anger. You’ve seen a lot of him over the years, you know he sees all of you. But this is the first time you break down without a word or a reason and you wondered if he feels just as lost and confused as you are. It as if he doesn’t know what to do with you once you actually breaks in a way that doesn’t serve his vision of you, in a way he never have to fix before.

“…Tough day?” with an oddly shy tone, he nudge you from the side, “Didn’t know you’re this much of a sad drunk, honey. Guess I was right to keep you off the bottle after all.” He chuckled, then trail off when you stay silent and stare off into nothing.

It must’ve been no more than ten minutes, but it felt like years before you gave up and open your mouth, voice breaking and quiet. “He made it look so easy.”

“He? Michael?”

He perks up the moment you speak, mouthing off the names of all his associates in hope of finding the one that raises your ire. You would’ve found him endearing if things were different, but you cut him off.

“John,” Then as if it’s not enough, as if Alastor never remembers anyone else, you try to keep your voice even while rubbing your eyes “John Holloway. He made drinking look so easy.” Even without looking, you can see his lips pulled into a taut line.

“Ah, right, John Holloway,” rolling his eyes and shuffling that much closer to you and pulling out his handkerchief, he sneers, holding your wrist still while wiping your face, “No doubt he does. If you didn’t take him out, that chump would’ve drink himself to Hell on his own.”

“At least then he gets to pick his own way out…” You huff.

“It’s been years, honey!” done with cleaning you up, he stuff the handkerchief in his left pocket, “I can’t believe you’re still hung up on him!”

With every word out of his mouth, Alastor’s fake and chipper accent gets just a bit firmer, as if finally knowing what to do. Sitting up straight and pulling his glasses off, he wiped it on his vest and ask dismissively.

“When did he die again? Was it 1928?”

“1929,” you breathe and lean your head against the glass, “Remember that musical you called innovative and new?”

“If only I can forget.” He blanch at the thought of it, you smile wistfully.

“The music was nice, it’ll be nice to watch it again.” From the corner of your eyes, you catches his. You hated how he look so content with this.

“That makes one of us…”

After that, a blanket of silence fell onto you two. With a headache in full swing, you recalled asking whether he ever remembers how they look. Chuckling, he only leans close until your nose almost touch and say that he does. You ask if he’ll ever remember you, he froze and stare into your eyes with an almost incomprehensible look. Standing up, he brushes himself from dust and give you a hand, you take it.

Before you two departed in front of a door that no longer lead to a home, he tells you in an almost too quiet voice that he hope he never have to remember you. You hate his everything in that moment. From how his stands was just a tad bit different from his usual tall and confident poised self to the way he looks so abnormal with the corner of his lips dipped down. You hate how you’ve grown fond of his smile, so you turn and closed the door with a good night.

In the morning, sounding like you just dragged yourself from hell back up, you asked him for a clipped picture from the old newspaper and leave it under your pillow. And ever since, you’ve been rewriting the same letter. To everyone that you ever have a hand on, and to John and your mom. But specifically to John and mom.

John was a good man. It’s a shame he drank too much and care too much in one night. It’s a bigger shame that you can’t keep your thoughtcrime as exactly that, a thoughtcrime. He was right, too. You never knew the man you called Alastor, you don’t think you’ll ever do and you’re happy for it. You only ever find the cowardice to take another man’s life with his help, and you’ll only ever find yourself in more trap than being free from it.

You still bought yarns and cookbooks that you think your mother would’ve love. You come back with enough groceries for two people and the kitchen table are always set for two. You check every day in the kitchen for her still. You still crept up behind the armchair just in case she’s sleeping. Her red slippers still sat patiently just in front of her door. You know she never will be there, but it’s a nice thought. And since mom won’t ever going to be there again, you’ll take a nap. Alastor can have fun dealing with half-asleep you once he’s here.

(you’re woken up by the sounds from your kitchen, the smell familiar. as if finally escaping a bad nightmare, you sprang up on your feet and peek in like a child. Alastor stood at the stove, smiling at you. for the first time in years, his smile didn’t reach his eyes.)

7. we’re going to hell together, after all.

Left, right, right, left.

The silent always puts you on edge, as if there’s something out here, biding for it’s time. If only it’s a beast you can take down with a shotgun. You try to recall the forest trail that you know is somewhere out here as shadows of trees covered you from the moon. But you know Alastor, and you know for a fact that if he wanted to, he could herd you out of New Orleans with just a couple of words and a smile. So you uselessly try to focus past the thundering in your ears, you can’t hear a trace of him anymore. So on the count of three…

Throwing yourself to the right, you almost slammed into a tree as a bullet lodge into the trunk of another just right ahead. A soft chuckle rang out from behind, you kept running. Left hand clutching your right wrist, a sob bubbling up from your aching throat, it’s between running like this and letting the hand ram itself into whatever’s there in the forest. Even if you’re blessed with the chance to get out of this alive, you’ll never have use for your right hand ever again. Bones doesn’t heal right when they sit past five days, but you’re not sure you can even hold a pen with a mangled thumb and a pinkie barely hanging on. You  lost a bit of your will at that, but the silence of the woods draws you from your thought. You want to die by your own hands.

Right, left, right.

But you know you won’t be able to. The moment you let him take you here, you already lost. Alastor knows the woods better than you. He knows hunting better than you. And you’re sure he knows he can outrun you at any time. You refuse to dwell on the meaning of it and push your left hand against a tree.

Another shot rang out, this time hurling right by your head and nicked the tip of your right ear and went into the night. You don’t know where it goes, but you staggered just a bit and nearly launch yourself forward when a small bush snatches the end of your clothes.

“Sorry honey!” his voice gets further and further away while he stand still and yell out to you with a casual tone, as casual as he can keep it, “Frayed nerves and all~” he laughs, the rest of his words intelligible, and then suddenly, the forest went silent again. You can’t afford to stop and think anything through, so you push on ahead.

When you’re stuck with only the breaking and crushing of leaves under foot and your own winded breaths filling your ears, you cursed. Your throat starch, your lungs burns. With every step you take, your visions blackened around the edge and breathing alone hurts so horribly. It’s a blessing you even lasted for this long, you never have to chase anyone like he did. You wishes you burn that letter instead of dropping it in the bin, you wish you burn that house down instead of living with a ghost you can’t see. You wish you burn him. You know something was off with him that day, Alastor couldn’t shut up to save his life ever since he gets the key to the house. But he didn’t so much as uttered a word to you while staring down at the cutting board, but you didn’t care enough to ask him. Biting back a curse when a stinging pain shot up from your ankle, you feel your head spin as a short and pained chuckle escape your dry lips, he was thinking about how he wants you dead, surely.

Left, left? Right. L-

You can’t help but cry out the moment the bullet sink into your right upper thigh and sent you down. You crashed sideway onto the forest floor and black out for just half a second when a rock dig into your left temple. Clutching at your thigh with a broken hand, your laugh sounds unfamiliar to your own ears, almost choking as it drags nails and spikes through your throat, like that of an animal, like you’re an animal. The loss of oxygen is getting to you, the irony doesn’t escape you.

While your body winds down and the pain and exhaustion settles in, you go into the most horrible aftermath you’ve ever have to endure. Your head pulsating with every beat of your heart and your limbs grew heavy and cold. Vividly, you pick up on leaves breaking and sticks crushed under heavy footstep and you abandoned all sort of dignity to scrambled and try to drag yourself away from him, fingernails dug into dirt and grass to pull your lead like body away. But another clink, another shot hit your lower torso from behind as your choke scream got swallowed up by the earth, left to clutch at your wounds with face buried into the earth and tears streaming from your eyes.

“Oh honey, why so sad?” a heel sit on your bullet wound, dancing in circle before he slowly press his whole weight onto it. Your suffocating wail isn’t enough to amused him, but he still laugh with such gentleness in his tone. “I thought this is what you want? Weren’t you writing to dear old John about leaving? Well, here it is!”

The relief he granted you last for all but half a second before he bring his foot down. Stinging, numbing pain spread through your entire body and you’re left gasping for air while he held your shoulder and set you to face him. Hunching over your shivering body with a hand on your face, he smiles. Or at least you think he is, there’s not a point trying to make out a single thing over the agonizing pain that’s making a home in your body. You wanted so badly to just black out and die right here, you pretty sure you did black out at some point, but Alastor slap your cheek lightly and calls your name with almost a whine to his tone. The warmth from his hand stand out amongst the incomprehensible burning of your flesh and the blood rushing through your head, why are you here again?

“Oh come on, don’t leave me hanging like this. You know I hate it when you ignore me.”

You’re not, you want to scream. If there’s anything you can ever say for him to get off of you and leave you alone, you would. You don’t know if it’s the blood lost or the pain getting to you, but your already waning visions of him blurs beyond recognition while he coos at you.

“I guess it really do hurts that badly?” he laughs, “One question solves then!”

At the mention of it, your blood ran cold and the forest felt just a bit more freezing than it already was. Right, he did say something about John, didn’t he? Almost like it was yesterday, when you’re sitting alone in your room at eleven in the morning. Although barely able to remember the exact wording of every letter, you know by heart the concepts and questions in all the letters you’ve written and rephrased a thousand times and over. But the question wasn’t in that one, it was at least several drafts before it, dropped because it was too presumptuous to ask your first and closest victim such a horribly him question. All of it, sitting neatly in the bin right by your writing desk. All of it, he could’ve read in the hours it took you to wake up.

You want to stick to what’s left of you and die raising your head just a bit higher than when you live by not letting him hear a word out of you, either the fact your throat still hurts so badly just swallowing or the fact you know it’s all but useless talking now that’s keeping you. But from the corner of your eye, you saw his right, red hand gripping tightly onto something that you can’t properly make out, and then you remember the reason you never anticipated any of this occurring within your lifetime.

“Th-the letters…” you groaned, “it’s not-you-“

Right, the reason you were caught off guard by him breaking your fingers while pinning you to his car, the reason you couldn’t even begin to make head from tail when he pressed you for the name of whoever it was that makes you do this. The letters that is, for all its intended purposes, your suicide note.

“Yes, yes,” with a draws to his voice, as if he’s tired of this, “Your lovely letters, to dear old ma and John. We both know I read all about them.”

“No-“ you cough, it’s hurts just to breathe, “I wasn’t going to- tell them-“

“Oh, that. I know.”

For just a moment, you’re void of anything. All the pain and the blistering heat and the cold night air leave your body for just a second and left you with nothing at his words. You’re aware of his every movement, even through the darkness of the night. Suddenly, everything is too much, too loud.

“I thought you’re smarter than this, love.” you can’t see him properly at all, but you can’t see him smiling and it scares you,  “It never was just about the letters.”

“Then what-“

Shushing you, he leans down until your forehead nearly touched, you try to focus and find his eyes at this awkward angle but it only worsen the unbearable pounding in your head.

“This, is what you want,” he pauses, you can see the outline of his jaw shifting, like rolling words on his tongue. You want to call him a madman, but you don’t even know if this is him anymore. This isn’t the Alastor you know for years. He would’ve never talk to you without that stupid accent that’s everywhere on the radio. The Alastor you know doesn’t need to considers his words talking to anyone, always with an excuse on his sleeve. And that Alastor would never gotten so close, wouldn’t have sounded so personal. “You said you want to leave. To get to that ‘freedom’, right?”

