#and the next one and who remembers how many more this is a decade ago :///

[luckyladylily]

So like, transandrophobia.

To start this out, I am a trans woman, been around in the queer community for a while. I'm also bisexuality, polyamorous, disabled, and aromantic, and I think these other parts of my identity and the crap I've caught over the years for them heavily informs how I analyze something like transandrophobia. My wife is also asexual, so that plays a part in it too.

So every group of marginalized people has their own unique experiences and problems. It's more of a rule than something we've mathematically demonstrated, but as far as these things go it's ridiculously well established, and personally every time I've done even a basic dive into the issues faced by a marginalized group it's been self evident. I could easily list a dozen groups ranging from racial minorities to different kinds of disabled people to different queer identities and analyze their social issues but let's be real, this is pretty well established theory, anyone who needs me to do that is not really interacting with good faith. This is one of the big reasons we talk to people about their own experiences and groups, we cannot reasonably extrapolate the experiences of others from our own.

So like trans men and trans mascs and anyone else that falls under that umbrella has their unique experiences. The idea that we would even question this is weird to me? Like I can't even imagine the kind of evidence someone would need to present to me to change my mind, and given the pattern of the queer community to be shitty in exactly this way to people in our community, yeah that is not happening.

Therefore, we are taking it for granted that the trans men/masc/related umbrella has their own things going on like everyone else ever, and I don't understand how someone acting in good faith can try to claim otherwise unless they are young or otherwise very inexperienced with such things.

The next point of contention seems to be the name, and I gotta be real I don't care and I don't understand why other people do. I've read all sorts of arguments against the word transandrophobia and the majority of them seem to be rooted in a misunderstanding of intersectionality, and even then it's like there is such a thing where people get so mired in theory that they miss the forest for the trees.

Perhaps more important to me, getting overly worked up about something as unimportant as the precise term is... weird. Like exclusionists hating on bi and ace people weird. I remember what it was like a decade ago when exclusionists were trying to police the words of bi women, and five years ago when ace and aro people were under constant attack under the pretense that our language was harmful for some reason or other. You are going to have to work very, very, very hard to convince me that any bickering over language as it relates to transandrophobia is not just more of the same.

Next, "transandrobros hate trans femmes" and similar stuff. I've seen the callout posts and found them completely unconvincing. Again, they read a lot like the old "ace people hate lesbians!" posts I used to see. I'm not convinced that the individuals involved were a problem, I am certainly not able to extrapolate a problem to the rest of the group.

Finally, there is this idea that "maleness is not a vector for oppression" and this invalidates something about the whole transandrophobia thing, ranging from the entire concept of trans men experiencing prejudice to something about language being imprecise all the way to "This is fascist shit, omg these people are basically nazis" depending on who says it. I'm not going to touch any of that and just look at the underlying logic.

This is based off a misunderstanding of intersectionality theory. Many people think of intersectionality as defining intersecting prejudice, like a ven diagram, such that transmisogyny is the intersection of transphobia and misogyny. This is incorrect. Intersectionality defines unique prejudice experienced by people with intersecting identities. Instead of a transmisogyny as the overlap of transphobia and misogyny, imagine adding a third circle that overlaps both but also has its own areas covered by neither.

Applied to transandrophobia, even if we assume maleness is not a vector for oppression, there is no reason to assume that the intersection of maleness with a marginalized identity doesn't result in new issues. Imagine that 3 circle venn diagram that represents misogyny, transphobia, and transmisogyny. Even if you remove the misogyny circle there is still plenty of ground covered by the transmisogyny circle.

This just isn't a valid criticism. It is a pure theory approach based on a flawed reading of theory.

So in summary:

Everyone has their unique shit going on and I've seen no convincing evidence that trans men, mascs, etc. Are the exception.

I not seen any convincing argument that the word itself is bad.

I've not seen any convincing evidence that there is some epidemic of transandrophobia truthers hating and harassing trans femmes on scales higher than normal background queer infighting.

The most coherent objection to transandrophobia I've seen is categorically incorrect and based on a fundamental misunderstanding of intersectionality theory.

I would like to remind everyone at this point I am a trans woman, part of the group that is supposedly a problem for and I've just not see it at all, to the point where it is kind of weird how intensely some people are pushing this.

I'm not trying to be mean or whatever, I'm sure the distress on display here comes from a real place and real trauma, but I've yet to see anything that makes me think there is substance to the objections to transandrophobia as a concept. It feels and reads like the latest round of queer intracommunity exclusionism, and the fact that this time around I'm not one of the target identities doesn't change that for me.

[starlighthosh]

idk where to request this, i have a a list of my favorite writers and I thought about you 🥹🥹HAHAHAHA so basically its cheol dating someone back in their trainee days, she was also a trainee but left because pledis cant debut another group CAUSE THEY ARE BROKE. Well there are a lot of videos of seventeen during their trainee era in that melona room and fans saw random videos of her taking care of cheol, since if you saw cheol in that room he was at his rebellious era 😭😭😭 only she can stop him, AND MANY YEARS AFTER ITS 10TH ANNIVERSARY OF SEVENTEEN (HAPPY BURSTDAY TO YOU) and fans were wondering what happened, AND THEY'RE STILL DATING GOING STRONG WOHOOO and only announced it today, no one can stop cheol, she also has a successful career non idol or idol yeah AND THAT'S JUST CUTE HAHAHA

That’s such a long but still such a fun request🫡 and thank you for choosing me for this🫶🏻

Definitely took me a while to write it, but I hope you still enjoy. Happy burstday to you too:)

melona memories - c.sc

extra warning: idol!reader, secret relationship, established relationship

The first time fans noticed you was in an old video with bad quality from over a decade ago. You were just kids with great goals and Seventeen was still just a dream.

You weren’t actually supposed to be in the shot, the focus was meant to be on Seventeen practicing, dancing, sweating, laughing. But you somehow still made it into the video. Only slightly, but enough for fans to go crazy about it. You were kneeling down next to cheol, handing him a water bottle and brushing the fringe of his sweaty forehead with a towel, tender like someone who knew him better than anyone else.

“Who’s that girl with cheol?” “She’s the only one he ever let scold him😭” “That’s the girl who left pledis!!”

Now it’s been ten whole years since seventeen debuted. Back then you were watching them from the shadows, the quiet corners and the seats of a concert, letting them shine while you built up your own success. You debuted a few years later under another agency, making your own name as a soloist. But cheol has always been the guy you came back home to at the end of the day.

You never stopped dating since the trainee days. Not when you left the company, not when you debuted years later and not when he grew to be the leader of thirteen boys, carrying the weight of a whole fandom on his back. In all the chaos, you were his peace.

“Are you sure?” you asked that morning, your voice groggy as you sat up in bed. The tweets have gone viral overnight, both of your phones exploding with messages from several people and fans. Cheol was scrolling through the fan edits, a faint grin playing on his lips while he watched the fans piece the puzzle together.

“They figured it out anyway” he replied, turning the phone to show you the edits of the same video with a dramatic zoom into your face. You laughed, leaning against his shoulder. “They will go insane when they find out you’ve been hiding me for all those years”

Seungcheol pulled you in, his voice gentle. “I never hid you. Just protected us”. You knew that, he never made you feel like a secret just once. Instead you were his safe place from flashing cameras, pressure from the company and the weight of being a leader. But now it felt right to show the world what you two have been quietly nurturing.

The company obviously was hesitant about it. “You’re both active idols. It’s seventeens tenth anniversary. Think of the timing and the fans”. But neither of you really cared this time. No matter how much hate you would get, you could make it through it. Together and separately.

So you made it official. A picture of two hands intertwined. You wore a silver ring and fans could remember a familiar bracelet on the other wrist. No tags, no caption.

Seungcheol followed an hour later with his favorite picture of you two. It was from the night of his birthday two years ago. You didn’t know you were being photographed, which makes the picture just so much more authentic, laughing and enjoying each others presence without any fears.

“From the melona room till today, still my favorite person. My peace🤍”

The internet exploded. Fan theories, clips of soft smiles and eye contact all pointing back to you. The best part though was that everyone was happy. They weren’t mad. They could detect the love you two have been sharing for so long with great care.

Later that night, when the world quieted and the sun set from the loud day, you found yourself in your shared apartment. Legs were tangled on the couch and two bowls of ramyeon between you. “You never thought we had to announce it, hm?” you teased. Cheol smiled, lazy and content. “We didn’t need to, but it’s cute they figured it out anyway”

You placed your bowl down and leaned into him. “Ten years already. The time just flew by”. He nodded. “Yeah and you still make me feel like it’s just dumb teenage love” cheol mumbled, removing little strands of hair out of your face. You giggled, looking up to meet his eyes. And he kissed you, soft and grateful.

In this loud world that never stops spinning, you’ve been the only constant.

[starsofjewels]

Sisterhood

Cersei Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

Part 4 (?) of the autistic Lannister daughter reader.

CONTENT: Autistic!Reader, usual Westerosi mental health shenanigans, vauge mentions of Joanna's death, potential spoilies for the show (but it came out a decade ago so is it really?).

Lannister warnings

Feat. The High Sparrow, Mace Tyrell and Jaime's need for family therapy.

2.5k (ish)

If you guys like this fic, make sure to check out the masterpost for the rest of the series

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Reposted from 10 minutes ago bc of a mutual who wouldn't stop fecking around in the replies (you know who you are).

This was originally a request but I altered what they asked for so much I didn't feel I could attach it to post.

Thank you for your patience as we deal with my procrastination issues and also the fact I have 0 spare time for fanfic atm.

I'll be back in 7 weeks with the next offering, stay safe kids.

<3

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Cersei Lannister is utterly delighted when, at the grand age of thirteen, she is handed a squirming, complaining lump of pink flesh wrapped up in fine blankets. She knows what it is immediately, a baby sister, her baby sister. As much as she loves Jaime, and tolerates Tyrion, there is something appealing about a little girl. To dress up, to play with, to have all to herself- How wonderful it is, to be a sister and a prince’s betrothed. 

She is very lucky, all her friends, and the low noble girls who will be her handmaidens, tell her so. Cersei is beautiful, virtuous and perfect, and you will be too. Your father calls you the angel, and with those wisps of blonde hair around your tiny, pink face and big, impossibly big, eyes, it is hard not to believe.

When Tyrion was born, he was large and bloody, misshaped like a thing made of clay, not a baby. Cersei couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a real baby, like in the paintings of herself and Jaime wrapped in their mother’s embrace, or of illustrations she can’t quite believe are her father and uncles. She goes to Tywin, Septa behind, insisting you must have come from the Gods, not quite understanding the knowing smiles of the adults around her. And life with this new, precious, thing- For that is really what you are as an infant- Is perfect. For a few days, at least.

Joanna dies four days after your birth. Cersei is not fully old enough to understand why, or what exactly has occurred, but she remembers her mother’s pale face, a hand around Tywin’s shoulder. Sometimes, when she recalls it, she thinks she can hear soft harp, even though the room is silent. You take pride of place, of course, in your mother’s arms, Father’s free arm cradling your head. If it weren’t for that lingering smell of rot, and the ever-growing whiteness of your mother’s face, it might be a pleasant scene.

The maester appears, and Cersei is ushered out of the room, new baby sister in tow. She will not see Tywin smile truly for another many years. At least, not without a very little lady accompanying him.

When you go from a lump of flesh to a truly formed person (if very small, and quite plump), Cersei begins to realise just how wonderful it is to have a much younger sister. She is fifteen, and you are an excellent pawn to get Prince Rhaegar to notice her. Rhaegar is soft and gentle, less like a dragon and more like a dog, and he simply adores infants. He has one coming himself, from his new wife, the Dornish princess, but no-one seems to care much about poor Elia, hidden away upstairs. 

One of your earliest memories is sitting by the fountain in the courtyard as Cersei plaits flowers into your hair, Rhaegar coming by to offer her more, and sitting with your tiny self as you attempt to poke the fish. Cersei remembers you wailing every time the dragon prince took your hand to prevent a fish massacre. Your earliest memory, funnily enough, is Tywin taking you line fishing at no older than three or four.

You, as it transpires, turn out to be an excellent bonding point between herself and Rhaegar. Viserys is just about your age, if slightly older, and so it becomes not an uncommon sight to see the older boy taking you places, wandering about with the Hand’s daughter no differently than the common children. Everyone seems to love you; you are good, obedient, quiet. Glances turn to Tyrion, four years your senior. Loud, and brash and already with a decent-sized collection of swear words. It is no wonder you are everyone’s favourite. 

Of course, women in Westeros do not tend to have a very good lot in life. Women are virtuous, women are prizes, and what is a better prize than Tywin Lannister’s eldest daughter? Cersei stays in the Red Keep when Arryn becomes Hand, when she is married off to a man who would rather spend his nights in foreign beds and wrestle hogs than he would with her. Her gaze falls to Jaime, her babes come Lannister-blond, and she wonders what may have become of you under your father’s influence. 

And like most ideas Cersei has, this one falls apart just the same. There is no little blonde maiden, dressed in Lannister colours and paying more attention to her dolls than the court. She expects a lion, and what arrives is little more than a cat.

The next time Cersei properly sees you, you are at least twenty. Her son, her single pride and joy, rules as a tyrant, even she can admit that. Ned Stark is dead, Renly Baratheon is dead, and the idea that you might have grown up into a proper young lady is gone. 

You, a woman of twenty, are attached to your father like an infant. Cersei remembers you as a young child, and cannot honestly find a difference, aside from the obvious developments of womanhood. You are very pretty, but you are not a Lannister: your hair has darkened, your eyes shift, wide and frightened. 

“Go, child,” She doesn’t quite think she’s ever heard Tywin’s voice so plain, so sweet, “go and see your sister, there is work to do.”

So you do, you sit awkwardly between herself and one of her more favourable maidens. Cersei does not speak to you, only occasionally passing you something or half-explaining an inside joke. Something is wrong with you, she can feel it from even a passing glance, but she cannot quite tell what. 

But you are her sister, so it doesn’t really matter what she wants or thinks. Cersei is, for all intents and purposes, as much under the control of Tywin as she was before her marriage, before he abandoned her in the capital; she will never admit it, but she’d do anything he asked. 

Days become months, and months become the better part of years, she hardly speaks to you. Together, at Tywin’s funeral, she watches you recite all of your prayers, leave him coins and jewels on his person, and she realises that the last time the two of you spoke was Joffrey’s wedding day, if she even wants to remember such a tragedy,

“He always liked you better,” She says, motioning to your father. By now, the Septon has already finished his prayers, and Tywin is well and truly moved to the next place, “Never one conversation didn’t have your little name on the end: how sweet you were, how intelligent you were-” Cersei’s tone takes an edge, even if she doesn’t mean it to, “There was nothing any of us could ever do to win his favour- But you? No-one could tear him away from a princess like you.”

And you sit there, letting her say anything that needs to be. Your eyes just as wide, just as still as ever, and it infuriates her. Perhaps she wants you to fight, or to sob and insist you knew nothing of your father’s favouritism, but you say nothing.

“Do you even speak?” Cersei asks eventually, “Or did Father take your tongue with him?”

She wants some retribution, and she gets none. So she slaps you across the face. There is no Tywin to protect you in this instance, but there is Jaime. He marches over, golden hand glistening in the firelight, and takes her by the wrist, gently, into a side room. Mace Tyrell bumbles over to you. You’ll speak to him, apparently, but not to your own sister.

“What was that for?”

Bitter tears come. The very ones that worked so well against any man other than her brother. He has, and always will, see past it. Hands cup her cheeks, and she almost jumps at the cool metal of a prosthetic she still isn’t quite used to.

“She’s not like us-” Jaime says eventually, “It isn’t her fault she’s different.”

This is not the Jaime she remembers. The Jaime with two hands, who would defend her in an instant. Cersei isn’t quite sure where this has come from, what he’s done, or heard. She assumes Tywin spoke to him, in his usual way, some time before his death,

“Father said-”

“Father said-” He has never argued against her before. Not once, not truly, “That she is our responsibility. What else would you do, Cersei? Ship her down to Dorne with Myrcella? Lose the only remnants of Father we have left? Tyrion is gone, Father is dead. I will not let her go anywhere - Besides, Father would haunt us.”

It is too soon to make such jokes. She falls into his arms, much like a princess would in one of her mother’s old fairy stories. For the first time in years, Cersei wants her mother…

Tommen’s ascension to the throne is marked by religion. The High Sparrow (as he insists upon calling himself) creeps from the outskirts of King’s Landing and places himself, quite comfortably, right within the royal family. Cersei feels her son’s following slipping from her control into the world of religion, and she wonders if this is how her father felt when Joffrey began to stray from command.

