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whambambatfam · 8 hours ago

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Webs of a Wing

Chapter 2

I wanted to post once a month and had this chapter ready to go when I posted the first. Then I suddenly decided to add a bunch more a few days along and almost didn't post on time... It's 12:10 but, close enough. Also, I fought for my life trying to figure out how to tag people for some reason..

Anyway! Founding your family time with the slay girls. My knowledge in the MCU is as vast as in DCU so, quite small.

I hope you like it!

Reader ages 10 - 12

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It starts to feel less disappointing to see that they never show up. Of course, Alfred always tries to make the time; he's your number one support.

You didn't ask for everyone's attention, you didn't want it, only theirs. Not looked up to on a pedestal, watched over from afar, like A doll on the shelf. All you asked for is a connection, real and human.

Yet, you could never achieve it, so you stopped trying. You stopped reaching out to hands that were never extended to you. If you're not wanted, then you won't bother. You won't waste your time. You had Alfred when you could, another observer in their lives. In this, you find your own kind of family, away from the manor, forming connections and bonds that follow you through your school years. One girl in particular was a catalyst for accepting others into your life.

“Hey! Can you give your opinion on the after-school club uniforms?” You're halted in the halls by a redhead gripping your shoulders.

You blink at her owlishly, “Uh, wha-?”

Noting your confusion, she introduces herself, “Ah, name’s Mary, Mary Jane Watson. You can call me MJ.” Her arm slips around your shoulder as she guides you along.

“Um, hi, Mj.” You relax ever so slightly when you give her your first name and she doesn't immediately pounce on you for a surname.

Wiping out a notepad, she finally explains, “So, I write the school paper’s fashion articles and I've noticed you join, like, a lot.”

“Oh. Yeah..” Tilting your head at her, you’re still very lost as to why you were the one singled out.

But she just smiles, “Come with me. I need to know about everything they make you wear.” She says as if she plans to drag you away.

She wanted you to show her every blazer, letterman, vest, and so forth. Not ready to bring a stranger to the mansion she compromises. Choosing to meet after your clubs. It's nice to have someone waiting for you, other than Alfred. You don't wish to be her model, to her disappointment. Instead, opting to go behind the camera. Mj squeals in delight as you give her free range on the available gear. Styling and posing a hundred times for each uniform.

You've come to know her as a kind-hearted, fairly popular, carefree girl. One who often weaponized these traits to her advantage, especially when it comes to getting a good story. After her article on club fashion is released, a big hit around school, she doesn't let you go. Insisting she needs someone to help her with photos for her real passion, modeling. That's how you found yourself snapping shots of MJ throughout the school day and between clubs. You would feel like a creeper if it wasn't for the fact that she practically demands it.

On occasion, this has left you at odds with those who thought themselves better company for your friend to keep. She wouldn’t put up with such nonsense, not that you minded it all that much. You didn't have anyone, throwing themselves at your feet, over the wealth and fame over a name. One you didn't even feel the right to associate yourself with. Instead, you were just another middle schooler who was strangely acquainted with someone who others saw as highly desirable

It cemented your friend when she asked you to pick her up for a weekend shoot on a small bridge at the park. The modest one-floor house was surrounded by an unkempt yard and a rusted link chain fence. A rather loud argument pictures the walls as you watch every bit of movement you can see behind the crumpled curtains. Your fingers are anxiously twisting the strap slung over your shoulder, bag packed generously by Alfred with two lunches. Finally, hurling one last shout over her shoulder, Mj emerged. Her arm links with yours and before you can speak she’s all but dragging you down the street.

She didn't say anything until you two were in the middle of setting up your first shot. stumbling over her words, she tries to tell you that what you heard wasn’t really that bad, that her dad just had a few drinks, that really they weren’t even yelling, and actually it wasn’t something to worry about if you are worried. There was an abnormal casualty of which she spouts anything to pacify whatever she thinks your reaction will be. Only the deep sorrow in her eyes told you the truth of the pain and strife she was pushing down.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” You peer from behind the camera,

“Can I just.. complain about it?”

An appreciative smile pulls at her lips as you continue to capture her image. You didn’t expect an explanation, didn’t need one. She stopped trying to reason. Instead, she spoke, and you listened. Then, everything came almost at once, from her sister leaving to her father drinking and even her mother's illness. For a moment, you wonder if your father could do anything for her. You just as quickly push the naive thought away, why would such a man do something like that for a friend of yours?

Her lips curl into a satisfied smile as she clicks through the camera. “You know, you have a knack for catching my good side.” She tucks it away before tossing you a juice box from the bag.

“All your sides are good sides.” You hum, poking your straw through it.

This earns you an unstifled giggle, “Good answer, tiger.” Mj winks at you before tucking the camera back into its carry case, “Seriously, you've mastered the cam. Not that I want to lose my personal photographer, but have you considered joining the paper?”

You suck the last of the juice from the box with a raised brow, “I dunno, ‘might have to drop a few other things..” Swishing the contents as if contemplating. Really thought, it was an easy answer and you already decided to drop most of the clubs you only joined to fill time. Not to mention you were already familiar with helping and it was fun to work with your friend.

“Come on, me and you, together. I’ll do the writing and posing for pictures while you do the editing and taking pictures.” She clutches your hands in hers, fingers intertwined, “We’ll literally be the hottest journalist team.” Her emerald eyes are wide and pleading as she gazes up at you.

“Don't let her trick you into doing her work for her.” The scoff of another girl comes from behind you.

You recognized her as Gwen Stacy, another girl from your grade. She flips her blond hair over her shoulder as she makes her way onto the small bridge. The two of you had been using the foliage-obscured spot for your photo shoot. Coming to stand before them, blue eyes scanning Mj up and down. Mary Jane crosses her arms giving the scrutinizing look back.

She scoffs at the blond, “How do you know they don't want to?”

Gwen raises a brow at her, “Who would?” She offers back with a scoff of her own.

You jump in before proverbial knives can meet throats. “Actually, I like taking pictures for MJ.”

Gwen cocks her head at you, “Then join the photography club.”

Mj huffs, “Not if you want to actually, ya know, do something with your life.”

You step in again as the two wind up to take more jabs at each other. “Hey, um, ‘think I'll stick to what I've got..” Lifting the camera to Gwen she furrows her brows looking closer at your picture, “I've never even owned a camera before, but I'm having fun with Mj and I think doing the paper could be nice.”

She slips the device from your grasp, clicking through each picture. “You're actually really good..” Peeking up at you, she smiles sheepishly, “Can you take pictures of me too?”

While the two have their differences every now and then, you were always together. You left most of your clubs, having only picked them up for that void made by your family. Now you have people to fill the holes that they left behind.

While you'd never met, you’re familiar with the GCPD Captain, through your family's close ties with the commissioner. Who would have guessed that you would find yourself in his living room as Gwen dragged you along? Shaking his head with amusement as he watches he shut the two of you away in her room. Gwen had offered a hangout to help you with your scheduling if you helped her with her own. It was interesting to see all the things she was balancing. A focus in stem with an emphasis in chemistry but, with a blossoming interest in modeling.