He sounded so hurt, as if it’s him that’s being crushed under weight with bullets in him and two broken fingers, as if it’s not you writhing on the forest floor, as if he’s the one dying tonight.

“You can’t bear to live anymore, right? You can’t do this with me anymore, can you?” you’re painstakingly reminded of the fact he still have his right hand on you, casually moving it down to your neck while he raises his left. You aren’t sure why, but you still try to claw at the hand clasping gently around you. You think this happened before, but you weren’t sure where the idea came from, the loss of oxygen getting to you quicker than you thought it would. Somewhere in the back of your mind, your fingers, two broken and eight dirtied with dirt and your own blood, it lost the red that have been clinging onto you like a disease.

“Al-“ in that moment, your vision suddenly cleared, like a last-ditch attempt at life. The grip he have around you is like that of a snake, too. Coiling gently and kindly, with a thumb digging into your skin while the inners of your ears felt like bursting open.

“It’s alright, mon Chéri, I’ll help you. I always have, haven’t I?” he always have been helping you, but that was Alastor, your friend and the demon on your shoulder. Not the man that’s staring down at you with such a look and speaking to you with such tenderness and love you can’t begin to dissect.

Desperately, you stare up at the image of an unfamiliar man with voices you’ve never heard before. He smiles a smile so painful, as if losing his mind too, but you can’t tell who he is anymore. Your mom was right, John was right, you’re right, but none of it matters when you’re running out of breath and the rock in his left hand fits so well into his palm.

“I’ll come see you when I’m down there, wait for me.”

Your vision bloomed and blurred away. You stay awake for long enough to hear the first crack of skull, reverberating through your eardrums. You’d stay awake for the second hit, and the third. And you stay awake for just long enough to grow envy of John for never having to faced you that night.

(the hound leaps, sharp fangs breaking tough skin and tearing veins, the vulture, without a mind to think of god, only knows how to cries out.)

[stxrvel]

not my one

summary: bucky was in love with you, from the bones to the tips of his hair, and life would be perfect for him if it weren't for the fact that you had just gotten engaged to Steve.

pairing: (bucky barnes x) f!reader x steve rogers

words: 4k

warnings: some bad words, bucky regretting a lot of things, bucky suffers a lot, reader is not aware of anything, miscommunication, bucky can be unfair to those around him. love triangle?¿ also angst. like i said before, there's no happy endings in this account.

note: hi! i had this in my drafts too for days until my inspiration strike again, and also only by leehi was playing on repeat on my headphones while writing this. if you want a full experience, i highly recommend you to listen to that song while reading. there's something in using a love song to write a heartbreaking story. anyway, i hope you all like this!! and i dont know when ill see you again so i really hope you guys enjoy this one. feedback is always appreciated! <3

So… Bucky knew it was wrong. From the beginning, from the first furtive glance, from the first unexpected, not at all reciprocal, brush. Bucky knew it was very wrong. His moral compass was shot when his thoughts, his intentions, went south and he couldn't stop them, or just didn't want to. At first it was hard to stop them, but at least he knew he intended to. After a good while, Bucky couldn't be sure he was really trying to stop it at all.

His gaze wandered in the crowds, among familiar faces, but only one that really cheered his soul. Guilt followed him, too. Maybe he had stopped fighting the feeling, but that didn't make it any more bearable. Seeing those two faces, smiling at them like it was nothing, asking them about the ring as if it were casual small talk while his heart contracted, made him feel like a traitor every day, and that guilt hung on his back like a bag full of stones. He carried his own sin like the unworthy one he was.

Still, he loved carrying those little moments in his heart, as if they really meant something, as if he didn't feel like he lost something every time he did it, as if butterflies flew around him when they did and everyone around him got as excited as he did, as if all the love songs came true in a single moment. As if saying I love you was as easy as breathing.

“Bucky, what do you say?”

But that was all just in his head.

“I'm with Natasha this time.”

The whole table was filled with shouts and boos. Bucky felt like he could shrink back in his seat and disappear.

Your face was right in front of his, a huge smile made your eyes sparkle. Everyone he knew was gathered and there were so many places Bucky could look, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from the curve of your lips. It was electrifying the way a simple distant gesture could ignite his body like that.

And it was shattering the way he had to remind himself that he couldn't stare for that long.

Not when the first person you saw after laughing was Steve. Not when the first hand you held was his. Not when those sparkling eyes were only for him. Bucky had to remind himself that he couldn't stare at you too long because you were his, for Steve, even though Bucky felt like he was eternally yours.

Bucky could remember the first time he'd seen you because it had been the first time he'd felt alive after so long living in the shadows and dust.

He was fixing his motorcycle, as he used to do countless times, instead of having gone out with his friends to the dinner that night that Wanda had scheduled. Every month they had an outing and one of them had to organize it. That was how they'd basically managed to stay in touch after so long after being out of college.

Bucky knew everyone was going to hate him for canceling at the last minute, but he really didn't feel like going out. So he sat outside his garage with his motorcycle looking for any slightest mistake he could fix or any scratches he could paint while he spent the entire day just there. That was his plan. But everything changed the moment you suddenly appeared in front of him, in a white flowered dress that he could still remember, that you actually still wore, and asked him if he could help you. With those doe eyes and a pout Bucky couldn't have escaped you, even if he wanted to.

“Excuse me, hello,” Bucky heard your voice for the first time and raised his head as if he knew what was in store for him.

Seeing you for the first time was very pleasurable, Bucky truly thought you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his entire life. The tool in his hand was halfway through fixing something on his motorcycle when his hand froze and his lips remained pursed. When he thought about it from time to time, Bucky thought he must have looked like an idiot.

“I don't want to bother you. Uhm… I'm Y/N. I just moved into the house over there,” you moved to point to one of the houses in the neighborhood that Bucky had seen for sale, being so far inside his own head to even realize that someone actually moved in there. “I wanted to know if… Well, it's just that I see you fix things and I- My car broke down. I don't know what's wrong with it, but it won't start with anything. I don't know anybody around either and only you were around, could you help me?”

Bucky had never heard a person ramble on like that. Rather he could say he had never heard such a melodic voice nor had he ever found a person who just rambled so tender and entertaining.

He took a moment to look behind you, where indeed there was a black car parked near the approach with the hood open. Returning his gaze back to you, he found you anxiously waving interlocked hands and a slightly frowning brow.

“Sure,” was all he said.

The smile you sketched for him felt like a reward.

“Thank you! Really thank you so much.”

Bucky could only nod as he picked himself up off the floor.

At that moment, your gaze lowered and met the bare chest of a man who spent every morning looking for something to fix on his perfectly good motorcycle. Bucky didn't think it was ever possible again, but he felt his cheeks redden.

“I'm going to-” Bucky motioned pointing to his house and then to his bare chest and then disappeared behind the door leading into his living room from the garage.

As he entered he had leaned against the closed door and berated himself for acting like a teenager and not a responsible adult who paid his taxes on time.

He came back out a few minutes later wearing a dark shirt and found you circling around his bike, looking at it as if you were in a museum. When he approached, you straightened up in embarrassment. Bucky wondered what you could feel embarrassed for when your very existence was worthy of being admired like that in a huge museum.

“Is that your car over there?” he asked stupidly, pointing to the only car parked along the road.

But as if that hadn't been too obvious a remark, you nodded animatedly and started walking in the direction of the vehicle. It looked like that huge grin wasn't going to disappear from your face since he agreed to help you, and Bucky felt like he was going to get in trouble for it.

“It came out of the garage very normally and I parked it here. I turned the engine off and went inside to get some stuff out and when I came back it just wouldn't start,” you explained with a cute frown, as you moved closer and closer to the car, that he couldn't stop staring at as if that was what he had to fix.

“Okay,” he almost whispered, and was startled as you moved closer to him to hear what he was saying. “You can stay in the seat and turn it on when I tell you.”

You shook your head animatedly again and went to sit down to wait for his direction. Bucky lingered for a moment processing the delicious floral, sweet smell, and the vanilla that your perfume gave off. He felt it wouldn't be long before it became his favorite scent. The lavender and vanilla. Bucky wasn't even a fan of ice cream or flowers.

He reluctantly looked down, letting the scent escape into the air. He quickly spot the problem and, after a simple motion, reached up to lower the hood.

“You can turn it on now.”

Bucky watched your surprised face, eyebrows raised and lips curved in a circle. It startled him how fast you were making his heart move in such a short time. How was that even possible?

It was even better when you moved the key and the car started without a hitch, with that giant crescent smile that almost hid your eyes completely. By the time you got out of the car, any trace of discomfort or nervousness in you was gone.

“Thank you very, very, very much. You don't know what you just saved me from…”

Bucky stared intently into your shining eyes, as if in the midst of a trance, as if he had to do it to live. He became so immersed in his introspection that he almost didn't notice that you were waiting for him to give you his name.

“Bucky.”

“Bucky…”

He almost melted at your melodious voice repeating his name as simple as butter, as if that's the way it had always been.

“Thank you so much, Bucky.”

He nodded, barely curving his lips into a half smile, and that also served as a farewell.

Bucky didn't know, or maybe he did, that from that moment on he wasn't going to be able to get you out of his head. And even if he tried, doing so would be more painful than simply leaving you there growing in his thoughts like ivy.

--

Bucky had spent many nights thinking about what had gone wrong. He replayed conversations in his head endlessly, like a broken record he replayed his own words, thought about what it all would have been like if he had done something different, if he had said something different, if that really would have been a relief to his heart. Bucky had already thought of everything, but really the only answer is that you were not meant to be together as he'd imagined.

Nothing was ever reciprocated. Any spark, any friction, it all had to have been inside his head because there was no other explanation.

And everything changed that night.

He had talked to you too many times since your car thing, even though it was hard for him. You had been to his house and he had been to yours almost countless times. You would meet in town and drive back together. You walked early on weekends. You brought him the best dishes he'd ever tasted in his life to eat together….

And he decided to take you to meet his friends. Even before he took you on a date. Before talking about what you had. Before a kiss. Before sleeping together.

For Bucky there was nothing more important than you meeting his friends. That's how big his love was, even if sometimes he lied so he wouldn't see them. It was his way of loving.

Every day of his life he regretted that decision because that night it was all about Steve and you. That night he felt like the world was falling apart on him. Everyone was talking about Steve and you. That you had so much in common, that you would make a cute couple, that your children would be beautiful. Bucky loved his friends, but that night…

After that everything went to hell.

As if you'd never met him, your days began to fill with Steve.

“Where are you going?”

“Oh. I'm going to meet Steve. We have a reservation.”

“Ah.”

Every day. There wasn't a day when he didn't hear his best friend's name come out of your mouth, sentencing him to eternal agony, because Bucky was never able to tell him that he loved you first, that he fell in love first. He couldn't do that to Steve who in so many things had been with him and had gone through so much.

“Are you free tonight?”