But Tommen is not her worry, not really. He is her son, but he is too dense to truly be manipulated. A sweet boy, a good boy, but far too young to have any real sense of coercion.  No, her worry is not Tommen, it is you. 

Quiet, obedient little girls, as it turns out, are essentially gold dust to this new group of robins, or sparrows, or whatever idiotic bird-themed name they’ve given to themselves. Especially a quiet, noble girl. She finds you frequently with Cousin Lancel, applying salve to the hideous star carved into his forehead. She imagines you kissing it as well, that you fulfill a mother’s role for him. Not that she’d be surprised. 

It is one of those strange days that she doesn’t quite remember fully. She hasn’t slept well, not that she has been, and she notices her handmaidens are depleting in numbers. To be married, or to become septas, or whatever it is they do with their lives; she isn’t entirely sure. But it is getting colder, definitely, Winter is coming again. 

“But then it turned out he was scared of them-”

It is your voice, definitely, talking about dogs. She has never heard you so utterly in your element, and nor has she heard the burst of laughter that follows. A man’s, an older man’s. For the first time in her life, Cersei hides herself in the shadows, and you walk past on the High Sparrow’s arm. You seem confident, almost at ease, entirely different from the little girl she’s grown to know, and something like jealousy blooms to see you with a strange, old man, rather than her.

“Which I don’t understand, because it was only a little dog-”

“It was well past your waist, and it had a bird in its mouth- His bird.”

Your laugh is something your father would treasure, her father would treasure. But there is something about this interaction that spurs a rage within her. She doesn’t understand how you, the lady who would not speak a word to her own sister, could be so friendly to that old Sparrow. The two of you go down the corridor, and an hour later you are summoned to the Council rooms. 

“He’s nice to me,” She hears you say, brushing one of the king’s cats. What a childish response. “He wants me to become a septa.”

“And- Do you want to be a septa?”

It is Uncle Kevan who speaks, and Cersei is thankful for that. She isn’t sure she has the correct words to voice exactly how she’s feeling. You look up with big, sweet eyes and tilt your head.

“I suppose it’d be nice to wear the same thing every day, I wouldn’t have to worry about laundering.”

The queen beside you scoffs and rolls her eyes, it is a response she has grown used to from you, your dependence on order. It comes from Tywin, he was exactly the same with money and accounts. At least he had a dresser. 

She does not worry about you personally, particularly, and she knows she ought to. She worries that you’re sleeping with that old zealot, and it’ll look bad on the family’s name. It isn’t entirely implausible, not with how the two of you behave with each other; less like a teacher and his mentor, and slightly more like a young couple in love.

You are devastated when Tyrion arrives with half of his new Valyrian army to take you away to some land beyond. She watches you try to convince your new friend to come with you, but he has his mission, and you yours. A High Sparrow does not belong outside of his nest, he says, and Cersei wonders where he thinks a lioness is supposed to go- Not that you could ever be classified as a lioness. 

And that High Sparrow, your friend as you insist, turns on her as soon as you are out of the picture. She is stripped and lashed and shamed, to such an extent she feels her father roll in his grave on particularly quiet nights. Any other woman might understand that this is how you have felt your whole life; alone, afraid, latching onto any connection you manage to pull from the wreckage. But Cersei is not any other woman, and she unleashes fury like no other. Your High Sparrow crashes to the ground in spectacular, green, fashion, and she doubts you will ever find out.

When Cersei is queen in her own right, before she is killed as a tyrant like her son before her, the last she hears of you is a life of adventure on the Iron Islands, chasing about the now-broken Theon Greyjoy under the watch of his uncle: The pious one, not Euron, who is barred from coming anywhere near you, she discovers. And the three of you have, apparently, formed an odd little family, overseen by Balon and monitored by Yara, or Asha, or whatever the girl’s name is.

She never did understand you, but with the family in tatters, she is relieved you are safe. As one less burden on her shoulders, and not out of love, she assures herself. Perhaps one day you will marry Theon and Balon will stop pissing around. Or, more likely, you’ll stay on that bundle of wet rocks, playing about like a child. Less a lion, and more of a leopard seal. 

At least you have a happy ending, even if she is not there to see it.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Keeping a suspense file gives you superpowers

I'll be in TUCSON, AZ from November 8-10: I'm the GUEST OF HONOR at the TUSCON SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION.

Two decades ago, I was part of a group of nerds who got really interested in how each other managed to do what we did. The effort was kicked off by Danny O'Brien, who called it "Lifehacking" and I played a small role in getting that term popularized:

https://craphound.com/lifehacksetcon04.txt

While we were all devoted to sharing tips and tricks from our own lives, many of us converged on an outside expert, David Allen, and his bestselling book "Getting Things Done" (GTD, to those in the know):

https://gettingthingsdone.com/

GTD is a collection of relatively simple tactics for coping with, prioritizing, and organizing the things you want to do. Many of the methods relate to organizing your own projects, using a handful of context-based to-do lists (e.g. a list of things to do at the office, at home, while waiting in line, etc). These lists consist of simple tasks. Those tasks are, in turn, derived from another list, of "projects" – things that require more than one task, which can be anything from planning dinner to writing a novel to helping your kid apply to university.

The point of all this list-making isn't to do everything on the lists. While these lists do help you remember what to do next, what they're really good for is deciding what not to do – at all. The promise of GTD is that it will help you consciously choose not to do some of the things you set out to accomplish. This is in contrast to how most of us operate: we have a bunch of things we want to do, and we end up doing the things that are easiest, or at top of mind, even if they're not the most important things.

GTD recognizes that you can be very "productive" (in the sense of getting many things done) and still not do the things that you really wanted to do. You know what this is like: you finish a Sunday with an organized sock-drawer, all your pennies neatly rolled, the trash-can in your car emptied…and no work at all on that novel you're hoping to write.

You can't do everything, but you can control what you don't do, rather than just defaulting into completing a string of trivial, meaningless tasks and leaving the big stuff on the sidelines. Organizing your own tasks and projects is a hugely powerful habit, and one that's made a world of difference to my personal and professional life.

But while good to-do lists can take you very far in life, they have a hard limit: other people. Almost every ambitious thing you want to do involves someone else's contribution. Even the most solitary of projects can be derailed if your tax accountant misses a key email and you end up getting audited or paying a huge penalty.

That's where the other kind of GTD list comes in: the list of things you're waiting for from other people. I used to be assiduous in maintaining this list, but then the pandemic struck and no one was meeting any of their commitments, and I just gave up on it, and never went back…until about a month ago. Returning to these lists (they're sometimes called "suspense files") made me realize how many of the problems – some hugely consequential �� in my life could have been avoided if I'd just gone back to this habit earlier.

My suspense file is literally just some lines partway down a text file that lives on my desktop called todo.txt that has all my to-dos as well. Here's some sample entries from my suspense file:

WAITING EMAIL Sean about ENSHITTIIFCATION manuscript deadline 10/24/24 WAITING EMAIL Russ about missing royalty statement 10/12/24 WAITING EMAIL Alice about Christmas vacation hotel 10/8/24 10/20/24 WAITING EMAIL Ted about Sacramento event 8/12/24 9/5/24 10/5/24 10/20/24

WAITING CALL LA County about mosquito abatement 10/25/24 WAITING CALL School attendance officer about London trip 10/18/24

WAITING MONEY EFF reimbusement for taxi to staff retreat $34.98 10/7/24

WAITING SHIPMENT New Neal Stephenson novel from Bookshop.org 10/23/24

This is as simple as things could possibly be! I literally just type "WAITING," then a space, then the category of thing I'm waiting for, then a few specifics, then the date. When I follow up on an item, I add the date of the followup to the end of the line. If I get some details that I might need to reference later (say, a tracking code for a shipment, or a date for an event I'm trying to organize), I'll add that, too, as it comes up. Creating a new entry on this list takes 10-25 seconds. When someone gets back to me, I just delete that line.

That is literally it.

Every day, or sometimes a couple of times a day, I will just run my eyes up and down this list and see if there's anything that's unreasonably overdue, and then I'll send a reminder or make a followup call. In the example above, you can see that I've been chasing Ted about Sacramento for months now (this is a fake entry – no plans to go to Sacto at the moment, sorry):

WAITING EMAIL Ted about Sacramento event 8/12/24 9/5/24 10/5/24 10/20/24

So now I've emailed Ted four times. Maybe my email's going to his spam, and so I could try emailing a friend of Ted and ask them to check whether he's getting my messages. But maybe Ted's trying to send me a message here – he's just not interested in doing the event after all. Or maybe Ted is available, but he's so snowed under that he's in danger of fumbling it, and I need to bring in some help if I want it to happen.

All of these are possibilities, and the fact that I'm tracking this means that I now get to make an active decision: cancel the gig or double down on making sure it happens. Without this list, the gig would just die by default, forgotten by both of us. Maybe that's OK, but I can't tell you how many times I've run into someone who said, "Dammit, I just remembered I was supposed to email you about getting that thing done and I dropped the ball. Shit! I really was looking forward to that. Is it too late now?" Often it is too late. Even if it's not, the work of picking up the pieces and starting over is much more than just following through on the original plan.

Restarting my suspense file made me realize how many of the (often expensive or painful) fumbles I've had since the pandemic were the result of me not noticing that someone else hadn't gotten back to me. In essence, a suspense file is a way for me to manage other people's to-do lists.

Let me unpack that. By "managing other people's to-do lists," I don't mean that I'm deciding for other people what they will and won't do (that would be both weird and gross). I mean that I'm making sure that if someone else fails to do something we were planning together, it's because they decided not to do it, not because they forgot. As GTD teaches us, the real point of a to-do list isn't just helping us remember what to do – it's helping us choose what we're not going to do.

This is not an imposition, it's a kindness. The point of a suspense file isn't to nag others into living up to their commitments, it's to form a network of support among collaborators where we all help one another make those conscious choices about what we're not going to do, rather than having the stuff we really value slip away because we forgot about it.

I have frequent collaborators whom I know to be incapable of juggling too many things at once, and my suspense file has helped me hone my sense of when it would be appropriate to ask them if they want to do something together and when to leave them be. The suspense file helps me dial in how much I rely on each person in my life (relying on someone isn't the same as valuing them – and indeed, one way to value someone is to only rely on them for things they're able to do, rather than putting them in a position of feeling bad for failing you).

Lifehacking gets a bad rap, and justifiably so. Many of the tips that traffick as "lifehacks" are trivial or stupid or both. What's more, too much lifehacking can paint you into a corner where you've hacked any flexibility out of your life:

https://locusmag.com/2017/11/cory-doctorow-how-to-do-everything-lifehacking-considered-harmful/

But ever since Danny coined the term "lifehack," back in 2004, I've been cultivating daily habits that have let me live the life I wanted to live, accomplishing the things I wanted to accomplish. I figured out how to turn daily writing into a habit and now I've written more than 30 books:

https://www.locusmag.com/Features/2009/01/cory-doctorow-writing-in-age-of.html

A daily habit of opening a huge, ever-tweaked collection of tabs has made me smarter about the news, helped me keep tabs on my friends, helped me find fraudsters who were trying to steal my identity, and ensured that all those Kickstarter rewards and other long-delayed, erratic shipments didn't slip through the cracks:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/01/25/today-in-tabs/#unfucked-rota

Daily habits are superpowers. Once something is a habit, you get it for free. GTD turns on decomposing big, daunting projects into bite-sized, trackable tasks. I have a bunch of spaces around the house – my office, my closet, the junk sheds down the side of the house, our tiki bar – that I used to clean out once or twice a year. Each one was all-day, sweaty, dirty job, and for most of the year, all of those spaces were a dusty, disorganized mess.

A month ago, I added a new daily task: spend five minutes cleaning one space. I did the bar first, and after two weeks, I'd taken down every tchotchke and bottle and polished it, reorganizing the undercounter spaces where things pile up:

https://www.flickr.com/search/?user_id=37996580417%40N01&sort=date-taken-desc&text=tiki+bar&view_all=1

Now I'm working through my office. Ever day, I'm dusting a bookshelf and combing through it for discards to stick in our Little Free Library. Takes less than five minutes most day, and I'll be done in about three weeks, when I'll move on to my closet, then the side of the house, and then back to the bar. A daily short break where I get away from my computer and make my living and working environments nicer is a wonderful habit to cultivate.

I'm 53 years old now. I was 33 when I started following Getting Things Done. In that time, I've gotten a lot done, but what's even more relevant is that I didn't get a ton of things done – things that I consciously chose not to abandon. Figuring out what you want to do, and then keeping it on track – in manageable, healthy, daily rhythms that bring along the other people you rely on – may not be the whole secret to a fulfilled life, but it's certainly a part of it.

Tor Books as just published two new, free LITTLE BROTHER stories: VIGILANT, about creepy surveillance in distance education; and SPILL, about oil pipelines and indigenous landback.

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/10/26/one-weird-trick/#todo.txt

[bat-boys]

forever, my love

pairing: Azriel x fem reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: 18+, mentions of battle and war, references to depression, smut (fingering) but it's romantic, angst but also fluff.

summary: you and Azriel had seen many battles over the centuries but when something goes wrong and has a lasting impact on you, Az promises to take care of you.

a/n: thank you so much for the love on the first fic! here's another one! I promise next time I'll write something happier haha, suggestions are welcome! I hope you enjoy.

The cruel, unyielding symphony of battle swelled in you as you continued to swing your sword at the enemies in front of you. Grunts of pain and screams of frustration left your lips as you continued to carve a path through the soldiers in your way, desperately trying to hold the line as Cassian had commanded. 

Your body moved automatically, thanks to the centuries of muscle memory drilled into you from the intense training and the many battlefields you had found yourself on during your long life. In recent decades, you may have taken a step back from helping to command the Night Court armies and turned your attention to training the next legion of warriors and aiding your spymaster in more covert missions. Still, your body would always remember the steps needed in battle. It would never shrink from charging head first.

Once, you had been told you were beautiful to watch in battle—second only to Cassian himself as you danced your way through enemy hordes. But now, as you cut through another bottleneck of soldiers, you could only focus on keeping yourself alive, you were so extremely exhausted. 

Step, swing, push, slash, pivot, hit. 

As you managed to gut the last soldier in front of you, you allowed yourself a small moment of reprieve to collect your thoughts and take a gulp of air. The sound of battle raged around you, and you could faintly see your friends and allies around you, diligently fighting for a future you had only just battled for a mere handful of years ago. You sent a pulse down that precious thread, tucked deep within your heart and nodded your head in relief when you felt a responding pulse from the male on the other end. Alive. He was still alive. That's all that mattered at the moment. 

You heard a shout close beside you and watched an Illyrian soldier, who had been grounded due to semi-shredded wings, fight off a group of soldiers starting to swarm around him. Taking a deep breath, you sheathed your long blade and palmed the knives strapped to either thigh.

Winnow, slash. Winnow, stab. Winnow, swing. Your High Lady herself had taught you this particular move after you had seen her yourself face enemies from a different war, a different conflict. You kept the image of your friends smiling at Feyre as she had embarrassingly walked you through how she did it, blushing furiously at your insistence in teaching you at the forefront of your mind, and you continued to dance to the sound of the battle's symphony. 

That was the future you continued to fight for, and you were determined to protect it. 

…

Your entire body heaved as you shoved your blade through the chest of the last soldier in front of you. The sounds of battle were quietening and dying out as the last of the enemy horde were tied up or killed. 

A groan left your lips as you yanked your blade free and used the last of your power and strength to winnow to the edge of the battlefield. You stumbled as you landed, cursing yourself for letting your power drain so thoroughly during battle. Az would chastise you about that later. Speaking of which…

Where are you? You sent down the bond, waiting for the familiar calm voice to reach your mind. A frown fell on your face as the minutes stretched past, and you didn't hear a response from him. 

Az? 

You refused to panic just yet. While this was unusual, you knew the moments after a battle was the most crucial for a spymaster as he gathered up defeated enemies to spirit them away for interrogation. He was probably just busy, you reasoned with yourself.

But a small part of your brain also whispered that he always kept the precious channel between you both open and always responded when you called. 

You trudged through the mud towards the huge fortress in front of you. It may have been dilapidated and crumbling, but it provided a place where Rhys could gather his allies and forces and not be constantly caked in dirt and mud from his war camp. Once, it had probably been beautiful, home to some illustrious High Fae family, but now it was home to tired soldiers and had clearly seen much better days. 