Something she admits sheepishly, revealing the offer to do a small shoot she's been recruited for, “I sent in a headshot you did, and well I didn’t think I'd actually get it. Who knows..” She shrugged nonchalantly despite the turbulence on her face, “Maybe it'll help me with college too.” Legs stretching out across her bed, she nudges your shared piles of junk aside, her feet resting at your side.

You mirror her positing from the opposite end of her bed, “Collage? already?? I don't think we have to take it so seriously yet.” Collecting the pile of disheveled papers in your hands, you shuffle them off to the side to be put away later. “Not that getting in would be hard for you. I guess you already know what you want to be but, it's okay to have other interests.”

Smiling at her with reassurance infects her with a pull at her own, “I have a pretty good idea, yeah, and that's what I'm gonna shape myself into. Starting now.” Cerulean eyes scan over your current disastrous schedule of overbooking and under-appreciation, “Stretching yourself so thin isn’t going to make you.. well, whatever you’re trying to become.”

“I just want to be somebody.” It’s your turn to poorly shrug your worries off as if they never really sat all that heavily, to begin with.

“You of all people wanna be famous?” Gwen misinterprets, raising a golden brow at you.

Your face scrunches at the mere suggestion, “God no!” Busying yourself with sifting out your less favorable activities. Handing over everything you planned to keep up with, to the bewildered yet, inturged blond across from you.

Martial arts, Gymnastics, journalism, photography, coding, knitting, and you're still handing her more.. Looking them all over, she shakes her head with a chuckle, “You know what they say. Jack of all trades, they’re master of none.”

A hand slips over your head, rubbing at the back of your neck, “I just wanna be.. Worthwhile, I guess? I’ve just never felt like I was enough.” She set you with a concerned look that paints heat over the tops of your ears, “But I actually like these!”

She shuffles through your handful of flyers, sign-ups, papers, and the like for each, “Well, there’s more to that saying about a jack of all trades, right?” Scooting over to sit beside you, she bumps your shoulder with a soft smile. “They’re often better than a master of one.”

“Thanks.. I think?” Laughing, you bump her shoulder back. You get the sentiment at least, you think..

“Still might be good to cut some of these out. Don’t push yourself so hard.” Lifting flyers for both photography and the school paper, “I thought you were gonna pick one?”

Days spent without Alfred or the girls were the hardest. Roaming long halls, hearing your father and brother, who've been arguing more and more. Robin's role in leading his own team had left the house feeling emptier than usual. Hardly ever crossing paths with one another. Lately, it's even been putting a strain on the dynamic duo's relationship. You wonder if they noticed when you stopped reaching out. Not likely when they are falling apart themselves. Your little band of miscreants always softened the blow of coming home to the lonely Manor, you'd always see them tomorrow...

You spot your blond just outside the lunchroom doors. Nose stuck in her book before you settle in next to her, “Where's MJ?” You ask, pulling your bag from your shoulder.

“Ugh, late as always.” Snapping her book shut, she sighs, leaning into your side. “Are we supposed to hold up everything for her all the time?”

The two of you sit chatting as children flood to and from the cafeteria. You talk long enough for Gwen to get over Mj being late again, just in time for her to show.

“Heyyyy! Sorry, sorry!” The redhead plops between them and hooks an arm over each of her friends' shoulders. She pokes Gwen's puffed cheeks as she huffs, “Oh, don't look so grumpy!”

“We've got to wait for you, like, every day!”

Mary Jane shrugs, “So?”

You roll your eyes, “So, can't you ever get here on time?”

“It's called fashionably late for a reason.” Gwen gives you a look that you return, and the two of you walk away. Mj gasps, hurrying to catch up, “Wait!!”

They may be a bit dysfunctional but they were yours. Before you know it, they're closer to your heart than your so-called family. Alfred even tells you he's delighted to see you making these connections. Happy to host you and your friends when you finally decide to bring them around. Your little room on the far end of the manor is cleaned from top to bottom. An array of treats is accompanied by frequent check-ins, which led to many, many questions each time around.

“You've really had to spend so much time alone here?” Gwen makes herself comfortable in your desk chair.

“Oh, well, I have Alfred.” You scoot back on your bed, back pressed against the headboard. With a sigh your head bumps the wall, “... most of the time anyway.”

“This place is crazy..” MJ pulls open your closet, fuming and ready to tear apart your meager wardrobe. “I can't believe you're actually a Wayne. Your dad is Bruce freaking Wayne, why is he the worst?”

Grimacing as her chair spins slowly the blond grumbles, “Not that surprising from some fancy stuck-up rich boy.”

Green eyes flicker through each quick swish of a hanger, “Why doesn't everyone know? Don't people like that usually have a big announcement or whatever?” Mj turns those critical emeralds to you.

Slouching into yourself to escape the gaze, “I did not want that.”

Unimpressed with the answer, she huffs, “Still there have to be people who know about you, right? Your family is, like, super famous.”

“Wait!” Gwen perks up, feet hitting the ground to halt her cycle, “I think I have heard people talk about you.”

Heat claws its way up the back of your neck, catching onto your ears. “Wh- huh? Really??”

“Yeah, they call you- uh..” Her sudden realization seems to die in her throat, “Well, they call you, um..” Gwen combs a hand through her hair, aquamarines darting away from you, “Wayne unwanted... cause the Wayne's have never acknowledged you publicly.”

Mary Jane scoffs, “Or personally, apparently.”

You've only lived through this your whole life yet hear that you're known for your misfortune, to be watched but never seen...

The two of them were across the room before you even realized you were crying. They cuddled up on either side of you, squeezing you between them as they apologized. “No, no, it's okay..” You giggle through the sting in your chest, wrapping your arms around them.

Gwen gives you an almost offended look. “It is not okay.”

“You deserve so much better!” Mj tights her grip until you're begging for air.

They didn't make you feel othered like your family name or the intimidating manor. You knew they saw you, not a name, statue, money, power. Just you.

“Hey, would you..” Swallowing the nerves catching in your throat, you slide the paper across your lunch table. “Would you guys like to come to my competition?”

Mj snatches the paper up from the table, “Of course!”

The other scans the sheet with intrigue, “We'll be there, promise.” Gwen takes the paper from the redhead's hands, smoothing out her crinkles.

It always felt better to have someone there to root for you. Tonight, Alfred would be busy handling things for Bruce's ‘business trip’. Not that it matters because now, you have friends.

After the winners are called and you can part, Mary Jane is the first at your side. “You were great!”

“Really? Thanks..” Your face burns. You always felt Alfred was just being biased in his praises.

She swoops you up into a hug, “Absolutely, way to go, tiger!” Yet, it feels more real coming from your friends.

“Though, I don't really get it.” Gwen muses from the side, “You're such a wallflower. You hate the spotlight.”