“No, Buck, I'm sorry. I'm going out with Steve.”

“Oh, sure. Is he coming to pick you up?”

“No, I'll take a cab.”

“At this hour?”

“Don't worry. I'll text you when I get there.”

And you did. But you wrote him too much. You told him how amazing the date had gone. You described how good you felt around him. And you confessed to him that you'd kissed.

Bucky thought about moving out after that.

“Hi, Bucky!”

But he also thought about how hard it would be to be so far away from you. Maybe it was worth it to avoid a broken heart, but…. No, it was too late for that now.

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

He lifted his head so fast he felt a whiplash of tension run down his back.

“No. Why?”

Could it be possible that…?

“Then you are cordially invited to a game night at my house. Sincerely, Steve and I.”

Steve and I.

Bucky shouldn't have been disappointed because he knew he shouldn't have felt hope in the first place, but he didn't expect to feel the anger bubbling in his chest either. You walked away like it was nothing after that, with a huge smile on your face, the one that made him fall in love with you in the first place. You walked animatedly as if you hadn't just stomped his heart to smithereens. You walked totally oblivious to the overwhelming guilt that grew from the pit of his stomach to plant itself in his chest for the first time.

You didn't even know anything. There was no way Bucky could blame you. Not even Steve. He had only himself to blame. For not speaking up first, for waiting so long, for not taking the risk.

Bucky didn't go to that game night.

Not the next one, not the one after that, not the one after that, not the one after that, not the one after that either…

Bucky stopped going to his friends' monthly meetings. He always said he had too much work. And yes, he dragged out his own work so he wouldn't even risk thinking about all he had lost.

At least five months passed and it was a year to the day since that night when Bucky made the worst mistake of his life.

That night he was surprised to find Steve outside his door.

He had just come home from work. It was close to ten o'clock at night. His face was cold from the weather and from not wearing his helmet since entering his residential area.

“Steve,” was his greeting.

“Bucky,” his friend reciprocated as he parked the bike in his garage.

Reluctant to any kind of conversation that might come up that night, Bucky tried to find any possible excuse to get Steve to leave. But he took too long.

“We're neighbors now,” was all Steve said, once Bucky got off the bike and turned to face him.

“What?”

“I moved in with Y/N today. I live with her now.”

Like a hundred broken panes of glass Bucky's heart sounded every time it pounded. His friend's sparkling eyes were telling him, screaming at him to say something, to congratulate him, a few words, but his breath caught in his throat and he didn't even feel like he could trust his own legs at that moment.

You had moved in together.

You loved Steve so much that you'd asked him to move in with you.

“That's good, Steve.”

Not even great, just good. The words came almost slurred out of his mouth, and yes, his own head ripped the words out of him before it became too awkward and suspicious a silence.

“We tried to call you to come by after work. We had a little party.”

“I had my cell phone on silent.”

Bullshit. Bucky had seen every call, even yours, along with your messages, and had spent a good while just staring at the screen wondering what it could be about that both of you at the same time wanted to contact him.

“I figured.”

Steve sighed, and for a second Bucky thought he had figured it out. From the look on his face, Bucky figured he'd tell him to stay away from you and not try to get close because he'll have him between his eyebrows.

“You can stop by tomorrow at breakfast, if you want.”

Somehow, that was worse.

“No, thanks.”

“Buck-”

“I'm leaving very early for work.”

“Bucky-”

“I can't, Steve, I'm sorry.”

“Bucky, we haven't seen you in months.”

The aforementioned stood halfway through opening the door to his living room, almost completely forgetting that had he gone through to the other side he would have locked his best friend in his garage and, for a moment, that almost didn't even matter to him. The thought scared him.

“It's been about four months since I've seen you in person. I figured you were going through something and needed time, but hasn't it been a long time already?”

“Five.”

“What?”

“It's been five months,” Bucky turned to look at his friend unhinged face and guilt washed over him once more, as strong as the first time, a great wave breaking the sand. “Come in. So you can go out the front door because I already locked that door and it's electric and very slow and…”

The sympathetic expression on Steve's face didn't please him, he decided he didn't like it. It looked like he was looking at him with sorrow, with pain, but he didn't understand, he wasn't going through half of what Bucky was feeling everyday, he didn't have the slightest idea. He was going to a warm bed after this, at least, and Bucky would get to the great solitude of his thoughts.

No. Steve didn't understand shit.

“Don't look at me with that fucking face,” he exclaimed before he could stop himself. “Just leave.”

Bucky thought about that hurt expression on Steve's face for several days.

--

Two months later, somehow, you had convinced Bucky to attend one of your monthly meetings. It was so hard and yet so easy to make that decision, because you had gone all the way to his house and knocked on his door and asked him to come so many times that he couldn't say no just to avoid seeing your disappointed face.

And so it had come to that moment. That moment where everyone was booing Natasha and Bucky could tell by your huge smile that he hadn't gotten over you one bit. Two months without seeing you had been for nothing. That zero contact method surely only worked with teenagers.

As the laughter dissipated, Bucky thought about all he had been through and all he had suffered in silence. He hated that he couldn't hate anyone because everything that had happened was his fault. He hated every time he logged on to his text app and had to find himself in the group chat various messages about how Steve and you made such a great couple that neither of them could wait for you to get married.

Maybe Bucky complained too much.

Because the next thing he knew, everyone gathered around the table and you announced your engagement to Steve. When the table was again filled with shouts and applause, Bucky couldn't take his eyes off the giant ketchup stain on the table that Natasha had caused by getting too excited about the news. The envelope had been crushed by her hand, splattering its contents on that piece of the table and even on the shirts of those nearby. But no one really cared, because you and Steve were getting married. No one except…

... Bucky's weak and bruised heart, which despite the months could never stop beating just for you. Even though he tried, for his sake, for the sake of your friendship, for the sake of being happy for his best friend, he simply could not. It was a losing battle for him from the start. Ever since you showed up in his front yard in that blessed white flowered dress you were wearing now to deliver that news, and you smiled gratefully at him with the same smile you had now as you were encircled by Wanda and Tony's arms.

Bucky wanted to say that he'd grown accustomed to the pain that accompanies a broken heart, but the truth was that it never got easier. Every time he felt that pain, he prayed he wouldn't have to feel it again, because the pain that followed was so much stronger, so much so that he felt it suck the air out of him and a hollowness made its space inside his chest.

Bucky was really struggling to keep his composure at that moment.

But when he looked away from the large ketchup stain on the table, he met Steve's eyes, and somehow he knew. Bucky knew that he knew. However it was, coincidence or fate, Bucky realized that Steve knew what was going through his head.

And, for some reason, Steve didn't look angry.

But Bucky wasn't taking that pressure. Feeling invisible hands suffocating him.

So he barely mumbled an apology to him and ran out of the house.

His intention was to make it to the safety of his house, but his legs only gave out until he found his motorcycle parked in front of the future husband and wife's house.

His breathing was heavy, rapid and ragged. Of all the heartbreaks, that one was perhaps the most painful.

“Bucky?”

Hearing your voice behind him as he tried to fight the anxiety of not crying, not that moment, not in that place, not when it could be so obvious to you, was like a bucket of cold water. He suddenly felt alert, uncovered.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You ran out of the house.”

Although he tried to avoid it, the first thing he saw when you stepped around him to face him was the large ring that was now part of you. It was beautiful and delicate, Steve had made a good choice.

“I was overwhelmed for a moment. The screaming and stuff,” he gave you a lousy excuse, but it seemed to convince you enough.

“Oh, sure, I'm sorry. Do you want me to make you some tea? I've got a soothing one.”

“No,” Bucky shook his head quickly. “No need. I'd better go to my place.”

“So soon?”

Bucky looked into those deer eyes he loved so much and it hurt so much to think that would be the last time he saw them.

“Yeah, I'll feel better there. Don't worry.”

“Text me if you need anything.”

“Sure,” he wasn't going to. “Ah, congratulations on the engagement.”

Bucky was going to leave it at that, at a few simple words he tried to say with his heart in his hand, but you went further and jumped in to hug him by wrapping your arms around his neck. He felt dizzy for a moment.

“If it wasn't for you I never would have met him. Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky swallowed hard to keep from collapsing right there in your arms.

“Sure.”

“And to think I thought I'd end up with you,” you blurted out with a chuckle, as if it was nothing, as you backed away from his body, as if you hadn't just dropped a bomb on his face.

Bucky went cold.

“What?”

You laughed again, as if it was nothing more than a funny anecdote from adolescence or college. His chest heaved from the pain, his heart pounding so hard he felt it behind his ears. Hands sweaty, he didn't feel ready to listen to you.

“When we first met I liked you, Bucky, and I thought maybe we could work something out… But then I met Steve and it was… Wow, like fireworks.”

“Ah.”

“I guess things really do happen for a reason.”

“Yeah, right,” Bucky replied on automatic, afraid that any distraction would give him a glimpse, trying to even out his breathing.

“Well, you know, text me if you need anything.”

“Yeah.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.”

“See you at the wedding, huh.”

“Sure.”

Bucky followed you with his eyes as you walked back to your driveway, where Steve was waiting for you. His gaze lit up as much as yours every time he saw you and the lump in Bucky's throat kept getting bigger and bigger. He couldn't be one second closer to that house.

But then you walked into the house and Bucky met Steve's gaze.

He started to get on his bike as his best friend started walking towards him.

“Why didn't you ever say anything?”

Bucky remained sitting on the bike, helmet in his hands.

“I'm not going to talk about this with you now, Steve.”

“No, Bucky, you're not going to do this again. Answer me.”

“Steve…”

“Answer me!”

Bucky turned to see his friend's contracted face and knew where his anger was coming from. It wasn't against him, it wasn't against his feelings.

“I just… I couldn't do it.”

“And that's all?”

“Yeah, that's all,” Bucky started the bike. “I couldn't say anything when I saw you smile for the first time in months. Not when you actually looked happy after everything you went through.”

“What I went through? What we went through, Bucky! We both suffered through it and you… you…”

“Whatever it is, Steve, it's over. The time is past. It's all behind us.”

“Bucky…” Steve slurred the words, incredulous, pained to see his best friend allowed to suffer like that. In deep pain because he knew if it had been the other way around he would have done the same.

“I'll be fine. Send me the invitation to the wedding. I promise I'll be there, if you want me there. And I'll be fine by then. I'll be fine.”

Bucky finally put on the case and without waiting for final words from Steve, he took off riding to an aimless destination.

He didn't know if he would be better by the time the wedding happened, because thinking about it at that moment made the tears run desperately down his cheeks, even though the wind dried them very quickly, just as they were replaced by others and others.

Bucky had no idea if he would ever be well again, but he had to try. He had to try because at that moment he felt like he would die.

[abysswalkersknight]

Finally finished one of my WIPs! It's been sitting in my drafts for a while so I just spiffed it up a bit.

Basically I starting writing this after seeing a scary mystery movie and a perfectly normal debate with a relative whether it's scarier to be poisoned or unknowingly ingest glass. We're still debating on that, otherwise enjoy!

..............