Azriel. You tried again to reach your mate through the bond, your heart thundering louder in your chest when you didn't receive a response. This time, you stretched your consciousness along that bridge…and slammed into a cold stone wall on the other end. Panic began to claw up your throat, but you refused to give in. He was probably busy with Rhys or Cassian; you desperately tried to reason with yourself as you sheathed your heavy blade into the scabbard strapped to your back and walked up the stone steps to the bustling entrance of the fortress. 

"Injured that way, please!" You heard the familiar voice of your High Lady directing her people from inside the entrance. She turned around, and you saw her face relax in relief as she spotted you, "Y/N. Oh, thank the cauldron, you're alright." 

Feyre was wearing her Illyrian leathers, her hair windswept and looking just as tired as you felt. She walked towards you, and you hugged her tightly, grateful to see one of your dearest friends safe and sound. You gently manoeuvred around the bow strapped to her back as she hugged you back just as fiercely. Much to everyone's surprise and yours and Rhys' amusement after the war with Hybern Feyre had mastered the notoriously tough Illyrian bow - why anyone doubted her after her past in the human realm you were still confused by. You had seen her sweeping over the battlefield today and dispatching enemies, saving your life more times than you cared to admit. Her flying wasn't strong enough to join in with the Illyrian legions yet, but she had become invaluable on the battlefield once again.

"You looked awesome up there today." You both grinned at each other, warriors recognising each other, "where is everyone?"

"Amren and Mor are in the war chamber, exhausted but ok. Cassian was dropping off a soldier to the hospital wing."

"Az?"

"I thought he was with you?" A quick shake of your head had her face falling, "Ok, he's probably busy with clean up - let me see if Rhys can reach him."

"Thank you," you whispered, and she squeezed your shoulder and kissed your cheek before going back to directing people coming through the entrance. 

You jumped as you felt a bigger, wider hand fall on your shoulder but relaxed when you turned to see Cassian grinning down at you. Not the Illyrian warrior you were desperate to see but still a fucking welcome sight. 

"You saved our asses out there, as usual, tiny angry one." You rolled your eyes at the nickname he had given you hundreds of years ago as you let him pull you into a bone-crushing hug. 

"Glad to see you survived another battle, General, and without getting yourself torn to shreds."

"Yeah, yeah, shut up you." He teased as he gently pushed your shoulder. You may be Az's right-hand woman with his spy network now, but you were Cassian's second in command first. A formidable warrior whose name struck fear into your enemy's hearts, renowned for being utterly ruthless in combat and undefeated. How long ago it now felt when you and Cassian had first led the armies in that war hundreds of years ago.

"Have you seen Az?" You hated how quiet your voice sounded, but you struggled to keep the panic at bay. 

"No," Cass frowned, "is he still out there?"

"I don't know, I can't reach him." You whispered, and immediately you felt Cassian shift, ready to head back out there and find his brother - could see the panic that settled in his eyes at the thought of finding him dead on the battlefield.

"Let's not panic yet. We'll go find Rhys, and we can set up a patrol-"he continued to talk to you, laying out a plan before you, but you couldn't hear him. Couldn't hear over the sound of your own panic as you tried to not give in to the fear that was eating away at your heart. You absolutely refused to even think for a minute that he was dead. But why was the bond cold? Why hadn't he gotten in touch, and why hadn't anyone seen him since the battle ended?

You turned your head to the side, ready to throw up the small amount of food you had choked down earlier, when-

Y/N! You froze as you heard a familiar roar and couldn't place if it was something you had heard echoed around the stone room or through that precious bond you shared. 

Immediately, you turned from Cassian toward the sound of that shout, and your knees nearly buckled when you finally spotted Azriel walking through the fortress's entrance, bathed in his shadows. 

His eyes were wild as he scanned the room, looking for you. His hair was matted to his sweaty forehead, blood coated his face, and he was stalking forward with a slight limp. But he was alive. Alive.

"Az." You had barely whispered his name, but you watched as his eyes snapped to you, and something broke in his carefully carved facade as his gaze took you in. Pure, undiluted, raw relief settled on his face as he realised you were still here, unhurt and standing. 

Sobbing, you left your friend behind and ran towards your mate. He just stopped where he stood and held his arms out, catching you as you barrelled into him. He rocked ever so slightly back as he caught you, a testament to the exhaustion seeping through his body, but you felt that primal part of you that had been thrashing around your heart ease as his arms circled around you tightly and he buried his head in your hair - breathing you in.

"I thought I had lost you." You sobbed as you pushed your face into his neck, breathing in that comforting smell of night-chilled mist and cedar.

"I know, baby, I know." His beautiful, scarred hands gently stroked down your blood-soaked and matted hair as he continued to mumble, "I'm here. I'm safe. We're safe."

"What happened?" you asked as you pulled away ever so slightly from his body, letting your feet hit the unforgiving stone floor. Azriel's face was so tender, so soft, as his hands came up to cup your face. You watched, giving him a minute to scan your face for any injuries. A sigh left his lips when he noticed that you were largely unharmed apart from the usual cuts and scraps from battle. 

"Faebane," he muttered darkly, and you gasped. "One of the soldiers had some and threw it on my face when I got close. Clearly, they haven't got much, and it's a diluted solution leftover from the war with Hybern as it cleared quite quickly, but still…this is something we now have to factor in."

"I couldn't feel you down the bond." Your voice hitched.

"I couldn't feel you either, sweetheart, I didn't know if you still breathed. I was so scared." Another sob slipped through your lips, one of sadness but also one of relief as you gripped his Illyrian leathers and pulled him closer - unable to stand any distance between you. You rose up on your shaky legs and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss wasn't sweet or tender; it was demanding and all-consuming. It was a kiss between two mates who had been terrified that after their years of searching, they had lost each other. You felt the rumble of Azriel's moan as you tilted your head to get better access to his lips. His hand reached up to cup your head to hold you in place as he licked into your mouth, and his arm snapped around you as your legs finally gave out and caught you before you sank to the floor. 

You broke away gently, not going far as you rested your foreheads together. Your bodies heaved as you sucked in air for what felt like the first time since the battle ended. You closed the distance again to press your lips to his again, once, twice, thrice.

"I can't do this anymore, Az." You whispered, tears slipping down your face. Tears that Azriel captured with his thumbs as he looked at you with such devastation, "the wars, the battles, not knowing whether our friends are alive, not knowing if you are still alive. I have never felt so old."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." 

You both sighed as you felt the soldier hovering near you, waiting to catch your attention. Once, you would have known every soldier's name, but now you just had a vague recollection of his face. "Azriel. Y/N. I'm sorry to interrupt, but Rhysand has requested your presence."

Az pulled away slightly to nod at the soldier, who offered you both a respectful salute before leaving. You felt his scarred hand drift down your arm to grip your hand. You felt his squeeze, and you squeezed back, "Come on, love, let's go get this over with, and then let me take care of you."

…

The fortress was quieter now, as if everyone was holding their breath, waiting for the next attack; the next moment, you would all be dragged out onto the battlefield again to face your enemies. You and Az had been stuck in meetings for hours after that initial reunion, and you had felt so hollow as your friends recounted what they saw throughout the day, the tactics the enemies were using and how you stood a chance at defeating them once and for all if you hold strong. You hadn't let go of Az's hand the entire time, only letting go once he had told his story about the faebane and he had seen tears slipping down your cheeks again and had pulled you into his arms. 

A sadness clanged through your chest as you watched all of your friends that afternoon once the allies from other courts had left for their own war camps. Even through the exhaustion, the court of dreamers was still fighting, even though you had all been on the battlefield in a different war only a handful of years ago.

Azriel had made good on his promise. The minute Rhys commanded you to rest, Azriel gripped your cold hand and pulled you towards the room down the hall you were sharing. Immediately, he had asked a passing soldier to grab you a plate of food, something warm, before strolling into the room and firmly closing the door behind him. With such gentle hands, he had taken your frozen body and sat you down on the impressive four-poster bed in the centre of the room, your body sinking deeply into the comfy mattress. 

He firmly pressed a loving kiss to your forehead before moving away to stoke the fire that someone had forethought to start while you were in meetings. Once satisfied, he quickly looked back over his shoulder at you - to check you were ok - before moving into the expansive bathing chamber. You could hear his footsteps on the tiled floor and the water gushing out of the taps into the large bathtub, but you couldn't stop the fear from clawing up your throat. Panic began to settle in again because he was out of sight.

What your enemies would think at the mighty Y/N reduced to this quivering mess.

Just as you couldn't take the roaring in your head anymore, at the nausea swirling in your stomach, and were about to get up to run to his arms again, Azriel stepped back into the room. You must have been shouting down the bond again because he had a soft, sad look on his face. 

"I'm here, sweetheart." A whimper left your lips as you flew from the bed into his arms again, unable to get enough of the feeling of him, of being safe with him. His hand skated up and down your spine again, mumbling soothing words and pressing his lips into your hair: "I've drawn you a warm bath; come on."

You hadn't realised how much you had been shivering or how long you had been cold until the idea of settling into warm water felt so appealing. He smiled at you as he took your hands and guided you into the large bathing chamber. The bathtub sat in the middle of the room, large enough for not only you but also to accommodate wings, you realised. A soft smile fell on your lips at the thought.

In a comfortable silence that you and Az had always been able to enjoy, he gently began to unbuckle your damp and blood-encrusted leathers. With slow, methodical movements, he pulled the material from your body before throwing it into a basket in the corner of the room. You watched, your breathing shallow as Az ran his soft fingers up the exposed skin of your arms before hooking under the strap of your bra and removing it carefully from your body. Only then did his fingers skate down the soft valley of your breasts, over your abdomen, before slipping underneath the waistband of your underwear and slipping them down your thighs. Az had seen you in every state and had marked every inch of your skin with his lips and tongue, but this moment, him undressing you as you tried desperately to keep yourself from shattering, was the most intimate thing you had shared. It was warm and sweet, flecked with starlight.

That same warm smile was still on his lips as he took your hand and guided you into the warm water in the bathtub. An appreciative groan left your lips as your feet, legs, and body were submerged in comforting, warm water. 

You turned around and grinned at your mate as you watched him unbuckle his own leathers and shuck them off his body. You couldn't help gazing appreciatively at his body, that body you also knew as well as your own: the proud contours of his shoulders, the toned muscles of his arms, his chiselled abdomen, the thick, powerful thighs. He truly was sculpted by the gods themselves. 

Az silently padded over to the bathtub, slipping into the warm water himself before resting against one end and gently slipping his arm around your waist to pull you against him - your back pressed tightly against his chest. 

With a gentleness that you know would shock so many people, he reached to grab the washcloth and soap from the side before he lathered them up and softly washed the mud and blood from your body. He took his time, kneading his hands into your aching muscles. He even undid your tattered braid and carefully washed the blood and dirt from your hair. The moment was so loving and beautiful after what happened earlier in the day that you couldn't help the tears that silently slipped from your eyes and tracked down your cheeks. 

Once you were both clean, he pulled you flush against his chest again, letting you lean against him with your eyes closed as you enjoyed the feeling of being this close to him in the warm water. You idly traced the scars on his hand underneath the water where it was resting against your stomach whilst his other hand slid up and down your thigh, over your hip and up your body.

"I love you, Az." You whispered into the soft silence that had settled between you.

"I love you too, baby." You felt him press a kiss to your temple.

After today, after the horrors you had seen, after the panic that had coursed through your veins, you needed to feel something more. He wasn't close enough; you needed to feel him. Without saying a word, you lifted your free hand to gently grip the hand that was trailing up and down your body, stopping it in its lazy movements to slowly place it closer to that now throbbing part of you at the apex of your thighs. 

"Sweetheart?" He questioned quietly. You could sense through the bond his willingness to touch you and feel his want with the way his erection was pressed against your lower back. But he needed to check that you really wanted this and that he wouldn't overstep some line, especially after today. 

"Please, Az. I need you." You whimpered as you felt his slender fingers skim along your inner thigh.

"Relax, sweetheart, let me make you feel good." He rumbled against you as he gently began to press kisses under your ear, at that sweet spot he had found on that first night all those years ago. Your chest heaved as you felt his calloused fingertips trace up your thigh, over the curve of your hip, and along your bikini line before sensually slipping down to trace your slit.

A soft hiss escaped your lips at the feeling of his fingers so close to where you needed him most, a whimpering, "Please," leaving your lips as he chuckled behind you. His breath ghosted over the shell of your ear and caused a shiver to run down your spine. 

"I have worshipped your body for centuries, love," Azriel murmured, his strong nose nudging the side of your head so he could begin placing open-mouthed, hot kisses down your neck, "and I never get tired of hearing those noises you make when I touch you." 

You whined softly when Azriel moved his hand, but it was quickly silenced when you felt him suck on the soft flesh between your neck and shoulder as his strong hand gripped your thigh to move it to the outside of his so he had better access to you. 

One of his slender fingers returned to your centre and traced your slit once again before gently swirling around that bundle of nerves. A curse ripped from your lips as your hips bucked at the contact, and another primal chuckle rumbled up Azriel's chest at your delicious reaction. 

Azriel continued to swirl his finger ever so gently over your clit, every now and then applying the smallest amount of pressure and causing a sharp cry to leave your lips as white-hot pleasure shot up your body. It wasn't enough; he was teasing, and you needed your body to shatter in a way you were familiar with.

"Use your words, love. Tell me what you need." You could practically hear the smirk in his voice, and if you weren't wound up so tightly, you might have called him out on it. 

"Your fingers, Az. Please." You whimpered.

"Because you asked so nicely." He mumbled into your skin as he gently slid one finger into your core. A sharp cry left your lips at the feeling of those scars creating the most delicious friction against your walls. 

He set a slow but deep pace as he pumped his finger inside you, his thumb still drawing figures of eight on your clit. You could feel the pleasure building inside of you, your toes curling as you felt Azriel taking you higher and higher. His hand that you had been gripping, resting against your stomach, slid up your body to cup your breast. Your eyes rolled into the back of your head as he expertly rolled your nipples between his fingers and tweaked them in the way he knew you liked. You could feel that familiar crest of your orgasm approaching, and he had barely touched you. So expertly knew your body. You threw your head back against his shoulder, unable to do much but go limp against him. 

"I love you so much, Y/N." He whispered, and you turned to face him and saw that raw emotion on his face again, an emotion that mirrored yours. As he slipped another finger inside you, curling his fingers to reach that spongy spot inside of you that had you seeing stars, you reached up to grip his hair and press your lips to his. 

You felt him grin against you as you kissed him, your hips undulating and rolling against his fingers to meet his lazy thrusts. The kiss was full of teeth and passion, and you felt the rising tide of your pleasure as you writhed against him. A cry left your lips as you felt yourself reaching the top of the wave, your mind turning foggy and hips bucking sloppily as you felt your orgasm approaching. 

"Let go, love, cum for me." His words, whispered lowly in your ear, his tone dripping lust and awe, and the soft thrust he gave behind you that had you feeling how much he was enjoying seeing you like this, caused that band in your body to snap and the pleasure he had been slowly building crest and shatter. Pure, white, hot pleasure sparked throughout your body, sending every nerve-ending alight as your orgasm washed over you. Chants of his name left his lips as your back arched and your hips thrashed as he continued to pump his fingers deliciously inside you.

After what felt like hours, the wave of pleasure began to subside and be replaced with a bone-deep satisfaction. A sigh left your lips as you slumped back against your mate, his arms catching you - as they always did - and pulling you close to him. You felt Azriel mumbling your name whilst pressing soft kisses to your temple, cheek and jawline. 

"Rest, love. There will be time for more later. I promise." It was that promise you clung to as you rested against your mate and let your body relax in the cooling water of the bath. 

[flawssy-227]

All I Really Want To Do (part 1)

(ex) best friends dad!Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: It's been 10 years since you got betrayed by your best friend, graduated high school, and left Austin. After a serendipitous run in with Joel, you decide to be friends.

tags: 18+, female reader, always write for woc in mind, but there are no descriptions so everyone is welcome to read. tlou AU, no outbreak au, modern au, Sarah sucks (sorry), age gap ~20 yrs, reader is 28, Joel is ~50, infidelity (in past), Tommy and Maria flirting, no smut yet!

a/n: my first planned series on this blog! I hope y'all like this! pls leave comments and feedback if you enjoy <3 chapter 1 loosely inspired by All I Really Wanna Do

w/c: 4k

It was too early on a Sunday morning in Texas for this many people to be at hot yoga. Whatever happened to going to church? It was a new hobby of yours, one your coworker, Maria, had been dragging you to ever since you moved back to Austin. You were finally in shavasana, feeling relatively relaxed after moving through power moves for the last 45 minutes in 98 degree humidity. 