The warmth in your cheeks raises again, “Yeah, well, so?”

Gwen's lips quirked into a frown, “So, why do these?”

“Seriously, like, no one's making you..” Mj raises a brow at you, “right?”

“No, I just.. I wish someone would come.” You sigh, shoulders slumping, “Just one of them. Even once.” No matter how they push you away, there's always that part of you that still wants them to come around.

An arm is thrown over your shoulder, “Well, you're great so, so... Fuck those guys!” The curse slips from Gwen in a half whisper of juvenile rebellion.

Another arm joins the first around your shoulders, “Exactly, Fuck them!” Mj giggles, grading on the use of profanity.

“Heh, yeah.. Fuck ‘em.” You smile despite the way your ears burn in superfluous fear of being scolded by Alfred for your language.

Nights were more exciting with your newfound love of photography. You collected pictures of the best and worst of Gotham. From sparkling main streets to eerily dark alleyways. Especially the growing stock of your star muses, Batman and Robin. You started putting together profiles from them, juxtaposing their day and night personas. Filing in the scraps of knowledge you've gathered from chasing after them. You kept the folders stuffed in your closet; embarrassed by your almost obsessive habit over people who disregard your existence.

Despite how he may treat you, when Dick came home with a bullet in his shoulder from the Joker, you cried. It felt silly when you realized they were falling. What was there to mourn if.. Alfred had been teaching you to take care of bigger wounds. You pleaded to assist his tending of your brother. Promising to feign cluelessness on your knowledge of the.. happenstance.

It wasn't until after his wound was cleared of debris and disinfected, that he noticed you. Trembling little fingers press the gause to his broad shoulder as Alfred prepares the bandage. His hand comes up to rest over yours, steadying it. Head snapping up to meet his gaze, there's something lurking in those sapphires of his.

A smile cracks its way deliberately across his weary face. It's too endearing of a look for him to give you. This was the first time it felt so sincere. The warmth of it burned at your frayed nerves. Sparked at cool embers of hope that he'd come around to you. Only when he's nearly died. It couldn't be real, but it hurt too much to be a dream.

“Thanks, Birdie. You didn't have to.” Dick's praise burns at your ears. It must be blood loss, a near-death experience, or something.

It feels too unnatural. You mumble out quietly, “Of course I did.”

Alfred relieves you of the tension, wrapping the bandage around and across. You’re left to stand off to the side before eventually being shuffled out of the room. The weight of his gaze is unrelenting until you finally step out of the room. You immediately miss it, realizing you've let such a rare moment of connection slip away. The sudden tender moment only made it harder to hear he'd left shortly after. He moved two states away to New York, leaving Robin behind for good.

He hadn't even bothered to say goodbye.

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Tag List?!

@butratherbutrather @dorkatron-2000 @mys0cksrwet @nervousalpacalady @notsamaira @facelessisnthere @danir2006 @ryuushou @sirenetheblogger @l3v1uhthan

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rafesbuzzcutseason · 2 days ago

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chasing city lights

chapter 3 - and you are?

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: language

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

carrying all 3 drinks, you found your way back to the entrance where sarah told you to meet. a rush of nerves coming over you after the realisation that the most handsome man you had ever seen in your life was not only your new best friends brother, but also the lead singer of city lights. and you were about to meet him.

"y/n!! over here" sarah called for you.

"oh hey guys, here are all your drinks" you passed them around. "so what's the plan?"

"ok so, as you have just found out, rafe is actually my brother" sarah started. "he's asked to come say hey as he saw my story and didn't recognise you."

"what?"

"rafe has to know everyone in my life. over protective brother and that. anyway, we'll wait until the boys have finished packing everything up and then we'll meet them out the back entrance."

"ok cool cool."

"he's just texted me now actually, you ready guys?"

"yea lets go!" kie replies.

you followed the group as they weaved their way through the crowds of people leaving the concert, adrenaline levels hitting high. you've never been in this atmosphere, of course you had been to concerts, but going backstage and meeting the band? you were living out your wattpad fantasies.

you finally got to the backstage area, sarah presenting a badge you didn't know she had "they're all with me" she explained, and the security guard let you through.

you walked through the long corridor until you finally reached a door that said 'city lights'. sarah knocked on the door, and your heart rate picked up, feeling like everything was about to change.

and it did.

rafe opened the door, eyes instantly finding yours.

"and you are?" he smirked, leaning against the framing of the door. "i know most people around here, but can't say i've ever seen your face before. i would remember"

heat flusterd over you with this words, "i'm, y/n. just moved here from obx."

"an outerbanks girl huh?"

"that's me" you returned his smile.

"well now introductions are out of the way" sarah laughed, "should we get going?"

"yea let me get the others. jj, top, you coming?"

two other blondes popped their heads out the door, almost as handsome as rafe. almost.

"kie, john b, bring it in!!" the first blonde, came out with wide arms bringing the two into a hug. "nice to meet you?"

"y/n"

"y/n! well sarah rarely lets us meet her new friends so you must be special" he says as he also brings you into a hug.

"and i'm top" the last boy grins as he shakes your hand. "it's nice to meet new faces, especially when they're as pretty as you"

you giggle at his words, but out of the corner of your eyes you could see rafes breath slightly hitch, like the words didn't sit right for a moment. but before you could turn to look at him, his face changed back to neutral and he was leading everyone out the door.

"i have a quiet bar we can go too, security will follow so hopefully papperazi shouldn't be too bad" rafe spoke as you all followed him out the venue.

a few fans lingered out the back, but you quickly cut your way through and made it to the bar.

you found a table and took your seats, everyone went up to buy their drinks, except you and rafe, who lingered behind.

"so what bought you to new york?" rafe asked you, his head tilting and direct eye contact making you nervous.

"just needed a fresh start." your gaze looking away from him, not willing to tell him the truth, a conversation not needed to have just yet.

"this is a big change then a little beach town. you think you can handle it?" he challenges you.

"what you think i can't?"

"i don't think anything yet."

"hm" you respond, just as everyone starts to return with their drinks.

"let me get you a drink. what do you want?" rafe asks.

"i'll take a rum and coke. thanks"

"no problem sweetheart" he gets up, the nickname leaving your cheeks red as sarah comes to sit next to you.

"ignore him y/n. he'll try to get under your skin"

you laugh in response, "it's fine, i don't mind"

"good." she said with certainty, a hint of something else under her words, like he's someone she doesn't want you with.

someone out of bounds.

rafe returns with your drink and sits down the other side of you, as the rest gather round and pull chairs from other tables to sit.

the rest of the night goes well, learning more about sarah and the people she's introduced you too. becoming close with jj and top, who make light conversation with you and make you laugh, unlike rafe who remains slightly reserved, yet staring at you constantly throughout the night, feeling his gaze like heat on your skin.

as the evening comes to an end, you say your farewells outside waiting for an uber, now knowing sarah and john b live together, kie lives with her other friends you're yet to meet, and the band members all together.