‘Hmm? Is something amiss Silver?’ inquired Malleus. They were at their usual table in the cafeteria, while he, Lilia and Sebek were already seated with their food, Silver took a bit longer than usual, though glancing at his rumpled hair and drowsier expression seemed to explain his absence well enough. While it was, of course, troubling that Silver had a sleep spell during lunch, Malleus was more concerned about the pitiful amount of food on his charge’s plate ‘are you perhaps feeling ill?’ he says, briefly touching his fingers to the boy’s forehead to check for fever. Silver must’ve still been waking up because all of a sudden he startled violently at the prince’s gentle touch ‘oh, uh, not at all my lord…’ Silver looks down. ‘ah, I don’t remember grabbing this, I must have fallen asleep while standing in line.’

In the background Sebek began to berate Silver for his carelessness though the boy was not at all paying any attention to him while Lilia quietly slid his son a perfectly warm coffee he got earlier. 

‘My, so even in his sleep Silver still drifts towards mushroom risotto.’ marveled the ageing fae, he urges Silver to drink the coffee and smiles as his boy slowly perks up, however Malleus still frowns  ‘are you not going to grab more Silver? You must be famished from all the training you’ve done earlier.’ he says, tapping Silver’s meagre plate for emphasis. His retainer glances back to the endless line and sheepishly averts his gaze ‘it’s alright my lord, I’m not that hungry anyways so I can just eat something after classes’ he quickly murmurs, taking up his fork, but his other guardian was not finished ‘nonsense Silver, one cannot focus on an empty stomach. And from what I recall it will be three hours until both your classes and club activities finish. If you’d like, I'm quite happy to share my food.’ Silver began to fidget slightly at his prince’s persistence ‘no no my lord I couldn’t possibly-’ lifting an eyebrow Malleus could already sense a polite refusal coming so, he politely ignores Silver’s fervent protests and pinches both edges of their plates and quickly switches them, Silver’s plate now had a significantly larger portion of mushroom risotto. Silver sputtered with his hand hovering midair, unsure whether to risk retrieving his original plate or not ‘go on, eat Silver. If you’re unable to eat it all then I’ll simply finish the rest myself.’ Malleus coaxes with a swift bite of risotto. 

Silver sighed fondly, throughout his life the only times his prince paid any attention to the clock were the child’s meal times where the dragon fae would make sure that his charge has had at least three proper meals a day and he’d continuously fuss over Silver like a mother bear if he’d found that the human’s meals were “lacking”. 

‘Oh he was so much worse when you were a wee little babe.’ Lilia would gush whenever Silver mentioned this habit to him ‘back then Malleus would never take his eyes off the clock at home until the time came to feed you, oh he was so worried that he’d forget the time and accidentally let you starve’ then Lilia put a finger to his chin in thought ‘though I suppose his worry may have stirred from that parenting book I lent him that one time. It’s probably become a bit of a habit now but still it warms this old man’s heart to see my boys caring for each other!’ 

While the notion itself was greatly appreciated, there were times where it embarrassed poor Silver when the other students and staff witnesses Lilia’s fatherly doting or whenever Malleus scoops some of his portion onto Silver’s whenever he thought the human wasn’t eating enough, even now the fae flicks a graceful eye to the untouched plate, almost daring the human to go hungry.

Shaking his head, Silver carefully hides his smile and begins to eat.

All was well while they ate, Silver watched contently as his fae guardians conversed with each other and Sebek snapped and tore through his fifth helping of risotto, Silver was worried that he might bite through his fork and wonders if it would help if he caught something for dinner later, Sebek was always mentioning about how hungry he was so perhaps some extra meat would temporarily quell his friend’s voracious appetite.  

Lilia was joyously teasing the prince about his lack of punctuality when Silver felt it, there was something strange about the risotto’s texture. As he chewed slowly Silver found an odd chunk of something hidden within the food, rolling it along his tongue he felt how it crumbled between his teeth though he soon came to believe that it was probably just a particularly large piece of mushroom so he shrugged it off.

Some of these mushrooms are rather big, he thought to himself questioningly as a different mushroom piece suddenly lodges itself somewhere in his throat, Lilia, Malleus and Sebek quickly turn to him as he roughly beats his fist against his chest whilst coughing dryly ‘my, you must have been quite hungry, my dear Silver’ chirped Lilia as he came over and thwacked his son firmly on the back. 

‘No-no…s’not…that’ Silver wheezes, his terror rose as he suddenly bent over and braced one elbow on the table while the other clutched desperately at his neck, everyone else began to panic when Silver’s coughs take on a retching tone, each gasp convulsing his whole body. Immediately Lilia’s hands coiled around the boy’s waist and practically heaved Silver off the floor with every thrust he made, at the third though Lilia had to stop when Silver gave a particularly harsh gag. Everything seemed to pause as a dark scarlet colour splattered all over the pearly white plates and shiny wooden table, gleaming like precious rubies on display.

Everyone broke out of their shocked daze when Silver whined painfully, his ungloved hand reaching into his mouth, trying to grasp at something but his fingers shook terribly and kept slipping. Both Lilia and Malleus cry out, the latter quickly held the boy up gently by the shoulders while the former pries his son’s trembling hand away and replaced it with his own ‘shh, shh, it’s alright Silver, it’s alright, Papa’s here…’ Lilia coos softly, trying to soothe his panicking child while trying to ignore the blood that slicks his nimble fingers, making it difficult to grip anything… Ah ha! There! As light as a feather Lilia took hold of something rock solid and gently, he tugged on it, taking great care to avoid hurting his boy even more. Slowly but surely something was coming out, blood thickly spewed out before revealing a distorted clear piece of glass pinched between Lilia’s fingers, small enough to remain hidden but big enough to potentially tear up a throat’s insides. Malleus stares at the glass with a look of outraged disbelief, who would dare-!

‘My liege!’ Both fae quickly turn at Sebek’s cry. The knight had searched through Silver’s risotto and has dug out three more pieces of glass of similar sizes to the one lilia had just pulled out, Sebek looks at Silver worriedly and promptly rushes to his side when the human whimpers and gasps out more blood ‘quickly! Help me take him to the infirmary!’ lilia barks, hoisting Silver up by one side and Sebek soon taking the other. In the rush Malleus was left behind with the staff on duty to control the excited crowd, he hadn’t wanted to of course, he had to be at Silver’s side, making sure that he was being properly treated, to think that there was someone within the school who had the absolute gall to do something so despicable to someone under his care, to target Silver- wait.

He thought back to the beginning of lunch, to his and Silver’s plates… They weren’t going after his retainer, they were targeting Malleus. His fists clenched, so hard that he felt some seams in his gloves tear. When I get my hands on whoever’s done this-

He had only wanted to make sure that his charge was well fed, but in his folly all he did was unknowingly feed Silver a plate filled with tampered food, and now this has happened. Glass in their food would have only been a minor inconvenience to fae like Lilia and Malleus, as was possibly the perpetrators prior intentions, but clearly the same cannot be said for humans, as was seen with Silver. For that alone I will slowly tear them apart, he thought dangerously, tis only right, they have hurt what is mine and as crown prince of Briar Valley it is my duty to put them in their place. But first, he must attend to Silver who should be in the infirmary by now… Malleus can only hope that his charge won’t suffer any long lasting ailments due to this. With that thought in mind, the dragon prince disappears in a flurry of green lights.

By the time he arrived Silver was fast asleep in one of the few infirmary cots, his parted mouth emitting weak wheezy breaths. Lilia sat at the head, tenderly stroking his boy’s soft locks ‘the nurse said he should be fine’ the old fae says without glancing up, moving closer something in Malleus’s chest tightens when he finds little splotches of dried red in the corner of Silver’s pale mouth ‘how bad was it?’ he murmurs, bending down to caress Silver’s cheek, the boy showed no signs of stirring. Lilia hummed and gestured to a tray on the other side of the cot, on top was a smaller, cruel looking piece of glass ‘apparently that bit must have broken off the one I pulled out’ he mumbled looking at his now gloveless hand, his eyes flick back to Malleus ‘let me guess. You have come to the same conclusion as I?’ it was not a question ‘good, then it is alright to ask that you remain here with Sebek at Silver’s side while I go handle this.’

Malleus blanched, what? No! He won't have Lilia do this alone! It was unbecoming of the prince to back down from such a blatant challenge. But just as he was about to protest, his guardian pinned him down with the general’s sharp gaze ‘no Malleus, while I’m well aware of your power, remember that this was an attack staged against you, little Silver simply had the misfortune to be the recipient of it, and we don’t want any unfortunate incidents happening as well, do we?’ he grins maliciously, it was then Malleus recalled just who he was speaking with, he may have changed immensely over the centuries but this was still Lilia Vanrouge, general of the right and one of the most feared fae out there. And someone had just signed their death sentence the moment that glass was placed, not only had they targeted his first child and prince of Briar Valley, they had even wounded his second child with such a callous method and now here he was resting in an infirmary with a torn up throat, how could Lilia ever let something like this slide without punishment.

Even better they have made an attempt on Malleus’s well being, Lilia thought his talons twitching with unbridled bloodlust, that means I can go all out as his guard.

I hope the staff catch them quickly.

His grin widens.

Otherwise I’m going to have some fun.

[nashdas-jp]

When the last persimmon falls

Or, "I tried to search in Japanese: 柿 (かき kaki; persimmon) edition"

For about a year, this post was a few lines in my drafts. An open-and-shut case, I thought. Today, struck by the mood to get it over with, I googled (and DuckDuck went), got lost, then found the truth. It didn't take long - and I won't make this post too long - but the result wasn't what I expected.

Here's the story of why if I had a nickel every time I heard a character in Japanese fiction say their life depends on the last fruit hanging onto a persimmon tree in winter, I'd have two nickels, which isn't a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice.

Spoiler: One of my nickels wasn't exactly a nickel, but I still had another one I didn't know I had. And that's the correct currency.

What:

A character is seriously ill. Meanwhile, a persimmon tree visible from their sickbed has only one fruit left. The character says they'll die by the time it falls.

Where:

Yakuza: Like a Dragon (Yakuza 7) substory Persimmon Premonition - see first image.

Gintama episode 296. Not a persimmon - see image above.

Osomatsu-san season 3, episode 20, part C. I watched this but forgot about it until now - see image below.

The question

This Yakuza 7 substory reminds me of that Gintama episode. They must both be referencing some other thing. What is it?

Trees and fruits and seasons are some classic poetic shit TM, maybe it's a literary reference? The image of the last fruit on the tree is one of those set phrases in formal correspondence that reference changing seasons? A ripe persimmon falling to the coldness of winter symbolises death?

The search

persimmon japanese winter

"Kigo (季語) is a Japanese word or phrase associated with a particular season; especially in poetry. And "persimmon" (柿) is one of the famous kigo for autumn." The taste of persimmon features in a famous haiku about the Horyuji temple bells in Nara. (source 1) At the time this haiku was written, only the astringent persimmon variety was cultivated in Japan. It falls off the tree easily. (source 2)

Okay, but still too general.

柿の実 (persimmon fruit)　冬 (winter)　落ち (drop)　死ぬ (die)

Gardening tips. Many gardening tips.