Once you had wrapped up and wiped down your mat, you and Maria were idly discussing which restaurant you can run to and grab a quick bite while you patiently waited for the crowd to clear away from the cubbies so you could grab your stuff and head out.

“There’s a diner down the block I haven’t tried,” Maria offered before nudging you with her elbow quickly. She leaned over to whisper in your ear as subtly as she could. “Don’t look now, but there’s a gorgeous man with dark, curly hair walking our way.”

You tried to play it cool for her sake. Maria swore this yoga studio was filled to the brim with attractive single men, but you weren’t sure if you were really interested at the moment. You had a lot to focus on with work and dating just for it to end in failure—again, was not ideal. You were determined to be a great wing woman, though.

The man quickly sidled up to Maria, asking her if she enjoyed the class and if she’d been coming here long before he introduced himself. You had kept your focus straight ahead, still waiting for everyone to clear away from the cubbies when you heard her introduce herself, and then you.

Turning to meet his gaze, your jaw couldn't help but drop. Staring back at you was Tommy Miller. Looking nearly the same as you remember from ten years ago. His hair was shorter than it used to be, no longer long enough for the bun he used to wear, but still jet black and tucked behind his ears. 

You heard him say your name, almost in disbelief before he reached out and tugged you into a bone crushing hug. “Dang darlin’, you grew up on me!”

You forced out a smile, trying not to let on how awkward you were feeling. You could feel Maria’s questioning gaze on you and you were not looking forward to explaining how you knew Tommy to her later. Before you could choke out a response, you saw Tommy look just over your shoulder.

“Joel! Look who I just ran into.”

You and Maria both turned around and you were met with the brown eyed gaze of Joel Miller. He was exactly how you remembered ten years ago, broad shouldered, tanned skin, and brown hair, albeit he had a few more greys mixed in now then he did all those years ago. He looked just as shocked to see you as you felt.

“Hi, Mr. Miller,” you said sheepishly.

Maria looked wide eyed at the incredibly soft way you spoke to Joel, Tommy just laughed and Joel blanched slightly.

He cleared his throat at your shy endearment. “Just Joel’s fine now, darlin’.” He was vaguely aware there was someone else standing next to you, but his focus was solely focused on you. It’s been a decade since he’s seen you, and you looked the same as you did back then, just more… fully formed, he supposed. “You’re back in Austin?”

You nodded your head. “Yeah, I’ve been back for about a month now,” you said shyly. “I’m working in the DA’s office. This is my friend Maria by the way,” you turned to introduce her but hadn’t noticed that she and Tommy had taken a few steps back and seemed to be in deep flirtatious conversation away from you and Joel.

“Didn’t take you for a hot yoga guy,” you said to Joel, trying not to gawk at his beefy arms. 

He chuckled at that, letting his hand run over the salt and pepper scruff over his face. Was he always this attractive?

“Yeah, it’s something new,” he told you. “Sarah was getting onto me about not exercising enough and Tommy dragged me here because he swears it’s a good place to meet women.” He met your eyes closely and looked away before he allowed his gaze to get too intense. “Not that that’s what I’m doin’ here,” he offered softly.

“Oh,” you quickly shook your head with a quiet laugh. “No judgement!”

Everyone had finally cleared out ahead of you and you were finally able to grab your phone and keys from the cubby. 

“A month, huh? Have you spoken to Sarah since you’ve been back?” he questioned.

You were happy you were facing away from him when he asked that, the answer was a definite no. But seeing Tommy and talking to Joel was nice and familiar, you didn’t want to ruin it, so you just grabbed Maria’s things along with yours before you turned around and gave him a polite smile. You quickly shoved her things into her hands, effectively cutting off her conversation with Tommy. “We’ve got reservations,” you responded. “Nice to see you both.” You gave them a wave and pulled Maria out of the studio by her hand and briskly walked as far away from the studio as quickly as you could.

The Miller brothers watched you and Maria power walk your way across downtown Austin.

“Well, she grew up,” Tommy said.

Joel nodded, unable to verbally respond. You sure did.

Maria barely waited until you had your first sip of coffee before she was grilling you about how you knew the Millers.

“You didn’t have a thing with either of them, did you?” she asked. Your jaw dropped at the question. “Please tell me it wasn’t Tommy!”

“Oh my God, are you into him?” you laughed.

“Answer the question,” she responded, quickly putting on her lawyer voice.

You took a deep breath and rolled your eyes. “No, I didn’t have a thing with either of them. It seemed like you and Tommy hit it off, though.”

Maria couldn’t resist the dreamy look that fell over her face. “You have no idea. He’s such a charmer.” You matched her smile, thrilled your friend had some romance on the horizon. “He asked me to get drinks tomorrow night!”

You squealed across the table with her. “That’s such good news! Honestly, Maria, he’s always been such a good guy. I think you’ll enjoy yourself.”

Maria nodded, taking a moment to push her excitement aside. “But how do you know them? Seriously, my mind is in the gutter.”

You shook your head. “Okay,” you sighed. “It’s nothing crazy, I just grew up with Joel’s daughter, Sarah. We were besties,” you said with a scoff. 

Maria furrowed her brows, and noticed your tone. “And what? You guys had a falling out or something?”

You mumbled over the rim of your coffee cup. “That’s an understatement.”

“C’mon,” Maria whined. “Stop edging me. I need all the details.”

You rolled your eyes at her almost carnal need to gossip, but you couldn’t be too annoyed—you were the same way. It’s why she had become such a close friend over the short month since you’d known her.

So you told her all about you and Sarah. How your family moved to Austin when you were in sixth grade and you had never felt more lonely at leaving your old friends behind until you met Sarah Miller in homeroom. You became fast friends, inseparable in the way that only 11 year old girls can be, and soon you did everything together. She convinced you to join soccer with her, you convinced her to do debate club with you. There were countless sleepovers, infinite secrets shared and a multitude of tears spilt between you two. She told you about her mom leaving when she was little. You told her having one loving parent was better than two neglectful ones. She was more than just your best friend. She was your sister.

And then you started high school. The distance was uncomfortable for you at first. You quit soccer and joined drama club. She decided she was never really that into debate. You were still each other's closest friends, but now you both had other friends and hobbies that increased the ever growing chasm between you two.

When your parents finally stopped fighting and divorced, Sarah was there for you just like she was when you were 11. And so was Dylan, your boyfriend. You were happy in your little circle of three until the end of highschool with your best friend closer than ever and the cutest boy in school as your first everything. And then one day that spring, you got off the waitlist for Southern Methodist University. You got in. Dylan didn’t.

Sarah was unusually quiet during those last few months of highschool, always busy and rarely answering texts. You chalked it up to AP exams and the anxiety of leaving Joel behind. Dylan was being weird too, though. You knew he was jealous that you got into his dream school, but he was your boyfriend, he should be happy for you. And you knew you could make long distance work, you just needed to hash out the details with Sarah. 

You figured you would just pop over to the Miller residence and bring Sarah her favorite cookies as a bribe so she would listen to you talk about your relationship drama. You let yourself in with the spare key, just like you always did and called out for her. You could hear her in the house, and it had never been an issue before, so you just made your way to her bedroom. You remember the hot tears falling down your face when you saw them. Sarah was your best friend, your sister. And she was fucking your boyfriend behind your back.

Maria’s jaw dropped. “You caught them?” she asked incredulously.

“Yup.” You were done with breakfast now and waiting for your server to drop off the checks.

“That is not where I thought this story was going.” Maria shook her head, mostly to herself and looked lost in thought. “So Tommy has a slutty niece?”

You bit back a laugh at that. “I wouldn’t call her a slut. Just a really bad fucking friend.”

As you dropped some cash in the checkbook you realized you weren’t done talking about them. “You wanna know the kicker? This all went down like two weeks before prom. And those assholes went together! I had my dress and everything but I ended up just skipping it and watched 13 Going on 30 with my mom.”

“That is fucking vile. Those two deserve some bad karma.”

You hummed in agreement. There wasn’t much left to say 10 years after the most devastating heartbreak you had ever experienced, but it was out there again. You figured if you should open up to anyone it should be Maria.

“You know what you should do?” she said with a smirk, not waiting for you to even say what? in response. “You should fuck her dad. Joel, right?”

You look horrified. Fuck Mr. Miller? “No way. Maria, he’s like 50.” You shake away the way too intrusive image of you and Mr. Miller together. “I’ve known him since I was a kid!”

“Not a kid,” she shrugs. “Just a teenager right?”

You nod and she just continues. “Was he ever, you know, weird with you?”

“God no!” Your eyes are wide and you can’t help the tingly feeling you get at the thought of you and Joel and how it won’t go away. “I barely saw the guy. He worked so much back then. Honestly, I was around Tommy way more than Joel.”

“So, he’s good with kids?” Maria practically beams at the mention of Tommy and you wish you could roll your eyes at her, but it’s actually pretty sweet how smitten she is with him already. She waves you away before you can answer. “Doesn’t matter. Look, Joel wasn’t looking at you like you were some kid that grew up with his daughter. He was totally checking you out. And it’s been a full 10 years since you’ve seen him? I doubt he sees you as a kid. And it’s hardly weird.”

You guess she’s right but still, you can’t help but grimace at the thought. Of course you thought Joel was attractive. You may have had a mild crush on both Miller brother’s when you were 17 but you chalked it up to the fact that your dad had just left and Dylan was being a childish asshole.

“Look, I’m not saying that you should literally have sex with the man, but how fucking horrified would Sarah be when she finds out you’re hanging around her dad? She fucked your high school boyfriend and you get to play step mom. It’s karma, babe.”

You thought about what Maria said for the rest of the day and well into the night. You weren’t a vengeful person, but if you were being honest, that deep, spiteful part of you that you tried to push down came alight at the simple idea of getting back at Sarah. You were over Dylan. Of course you were. It’s been 10 years of college and law school and jobs and boyfriends and it’s not like you really thought the two of you would end up together. But Sarah? She really broke your heart in a way that only a best friend could. It still hurts to think about.

Joel probably wouldn’t even be interested in me, you think to yourself. “What a dumb fuckin’ idea,” you mumble as you sit up in bed and open Facebook. You’re gonna look Joel Miller up and just see if he’s in a relationship, and then maybe if he’s single you’ll think about what Maria suggested a little more seriously.

And maybe it was a sign, something straight from the universe, that the first thing you saw when you opened Facebook was a bright red notification: Joel Miller sent you a message!

Monday morning in the DA’s office was nothing unusual. You were already two coffees deep at 10 AM and trying to focus on the research you were doing for an impending case when Maria perched herself on the edge of your desk.

“Stop frowning so much, you’re gonna get wrinkles.”

You dropped your hand from your head and gave her the widest, fake smile you could muster before dropping it with an eye roll.

“It’s too early in the day for all that attitude.”

You frowned at her comment. “Look, sorry, but I’m trying to focus on work. It’s my first case here and I need to be prepared. Not trying to have an attitude,” you mumbled at the end.

Maria tuts at you, nodding in mock sympathy that makes you want to roll your eyes and walk away from her. She wants something, you realize.

“You’re stressed,” she notes, as if this is something she just noticed. “Let’s get a drink after work.”

A low unease curled in your stomach. Why did the offer of getting drinks after work seem weighted? You didn’t know Maria that well, but your friendship had been steadily developing. One thing you knew for sure about her though? She was meddlesome. Always conspiring and persistent when she wanted to be. Toeing the line between annoying and clever. It was what made her a great attorney, but you weren’t sure if you liked being on the receiving end of her attention.

“What are you up to?” you questioned.

Maria raised her brows at you, silently daring you to figure her out. “Nothing. I want to go to this new bar after work.”

“What bar?”

“Mean Eyed Cat.”

You ticked your jaw at that. “Right.” You’d never been but you knew that bar and you knew two regulars who mentioned it pretty often 10 years ago. “You want to go to Tommy and Joel’s favorite bar? Why? Just to see if you can run into them again?”

Maria’s grin was massive as she looked down at you. She was practically buzzing with excitement now that you’d practically figured her out.

“Tommy invited me to meet him around 6,” she started. “And then I suggested he bring Joel and I bring you…”

“What?” you couldn’t control the volume of your voice as you snapped at her. “Maria, please tell me you’re joking? I-I can’t go on a double date with Joel and Tommy Miller.”

She was completely unaffected by your reaction and just pushed herself off the corner of your desk. Standing fully, she looked at you a beat too long. “You can, and you will. C’mon, you don’t want Joel to be a third wheel, do you?”

Your day was pretty much shot to hell after Maria told, not asked, that you were going to get drinks with her, Tommy and Joel after work. You were feeling incredibly uneasy about the whole situation and you wondered what Joel was thinking, and if Tommy had a similar approach to drag him to the bar. Wait, does he feel like he’s being dragged here? Or is he excited to see me?

The bar was only a 10 minute walk from your office and you and Maria decided fresh air would be good before you went to the bar. She was talking idly beside you, something about one of her more challenging clients, when you saw him. He was getting out of the passenger side of Tommy’s truck. Tall and familiar, that bronzed skin you’d been thinking about since yesterday on display under his grey t-shirt, veiny forearms on view as he slid his phone in his jeans pocket. You almost smiled at the tight line his mouth was in, frowning down at the sidewalk like it personally offended him before he looked up, undoubtedly feeling your eyes on him. His face softened just a bit when he saw you and you offered him a weak smile in return. 

Tommy and Maria immediately floated to each other on the sidewalk and fell into easy conversation. If you didn’t know any better, you would think they’d known each other for much longer than a day. You let Joel pull you in for an awkward side hug and let his woodsy scent comfort you. You closed your eyes for a second and just let yourself take it all in; the warm, balmy Texas night, the firm embrace of Joel, the leathery musk that floated to your nose at his nearness. It all gave you a sense of relief. This whole situation would be fine, you realized. It was just Joel, and while you definitely didn’t know the man, you knew he was kind and trustworthy and probably feeling just as awkward as you were to be grabbing drinks with his daughter's friend from high school.

Everything was going incredibly smoothly. Tommy and Maria were getting married, you had decided. Watching their easy banter and the wide-eyed way they were looking at each other during everyone’s first round just confirmed it. Conversations on first dates had never been that easy for you, and you were happy you were able to witness it, at least. They pretty much dominated the discussion at the table, you and Joel laughing with them and contributing occasionally, but mostly just taking a back seat. It was so easy, and you realized maybe Maria wanted you here for moral support, it being her first date after getting over her breakup and all. You decided you wouldn’t kill her for forcing you to come here.

After one particularly longing stare, Tommy cleared his throat and looked down at the mostly empty glasses. “Can I get everyone another round?” he asked.

You were tempted to leave and call it a night, but a quick thigh squeeze from Maria deterred you. “I’ll do one more,” you offered with a not so subtle eye roll to her.

Joel grunted in acknowledgement as Maria offered herself to help carry the glasses back. And just like that, they were off, leaving you and Joel alone in the booth.

“Well, they’re gettin’ on like a house on fire.”

You smiled at that. “They are. Tommy’s always been great and she deserves a good guy. It’s funny to see him all smitten so quickly.”

Joel meets your gaze and you can’t help but stutter out a shallow breath at how attentive he looks when you’re speaking.

“I sent you a message on Facebook,” he says, leaning forward across the booth.

You look in his eyes softly. “I saw.”

“You didn’t respond.”

You shrug and shake your head. “No, I didn’t.”

The question is there, but he doesn’t have to ask it before you speak again. “Didn’t open it. Was scared, I guess.”

At this, Joel laughs, leaning away from you. “Nothin’ scary in that message, darlin’.” He pauses, and then nervously scratches at that grey and brown scruff of his. “It was just nice seeing you yesterday, is all.”

Joel’s back looking at you again, that intense gaze he seems to fall into quickly making you shiver. “It was nice seeing you too.”

“Yeah?” a small smile breaks across his face. “You ran off pretty quick.”

It makes you ache, looking at how relaxed he looks with a smile. You kinda feel bad for running off so quickly now that you know it bothered him. Joel and Tommy are harsh reminders of Sarah and that time back in high school when she betrayed you, but you’re an adult now. Your new best friend is probably going to start dating Tommy and you know he and Joel are a package deal, the same way you and Maria are. You can’t hold your distaste of Sarah over Joel’s head, and honestly, you don’t want to. Joel is kind and earnest, and you feel a sense of peace around him now that those awkward initial interactions are out of the way. You decide right then, you won’t fuck him to get back at Sarah or whatever cockamamie scheme Maria had been cooking up. You will move on, be a big girl and develop your own friendship with Joel and Tommy.