"it was so great to meet you y/n!" jj once again pulls you into a drunk hug "you'll fit in well with us" he grins as he lets you go, the reassurance making you smile as you've bonded with these people.

top does the same, giving you a hug goodbye, as rafe watches you from the side, almost waiting for his turn.

you turn to him, unsure if he was going to go into a hug, which he doesn't, much to your dismay. he half smiles at you and says "i'm sure i'll be seeing you again" "would you like that?" your bold statement taking you, and him by surprise.

"can't give all my cards away" he smugs, as he finally pulls you into a brief hug. "bye y/n" he steps into the car waiting for him, taking one last glance at you.

you hug goodbye to the rest, sarah promising to text you once she's home, and kie and john b thanking you for a great night.

your own uber arrives, now left with your own thoughts and reminiscing about the night. the thought of rafe and how he was to you tonight leaving you puzzled. was he flirting with you? is he like this with everyone? you couldn't deny you felt something their, a slight chemistry only time could tell.

shit just got a whole lot more confusing.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

a/n: aaaaah here is chapter 3, their first meeting. any love on this would be so greatly appreciated as it's my first ever time writing lol so kinda scary

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry @yesterdaysproblemm @pogueprincesa @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19

(to remain on the taglist, you must interact with the chapters!)

#smau #rafe cameron #boyfriend rafe #obxsmau #obx #drew starkey #outer banks #rafe obx #rafe cameron x reader

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miwiheroes · 3 days ago

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Dropping Byler Evidence Every Day Until Season 5

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ Day 20: Phonegate . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Here I am today talking about whether phonegate is canon or not, but I also want to point out a new point that I feel like no one talks about because apparently you're only ever allowed to be completely on one side of things and never on the fence on this tag but hello:

If phonegate is real, it is a byler proof.

If phonegate is not real, it is also a byler proof.

Um okay hear me out.

Firstly, let's talk about Phonegate being REAL, then I'll get onto my explanation of the possibility of it not being real still being a byler proof.

REAL

First of all, let me clarify, I truly believe that phonegate is canon. But on the slight chance that it is not, it still doesn't negate byler. Anyways, onto the Real.

Will and Mike both have an argument in Rink o Mania about not being able to contact each other. It's clear that Will is angry about the fact that Mike hasn't called and believes that he doesn't care as much as Mike about their friendship. This is a misunderstanding.

Mike then throws this back at Will because he also has the misunderstanding that Will doesn't care as much about his friendship. We find out that this is because: Mike can't seem to get in touch with Will on the phone -> Mike hears from El that Will is painting for someone else (which is their thing) -> Mike finds out that the painting 'is not for him' in the airport and that it's 'nothing' -> Mike notices that Will has been acting strange all day and is annoyed that he's ignoring him -> Mike says that he's sorry he acted so offended, but he only did that because he was scared that he'd lost Will.

Therefore, something must have happened for Mike to have felt like he'd lost Will. He would never have felt that way if he hadn't tried to call him.

Now, one thing that I've noticed is that Will never tried to call Mike. And I was like, well, I guess Mike has the right to question that of Will right? Well, this misunderstanding gets fixed by the painting. This is because the painting proves that while Will didn't call Mike, he was still thinking about him. He was still thinking about Mike and doing something for him. So while Mike thought he had lost Will, he really had Will this whole time. Which is why the painting being commissioned by El is such a disappointment for him.

The painting, when it gets revealed to him, is proof to Mike that Will hadn't been lost during that time period. YAY! But when Will says it was commissioned from El, Mike gets disappointed because it means to him that Will hadn't been thinking of Mike the whole time, in his eyes. If that makes sense??

AND THEN.... we get the thing about "Mike won't stop whining about it."

This is not about El.

Mike talks about 'stealing Cerebro from Dustin' at the end of S3 in relation to calling El, not discussing the phone at all. As you can see in this image as well, there is a radio in the Mike box, implying that El uses this specific radio to talk to Mike. It is also a major plot point in season 4 that the government are looking for El and that El has to be called Jane because the government are looking for her, so Mike cannot call her on the phone because the government listens to phone calls.

I think that Dustin saying "Mike won't stop whining about it" proves that Mike has been trying to get into contact with Will this entire time, proving that the Rink o Mania scene was one of those classic "letters? you wrote me letters?" tropes that happens super often with romantic couples.

Also the fact that DUSTIN says this is interesting because he was the one trying to get into contact with Suzie in S3. The fact that he is also Will's friend as well as Mike shows that only Mike whining about it implies something deeper about their friendship. Surely Dustin and Lucas should be whining about it too if Will's their friend? But no, it's just Mike, showing that his feelings are more than friendship.

So there's one more discrepancy left in this narrative: If Mike had called, why didn't he just tell Will? And solve their argument?

And to that I say: because he's gay and has internalised homophobia my guy. All this previous proof SHOWS that he definitely called Will. So why did he lie? He lied because he would rather have Will get annoyed at him than look incriminating. Calling Will over and over is something that he has romanticised in his head, and this is simply confirmed by the fact he doesn't say it. Mike was calling Will because he loves him, therefore he doesn't want to say it because it would seem that way to Will. Therefore, Will not talking to him is the best case scenario for him. He would rather Will not talk to him for this reason than the other one.

This was not an act of selfishness. It was an act of self-sacrifice. It seems, on the surface, that Mike is being bitchy about Will not calling him back, but underneath OH BOY he's prioritising Will like he always has..... just in a different way, by not making him uncomfortable by his romantic actions.

More Proof that this is a plot point in the show is the Stranger Things game leaving a litttleee Easter egg:

UM EXCUSE ME WHAT IS THIS????? A very very obvious clue if you ask me holy shit.

Overall, PHONEGATE IS FUCKING HUGE. There are also many other little easter eggs that I don't even think I can go into right now. (For example, little subtle focuses on the Byers' phone and the phone being something associated with Will constantly) I truly think that phonegate is canon and proves that Mike romanticises his actions surrounding Will, that Mike really did think he lost Will and this means the painting plot is just made even more painful.

But there is another possibility.....

NOT REAL

On the off chance that the Duffers did not write this plot extremely seamlessly, and that Mike is just a jerk who did not even try to contact Will and just blames it all on him, it still kind of seems like a byler proof to me even if he didn't call.

Not calling kind of implies that something is keeping him from wanting to call. He also ends up apologising for this, feeling like he had lost Will. This means that the reason for not calling him was being too afraid that Will was having fun without him. And we can see from the ending of S3, that Mike has just realised something big about Will.

So, if we want to go with the narrative of Mike having internalised homophobia, it makes sense for him to have either phoned Will a bunch of times but doesn't tell him because it would be too incriminating..... OR

It also makes sense for him to have not phoned at all because that action would ALSO be too incriminating for him to do, because he sees phoning him and writing letters to him as a romantic thing to do.

