#and the ignorance i still see among some skinny people on here

[ruelpsen]

As a disclaimer, I have been stick thin my whole life until recently, so my own experiences with fatphobia are pretty limited simply because I'm not in the demographic primarily targeted by it. But because I know I have blind spots from lacking that personal experience, I read and engage with fat theory/scholarship for my own interest (and out of academic interests too, having one foot in the humanities). And believe me, I have gotten so much out of it!- but what's been most damning to me in understanding how deep fatphobia runs in modern society is what I've witnessed growing up being the one thin person in my immediate family.

From what I've seen on here, I don't think some people realize how bad systemic fatphobia really is. It can look like having to explain to your 60-something-year-old parent on the verge of tears over their BMI how and why BMI is a bullshit measure of health. It's having your other parent make snide comments to you about a relative's weight gain 'affecting their looks' at said relative's own wedding despite the fact they're pretty damn close in size. It's watching your sibling cut out foods they like from their diet cold turkey because they don't think those things are worth indulging in, even in moderation. And yeah, it's also being expected to stay skinny as a self-hating teenager because the adults in my life didn't want me to end up 'like them' in physique.

The worst part of it is that they didn't realize how fucked up those mindsets are, much less that they're perpetuating harmful ideas to the detriment of themselves and others. Through no fault of their own, they're so wrapped up in the messages that society has given them about their bodies to the point that they have a hard time seeing alternate, kinder approaches towards their weight. Seeing firsthand how fatphobia drives self-hate to the point that they feel they have to perpetuate the same impossible standards is hard. It's harder when it's people you love.

I guess what I mean to say is if you're a thin feedist, seriously take the time to listen to the fat people in your life about their experiences. There's a lot of it that isn't pretty, but you can be part of the change to make this world more size-inclusive and less fatphobic, and undo your own misunderstandings/ lack of understanding about fatness at the same time. I'm not saying you need to read a ton of theory- though of course I highly recommend it!- but at the bare minimum, at least check your own biases and show your care and support for the fat people in your life. Show them that you love them as they are! Use what you've learned from liberation-minded and body-positive activists and feedists to fight the fatphobia you see. And again, it doesn't need to be some grand thing. You could explain to someone why BMI is bullshit. You could suggest to your friends that insulting people based on weight isn't cool. You can simply tell someone you care about that they look good today.

And also, because this is coming from someone in a feedist space: for the love of all that is good, the minimum of your engagement with fat people shouldn't be jerking it to them on the internet and nothing more. You're doing a disservice to others by treating fat people as little to nothing more than wank material and to yourself by reinforcing that simplistic view in your brain. Start by listening to fat people talking about fatphobia, at the very least, or else you will end up with a very tainted view of what fatness is as a physical and sociopolitical reality. The more you listen, the more you'll understand how truly engrained fatphobia is in our society. And through that understanding, hopefully, you will see that solidarity is a must if we ever want to have a society free of fatphobia and all the harmful ways of treating/viewing the body that come with it.

So what this all boils down to, I guess: fellow skinny feedists, seriously listen to the people at the heart of this community about fatphobia. You've got to tackle your own fatphobia (and/or blind spots in regard to it) if you are to ever be a part of a force for change for the better in regard to fatphobia. Systemic changes don't happen overnight, but there's things we can all learn to do to make this world kinder for fat people.

I think something that still needs to be internalized by many thin people in feedist spaces is how truly pervasive and insidious fatphobia is in modern culture, and that as a result you really need to be aware of how your personal views on fatness compare in respect to broader society

[azlan-snow]

Humble Beginnings(Radiobelle)

Chapter Sixteen: A Royal Flush

(Told from Alastor’s POV)

As the King warns everyone the  variety of punishments that come with attacking anyone of Royal status to the Overlords, a skinny bird man barges in, catching everyone off guard including the king, his four red eyes staring at everyone in front of him. 

“Stolas?” The king tilts his head, guessing who the man could possibly be.

“Greetings, my King. I am here for our meeting, albeit a bit early. Didn’t expect how little traffic there would be.”

“Traffic?”

“A lot less people now this late at night coming to Pride.”

“Well, I am a bit busy, so you might have to wait.” Just then Charlie walks in, seeing the bird man, and smiles. “Uncle Stolas!”

“Charlie! Oh, how great it is to see you!”

“How have you been?”

“Busy. But someone is here to see you!” A smaller bird girl appeared from behind him, dressed in baggy clothing from the modern era.

“Hey Octavia.”

“Hi, Charlie.”

“Come with me. Don’t want to disturb the adults.” The two leave, chatting on the way out. 

“Everyone, this is Prince Stolas of the Ars Goetia.” As soon as the words ‘Ars Goetia’ leave his lips, everyone in the room, besides me and the King, bowed in respect.

“Who are the Ars Goetia, my King?” I ask, confused on the sudden actions of my peers.

“He’s a member of royalty among the rings: they also exist in Heaven.”

“Interesting.” I give a subtle bow the man, then turn to Lucifer again. “Is this meeting of upmost importance?”

“Yes. I won’t be able to see Stolas for a while after this as his position with the Ars Goetia complicated his schedule.”

“Very well.” I turn to the table, now ignoring everything else. “The king needs to attend to this meeting, so ours has been but on hold for now. We will reconvene as soon as possible. But you are to remain at the palace until this meeting happens. Thank you.” I walk towards the remaining two Vees, menacing intent with each step. “May I have a word, old pal?”

“The fuck? Where’s Val?”

“I’m afraid that Val is now under new management. You won’t be seeing your friend anymore.”

“What are you talking about? All we saw was some fucker kidnap him,” Velvette retaliates, oblivious to what I just said.

“He acted in his stupidity and it cost him.”

“What did that fucking idiot do this time?” Velvette looked genuinely concerned for her associate who is no longer.

“He abused the princess. I thought you were already aware of this?” 

“NO! He didn’t say anything! Why would he do that?!” Vox looked like he was on the verge of crying as I explained. 

“My sincere apologies, old pal. Even I didn’t wish for this to happen, no matter how much I hated him.” Vox and Velvette were in tears, mourning their friend, even though he already died. 

“Was this because of you, Al? Huh? Did Val do this to her because of you?”

“Why would anything have to do with me?”

“Val hated you! And the Princess! You all kept Angel away from him!”

“Angel was trying to get away from him. This all happened before I knew young Charlotte.”

“Then its her Fucking fault one of my Best Friends is gone!”

“Vox. You-”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do, you bastard. This is all your whore’s fault!”

“Watch your tongue, or I'll remove it for you.” Shifting forms never felt so relieving. But, the Queen was going to love the new info I’ve gathered.

“Please care for your friend, young girl,” I ask sincerely, looking Velvette dead in the eyes. She nods and tends to her broken friend, now in tears and flickering. I ask my shadow to transport me to the Queen, and my request is granted as I appear in front of Her Majesty.

“Your shadow sought me out, which means you have a good reason as to why you are interrupting me.” Her gaze hold me still, eyes glossed over in a dark shade of purple.

“I come bearing information, My Liege.”

“Speak, Alastor. What information do you have.”

“The remaining people of our friends party was unaware of his intentions. That, and an Ars Goetia has entered the palace.”

“Stolas is here?”

“Yes. Him and his daughter, who is with Charlotte.”

“If I may,” She starts, waiting. 

“Yes, My Queen?”

“Why do you call my daughter by her first name? She even asked us to call her Charlie.”

“The reason is simple: I prefer Charlotte. It is a name I am familiar with as it first became popular in my era of time. That and I quite like the name and her reaction to it. Her blush is quite beautiful, especially when it adds to those circles on her cheeks.”

“You really do love my daughter, don’t you?”

“Of course. Your daughter is the most wonderful person in the world. If somebody failed to love her, well, they’d have to be sane!”

“Alastor. You are insane. But she likes that about you, so keep up the good work.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” I take my leave, but the queen stops me, calling out my name.

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Oh? What could that be?”

“I want you to make a deal with me. Your freedom in exchange for Charlie’s protection. This isn’t a soul deal. Just an exchange. So you don’t have to worry about swapping owners. So, do we have an exchange?”

I hesitate to shake her hand, a sense of uneasiness looming around me.

“Beware of the one who did, your Majesty. She won’t take this lightly, I’m afraid.” She looked at me confused, but dismissed it as I shook her hand in agreement, feeling the weight of my previous chain being lifted and removed. Alas, I am free, no longer bound to anything.

“Thank you, My Queen.”

“You’re welcome.” 

I teleport to Charlotte, wanting to tell her the news. Appearing behind her, I planned on startling her.

“Peek-a-boo!”

“AH!” Both girls scream, startled greatly at my sudden appearance.

“Al! What are you doing here?”

“Just checking in on my beautiful darling.” I look at the bird girl, who seems confused about what seemed to be occurring. 

“Al, this is Octavia. She’s my friend and Uncle Stolas’ daughter. She’s a princess, too!”

“Not really,” the girl mumbles, avoiding eye contact with me, probably to my unsightly appearance.

“Intriguing!”

“Okay. Bye Al?”

“Bye? Woman, I just got here.” She looked at me grumpily, almost how a small child would.

“I know. And I’m kicking you out. Bye Al!”

She slammed the door on my face, leaving me bewildered. As I stroll the hallways, I see the King and Prince discussing what looked to be a contract. And finally, I check on the hotel and see our residents playing a game of poker, with dear Husker’s hand being a royal flush.

[badbedforbedding]

Beauty standards in Westeros: wild beauty is beautiful?

Beauty is a huge topic in this fandom, specially in relation to some female characters. And different from the male characters, their physical traits are often put on higher ground than other aspects.

I know that we live in a society obsessed with ~aesthetics~ and with an ideal of beauty that is Eurocentric, ableist, and youthful; so it makes sense that the people (and their opinions) in this fandom reflects these ideals too.

(sigh) Anyway… Westeros is a fictional fantastical world set in a medieval era and this world too holds its sets of standards and ideals regarding beauty, and we can see how they affect the story/journey of some important characters; here I want to focus on the idea of the wild beauty associated with Arya and Lyanna Stark because it's a subjective enough word to cause a lot of confusion.

Now; suppose we all know how detrimental to women these beauty standards are, we cannot ignore that fact that they matter, they were made for a reason, and they serve a purpose in westerosi society:

First, it separates noble from commoners;

A Feast for Crows - Cersei III, Cersei compares Margaerys features to those of common people.

"Even peasant girls are pretty at a certain age, when they are still fresh and innocent and unspoiled, and most of them have the same brown hair and brown eyes as she does."

A Storm of Swords - Jon II, Jon's first impression of Ygritte.

"At a lord's court the girl would never have been considered anything but common, he knew. She had a round peasant face, a pug nose, and slightly crooked teeth, and her eyes were too far apart. Jon had noticed all that the first time he'd seen her, when his dirk had been at her throat."

By these recollections only, it seems like peasants have a certain look that is recognizable and sets them apart from noble people.

Without a deep analyses, we can already conclude that no Stark woman is common looking or plain. Their looks can be set apart from peasants and from among most other houses such as the Tyrell, its pretty signifying of their old noble blood:

Arya Stark - long face, gray eyes, brown hair, skinny and athletic body. Arya has the "wolf blood".

Sansa Stark - high cheekbones, blue eyes and "auburn hair lighter than her mother's".

Catelyn Stark - fair skin, blue eyes and auburn hair.

Lyanna Stark - Long face, gray eyes and brown hair. Slim body and tomboyish. Lyanna had too much of the wolf blood.

Edited: I’m not saying that peasants and common people are ugly, what I’m saying (what I deduced from reading the excerpts) is that compared to noble woman, common women are considered plain by noble people standards.

And the fact that most of these ladies are tied to one of the most traditional and old lineages in Westeros means that they don’t fit the common or plain category by Westeros beauty standards.

Second, it increases women's chance at a good marriage;

A Storm of Swords - Catelyn VI - Edmure and Catelyn talk about his betrothal to Roslin Frey.

"She's prettier than I dared hope." Edmure raised a hand before she could speak. "I know there are more important things, spare me the sermon, septa. Even so . . . did you see some of those other maids Frey trotted out? The one with the twitch? Was that the shaking sickness? And those twins had more craters and eruptions on their faces than Petyr Pimple. When I saw that lot, I knew Roslin would be bald and one-eyed, with Jinglebell's wits and Black Walder's temper. But she seems gentle as well as fair." He looked perplexed. "Why would the old weasel refuse to let me choose unless he meant to foist off someone hideous?"

"Your fondness for a pretty face is well known," Catelyn reminded him.

During the entire ordeal of a betrothal between a Frey daughter and Lord Edmure Tully, the latter complained about being denied of choice.

This is important because it shows exactly how it works for them: High lords who inherit castles and land can choose whichever lady they want, while ladies need to compete among themselves to try and get a good proposal, from where they can find security.

Robert Baratheon was to be Warden of the Stormlands at the time he was entertaining a marriage to Lyanna. Let's be honest now; do you think this asshole, the guy who fucks any pretty thing with a pair of tits without thinking, would settle for anything but a comely lady for a wife?

Of course there is the matter of her name and noble blood at play but just like Edmure, "his fondness for a pretty face was well known" and his feelings for Lyanna too:

"You never knew Lyanna as I did, Robert," Ned told him. "You saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath."

A Game of Thrones - Eddard VII

Edited: I’m not even questioning the physical characteristics that women need to have to be seen as beautiful. I think Edmure Tully’s speech at the quote I picked says a lot already, but in short: the preference that these privileged men show towards certain ladies is enough to know what is the standard held by Westeros society as a whole.

At last and most important, it reinforces the gender roles assigned to woman:

This is not supposed to be a critic to any of the women mentioned or their ways, but a critic of the people who praise certain traits and vilify others less soft ones.

About Elia:

"...the Stark girl, who was by all reports a wild and boyish young thing with none of the Princess Elia's delicate beauty."

"Princess Elia was a good woman, Your Grace. She was kind and clever, with a gentle heart and a sweet wit."

About Margaery:

"The girl no older than Robb, very pretty, with a doe's soft eyes and a mane of curling brown hair that fell about her shoulders in lazy ringlets. Her smile was shy and sweet."

About Sansa:

"Soft-spoken sweet-smelling Sansa, who loved silks, songs, chivalry and tall gallant knights with handsome faces."

Gentle, delicate, sweet, soft-spoken and other variants of these adjectives are used to describe these ladies in particular when mentioning their beauty. All these adjectives are found at the appearance section of their pages on Wiki of westeros.

Westerosy woman have little to no say in the decisions regarding their own lives, noble women are always at the mercy of a father, husband, or another man. They are raised to become two things only: a wife and a mother and again gentle, delicate, sweet, soft-spoken are words often related to motherhood and romance.

Wild, willful, stubborn and outspoken are completely different things from gentle, delicate, sweet and soft-spoken. In fact, they are opposite, and that's where the concept of "Wild beauty" draws so much confusion.

Edited: I’ve seen people interpret wild as unkept, savage, plain and/or ugly. The word in itself is not typically used to refer to one’s appearance, but to landscape or actions. But when the wild beauty idea come in George’s text is always to highlight Lyanna/Arya’s different look as well as character compared to southern ladies.

To use someone else’s perspective that is not their loving brother/father (since this means he is biased and unreliable as a narrator, *sarcasm*):

In The World of Ice and Fire - The Fall of the Dragons: The Year of the False Spring

“The crowning of the Stark girl, who was by all reports a wild and boyish young thing with none of the Princess Elia's delicate beauty, could only have been meant to win the allegiance of Winterfell to Prince Rhaegar's cause, Symond Staunton suggested to the king.”

The juxtaposition of the descriptors Wild x Delicate makes the case stronger when we remember that the delicate quality that Elia had comes from her frail and fragile health.

In conclusion:

Lyanna Stark was a beautiful woman with beautiful attributes, her beauty was well known and no one could deny. On the other hand, she lacked the womanly shape desired from most men and had too much force of will to be accepted by the southern court.

Arya Stark is a girl still growing into her features, her looks, and personality are similar to her aunt's even as a young girl. It's not hard to see that she will become as beautiful as Lyanna was said to be.

The wild beauty is in their physical traits but something else too, more ethereal and impalpable, the wolf blood.

Their wild beauty it's a set of all that Westeros holds as beautiful, added to what they fear the most: a strong, willed mind.

That's it, if anyone read so far: thank you for your patience. I am incapable of being brief. I wrote this with my own memory and research, so if I missed something, feel free to add to it. Also, if you are one of those stans who complain about others calling Arya beautiful: fuck you.