最後の柿の実 (The Last Persimmon Fruit)　話 (story) 　伝説 (legend)

Did you know that traditionally, a few persimmons are left behind on trees in harvest season? They're called 木守り (きまもり kimamori), and were originally meant for travellers, birds, and other animals to eat, because it's hard to find food in winter. In Nagano, souls of the deceased are said to come down to persimmon trees. (sources: 1, 2, 3)

Getting warmer...?

患者 (patient)　柿の実 (persimmon fruit)　冬 (winter)　死ぬ (die)

dic.pixiv.net link: Persimmon (Osomatsu-san)

Name of Osomatsu-kun chapter

Osomatsu-kun strip (via Twitter): One last persimmon, da jo~

The end

As the last link explains, the same trope appeared in Osomatsu-san and Osomatsu-kun (manga only). They were both inspired by...

The Last Leaf by O. Henry.

A story that, having read the Wikipedia article, I vaguely remember from English class or something. Just like everyone who made the latter-half-of-20th-century stuff in the "Adaptations" section.

Now what?

"Where did the basic premise come from?" is solved, but not why all the examples here used persimmons.

Maybe a lone, orange kimamori representing autumn and hanging on in spite of winter is more evocative than a dull leaf.

More likely, that image inspired the Osomatsu-kun strip, then Yakuza 7 and Gintama took the whole setup from Osomatsu-kun, persimmon (or Sacchan) included. Not where I thought it would come from, since I inconveniently forgot the Osomatsu-san episode.

But, this is all only as far as I took the research. If anyone knows more about this persistent trope, I'd love to hear it!

[because-of-a-friend]

Band-Aid

MASTERLIST

Hi guys, I’m back! Sorry I was gone for so long, I got so busy this past year, I thought I might have to retire this blog for good. But I’m going to try and make time for it, let’s hope it works out this time!

Disclaimer: It has been a LONG time since I’ve written ~anything~ so I am plenty rusty lol.

Thanks for the request anon! This is such a cute prompt! Hope I delivered! After this I’ll have four drafts left and then I can answer the requests in my inbox!

Warnings: Mentions injuries/illnesses, blood, let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 1k

Remember that gifs aren’t mine! If you like them, pls click through to show their OPs some love!

You have to laugh as Seungcheol loudly announces to Jeonghan that his head is hurting

You two have been going through this cycle since you were first hired a few months ago

At the beginning, Coups had an excuse to talk to you all the time

Since you were new to the team, he took point on explaining important info to you

What allergies the boys had

Previous injuries you needed to be aware of

Where they generally kept their first-aid supplies

But once you had it all down, there was no reason for him to talk to you on a daily basis

But by this point, Cheol had realized that he very much liked speaking to you

He felt that you two had connected well and wanted to get to know you more

But since you were on the med team, you were often quite busy seeing as there were thirteen members that were in constant need of check-ups, aid with different levels of injuries, and general everyday care to combat the strain they put on their bodies

You hardly ever had time to just speak to him

The only time you really could 

Was when you were treating him

So Seungcheol had started to come up with any excuse under the sun to come and talk to you

First he was constantly complaining that he must have sprained his wrist, or twisted his ankle or pulled a muscle

Then he was constantly getting stomache aches

After that he was getting rashes or little scratches

Now he was in a phase of faking headaches to come and talk to you about it

You knew all of his injuries were fake from the very beginning

He stopped cradling his first “sprained wrist” to tell Seungkwan off for being too loud

He ate full meals that the other boys ordered even when he had his “stomach aches”

You had started carrying around makeup wipes to clean off his supposed “scratches and rashes”

Someone complaining of a headache was a little harder to disprove though

But you were sure you’d catch him somehow

You had begun to enjoy playing this little game with him

As well as the time you got to spend with him because of it

“Well you don’t have a fever,” you tucked your thermometer back into your medical bag

Seungcheol sat in front of you with a pout on his face

“Are there any other symptoms?” you ask

Seungcheol dutifully shakes his head

“Well do you want a pain reliever? Or maybe I should tell them to send you home and rest?” you feel his forehead once more for good measure

“Oh...” he hesitates, “I don’t think it’s serious enough for either of those...”

You smile to yourself

It was quite cute to watch him fumble with trying to feign sickness without  exposing himself

“Well should we schedule an appointment with a neurologist to make sure this isn’t a problem?” you push him further

“No, you take care of me well enough” Seungcheol beams

“Well we have to find a solution eventually,” you sigh. “How’s your water intake? Or did you add anything new to your diet? Increase your screentime?”

“No, they just started out of nowhere,” Seungcheol shrugs innocently

“Well I suppose I can let you go for today but, if it happens again, I’m sending you to the doctor”

“[Y/N]!” one of the managers calls for you. “We need your help prepping supplies for the next concert.”

You give Cheol a bit of a smug look, knowing you’ve backed him into a corner with his latest fake sickness and then

You rush off to help

Seungcheol sighs as he watches you leave

He just lost another excuse to spend time with you

Later that evening Joshua watches with pure amusement as Seungcheol paces back and forth in the dorm 

“Should I say I think I have a sinus infection? Or maybe I could claim of frequent muscle spasms... I feel like constipation has to be my last move.”

“I feel like constipation is a never move,” Joshua interrupted. “Just tell [Y/N] that you like them.”

“I can’t do that, what if they don’t even like me?” Seungcheol complains

“Well then you have an answer and you can stop wasting both of your time,” Josh shrugs

“Wasting time,” Seungcheol repeats. “What if they really don’t like me and I’ve just been annoying [Y/N] this whole time?” 

He hates the feeling settling in the pit of his stomach

He begins to remember all the times you would shut him down as quick as possible 

Or when you would rush off to help someone else as soon as you were done exposing a fake injury of his

How you would sigh and roll your eyes before walking away

Apparently he failed to notice the playful look on your face as you did so

“What? I don’t think [Y/N] would put up with it if you were truly wasting their time,” Joshua protests

“No, I really should stop. It’s [Y/N]’s job and I should leave them alone to do it. Let’s just start getting ready for the concert tomorrow”

Seungcheol’s mood is noticably down for rehearsals the next day

The other boys are off because of it and they’re trying all they can to cheer him up

You notice as well and begin to wonder if Seungcheol is genuinely sick for once 

And then you feel really worried because he usually would use any excuse to come speak to you but he’s not even trying to mention what’s obviously bothering him

“Are you feeling alright?” you corner him, once again pressing a hand to his forehead

“I am, just worried about this performance,” Cheol reaches up to grab your hand, his thumb pressing into your palm as he pulls it away from his head

Then he just walks off

You feel really uneasy about the concert

Everyone else does too

Seungcheol may not be exhibiting any symptoms of sickness but it’s obvious he’s distracted and not ready to perform

Anxieties rise throughout the day but quickly stave off as the concert begins

As usual, Seventeen pulls through and the concert goes well

Even with Cheol somewhat distracted 

But the good feelings end as quickly as they begin

When Cheol falls during a song 

At first it looks like just a simple stumble

But as your watching the big screen, you see the horrified expression form on Seungkwan’s face as he looks down at his leader

You rush to the side of the stage as the other members help him off

They set him down on a chair in front of you and run back off to do crowd control

You quickly see why Seungkwan had seemed so disturbed

When Cheol had tripped, he had fallen against one of the stage props and scraped up his shin

The wound didn’t seem deep but it was large and producing plenty of blood

Coups feels terrible

Not even 24 hours after he decided to leave you alone

And here is a situation where you have to be with him

He can’t even think of his injury

He can only think of how he’s going to apologize and get out of your hair

He’s tested ten different apologies in his head before he actually looks at you

Your hands are gentle as you clean the blood and sanitize the wound

Cheol notices how you hesitate everytime you rub the disinfectant over his leg, seeing if it’ll cause him pain or not 

There is a time where it does sting and he sucks in his breath

You look up at him and Cheol’s heart clenches

You look so worried

Your eyebrows are furrowed and there’s sweat on your forehead 

“Does it hurt a lot? I promise I’m almost done” you say 

Your voice is so genuine and kind

Cheol has to stop himself from grinning at how sweet and caring you’re being

“I’m ok, do what you need to do”

You wrap the bandages carefully once the wound is clean, even going back over where you feel you didn’t do a good enough job

“Does that feel ok?” you stand and put a hand on his shoulder, indicating with your other hand that he should move his leg and test the wrappings

He nods, “Thank you”

Then he gets up and heads towards the stage

“Woah,” you stop him with a hand on his chest, “where are you going?”

 He grabs your hand the same way, a thumb pressed to your palm, but he doesn’t move it away from him this time

“Back out,” he gives you the smile he uses when he wants something

“You can’t go back out there,” you insist, hoping he can’t feel how warm you’re getting while he holds your hand

“It would be best for the fans to see that I’m ok,” Cheol says more seriously this time

You think it over

“...You’ll have to sit in a chair for the rest of the performance,” you insist

“I’ll accept that with my own condition,” Cheol is beaming at you again

“And what would that be?” you laugh

“I take you to dinner after”

Before you can respond, he pulls you towards him, kisses your cheek, and runs off onto the stage with a chair

And your hand flies to your own forehead to check your tempertature

[mercurygray]

Happy weekend Merc! How about 'gravel underfoot' and 'broken zipper' from the small details prompt list for Billie doing something ill advised 😏 Juno xx

Juno, these three little snips have been sitting in my drafts for the better part of a week now, so I suppose I'd better publish them if I'm not doing anything better.

Fair warning: this is a TDS AU where the Girl Gang is flying. And it is🌶️🌶️.

--

He'd known the girls would be trouble, but why was it always her?

Harding looked at the pilot across from his desk and exhaled heavily. "I need officers who obey orders, Mitchell. None of this write your own rules nonsense."

The woman herself didn't seem to think too much of that. "Seems to be fine when Major Cleven does it, sir."

And maybe it is - for Major Cleven. But not Lieutenant Billie Mitchell, fresh from the states and here only on the sufferance of God and the manpower needs of the United States Army Air Force. "Major Cleven is a decorated officer with more flying hours than you."

"And a man, sir."

"What do you want, Mitchell?" He was in front of his desk, his face inches from hers.

"A fuck against the wall would be fine, sir." She stared him down, her smile just visible in the midst of his stunned silence. "Come on, Colonel. Who lets you off your leash? It'll be fun."

"You tired of the squad room?" He was trying not to let her get to him, and he wasn't sure he was succeeding. Had she disobeyed orders just so she could be here, in front of his desk, in front of him, alone?

"I'm tired of boys who think they know what they're doing." Her smile widened knowledgeably, trying to coax him out. "Come on, sir. I've danced with you. How long's it been?"

Too damn long, he'd almost said. "Get out of my office" was what came out instead.

--

He gave in later.

He did not say her name - did not even speak - only grabbed for her wrist and pulled her away into the dark, cool shadows of the supply shed.