SOOOOO basically, phonegate being canon would be the best way to write this storyline and proves that Mike must have internalised homophobia because he sees him calling Will all the time as a romantic, incriminating thing (also it makes the painting lie more devastating so it would be a cool plot point) BUT if it is not canon, while this won't be the best writing choice, it would still prove Mike has internalised homophobia because it means he romanticises calling Will, and doesn't do it in the first place, because it would be incriminating.

#byler #byler nation #byler endgame #mike wheeler #will byers #stranger things #byler evidence #byler proof #miwiheroes daily byler #phonegate

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sirhamburrger · 2 days ago

Text

KINTSUGI (m. bachira x reader)

��☆ (soulmate au, for day four of @phantasmaebg) ━☆ in which you find him when you least expect to. ━☆ wc: 2805 (am i insane for this) || tags/cw: f!reader, reader is lowkey not listening but very much judging, bachira is a stoner confirmed, mentions of substance use (alcohol, drugs), nothing too specific, photog major reader and art major bachira || event m.list ━☆ day five ends in ten minutes... yeah i'm skipping that

there are only two undeniable truths in this world, as far as you know.

number one: everybody has recurring visions of the moment they’ll be the happiest with your soulmate.

it’s always been like this, ever since the beginning of time. cleopatra and marc antony. frida kahlo and diego rivera. johnny cash and june carter. they knew, because it was foretold, written in the stars. the revelations come in daydreams, fantasies, trances, dreams. it’s different for every person, supposedly.

number two: you’ll never find your soulmate.

you’ve long since given up waiting for them. you think you might be a cupioromantic - aka you want a romantic relationship, but have never truly experienced romantic love. not uncommon, but you feel… unlucky, almost.

for the past seventeen years, or for as long as you can remember, you’ve never experienced one of these visions. passing thoughts about guys in your classes, and eyebrows raised when you see a particularly attractive actor on-screen, but none of the euphoria that people say is supposed to accompany it.

middle school and high school was when you felt the most left out of all of it. friends and classmates finding their soulmates left and right, squealing in delight when they happened to catch sight of someone who looked like the people in their dreams.

these truths have held true for you, for seventeen whole years. so understandably, everything comes crashing down when you have your first dream about him. you dream it the night after, too, and on the nights that follow.

it’s always the same. the two of you are on some sort of grassy knoll; his hair is mussed, deep brown and bright yellow mixing, as he stares up at you from where his head lies in your lap. late afternoon sunlight spilling across his features, he looks like a veritable work of art, an angel. he opens his mouth, but no sound comes out -

you wake up.

sitting bolt upright in your bed, you deflate in disappointment.

you don’t stop thinking about him on the walk from your dorm to your first class of the day. they’re the same questions from a week ago - is he your age? older? where is he from? if you know what he looks like in your dreams, why does your mind go blank when you wake up?

and most importantly: does he dream about you every night, just as you dream about him?

you don’t know if you can say for sure if you love someone just by dreaming about them, but you will anyway. because you already know you love him, wherever and whenever he might exist.

you might never find him, because you don’t even remember what he looked like in your head. and for this, you feel broken.

---

meguru feels her again tonight, when he's blackout drunk at a gatsby-esque party hosted by rin itoshi so he can get the attention of a girl in his psychology class. the couch he lays on is pristine, but probably won’t be for much longer.

he does not dream; if he does, he forgets it. visions of his soulmate, his other half - they come only when he’s out of it, only when he’s drunk, or high, or depressed.

and it is always the same.

it’s the feeling of soft warmth on his face, like gentle sunlight. a soft, calming chuckle. light touches on his hair, brushing his locks out of his face. it’s the feeling of being adored and cherished.

it’s the feeling of being loved.

he’s fairly sure he hasn’t known it before.

meguru dimly registers isagi calling out to him. yelling something about yet another round of beer pong. with that, he stumbles towards his friends and the promise of more alcohol, because he’s too drunk and full of an inexplicable euphoria to deal with this right now.

---

your first class of the day is portraiture 302 with professor anri teieri.

you flash a tiny smile at your classmate shidou, too tired for anything else. setting your things down at an empty seat, you pull your laptop out as people start to trickle in.

it’s still starting up when someone sits down in the seat next to you.

“hey,” he says cheerfully. a bit too cheerful for your taste, seeing as it’s eight-thirty in the morning. “all the other seats are taken, so.”

“sure,” you mumble, jamming your thumb into the space bar repeatedly as if it’ll speed things up. you feel his eyes on you, silently judging, maybe, and look up -

oh.

he’s one of rensuke kunigami’s friends. even within the friend group he might be considered an oddity; not all that forward like isagi, or as flirty as chigiri, or as gentlemanly as kunigami. he’s just… there.

he’s a real character, too, or so you’ve heard. famously wild at rin itoshi’s parties, though the version of him you see at present seems much more subdued. he plays soccer for the university, and he’s an art major.

and honestly? he makes you a little uncomfortable. not bad-looking, but there’s a scary depth in his eyes that makes you think he’s seen more than he should, knows more than anyone else does.

in short: you think meguru bachira is a weirdo.

which begs the question: why is he even here taking this module, since he’s not one of your photography coursemates?

“- peers from the art department will be joining us for the next two months as we study composition and portraiture in greater depth -”

okay, well, that doesn’t mean you have to talk to him -

“- pair up with someone from a different major for your graded project -”

still, doesn’t have to be him -

“- these are your assigned pairings. try not to get on each other’s bad side.”

and you don’t even have to look at the projector screen to know the cruel fate the universe has bestowed upon you; all you do is notice bachira’s pleased reaction.

he starts, “i’m looking forward to working with you -”

“okay,” you say bluntly, turning your attention back to your laptop. you feel a little bad for the way his smile fades slightly when you cut him off, but you’re not about to apologise.

at the end of the lecture, he hands you a slip of paper with his number on it, tells you you can text him if you want to work on the project. his voice sounds small, and you feel a strange pang in your chest as you watch him go.

---

lately your dreams have been shifting, changing.

no longer are they impressionist paintings of quiet moments spent together in mother nature - they are pop art, abstract-expressionist, surrealist. which, quite ironically, are terms that bachira would use.

lingering touches in dimly-lit party venues. stolen kisses in secluded corridors. the high of alcohol and weed and who knows what else - they coagulate into a single stream of thoughts that have you seeing bright colours behind your eyes. though, they always return to the very first dream you had of him.

you wonder, is bachira’s party animal stoner personality rubbing off on your subconscious mind?

in any case, you're currently keeping your interactions with him to a minimum. you talk for no more than one hour a week, then go your separate ways once more.

the project itself is deceptively simple: create a likeness of your partner in any form you want. and you plan to do well on it. right lighting, right composition, right everything - and bob’s your uncle.

but bachira can’t seem to get a grip. you’ve come to realise he’s flaky, fickle-minded. it’s like his thoughts are bouncing off the inside of his skull like a pinball machine.

all his drawings and paintings bear a resemblance to you; charcoal captures your hair, acrylic your features. but when he’s finished he always insists they don’t look right, like something’s missing. and strangely enough, you find yourself agreeing with him.

you feel like with those scarily knowing eyes, bachira truly sees through you and into you. like takeichi does to yozo oba in osamu dazai’s no longer human. except bachira isn’t nearly as unattractive.

because with each dream you have of your soulmate, details of meguru bachira start to creep in. hands, slender but still larger than yours. the shape of his lips, perfect and pink.

the euphoria just makes it all so much worse.

so now you wonder if your fate with your soulmate is to be kissed up against a wall, drunk, until you are breathless.