[your-local-scene-emo]

johnny c x emo! reader

(i'm emo, of you couldn't tell lmao, and i like johnny the homicidal maniac, so boom, here you go) Warnings: murder, mentions of mutilations of body's and that's about it i think. also some yelling and people being assholes. not proofread

you were pretty normal, oh, besides the whole emo thing. people usually stared or looked at you funny whenever you went out in public. depending on the day you were having, either you wold ignore them, smile and wave, duck your head nervously, or flip them of with your special little finger. today was one of those days where it wasn't going so well, you had gotten a brand new gir hoodie (i'm mostly going of scene emo here but you can make it whatever you want) and you were super proud of your new hoodie! most people didn't get it though, they would stare and point. but today, a certain homicidal maniac was there to witness it all. johnny knew what it was like to be judged or stared at just for going outside to just have a good time. it sucked ass. currently, some guy was sending glances your way, looking at you in a disgusted way at how you looked. he could hear whispers as he talked among friends. **"oh my god who wears that much eyeliner it 2023"** **"dude get your camera!"** **"oh hell naw"** *johnny's eyes twitched, his fists clenching. those insults almost felt targeted at him, even if it was at you. he yells, grabbing one of his knives... or... whatever he uses idk. you, surprised, look over to see a tall VERY skinny man stabbing the people who were whispering behind your back. hey, he looked fine-

you watched in horror, or entertainment, however you react to a murder scene i won't judge :)

"I LIKE YOU BETTER WHEN YOU DON'T HAVE EYES!" *the man screamed, ripping the man's eyeballs out of his head. he was right, they don't deserve eyes, they don't deserve to look at how inspiring you look, not if they judge you like that for no reason except that you're different. he then rips the man's tongue out, still yelling. "AND YOU DEFINITELY DON'T DESERVE THIS!" *he leaves the man to bleed out, getting up like it was nothing and dusting himself off. he looks at you, raising a brow.

"hey, my name's johnny, just call me Nny." *he gives you his hand, to which you (i'm making the reader stupid as shit don't worry) take his hand and shake it politely

"i'm Y/N, nice to meet you Nny."

moral of the story, don't judge someone based off their appearance, because if you do a homicidal maniac will come for you and rip out your eyeballs :)

[krankittoeleven]

top ten favorite bands/musicians tag game

Thank you @findusinaweek for the tag. It should be noted that my favorites really do ebb and flow in and out of favor depending on my mood and what's generally going on in my life. This list is in no particular order. I'm not sure if I could ever truly pick a number one favorite.

Puscifer - my super hot take that usually gets me in trouble with certain kinds of music lovers is that Puscifer (and a Perfect Circle) is leaps and bounds better than Tool. Which is not to say that Tool is bad, it's just that I think Maynard's side projects are better. Fight Me. Actually, don't, I have other things I'd rather waste my time on.

PIG - Really, I love anyone that's been a part of KMFDM at one point or another, but Raymond Watts' solo stuff is among my favorites. His music really embodies sex, drugs & rock n roll, uplifts counter culture and points the finger at problematic aspects of government, religion and society. He's also just a really chill dude who is fun to talk to after shows.

Skinny Puppy - Just saw them in concert last night, on their farewell tour. They've provided me with nearly a life time of music. My uncle, who helped raise me, is a huge fan and he played them a lot when I was a kid, which of course led to me listening to them on my own. It's always been our thing to see them live together, no matter where we are, we figure out how to come together to catch them each tour. Glad we could do it one last time.

Pink Floyd - another band that has been providing the backing music to my like like SP. I love that i can find Pink Floyd music to fit just about any mood, but really, my fondest memories of their music is getting stoned and chilling out. xD Saw Roger Waters live a few years ago and I'm glad he still puts on live shows that really embody the essence of Pink Floyd.

Snoop Dog - good music and an amusing dude. Honestly, these days I just really love his middle aged man vibe, and all the silliness with Martha Stewart. But I did grow up in his musical prime and I'm glad I was around the right people at the right time to get into not just Snoop's music, but others in the genre.

Rammstein - I think my favorite thing about Rammstein, aside from their weird, sometimes unnerving, industrial aesthetic, is just that their music has remained consistently good their entire career and that is so hard to do. Like, there isn't an album of theirs I ignore or songs that I skip. Ok, well their is one exception to that and it's Du Hast, but that's because it got sooooo much radio play in the US that I just do not ever need to listen to it again. LOL But other than that, its all pure gold.

Leonard Cohen - I love this man. His music was brutally honest, and really, the world is just a lesser place without him in it. I usually don't get too worked up when famous people die, i think that sucks and feel a little bummed, but when Leonard Cohen died I will admit to feeling something near to destroyed for quiet some time. If you ever think somethings I say or do is referencing Leonard Cohen, I assure you, it is.

KMFDM - One of the ultimate 'rotating roster of musicians' bands that really fueled my teen age and young adult years. I still love them, always will, but I do feel like they were at their best and freshest when different artists were coming and going and contributing to their sound. The music is less unique from album to album now that they have more of a fixed roster.

Low Roar - I had no idea who Low Roar was before I played Death Stranding, so thank you Kojima for dotting the game with their music. Bummer that their lead singer died last year, that's truly unfortunate.

Jazz - yes, I'm just putting the whole genre here because I don't have a particular favorite artist or group. I just like me some good jazz. I played tenor sax for quiet a few years and my inner sax man still lives on inside me.

I will tag @ainulindaelynn @brasideios @akashadarkblade @mini-uzzy @theinkandthesea @liminalspacecowboah @vault-heck @vdk-hellscape and anyone else that wants to!

[theotherpages]

Cerulea and the Meaning of Everything

Episode 2: Hello, My Name Is

[trigger warning - violence]

I SHOULD probably explain a few things. Maybe more than a few. All right, a shitload of things.

I guess I have to pick one to start with. Here goes: My name is Cerulea. Ser-oo-lee-ah. Yeah, I bet you hear that one all the time. I looked it up as soon as I was old enough to Zoogle. Close but no kewpie doll. It’s almost a color, almost a disease, almost an ultra-skinny, excessively quirky, blue-haired manga character. But it’s not. It’s me.

So, next thing is, I don’t usually go by Cerulea among friends. I mean, yeah, that’s what my parents named me, and it’s on my student ID and driver’s license and all, but it's such a pain to have to tell everyone how to spell it. I don’t go by Cerul, because that’s a Trans thing, and I don’t want my Trans friends to think I’m a pretender. So, I go by Lee among those who know me well. (That’s what Binnie always calls me). When people write it down, my name gets morphed into ‘Sarah Lee,'' like some yuppie version of Billy Bob or Betty Sue, or maybe some kind of cheap cupcake from Maulmart.

After I Zoogled cerulean – I think I was seven or eight – I did ask mom to dye my hair blue. She wouldn’t, but when I was ten I did it myself. Not all the way down to the roots - that’s a good way to go bald (probably not a good look for me) – but most of the way. I liked it. And ten years later it’s still blue. 

Names. Right. Full name is officially Cerulea Daria Durning. My older brother Mariner goes by Mari, and my younger brother Anthem goes by Ant. And yeah, those end up as Mary and Aunt sometimes. People can be annoying about names. More than just names, but especially names. Sometimes because they’re ignorant or lazy, but mostly just because they’re dicks. Maybe I’m over-sensitized because my name was a gift from my parents, and they aren’t around anymore. So, it’s a special gift. So, I take offense.

There was this guy in fifth period my freshman year who said my name wrong every single fucking day, and did it on purpose, and then laughed, like he was making the world’s greatest joke. Mari told me to ignore him. “He’s just some idiot trying to get a rise out of you. He may be a jerk, or he may be so screwed up he actually thinks he’s flirting with you.”

Ick. Double-ick. And not just because I’m not into guys. (That’s a Binnie discussion - I’ll get around to that later). But eventually I’d had enough.

One day I walked into class (Ms. Bates, the AP World teacher, was out in the hallway, gabbing) and I could see that Comedian Guy was about to do it again. Enough. Not today, I decided.

As I walked past him, I wound up and threw a right hook at his stomach with so much behind it that his eyes bugged out and he sat down hard at his desk with an ooooopf, and almost fell on the floor. I grabbed his shirt collar just in time and pulled it up until it was sort-of gagging him. 

“Enough. You wanted to push my buttons? Congratulations. You did. The name is Cerulea. Ser-ooo-lee-ah. If you’re too dimwitted to say it right, keep your friggin' mouth shut, or I promise next time you’ll be swallowing your teeth. All of them.” 

I let go of him and he slumped down with his head on his desk and his eyes bugged out, drooling a little. The rest of the class got dead quiet. 

So, yeah, I can punch. Really punch. I always try to step into the swing. Pops taught Mari that, and he taught me. And we spar at least once a week in addition to sword practice, which gives me quick, wiry muscles. And, equally important, I know how to take a punch. Mari told me not to get in any fights, but if I did, swing with everything and don’t hold back. So that’s what I do.

Ms. Bates commented half-way through the period how impressed she was that class was so quiet and attentive today. Except for Comedian Guy. He managed to stay mostly upright for a while, then asked Ms. Bates to be excused and limped out of the room, taking the trash can with him. I could hear him ralphing in the hallway. He never said a word to me after that. Not a peep for the rest of the school year. The school, by the way, is Riparian High School, in North Broward, Florida. This is my last year. Mari is in his first year at Broward College, and Ant is two years behind me. 

There is one non-human member of our family – that’s Eeek, my pet attack squirrel. Aunt Rachel named him, or at least, she said Eeek! the first time he jumped off a curtain rod and landed in her hair. It seemed to get his attention, so it’s been Eeek ever since. Three e’s. I’m a stickler for spelling. 

Getting back to my anecdote – somewhere towards the end of class – AP World is heavy on Chinese history – Ms. Bates happened to comment that to the Chinese, the real unlucky number is not thirteen, but four (Suuh), because it sounds a lot like death (Suuh-ang). I knew that already, of course, but I like Shisan better, and I wasn’t planning on going after any Chinese gang-lords or anything. So, Thirteen has always worked just fine for me. Plus, since thirteen has no special meaning or feng shui in Chinese, there are no famous Chinese swords named Thirteen – I’m not copying anybody else.

In case you’re wondering, after the two anecdotes I’ve given so far, no, I’m not anti-social. Or at least, not that anti-social. Yes, I do have friends. Actual friends. Even a girlfriend (the marvelous Binnie). But most of the school (the smart ones, at least) figured out early on that I was someone who needed space, and generally they gave it to me. Fights have been a rare thing. It’s a good school. I have no complaints. Well, not many.

I know I have a temper, but I can keep it under wraps. Most of the time. Mari says it’s a tool, and like any good tool, you have to know when to use it and not to over-use it. Maybe it’s a good thing that I can’t take my sword to class. 

And no, I’m not nuts. Just focused. I have to be. We have to be. Mari, Ant and I. Because we’re such a small family – there’s just the three of us. We have to look out for each other, and we have to think about and do all of the things our parents would normally do if they were still here. That means still alive. I don’t want to make it sound like they’re in the joint or something. And I don’t want to hide from the truth. That’s not how I am. 

And no, I’m not someone who lives in an imaginary world inside my head. Yeah, there’s lots of shit inside my head, but it’s not planet-sized. My problems are real (mostly), and only partly my fault. I’m just telling it like it is.  I guess I’d better do some explaining.  I’ll start where everything began to go haywire, and then I’ll figure out where to go from there. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Apparently Cerulea is the kind of person who won't take crap off of anyone. A firm believer that if you allow someone to disrespect you without challenging them, they think they have power over you.  There's some truth to that. 

This is Episode 2 of Cerulea and the Meaning of Everything, my current Serial on Kindle Vella. The first three episodes are free, and if you’ve never read a Vella story before, you may get enough tokens to read the full story for free.

More episodes coming soon. –Steve

[luesmainblog]

we gonna keep this to the tags but it turned into a ramble so i'll just bite the bullet and risk looking dumb. first of all: Absolutely. by all means, be horny about fat characters, it's good for you. it's good for society. but what frustrates me about that comment is that there is legitimately no winning here, because every fat person - myself included - has different feelings on what kind of comment is "acknowledging us as real people" and what comments are dehumanizing as all fuck. a lot of it comes down to what we want to hear or see more of. to some, the soft and cuddly image is REALLY dehumanizing, often because it's severely desexualizing and many consider sex to be a very important part of their human experience. it can even be infantalizing in some ways. so of course that's out, bomb goes off, game over. but even saying they're Pretty or Handsome is toeing the line and avoiding expressing honest attraction(why are you complimenting them like an aunt complimenting you at your dance recital), so that also sets it off. but then to some, sexual compliments are ALSO dehumanizing. a lot of fat people are really uncomfortable with people expressing attraction to fat characters the same way they do skinny characters, because that often means being ravenously, unflinchingly horny about it. and as we've seen with Chubby Chasers, that can easily lead into Fetishization, so talking about how hot the fat character is can make many fat viewers feel objectified. so, the complimenter is STILL seen as dehumanizing; can't you see us as HUMANS and not your masturbation aids??? bomb goes off. so okay, let's compliment them on their fashion! or their personality! their skills! the things that tend to be more attractive than the basic design anyways. except WHOOPS, now we have a new set of fat folk who feel like you're doing that to avoid acknowledging the character's body. and that's its own form of fatphobia; the idea that you have to look past the fatness for their value, because a fat body can't be valuable on its own, right? while it's not dehumanizing exactly, it does spark at one's insecurities; the worry that you have to be More and present yourself well so everyone can look past the fat and see you. it harkens memories of being dehumanized, can't you acknowledge me as a person without ignoring that i'm fat??? and so the bomb goes off. this isn't unique to fatness ofc, i've seen this exact paradox with all sorts of oppressed groups. it was practically a key complaint of the 'antifeminist' movement, that there was no right answer because every lady feels very differently about their own relationship to their oppression and how things should be done differently. the same is true here; people try very, very hard to fit carefully into the acceptable margins of what you can compliment, because if they get it Wrong then maybe op won't be mad, but their followers will be. which is extremely frustrating for those watching who aren't seeing the compliments THEY'D like to see more of. i don't share any of the above feelings myself; call us adorable, call us daddy, call us pretty and fashionable and great at math. to me, it's all positivity that is desperately needed among the crushing waves of people who insist that fatness in and of itself is gross and unacceptable, or possibly worse, inherently funny. but like.. examine which compliments you tend to gravitate towards? the whole problem here is defaulting to one view to the point where you're making fat people wonder if you ACTUALLY see the character as a character, or if you're fitting them into this very specific nice little box with 20 other characters who look kinda like them but are very different people. if you're ALWAYS focusing on the cute, ask yourself why you're never attracted to them. if you're ALWAYS lusting over them, ask yourself if you might be fetishizing. if you always talk positive but NEVER bring up their bodytype or weight, ask yourself why that is.

hello skinny internet user. there is a bomb strapped to your chest. in front of you is fanart of a fat character. compliment them without using the words "soft", "huggable", or "cuddly". you have 30 minutes. if you fail to acknowledge fat people as actual human beings and not living teddy bears you will be blown up. the clock is ticking.

[outofangband]

Season drabbles for Morwen or well, drabbles might be a bit generous, these are just a few scenes living rent free in my brain that I’m getting out and will hopefully embellish later 

send me a character and a season and I’ll write a ficlet. Or just a character and I’ll do all four to six (basic temperate climate seasons plus the other two named in both Quenya and Sindarin) Heck, send me a non temperate climate season and I’ll try my best!  I did not do the elven named seasons for Morwen. 

Some of them involve the headcanons I talked about on these   posts, not necessary to read, I just like to link things to organize

CW: children displaced after war and violence, aftermath of war and violence, briefly implied sexism and othering, unintentional but still harmful emotional neglect like what’s mentioned here, medical trauma, Morwen thinking…not nice things about herself in the first part housekeeping note at the end

Winter

The healers of Brethil do not like her. They see only her wounds and that she, half taken by the delirium of fever and grief, will not allow them near her. Of course, she is barely twelve, is in no state to stop them and what is it she wants to stop? Foolish, reckless, stupid child. She is held down by her legs and shoulders so she lies on her stomach, her clothes and hair cut away so the burn wounds beneath can be properly washed. They hurt, more than anything she has ever before felt. The cold salve stings over the raw skin surrounding the worst of her injuries.

She had struggled against them until she realized that no amount of thrashing or crying would change anything. Morwen hated herself for ever thinking it would.  It was then that the pain from the wounds suddenly intensified and then faded away with something, everything else. Morwen remembers the cool rough wood of the table beneath her as she went limp, the winter storm raging beyond the fragile doors of the healer’s house. 

They leave her there afterwards, on the healer’s table. It is her own fault. If she had not thrashed and fought them so much they would have let her return to Auntie Beleth and Rían. But she had so they did not. The snowy wind threatens to burst in through the door.

Spring She shares a cramped corner with Rían, the younger girl all skinny limbs and sharp joints that curl against her, prodding the newly placed bandages on her side. Morwen had spent nearly an evening soothing her cousin to sleep while the adults had largely ignored them and ignored or forgotten that Morwen does not yet know how to soothe Rían in the timely fashion they require. So, she does not wake her despite her own discomfort. Perhaps she will fall asleep to the rain outside, the rain that has broken through the frozen ground so their clothes hung to dry will soon be ruined. Morwen has not yet gotten used to how wet everything now is, the leaves and grass, the ground, their few possessions they have since gathered since their arrival.  They are no longer in Ladros and will never be again. 

Summer

The summers here are humid and damp. Morwen has lingered for some time by the well because it lies in a shaded grove and shade is rare among the open plains of Dor-lómin. A man and woman waiting beside the well on the outskirts of the village stare openly at her. There was a grace period perhaps where she could plausibly believe their staring was simply because she was a strange child new among their people. But years have passed since the time this might have been their excuse. Their surprise, alarm even at her returned cold indifference (even after they have only just spoken of her in such a way to imply that indifference would be expected) is a barbed satisfaction as she hears their words, collects them with the water she has been sent for. 

 Their occasional praise of her beauty feels as a poison, cold and alien in the late day heat. 