You finish the last dregs of your lukewarm beer and offer Joel a sheepish smile. “You’re right, I did run off. Kinda rude, huh?”

He clears his throat and pins you with an easy look. “Nah, not rude. Just made me feel bad. Like I made you uncomfortable or somethin’.”

He looks down at his own glass and you see the contemplative furrow of his brow. It makes you feel terrible. You frown and without thinking, reach for his hand. “It wasn’t you, or Tommy. It was just… Sarah.” You let your hand rest over his for just a moment longer, letting the heat radiating off of it comfort you before you removed it.

Joel swallows nervously, pinning his stare at his now lonely hand. “My Sarah?”

You nodded. “She… Just seeing y’all and hearing her name brought up some not so good memories. That’s why I ran off so quickly.”

Joel looks confused at that. He supposes he did know you two had some sort of fight towards the end of Sarah’s senior year. He remembered when Dylan showed up to take her to prom and you weren’t there, and how you were also missing at her graduation party a few weeks later. She wouldn’t open up to him though and eventually, he guesses you just slipped his mind.

“What happened between the two of you?”

Your mouth parts a bit in surprise. “She never told you?”

“No,” he says quickly.

You swallow and Joel notes how contemplative you look now. Nothing like the easy grin you had a few moments ago. Whatever happened, he realized, is still a sore subject for you.

You look up and pin him with a smirk that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should ask her.”

Before Joel can ask any follow up questions, Maria and Tommy slide back into the booth and drop off your second round. You feel incredibly at ease, much more relaxed than you were when you had first arrived. You fall into conversation with the group a bit easier, and you try to act normal when you look at Joel and see him staring back at you.

Tommy all but insists you two hop in the backseat of his pickup so you don’t have to walk back to your office so late. You’re fairly certain he just wants to extend his time with Maria, but you express gratitude at the fact you don’t have to walk 10 minutes in heels again. 

Once you are back at the District Attorney's office, you and Joel allow Tommy and Maria some space as he walks her to her car. Joel is quiet, but it’s nice and peaceful, not uncomfortable. 

Joel clears his throat and you look up at him, just to once again, see him staring back at you. “Can I take you to lunch sometime this week?”

Your head is spinning and you swear your mind goes blank. Lunch? With Mr. Miller? You’re spiraling as your steps slow down to an almost stop, like your brain can’t compute what Joel is asking and how to walk at the same time.

“Just as friends,” he offers, clearly trying to tread lightly based on your lack of reaction. 

“You want to take me to lunch?” you ask. “With Tommy and Maria?”

Joel smirks, a little maddening considering how flustered you are just thinking about lunch.

“Nah, just us.”

You noticed the heated stare he’s giving you, the way he subtly licks his bottom lip and the magnetic pull as he inches closer to you. He knows exactly what he’s doing. 

You realize then, that Joel Miller is a liar. Just friends? Yeah right.

“Okay,” you muster all of your confidence and give him the flirtiest smile you can muster. “Let’s get lunch. But Joel?” 

Joel hums, a cheeky grin on his face while he waits for you to continue speaking. His smile falters slightly when you take a tiny step closer to him and press onto your tiptoes to whisper in his ear. He can feel your warm breath like a caress on the side of his neck. He can smell the citrus and amber from your perfume. You’re overtaking his senses completely and when he hears you speak again, he swears his heart skips a beat.

“We’re not gonna be friends.”

Part 2

[hkthatgffan]

Ah, February 15th. It's an important day for so many reasons. Of course, as you all know, today marks the 9 year anniversary of Weirdmageddon 3 airing and with it, the end of Gravity Falls as a series! It's crazy to think when I first joined the fandom in 2017, this episode was not even a year old yet...now it's a year away from being a decade old.

What's more, there's some other important GF related anniversaries today too. 12 years ago today, Boss Mabel aired in 2013, ending the first major hiatus for Gravity Falls and being the first episode to air that year. It's also the 7 year anniversary of the Puzzling Pines event that Alex Hirsch held on Twitter in 2018, through which the cover and name of the then upcoming GF graphic novel was revealed; Lost Legends! I still remember that night so well and waiting to see who would have the next piece of the puzzle. Till last year, it was the closest thing I ever got to experience in the GF fandom to what it must've been like when the show was airing.

Today is also the 60th anniversary of the flag of Canada; my home! I'm so grateful for all that this amazing country has given me the chance to do. I'm proud to be Canadian and always will be thankful for the life I have and never will take it for granted. Shout out to my fellow Canadians. We're lucky to call this beautiful country home!

Oh also, new video dropping at 3PM EST today about Gravity Falls of course, lol. It's about Alex's Tumblr post in 2015 that ended the show and how it still holds up today!

New Video Link!

In the mean time, check out this awesome video by Valkyrie247 from 2017 to mark the 1 year anniversary of Gravity Falls ending!

It's one of my all time favourite GF tribute videos and I always love rewatching it to mark the occasion.

To 9 years of Gravity Falls being over, 7 years of Lost Legends' cover being revealed, 12 years of Boss Mabel and 60 years of one of the most beautiful flags ever!! 🇨🇦🇨🇦🇨🇦🇨🇦

[byhuenii]

The Minds We Had

Pairing Bucky x Reader

Synopsis It’s a love story that outlived war, death, and decades apart — only to reunite for one final goodbye.

(Inspired by ‘Ribs’ by Lorde)

Word Count 1.2k

Themes + Warnings Bittersweet romance, Hurt with Comfort, Memory Recovery, Angst with Hope. TFATWS era + 1940s flashback

— The Minds We Had And I've never felt more alone, feels so scary getting old

“It feels so scary getting old…”

She once whispered it against his chest, when they were both too young to know what that really meant.

But now Bucky knew.

He sat beside your hospital bed, fingers entwined with yours, holding on as if time could be bribed. You were sleeping again, breathing shallow and slow. The machine beeped softly behind you.

He hadn’t let go of your hand since he walked in.

Not when you looked up in disbelief and dropped the photo.

Not when he said “Hi, doll.”

Not when you cried.

Not even when you whispered, brokenly:

“You’re… real.”

You both spoke in quiet, fragmented memories — little shards of a life that should have been.

“Do you remember that rooftop?” you asked. “When we were nineteen?”

“I remember you telling me we were gonna live forever,” Bucky said, smiling despite the tightness in his chest.

You laughed, soft and small. “We’ll never be those kids again, huh?”

“The drink you spilt all over me… still feels warm.”

You said it like a memory, not a lyric. Like you could still feel the fizz of cola on your blouse and the burst of your laughter echoing across the fire escape.

“You were wearing my jacket,” Bucky whispered.

“You gave it to me,” you said. “Even though it was freezing.”

He chuckled. “I didn’t feel cold. Not with you next to me.”

A long pause.

The sun was setting outside the hospital window. Your eyelids fluttered. Bucky leaned forward.

You were tired. He could feel it in the way your grip softened.

“You’re not scared?” he asked, quietly.

Your eyes barely opened. “I was. But not now.”

“Why not?”

You smiled, the faintest thing.

“It feels so scary getting old…”

You echoed yourself from so many years ago.

“Until you showed up.”

“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, voice catching. “I should’ve found you sooner. I missed your whole life.”

You reached up, trembling fingers brushing the side of his face. “You missed the hard parts. The loud ones. But you came for the quiet.”

And then:

“This dream isn’t feeling sweet.”

You didn’t say much after that.

Your breath slowed. Your fingers stilled in his. And then, after a long, shaky pause, you exhaled — the kind of breath that doesn’t come back.

The kind of breath that takes everything with it.

Bucky stayed.

Until your hand turned cold. Until the nurses gently asked if he wanted more time.

He didn’t answer.

Because you were gone.

“It drives you crazy getting old…”

—

At your funeral, Bucky wore a black suit and a look that aged him more than the war ever did. Sam was there, silent beside him. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to.

Bucky placed the photo back in your hands — the same one you’d kept by your bed for seventy years.

“I found you,” he whispered.

And then, even softer:

“I want ‘em back… the minds we had.”

Later, in Jamie’s home, she handed him a letter — and Bucky read the words like scripture.

“I always believed you’d find me, even when I didn’t believe in much else.

That’s what love is, right? Something you never stop carrying, even when your hands are empty.”

He closed the letter, breathing like a man who hadn’t in years.

Then he looked at your granddaughter, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a blanket around her shoulders — and he saw you.

He saw hope.

And somewhere, as he walked home under the streetlights of a world too fast and too loud, Bucky could swear he heard you — laughing again.

Like back then.

When everything felt endless.

When you were still spinning under a sky full of fireworks, barefoot and seventeen, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward forever.

FLASHBACK

The party was loud — too loud for how heavy Bucky’s heart felt.

Everyone was laughing, crammed shoulder to shoulder in the tiny Brooklyn brownstone he shared with Steve. The air smelled like warm whiskey, cheap perfume, and summer sweat. Someone was dancing on the coffee table. Someone else had spilled beer on the phonograph.

Bucky didn’t care.

He only had eyes for you.

You were leaning against the kitchen doorframe, sipping cherry cola from a chipped mug, wearing his button-down shirt like it was yours. It hung past your thighs, and your legs were bare, and you were smiling at him like he hung the stars.

And in that moment, he believed it.

Because he’d never seen anything — anything — as good as you.

You tilted your head, catching him staring.

“What?” you grinned.

He walked over slowly, hands stuffed in his pockets, trying not to let the sound of his own heartbeat drown everything out.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he murmured.

You blinked, half-laughing. “For what? Wearing your shirt?”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, dipping his head until his lips hovered just above yours. “For making me wish I could stay.”

You kissed him.

Soft and slow, like a promise he wasn’t allowed to ask for.

His hands cradled your waist.

Outside the kitchen window, fireworks from someone else’s celebration popped in the sky — flashes of gold and red across your cheekbones.

And then you whispered, against his:

“It feels so scary, getting old…”

Bucky stilled.

You looked up at him — eyes wide, heart already breaking.

“Everything’s changing now, don’t you feel it?”

He didn’t answer.

Because he did feel it.

The ticking clock. The war looming. The fear of not coming home — or worse, of coming home wrong. Not the same man. Not the boy you loved.

He rested his forehead against yours.

“We’ll never be this young again,” he whispered.

“We’ll never have this night again.”

You reached up and touched his cheek.

“We don’t have to be young,” you said. “We just have to find our way back.”

“From what?” he asked.

You smiled, eyes glassy.

“From the dream that stopped feeling sweet.”

You stayed up until 3:00 a.m. with him on the roof, lying on a blanket, fingers linked between you.

The city hummed below.

And in that perfect little bubble of time, you dared to dream.

“You’re the only friend I need,” you whispered sleepily, “sharing beds like little kids…”

“You remember when we were little?” he murmured. “And you said you’d marry me if Steve didn’t grow tall?”

You grinned. “You were always going to be mine, Buck. I just said that to scare you.”

At sunrise, he kissed you one last time.

Harder than any kiss should be, like it had to last a lifetime.

“I’ll write,” he said.

“I’ll wait,” you answered.

Then you hugged him like you were memorizing the shape of him.

And Bucky… Bucky looked at you like he wanted to stay in that moment forever.

“I want ’em back — the minds we had…”

And in the present — all those memories come flooding into his chest like a breaking dam.

That last kiss.

That soft promise.

Your voice in his head, whispering:

“It feels so scary getting old.”

And now he’s old.

But he remembers.

And he finally knows the truth.

You were the home he was always trying to get back to.

“And laughing 'til our ribs get tough

But that will never be enough…”

(You’ve got mail!) YOURE THE ONLY FRIEND I NEED! SHARING BEDS LIKE LITTLE KIDS, WE LAUGH TIL OUR RIBS GET TOUGH! BUT THAT WILL NEVER BE ENOUGHHH. I’m in my angst mood lately sorry, BUT I LOVE THIS SONG SMSMSMSMMS

Tag List (For Mr. James Buchanan Barnes is open)

@bbsbrina @herejustforbuckybarnes @barnesandbouquets @winchestert101

[rs-hawk]

I don't think i can explain to you the near-boundless giddy excitement I got form seeing EJ on that creeptober list of yours. (If it's not obvious, he might just be my favourite, snort) Looking forward to all of em tho ~!!

He’s GREAT. I used to have so many head cannons about him since so little is actually known. This story is actually based off my hc about his origin. I hope you enjoy!

Creeptober: Day Three

Eyeless Jack’s Obsession

Yandere! Eyeless Jack x AFAB Reader

CW: horror themes, stalking, blood, pain, death (not of reader), hypnosis, breeding, etc

Eyeless Jack was once an ordinary spirit. He lived his afterlife the way most spirits do. Bored and alone. However, that all changed when you bought the mansion in which he resided.

You moved in without ever seeing the place in person, which you soon regretted. The entire place gave you a creepy vibe that made the pit of your stomach twist into knots. At all times it felt like something was watching you. Stalking you. Filling every room with its presence.

And he was. Jack was following you no matter where you went in the house. It was like you were a drug and he was an addict. Being around you made him feel almost alive again. And the more alive he felt, the more he could interact with the physical world.

Soon he was moving things. Taking things from you. You noticed but kept trying to brush it off. You hoped thought that you were going a little crazy. After all, you worked a remote job and lived in this big creepy house all by yourself. You were supposed to fix it up and sell it for your aunt, who hadn’t lived here in decades, but it was hard. Even with the money she gave you, you struggled to make up the remainder.

Eventually though, you did, and construction started. You still lived in the loft like area that was once an attic while the crews worked downstairs. Unfortunately for the construction workers you hired, Eyeless Jack wasn’t as enthused with the intrusion into your space as you were.

On the very first day, a ladder fell over, nearly killing one of the roofers. He was fine, but he refused to return as he said he was pushed. The next time a ladder fell, a few days later, someone did die.

You heard the screaming and the sound of a body hitting the concrete. It took you a few minutes to rush downstairs. Terror filling your body. Did someone really just die on your aunt’s property? Holy fuck. How would you be able to keep living here? That poor man and his family.

While you were panicked, Jack was ecstatic. He hoped now you would send all these other people away so it could just be the two of you again. All he wanted was to be able to have you all to himself again. As he watched you panic, and the other workers calling the cops or trying to scrape their dead friend’s body off the concrete, he realized that he had blood on his hands.

For a few moments, he just stared at it. Vague memories of being alive and kicking blood from a cut on his finger drifted through his mind, but nothing solid. It was too long ago. Too hard to remember. Yet, his tongue darted out to flick across his palm.

The blood in his mouth solidified some of the memories, and made him feel almost alive. In a frenzy, he licked the blood from both of his hands, the coppery and metallic taste filling his mouth. His eyes glazed over and all he could think of was getting more blood. How much could he touch then? Could he touch you?

The next few days were a blur for you as you worked with the company and your home owners insurance to work out the logistics of the worker’s accident. Everyone saw that he just fell. The ladder was properly secured. No one was messing with it. He was acting responsibly. He wasn’t impaired or intoxicated. It was a freak accident.

But you knew. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew. It was because of that disturbing presence in the house.

You decided that you wanted the renovations done as quickly as possible, so after getting some of your money back from the previous company, you hired another. And another. And another. Every time, someone died. It was horrifying. One man came to your house just to survey the land and came across a missing roofer. He looked like he had been ripped open with a man’s bear hands, and, to both your and the surveyer’s horror, all of his organs were missing.

That night you called your aunt and told her that you were done. In the morning, you were leaving. She didn’t even try to protest after you told her everything that had happened. Jack, having over heard your conversation, was furious. He couldn’t lose you.

Over the past few months, he had undergone a transformation. Every bit of human flesh he consumed made him more solidified. More tangible. More alive. However, his face has become mutated and disturbing. Where his eyes once were, were just empty chasms, dripping black blood. His skin turned to a disturbing shade of ashy gray. So, to prevent your terror as much as he could, he carved a mask out of a piece what used to be a blue shelf. Now there was no reason for you to rebuff his affection.

When he made his way up to your room, you were on your laptop. In seconds, he tossed it from your lap, and your phone was pushed off the bed. He was on his knees on the foot of the bed, leaning over you, caging you in with his arms.

A scream welled up in your throat as the black holes bore into your eyes, but a muttering voice soothed the fear away. Your brain turned fuzzy. It was like you couldn’t think for yourself. He tilted his head, which you mimicked.

“A pretty puppet,” he purred, stroking the side of your face with one of his hands.