---

meguru doesn’t understand why she’s doing her damndest to avoid him. it’s not like he’s done anything particularly wrong, at least not to her face. sure, he’s been a little much at times. but he’s been nothing but nice to her.

so why the cold shoulder, then? why the stiff smiles and the distant glances?

he doesn’t understand, but then again, he’s not sure he understands anything anymore. ever since his dreams have changed for the first time in ten years, he’s been walking around in a haze, trying to balance the his waking life with the dreamlike euphoria that drips from the edges of his consciousness.

every vision he sees starts to feel more and more like her. and when he looks at her - really looks at her - he starts to feel as if maybe, just maybe, he knows her better than anyone else.

but that thought scares him too much to admit, so instead, he swallows it down and pushes it to the back of his mind. better to focus on what’s in front of him. better to focus on the work that still doesn’t feel quite right.

one night, after a particularly frustrating session in the studio, he finds himself alone with her, just the two of the under the dim lights. his fingers grip his paintbrush, so hard he thinks it might snap.

“you’re avoiding me,” he says finally, point-blank. “why?”

she shrugs, but he notices her stiffen in her seat. “it’s not like that.”

“not like what?” he presses. “you’re trying to keep your distance, and i get it. i’m not... i’m not normal. i know that.”

she blinks hard. swallows.

he watches her, waiting for a response, and the tension between them grows thicker, more charged with every passing second. finally, she manages to speak, though her voice trembles slightly.

“i don’t know what you want from me.”

“i don’t want anything from you,” meguru murmurs. “i just… i don’t want to keep pretending i don’t feel something strange. i’ve been seeing things lately, and i -”

“don’t drag me into your delusions, bachira,” she snaps.

he sees her cold exterior fracture for a second, and he knows. he knows that she knows. his breath hitches in his throat, his eyes never leaving hers.

“maybe you should stop pretending you don’t know exactly what’s happening.”

it’s terrifying.

meguru doesn’t understand why she’s avoiding him, but maybe that’s okay. because in this moment, with the air thick with unspoken truths and something more between the two of them, she doesn't need to understand. not yet.

---

on sunday afternoon, bachira brings you to a local park two cities away. it’s where he used to go whenever he was bored, he tells you. he had very few friends growing up.

it’s beautiful, you admit. the perfect place for the photoshoot.

you make him lean on the only tree on the hill for half an hour, before deciding the photo doesn’t feel quite right. with a pang of shame, you realise that’s what bachira means when he says the art doesn’t feel right, like there’s something missing.

because no photo will ever be able to capture bachira’s beauty.

facing towards the setting sun with the little houses in the background? the photo’s too empty. staring right into the camera lens? a little creepy. finally, after a long time of unsuccessful attempts, you slump against the tree, resting in the shade.

“sorry,” you mumble. “just doesn’t feel right.”

“yeah, i get that.” he sits down on the soft grass next to you, and you smell the tea tree shampoo in his hair. “just happens sometimes.”

the silence is nice and comfortable for once, but then you go and spoil it all by saying something stupid like -

“i’m sorry i’ve been avoiding you.”

meguru’s eyes flick to you, the sincerity in your voice making something inside him tighten. he tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that makes you feel like he’s reading between the lines of everything you’ve said and haven’t.

“it’s okay,” he says softly, like he’s trying to reassure himself as much as you. “i guess… i don’t blame you. i can be a lot sometimes.”

you shake your head quickly, catching his gaze. “no, that’s not it. it’s just…” you trail off, unsure how to voice the weight of everything that’s been pressing on your chest. the dreams. the confusion. the feeling that something inside you has shifted, and you don’t know how to adjust.

“i’ve just been… scared,” you admit, wanting to cringe at how vulnerable you sound. “i don’t even know what’s going on with me. it’s like everything i thought i knew is just… fading.”

meguru watches you quietly, his gaze unwavering. there’s a softness there that you haven’t seen before. the usual carefree grin is gone, replaced by something deeper - something that makes you feel like he’s truly hearing every word you don’t say.

“i get it,” he murmurs. “sometimes the things you don’t want to face, they catch up to you.”

you glance up at him, surprised. “you do?”

“yeah.” he reaches a hand out, his fingers brushing against yours in the gentlest way possible, and to your own surprise, you don’t jerk your hand away. “sometimes you don’t even know what you’re running from until you stop.”

you swallow the lump in your throat. “okay.”

without thinking, you push yourself up from the tree and take a few steps back, your heart suddenly beating faster than before. it’s not just the project anymore - it’s something more.

meguru stands up, his movements fluid, as though he’s been waiting for this moment too. “what are you doing?” he asks, but there’s an edge to his voice now, an unspoken question that mirrors your own confusion.

“come here,” you say before you can stop yourself, your words shaky but firm.

he doesn’t hesitate. in two strides, he’s in front of you, his eyes searching yours for some kind of answer.

and then finally, you do what feels as natural as breathing.

you let your hands rest on his shoulders and guide him to sit back down on the grass. without a word, you slip into the same position as the dream you’ve had over and over again - the same moment that’s haunted you for countless nights -

his head in your lap, sunlight spilling over his face, the world hushed and peaceful around you.

he doesn’t speak. he just watches you with an intensity that makes your breath catch. his lips part slightly, but no sound comes out, and for the briefest moment, it feels like you’re back in the dream, like you’re both somewhere else entirely.

it’s only when you feel the softest weight of his hand on yours that you snap back to reality. he’s holding onto you now, fingers threading through yours, and his gaze is softer than it’s ever been.

“this… feels right,” he says, his voice barely a whisper.

“yeah. it does.”

the sunlight is fading fast now, the sky painted with dusky shades of pink and orange. his hair is mussed, deep brown and bright yellow mixing, as he stares up at you from where his head lies in your lap.

you fumble for your phone, snap a quick photo of the scene with your shaky hands and almost sob -

because you know for certain, now, that this is the dream you had, and it’s about your soulmate, meguru bachira.

because here, in this stillness, you realize that maybe - just maybe - you weren’t running from him after all.

because maybe you’ve always been running toward this moment, even before you knew it existed.

meguru lifts his head from your lap, his eyes searching yours, and for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel lost. not here. not with him. his lips move, forming a question you can’t quite hear. but you don’t need to. not anymore.

you lean down slightly and kiss him, and everything you’ve been trying to understand falls into place. amidst the salt of your tears he tastes sweet, like the dreams, the euphoria, the love you thought you’d never have.

his golden eyes are powdered gold dusted onto the lacquer that fills the cracks in your fragile heart. kintsugi.

and for once, you feel complete.

bllk masterlist || general masterlist © sirhamburrger 2025

#phantasmaebg #phantasma ebg #kai writes #blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #meguru bachira #bachira meguru #bachira x reader #bachira x you #bachira drabble #bachira fluff #i love bachira

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starzify · 18 hours ago

Note

hiii i love ur work sm! can u write a negan fic?

thank u baby !! so i'm only on s3 but he's too fine…🤷‍♀️

beg me ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

pairing negan smith x fem!reader

warnings smut | blowjob.