Autumn “You are going to die!” Húrin cries in a sing-song warning and it is this that nearly throws Aerin off her routine as she laughs, her head back and eyes momentarily closed. She regains her balance however and lands gracefully. Morwen watches the exchange with a mild amusement. The worst of the summer has passed and the air is cool and bright. Leaves scatter along the ground, falling beneath the feet of Aerin as she offers her eager horse a baked treat in thanks and wanders over to sit beside them. 

“I did not die!” Aerin says brightly to Húrin, “And I beat you.” She nods to the old man who had been scoring the competitions.

“You did,” Húrin admits, “I did try.”

“Try to distract me, you mean.”

“Not a very noble tactic for a warrior,” Morwen says, “To distract your competition.” Aerin beams at this. Húrin buries his face in his hands, his hair blown through his fingers by a sudden burst of wind.

Author’s note: the challenge was a jumping one with points based on speed, agility and communication with the horse! Obstacle courses and jumping games are common at Hadorian festivals but are essential to the summer and autumn harvest ones. The spring festival has a more elegant competition involving a complex but low to the ground course and almost dressage like movements. There is the largest horse race in late autumn. As always please feel free to ask about Hadorian world building

(I hope these are ok! I had to fight myself to not overdo the Summer entry. I think a lot about that stuff and part of my just sort of wanted to list adjectives Morwen had been named, both good and bad but that probably would be a waste of time. 

Author’s note: the winter section is not the last time Morwen has cried but it is part of a series of events that sort of cement her belief in the uselessness of tears. I do think she’s certainly naturally less prone to crying, I see her as having blunted or flat affect but the trauma of Brethil and Dagor Bragollach relate to it too

Housekeeping note: I’ve been talking a lot in DMs with one or two people about my two longer dark fics about Morwen, I’ve avoided talking about them too much here because unlike the Angband stuff, they’re a lot less fantastically dark and more just…dark in a realistic way (which honestly is the general atmosphere to me of The Narn but that’s an entirely different story). I still think my two fics have FUN or intriguing and fantastical elements, they just honestly are harder to tag/warn for if that makes sense? ANYWAYS rambling aside I’m always happy to discuss them and other stuff that’s mostly in my brain and drafts and not here with others in DMs

[jasontoddiefor]

Revolutionary Doflamingo AU ft. the Accidental Child Acquisition, as told from Iva’s POV

Iva had been many things in their life already, had been called by more names than they dared to count or remember, most of them useless and hurtful. Nowadays, they were usually addressed by a name they had picked, and they were tired all the time.

Tired or angry.

Sometimes both at once, which was a horrible combination because, on most days, Iva was also the single bit of self-restrained that existed between them and Dragon; the only obstacle standing between Dragon and possible martyrdom. Dragon was an odd man, or so they found. He was too kind and gentle for the blood he shed, the wars he planned to wage.

But for this too, Iva was glad. They’d rather follow a gentle man forced to fight than a cruel one who’d lost all of his ideals to pitiful apathy.

This, however, did not mean that Iva didn’t severely disagree with some of Dragon’s decisions or actions.

Especially his spontaneous once.

“What is that?”

Dragon stopped drinking from his cup. He followed Iva’s gaze to the small form lying on the one bed they’d been sharing for the past week. It was much too small for the two of them, feeling like a coffin, but it looked terribly large for the tiny being resting there now.

“A child,” Dragon replied and if Iva didn’t know better, they’d say that Dragon was being purposefully obtuse, but no. Sometimes he just didn’t quite get the meaning of subtility and subterfuge. How would he? Dragon had never had to hide before, his father casting a long enough shadow that people were able to ignore him easily or saw him only as an afterimage of his father.

“I can see that, Dragon,” Iva replied, rolling their eyes. “I mean, what are they doing here?”

“Oh, I picked him up.”

It would be wonderful if conversations with their esteemed leader weren’t so difficult; they felt like pulling teeth.

But that too might be better than the opposite. The last time Iva had seen Dragon go on a rant, they’d both been a sobbing mess afterward; hands covered in blood, their friends’ corpses surrounding them.

“Sometimes, I think you’re being short on purpose. I want the full backstory because last I recall, you were meant to gather groceries and information on the going-ons in the Hellish Halls, not pick up random kids.”

Incredibly skinny random kids. Iva wasn’t stupid. Dragon had a bit of a bleeding heart when it came to children and they were at the feet of the Celestial Dragon’s home. Their little group hadn’t gathered enough attention from the government yet to be labeled an active threat. They could still afford to make these kinds of trips into the districts of the people living off the scraps of the nobles. There were so many starving children here, smuggled out with the rest of the trash, passed off as dead infants.

“His name is Donquixote Doflamingo and he’s about eleven, I believe. I found him lying near a trash can, half-delirious, and picked him up.”

Yes, that about checked out for Dragon—

Hold on.

“Donquixote?” Iva repeated, eyes narrowing. “Like the Celestial Dragons?”

Dragon nodded. “The very same. I’m not sure if you remember, it was a while ago already, but Donquixote Homing took his family and left Mariejois, his status, and his reputation behind.”

Iva did recall it. They hadn’t listened to the news back then, busy with staying alive themself among other things, but they’d researched the case prior to coming here.

“I thought they’d been lynched?”

“They were nearly burned alive, yes,” Dragon confirmed. “And many believed them dead in the aftermath, but as far as I can tell, Doflamingo here, the elder of their two children, returned to Mariejois to ask for reinstatement of himself and his younger brother.”

Iva couldn’t imagine that that had gone over well. “I take it they didn’t accept him?”

“No, they decided he was already poisoned by the lower class and would not be allowed to return. His way of asking for reinstatement was probably also not the best.”

“What did he do?”

“Showed them his father’s decapitated head.”

“His father’s what!?”

Dragon’s held up his hand and glanced to the right, reminding Iva of the eleven-year-old still sleeping on their bed. Right, former Celestial Dragon child. The boy didn’t appear to have heard them but kept sleeping, bundled up beneath Dragon’s green coat. Right next to the bed, at its feet, laid a trash bag that Iva honestly hadn’t paid too much attention to before, but the shape was just distinct enough that it could fit.

“Please tell me that’s not Donquixote’s decapitated head in the trash bag.”

Dragon took another sip from his tea.

“I hate you so much,” Iva groaned. They would kill for a drink now, but they hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in weeks. This trip was too important; they couldn’t afford to slip because of drunkenness. “Why do you have his decapitated head?”

“The boy had it, and I would have buried it, but he collapsed in my arms before I could ask him what he wanted to do with it.”

“And of course that means you just stuffed it in a bag, urgh.”

At least it was plastic and thus vaguely hygienic and sealed off. “You’re not putting that in the freezer.”

“Noted.”

Silence fell between them as they observed the sleeping boy. Like this, he looked just like every other hurting child they’d come across, but obviously they couldn’t just leave him. Besides being an information goldmine, Iva didn’t want to imagine what might happen to him if he fell into the hands of less morally upstanding people.

“So, what are we going to do about him?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Dragon replied thoughtfully. “Short-term goal is feeding him and making sure he gets on his feet again. I thought about teaching him too.”

Teach? They didn’t teach anyone; they tried to educate and rally the masses. Children didn’t really fit into the picture. You couldn’t keep a kid around when you were on the run. “Have you ever taught a single person? Or raised a child.”

“I watched the children in my village when I was younger. And my father managed just fine with me and he was two years younger than I am now.”

Iva had a lot of thoughts about Dragon’s upbringing and none of them included giving Monkey D. Garp a thumbs up for a job well done or Drago wouldn’t be sitting here in a room with Iva, a former Celestial Dragon, and the decapitated head of one.

“Seas, this is so messed up,” Iva sighed and ran their gloved hand through their hair. “Alright. Do we need to get the kid anything?”

“Clothes,” Dragon answered. “Which I assume is something you’ll want to do.”

Iva snorted. “Obviously. Anything else?”

Dragon shook his head. “No. The boy was exhausted and hungry. I gave him some broth and now he’s sleeping. He’s been starving for a while now. He’s severely malnourished and there are bound to be some other difficulties regarding that, but I’d rather examine him properly when he’s awake and can consent. I couldn’t get much out of him before he collapsed, but it might be worth checking if his brother is around here too.”

“Got it,” Iva said. “I’ll look into it. You’ll stay here with him?”

“Yes.”

And that was that. Now here was to hoping this wouldn’t severely screw them over.

[stevenbasic]

Looking at the IG of one of the new applicants, Dr J thinks: What's this one's story?

About a year ago, huh..?

...

The reunion was in full swing, and Angie sipped the straw of her vodka tonic, alone for the moment at the edge of the crowd, watching him. She’d come into the evening like she did into most crowds: thinking she was the smartest person in the room. True, it’s not like she’d ended up top of her class - it’d been ten years since graduating from Middlesex High with these morons - or had found herself at a top-tier college. She totally could have, she always thought, if she had really wanted to. She just never put in the effort, it hadn’t meant enough to her. But she could have been valedictorian, for sure, right? And gone to an ivy-league? She just never set her mind to it, she told herself. Plus, back then, she didn’t have the tits...

Angie Wade was, certainly, what most people would call a “late bloomer”. Not only had her academic and career successes mainly come after her teen years in High School - she’d graduated with Honors from Bowling Green, got her Masters, and now managed two (soon to be three) branches of KLG Bank - but her figure had taken some time to come in, also. When she had graduated, she had been a mostly forgettable member of the drama club, the thin, unremarkable brunette with the big forehead. But, soon, things changed. Since high school she’d put on - haha - nearly thirty pounds, the majority of it generously deposited into the fleshy curves she’d squeezed into this low-cut black top and tight, tight knee-length white skirt. She wanted these people - him especially - to see what had become of Angie Wade, to realize what they had missed. And, the evening had gone predictably. Most of the girls, even some she’d been friendly with in school, either wanted nothing to do with her or treated her with snobby derision - fuck them. Because every guy she’d spoken to tonight had been very keen to chat. Most had given her at least a fleeting glance down her top, and many could barely keep from staring. But she hadn’t talked to AJ Shaw yet....

...and he was right over there.

...

AJ stood at the banquet hall’s bar, idly stirring his bacardi and coke, while Megan Rommety chatted animatedly in his left ear. He’d learned, among a prattling twenty minutes’ worth of other things, that she was a recent divorcee (“her decision”, to hear her tell it) She was trying to flirt with him, he had no doubt.  He had been excited about coming to this thing, the 10-year reunion for his Middlesex High School Class. He still hung out, pretty regularly, with some friends from the football team; he’d even hired a couple to work on his construction team. He still touched base with old girlfriends from time-to-time, Facebook or wherever; it was cool to see them with kids and flirt with them behind their husbands’ backs. But maybe there’d be some people from out of town to catch up with. Like Megan here: they’d been in a couple classes together, she’d dated a friend of his, been on the tennis team. She was nice to see, for the first few minutes, but now she was beginning to overstay her welcome in the seat next to him. “...anyway, after I kicked Brad out, I sold the house and bought my own condo down by the lake,” Megan was saying, stirring the ice cube in her chardonnay, “sooooo nice. Real hardwood floors, a view. You just have to come see it! In fact, kids are at my mom’s tonight and…” WHoahhh...Who was THAT?

“Yeah, I uh….” he said Wearing a black, low-cut top that revealed an impressive bulge of soft, creamy cleavage, she was smiling over at him, from across the room. In fact, “smile” might have been too soft of a word. There was something dramatic about the look she was giving him, something….yikes. His stomach fluttered and everything Megan was saying was being droned out, dissolving to just a buzz on his left. Taking a sip of her drink, this woman held his eye contact for an uncomfortably long time, before she began to strut over towards him. My god, AJ thought, that is a strut. Straight back and proud, each step in her killer heels brought a new jiggle to her chest and an extra sway to her hips in her tight, white skirt. This was a woman who knew how to walk, he could see that for sure, and draw eyes to herself. Was this someone from his class?? He had forgotten that he was in the middle of a sentence, a conversation. Hell, he practically forgot where he was. He’d kinda found that happening, recently. Pretty women seemed to throw him off base more easily than they used to. Ones with boobs, especially. “Hiya, remember me?” she said, sidling up to the bar and unceremoniously boxing Megan out. He tried to keep his eyes up, on her face, on her wide, wide smile. He knew he would look like an asshole if his eyes dropped to her tits….but it was a struggle. “I…uh” he began, as his mind began to work. He was usually so good at this! He felt like he knew everybody from his class, or at least everyone important. Especially the hot ones! But he was having trouble remembering this one, her name. Her face was sorta familiar, but he certainly didn’t recognize those curves from high school. “Uhmmmm…”

“Angie Wade?”  Megan interjected, from half-behind the newcomer.

Oh yeah, Angela Wade.

“Angie Wade?” AJ finally managed, lights beginning to click on, “You were in drama club, right?” “That’s me!” Angie beamed, biting her lower lip flirtatiously, “You DO remember me!” He...he did remember her, yes, Angie. But certainly not like this. The Angie Wade he remembered had been...skinny. Maybe not quite a dork, but not someone with whom he’d ever associate. If he recalled, his friends had told him she’d been an admirer of his. God, if he’d known she’d grow up into this...wow, she really grew a pair. “Excuse me,” Megan piped in, pushing her short, coiffed-blonde hair behind her ear, “We...were in the middle of a conversation?” Obviously annoyed, Megan could see how AJ’s attention had suddenly been drawn to Angie Wade and her big new tits. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Angie responded, not bothering to hide a note of condescension. She shifted to unblock Megan from the conversation, a move that just brought her closer to AJ’s left side, and in fact let her press her big right breast into his left arm. She felt him shudder, almost imperceptibly, but tried to keep her smile to herself.

Angie glanced Megan up and down with a coy smirk before turning back to AJ. “So...Nice suit! You look great,” she said, knowing men’s weaknesses for flattery, “Seems like you’re doing well?” “Um, yeah! Thanks!,” AJ replied, wincing as he heard the weird enthusiasm in his voice. He can’t come across as creepy, just talking to this girl ‘cuz she’s built. He knew he had to maintain himself, his composure. “I’ve been good,” he continued, “Staying busy with work and-” Angie cut him off. “Yeah, I saw that your company has a bid in to renovate the stadium downtown,” she said, letting her eyes sparkle in admiration. Men loved that. “That’s soooo great…” They also loved this bimbo talk, she’d learned. “Yeah well, it’s um… an exciting project,” He finished lamely, glancing over at Megan, whose glare had gone icy. What was he doing? This was rude. He should try to involve Megan some more, but found himself just really not wanting to. “But enough about me,” he said to Angie, admiring the dramatically dark makeup around her eyes, “How are you doing?” “I’m doing SO, SO good!” Angie sang, right hand reaching behind AJ’s back, resting on a shoulder. Megan scoffed, watching as her left hand then found his knee. What a tramp. “‘So so good’?” Megan finally snapped, the derision in her voice unmistakable, “Last I heard you were working at Hooters. Brad said he saw you th-” “Oh, did he? Brad, your husband?” Angie smiled, turning finally to address Megan, smile big and white.

“Ex...husband…” Megan said, voice quickly fading.

“Hm. Well, did Brad mention that he used to come in every Tuesday and Thursday for lunch, with guys from work, or sometimes just by himself?” Angie continued, a new edge to her voice, “And when I moved to just weekends, he started showing up then, too?” She smiled as she saw Megan’s eyes go wide. She loved doing this shit to prissy bitches like Megan, when they thought they could flex. “Did Brad tell you that he always asked to be sat in my section, and when I finally left he’d asked the other girls about me? Where I went? Asked for my number?”

Megan’s jaw had started to quiver, and Angie had to keep herself from laughing. She remembered Brad, though it had been awhile. Guys from their old high school had often come to Hooters to drool, whether it was over her or younger girls like Shanette or Missy. Brad had been no different. “I guess he just saw something he liked…. “ Angie concluded, straightening her shoulders and pushing her boobs forward - which drew a glance from AJ, she noticed. “Maybe something he didn’t have at home?” “Holy shit y-you bitch,” Megan sputtered, doing her best to sound appalled but glancing down at her own modest bust, unable to keep from feeling a little inadequate. Yes, Brad had been “a boob guy”... Ignoring the insult with practiced aplomb, Angie turned back to AJ, catching him looking down her top. “Besides, you don’t mind...do you AJ?” she asked him, squeezing her right breast more firmly into his nicely-muscled arm, rubbing his broad shoulder through his suit jacket, “That I used to work at Hooters?” “Um, uh, what?” he stammered, uncomfortable with the tense exchange that had just happened between these two girls, feeling weird that he’d just sat here, passively. How was he supposed to answer this? “No...not at all,” he managed, “I think, uh, service work is perfectly dignified…” “See?” Angie giggled, still rubbing his shoulder and rewarding him with an extra bit of boob, “Good boy.”  Angie giggled again, so pleased with herself. Megan, for herself, looked aghast, watching AJ - who she always thought was a pretty well-put-together guy - fall for this bimbo’s simple little tricks. God, what a pair of tits can do... “I…” “..was just leaving” Angie finished for her, fixing her with a bright white smile and withering stare. She watched as Megan took her drink and stood from her stool. “You gonna go call Brad?” she added, for good measure, “Tell him Angie from Hooters said hello.” “Tell him yourself,” Megan sneered, and then turned to him, “And, AJ, nice talking to you. Have fun with the Titty Monster.” With that she stomped off, and Angie’s smile curled.