You couldn’t think of anything. It was like his eyes had drawn every thought or ounce of individualism from your skull. When he told you to take off your clothes, you did. When he told you to lay down, you did. You couldn’t see his mouth, and his voice seemed to come from everywhere, but you knew that it was him talking.

“Make sure your pussy is good and wet for me,” he instructed, and you obliged.

You began to finger yourself, using your other hand to play with your clit. The soft whimpers and moans that escaped your lips had him gritting his teeth behind his mask. He wanted to take you so badly, but he also wanted it to be perfect for you. His little morsel. He wanted to be apart of you. For you to be apart of him. Forever.

Once your juices began to drip onto your sheets, he finally cooed at you to stop. You did. Despite the frustration and throbbing of your pussy. He was still caging you in with his arms, his form nearly engulfing you. After a moment of watching you squirm, your neglected cunt clenching around nothing, he eased back. Unzipping his pants, and pulling down his boxers, his hard and throbbing cock was shown to you.

Once his hypnotic gaze was broken, your mind began to flood back to you, and the sight of something so massive made you try to scamper back on the bed. However, your loving Eyeless Jack realized that his hold had been broken and grabbed your face, forcing your gazes to lock. Once again, anything in your mind seemed to melt away.

“Spread your legs,” he instructed. And you did.

He slowly slid inside of you, watching your face intensely as it contorted in pain and pleasure. He stretched you out to the point that you felt like you’d burst. Your walls were still throbbing with need, forcing you to clench around him. Clearly to his immense pleasure.

“There we go. Mine. So good for me,” he moaned as he finally sank his cock deep inside of you, his eyes flickering away from your face for just a moment to see how your stomach extended from his cock.

When his gaze returned to you, he saw tears in the corner of your eyes. “Don’t worry. You’ll get used to me, won’t you?” he promised, cupping your cheek almost tenderly again. You nodded obediently.

He was only slow for a few thrusts before losing what little of his kind remained. It was clear he wanted to care about your pleasure, but the decades of death and isolation left him desperate for the comfort and warmth your pussy brought him. The tip of his cock slammed against your cervix repeatedly, making you wince. He muttered out apologies, but never stopped. Never slowed down.

His cock ripped you slightly, blood beading along your tender lips. He muttered out another apology about how he’d make it up to you, and all you could do was whisper out an “okay”. It took hours for him to finish, and when he did, he slammed himself deeply inside of you, his cum pumping directly into your womb.

“There we are. Now I’ll always be apart of you,” he smiled, pulling up his mask to press a kiss to your forehead before disappearing.

As your mind came back to you, you winced at the pain, but wondered with a twisted hunger if he would come back for you.

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[hannahbarberra162]

A Negative Outcome, Part 4

Infinite thank you to @gouraminnow who helped me so very very much with this chapter.

The other chapters | on Ao3

TW: angst and not much comfort here but there will be a lot in the next chapter.

Thatch POV

It had been a long time since Marco had been in trouble with Pops. Thatch remembered a time when he first joined the Whitebeard Pirates where Marco had killed someone they wanted for information and Pops had been mad about it. But that was decades ago and Thatch hadn’t seen a repeat performance since. Marco was always doing the right thing, making correct judgements, and trying his best to guide the crew under the supervision of Pops. Which is why nearly half the crew was on deck pretending to be working while listening in, himself included. You were resting in his room, exhausted after the long day and donating so much blood. Thatch had heard Marco’s statements that you shouldn’t be so tired but Thatch had been around long enough to know there was more to a person than just their body. 

“My son, it was the wrong choice,” Pops chided Marco lightly. Pops didn’t need to use a harsh tone or to yell, the effect on Marco was devastating. He looked like he was wilting under Pops’ softly spoken words even as he looked directly at their Captain. Thatch had been in Marco’s position before and it was undeniably worse when Pops was disappointed rather than angry . 

“She was harmed under our care, she needed time to recuperate,” Pops continued.

“But chemotherapy doesn’t work like that, I can’t just suddenly -” Marco tried to interrupt and throw his weight as the doctor on the crew. Whitebeard stopped him with a glance. 

“I’ve lived a long time, Marco. One day would not have mattered,” was all Whitebeard had to say in order for Marco to hang his head. The quiet across the deck was louder than any argument could ever be. Holding himself high once more, Marco looked his Captain in the eye.

“But I… - of course. I’ll…make amends,” Marco replied. Thatch wondered how he would do so given the tension that radiated from you any time Marco came near. Thatch had to spend the majority of his time in the infirmary that afternoon calming and soothing you after Marco had chased you down in the kitchens. Thatch had heard Marco apologize many times but he wasn’t sure he’d ever heard it after Marco had fucked up. Maybe it would be good for the doctor to be humbled slightly, maybe you’d get better treatment from Marco or at least be allowed to live a little more. Thatch finished clearing Pop’s dishes and left to bring them back to the galley. He wanted to be in the room when Marco sought you out to make sure the interaction went as smoothly as possible.

Marco POV

Marco shifted into his Phoenix form as he took his leave from Pops and launched himself into the air, soaring high above the ship. He wanted a few moments of privacy to gather himself before he went to go find you. He needed to center and control his emotions before he talked to you lest he make the relationship between you worse. Which…he wasn’t sure was possible right now. When you told him how you fucking hated him and your facial expression held more emotion during that declaration than he’d seen in weeks. 

Marco had tried to empathize with you as best he could but he never got very far. His devotion to Whitebeard was so strong, he’d do anything to make his Captain’s health improve. He already had by betraying his oath to do no harm and keeping you aboard the ship. Marco would gladly have traded six hours of his day for Whitebeard, it wasn’t like you were working hard. All you had to do was sit in a chair with your arm on an arm rest and relax. And yes, he knew that you missed your family and friends but it wasn’t like he had murdered you. You’d eventually make your way back to them - Marco knew that even with his assistance Whitebeard was mortal and would eventually pass away. It was a temporary adventure in your life, and frankly, most people would go gaga for the opportunity to sail with Whitebeard. You could be having the time of your life but you chose to spend it moping about the ship. 

What really ruffled Marco’s feathers was everyone was acting like he was the villain, like Marco was the one who was responsible for your torment and despair. Yes, it had been his plan, but everyone commented on how well Pops has been doing, how healthy he looked, how lively Pops was lately. It didn’t go unnoticed by the crew how vigorously Pops crushed Teach’s lifeless body once the traitor had finally been defeated. Everyone was pleased with the outcome but they didn’t want to get their own hands dirty by taking care of you.  It was easy to accuse Marco of being unsympathetic and cold but no one was helping you escape, were they? Everyone wanted you to remain and to use your blood but they didn’t want to have to feel bad about it. Marco shook his head trying to clear the negative thoughts. He needed to figure out some way to apologize for making you give blood without causing further deterioration to your relationship. He lazily tightened the circles he was flying in and flew down to land on the deck. He went below deck after shifting back into his human form, finally ready to speak to you. He had to remain sensitive, this was probably the first time you’d had a near death experience. Even before he ate his Devil Fruit, being a pirate came with a certain level of risk. Marco was used to the danger of the high seas but that would be foreign to you as a civilian. Keeping that in mind, Marco headed towards Thatch’s cabin where he assumed you were. You’d hardly left the Commander’s side since Teach had tried to murder you, likely in an attempt to make yourself feel more secure. Listening from outside the cabin, he heard Thatch speaking to you in his deep voice and you responding occasionally to his questions. 

Your POV

There was no other way to say it - you were hiding in Thatch’s room after your time in the infirmary. You felt completely depleted in mind, body, and spirit as you looked through the assorted books Thatch had in his room. Turned out he liked poetry and once upon a time you had too. But since you’d been brought on the ship your interest had dwindled. You ran your finger down the spine of a familiar book, a popular volume of romantic poems. At some point you thought all you ever wanted out of life was someone to care for you and love you like the people in the poems but it turned out you craved more important things -  like freedom and autonomy. Even so, you plucked the slim book off the shelf and turned it over in your hands, opening it to the bookmarked spot Thatch had left. 

A knock at the door had you whimpering in distress. You were never so jumpy before coming on the ship but now you startled at the tiniest noise. The door opened to reveal a concerned looking Thatch on the other side. Your cheeks heated as the chef came closer to check on you again. Thatch had been practically babysitting you since the events of the previous day and you felt awful for taking up so much of his precious time. You didn’t want to be a burden on the one person who seemed to care how you were feeling and maybe gave a shit about you.

“How ya doin’ Baby Pie?” Thatch asked, approaching you slowly. You tried to put on a cheery front so he didn’t come home to a dour loser every time he wanted to rest in his room.

“I’m good. I’m just, um, relaxing. I’m gonna go though, sorry. You can have your room back, I’m sure you want some alone time,” you said apologetically, closing the book and moving to replace it on the shelf near the couch before you left.

“I don’t want alone time, I came to see you. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you’d like. You don’t have to go back to that other room,” Thatch said quietly. You hadn’t actually thought about where you’d go if Thatch wanted his room back. The thought of going back to the room where you nearly died wasn’t in the realm of possibility for you. Maybe you could find a room in the infirmary that was far from the phlebotomy room? But Marco wouldn’t go for that, you didn’t even have to ask. Beds were scarce and needed to injured crew, not frightened civilians.

“What’re you thinkin’ about Porkchop?” Thatch asked, plopping down on the small couch in his cabin. He held out his arms and spread his legs, a silent call for you to come sit on his lap. It felt childish to constantly seek out touch but you feet were propelling themselves towards the chef anyway. As you neared he scooped you up and placed you in his lap, wrapping his warm arms around you. You leaned into him, even the smell of oil imbued his chef’s coat not ruining your moment. 

“Porkchop?” you asked lightly, nuzzling into him. You felt  there was something building between the two of you but you didn’t want to address it right now. You were a little vulnerable and wanted some leeway in case your growing feelings weren’t reciprocated. You’d live in delusion land for just a bit longer before you brought yourself back to reality and talked to Thatch about your crush. 

“Mm. Guess that wasn’t one of my better ones, eh? You can go back to being Sugar,” Thatch teased, squishing you between his muscled arms. He gently took the book from your hands, turning it over so the cover was showing. “You like poetry?” he asked softly, the fingers of his other hand drawing circles on your thigh.

“Yeah, guess so,” you answered, eyes already closing. You hadn’t been able to truly rest without Thatch around, feeling too unsafe and anxious to fall asleep. Eventually you would have to get over it and be an adult again but the chef was too comforting for your own good. A knock at the door had you stiffening up immediately. Thatch’s arms tightened around you as he beckoned to whoever was behind the door. You bristled as you saw Marco pushing in the door, his face sour like he’d eaten a crate of lemons. If Thatch wasn’t there you would have tried to take your chances by running again but you knew there was no way that you’d be able to escape the two of them together. But maybe Marco wasn’t there to talk to you, maybe he needed more from you, more time in the phlebotomy room, more blood coming out of your arm -

“I did six hours! I promise! I can’t - please -” you went straight to begging, trying to push Thatch’s arms off of you.

“No no. It’s not that yoi. You did fine today. I came to apologize to you,” Marco stated plainly. You didn’t respond, unsure what Marco was playing at. He’d never apologized to you before, why was he starting now? Sure he made you give blood the day after you were almost murdered but that was practically par for the course. You knew he didn’t feel bad about kidnapping you or using you but you were curious what he would say.

“I’m going to give the two of you privacy but I won’t be far,” Thatch said, taking you off his lap and placing you on the small couch. You made a small sound of protest and looked up at him with doleful eyes. You didn’t want to be left alone with Marco, especially not after you told him off not too long prior. Marco didn’t seem to take anything you said too personally but you also hadn’t told him to fuck off before either. After Thatch left the room it became awkward and quiet as you waited for Marco to continue his thought. Marco came inside and shut the door, leaving just the sound of the waves against the sides of the ship.

“I came to apologize for making you donate -”

“Give,” you corrected Marco. You’d never been so bold before but maybe almost dying would do that to a person.

“Pardon?” Marco asked, now crossing his arms and leaning against the wall.

“I don’t donate my blood. You take it,” you replied. You wished that your voice had held out for the whole sentence - you squeaked out the end. Marco bristled and you scooted backwards, putting more distance between the two of you. 

“Yes, I suppose that's true yoi,” Marco conceded as he set his jaw. You regretted saying anything - if Marco was in the mood to play nice you shouldn't have spoiled it. Marco closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath before he continued, crossing his arms and drumming his fingers along his bicep, as if this entire conversation was irritating him. 

“As I was saying, I am sorry for taking your blood today. I should have listened to you and let you rest. As a doctor, I know the importance of mental health as it affects the body and it was an oversight in my error to not let you recover yoi. You can have tomorrow off even though it does affect Whitebeard’s chemotherapy schedule,” Marco finished waving his hand in your direction. He paused as if he was waiting for something. 

“Thank you,” you gritted out through your teeth. Marco didn’t seem to notice your tone but did give you a curt nod as if he was expecting your thanks, like he was granting you a huge favor for not forcibly taking your blood for one single fucking day. You wanted to roll your eyes and kick him out but it wasn’t your room in the first place. 

“I hope you understand how much this affects everyone else yoi,” Marco said coldly. You wanted to retort back that being nearly murdered affected you badly when the door creaked open again.

“Marco, your apology sucks,” Thatch said, folding his arms across his chest. Marco bristled but didn’t say anything further. “No man, come on. Say something real,” Thatch prodded Marco as he blocked the door with his wide frame and tacitly prevented Marco from leaving. Marco looked at his brother, shifting his weight onto one foot. He exhaled and walked over, sitting down near you on the couch. You’d been near Marco many many times but never in a casual setting like this. You almost gave him your arm out of reflex but were able to stifle the impulse at the last moment. Marco considered you with his blue eyes, like he was really seeing you as a person for the first time. He put his hands on his knees and began speaking to you softly.

“I am sorry you were almost killed. I truly am. That shouldn’t have happened and you’re not used to anything remotely like that. I’m not going to say I understand because I don’t and I can’t imagine how terrified you must have been yoi. I know you didn’t choose to be here with us and that you’d rather be home. I know. So for what it’s worth, I am sorry that you almost died. It wasn’t your fault and I’m not sure how much my promise to keep you safe is worth anymore yoi.” Marco gazed at you intensely while he spoke. You didn’t know where to look so you kept your eyes trained on your lap. Marco continued in the same calm tone.

“That being said, no, I’m not sorry for what I did today. You’re not the most important person on the ship. I’m not the most important person on the ship - it has always been and will always be Whitebeard. So yes, you get tomorrow off to recover but after that you have to go back yoi. None of us have a choice. I wish things were different, that I could drop you off on the next island, but life isn’t that simple. There’s a lot hanging in the balance, a lot more than you know. There are so many people, islands, territories that need Whitebeard’s protection. Even though you don’t want to be here, you play an important role in the fate of the world and I can’t let you go. Not yet. Can you understand that? Or at least try?”

You blinked rapidly at Marco’s statements, this the most raw emotion you’d ever heard from Marco since you’d met him. He always kept his true feelings guarded, crafting each sentence carefully to construct a meaning that didn’t necessarily match his own opinions. You preferred this real Marco to the palatable version he presented to you - at least you knew where you stood now. You looked at him as he waited for you to respond, his half lidded eyes still studying you.

“O-okay. I understand,” you said quietly, turning over Marco’s words in your mind. Thatch stood up and moved in the room giving Marco space to leave. Marco nodded at you and left, shutting the door quietly behind him. You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding and looked over at a gently smiling Thatch.

“Seems like we have a day to plan,” he said, clapping his hands together. 

“Oh, uh, I didn’t think - you still have to work though, right? It’s just me, I wasn’t expecting -” Thatch crossed the room and sat back down right next to you on the couch. Reaching onto the bookshelf he pulled off a large thesaurus and opened it, revealing a bottle of rum hidden inside. Uncorking it, he took a swig and offered it to you as well. You must have looked surprised because Thatch furrowed his brow in mock confusion.

“What? It’s the least likely book for anyone to pick up. They’d have to first use the dictionary to find out what a thesaurus is. Anyway I got good crew under me, they can handle everything for a day. We’re celebrating starting tonight, take a sip,” he said, pushing the bottle into your hands. You hadn’t had alcohol since Marco had banned you after catching you drinking three beers. The hard liquor burned your throat as it went down, warming you all the way. 

“What’re we celebrating?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“You,” he said, laying a muscled arm across your back, his hand hooking around your upper arm. He pulled you into his own body, your head now leaning against his own shoulder. You snorted but didn’t object as you handed back the bottle to Thatch.