He only had to shut the door behind them then she'd pulled him back by his lapels to start undoing his jacket, her lips greedy for his as her hands fumbled with belts and buttons and the front of his fly and he was pulling the shirt out of her trousers and pushing her back against the wall. His hand pushed for a moment into the front of her now- open trousers, thinking he might try with his fingers first, but she laughed into their kiss and pushed his trousers open a bit more. "A fuck, sir," she said, like she was reminding him.

"Against the wall," he growled, rubbing himself against the mound of her body and their hands, her underwear and his own. He could smell her perfume, faint and distant on her skin. "I heard you the first time."

"A real one," she replied, groping him so that he moaned. "Don't take your time."

He didn't. And she dug her nails into the back of his neck and panted with pleasure into his ear for it, hot and urgent and human, until he remembered just in time where he was and who she was and pulled himself from her so he might come between them, breathless and heavy, his whole body wrung out and, impossibly, longing to do it again. How long had it been? Too long, and now he wanted it a second time, and a third. The night was dark and full of secrets and he wanted all of hers.

How dare she stand there like that, smiling and flushed and looking for all the world like she knew what he was thinking? "Damn you to hell, Billie."

“I thought we were already here,” she said with a smile. “Might as well make the most of it.”

--

Wasn't it always the same story?

Marion's office had a view of the supply shed door - hardly busy on a Friday afternoon without a mission in the air tomorrow. The sound of footsteps on the gravel made her look up. Who was it this time, looking for privacy?

Billie Mitchell, hair a mess and uniform crumpled, was struggling with a zipper that was probably broken, looking for all the world like the cat that ate the canary. Not a surprise - those blue eyes and red hair had never had a problem getting a date for a dance, or for something after, either. Marion couldn't help watching the door, wondering whose heart she would be breaking in a few days time when she moved on to her next conquest, who would be mooning after her when she told him no.

But the face that emerged next was not one she expected to see looking around with boyish, fearful eyes like he expected to be caught, carefully closing the door behind him. Oh, no. Not you. In the moment she could smell his aftershave.

He stepped out from the supply shed and looked carefully around in the approaching evening light, adjusting his tie, smoothing his jacket, and then, somehow, impossibly, his eyes found her window and the semi-open shade. The guilt in his eyes went straight through and left her breathless. She stepped back from the window, feeling shaken. He'd seen her - and seen that she knew.

Oh, Chick. What have you done?

[jupitersrising]

The next chapter of Survival of the Fittest is taking forever so I thought I'd include some fun facts about how the fic has changed over time. Because I like to talk about it but it doesn't feel necessary to put in the end notes.

Spoilers for all chapters of Survival of the Fittest

***

Originally, Yasmina wasn't going to be in a coma-like state until far later in the fic. I had a comphet lesbian storyline planned (which you can see hints of in earlier chapters) before S5 came out. After it felt wrong to go through with since she was confirmed bi, so I moved the other storyline up and gave her another conflict that will affect her soon!

The fic only had 20 planned chapters for the first couple months and was going to end when Ben reunited with the others. But I got so, so much support and love for it that I decided to continue a full series rewrite.

I always knew I wanted a character to lose a limb. But it's changed so much since the beginning. Originally, Kenji was going to lose his leg but that storyline got replaced with his addiction. (A story that I personally think was better for his character.) Then I decided on Darius. Still, he was going to lose his arm at the shoulder, then the elbow, before I finally moved it down to just losing his hand.

Ben was only going to kill Toro in the first draft and never any other dinosaur but as the rewrite got darker I wanted to include the other dinosaurs.

A few things that haven't changed since the first draft of the outline:

Sammy always killed someone, it's a really big part of her character arc throughout the story.

Darius always nearly drowns (though the setting has changed twice since the first outline).

The Beach (tm) scenes between Kenji and Ben. That's been planned since the beginning and some of the sections were written months in advance.

There's more little things too but those ones are the most fun. Most of the mental health issues, family issues, disorders, and injuries were planned since the beginning too.

Ben was really estranged from everyone in the first few drafts and it took him twice as long to interact fully with the others. The introduction of Brooklynn's friendship actually had me switching up the group dynamics a lot.

I have an (short, unfinished) unreleased snippet of Kye and Kenji's relationship before camp. Basically what happened the night he might have died and the fallout of it right up until camp starts.

There's a throw away line about a controversy Brooklynn was in just before camp, if you can remember, this will come back later. I'm so excited about it!

In the worst version of this story, Bumpy was going to die and truly make Ben go feral. Then I decided against any main character death, so no, she won't die. But it was a thought for a while.

Despite spending the so little time together in the show, Brooklynn and Ben's friendship is one of my favorites to write. Along with Sammy and Ben getting closer since Yaz's illness. I intended for Ben and Darius to have the closest friendship but they haven't gotten there yet. There's a lot of stuff they have to work out. (Yaz is still is platonic soulmate tho, don't worry).

Sorry the next update may take a bit to get out but I hope you enjoyed reading some random notes I never included!

[capt-mactavish]

Teeth

I've been sitting on this messy werewolf!soap ghostsoap drabble for awhile and I'm tired of looking at it in my drafts so I'm just gonna post it.

Something was wrong with Soap.

Well, not exactly. 

Not wrong. 

Off, maybe.

Specifically with his teeth.

It sounds absurd, but really, Ghost is very observant, and there was something peculiar about Soap’s teeth.

Ghost had only seen it a handful of times. But he was sure of what he saw.

Canines that were just a bit too long to be normal. A bit too sharp. Not overtly so, but enough for someone who was paying attention to take notice.

Not that Ghost was paying closer attention to Soap than anyone else, no! 

It was just that…

There was something about the way, that when the Sergeant would smile, lips pulling back to reveal the pointed pearly whites, that Ghost’s heart would thump just a bit harder, fluttering inside his chest. His fists would clench tightly, as if aching to touch, sometimes to the detriment of whatever happened to be in his hand, such as newly wrinkled paperwork. 

It was a curious thing, how something so mundane could pull such a visceral reaction from the hardened soldier. And yet, he found himself enamored by it, seeking it out instead of trying to bury it down like he’d do any other time. 

He’d tell himself it was Soap’s fangs that had him so captivated by the Scottsman, beguiled by their origins and… implications. 

He’d tell himself that, but deep down he knew it wasn’t just his teeth Ghost had taken a fascination to. After all, there were other peculiarities surrounding Soap that Ghost had taken notice of as well. 

Like the fact that he was so much warmer to the touch than anyone else.

Ghost remembers the first time he had experienced it, grabbing Johnny by the forearm to hoist him up after getting knocked down in the field. His skin so hot, feeling it even through his gloves, Ghost had thought the Sergeant had broken out into a fever.

“Christ, Johnny, you’re burning up!” he had said, ready to fall back with Soap in tow and get him to the medic asap.

But Soap had just waved him off, “‘M fine, sah. Really. No need ta worry.” 

And so Ghost had let him go, and Johnny was fine as he had said. No sign of a fever or illness whatsoever as the Sergeant carried on as usual. 

Nothing except for the lingering heat on the Lieutenant's gloved hand. Like a burn, singed into his skin. 

Of course, when they got back to base, Ghost had tried to insist that Johnny be checked out anyway. But the Scot refused, swearing there was nothing to worry about. Even Price had dismissed him, which Ghost thought odd, but eventually he let it go. 

And Johnny was, indeed, just fine.

Another was the sheer amount of meat that Johnny consumed, and his apparent preference for it to be concerningly rare.

Only this time it was Gaz who had noticed first.

Soap had sat down at their table in the mess with his plate, the only contents a thick cut of bleeding steak and nothing else. 

“Where did you get that?” Gaz had exclaimed indignantly. “How come you get steak? I wouldn't mind a steak!” 

But Johnny just winked and replied, “Go’ a special arrangement with the cook.” Before cutting into his meat, so red it was practically still mooing. 

“That’s going to make you sick, Johnny,” Ghost had said, his morbid curiosity making it difficult to look away.

“Stomach o’ steel, L.t. Dinnae you worry,” was the response from Soap.

Gaz grimaced at him, but nothing else was said, and it just became the norm.

And then there was the fact that about once a month, Johnny would simply just disappear for a day or two at a time. 

A solo operation, Price had explained, and that was that on the matter as far as he or anyone else was concerned. 

But Ghost wasn’t so convinced. Especially when Soap would come back looking better than before he left. Practically glowing, like an immense weight had been lifted from his shoulders. And especially since Soap seemed to always be a bit on edge, aggressive, just before leaving on one of these “missions.” 

There was also the fact that the Sergeant possessed a strength Ghost had not imagined the Scot capable of.

The first time they had spared, he had pushed Soap to his limit, testing him. 

He succeeded in that, managing to rile Soap up to the point of fury.

And when Soap had pinned him, slamming Ghost’s wrists into the mat on either side of his head, he was surprised to find that he had been rendered completely immobile. 

Flexing his arms did nothing, there was no budging as Soap held firm. Even the body sitting atop Ghost's chest seemed impossible to move.

The Lieutenant even thought he had heard an inhuman growl come from the man as the back of his head hit the mat, but at the time it had gone unnoticed, too stunned by his immobility and how Soap had gotten the upper hand so quickly. 

“Soap!” Price had shouted, an edge in his tone, sounding much like a warning.

“Sah!” Soap responded, releasing Ghost immediately and letting him up.  

Ghost had stood, rubbing his wrists as he watched Soap and Price speak hushedly to each other for a moment before the Scot returned, looking very much like a scolded pup despite his victory over the Lieutenant.

After that, Soap had not pinned Ghost again. Not even as Ghost did his damndest to provoke him into doing so. 

It frustrated him, his interest piqued and curiosity left unsated, but it was another one of those things he had to just let go. 

Another of Soap’s peculiarities was that Ghost had noticed that the Sergeant had a almost supernatural sense of hearing. 

At first he chalked it up to nerves and Soap’s own imagination, but when Soap’s acute hearing had saved their lives, more than once, he was quick to become convinced of the man’s abilities. Putting absolute faith in him from thereon out when he said he heard something.

With Ghost leading, all Soap had to do was silently take hold on the Lieutenant's shoulder, and he would have Ghost’s undivided attention.

His face would say it all. Eyes unfocused, listening. And Ghost would listen too. But he never heard what Johnny could hear. 

And then the Sergeant would come back to him, signal, and Ghost would nod and let Johnny take point. 

All of those things were extraordinary in their own right, but Ghost kept coming back to Soap’s teeth.

Of all Soap's attributes, they were the only tangible thing Ghost could see and confirm with his own eyes. And he would be lying if he said he wasn't just a bit obsessed with them.

He wondered if they were as sharp as they looked, and how easy it would be to break skin and draw blood. If he’d even feel anything at all or if having Soap close enough to sink his fangs into Ghost’s flesh would numb him to it. 

Or maybe, he might even like the pain.

Ghost sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. The clock on the wall read two in the morning, and the report he’d wanted to finish before lights out lay on his desk before him, unfinished, mocking him, as he had descended into his daydreams.

It was no use, and the Lieutenant was tired. At least in his cot his mind was free to wander before sleep would eventually claim him. 

But now staring up at the ceiling from his cot, fighting to close his eyes and rest, all the thoughts come rushing back to him, and suddenly Ghost is hit by a thought he hadn’t yet considered. 