“‘Titty Monster’”, Angie repeated, chuckling to herself, “That’s rich. I think I’ll use that.” She bit her lip, narrowed her eyes. “So….” she began, turning all her attention back on AJ, her high school crush. She almost couldn’t believe it herself: here she was, little Angie Wade, proudly claiming Aaron Joseph Shaw for herself, just because she could. It was like wrapping him around her little finger. “Can I have a seat?” “Oh, uh, yeah,” AJ replied, shaking his head. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t even said goodbye to Megan. “Of course…”

AJ half-stood, chivalrously, as if to help Angie up into Megan’s now-empty chair. He sat back, finally, and began to order them both a drink from the bartender with the dramatic mustache.

“Two vodka tonics, please,” Angie had insisted, speaking over him with a will that made his loins clinch.

From there, the flirting began in earnest, disguised by a conversation about their jobs. Angie avoided divulging too much about her situation, her successes at the bank. She knew the male ego could be a fragile thing, and she didn’t want to scare him away. AJ seemed to be a successful guy himself, in his own way, but boys tended to like their girls dumb, and she could play that up a bit when she needed to. So, no mention of the degrees, no mention of the awards. Instead, she had leaned forward towards him just enough to open her cleavage for his approval. 

God, she has great tits, he thought to himself, marveling at their swell and mass, and I’m really getting to be a tit-guy these days. His eyes just could not keep themselves from falling down her top, and she seemed not to mind in the least. In fact, after their second drink together, her hand had found its way back to his knee and seemed to give him an encouraging squeeze every time his gaze strayed to her chest. She...she actually likes that I’m looking at her tits, he finally convinced himself, and had slowly started to relax.

After another drink, Angie finally sat up, stock straight, and slowly stretched her shoulders back to look around the room. Some of their old classmates had begun to leave, and the room was less abuzz than it had been. Predictably, his eyes had gone straight to her chest, and shot away before she met his gaze again. She waited for him to talk, knowing exactly what he wanted.

“So, it looks like things are starting to quiet down here,” he finally asked, “do you, uh, need a ride?”

Bingo. “No, I drove myself,” she answered, watching his face, seeing the old gears turning. 

“Well, I was thinking about, y’know,” he began again, poking at the remaining ice in his drink,  “heading back to my loft, downtown, if you wanted to, like, come with me…?” Angie smiled, and leaned in towards him, squeezing her arms together in a dramatic show of cleavage. “Hmmm, well,” she purred, watching his eyes struggle to maintain her gaze, “how about you come to my place tonight sweetie. It’s closer....” 

At that, she leaned in to his ear, and whispered into it with a voice thick with seduction. “And I still have my Hooters outfit at home. I can try it on for you….see if it still fits?” 

============================================

Angie attacks! A little GITJ tangent thread being co-written with AgeoftheGiantess, who you may know from GTScity. Look for her story to continue.

Next post, our first entry by new contributor Joyce Julep, available at my Patreon

[harrysbbby]

The Rule of Benefit - Part 1

My new series is here! It follows JJ and his friends-with-benefits co-worker Bridget “Jett” Moore. One simple rule: no feelings allowed. 

Words: 3k+

Warning: smut. this is also my first time writing it. so it's probably terrible. so apologies in advance. but otherwise enjoy. 

gif by @rudypankows​

It wasn’t uncommon to see Jett’s nose buried in a book, even at work. Sat behind the large wooden desk, her head only lifted when the phone rang, or someone approached the desk. Working at the Kook Club was easy: good hours, great pay and the opportunity to do whatever she liked during the down times. With all the guests checked in for the night, and everyone seated in the dining room, Jett knew this was the perfect time to finish her extra credit essay.  

JJ was stood in the doorway to the dining room, watching the girl read, captured by her ability to unfalteringly concentrate.  

“Quit slacking, Maybank!” the duty manager called from near the kitchen. JJ quickly collected himself, rushing back through the kitchen doors to get his orders.

It was a few hours later when JJ finally approached your desk.

“Hey pretty girl, soup’s up.”

Jett’s head lifted out of her book to meet his blue eyes. She smiled. Working with JJ made the Kook Club bearable. He was funny, charming and not to mention hot. He would make her laugh by making silly faces through the dining room doors as he walked past or would make her smile by bringing her left over deserts from the kitchen.  

“Oh, hey there pretty boy,” the terms of endearment had resulted from a regular. The small, sweet but very rich middle-aged lady visited the club twice weekly at a minimum. She always called Jett ‘pretty girl’ and JJ ‘pretty boy’. Jett was convinced she was hitting on him, the way she would grip his bicep when ordering at the bar. JJ, on the other hand swore that she was into girls, supported by his observations of how she would linger at the desk when she would check in for a long weekend stay. So, they became a bit of a joke, but then the nicknames stuck. Jett didn’t mind. She quite liked them. “Did you say something about food?”

“Yep,” he smiled, leaning on the top of the desk, “Soup’s up. Literally. Chef made us soup with the leftovers. Want me to grab you some?”

As if on cue the girl’s stomach growled. She hadn’t even noticed the time passing by as engrossed in her book. It had been hours since she’d last eaten.

“Yes please,” she pouted at him, raising her hands in a begging motion. He laughed at her ruffling her brown straight hair. She scoffed, frantically trying to put it back into place so as to not look disheveled at the front desk.

“Coming right up, milady,” JJ curtsied as he walked away. Jett laughed at his actions just as the phone rang. JJ looked back to her over his shoulder. She was speaking animatedly on the phone.  JJ always admired her work ethic. He would never admit it to anyone, but he saw Jett as almost an inspiration- to get out of their lives, out of The Cut. She smiled at him and shooed him towards the kitchen. JJ saluted and disappeared behind the doors.

He retuned moments later, two bowls of soup and a plate of bread perfect balanced on his experienced hands. Jett was typing away on the computer, when she saw him approach. She quickly moved her textbooks out of the way, allowing JJ to place the food in front of her.

“We busy?” he motioned towards the screen where she had just been typing furiously.

“Yep, major group booking. We’re employed for the foreseeable future,” she grabbed the spoon he had collected for her, diving immediately into the soup. She hummed in delight, “It may be scraps but damn Chef really knows how to make them taste good.”

JJ hummed in agreement, a soup doused piece of bread filling his mouth. After swallowing most of it he started to speak.

“What’s for?” he grumbled out over his mouthful of food, pointing to the book that had been thrown aside for their lower-class feast. Jett laughed at the way JJ had asked her, covering his mouth as if it made him anymore polite.

“AP History,” she responded, “extra credit work.”

“Wow must be nice to be smart,” JJ joked, mouth now clear of food. Jett smiled softly.

“Quite boring, actually,” her voice was a lot less excitable as it usually was. JJ had noticed her change in demeanor of the past few weeks, “even worse when you’re poor and need it to get into a good school.”

“Amen,” JJ chimed, shoving another unnecessarily large piece of bread into his mouth. Jett grabbed an acceptably sized piece, dipping it into her soup. JJ rid his mouth of food completely this time before asking her, “are you okay? You’ve seemed a little off lately.”

So, he had noticed, Jett thought. She sighed placing her spoon against the side of her bowl.

“My, uh... my boyfriend broke up with me two weeks ago,” she said sadly. She noticed JJ’s concerned expression, “it was kind of mutual, I guess. He moved to the mainland. I guess I’m just kind of lonely.”

JJ nodded at her explanation, surveying the melancholy look on her face.  He had always found her hot but had never made a move because of said boyfriend. An idea sprung to mind.  

“My friends and I are having a party on Saturday. You should come, escape your studying for one night.”

Jett peered up at the boy’s pleading expression. Her internal war was overpowered by his puppy-dog eyes and pouty lips.

“Fine,” she relented, causing JJ to throw his arms up in the air, “it better be a good party, pretty boy.”

“They always are.”

***

JJ was right. Pogue boneyard parties were fun. Jett used to come with her ex-boyfriend every now and then. They would scrounge up some free booze, get a couple hits from some random’s blunt and blindly walk back to her house and have the most amazing, hazy sex.  

Jett adjusted her shoulders, shaking the thought from her mind. She couldn’t be hanging onto the nothing he had left her with. She would have to move on and forwards, no matter how hard it was.

“Jett!”

She turned to see JJ by the keg, arms waving enthusiastically in the air. She headed over to him allowing him to pass her a cup filled with cheap beer.

“Hey, how was your shift today?” Jett asked him, bringing the cup all the way to her lips, taking a long sip, peering over the rim at the boy. He licked his lips, watching as her chocolate brown eyes stared at him. He cleared his throat quickly.

“You know, the usual. People being dicks, dicks being people.”

She threw head back emitting melodical laughter from her lips.  JJ’s mouth turned upward into a smile. She brought the cup up to her lips once again, still giggling.

“That’s very accurate of our clientele,” she said eyeing his smile, taking another large sip from her cup. Her drink was nearly gone already, the liquid heating her insides.  

She didn’t know if it was the alcohol or the fact she was a horny and recently single, but JJ looked different. She had never noticed how blue his eyes were, or how deep the dimple in his right cheek ran or how the curve of his bicep was so prominent. She quickly took another sip, finishing up her cup.

“Refill?”

Since she didn’t know anyone, JJ took the liberty of introducing her to his friends as they sat around one of the small bonfires, some of “JJ’s cousin’s good shit” being passed between them. At least that’s what Kiara had said. Jett knew of Kiara but had never properly met her before. She was of course familiar with her family’s business. Kiara spoke passionately about the harms of single use plastic as she passed the blunt to Pope. He was someone she already knew. He was in most of her classes, also vying for a scholarship like her’s. He bypassed the blunt, passing it to Jett. She took a long hit, before passing it to JJ, who was explaining to Kiara and Pope how he and Jett worked together at the country club. He passed the blunt to Sarah. Sarah was someone Jett knew. Her family’s presence at the club was a hyperbole. It usually meant a decent tip to be shared among the staff, and the few conversations she had had with Sarah were pleasant, but her brother was a different story.  

“Oh, yeah I thought you looked familiar!” Sarah exclaimed, coughing slightly as she passed the blunt to her boyfriend, who’s lap she sat on.  

John B took a hit before passing it back to Kiara, who was still chatting to JJ. Jett watched as John B grabbed Sarah’s head turning it towards him. She smiled seductively as he pulled his lips forward to meet his, smoke transpiring between the two of them. Jett cleared her throat abruptly.

“I need another drink,” she announced, leaving the group of friends to make her way back to the keg. As the liquid pour into her cup, she saw and arm lean against the keg, essentially trapping her between whoever it was and the metal. She knew exactly who it was.

“Rafe,” Jett said dryly, bringing her cup up to her lips and taking a swig as she turned to face up at the boy.

“Bridget, right?” he asked, leaning down to be at eye level with her. This brought their chests closer together, causing Jett to lean back, placing her hand which held her cup up against the boy. “I heard you’re back on the market.”

He winked. It caused a frown to spread over her face, rolling her eyes as she pushed past him.  

“I’m not for sale,” she heard one of the other Kook boys (Kelce maybe? She had seen him in the club a few times) whistle boyishly before bursting into hysterical laughter in Rafe’s face. Ignoring their antics, she made her way to a log further away, facing out at the ocean.

She stared out at the water, watching the waves tumble over and over. She reminded herself she needed to move on. She needed to be like the waves, take on the tumble, pick herself back up and get ready for the next. Jett was brought out of her thoughts when the sounds of skin flying across skin. She turned to see a tall, tanned skinny girl stomping away from JJ who cupped his hand over his cheek. Jett couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips, which caught the boy’s attention. He walked over to her, taking the spot next to her, rubbing his redden cheek gently.  

“What was that?” Jett asked amused. JJ huffed,

“Tourons. Apparently, I got with the wrong one and now I’m out of bounds with just about all of them.” Jett let out a puff of laughter at his dejectedness, before they lulled into a relatively comfortable silence. But JJ sensed something was up.

“Why’d you run off before?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” dismissed Jett, keeping her eyes trained on the ocean, eager to avoid JJ’s gaze.

“Yes, you do,” he countered, shift his body to face her. “Back there with John B and Sarah. Are you jealous?”

“Maybe,” Jett spoke quickly, now staring down at her cup. Was she really about to pour her heart out to JJ Maybank, her coworker? It was almost as if the alcohol itself whispered ‘yes’ to her as her mouth projectiled words without her control, “I don’t know. I miss having that; someone to turn to constantly. To touch you. Do things with. I guess I’ve just got an itch I can’t scratch.”

JJ remained silent, eyes scraping her body. They mainly focused between her hands and her lips, detailing every move she made as she spoke.

“That was too much information wasn’t it?” She threw her head back in frustration.

“That’s exactly what the right amount I needed to hear.”

Her brows pulled together in confusion, turning to face the boy for the first time. His eyes held a deep hunger and she could practically feel the heat radiating off him. She swallowed the lump of nervousness in her throat as he continued.

“You clearly have a problem no one else can fix. And I clearly have been exiled from Touron one-night stands. So, I propose a solution,” JJ stood up, hands gesturing enthusiastically as he spoke. “You and me. Sex. No strings attached.”

“What?” Jett asked incredulously.  

“It’s perfect! We both get what we want.”

She mulled over his words silently. She had to admit it would be convenient. She would finally solve her loneliness and would avoid the feelings that hurt her before.

“So, we’d be friends with benefits?” she asked, standing up, placing her hands delicately on his forearms, tracing back and forth. JJ smirked.

“Yeah, reckon you could handle it?” he asked queitly, leaning closer to her. Jett, flicked her hait back over her shoulder, looking up at the boy, hands still flowing softly across his skin.

“We need to lay some ground rules.”

“Absolutely,” JJ agreed. “This is not exclusive.”

“Done,” Jett settled. “No sex at work,” JJ went to object but, she brought a finger to his lips. “I need that job, pretty boy.”

He finger remained on his lips, causing his eyes to grow darker. He nodded in agreement.

“And finally, the most important rule of benefit: no feelings allowed.”

“Deal,” JJ whispered, pulling her hand away from his lips and pulling her in for a kiss. Jett dropped her cup half-filled with alcohol to the ground, wrapping her arms around his neck. She moaned into his mouth.

“Do you wanna--” JJ motioned over his shoulder.

“Yep,” Jett answered quickly allowing him to lead her away from the party.

They stumbled into the Chateau, leaving sloppy kisses along each other’s necks. JJ lead her into the spare room, shutting the door and pressing her up against in. Jett threw her head back against the wood, allowing JJ to explore her neck, sucking on the soft skin. She tugged on his hair, letting out a throaty moan. Keeping her hand his hair, she used it to spin them around, pinning JJ to the door. His eyes widen in surprised, then anticipation as she slipped to the floor in front of him.  She grabbed his belt undoing his pants quickly. Above her she could hear JJ’s breathing quicken as she pulled down his pants and underwear.

“Calm down pretty boy, gonna take good care of you.”

And with that she took his dick into her hand, pumping a few times before licking form the base to the tip. The moan that left JJ’s mouth was animalistic. His hands immediately flew to Jett’s hair, entangling themselves into it, pulling her closer towards him. Her head bobbed quickly, causing more grunts to escape from his lips. Jett could feel spit running down her chin as JJ pushed himself further into her mouth.

“Fuck, Jett. When did you get so good at this?” he asked, the sound of his head lightly thudding against the door as he screwed his eyes shut. She smiled sultrily, releasing him from her mouth, pumping his length as she looked up at him.

“Always have been. You’ve just been missing out.”

With a growl he picked her up by the sides, carrying her to the bed, flinging her across the sheets. He made quick work of ridding her of her shirt and bra. His mouth attached to one boob, his hands massaging the other.  Jett’s breathing quickened as she held his head to her, hips bucking up desperately. She whimpered needingly, craving his touch. He detached his lips, kissing slowly up her neck.  

“Patience pretty girl,” he whispered quietly. The hand that had been flicking at her nipple slid down her body and into the waistline of her shorts. He began to rub small circles over her clit. Jett let out a loud moan, hands instinctively coming over her mouth. With his free hand JJ grabbed her hands, placing them above her head. “Wanna be able to hear you.”

This caused an even louder moan to escape her lips, as JJ moved her panties to the side, easily slipping one finger in. Jett felt euphoric. JJ was already pleasing her better than her ex-boyfriend, and he had barely begun. She thought she could get used to their arrangement. He added another finger and began to pump faster. In contrast, he placed sweet kisses along her jaw, liking the feeling of her moans vibrating along his lips.  

“JJ, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna... ugh!” her eyes were screwed shut as her mouth was opened in a silent cry. JJ smiled against her skin, before retracting his hand. Jett’s body relaxed as he placed a kiss on her lips. He stood up ridding himself of his shirt and other items of clothing and she did the same.

She scooted back on the bed as a now naked JJ crawled on top of her, ripping open the condom wrapper with his teeth. He placed it over himself, lining himself up. He leant down next to Jett’s face.

“Ready to do this?” he asked her. She placed her hands on his shoulders and nodded.

“As I'll ever be.”

JJ pushed himself inside of her, their moans mixing in the hot, sticky air. He waited a moment before picking up his pace. Jett’s legs wrapped around his waist as she let out breathy groans. Her nails scrapped down his back, causing him to moan into her neck.

“Shit,” he cursed, his motions keeping a steady pace. He snuck a hand in between them to rub her clit.

“Oh my God, JJ,” she cried. She pulled one leg from around his body, slowly bringing it up to place it over his shoulder. JJ hesitated for a moment but seeing the look of sheer pleasure on Jett’s face, continued. The new angle elicited even more cried from her lips, her nails raking along his chest. JJ grunted, highly turned on by the girl beneath him. He wasn’t going to last much longer, and neither was she. His fingers worked quickly on her clit as his hips continued to meet hers. They yelled each other’s name in unison as they met their highs, JJ completing with a few final strokes.  