MASTERLIST

Over the past few months, you had spent almost a concerning amount of time talking to Negan in his cell. It started with taking him the odd meal, alternating your duty with other people. But over time you regrettably developed a soft spot for him, and dedicated yourself to finding the human underneath his tough exterior. You didn't let him know that though, remaining cold on the outside. That being said, you had pulled some strings for him, he now is allowed daily supervised showers, toothpaste and the occasionally beard and hair trim. All the basic hygiene stuff.

Though the truth is, you are lonely. Rick and Maggie were your closest friends and now they're both gone, so often times, you find Negan being the only person to console in. You've never been much of a social butterfly anyway.

It's midday and you're sat watching Negan finish his lunch.

"All gone, ma'am," he says, popping the final bite in his mouth.

You take the plate from him and sit on your seat. He picks up the tennis ball that he has taken a liking to and bounces it off the wall, catching it, and repeating.

"So, what's the recent gossip?" He smirks. "Is anybody getting boned?”

"Negan," you scold, eyebrows furrowing. "That's none of your business. None of our business."

"Come on…” he continues, blatantly ignoring your remarks, continuing to bounce the ball, a huge mischievous grin spreading across his face.

You shake your head.

"No?" He asks curiously.

“Nope. Nobody’s getting boned, if you’re curious.”

"Fuck, that could’ve been the most interesting thing to happen." He scoffs.

"That's sad," you laugh, raising your eyebrows at him. "So depraved that you're living through people’s sex lives?”

You step closer to the bars, handing Negan his ball, but when he goes to grab it you quickly move your hand away, teasing him.

"You gonna give me my ball, sweetheart?" He smiles patronisingly.

You hold the ball, hovering it ever so slightly out of his reach. "Don't call me sweetheart."

"What would you prefer?" He taunts. "Sweet cheeks? Sugar plum?"

"You've got an awful lot of nerve talking to the only person who comes to see you like that." You warn, pointing your other finger at his face. "Say the wrong thing and I'm gone."

"But you always come back," he replies, cocking his head to the side smugly. "Why is that?"

"You don't get to ask questions." You snap.

"Oh, I like when you get fired up, darling." He smirks.

"I bet you fucking do." You retort impatiently.

"I do." He grins.

You bring your face closer to his and lower your voice, tired of Negan thinking he has you wrapped around his finger. "You also like this top?" You motion to the purple tank top you're currently wearing. "'Cause I've caught you looking at my tits at least ten times in the past five minutes." Your words clearly shock him. "You gonna jerk off to this little interaction later? That’s how fucking desperate you are?" You don't know what has come over you, you just want to finally have the upper hand.

"I'm a man." He smiles cockily, not embarrassed like you hoped he might have been. "I have needs."

He looks you up and down, his gaze burning into your skin, making you feel naked. "And I'd be lying if I said you weren't smoking hot."

You stroke your finger along his jawline seductively. "You thought about me before?" You ask. "While touching yourself?"

"Fuck yeah." He mutters, his eyes transfixed on your lips.

"Tell me what you think about." You demand.

"Baby, I-" but you interrupt him.

"Tell me." You snap, then moving your lips to trace his jawline and "Tell me and I'll suck your cock." He elicits a small groan and you grab his face in your hand, turning his head to face you. "And don't call me baby."

"Fuck, I- uhh..." He says, his voice gravelly. "I think about taking you in every fucking position, making you scream my name. Even fucking you out there," he points out of the barred window, "bending you over for everyone to see. So they can see how good I fuck you."

You look at him through heavy lidded eyes and in this moment you have never been so attracted to someone.

"See that wasn't too hard, was it?" You smirk, your lips lightly brushing his, just enough to give him a brief taste of what he wants.

"God, you're so fucking hot," he mutters.

"What do you want?" You ask him smugly.

"You know what I want." He groans impatiently. Your hands creeps to his crotch and palms him softly through his pants, forcing a small moan from his lips.

"I want to hear you say it." You whisper. "Beg me."

"Fuck, please," he groans. "Suck my cock. Please."

"That's it." You slowly lower yourself onto your knees and unzip his pants through the bars of the cell. You release him from his boxers and see that he is already rock solid, and he is big. Almost intimidatingly big. Teasingly, you trace your tongue around his tip, tasting the pre-cum on his cock. His hips buck at the small contact, not used to anything but his hand for so long. He'd been in this cell for years. Soon enough, you take his cock fully into your mouth and you can't help but get butterflies and the deep, gutteral moan he involuntarily let's out as you do so.

Through the bars he grabs your hair, guiding your head up and down his length. The way he pulls on your hair sends tingles down your spine. His hips thrust and you stop your movements as he basically just fucks your mouth, doing all the work himself.

"Fuck," he hisses, and you can tell he is dangerously close. Concocting a plan in your head, you pull away and he stares at you, eyes wide, looking disheveled.

"No, don't stop, I'm about to-"

"I know," you whisper. "Trust me."

He nods, frustrated, but his eyes light up as he notices you start to lift your top up. You lift it off over your head and swiftly unhook your bra, leaving you topless and bare in front of him. He reaches his hands out wordlessly and you step closer to him, kissing him passionately while his hands squeeze and play with your breasts.

Breaking off the kiss, you grin. "You want me to finish what I started?" You don't wait for his answer because his eyes tell you enough, so you drop to your knees yet again, taking your tongue from the base to the tip of his cock, painstakingly slow.

You look up at him before continuing. "I want you to cum on my tits, okay?" He groans at your words. "Think you can do that?"

Without warning, you engulf him fully in your mouth again and he grabs your chin with one hand and wraps your hair around the other, fucking your face mercilessly, picking the pace up in no time. Tears run down your face but you love it.

It doesn't take long for him to get to the point he was previously at because he hurriedly removes himself from your mouth. You brace yourself as he gives himself a mere single stroke, then his release spills onto your chest. He elicits the dirtiest, most primal sounding moans as he does so and it turns you on beyond belief. You can see him struggling to keep his eyes open, not wanting to miss the view.

"Fuck," he mumbles as you run your finger along your chest, gathering some of his cum and licking it off, sucking it off seductively. "Jesus Christ, you're unbelievable."