A few hours later you stumbled out of Thatch’s room. You really didn’t have all that much to drink but your tolerance was low from abstaining for so long. You wanted to catch a shower in the women’s bathroom before you went to bed - you hadn’t had a proper one since before the…event.  Walking down the now dark hallway towards the women’s quarters, you heard a conversation in progress. You thought you heard your name so you waited before turning the corner, curious to hear what the crew was saying about you.

“Tough break for that Bloodbag, eh?” you heard someone say around the corner. They called you -  Bloodbag…? Is that what everyone referred to you as when you weren’t around? You waited where you were, you wanted to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation even though you were already on the verge of tears. 

“Yeah, I mean who knew Teach had it in him? Not the killing, killing her would be easy. I’m saying the betrayal part -”

“I know, to hurt your own crew -”

“Well, she’s not crew exactly, she’s more like -”

“Like Marco’s pet, or medicine for Pops or whatever. Still would suck to be murdered by Teach though. Nasty bastard had to be put down by Captain himself. But yeah, I get you, it’s like stabbing Pops yourself. Good thing she lived,” someone continued.

“Yeah, then we would have had to find another Bloodbag. It took so long to find that one in the first place, we’d have to start all over again…” the second man trailed off as their voices and footsteps receded while they walked down the hall towards the infirmary. 

Oh.

Your mind went blank as you processed what you heard, standing in the hallway unmoving for a few moments. Being tipsy didn’t help as you replayed their words in your mind over and over. You began to move robotically towards the bathrooms again, gripping your towel tightly in your hands. You didn’t really know how to feel at that moment - in some ways you were happy that the bandage had been ripped off your wound. You always suspected that the crew didn’t care about you and this had confirmed it. At least these two were being honest as opposed to Marco and Thatch and Whitebeard or anyone else who was kind of nice to you. 

You spaced out for some time while your body continued to move. Your brain was consumed with going over the overheard conversation and you later found yourself in the women’s bathrooms. You were sitting in the communal bath, staring at the tiled floor wringing a washcloth between your hands. Your fingers, toes and palms were wrinkly, clueing you to the fact that you’d been in there for a while and the soreness in your fingers meant you’d been wringing the cloth for a while. None of that really mattered though. Even though the water was now cool you remained in the bath, sinking down to your neck. A firm knock resounded on the door, breaking you from your trance and making the water slosh as you sat up quickly.

“Who - who is it?” you called out. Any of the nurses wouldn’t have knocked and you guessed a killer would have just come right in.  

“It’s Marco,” a familiar but muffled voice said through the thick wood. Drying yourself in a towel and covering your body in a fluffy robe, you padded towards the door. Cracking it open you saw it was indeed Marco and you pushed it open more widely.

“S-sorry, was I in here too long?” you asked, tucking your wet hair behind your ear.

“Yes, and now you’re cold but that’s not why I’m here yoi. I think we both overheard a conversation earlier that wasn’t ideal,” he said, his earlier casualness forgotten.

“You mean the bloodbag thing? I mean it wasn’t great but -” you started, minimizing your feelings. Maybe you’d journal or something later but now that you knew how things really were you didn’t feel like pouring your heart out to Marco again.

“It wasn’t appropriate and those involved are being punished -”

“Not appropriate? I - you're gonna try and deny it? Gonna try and tell me I'm anything else? I don’t care and I don’t have the energy for this. Thanks for the day off tomorrow, I’ll see you the day after," you said, shrugging your shoulders. You sidled past Marco, walking out of the bathroom. Marco extended his arm but retracted his hand, letting you pass without further incident.

You didn't know where to go now that you were tired and ready for bed - in your foolish heart you wanted to go back to Thatch’s room. But after that blood bag conversation you weren't sure if he actually enjoyed your presence or just spent time with you out of obligation to his captain. It would certainly make sense for Marco and Thatch to work together, you were much more compliant for Thatch than you were for Marco. Maybe they were playing you off one another to get you more amicable to the situation you were in. You passed the turn to Thatch's hall but kept going, avoiding the now familiar room.

You plodded on until you reached your old room, the one that - you pushed that memory out of your head as you opened the door and looked around. Someone had cleaned your walls and brought in new furniture to replace the broken furnishings. Taking a deep breath, you stepped into the room and shut the door. 

[crazybrookie]

✥Where the Swans Sleep♱

FMA 2003 | Angst | Edward Elric x Reader | One-shot♱

Year: 2005

Age: 100

Edward Elric never believed he’d live to see triple digits. There had been too many battles, too much blood spilled, too many close calls. His younger self would’ve scoffed at the idea of growing old, wrinkled, and slow. But here he was.

Alone.

The years hadn’t been kind, but they hadn’t been cruel either. There was laughter. There were stories. There were children—his children. And then, their children. And their children. He had a family. A legacy. A home.

But all of it felt… hollow now.

Because you were gone.

You, his beloved. His swan.

The two of you had once been young and wild, navigating the uncertainties of life together with worn-out boots and a shared bedroll. You had seen his scars, physical and emotional. You had held him when the guilt for Alphonse’s fate was too much to bear. You had kissed the metal where his arm once was. You had danced with him barefoot in the rain.

But even swans grow old. And you had aged gracefully—smiling through each wrinkle, loving through each pain. Last year, in 2004, you fell asleep beside him, the way you always had.

You just… didn’t wake up.

Edward remembered the stillness in the room that morning. How your hand, once so warm, had grown cold in his grasp. He remembered whispering your name, at first gently, then desperately. He remembered pressing his forehead to yours and begging the universe to give you back, just one more day.

But even alchemy had its limits.

⸻

Now, in 2005, Edward Elric sat in the old rocking chair, a faded photograph clutched tightly in his trembling hands. It was of you, from decades ago—smiling softly, eyes full of the love that never aged.

The house was quiet, filled only with the soft ticking of a clock and the breeze outside brushing against the windows.

He closed his eyes.

And breathed one last time.

⸻

The door creaked open the next morning, followed by the pitter-patter of feet. His great-great-grandchildren rushed in, calling his name excitedly, ready to hear another wild tale of alchemy and love.

“Grandpa Ed?”

No answer.

They found him in his chair, still and peaceful. His lips held a faint smile. His hand held the picture of the woman they had only known through stories—the one who taught the Fullmetal Alchemist how to love.

And they cried, but it was a soft kind of sorrow. The kind that understands love doesn’t end. It just changes form.

⸻

Light.

That’s all he saw.

Then… warmth.

He opened his eyes and gasped softly, a weight lifting from his chest. His body—strong again. His limbs—whole again. His automail was gone. His youth had returned.

He looked down at his hands, then around the field he now stood in. It was familiar, but dreamlike. Soft golden light stretched across the horizon, trees swaying gently in the wind. It felt like the place he once saw in a dream, long ago.

Then—

“Edward.”

That voice.

His head snapped around, and there you were.

Just as he remembered you from the very beginning—radiant, alive, smiling just for him.

He didn’t hesitate. He ran, feet carrying him faster than he’d moved in decades. You met him halfway. Your arms wrapped around him, and his around you.

You laughed softly. He cried.

“I missed you,” he choked.

“I waited,” you whispered. “Just like we said we would. Like swans.”

He nodded, burying his face in your shoulder. “One can’t live without the other.”

And in that place beyond time, where swans sleep and hearts don’t break anymore, Edward Elric was finally home.

[starlightsuffered]

Forget the Past

Info - angst Fic, some dub con, ascended Paul, unprotected sex, political marriage, technical cheating, yearning, Fremen reader, mention of having children

I spat blood out of my mouth as I was thrown to the floor of the emperor’s palace. Emperor, that very word sent chills through my bones. He was not my leader, not my king, and definitely, not my emperor. I had sworn it since that day he had declared it. I would not bow to him.

I tried to struggle to my feet. I didn’t think the emperor himself would deign to see a single lowly Fremen that had been caught, but I didn’t want to kneel regardless.

I was harshly pushed down every time I tried to lift myself on aching ankles. I was covered in muck and blood. Sand must’ve been in every crevice of my body. I wanted to wash off in the Fremen pools, and sleep, but my entire life was about to change. I’d been captured and there was nothing I could do.

“Y/n,” said a gasp. I lifted my head and locked eyes with him.

It had been half a decade since he’d taken Princess Irulan’s hand and declared a Holy War. He’d tried to contact me. He’d tried to send messages to me. I’d ignored everything he’d done. He would not be the saviour of my people. He was our next oppressor.

He was still beautiful though he was not the boy I’d once known. His dark curls and piercing eyes still made my heart pound a little faster. I couldn’t believe he’d known who I was under the blood and rubble. Yes, he’d tried to contact me, but that had stopped years ago. I assumed now he rested with his empire and his new wife.

“Take her to the bath house,” Paul said with a flick of his fingers.

“But your Greatness, Emperor, she is a traitor. She is one of the ones who does not follow your golden path to paradise,” argued the guard. They should have known better.

“LISTEN!” The bene gesserit gift of the voice echoed through the room. I hated that awful power. He was more foreign than he ever was when he used that manipulation tactic.

“Take her to the finest bath chamber we have. Give her a robe and clothing, but watch the doors. Do not let her escape,” Paul said, and with a flash of his robe, he was gone.

I was treated kindly. Their fingers did not dig into my skin. I was not shoved as I had been before. The fear and awe of the Emperor was great and fierce enough to have them obey even when out of his eye sight.

I remembered when he’d been a younger man. His large eyes and cautious ways had made me fond of him. He had let me teach him so many things. He had been so willing to learn. Now I assumed he thought that he knew all and saw all.

I bathed in the luxurious water. I couldn’t believe he’d wasted so much on me. I normally would have refused but men were stationed outside my door to make sure that I did as I was told.

I attempted to use as little as possible. It was not Fremen to use water so lavishly. I was disassociating though. I didn’t feel like I was truly in my body. All I saw was green eyes and sharp cheekbones.

I put on the silky pink robe. It was the softest thing I had ever worn. It was also short, and much of my legs were exposed. This too I was not used to. Baring your skin to the Arrakis sun was foolish, but here….. perhaps this place, this palace was more like Caladan.

I remembered how Paul told me it poured water from the skies there. He had promised that one day he would take me there and show me. There were a lot of promises he hadn’t kept.

I smashed my fist against the cold stone wall in defeat. I hated that I still thought of him. I hated that I gave him the time of day even in my mind. He had utterly betrayed me and I doubted he’d given it a second thought. He was the Messiah after all, they didn’t have regrets.

“You’re even more beautiful than the day you left me,” said a voice. It was calm and deep.

I turned to see Paul in the door way. He was in white robes. He looked older, though nothing much had changed about his face. It was his aura.

“I never thought I’d see you again my angel,” he said in a breath. It was the most unsteady he’d sounded this entire time.

He was rushing to me then as if he could not hold himself back. He had me in his strong grip even though I struggled. He was looking over every inch of me. I realised he was making sure I was okay and uninjured.

“Unhand me,” I snarled.

“Y/n, my love, my love,” he gasped. He was pressing his forehead against mine. I didn’t like how I was instantly pulled into his gravity.

“Y/n,” he crooned again. His hand curled into my hair.

“Let me breathe you in.”

“You deserve to breathe in smoke and choke,” I spat.

“My love, it’s me, it’s Paul,” he said. It wasn’t him. It was someone different. It was the Emperor, I didn’t know him.

“You are a married,” was what I raggedly said, though so many other things mattered so much more.

“You know I don’t love her. You are my only,” he told me earnestly.

“Yet there is a wedding ring on your finger.”

“She lives a life of celibacy, as do I. I have saved myself for you,” he whispered. His eyes still were trying to search mine. He was looking desperately for some part of me to tell him he wasn’t crazy for continuing to love me.

“Die,” I growled.

I turned around and made my way to the door. Paul let me go for a moment and then his body was behind me again. His hand was flat on my stomach.

“Paul,” I said with a warning in my voice.

“Please, she means nothing to me,” he promised. “She hasn’t known a moment of my tenderness, not like you have.

I thought of the Fremen lovers I’d taken to blow off steam, to release tension, to forget Muad’Dib, to soothe my wounds, to be held for once in a long while. I didn’t feel a moment of loyalty to them in this moment, but I wished they were here. I needed someone, something to distract me from the light that was Paul. I was an insect careening towards brightness though it was bound to be my downfall.

Had he really stayed loyal to my memory? Had he truly never touched Irulan the way he had me? If this was true, why could he not have loved me enough to not become what he was now?

“I will love you as long as I breathe,” he murmured into my neck. His hand moved lower.

A horrible noise echoed in the chamber. It was me. I was moaning. My body seemed to think it belonged with his. My brain screamed at me as I leaned back against him.

The heel of Paul’s palm was rolling against my clothed pussy. My trembling hand reached up and grabbed at the back of his neck.

“I could snap your neck right now,” I whispered.

“My love,” was all he said in response.

“Paul,” I tried to say. It came out as more of a warbling hum.

He was lifting my robe. I felt the press of his length. I was panting. I knew he’d stop if I used our old safe word, but I couldn’t manage it. How many nights had I craved one more touch from him.

“I never got to say goodbye,” he moaned. His lips were peppering along my throat. My pulse fluttered.

“Oh my darling, let me have you once more?” He pleaded.

“You’re despicable,” I huffed.

“You’re everything,” he responded.

I couldn’t help the way my body melted into his. I was rolling against his hand. I let him push down his pants and rub his member against my wet folds. I wore no panties under the robe.

“May I?”

“Who am I to turn down an Emperor,” I panted.

I was glad I was backed up against him. I didn’t want him to see my eyes as he pushed inside me. It was like every taste of him, every memory, every delicious feeling came back with him.

“You feel like heaven. You are bliss,” he murmured in my ear. He pumped inside me.

I closed my eyes and let go. I let the sounds I wanted to make fall from my mouth. I was keening as he held my hips possessively. He was snapping in and out as he mumbled praises against my skin.

“Perfect, what I was made for. You should be empress. Bare my children, be my goddess,” he pleaded. He didn’t use that harsh Bene Gesserit power on me, but he just pleaded.

Pleasure was erupting over me on chills. I imagined we were back in the dessert. We belonged to one another again. He was on the good side.

It was like we had never been separated. I was part of him again. We were one. I was shaking with the weight and glorious gratification of the connection. If I believed in connected souls, it would have to be us.

“Paul, Paul, Paul,” I repeated.

“I knew you missed me. I thought of you every night. Every time I chastely kissed her goodnight, I imagined it was you, and I imagined it was more than chaste.”

I felt tears fill my eyes. He had to go and ruin it. He had to bring the present into the past. I felt some of the warm light fade.

“Muad’Dib,” I sobbed, unable to call him his other name.

“Call me yours,” he pleaded. My mouth stayed shut.

I tried to lose myself in the lust again. I closed my eyes again and leaned back. I began to speak. I said all the things I’d imagined I’d say if things had been different.

“I stayed up nights thinking about how much I loved you. I didn’t mind the sunshine if I was able to wake up and see your face more clearly,” I mumbled.

“Y/n?” He asked.

“You made me giggle, smile, dream, and more. You made me feel home in a person and not a place.”

“Oh y/n,” he shuddered. He began to move faster. Despite myself, pleasure overwhelmed me. I arched and let out a whine.

“I love you. I never stopped, I never will!” He promised me. He rolled his hips and played with my clit to make it all feel more intense.

“I loved you like the moon loves the stars. I loved you like a flower loves water. You were part of my soul. I wanted to bare your children. I never wanted to imagine a life without you.”

“Yes, that is exactly how I feel. Oh, darling, I’m so close!” He gasped.

He was holding me tight and reverently as he pounded inside me. His lips were attached to my neck. He let out a pant of pure lust and need. His warm seed began to fill me.

I couldn’t help but fall over the edge too. I was doused in swirling stars once again. Once again the world was beautiful as we reached our heights together.

I heard the wetness as he pulled himself out of me. I stepped forward robotically and turned around. Paul’s eyes were glazed over with a film of pure love and satisfaction. This nearly dopey expression, the one I recognised from when we used to make love, fell when he saw the look in my eyes.

“Y/n?”

“Go back to your wife,” I said in a full tone. He was understanding now that everything is said had been past tense.

“Y/n!” His voice was shrill and worried now. He had truly become so haughty he hadn’t expected another rejection.

“Forget the past, Emperor,” I finished with a mock curtsy.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

by Ed Victor

On Sunday, Mohamed Sabry Soliman allegedly hurled two lit Molotov cocktails at a group of peaceful protesters in Boulder, Colorado, who gather each Sunday to demand the release of the 58 hostages still held by Hamas in Gaza. As Soliman, a 45-year-old Egyptian national, threw his homemade bombs at the group, consisting of families and the elderly, he shouted “Free Palestine,” “End Zionists,” and “How many children have you killed?”