He pulled out, disposing of the condom before collapsing next to her. They were both sweaty messes, puffing heavily. Jett let out a breathy laugh, wiping the hair which was stuck to her forehead with the back of her hand. JJ pulled the covers out from underneath him, allowing Jett to crawl under with him. They laid next to each other, staring up at the ceiling still catching their breath.

“That was--” Jett started breathlessly.

“Yeah” JJ agreed.

She could get used to this.  

Tags:

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[nimmy22]

A Mistake: Chapter 12

~ The following day, Saturday ~

"Do something, Wesker! These fucking imbeciles at the papers are starting to question my competence as chief all because of a pathetic group of boys you can't seem to dispose of." Irons seethed, slamming his cup of whisky on the desk, knocking his nameplate to the ground.  

Wesker gave nothing away of his emotions, save for a tick in his brow. His hands craved to wrap around Irons’ neck, giving it a swift snap. It's how he felt most of his days at the station. Irons was replaceable. The man didn't realize just how worthless he was to Umbrella. His replacement could arrive this very afternoon.

"We are working on finding the gang's nest. The big players keep using young boys for the jobs but tell them nothing about insider information. There are too many eyes watching us right now. We cannot use any special means to dispose of the group in order avoid questions."

"Just Do your fucking job right. I can't stand the news conferences anymore. the journalist's questions make me look laughable." Irons clutched his glass, throwing it hard against the wall. Tapping a finger on the armrest, Wesker didn't bat an eye at the behavior of the chief of police. One couldn't expect much from such a lowly creature.

"You seem to forget why Umbrella put me as captain of STARS. It isn't to keep up your public appearance but to protect theirs. I'm not the one who isn't doing his job. Deal with the journalists while I handle the little boy scouts." pushing back his chair, Wesker made sure to leave deep grooves on the freshly varnished floors. The scraping sound was like music to his soul. He didn't miss the deathly glare on his way to the door like hot iron rods.

Returning to the STARS office, Wesker ignored the gossiping of Chris and Jill about the newest trouble between their captain and Irons. Shutting the door to his office, he took a seat behind his desk. Through the office blinds, he eyed each present member of STARS. of course, no one was getting any work done, lazing around the office, making meaningless bets.

This simply will not do.

It was time they did some undercover work, gathering information about Raccoon city's newest crime family. These boy scouts wouldn't last long around here, especially since they fell on the radar of the real monsters in the shadows of Raccoon.

---------------

She sat alone on the staircase, elbows resting on her knees, wondering how the hell she got here.  The house was familiar to her. How many times has she looked after Sherry here? Still, it felt strange. It was his space, and she was invading it.

This was now supposed to be her home. The place gave no hints as to who lived here, lacking any personal touch. It was likely the work of an anterior designer following the most fashionable trends. The home of a bachelor.

Speaking of Wesker, he left after dumping her here last night and vaguely pointing her towards the guest room with a 'help yourself' to any food. As always, he gave her the bare minimum of info, not that she asked what he was up to. She didn't care whether he spent the night hiding bodies or doing legitimate police work. She was too terrified to sleep under the same roof, only a few walls apart. Does the man ever sleep? Shower? Eat?

She won't lie. She was glad Wesker left. But even with him gone, she couldn't stop thinking about what happened. More so the kiss than almost becoming a guinea pig. It was a lot to process, and she couldn't even begin.

For the nth time, she forcibly pulled her fingers away from her lips, scolding herself for replaying the memory again. This man was absolute bad news. She needed to get out of the house, and an incoming call from Claire had her scrambling to answer as quickly as possible. Her friend presented an idea, and Cara was all too grateful to join in.  

Pulling up Wesker's name in the contacts, Cara's fingers hovered over the letters, unsure of what and how much to tell him.  Where did they stand? Did he really mean everything, or was it a trick?  Was she free to leave? Did he give up completely on the idea of killing her?

"Going out with Claire. I will be back late." she texted, fully knowing a lot of info was missing. But it's not like he ever gave her a ton.

"Stay out of trouble.' came a replay moments later.

The words were unsaid, but Cara definitely heard them.  'I don't have time to drop everything and run over to the rescue each and every time you get in trouble,'

'I asked for help only once. The other time's nobody asked you to come.' Cara grumbled but deleted what she wrote. she could've gotten herself out of those situations...with a little bit of thinking. Actually, a lot of thinking.

----------------------------

Cara had to walk several blocks away from Wesker's house to prevent suspicion. If by any chance, Claire knew the address of her brother's captain, it would be a hole she did not want to leap into.

Standing in front of an old bookstore, she waited for her friend. The building was slightly rundown, its walls covered in graffiti, but the owners were a kind elderly couple. They pushed discounts her way, and she was guilted to buy something. She ended up buying a useless cat plushie toy after seeing that most books were non-fiction or raunchy romance novels. She would rather die than have Wesker coming across an erotic novel lying around his house.

She stared at the plushie as she leaned against the wall outside the shop. Cara considered giving it to Sherry the next time they met. This would be the first present she ever gave the young girl, and she could almost imagine the excitement on Sherry's face. It made her smile.

A helicopter passed overhead, sleek black and adorned with the Umbrella white and red symbol. Cara watched the chopper get smaller and smaller until it disappeared, heading in the direction of the Arkley mountains. she wondered about their business up there was. Looking around, no one else seemed to notice nor care. Maybe it was best to keep all knowledge to herself.

Seeing a familiar redhead and a motorcycle, Cara waved as Claire pulled up, handing her a helmet.

---------------

The barn smelled of sweat, dust, and old wood. The unmistakable smell of alcohol was thick in the air as it was passed around freely in cheap red plastic cups. She recognized kids from school, but many more were older, likely from Raccoon university. A light disco machine was nailed to the wall, casting the barn in a series of flashing lights. Tall Straw piles of hay distributed across the barn ensured there was no shortage of dark corners for people to disappear to.  For a moment, Cara considered hiding in the straw and then going home when the party was over. But seeing the sparkle in Claire's eyes about hanging out with her best friend threw the idea out the window. With a sigh, she followed her friend.

Over the course of the night, the girls danced and drank, carefree. A blond-haired boy was staring at her, Cara noticed. He attempted to walk up to her but turned around before getting within ten feet. He tried multiple times but always chickened out despite his friends constantly cheering him on. Claire thought it was cute and refused to stop openly staring at him and giving a thumbs up.  Cara swatted Claire's hands before holding them behind her back in a pretend arrest, pushing her against the straw pile.

"Sorry Officer! I was just trying to help you get laid," Claire giggled. "I hope you're into blonde's though,"

"This is so embarrassing. Stop, or I'm leaving," Cara snapped, feeling a blush heat her face as Wesker crossed her mind. Fuck, why now?

"Oh? so you are into blondes," Claire's smile was cunning. "Let me help you,"

"No. Bad Claire, bad, bad girl. No treats for you tonight." Cara scolded, Stealing the can of beer her friend stole from a guy before cracking it open and downing its contents. She wouldn't yet consider herself drunk, just pleasantly buzzed.

The boy ran off again. Cara felt bad for him and was actually tempted to go up to him instead. His friends kept a steady stream of alcohol into his hand.

"H-hey, " And then he did it, with the help of liquid courage, of course.

For the effort, Cara decided not to openly embarrass him with rejection but not lead him on either. Walking away backward, Claire gave her a thumbs up along with a suggestive motion of the eyebrows, making horrid shapes with her hands. Cara covered her face, hoping to purge the image out of memory. She'll get her back in no time.

Ben was a bit shy at first, but soon they got talking and enjoyed themselves. His hair was a few shades darker and shorter than Wesker's. She didn't have to look up at him as they stood at a similar, comfortable height. Slender and skinny, he would shrink to nothing beside the captain. Cara grimaced, realizing she had been comparing the poor guy to a demon. It wasn't his fault that her mind was occupied with someone way out of her league... the legal kind.

The barn was becoming more and more crowded, and the dancing crowd swallowed them. Sticking out like two sore thumbs, they did their best to dance. Cara felt awkward but seeing the dimples in his smile made her feel better even as it became a tighter fit among the crowd. They had to dance closer lest they got separated.

She wondered what it would feel like to dance with Wesker. He seemed like the sophisticated type. The awkward moves of a teenager would never be adequate for him. Did he ever do anything that was remotely recreational? What do villains even do in their spare time? Manipulating the feelings of underage girls looks like. What stupid, stupid thoughts.

She prayed all these ideas would go away soon, as the thrill of the kiss wore off, and everything went back to normal. Did she want to go back? Why in the world would he like her? she knew who he really was, and he still let her live. Why take the risk with her? she was just a seventeen-year-old. Useless to everyone, with no connections and no money.  

Fuck it. Cara refused to think about Wesker anymore tonight. There was a perfectly alright guy in front of her, someone her own age, someone in her league, someone she wouldn't have to hide. Someone who was looking at her with a soft expression, blinking slowly.

Cara placed her hands on either side of Ben's face and pulled him towards her, connecting their lips. He reacted instantly, kissing her back. His hands awkwardly hovered over her arms before stroking them softly.

He was a nice guy, not a terrible kisser, but she hated it. Hated every touch because it wasn't as good as with Wesker. She couldn't stop comparing, and it was frustrating, spurring her to kiss Ben harder.

She continued, out of spite, to kiss the boy who looked at her with affection. in the background, she heard a few boys cheering, likely his friends. This was wrong, very wrong.

A firm hand gave her waist a painful squeeze before it was gone, and she thought it was Ben. Her eyes flew open as she felt a warm breath by her ear. It wasn't Ben.

"If I was not undercover right now, this lesser specimen of a boy would've made some unforgettable acquaintances a lot sooner. You could've done so much better, yet you have chosen to this..." Wesker seethed by her ear, sending shivers down her spine. Her body froze, but Ben didn't pick up the cue.  Wesker's muscles were tense as he pressed against her back. She could almost hear the exhale through clenched, grinding teeth.

Then he was gone, slipping through the crowd just as he came. No one notices anything. Cara broke the kiss and shoved Ben away. "I'm sorry, it isn't going to work out." She hurried after Wesker, but he was already lost in the crowd.  

She shoved her way through the throngs of people but only managed to find other members of STARS in civilian clothes. None seemed to notice or recognize her. They must've been here on undercover work, but why? she put that question aside as there were more pressing things to worry about.

She felt sick and wanted to throw up, but nothing was coming up. she burst through the doors of the suffocatingly hot bran, raking her hands through her hair. The cool night air hit her heated skin, but she couldn't find relief. She wanted to be swallowed by the ground.

She needed to find Wesker. But then what? Apologize? Apologize for making her own choices? They weren't a couple.

She continued to look for him nevertheless. She walked further from the barn towards an old car junkyard. She thought perhaps a fuming man would need some privacy. A strong feeling in her gut told her this was the right way.

Cara walked far enough from the party that the music was nothing but a distant noise. It was dark and quiet, the perfect place for an assault. If Wesker decided to murder her, no one would find her for at least a week, stuffed in the trunk of a car. If ever.  

Grabbed from behind, she was thrown against a car. Sliding to the ground, she cradled her aching arm, squinting in the dark to see her assailant. Wesker kneeled beside her, his civilian clothes dark and expensive.

"Why cut it short? You should've kissed him more while you still can because he will be the last boy you will ever kiss." squeezing her cheeks harshly, he dragged his thumb with heavy pressure over the flesh of her lips, still swollen from kissing Ben.

As Wesker let go of her face, she felt the cold muzzle of a gun pressing against her temple. Her heart skipped a beat, but she glared at him straight in the eye. Daring.

"I don't know what you want from me! You told me to keep out of trouble, and I did. Yet here we are," Cara lied. She knew what he wanted but didn't know why he wanted it.

"Were my intentions not clear enough? Do I have to spell it out for you? But I suppose intelligence was never your strength,"

Wesker pressed the gun harder against her temple, her glare unwavering. "Go ahead. Shoot me. why do you even bother?"

Neither moved, naked eyes locked with no shades between. Cara reached up and pulled the gun out of his hands with ease. He didn't resist, glaring at her with a tense jaw. Looking down, she almost laughed, seeing the safety was still on. This man couldn't bring himself to kill her. It was all a show of intimidation, and she wasn't falling for it. Not anymore.

As she made to stand, his hand pushed her down. Thinking he wanted the gun back, she returned it to his hand and tried to stand. again, he pushed her down. "Can I get up now?" she scowled, staring up at him.

Things happen too quickly for her to process. The hands on Cara's shoulder grabbed her legs, lifting her off the ground as Wesker wrapped her legs around him before slamming her against the car. She was winded, gasping for breath as he watched her with a smirk. She grabbed his arms, digging her nails into his defined muscles.

"You're up now," he whispered before his lips kissed her neck, sucking and nibbling the skin. A moan escaped her lips, and she covered her mouth immediately.

Grabbing both her hands, he pinned them against the car. "I need to clean your mouth of all traces of that boy,"

"Are you going to rinse my mouth with soap or something? This is childish and-" Cara's words settled in a moan as Wesker began grinding a very defined length against her growing sickness. She tightened her legs around his waist, drawing him closer.

Trailing his nose across her skin, he followed the curve of her neck to the ear, taking the lobe between his teeth. She melted against him when his hot tongue entered her ear. His tongue plunged in and out repeatedly like a preview of what he could do to her. Her heart went on an overdrive.

"Just kiss me," Cara breathed, a tension building in her belly. She wanted to taste him. in addition to sparing any additional marks on her neck to hide.

"No,” nuzzling into her neck, he grinded harder against her, earning a series of moans.  

"You know who else wouldn't mind kissing me-" Wesker slammed his lips to hers, kissing her roughly, their teeth clashing. Cara melted further, a smile on her lips as her tongue danced with his. She savored everything, The taste of him, softness of his lips, his warmth, and the building friction between their bodies. There was nothing more she wanted.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Three gunshots were fired.

Cara was barely steady on her feet when Wesker dropped her to the ground, his eyes scanning their surroundings. What little they heard of the music was drowned out by distant screams of the partygoers.

"What's happening?" she questioned, grabbing his arm, but his attention was fixed on the barn.

"Stay here," Wesker warned, already talking to someone by an earpiece she hadn't noticed before.

With his gun ready, he took off, running towards the barn. Cara made to follow him but was pulled back towards the car by her hand.

The fucker handcuffed and left her in the middle of a junkyard in the dark.

[ka-writes]

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Notes- Did I decide I was gonna write a fic at 2:00 AM? Yes yes I did... anyways I don’t have an archive account yet but I wanted to get it out there.... um here is chapter one of my space AU, because I absolutely fell in love with the AU.

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Inspired by:

Humans are Space Velociraptors

By:FreshRoses_InMyGarden_NeedTheRain

Some kids come from storks, others come from crashed spaceships

By: mmmajora

Home Again, Home Again

By: teeth_eater

All works can be found on Ao3

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Ohh also challenge if you wanna do it, fill in the Title! And another one... if you were an alien what question would you ask a human other than basic questions, like name and age.

Also suggestions are always appreciated! And if you wanna support my main blog it is kadoodle.. also I have no updating schedule so I will when I want to.

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Warnings: Cussing, mentions of tight spaces and characters being trapped, mentions of corpses, and needles.

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“Humans are [Insert text here]”

Chapter 1: Idiots kidnap the wrong kid..

Honestly, life hasn't been bad. His needs were met, most of the time, and he had a.. place to sleep…

Yeah no life wasn’t great.

Tommy was easily, barely, avoiding Social Services. Sleeping on benches and occasionally grass. He got whatever wasn’t wanted and had an official bag for the first time. He had some spare clothes, and no money. The authorities stopped looking for him after a while and the only main challenge was getting essentials.

No one would miss him. No one would look for him. Therefore he was the perfect target among many others. The only thing setting him apart was his sheer ability to survive, not a want, like many of the others, it was a fact he would survive. Not that his captors knew that of course.

Alternative: Tommy gets kidnapped by aliens and sbi rescues him.

——————

He woke up in a cage.

Not a cell or a room, a fucking cage.

There were a few others in various cages around the room. All of which were either dead or close to it. Most of the ones still alive had been there for months, possibly years. No one knew of course.

The smell of rotting bodies stenched the place with a coppery coating. The room wasn’t large but not quite small. It was dull grey with layers of grime settling on the floor and cages. The room was long and skinny, lined with cages against either wall in a zig zag format. The only light was coming from the small door window, which happened to be positioned right in front of Tommy. It glowed a faint yellow and was blurry, not allowing Tommy to see into the hall.

Shadows would occasionally pass by the window. None ever stopped at it. Causing the ever growing hunger to grow more. Once one had stopped at the door, not for more than a second, before it screeched. It was inhuman and sounded like a hurt hawk from one of those nature documentaries. Tommy shoved his hands onto his ears and waited for it to stop. The thing chuckled, not like a human, but something close to it.

——————

Tommy waited for what seemed like hours before something happened. The door opened, sliding into the ceiling. A weird looking creature stepped in. It looked like it had a porcelain mask over its face with a painted smiley face. There were no ears or hair, instead just more porcelain, which formed a spear which sat on shadows. The thing was wearing a lime green hoodie and black leather pants that seemingly faded into the creature's legs. The knees bent inwards causing it to look awfully awkward as it crouched near Tommy’s cage. The hands were long and lanky with no real palm. The creature also had a tail that looked close to how Tommy pictured a devil's tail to look. This was the first time in ages Tommy was glad to be behind bars.