He can feel his heart rate quicken, a flash of heat running through his body as the realization dawns on him, only now putting all the pieces together.

Soap was something else, in a very literal sense of the term.

He wasn’t human.

So... what was he? 

[trippygalaxy]

I've a SRxReader request:Reader is hurt in the leg in a dark cave.what about a group scenario where needs help?? Wild, twilight,time and sky are enough for me!! Thx!!

YES YES YES YES ABSOLUTELY!! OKAY-- so i do only do 3 characters for group headcanons so I'll leave Wild out of this one!

Reader beginning, boys under the cut!!

OKAY SO— im just posting Twilight’s part because i want this OUT of my drafts and ill work on Sky’s and Time’s part separately but ill link them here once i do actually do them!!

Relationships: Twilight x gn!reader (romantic) Warnings: Blood, mention of wounds/blood lost, Swearing

You didn't know when you got separated from the group, too busy running on survival instincts with adrenalin pounding in your ear as you desperately tried to escape the onslaught of attacks. You'd be lying if you said you weren't scared shitless.

It wasn't suppose to go like this! It was just suppose to be some stupid fetch quest for some stupid...stupid...STUPID SOMETHING! You can't be bothered to remember what you and Link were commanded to collect, not when the sound of howling beasts and snarling monsters bounced off the forests trees so closely.

Oh you were SO gonna punch that merchant if you made it back alive!

Arrows and spears whizzed past you as you fled, pulling at your already tattered cloak, weaving between trees --just like Wild taught you-- as your lungs screamed for air, screamed for a moment's of rest.

A moment you didn't have.

Lessons can only prepare you for so much until you're left to survive on your own. But damn you wished you had Wild-- or even Twilight yelling some complicated instructions in your ear! At least then you'd have the comfort of know someone was there. Someone who-

Maybe it was the blood pound in your ears or your panicked thoughts that drowned out the whistling of a flying arrow.

Before you knew it a sharp pain pierces through your thigh, shooting agony down to your heel and up to your hip. A scream rips itself from your throat as you stumble, pain locking your leg and causing you to fall to the hard forest floor.

'Please make sure you protect your head whenever you fall!' Sky's scolding echoes in your head, his worried tone as clearly as his name sake on a sunny summer day. 'Even if it's just a small trip, you could still hit your head off something hard and end up really hurt.'

Throwing your arms over your head, you brace with gritted teeth as the wind is knocked from your chest. Your shoulder burns from slamming into a jagged root, no doubly bleeding if the warmth dripping down your arm told you anything.

"Shit!" You hiss, wincing as you struggled to your feet once more. The yelp of pain was held back by your bitten lip as your leg suddenly began to burn. "What the..."

You had but a moment to find the -rusted- arrow lodge in your thigh before a horrid screeched rips through the air. They sounded a lot closer than you originally thought. Shit. Shit shit shit!

Your hand hovered over the bloodied arrow before a certain, stern voice bounces through your already light headed skull.

'Do not touch that.' Time gritted out, his stare so cold it almost rivaled the burning in your thigh. 'Leave it in. Only take it out when you have the PROPER medical supplies. Understood?'

Your hand falls to the side, steading itself against the tree you propped yourself up against. Understood, you grump. With a grunt you quickly limped your way from your bloodied fall. No doubly those monsters could sniff you out in a moment's notice, you had to get as far away as you could-- somewhere far and...and...Fuck-- Maybe you did hit your head off of something.

It didn't matter -it totally does- you had to find somewhere to hide and hunker down until the monsters stopped looking. Being out in the open won't help, too much area to watch. You needed...You needed a cave. Somewhere the others would be able to find you and where you didn't have to worry about something coming up behind you.

--

You felt yourself growing weaker with every step, it was torture as that stupid arrow jumped and jolted with every limping step. It sucked. A LOT. But it sucked a little less as a mouth of a cave came into view. It's inky darkness would of had your stomach knotting and head filled with worries, but with pain being the only thing you can focus on you didn't mind the idea of being alone in the void for some time.

The cooler air hit you as you walked past the cave's threshold. It was a soothing cool, not one that had you shivering or nose sniffling.

You slide down the uneven, rough stone walls until you roughly met the floor with a quiet hiss. The small thud and sound of pain gently echoes off the empty walls, as if they were taunting you and your weakened state. You were tempted to tell the echo to piss off, you've had enough echoes for one day..

Time passed. You didn't know how much or how little, but if your ever burning wound told you anything you'd think it was passing all too slow. You had tried to remove the rusted arrow tip, but you couldn't even brush the shaft of the arrow without tears swelling in your eyes. You take it back, this sucks so much more than walking.

You wondered where everyone was...If he was okay. I mean-- he was technically a spirit but you knew that they all weren't exactly unkillable. Which is kinda messed up now that you thought about it--

An echo of your name brings your thoughts back for a brief moment. What did you just say about the echoes? You literally just said--

"Where are you?! Please, just-- Tell me where you are!" His voice...It felt so voice, so worried and...real. But you weren't going to let some stupid echo get the better of you.

"Fuck off! You fucking...echo."

Twilight

Whilst he desperately searched the eerily quiet forest, he had heard your scream echo throughout the forest from what felt like an eternity ago. And eternity spent racing through the thick trees in his wolfish form, his nose nearly digging itself into the ground as he clings to your scent.

You had ran off sometime during the ambush by the rocky side, which he wasn't surprised by-- not that he shaming you for it! It was a dangerous terrain to fight on and he was well aware that you were MUCH newer to this whole adventuring thing. And he would be lying to himself if he said he hadn't felt a wave of relief when he saw your retreating form. He was foolish to think those beasts wouldn't go after you. Or maybe he was just a little hopeful. Hopeful you'd be alright.

That hope was quickly wrenched from his gut when he found a patchy blood trail that reeked of your smell.

The simple smell startled him from his wolfish form, his booted feet digging into the raw earth beneath him as he rapidly followed the scattered trail of blood. The only thing faster than himself in that moment was his racing thoughts. His mind was filled with worries and prayers for your safety, the image of your crumpled, bleeding form had tears prickling at the corner of his eyes as he tried to catch the breath he didn't need.

But it wasn't easily tracking a scattered blood trail with blurred eyes. Fear bubbled up his throat at the sudden lost of your blood, it felt like a wolf's claws tearing up his throat as he was suddenly spinning, whipping his head around in a desperate attempt to find it. But he couldn't. He couldn't find it. And he couldn't find you.

"Where are you?! Please, just-- Tell me where you are!" Twilight choked out, a rasp that hurt his throat more than the fear.

"Darling...please." A quiet plead. A plead for a response, for a hint of your existence, a grief and guilt ridden sound that made his voice sound so foreign. So foreign that it felt like an echo distorted by the cave walls.

....

"Fuck off! You fucking...echo."

Twilight nearly tripped over his own feet as his spinning came to a sudden halt at the sound of your voice. A crackly, dry voice that sent shivers down his spine, but your voice nonetheless. Immediately the man dug his boots into the dirt and darted to the area he heard your strained voice. His heart broke a little at the strain in your voice, like such a couple of words had taken so much energy to push out.

Darting between trees and over turned rocks, a darken cave caught the man's attention and a wave of relief and pride wash over him. Goddesses you were smart, finding shelter to keep yourself hidden and having it be a landmark for your travels? The man couldn't help the fond smile pull at his flush cheeks as he picked up his pace, a new vigor in his heavying -but naturally breathless- chest.

Coming to a skidding stop, Twilight dug his heels into the dirt once more as he stops infront of the mouth of the cave. Though he was desperate to see you, he didn't want to startle you especially when you're injured, so with careful and soft steps the man entered the dark cave with hopeful eyes.

"Darling?" Twilight whispers, "Please tell me you're in here..."

"I said fuck off--!" Your angered words are cut off by a scratchy cough, one bounces off the caverns walls but had the hero's head snapping towards you even with the disconnected sound surrounding him. "...You echo...J-just leave me alone...I don't need my last moments to be made fun of..."

Twilight simply stared, his eyes burning with tears and rage as he glared at the arrow embedded into your skin. Your blood caked around the wound and stained your clothes, making a mess out of a beauty. He was angry, angry at the beasts that dared to chase you, angry at himself for not finding you sooner, angry at the fact that you were left alone to hurt..

"I'm not leaving, not unless you're leaving with me." The hero gritted out, trying to sooth his own raging guilts as he made his way to your side. "You're stuck with me, darling."

Too distracted by his worries for your injuries as he assesses the wound and arrow, Twilight doesn't notice your rapidly blinking or reddening eyes as you watched his spirit form settle by your side. But he does notice your flinch at his touch as his finger gently grazed along your hand, in hopes of comforting you. Concerned eyes dart to yours but the concern soon melts into a sadden look as Twilight noticed your teary but relieved eyes.

"You're..." You shakily breathed with a wavering hand reaching towards his cheek, staring at him with wide eyes, as if blinking once would make him disappearing.

Twilight's hands cup yours, bringing your shaking hand to his cold cheek before he nuzzles into your warmth. It wasn't often the spirit felt warmth like yours, but his guilty mind couldn't allow him to cherish it like he normally would. But he didn't care for his mind in this moment as he heart called for your warmth, even if it was just for a moment.

"I'm real, Darling. And I'm bringing you back, alive." Twilight whispered into your skin, staring back at your tear filled eyes with a determination unlike anything you've seen before.

Twilight was totally going to hit that merchant before you could.

Taglist: @the-cucco-nuggie @baileyboo2016 @birb-boy-official @yourlocaltreesimp @zelda-the-sacred-realm

[israaverse]

This is probably a result of diminishing expectations but it's wild how Civil War was the last movie to give Bucky a decent look, because every appearance since then seems intent on making him uglier and hideouser— okay wait I just realized I'm kinda exaggerating his look on the Falcon show wasn't bad I'm just letting my hate for that shows writing & the it's exemplification of nearly all the ways Marvel used the Cap brand to push propaganda cloud my perception of the visuals..... but everything else! jail. (can you tell I just discovered what he looks like in the quote "degenerate villain" squad movie?)

NGL they did Steve bad but at least they killed him off. Seeing how they made a decent Cap2 with blatant cliffhanger-setup for a sequel continuing that storyline just to... not continue it & instead cast Bucky as The Bad Guy of the Group because of multiple directors+writers (explicitly admitted in interviews) hate for Bucky... is still wild. They practically dropped his entire character development arc after only hinting at it in an end credit scene. And it's a large part of why Steve's character circled the drain too before getting killed off because the core part of Steve's character arc was dependent on Bucky's story arc actually being continued instead of randomly dropped for multiple back to back crossover events.