Fifteen people were injured in what authorities quickly called a “terror attack.” One of the victims was an 88-year-old Holocaust survivor.

Soliman later said that he had “no regrets” over the attack and that he “wanted them all to die.” He had allegedly been planning the attack for over a year. He tried to purchase a gun but was denied because of his status as an illegal migrant, according to authorities.

Ed Victor, 57, who recently retired from a tech career, was there that day—like every Sunday—and he was extremely lucky to have walked away without any injuries. As you’ll read below, though, witnessing the terror attack up close was an experience that “unquestionably changed” him forever.

I heard a glass break. Then the first thing I felt was the heat. It came out of nowhere. Then I looked to my left, and the older woman near me was on fire.

She crumpled to the ground, the flames following her. This all happened in no more than two to three seconds.

The next few minutes—it couldn’t have been more than one or two—felt like an eternity. My world completely narrowed, rendering me oblivious to my surroundings, to the shirtless man not more than 15 feet away who was yelling “Free Palestine” at us and who had another firebomb in his hand. It never dawned on me that I might be in danger, too, until later that day when I watched a video of the scene that showed me with my back turned to the man, completely unaware of his presence. “Run away!” I told myself through the screen, watching the video. But in the moment, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

My Boy Scouts training from nearly four decades ago kicked in. I saw a fire, and I knew the only way to get out of it was to smother it. There was no water around, from what I could see, but I could also smell the subtle hint of gasoline. Water would never work to put this kind of fire out, I knew. I looked for something, anything I could find. A few Israeli or American flags strewn on the ground—no, they were too thin. So I grabbed the banner, the one we marched behind every Sunday, which read “LET THEM GO NOW.” I was concerned that it could be made of a synthetic material—“What if it lights on fire? We could create a fireball,” I feared. But there was no time, and nothing else in sight I could possibly use, so two others and I laid the banner on top of the agonized woman, trying to put out the flames all over her body.

Once the flames went out, one of my friends who had medical training began tending to the older woman and her wounds. By this point her clothes were tattered, and I noticed burns across her body.

My attention then turned to her husband, an older man standing beside her when the fire erupted. His leg was badly burned, and he watched as his wife lay on the ground in utter pain. He screamed. I can’t remember what he said, but he was distraught beyond distraught.

When the first responders finally arrived, I watched him get loaded into an ambulance. Eventually, I learned he was taken by helicopter to a local hospital.

Last Sunday had begun like any other. It was an overcast spring day. I woke up, put on a shirt, shorts, and a pair of Tevas, and drove from my home in a nearby suburb to Boulder’s Pearl Street Mall to join in the Run for Their Lives walk. I had been to the gathering every Sunday since September 2024, since a visit I took to Israel made me realize how important it was to keep the hostages’ names alive, to show that there were people fighting for them. To me, this rally never had anything to do with Israel. It was always about the hostages still in Gaza.

What bystanders normally notice about our walk is that we are completely quiet. People often hold pictures of hostages, some who have died, and some who are still being held by Hamas in Gaza—now for over 600 days. It wasn’t uncommon for a few bystanders to offer up nods of support or for others to shout “Free Palestine” at us as we walked. We were always instructed not to respond or react to it, so I learned to ignore these things. I never felt unsafe. I never imagined I would feel unsafe walking in downtown Boulder.

The attack occurred just as we gathered in front of the Boulder courthouse to read out the names of the hostages, both those who have been murdered by Hamas and those still held in captivity, and just before we were to sing together the Israeli national anthem, Hatikvah, which literally translates in English to “The Hope.”

I can’t remember much from the time I felt that sensation of heat to the moment that I found myself going from ambulance to ambulance, trying to gather the names of the injured and find out which hospitals they were being taken to so that I could communicate that information to our friends and their families. By the time I finally looked up and took in my surroundings, I could see police putting up caution tape around the area where I had just been standing minutes before. Police were speaking to witnesses.

The man who allegedly threw the firebomb had already been arrested and taken away. As for me, I’ve put up my own internal caution tape. I may never feel comfortable going back to that spot again, though I plan to try and rejoin the march this coming Sunday, one week after the attack. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to go back to that exact space and feel normal. This has unquestionably changed me.

If anyone asks me about how I’m doing, I say I’m okay. But if I dig a little deeper, I’m sad, angry, and outraged. Upon reflection, I have come to realize that “Free Palestine” can mean something for those who want a Palestinian state, but it has also become a rallying cry for killing the Jews. It was the rallying cry for the two people gunned down in Washington, D.C., just two weeks ago. It was the rallying cry in Boulder. That is not okay, and I don’t know what to do about it.

[stinkrascal]

previous | next | beginning

Breanna: It don't hurt, does it? Vladislaus: It is healed, mostly. I am grateful you only took one bite.

Breanna: [ slurping ] You want some of this? Vladislaus: No. Thank you. Breanna: Uhuh. Hey, so is cannibalism a thing with vampires?

Vladislaus: Of course. Cannibalism is found within many species. It is only natural it occurs in our kind as well. Breanna: Oh. I bet that's a big problem. Hey, what about restaurants?

Vladislaus: What about them? Breanna: Do vampires got restaurants? I bet that would help with the cannibalism thing. Vladislaus: There is an entire city at our disposal. There are many such opportunities for fine dining experiences.

Breanna: Huh? Oh. You could've just said yes, but okay. I bet you read a lot.

Breanna: Hey, so do vampires have libraries? Vladislaus: Yes, Breanna. We have libraries. Breanna: Yeah, you sound like you read a lot. Vladislaus: Thank you. Breanna: That wasn't a compliment.

Breanna: Hey, by the way, where are we going? Vladislaus: To the headmaster. She wishes to meet you. Breanna: Oh, right. Hey, so I got another question. Vladislaus: Yes, I'm sure you do.

Breanna: What's that supposed to mean? Vladislaus: Nothing at all. Breanna: I feel like you're making fun of me.

Vladislaus: What is your question, my dear?

Breanna: It was—uh—oh. Yeah. About when I bit you. You were bleeding. And last night, when you cut your hand—you bled then too. How's that work? How do you bleed if you're dead?

Vladislaus: You are mistaken. We are not dead. It is the opposite. As vampires, we are made to live. We experience life in its most concentrated form. Food tastes better, music sounds sweeter, and my God, Breanna, the sex.

Breanna: ...

Vladislaus: ...

Vladislaus: [ clears throat ] My point is, we are not dead, we are more alive than any other. Breanna: That's... good? Right? Frankie: Hey! Heyyyyy! HEEEYYYYYY! HEYY VLADDY DADDY! [ coughs ] ah shit, HEY VLAD! C'MON LITTLE MAN, I KNOW YOU SEE ME!!!!!!! HEYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Vladislaus: Of course. If you pay no mind to the minor setbacks. Breanna: Huh? What setbacks?

Vladislaus: The part where we eat the flesh of innocents, my sweet summer child. Breanna: Oh. How'd you know my birthday's in the summer? Frankie: C'mon peepaw! Get some fuckin' hearin' aids! [ whistles ] Yoohoo! Over hereee!

Breanna: Who's that guy over there? I think he's calling for you.

Breanna: Hello? Mr. Straud? Are you listening to me?

Breanna: Do you know that guy? Vladislaus: [ clears throat ] No. Vladislaus: [ in Frankie's mind ] Leave me alone. Frankie: Aww, c'mon, you don't gotta be like— Vladislaus: [ in Frankie's mind ] I SAID LEAVE. Frankie: Agh, get outta my head ya pervert.

Breanna: It kinda seems like you know him. Vladislaus: [ clears throat, louder this time ] As I was saying--our powers come at a great cost. You will do well to remember that. Breanna: Huh? Oh. You're still on that. I don't really care to be honest.

Vladislaus: You should. You were human not 24 hours ago. Would you turn your back on your people so quickly? Breanna: Who's my people? They're lucky I'm nice enough to stick to blood packs. Vladislaus: The blood packs are a byproduct of our sin.

Vladislaus: For every blood pack you consume, someone must die. Someone must be slaughtered. Breanna: Get off your high horse dude, you're a vampire too. If you think it's so bad you shouldn't have asked to be turned. Vladislaus: Is that what you believe?

Vladislaus: [ sighs ] Forgive me. I am being haughty. Truthfully, I envy your nature. You are suited for this life. This world was not made for me, and every interaction I have reminds me so.

Vladislaus: You, however, seem very good at enjoying yourself. You seek decadence, do you not? Vampirism is a decadent lifestyle. You will thrive. I can already tell. Breanna: ...Oh.

Breanna: [ giggles ] That sounds fun.

Breanna: You make me sound like I put some thought into it.

[the-other-art-blog]

🌊Benophie Symbolism: Water (Fluidity, Freedom, Prismatism, and Queer characters)🌊

Ever since I read an AOFAG, I thought water was important for Benophie. I posted it a few months ago here (x).

Benedict's fav color is blue because it reminds him of a lake in Aubrey Hall

Sophie arrived at Penwood House during a rainy July day

Benophie gets caught in the rain on their way to My Cottage

Obvs, the lake scene

The bath scene

Just like Polin's thing is carriages and mirrors, Benophie's is water. Even Luke T mentioned it during the Valentine's Day event. Before entering the s4 era, I thought it was just a fun element in their love/romantic scenes. But it can have a deeper meaning and on the show, it can be a powerful visual.

Benedict's pansexuality

Though the regency character would not be familiar with our modern concepts, Luke T and Jess have said Benedict's identity is closer to a pansexual person, making him one of the two confirmed LGTBQ+ Bridgerton siblings.

For anyone wondering how they will explore Benedict's sexuality if he marries Sophie, here's an idea!

(Just to be clear, Benedict is pansexual no matter what, he doesn't have to prove himself to anyone, or sleep, or marry anyone in particular.)

Water has been a symbol for the artistic LGTBQ+ community for decades. Artists, from painters to filmmakers, have used it to illustrate queer journeys because it symbolizes fluidity, transformation, and freedom. Trans woman Lili Elbe painted water bodies before transitioning, while Moonlight and Portrait of A Lady on Fire have water scenes.

(Btw, I hope to see at least one bridge, too, to symbolize the connection between separate worlds. Yerin described Sophie as a bridge between the servants and the ton.)

I don't think Benedict's arc can be complete without him coming out to Sophie and his family. Sophie will accept him the same way he will choose her despite being a maid. I don't know if there's going to be a subplot about the LGTBQ+ community next season, but at least Ben should feel safe to be honest with his family.

EDIT: I forgot to mention, do you remember the rain/cottage scene in WHWW??? Franchaela is gonna have a water scene too!!!!

Peace v. turmoil

Water can also be a peaceful environment or a turbulent one. I'm thinking of the contrast between John Constable's landscapes and Turner's. The former represents a very quiet nature in the countryside; the latter portrays nature's imposing and terrifying force through storms.

Benedict and Sophie are caught in a storm when they remeet in Wiltshire. But their time at My Cottage is so peaceful and relaxing they let their guards down.

I'm focusing mainly on Benedict here because he's the one who's been confirmed to be pansexual, but I'm all for headcanons about Sophie and Jess may surprise us once again in s4.

More fluidity

Fluidity is not only related to Benedict's sexuality. Luke T mentioned how Benedict's struggle is that he's good at many things, he can wear many hats. He could be an artist and a poet, but he could also take charge of the family's estate. Benedict can transform and be whoever he needs to be without committing to any role. It's a blessing and a curse. Sophie has been forced to transform into new roles: from granddaughter to ward, to servant, to the Lady in Silver, to housemaid, to lady's maid.

And of course, Sophie's famous line:

Water is PRISMATIC

Remember when Yerin described Benedict and Sophie's character arcs as "prismatic". She explained how light touches a prism and a rainbow comes out. Impressionists like Monet liked to paint water because they could play with the reflection of light and how it changed in an instant to reveal more colors.

Benedict and Sophie have been hiding their real selves for a long time.

Sophie has been trapped in a miserable existence because she's the earl's bastard. That's all that people care about, but she's so much more than that. She's a wonderful person that almost no one notices because prejudices and classism weigh more in society.

Meanwhile, Benedict has been hiding behind his humor and carefree nature because he's afraid to be who he really is, an artist. He has impostor syndrome, he's terrified of failing, so he pretends he's fine. When Anthony intervened to get him into the Academy, he gave him the perfect excuse to quit and blame someone else. Like Sophie said,

Surface v underwater

All of this is deeply connected and what excites me is that we may see this reflected in the script.

In the audition tape that leaked, there is this piece of dialogue:

You see?! Water metaphor!!!!

Oh! This is exciting, very exciting.

Of course, the script can change and we may never hear these lines on the show. After all, this was just for an audition tape, but I find it curious how the writers added them anyway.

Oh, and just to keep hoping on more water scenes with Benophie. I would like to suggest a scene like this one in s5:

I got many more posts about Benophie and Bridgerton season 4 under the tag: #benophie wish list

🪁Kites (and a possible scene idea that ties to Sophie's Korean heritage?) 🪁

🐝🪨Benedict's rock collection, and bees (grief)🐝🪨

🪜Sophie's journey in the staircase (quotes from AOFAG)🪜

💎💜Benophie Iconography: Amethyst (Korea, stone properties, and Sophie's mother(s))💎💜

🎭Masks (quotes from AOFAG)🎭

[lenoralmk]

So I have a story idea and it's been swirling around my head for weeks but I know its too big for me to write and even ambitious to draw and I have no where else to put it so here we go!

After their big show down, the Lamb chooses to kill Narinder and immediately regrets it. Goes home to the cult where everyone's cheering and celebrating. Locks themselves in their tent, lays on the floor, and goes deep into mourning for a couple weeks. Faith is starting to waver and rumors are flying within the cult but they can't bring themselves to care- why should they care about the cult they started in the name of the god they just killed? It all seems so meaningless now that Narinder is no longer waiting.

Then one day they suddenly realize- they left Narinder's body. They've preformed so many resurrections they've lost count- all they need is a body.

They run back to the gateway. Even if they cannot bring Narinder back from the dead, they can at least give him a proper burial- not leave him to rot away in his prison for a moment longer.

They are denied entry.

An unnamed being blocks their path, speaking about the bishops fates as if the Lamb should care. They tell it as such and explains they only care about bringing Narinder back.

The Mystic Seller offers a deal without saying the words. The bishops are removed from purgatory and Narinder will be their reward.

It breaths new life into the infant god of death.

They do as they've done for decades- fighting their way through the bishops territories, growing the cult, getting stronger. All with the thought of Narinder burning within them.

They keep the bishops alive. Hoping that offering his siblings lives to take could be seen as an apology for the Lambs betrayal. They don't mean to become civil with the bishops, but it happens. They offer guidance as former gods, both with the growing cult and their growing power. They also offer something no one else can- stories about Narinder. Overtime, the Lamb grows fond of them.

But their fate is not the Lambs to decide.

Finally, with all the bishops free, the Lamb returns to the Mystic Seller. It is satisfied that things have been made right. Lamb doesn't care- give him Narinder.

The Mystic Seller goes quiet. It stays quiet. Narinder does not emerge from the blinding white behind it.

"He is gone."

Gone? Gone?! How can he be gone?!

The Mystic Seller cannot give them Narinder. Even while dead, Narinder was a former god of death. Of course he had some control over the domain he ruled for centuries. He ensured Aym, Baal, and himself passed on peacefully into their next lives years ago. All three are far beyond reach.

The depression the Lamb sinks into is handled better then last time. The former bishops step up, acting as disciples and managing the cult while the Lamb pulls themself together. They lean on each other, all of them mourning Narinder.

Years pass. Lamb keeps moving forward. The cult expands, claiming more territory and finding allies. One of the newest allies is a large, nomadic colony of cats. They offer amazing trade with goods from distant lands.

One member of the colony is a tall cat with sleek black fur and eyes a deep orange that almost look red. He's one of the best hunters in the colony. He is the middle child in a family of five siblings who he loves deeply. He goes by the name Naren, but the Lamb knows deep in their soul-

They just found Narinder.

And then some more stuff happens like Lamb needing to convince Naren and his siblings to join the cult instead of continuing to travel with the colony and the bishops being mad jealous seeing Naren interact with his siblings and Lamb finding a way to make Naren remember his past life as Narinder. Maybe I'll draw some stuff from this later, but it was good to get it out.