The thing pointed at itself and said,

“Dream.”

In the most heavily accented English Tommy had ever heard. That didn’t matter as much of the fact that the seemingly painted smile moved with the words.

“Come.”

The creature unlocked the cage and half dragged Tommy out of the cage into what Tommy presumed to be the lab. He noticed a window. The only thing for miles was stars. He was in space. He had been kidnapped by Aliens. Fuck.

——————

Humans were a heavily avoided species. The things were what kids would expect to come out of their closet. They were feared, and for good reason.

The first ship to find Earth was ecstatic. Finding another intelligent species in what would’ve been deemed as a planetary desert was a scientific breakthrough. Causing the entirety of the media to go insane for a couple of years.. That was until the first ship ventured onto the planet. It was immediately shot down. The entire crew was killed and the entirety of the ship was destroyed in a matter of minutes. The ISF (Intergalactic Safety Force) deemed it as a no flight zone and claimed to punish anyone in the desert. Even so poachers smuggled humans and within days had their ship crashed.

The only ones allowed to take humans were scientists, who were specialized in taking care of difficult species. They were allowed to test on said species and do whatever they wanted, in the name of science of course. Most people didn’t care how they treated them and were really only interested in what could kill them.

Which is where Wilbur came in. He was a toxicologist, a scientist studying poisons, he also dealt with various potions and other chemical mixes. This knowledge is what gained his entry to the Dream Team Ship.

He had been testing on around nine different humans for the past six months on the celestial calendar. This time Dream, his boss and the captain, brought in a juvenile human. He was skinny and lanky. Clearly had been starving before being taken. He felt bad before shaking off his pity.

“V74 and V83. Make sure he can communicate beforehand.” Dream promptly stated before leaving the kid in the room.

Wilbur tried not to think about his terrified face, before he clipped on the translator. Usually it is worn on the back of the head, since humans brains are vastly different than most species, it is clipped to the left side of the head.

The translator looks like a simple device when in reality it took dozens of celestial years to perfect it. It’s a small silver disk that ingrains into the part of the brain that controls communicating. After the body gets used to the device it can translate any language into one you understand instantly.

It took a couple more years for the translator to incorporate the estimated 7,000 languages spoken on Earth. For a planet that has been isolated it has a more complex and diverse set of cultures and languages, than Pellucidian has had in centuries. To say Wilbur was jealous, wouldn’t be far from the truth. Not that he studied cultures for a living. It was something that always interested him.

He put the device on the kid’s head and grimaced at the pain that was on the kid’s face. He quickly dried up the blood and mixed a solution that would ease the pain. It was clear and tasted like water, which is the only way they got humans to take the pain reduction.

The kid relaxed for a spilt second before tending at the unfamiliar setting.

“Where am I?” He snapped, causing Wilbur to jump back a bit, before collecting himself and standing up.

“The Dream Team craft’s labatory.” The kid’s face flashed with panic for a split second, “You have two testings scheduled for today. It will go quickly.”

“Will it be painful?” The kid asked. As standard for testing, Wilbur ignored the question and measured the substances. He quickly cleaned the puncture spot before giving him the needle.

The kid winced in pain. Wilbur swiftly led him to the testing chair. It had restraints that moved with the patient's body, which prevented bruising while keeping them in place. Wilbur clicked them on and sat at the desk located to the left of the kid.

“What did you inject into me?” The kid asked clearly trying to fight off the anesthetic.

“A dosage of Lidocaine, which is an anesthetic for your species. It’s only to numb pain that may come with the solutions we will be using today.” The kid’s face flashed with a deeper panic than before, causing Wilbur to tense. “We won’t start yet, since we have a list of questions to go through before we begin.” Wilbur lied. He hated testing people, especially kids. Dream of course didn’t care, like the rest of the Dreamon species. It made him sick. That was when he made a split second decision. Hoping he could get a distress signal out, without alerting the other crew members. He was gonna get the kid off the ship, at the next stop of course. Which was in three celestial hours.

The kid scoffed, clearly not believing the lie. He paused a moment thinking over his options before he smirked,“Fine. Ask me what you want bitch-boy!” Wilbur gasped, clearly not anticipating the insult.

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Chapter 1 End

1406 words

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End notes: Why the hell does google docs make it so hard to copy and paste??

Also I had to do some intense googling for this... I hope you enjoyed!

(Also also this is my first ever fanfic... please give feedback and reblog!!)

Minor mistakes are forgiven... don’t expect me to be perfect... I am dyslexic.

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Tommy: ....

Wilbur: ....

*intense starring*

Wilbur POV: I am kidnapping it.

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Chapter 2:

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

She [2]

Warnings: non-consent sex (series)

This is dark! Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Steve Rogers’ life is turned upside down by a reporter.

Chapter Summary: Steve deals with the aftermath of his recent notoriety.

Note: Alright, so I know this starts slow but I promise it is a steady creep towards the finish line. 

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Steve

It was a morning like any other. Steve woke up, pulled on his track pants and a light blue tee, and took his time tying his old sneakers. He stretched as he neared the door and hopped down the front steps of his walk-up. It was early and as quiet as New York got.

He set off on his usual route. It was his only chance to just lose himself. He could just run and not think about everything that awaited him. He was due at the compound that day; another briefing. That one thought tugged at his mind. Was it time?

When he returned to his townhouse, he jogged up his steps and let himself inside. He had some water and made his usual breakfast. Two eggs and four strips of bacon with rye toast. He sat and ate alone. The place felt empty.

It had taken him over two years to renovate the place and he missed the flurry of activity. He hadn’t felt so lonely then, even when half the world had disappeared. Now it was just him. He felt less and less himself every day. Bitter, resentful, tired.

He rinsed his dishes as he stared at the deep red tiles above the sink. He sighed. He’d tried dating. He was about as great at it was he had been when he weighed as much as his left leg. He dried the plate and placed it among the stack. He didn’t know why he had so many; it was only ever him. The glass went with the rest and the utensils clattered loudly into the drawer. 

A buzz sounded. The noise was quiet but nagging. He often ignored it. He left his phone by the door when he got home to charge and only took it when he went to work. It continued to vibrate. It was ringing. He unhooked the cord and answered as Fury’s name flashed up at him.

“Rogers,” He answered as he headed upstairs. “I’m on my way. I’m not due for another--”

“You’re due when I say you’re due,” Fury snapped. “Which is now.”

“Alright, just let me get dressed,” Steve huffed as he sat on his bed and kicked off his shoes. 

“Maybe start answering your phone,” Fury snarled.

“It was charging.” Steve argued. 

The line went dead. He tossed the phone on the mattress and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. For all he did, it was never a please or thank you, it was only more, more, more. 

He stood and pushed his hair back. He’d take his time just to spite Fury. The biggest act of defiance he could muster. He went into the bathroom and cranked on the shower. He closed the glass door and let it steam up before he stripped. He glanced in the mirror. 

He wondered what life would have been if he had stayed the skinny boy who punched up. He was certain even that would be a happier existence than this. He had sold his soul for what? It didn’t have to be him, it could have been anyone. Why had he always insisted on being the big guy? The hero?

He pulled open the shower and stepped inside. The cloud of steam settled over him and he closed his eyes. No, it did have to be him because there was no one like Steve Rogers.

🖋️

Steve walked into the compound. He was agitated. He had been accosted coming out of his house by some photographer and had resisted the urge to swat him away like a fly as he unlocked his car. The compound was worse. A dozen people with cameras awaited him as he pulled up to the parking lot gate and waited for the booth operator to let him in.

He took the stairs. Fury greeted him with crossed arms and his usual one-eyed sneer. This couldn’t be good. He held a magazine and turned it to reveal the cover. Steve squinted and shrugged as he stopped before the irritable man.

“Look closer,” Fury shoved the magazine towards him. 

In the corner, Steve recognized himself. An edited photo which showed half of his face with his cowl on and the other without. A small tagline stood out below: ‘The Man Without A Plan: Steve Rogers’ Struggle for Stability’. He grabbed the issue and looked closer at the glossy cover in shock.

“Shit,” He swore.

“Shit?” Fury repeated. “So I guess I don’t have to remind you of what you said to that reporter.”

“Why are you mad at me? You approved the interview.” Steve flipped through the pages to the exclusive.

“But I didn’t give the interview. If I had, it wouldn’t have made the front cover,” Fury hissed.

“No, it would all be redacted,” Steve started to read through. “I didn’t--”

“You didn’t say any of that?” Fury challenged.

“No…” Steve looked up. “I did but I…”

“You let a journalist get the best of you.” Fury shook his head. “And now your plastered all over the city.”

“It’s one magazine,” Steve said.

“You need to start using that goddamn phone of yours.” Fury reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell. He quickly typed and turned it to Steve. “Search yourself once in a while. I know it’s tacky but shit.”

Steve read over the top news articles; ‘Steve Rogers lashes out at journalist in report’ and ‘Rogers’ Dilemma: Hero condemns ungrateful civilians’. He pulled back and looked at the magazine again. The stabbing in his heart turned to fire.

“That little--” He clamped his lips together to keep from swearing. 

“Come on,” Fury glanced around. “Let’s talk somewhere else. This much attention on you, we can’t be too careful.”

He followed Fury through the halls and past several training rooms. He thought of the reporter and her pensive eyes. The way she’d watched him so closely as she scribbled on her notepad. She’d seemed harmless until she started asking questions. 

After he calmed down, he’d nearly forgotten about the whole debacle. He assumed it would be buried like most of his interviews. One day of press and then done.

Fury led him into the plain office which looked like it was never used. It was as clean and clinical as an operating room. Fury leaned on the desk as Steve pored over the last lines of the article and paced.

“There’s not gonna be a briefing this morning,” Fury said. “Not for you.”

“What--?”

“It’s best we keep this quiet but… Rogers, you need a break. Take it.” Fury pushed back his long leather duster as he gripped his hips. “Maybe get away from the city until this all dies down.”

“Get away? This is my city,” Steve hissed. “I won’t be run out by some… some…”

Bitch! He wanted to say but he held it in. Even in front of this man, he had to put on a mask. He could never just say what he was thinking. What he was feeling. He bent the magazine and hit it with his palm.

“It’s just an article. Christ. I think my job is a little bigger than some gossip rag.” Steve huffed.

“I’d agree but it’s not just my call and it’s not just about you. We have a team, a younger team now. They can’t be distracted by all this.” Fury said.

“How long?” Steve asked.

“Two weeks.” Fury replied. “For now.”

“For now?” Steve repeated. 

“It should all die down before then but if it doesn’t…”

“This is bullshit.” Steve barked. “What did I say that was so wrong?”

“The concern is your temper and as ridiculous as I thought that was, I’m starting to see the sense in it.” Fury sneered. “You need to calm down, Captain.”

“I don’t have a temper problem.” Steve snarled.

“Why don’t you read that again? You were hostile and some would think intentionally trying to intimidate that reporter. A female.” Fury said pointedly. “Who, by the looks of her, isn’t much of a match for a super soldier.”

“I was across the room from her,” Steve argued. “I didn’t even raise my voice.”

“People won’t know that. They know that you got aggressive, quickly it seems, and then shut down the interview abruptly.” Fury took a breath. “You’re only lucky she stopped where she did.”

Steve glared at Fury. He gritted his teeth as he gripped the magazine tighter.

“Fine,” He uttered. “Two weeks.”

🖋️

Steve didn’t realize he still had the magazine in his hand until he got in his car. He sat, staring blindly out the windshield, then slowly looked down. It was bent in his grip and as he let it fall onto the passenger seat, it remained warped. He shoved his key in the slot and turned the engine.

Still, he didn’t budge. He grasped the steering wheel and a rumble began deep in his chest. A carnal growl. He invited her into his home and she ruined his reputation in return. 

Perhaps he was still the naive little Brooklyn boy. He thought she was so sweet over the phone. She was just as self-serving and apathetic as everyone else in this world. The very same he had saved, time and time again.

He pulled out sharply and flashed his pass to the booth. There were still photographers out on the sidewalk; waiting for him. He drove without thinking. He had never felt so angry. He had never let himself be this angry. Always holding it in for the sake of others. Always compromising his feelings because it was ‘right’.

He stopped parallel to the curb. His vision cleared and he peered up at the tall building. He shouldn’t have come here but he was there and he couldn’t stop himself. He turned off his car and waited.

He muted his phone as it kept buzzing; Bucky, Sam, all his team members. Asking where he was or maybe about his new found infamy. Well, he wasn’t their leader anymore. Not for the next two weeks so they could take care of themselves as he found something else to do. Something for himself, for once in his life.

He didn’t know how long he waited. Probably too long. An hour or two. Then he saw her. She appeared through the front doors of the building, her attention on the open purse in her hand. She dropped it as a camera flashed and Steve leaned his seat back as he watched her scramble for the overturned contents.

She didn’t look malicious. At a glance, she was just another girl. She picked up her purse and resumed her route past the photographer. He watched her through the rear view as she disappeared into a sandwich shop just a few buildings down. 

He readjusted his seat and hovered his hand over the ignition. He paused and closed his eyes. What was he doing? Let it go. It would all just go away.

He started the car and pulled out into traffic. He was edgy and found himself leaning a bit too hard on the gas. He stopped short as he almost hit another car. He punched the dash and swore. She could play innocent but she wouldn’t get away with it. Not if he had anything to say about it.

🖋️

Steve went home but not for long. Another photographer outside his house as if he would give them a show on his front stoop. He went inside and paced his front room then went to the kitchen and looked in the fridge. He wasn’t hungry. He went upstairs and changed. Black pants, grey hoodie, a dark blue ball cap to cover his blonde hair. He fished out his only pair of sunglasses and found his way back to the first floor.

He peeked through the window. The photographer was still there. He went to the back and glanced out into the small fenced yard. Nothing but the patio set he had yet to use and overgrown grass. He went back and grabbed his keys and wallet. He sneaked out through the back gate, careful that no one saw him slip down the next street.

He walked to the subway and strode down into the station. He checked the time as he climbed on the train. He sat by the door and his leg jiggled impatiently. He stopped it with his hand and looked around. No one else seemed to notice his anxiety or him. It had been a long time since he felt invisible.

He got off and slipped past the crowds. He walked the same street he had lingered on hours before. He kept to the other side of the street as he checked the time again. Would she already be gone? He kept to the mouth of the alley and watched the photographers as they waited by the front doors.

When she came out, it was the same as before. She scurried away from her own ilk as they attempted to talk to her and catch her in their lens. They left her at the subway entrance; their cameras too expensive to chance in the underground. Besides it would be difficult enough to get a shot in a car full of people.

He crossed the street and quickly descended the grimy steps behind her. He caught sight of her just before she disappeared onto her platform. He kept his distance, far enough that he’d get on the next car. The train pulled up and he watched her step inside before he mirrored her.

When the train shifted, he waited a minute before he slipped through the doors to the next car. He sat at the end as she huddled in a seat on the other side. She kept her head down, her eyes on her phone. The old New York solitary. She looked entirely vulnerable and it made something inside of him flinch. A subtle snap as he couldn’t look away even as she did nothing at all. 

She was nothing compared to him. He could break her as easily as he did criminals and villains. Probably easier. He gulped as he pushed his shoulders back and tried to resist the thoughts. No. He wasn’t that. He didn’t do that. 

But what was he doing? Following her; watching her. He hadn’t thought about that. He’d just done it. What would he do from here? Follow her home and what? He could try talking to her but for what? The damage was done; she couldn’t undo what she’d done. And she likely wouldn’t want to. 

She had used him to climb her way up the ladder. Now her name was featured alongside his and the world was at her feet. She was the innocent and he was her antagonist. Well, if that’s what she wanted.

As the train stopped, she stood and he did too. Almost too quickly. He slowed and kept several bodies between them as he followed her out onto the platform. She continued up onto the streets and he stayed with her. Close enough to see her but far enough she wouldn’t see him.

Her building was among many sentinels looming along the New York skyline. Boxy overpriced apartments which were often barely more than a single room. He watched her flit inside and waited. Slowly, he approached the door and stepped inside the small entryway. It was empty. 

He searched the rows of buttons for her name. The speaker was outdated and dirty. Even he could tell. Her last name was half-faded. He memorized her number and went back out into the street. He inhaled and shoved his hands in his pockets as he coolly walked on. He stopped just past her building and looked down the alleyway between it and the next.

The dimming sky contrasted the wrought metal of fire escape. He glanced over his shoulder and turned down the alley. The dumpster stunk and broken bottles littered the ground around it. He stopped beyond the stinking box and looked up. He bent his knees and jumped, catching himself on the bottom rung of the ladder.

He pulled himself up. Second floor, he noted. He climbed the first set of stairs and the next and on until he reached her floor. He counted the windows across the side of the building but it barely helped. He didn’t know where they started and ended.

He went to the end of the escape and the window beside him lit up. He ducked and listened. He could hear every step on the other side of the wall. His enhanced ears could even measure the heart beat within. He slowly raised himself and peeked over the window ledge.

He couldn’t believe his luck. Or the coincidence. It was her. Her purse was on the table as she removed her blazer. Her small apartment was cluttered but not messy. She yawned as she went to the fridge. She took out a slim can of sparkling water and opened it. She searched the shelves and pulled out a styrofoam box. She picked at the contents with a fork as she leaned on the narrow counter.