Marvel managing to make one decent movie out of CapAm is more of a curse than anything. It'd have been better if expectations never got lifted off the ground and just kept the characters rah rah 🇺🇲 PatriotMonologueBotd all the way through like in the comics, which aren't very good.... at all. If you thought the propaganda is gonna be bad in the upcoming Cap4 movie, the DNC-style patriotism of the Captain America brand becomes is even worse in the comics, and it gets worse to stomach with IRL events making it seem more and more out of touch. Treating the USA flag (and its representatives) as a literary symbol of moral virtue gets more and more ridiculous with each new run of books (like, did you know that a recent run decided to flashback to WW2 just to include a revisionist-fake-history speech about how the Zlonlsts were a large force fighting against the Nazis, whereas IRL the opposite happened). How a single decent adaptation was managed to be pulled out of the source material is still kinda shocking. But now Marvel seems to have remembered that the CapAm brand is meant for their white writers to pull out atrocious political takes via superheroes. Back to tradition!

the fact that writers n directors hate him baffles me bc Winter Soldier is such a good setup but they just let him FLOAT AROUND? A SET PIECE? AN OBJECT OF THE PLOT????? like you MADE HIM THAT WAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

im convinced that the US military propaganda contracts completely neutered his MCU character bc if u think about it for more than 5 seconds you start coming to Conclusions (didnt WS point out that the US govt hired a bunch of nazi scientists, framed him as JFK's assassin, etc etc etc.....) and they made the decision to just nuke him as a result. Oooh he was just a bad guyyy all alooong SHUT UPPPP hes morally grey even an antihero for a bit but hes not EVIL he is literally the poster boy of being manipulated into doing atrocities for the interests of a greater power and they just. dropped it. on its ass. esp with the stupid Sabra and Zionism bullshit its like ohhh i see we are gearing up for a media push for fascist nationalistic narratives for a draft or more wars and the presence of moral grayness isnt conducive to that so its just cut. got it.

like the Falcon show was........ so clearly cut to erase that moral grayness it made me ill. so ill i even sought out WS' presence in the comics and like you said its just not cutting it even slightly. they flattened him which SUCKS but also they made him UGLY WHICH IM WAY MADDER ABOUT. IF I CANT HAVE HIS MORAL COMPLEXITY WHY DID YOU UNSEXIFY HIMMM

IT DOESNT EVEN MAKE FINANCIAL SENSE BC I WAS ONLINE WHEN PEOPLE WERE FROTHING AT THE MOUTH OVER HIM SO WHYYYYYYYYY DO THEY HIT HIM WITH THE MOST ATROCIOUS WIGS TO EVER BE SEEN IN AN MCU MOVIE IM ILLLLLL

FIRING SQUAD, ELECTRIC CHAIR, THE GALLOWS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! MULTIBILLION DOLLAR MOVIE AND THEY ONLY GOT HIM SYNTHETIC IM SO SICK!!!!!!!!!!!!

LOOK AT WHAT THEY TOOK FROM US!!!!!!!!!! SNIPPED LIKE A GODDAMN BARBIE , THE AURA!!!! IM SO MAD

i remember being SO excited when civil war came out bc the kind of political thriller feeling of winter soldier was so enrapturing!!!!! it captured me in a way the other MCU films lacked, so to see him stagnate like he has is just mortifying. especially visually. if they wanted to commit to the whole "hair holds memories"/buzz cut to visually separate himself from what he's done then DO IT!!!! dont linger at the threshold then go back to cash in on his old look but done BADLY. i almost wish he got killed off in civil war or shortly after because hes so clearly become a Plot Device instead of a Character and its so disappointing.

sorry for the super long un-art related post but oh my god this gets me so wound up, Bucky/WS was my first brainrot from back in my forum days (had an RP partner who based their character off him).

[onewomancitadel]

A polemic

So NaNoWriMo (the event in November where you try to write 50,000 words in a month) has announced its position on the usage of machine generation, which is that to ban it would be ableist and classist.

The really interesting thing here to me, is that this is the thing that does your thinking for you and removes your actual participation in generating writing and generating ideas. It is not in my view an actual assistive device in the sense that it enables a disabled person to complete the same task with or near the ability as an abled person and in my view condescending to pretend that it is so.

There was a real worry about the keyboard (or indeed the typewriter) interfering with the creative process of meditating on each word you must write by hand. And then way back when, the idea of writing words down as opposed to oral performance had the same sort of fear shroud it (this is what makes Plato's dialogues so interesting from a perspective of form, because it is intended to mimic those conversational forms in writing. I'm not a classicist please be nice to me). Understandably the argument here is that the influence of technological evolution on the creative process - where the process is the craft - is something we can easily draw parallel from to argue machine generation is perfectly fine.

To circle back to the most recent change, the keyboard, for instance, lets me write basically as quickly as I can think. It is superior for creative writing because I can be fully immersed in my prose work to the point I forget everything else because I am so in tune with it. I forget to meet my human bodily needs - I forget to eat and drink, I lose all sense of time. Essays written on the computer are my preference by far. Meanwhile, I prefer taking notes by hand for uni lectures and classes: I remember things better that way; I can write very fast and take only what I know I need; I don't dither, and most importantly I don't divert my attention from a lecture or discussion to the pure focus of writing on a keyboard. I also keep a notebook for brainstorming, drafting, that sort of thing. My process here resists the idea that keyboard = new = good = supplanting all else, but keyboard also very good sometimes.

But a disabled person who cannot use a keyboard is not going to have an easy time as me - so what are the ways that enable them to transcribe their thoughts? Making it fit for an individual person's disability is going to be a case-by-case basis, but there are ways of tailoring keyboards to the specific limbs or fingers that a disabled person may be able to use, or to fit their comfort needs - it will cost more than a regular keyboard, but there are more programs to support accessibility for disabled people than there were before (sometimes also for trialling the use of these technologies, like with game controllers, I've seen a lot of those in recent times) - which in part is a complicated process because lots of people have different types of disabilities. Somebody who is blind will require very diffierent support from somebody who has sight.

Machine generation doesn't transcribe your thoughts. Machine generation does the thinking and execution. It doesn't matter how you change it or edit it, you have to be totally honest about what you're doing: you're outsourcing your thinking. It is condescending to say that disabled people do not deserve to think. This includes people who struggle with thinking, or struggle with focus, or struggle with mental illness which stymies that actual motivation to write. Thinking, dreaming, and writing are themselves sources of and motivation for existence, and to outsource that, to me, is grossly offensive. (I am not going to introduce my personal background in here, but if you try to dispute that MG should help mentally ill people to write... if there is one thing which alleviates my existence in any way, it's writing).

The stylus on clay tablet, the pen, the typewriter, the keyboard, never did your thinking for you.

The classist dispute is interesting.

I see. (I checked Big W and JB Hi-Fi. Big W has the better deals I think with mouse included. Also, my most beloved keyboard I used to write for several years was $12 originally but my brother got it for free where he worked. Don't knock a cheap keyboard 'til you try it. You don't need a fancy gaming keyboard).

Most people probably have smart phones they can write on (the cheapest you can find are around ~$200AUD), but you generally want to be writing on a computer. Laptops aren't good investments in the long run and are fairly expensive, so let's say you want a desktop PC, in which case I would say get a refurbished computer like me. For the screen, the computer itself, and all the cables needed, I paid $200 including shipping, and it came with a free keyboard and mouse as well as year's warranty. Of course you might have the issue of a desk and chair as well, in which case I suggest op-shops, but if you are Australian don't write off the non-Ikeas; sometimes local furniture shops having sales are actually cheaper.

But if you are really working within limited means with absolutely nothing spare, there are library computers you may be able to access off the top of my head, and if you are a uni student, there are going to be computers available there. If the angle we're arguing is that it's limiting to people living in poverty to bar their use of machine generation, you're basically saying that if you're poor enough, then you shouldn't be allowed to dream and write yourself. Nuh uh.

This is actually so fucking obtuse lol.

In the case of a writing marathon, there is nothing weird about using the library or school or whatever to do your writing. 50,000 words spread across a month means you want to hit a little over 10,000 words a week, so let's say you ideally want 2,000 words a day, and if you're anxious about using a public space that much, let's say you want to go there five days a week so you need probably more in the realm of 3-5,000. But I think it would be fully doable if it's the event you've signed up to, and maybe you'd end up focussing better in a study-oriented space like that...

Critically the argument is founded on the idea that machine generation constitutes assistance and does not constitute the outsourcing of your own thinking. The argument normally launched against machine generation is from the repurposing of original creative material; the usage of machine generation is posited as 'sticking it to the man' punkish rebellion against copyright infringement, e.g.

this refrain was actually was the impetus for writing this post altogether, because it is so disingenuous as well as cruel and embarrassing, but I thought it was really interesting as well. Obviously that's not the angle I've taken throughout this post because I think that there is a weakness to this argument for a reason: yes, machine generation doesn't 'genuinely' remix material in the way the human alchemist imagination does, but the black box processes are kind of an ambiguous grey area. The real heart of this here is the allegation that legal enforcement of something is fundamentally heartless, not that laws and regulations in society are meant to actually service that society. It's concerning when they don't.

So it's really an anarchist sort of punk view versus my own which is that the hope would be that copyright laws protect artists (in the case of Disney it's clearly not so; that is neither here nor there), but that's really why I'm not arguing against that idea. I'm arguing against the idea that machine generation constitutes an assistive device, which it doesn't, because it supplants the person involved. Even if the way you feed an idea to machine generation is the way you've thought of it, its generated text is not yours; the machine generated it, irrespective of how that machine is trained off other texts. Even if you use it to merely brainstorm - and let's be real, that's not what's being argued here - it's offering ideas back at you the way a keyboard wouldn't.

Yes, I hate autofill text too. It should be turned off in word processing documents because it's disruptive.

The insistence is that machine generation is trained off other texts, and when you generate using those texts, you now have text that is some other author's work (because the machine generation is not thinking-feeling). The refutation to this from the pro-MG side is that this is what all authors naturally do, and then the refutation here follows that MG does not naturally transform a text the way a human would, always adding their own spin, always iterating. The pro-MG side then disputes that this difference is minimal and by the time a human involved edits the text - which is necessary at this point - it becomes something else. (That few people seemingly edit the text is beside the point).

I am rejecting this entire argument. I am also rejecting the idea that disabled people and poorer people should have to sit out NaNoWriMo because it may not be within their means, and I'm not going to dispute that at all; actually they should get to do whatever writing challenges they want, within whatever means that they require or desire, the same as any other person. That they meet those goals with different means because they can't do everything the same as an abled person is not in question.

Let's say an abled person chooses to attempt NaNoWriMo writing by hand. It's not roleplaying at making life difficult; let's say the individual has real difficulty with keyboards - or they can't afford a computer! I can handwrite several thousand words in a day and it would be fully possible, though with a lot of handcramping; it would require lots of pausing and stretching. I would get sick of it by Day 2. But it would be no less a legitimate attempt compared to other abled people who choose to attempt the marathon with a keyboard, or vice versa.

But I really wanted to square out my problems with people who launch criticism against MG and people who launch defenses at MG, because it goes around and around in circles. My issue with it is not necessarily an issue of copyright, though no doubt from a legalistic perspective that is in which the defense will be made; my view is one grounded in what the actual activity of writing is, and who deserves to have access to that (everybody) and where MG supplants that (fundamentally). Where writing begins is in your head. It is dreaming, brainstorming, thinking, and then executing that in constructed prose. When you don't do that, you're not writing at all.