She slid her phone from her pocket and set it beside her leftovers as she scrolled with her finger. She turned it over and pushed it away from her. She sighed and flipped the lid closed. She tossed the container in the bin and crossed to the couch on the other side of the counter. 

She dropped down and flipped on the television. She spread out with her head against the arm. He could see her face as she wriggled and pulled the tails of her blouse from inside her pants. She unbuttoned just the first few buttons and then let her arm hang off the side. She fiddled with the remote then set it on the low table in front of the couch.

He watched her for a while. She didn’t do much. She just laid there. She turned onto her side and took off her socks. She closed her eyes but opened them shortly after. She changed the channel again and he backed away from the window.

He thought of forcing it open but didn’t dare to think beyond that. The little tug at the back of his mind scared him. What would he do if he just went in there? What could he do? He shuddered and crawled over to the stairs. He descended carefully.

When he reached the ground, he dropped down and took a breath. There was a heartbeat racing in his ears. It was his. He looked up and licked his lips. It took all his strength to walk away.

[chaseatinydream]

treasure: your name || k.hj (atz)

Steering the ship had always been second nature for Hongjoong.

It was such a contrast to when he was in battle, hand gripped tight around the handle of his cutlass and the other around his musket. No, steering the ship required a more fine and delicate touch, one that most warriors didn’t possess.

His hands seemed to be be made for it, delicate when it came to feeling for the ship. He could sense the power of the sea as it rushed against the rudder of the Treasure, every tiny shift in the wind, the beginning of a storm when the sky was still clear and devoid of clouds. The Treasure and its crew were his pride and joy, and he would never tire of this life he had built for himself with his own two hands.

But he had to admit steering the ship was sometimes mind blowingly numb work.

From the quarterdeck, one could almost see everything there was to see; which wasn’t much. In front of him were the three masts and the main deck, where Wooyoung or San or basically any crew member of his would be doing something stupid, but he’d long learned not to look down there in case he lost his sanity watching them go at it.

Jongho occasionally sang, which brightened Hongjoong’s mood up greatly, but he usually got interrupted by Seonghwa calling him to help move some things in the cargo hold below or just by Wooyoung or Yunho teasing him.

Hongjoong sighed as he gazed at the expanse of blue before him. His head tilted up.

Blue sky.

He looked down.

Blue sea.

“I really need to find something to do.” The poor captain muttered to himself as he glanced at the water clock.

There were still three hours till Mingi took over him.

He let out an almighty groan and smacked his head against the wheel.

“You alright, captain?” Hongjoong turned to see his navigator walking up the stairs with a plate in hand. The captain almost cried in joy upon seeing his dinner and grabbed for his food.

“Just the usual.” He answered grimly as he shoved the bread roll into his mouth. “And call me Hongjoong.”

“Yes, captain.” Yeosang nodded absentmindedly as he peered down onto deck. “Ah, it’s the stowaway. He made your breakfast, you know.”

Hongjoong gave him a disgruntled look as he continued chewing on his bread. “And…?”

He knew what Yeosang was trying to get at. The navigator blinked at him innocently, his puppy dog eyes almost worthy to match Wooyoung’s in combat. Then Hongjoong sighed. It was futile to try and turn down Yeosang, everyone on the ship knew as much. The navigator never did throw a temper tantrum or get angry, but he would mope and sulk around for days and that was terrible for crew morale.

“I mean… It must be pretty boring standing here watching nothing.” Yeosang said slowly, as if he was asking a drunk how many fingers he was holding up. “It’ll be a nice change to have something to do…”

Hongjoong eyed him, completely unimpressed by his subtlety, or rather, lack thereof. But his navigator didn’t leave. Instead, he simply kept smiling that same, expectant smile at his captain, and Hongjoong finally caved with a sigh.

“Alright! I’ll think about it.” Hongjoong had known that the battle had been lost from the start. He regretted it almost instantly from the way a little self satisfied grin bloomed across Yeosang’s face. “Now get going before I change my mind.”

“Yes, captain!” His navigator hummed cheerily, turning to walk down the steps with a little spring in his step. Hongjoong groaned. Did nobody on this ship respect him any more?

“Call me Hongjoong!” He called after Yeosang’s retreating back. The young man merely waved in response, not even bothering to turn back.

“Yes, captain!”

Sighing, Hongjoong straightened up as he nudged the wheel a little to the left. Looking down onto the main deck, he saw the topic of his and Yeosang’s conversation being led around by Seonghwa as the older man explained the parts of the ship to him.

The stowaway was young, probably even younger than he. A tiny, slender thing with no real muscles or bulk, he looked as if a stiff breeze could send him overboard at any second. He didn’t seem like he’d survive long on a pirate ship.

Well, he had survived an encounter with the legendary ‘Pirate King’.

Hongjoong snorted a little at his own thought process. Then he looked back at the nameless stowaway. He knew Seonghwa and San had been itching to give their newest crew member a name, but he also knew why they were refraining from doing so.

A sigh left his mouth as he recalled the two other crew members who’d joined the ship in a manner similar to his recent addition. Both had somehow run up the gangplank and he hadn’t thrown them overboard yet…

He had stopped such barbaric practices month ago. In fact, Jongho was more likely to do that than he was, all Hongjoong did was threaten people with it. But back to his little gangplank problem.

He should really start making it a thing to check the cargo hold before they left any port.

“This is a recurring problem.” He muttered under his breath as he glanced at the stowaway once more. Seas, the word ‘stowaway’ was really a bit of a mouthful.

Maybe he needed a name.

That night, Hongjoong sat on the bed of his cabin, a dusty, long unused book in his lap. He stared at it for a long moment, chewing at his lip as he glanced over at the cover.

A Complete Guide to Commonly Used Names in The East and Their Meaning.

His fingers flipped through the dog-eared pages once more after three years, the action almost ingrained into him by now. He'd learnt to read a little ever since he joined the crew of the Jackdaw, but had never been particularly proficient in it till Yeosang had become part of his ship.

Choosing a name was harder than he remembered it being.

He thumbed to a page all the way at the back, coughing a little at the dust rising from it.

우영

Ah, yes. He remembered late nights poring over this book, diligently bookmarking names that had seemed appropriate for who had been the newest crew member of his ship then.

The only other of his family on board who had started out nameless.

His finger brushed the two characters that make up the name of one of his oldest friends gently. 우, meaning ‘friend’, and ,영, a corolla, the centre of a flower.

I hope that one day you will be surrounded by friends who can be your family.

For a moment, Hongjoong closed his eyes and let himself remember.

“I'm so sorry!” The captain of the small pirate galley apologized profusely, his face white with fear. In fact, he was trembling so much he was nearly shaking like a leaf in the wind. “I apologize deeply for the foolishness of my crew, milord.”

Hongjoong was no lord. Far from it, in fact. But as the most feared pirate of the Seven Seas, known as the legendary pirate king, he guessed that he was considered royalty among his brethren.

Hongjoong didn't deign the man worthy of a reply. Instead, his one eye took in the ship contemptuously, face darkening as he spotted the rows of oarsmen sitting chained to the oars. Many were either hard muscled and lean from a lifetime of torturous service, or skinny and malnourished due to hunger. He guessed the latter might perish in a couple of months, at most.

Slaves, he knew most of them were. A bleak lifetime of suffering and pain, hopeless and barren of any sort of joy. A fate worse than death itself.

“One of your men just tried to assault my captain.” Mingi snarled, brandishing his massive axe. On anyone else, the axe would have looked too long and unwieldy to be practical in any sort of battle, but his faithful quartermaster lifted it as easily as a twig. “Even if Captain does let you off the hook, I can assure you I won't. I want your head.”

The captain of the ship fell to his knees in shock, tremors running through his whole body. “Mercy!”

Hongjoong ignored the little fiasco, casually looking about the ship. The galley tended to have oarsmen as its main driving power behind movement and was a lot more reliable than the winds.

Then he snorted. Not for his crew, though.

A downside of a slave galley was its strength, the slaves. Slaves took up much space and consumed large amounts of food, which took up space as well. The alternative was that the ship's crew simply overworked the rowing crews till many of them died of exhaustion in the fetid conditions, before capturing another rowing crew from a raid.

Hongjoong was by no means a merciful man, but this sort of behaviour disgusted him.

“Now, now. Let's not be so worked up over this.” Yunho smiled easily, patting Mingi’s tightly wound shoulder. The quartermaster stepped back with reluctance, dark eyes still fixed on the ship's captain, as Yunho moved forward to negotiate. The grovelling man, seeing the battlemaster's cheerful grin, began to sigh a breath of relief, until Yunho continued his sentence.

“We should flay him alive instead.”

A whimper left the captain's lips at the very thought. The whip was something all sailors knew well, the cat of nine tails left a deep impression on anyone it encountered, both physical and mental. Being flogged to death was one of the most terrifying and painful ways to go.

Hongjoong looked over at the foolish man who had been the cause of all this. He was shaking as he prostrated himself before them. Hongjoong hadn’t known that anyone would be foolhardy or unlucky enough to attempt to rob him, of all people.

The little robbery attempt had gone rather poorly. Upon feeling a hand on the coin purse tied to his belt, Hongjoong had reacted according to instinct, twisting the thief’s arm so hard that the shoulder had popped right out of its socket and tossing the man to the ground. In a second, Yunho had been at his side, slamming the man so hard against the wall that he’d been knocked unconscious. But there was no need to interrogate him; Hongjoong had recognised the emblem on his jacket as the same ship the Treasure was docked beside.

At first, Hongjoong had just intended on telling Mingi that they were about to return a crew member to his ship, but then Yunho had spilled the beans and his ever loyal quartermaster had refused to let it slide. The tall man had simply grabbed his axe and marched over to the opposite ship, all while hauling the limp body of Hongjoong’s would be assaulter behind him like a sack of potatoes, leaving Hongjoong and Yunho to catch up with him.

And that was how they had ended up here.

“Please, spare me!” The cowardly captain was snivelling. Hongjoong sighed. No captain should ever behave that way in front of his men. If Mingi did decide to kill him, he should at least die with some self-dignity.

Then Hongjoong saw him.

A slave boy barely over fifteen, a thick leather collar resting against his throat. He had the most striking hair Hongjoong had ever seen, a rich shade of purple that was both unnatural, but fit him perfectly at the same time. Around his wrists were heavy iron shackles, same as those of the rest of the slaves, and his arms were adorned with flowering bruises in shades of blue-black, purple and red. Branches of whip scars and fallen leaves of the branding iron painted his body into a canvas of what must have been a lifetime of horrific suffering.

A wilting flower in the midst of a desolate wasteland.

Strangely, his face was well formed, not in the least marred like the rest of his body had been. But it didn’t need to. The boy’s eyes were more than enough to tell him everything.

They were green, just like his. But where Hongjoong’s burned with a fire, a passion to live and shine bright in the world, this boy’s eyes were empty, glassy, and utterly dead.

It looked as if there was no soul inhabiting this body, a mere empty vessel of clay.

“I want him.” Hongjoong pointed at the boy. The slave didn’t respond in the slightest, apart from a flicker of the eyes.

“What?” The captain of the ship sputtered in stunned shock. Even Mingi and Yunho seemed to be in varying degrees of confusion.

“Hyung.” Yunho approached his captain, brow furrowed. “What do you want?”

Hongjoong ignored Yunho for a moment and turned to the captain, who was wearing an expression of complete bewilderment. “I want that boy. Give him to me, and I’ll forget any of this ever happened.”

Desperate to please the Pirate King and save the skin on his back, the captain agreed without second thought.

“Mingi, break his chains and bring him with us.” The quartermaster didn’t understand, but obeyed anyway, moving to carry out his captain’s orders.

“What’s his name?” Hongjoong turned coldly to the snivelling captain, who yelped in fright at being addressed directly Hongjoong before scrambling to reply.

“He… he doesn't have one.”

Hongjoong smiled a little at the memory. Names were important, to him at least. A name was your identity to the person who’d given you the name. Whether it was your parents, or kin, it meant something.

He should really give this stowaway a name as well.

“Well, to work then.” He cracked his knuckles and dove straight into the book.

At first minutes passed, then hours. In fact, he didn't even realise that he had gotten so deep in thought, to the point the sun had already sunk behind the ocean waves. The flickering light of the candle made it hard to read, but as if he'd let something as small as that stop him.

“Captain, why are you still up?”

Hongjoong sprang into action, leaping from the bed and half drawing his musket until he realised Yeosang's face was right in front of his, holding his breakfast.

Wait, breakfast?

He whirled around to stare out of one of the potholes. Sure enough, he could see the line of orange rising from the sea, turning the sky into a beautiful gradient of apricot and tangerine.

“Shit.” Hongjoong rushed to pick up his red jacket, sliding his arms into the sleeves as quickly as possible. “Mingi has been steering for the last eleven hours?”

“It’s alright!” Yeosang said cheerily, setting the plate of food down on the bed and subtly swiping the book from the side. “I rotated with him for four hours. So did San.”

A horrified look of complete dismay crossed Hongjoong’s face. “San steered my ship?”

“Come on, you know he’s improved! He only ran us aground twice last year.” The navigator smiled, flipping through the book with interest. Hongjoong was still too agitated to notice what Yeosang was doing.

“That’s twice too many!” Hongjoong ranted, a hundred and one scenarios running through his mind at the thought of his precious ship being hulled because San had been at the wheel. “It’s dangerous to let San near the steering wheel and- What are you doing?”

Hongjoong made a grab for the book, but Yeosang twirled out of the way like a professional ballerina, reading through some of the names he’s chosen.

“Si Woo, meaning ‘begin’, ‘blessing’ and ‘divine intervention’. Hae Ju, meaning ‘jewel of the ocean’.” The captain yelped and dove for the book, but Yeosang sidesteped him and stuck a foot out to trip him. Hongjoong went staggering and fell face first onto the bed, all while Yeosang continued reading.

“Mal Chin, meaning ‘persisting till the end’-” Hongjoong finally managed to snatch the book back, hugging the book protectively to his chest and looking utterly betrayed.

“I am the captain!” Yeosang looked like he was about to laugh at the look on Hongjoong’s face.

“I thought you’ve always said to call you Hongjoong?”

The captain scowled. This little shit…

“Anyway, I should go.” Yeosang got up and made to leave the cabin with a self satisfied grin on his face. For a moment, Hongjoong dearly wanted to slap his navigator in the face with the book in his hands. “I need to tell San to take over Mingi at the wheel.”

Hongjoong was stunned silent for a moment. Then he tossed the book onto the bed and raced after Yeosang’s retreating back, screaming.

“Don’t let San touch my ship!”

That afternoon, Hongjoong had been lost in thought once more. The wind was good, exceptionally so that day, the currents steady and unchanging. Hongjoong leaned forward and rested his head against the wheel, taking a short break.

The first and last name he had ever bestowed was a name of hope for the future, a new beginning from his stark, desolate past. But this new stowaway had no past nor future yet. He didn’t know what to wish for the newest member of his crew, whether it be for love, family, friends. Or should he name the boy after a striking, physical defining trait?

He heaved a sigh. The last name he had chosen had been a lot easier.

Sure, he’d spent countless nights and hours debating and flipping through his books, but when he had seen the words, Hongjoong had immediately known in his heart that was the name for him.

“Why the long face, captain?” Yunho’s voice slipped into his ears. Hongjoong snorted under his breath.

“You can’t see my face.” Hongjoong reminded him, his voice muffled by the wood of the steering wheel. The lookout let out a chuckle of laughter.

“I don’t need to see your face to know what you look like, cap’n. I’ve known you for three years.” Yunho snickered as Hongjoong finally raised his head to look at him. The tall man was dangling upside down from a rope of the mizzenmast, swinging back and forth like some sort of bizarre pendulum. “Ahh, there’s the long face I was talking about.”

“Call me Hongjoong.” The poor captain sighed. “Honestly, you-”

“Everyone on this ship calls you, captain, Hongjoongie-hyung. Here, my apprentice just finished making these.” Hongjoong turned to see San ascending the stairs with a grin on his face. In his hands were two new stuffed toys. Hongjoong pointed at their resident healer.

“Why can’t you all be like him?”

San tossed one to each of them as Yunho gave his captain the most excited smile he had ever seen. “You mean you want us all to attempt to take the wheel of the ship? Awesome! I’ve never gotten to touch the wheel before!” He dropped from the rigging and moved closer to Hongjoong. “Come on, let me have a go-”

“No!” Hongjoong was flabbergasted. “That’s not what I meant!”

“What’s the commotion?” Mingi moved up the steps, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. To both his horror and relief, Yeosang had been joking with him earlier, San had not steered the ship, but instead Mingi had endured the helm for almost seven whole hours. Hongjoong had apologised to his quartermaster earlier, but his oldest friend had merely waved it off before going to take a caulk (pirate speak for ‘nap’) below deck.

“Oh!” Yunho clasped his hands together, as if just remembering something important. “Did Yeosangie tell all of you about that?”

That?

Apparently Hongjoong was the only one who doesn’t get that, because Mingi and San both made noises of comprehension and agreement.

“Ahh, that.”

“Guys, wait-” Hongjoong tried to say, but Yunho scratched his hair in deep contemplation.

“I like the first one better.”

First one?

“Nah, I still like the second one more.” Mingi shook his head, hair mussed up from sleep. San moved over to rearrange the threads in his cerulean blue hair and Mingi muttered a ‘Thank You’ sleepily through a yawn.

Second one?

“Well, I prefer the fourth one.” San shrugged, but then turned to look at Hongjoong with piercing eyes. “But in the end it’s still captain’s choice, isn’t it?”

“Wait a second.” Hongjoong’s brain was still trying to catch up. “What are all of you talking about?”

The three of them exchanged glances. Then San spoke up again, more clearly this time.

“I like the name Ha-Eun. That’s the fourth name, isn’t it?”

Mingi nodded. “The rest of the crew likes the name Da-Hae though. Says it makes sense because he’s a pirate boy now.”

“But Stowaway isn’t very big (Da-Hae means big ocean).” Yunho frowned, his arms crossed as he pondered this. “Hey, captain, do you think the name Young-Jae sounds good?”

Three of his closest friends turned to stare at him.

Hongjoong stared back at all of them for a moment, his mind in a bit of a shock.

Then he slammed his head against the wheel and let out a muffled scream.

A few nights later, Hongjoong sat in his cabin alone with a flickering lantern. Mingi was instructing Yeosang on some of the finer points of steering a ship, while Hongjoong continued reading the book he had slaved so long over.

Woof!

Hongjoong looked up to see a small Shiba Inu wagging its tail excitedly, running up to him. Hongjoong felt his face relax into a smile.

“Aish, Shiber, stop!” The captain laughed as San’s pet dog licked his cheeks and nose, nosing his eye patch with gusto. He patted the side of Yeosang’s bed. “Listen to some names I’ve chosen?”

Woof! Shiber leapt onto where Hongjoong had indicated, before flopping onto its belly with a softer, content bark. Hongjoong nodded, pulling out the list of names he’d shortlisted as he settled against the wall next to Shiber. The small dog snuggled into his side.

“So, here’s the first name. Da-Hae. Da means big and Hae means ocean, so it’s kind of related to the sea, am I right? I mean, we’re pirates, so…” Hongjoong shrugged, glancing through the notes he’d taken about it. “I do think it makes sense, though. What do you think? Is it any good, Shiber?”

Woof! The small dog wagged its tail enthusiastically, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

Hongjoong sighed in relief, fingers scratching Shiber’s head. “Good. I thought it might have been a little too boring. Then there’s Eun Ae, meaning grace and love. The stowaway does seem a little soft for the pirate life. Ah, never mind that. I’m sure Jongho or San or Seonghwa will take care of him. So, what do you think about this name, Shiber?”

Woof!

The captain smiled. “That’s nice to hear. I’m not really eloquent with words, so it’s good that you’re here to help me.” He flipped to the next page. “What about Ji Woo?”

Silence.

“Not that nice, huh?” Hongjoong shrugged, crossing the name out with his quill. “Yeah, maybe it’s not mighty and awe inspiring enough for someone who’s going to be a pirate. But I don’t want his name to be too intimidating though. It doesn’t suit him.”

Hongjoong exhaled, leaning against the wall as he pondered this carefully. The stowaway, who he had thought to be of the Royal Navy, an amnesiac, lost and without family. San and Seonghwa had both told him that the boy was determined to regain his memories, one way or another, and to be honest, Hongjoong wasn’t sure whether he ever would.

Memories were tricky business.

San had told him multiple times that he’d been blessed by a sea god, but Hongjoong had absolutely no recollection of it at all. And even if it were true, even if a sea god did exist, why would he bless him, of all people?

Hongjoong snorted at the absurdity of it all, shaking his head. Then he spoke aloud quietly, his voice a little raw with emotion. “I want a name that both represents the identity of that kid and gives him hope. He has neither now… but I want to give him the gift of a well thought name, at least. He doesn’t have his memories… But he wants to find them. So I should give him a name relating to that. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Silence.

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed suddenly as he stared at the Shiba Inu with betrayed eyes. Shiber looked at him innocently, tail wagging energetically. Then Hongjoong repeated his words from earlier, slower and more deliberate.

“Do you think that’s a good idea… Shiber?”

Woof!

Hongjoong buried his face in the pillow and screamed.

“I can’t believe you were just responding to your name the whole time! I trusted you, Shiber!”

Woof! Oh, the dog was just making fun of him now.

Hongjoong screamed again in despair and rolled over in the blankets, staring at the ceiling. “Get out and let me wallow in my self pity for a moment, please.”

Shiber merely barked joyously before trotting out of the room, presumably to find San or Seonghwa for more treats. Hongjoong heard the thump of his book falling to the ground as the dog left the room.

“I hate that dog.” His words were muffled by the pillow, but he begrudgingly got up to pick up his list.

And a page fell out of it.

Frowning, Hongjoong picked up the piece of yellowing paper with his fingers. Only one word on the page caught his eye.

“Chin Hae, meaning ‘truth’ or ‘depth of the ocean’. Describes a long search for something unknown and as endless as the sea for the truth.”

He thought about it for a moment. Something felt right, a warm settling in his chest.

He smiled.

[penguintransporter]

Winning The Game Called Love (Hector Bellerin) Part VIII

Hello, everyone! It took me a while to post this, but fear not - I have another chapter edited and ready to update next weekend. I contemplated for the longest time if I should post continuation of the chapter VII or maybe write a flashback that is entirely in Héctor’s POV, and decided that some of his thoughts wouldn’t be bad - so consider this as a filler even if it’s an entire update. Enjoy, let me know what you think, and don’t shy away from my inbox. You can read the first seven chapters of the story - here - along with the rest of my stuff. Lots of love, and stay amazing as always!

There was rarely a moment in which the canteen of the Arsenal FC Training Centre didn’t feel like a mini circus of some sort.

Buzzing with noise at any given time of the day, the spacious and with the long tables packed room often hosted a diverse bunch of people of different backgrounds and nationalities, ages and paychecks, contracts and positions in the club – all of them taking a refuge from their daily routines. More than often, administration hermits, trying to escape their paper-stacked offices mingled with millions of pounds worth footballers who needed their fuel before or after their training sessions, and all the high-positioned officials in their suits were known to chat away their coffee breaks with the wonderful Simone behind the canteen till.

Still, on that Friday noon, as the world was waist-deep in the month of December, the entire room felt just a little bit quieter than usual. 

As he sat alone at one of the long tables, waiting for his teammates to join him for lunch, Héctor wondered if the certain quietness was caused by the miserable weather outside or just because the feeling of yet another year slipping away was weighing down on people’s minds – including his own.

With a shake of his head, Héctor scooped some of the food on his fork before setting down his knife on a plate in front of him, looking at the windows that span along the wall to his left – the abundance of greyness greeting him. One would think that after all the years since he’s moved to England and started calling London his home, he would have gotten used on the picture in front of his eyes, but he wasn’t, and he knew that he won’t ever be.

Looking away, Héctor pursed his lips as he lazily chewed on his mouthful before glancing at the time on his phone as he reached for his knife to scoop more food, but he couldn’t help but freeze in his movements – the familiar scent filling his nostrils.

Oranges?

Confused, Héctor swallowed before leaning back in his chair as he felt the air leaving his lungs.

It wasn’t as if the oranges were something he rarely had the chance to smell, but only a handful of times the particular scent could make him feel the way he did as he apprehensively breathed in – memories of his childhood breaking out on the surface of his mind.

Warm, hot late autumns. His hand firmly held by his grandmother’s as they walked along the less-known pueblos where the oranges on the trees, bent by the their own weight, were just a reach of a hand away.

Héctor let his eyes wander as discreetly as possible around the canteen, trying to find the source of the smell that brought back the picture of the little Belle and the sight of the oranges laying along the sides of the pathways – their sweetness and stickiness an invitation for a feast for all the ants and flies.

Skinny, little boy in a sailor-striped t-shirt; thin-soled tennis shoes slippery on the cobbled slope; smell of home-cooked paella in the air.

She.

The irritating girl from the reception sat at the end of one of the long tables in the corner along with some other employees whose faces Héctor vaguely recognised, but despite it, it seemed as if she didn’t belong the rowdy bunch of five men. She seemed to be in her own little headspace, quietly looking at the round fruit she held in her hands – eyebrows slightly narrowed in a thought.

The white collar of a button down played a peek-a-boo from underneath the scruffy navy-coloured jumper she was wearing, hair tucked behind her ears and away from her face, and a pair of beaten-up shoes on her feet – she looked out of the place among the sea of red tracksuits and football kits. Héctor watched her drop the orange to her lap before looking at her phone, grinning at something, and without even realising, his leg started to bounce ever so slightly. 

She’s probably dating someone equally irritating as she was.

Realising that he was staring, Héctor looked away quickly, sucking a deep breath before running both of his hands through his hair, pausing for a moment – his fingers interlacing behind his neck. He wasn’t sure what it was that has possessed him, and God knows, he didn’t want to do it in the first place, but he did it anyway. Glancing back at her again, he observed her as she dug her nails into the skin of the orange – nose scrunching a little when the aromatic juice sprayed against her face.

He could almost feel it too—

¡Joder!

Héctor’s head snapped quickly in front of him, rubbing his face in frustration before looking at the doors of the lunch-room, hoping to see someone who could distract him from looking towards the one person he didn’t want to spend his time on.

A feeling of relief washed over him as he saw Calum walk inside the canteen, giving a quick wave to Simone before picking up a plate to serve himself from the large containers that were neatly arranged along the till. Héctor’s eyes followed his teammate, waiting for the tall guy to look in his direction so he could wave him over. 

He hated how jittery he was beginning to feel, so when his teammate scanned the room for a free seat, Héctor quickly raised his hand, ignoring the feeling in the very pit of his stomach that he couldn’t comprehend.  

Jesus Christ!

“What you’ve got there?” Calum asked with a grin, and Héctor returned the smile, but for some reason, it didn’t quite feel right. His teammate slid in the chair next to him, peering at Héctor’s plate, “Beans? Really? Have you not seen all the food out there, Héc?” he grinned, pulling the sleeves of his tracksuit jacket up to his elbows, ready to dig into his food.

“What’s wrong with my beans?” Héctor asked, smiling a little as he took another forkful of his lunch, just in time to see Rob and Alexandre, walk in, quickly serving themselves with the food before walking over to where Héctor and Calum sat. Héctor looked back at Calum, waving his fork in his mate’s direction as he continued to talk, “It’s healthy, makes me run faster than you, and honestly mate,” Héctor stopped to take a sip of water, “it looks better than your chicken.”

“Chicken again, I see,” Rob commented passively without a greeting as he sat down opposite Héctor – long legs trying to find space under the table. Alexandre followed shortly, balancing more food than the plate could actually hold in one hand, while typing on his phone with other. He nodded, sitting down – his eyes never leaving the shiny screen.

“One day he’ll turn into a chicken,” Héctor joked before glancing at Calum from the corner of his eye while chasing the white bean covered in the tomato sauce around his plate.

His mate let out a small chuckle, carefully taking a bite of the grilled poultry in his mouth, “You say that now, but you’d become a carnivore again for a chicken like me, Heccy.”

“What did you just say?” Alexandre asked, looking up from his phone with a grin, “Héctor, my friend, I beg you, stay vegan. He’s not worth it…” he trailed off before the four men started laughing, earning an amused and curious smile from Simone who passed by their table, and dirty look from one of the elder officials who tried to focus on whatever he was doing on his iPad. “Anyway,” Alexandre started as they calmed down a little, setting his phone away and grabbing the fork only to stab chunks of steamed carrots and broccoli, looking up at his teammates, “do we know who’s going to be David’s date for the charity party? Rumours say he’s single again.”

“Do we care?” Rob asked, grinning to himself as he still tried to find a comfortable position for his legs.

“Why yes,” Alexandre responded, earning a lifted eyebrow from Héctor in return, “my bet is Claudia or even, what’s her name, the tall blonde that’s always running around in the physio room.”

“Eveline?” Rob curiously asked, unscrewing the cap of his water bottle with ease to take a sip, “I think she’s married, but yeah, then definitely Claudia, that’s if the boss let’s him ask her out.”

Calum shook his head swiftly before glancing towards his right for a second, “I think he’ll make a move on our pretty, little sunshine called Aida,” he commented, nudging Héctor under the table.

“Why are you nudging me?” Héctor asked with a laugh, setting his cutlery down as he decided to join in the conversation. “Am I missing the joke? Who’s Aida?”

As soon as the words left his mouth, all three of his teammates looked at him – amusing smirks on their faces, and as Héctor was the one to buy on the paranoia feeling that washed over him, he’d say that the entire room was looking his way as well. Deciding that his best bet was to ignore their questioning stares, Héctor shrugged before breaking the piece of his bread and running it along the lip of his plate – picking up the leftover sauce.

“Are you taking the piss now?” Rob asked, genuinely interested now in the course of their conversation as he smirked, leaning forward, and Héctor shook his head, sticking the piece of the soaked bread into his mouth.

“Why would I?” he asked – feeling as if he was missing on some important joke, “I don’t know if this idiot’s nudge was supposed to tell me something,” he added before grinning at Calum, and just as he was about to add something else, the sound of a chair scraping loudly against the linoleum floor interrupted him. Simultaneously, they all looked up and in the direction of the screeching sound where the receptionist girl was smiling apologetically towards no one in particular.

Héctor felt the knot in his stomach rise up to his throat, but he swallowed it quickly back as he, along with his mates, watched the petite girl with the messy hair scoop the orange peels in her palm, while balancing a dark-green water bottle under one arm and a lilac notebook between her lips.

The Arsenal’s right-back looked down at his plate – piled vegetables and grains staring back at him before clenching his jaw in annoyance. He could vaguely hear a commotion and Simone’s laugh, not caring about what Calum had yelled in her direction, and caring even less about what she had responded before laughing that loud, but nonetheless contagious sound.

“Since you’re wondering,” Alexandre grinned, sticking another carrot into his mouth when Héctor looked up at the Frenchman, “that’s Aida.”

**

“—honestly, I think she’s actually nice to have around. Quite funny,” Rob responded to whatever Calum had said as he wiped the beads of sweat off of his face before leaning forward on his stationary bike.

Next to them, Héctor wanted to groan out loud like a teenager would when being interrogated by his mother about his whereabouts.

He wasn’t sure nor could he pinpoint the exact moment when the name of the receptionist girl was dropped again in their conversation, but there it was – levitating around them as he shared the corner with the treadmills and stationary bikes with Rob, Calum and Leno – the German lad being his usual reserved self.

Héctor knew very well that there was no real need for them to talk about her, but the grins that his teammates were giving him were a proof enough for him to know that they were doing it on purpose. 

Hate was a strong word, but he couldn’t say that he enjoyed it either. Not after he was already—

Focus.

Instead of giving in on his teammate’s banter, Héctor rather focused on the sound of his trainers hitting against the treadmill’s moving belt.

“She’s also babysitting Auba’s son sometimes, no?” Bernd mumbled, smiling his tight-lipped smile.

Calum chuckled at the tall goalie next to him, “I know many lads that would love to be babysat by her.” 

Despite wanting to keep his mouth shut, Héctor couldn’t hold back the snort as he lowered the speed on the treadmill, while monitoring his heart-rate.

“I just don’t understand why—,” Héctor started, but quickly stopped himself, “never-mind.”

“What? You wouldn’t?” Calum asked, looking at him. “I am sure she’d love to babysit you if you only let her,” he added teasingly, and as much as he hated himself for doing it, he actually wanted to laugh at his bad joke.

“WHO WOULDN’T WANT WHAT?” David boomed from where he was jogging towards them – wild hair tied up in a ridiculous palm-resembling-something on top of his head. Joining them, he leaned casually against the side of Héctor’s  treadmill. 

With a curious smile, David glanced between the group of men before his eyes settled on a Calum who was still looking at Héctor with a smirk.

“Heccy doesn’t fancy Aida,” he answered matter-of-factly before wiping some of the sweat off of his face with his jersey. Next to him, Rob rolled with his eyes before reaching out his towel which Calum refused with a shake of his head.

Their Brazilian teammate had an amused yet shocked look on his face as he looked at Héctor with a silly grin. “What? Really? Everyone fancies her!”

“Exactly our point,” Rob interjected and it was Héctor’s turn to roll with his eyes, “but apparently, Héctor here doesn’t.”

“You do know that I am still here?” Héctor asked, forcing a grin which only earned him a handful of playful looks from his teammates. “Besides, I have every right in the world to not fancy someone.”

“But you do like brunettes, no?” Calum asked as he started to run again, and for once Héctor wanted to be outside, in the freezing cold, preferably running next to someone who didn’t ask such stupid questions or was usually consumed by their own thoughts – Sead maybe. “—okay, maybe she’s not all legs or whatnot, but still, sometimes the compact ones are the best…”

Hoping off of the treadmill, Héctor grabbed a towel that rested on one of the chairs in the corner, refusing to hear the rest of Calum’s statement or to give in into the banter. 

“You really need to find a hobby,” he grinned after wiping his face before leaving his teammates and making his way towards the other end of the room that was reserved for heavy-weights and strength training.

Standing there alone and tying his hair in a ponytail, he glanced through the windows to his right, and as if it was a force of something above, the receptionist girl walked past – steps quick as she wrapped her scarf around her neck, shielding the lower part of her face from the harsh wind. 

Héctor shook his head as he looked down at his trainers before glancing back up, only to catch a glimpse of her silhouette disappearing around the corner – the soft scent of oranges returning to haunt him for a split of a second.

What if...

No.