You pick the tennis ball up, which got dropped at some point, and place it on the chair, along with your black lacy bra, out of Negan's reach. Without another word, you exit the room, leaving Negan breathless, disheveled and hungry for more, reeling from what just happened, sat staring at the ball and the bra that you left to taunt him.

"I'm gonna fuck you next time," you hear him yell as you close the door behind him, eager to have the last word, as always.

tags: @inspiredangel @bluemerakis @ultravi0lence14 @floralscented @whisperingdaze @frosttbitessam @bluestrd @urloveada

#cassie writes 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 #negan smith #negan smith smut #negan smith x reader #negan smith x you #the walking dead #twd #jeffrey dean morgan #jdmorgan

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gorbo-longstocking · 2 days ago

Text

Do Not Blame the Sea | Chapter One

Pairing: Emperor Geta/Reader, Emperor Caracalla/Reader

Summary: Everyday, you woke up and performed the steps necessary to complete your routine. It was monotonous, like clockwork, as you traveled down the tracks laid out for you since birth. With a mind uncontested, you found yourself graduating college before you were legally an adult, and at the behest of your controlling parents, you continued on to medical school, then further on into a surgical residency at a nearby hospital. You had always wanted to help people and this was the best way to do it.

So, why, with everything you had ever wanted at your fingertips, were you so unhappy?

Maybe that was why when you awoke in the past, surrounded by farmland instead of your blankets that you decided to ‘just roll with it’ rather than scream. That was your motto now as you were unceremoniously dropped from your assigned path onto untrodden ground with no hope of going back. So, even when you saved the life of a soldier and were carted off into the heart of the corrupt Roman Empire to be the twin emperor’s new physician, you barely batted an eye.

After all, you would do anything to save your patients.

Tags: Time travel, transmasc reader, no use of y/n, eventual polyamory, no incest, period-typical attitudes, Caracalla doesn’t have syphilis but he has PTSD, mentions of slavery, both historical accuracy and historical inaccuracy, obsessive behavior, eventual smut in later parts, medical inaccuracies,

Read on AO3

Playlist

Authors Note: Hiiiiiii, I’m back at it again, starting another fic. Those freaky gingers have bewitched me, let me tell you. Anyway, some important things to note about this little fanfiction that I feel the need to clarify before we get into the real meat and potatoes.

First and foremost, Geta and Caracalla won’t show up until chapter two. Maybe even chapter three, it depends on how much more set up I write, so if you want to wait ‘till then to read this, you’re welcome to :3

Two, and very important, unlike my other fics where the reader is trans, but referred to with they/them pronouns or neutral language, this main character will be referred to with he/him pronouns and masculine language in the text because, as a plot point, they are assumed to be a cis man. Along with this, they have three descriptions in the text. They have dyed green hair — original hair color shan’t be mentioned — they have top surgery scars, and they have a vagina. I miiiiight make an accidental reference to heights (ex. ‘ooked up at him/looked down at him) but I will try my hardest to not.

While their real name will never be mentioned in text for self-insertion purposes, Geta and Caracalla come up with the nickname ‘Alga’ for them due to their green hair. It means ‘seaweed’ in Latin. It also means ‘something of little worth.’ :) So, that is how they’ll be referred to. Generally. It’s either that or ‘medicus’ or ‘physician’ or ‘you there.’

Third and finally, I am a huge nerd and fan when it comes to the Roman Empire. As a society, they have a bunch of hangups, taboos, and beliefs, mostly around sex, that I find incredibly funny and will pepper in here and there. I will try to make this fic as historically accurate as I possibly can using all the resources I have at my disposal (google, a few academic texts, and my best friend whose studying classical history) but there’s no guarantee I get all of it right. Half the reason I’m using a modern character as the main POV is so they have an excuse not to know things 😭 Also when it comes to conjugation of Latin words, please, PLEASE give me leeway, I haven’t taken a Latin class since high school.

All that said, I hope whoever reads this fic enjoys it, because that is my main goal. Writing is seriously a passion of mine and my favorite part about it is sharing it with people. That means YOU person reading this, I think you’re awesome.

Okay I’m done talking, on with the show!!

Chapter One ///

This dream sucked — because that was what this was, a very bad dream — and, if you had to guess, it was the worst dream you had ever had in your life. Which was saying something. As a surgical resident who did most of their studying in a hospital, you were chronically sleep deprived and had a lot of stressful material to work with. Whatever aid you used to help you get some semblance of rest had a tendency to give you weird dreams. Very, very weird dreams. You had a few recurring ones, like being chased by a sentient pool noodle — whatever that meant — and several where the ghosts of your patients blamed you for their deaths — far more self explanatory than the pool noodle — but none quite like this one.

Out of everything you had ever experienced in your bleak and desolate mindscape, this dream was long and boring. That was its only crime. Along with being terrifyingly vivid, of course, which you didn’t particularly enjoy thinking about. If you were any less logical, you’d almost be convinced this was reality. That you had woken up in a small farming village, close enough to the capital of one of the most infamous ancient empires that you could see it on the horizon. Sometimes, when the sun set, you would stare at the shadow of Rome dancing upon the skyline. It was beautiful, albeit impossible. Sure, the people who surrounded you only spoke Latin, and they didn’t trust you as far as they could throw you, but it wasn’t as if that mattered. Soon, you would awake in your bed, one day closer to your exam and the beginning of the rest of your life.

Why did the thought only fill you with a sinking sense of dread? Being a doctor was everything you had ever worked for. Helping people, saving people, it was your purpose, the very reason you were born with your exceptional mind. It was your destiny, so why did it feel like you were marching to the gallows?

You shook your head to rid yourself of these thoughts. Focus on the present, focus on the dream, it was far easier than the constant ever present march of time. It was why you were so certain that the predicament was a figment of your imagination. Time hated you, constantly pulling on your leash, dragging your forward even as you dug your heels into the muck. It would never, never move backwards. Not for you.

Never for you.

A low groan of despair rumbled in your throat as you tried your best to wash your filthy scrubs in a nearby river. The water wasn’t murky, but it wasn’t clear either. Unsurprising, considering the nearby village used this water for practically everything. They were close enough to the city to have access to aqueducts, carrying waste hopefully further downstream. You were determined not to think about it. Any other denizen of this small settlement would wash their clothes themselves. The village was too small for a fullonica, and you were pretty sure they were mostly meant for the wealthy. That said, you also knew that Romans used urine to wash clothes — thank you to the ancient civilization classes you took for fun — and you’d be damned before you let a random person’s piss touch your scrubs.

Outside of work, at least.

With your pants rolled up to your knees as you waded deeper into the water, you continued to do what you could to clean the few clothes you had on you. Considering you only had a little bottle of soap you stole from a hotel a few months ago, it was easier said than done. You wanted to ration what you had in case this dream went on for much longer. Just because this was a fictional scenario conjured by your stress addled mind didn’t mean you weren't going to go about things logically. You had already been asleep for three days now, who knew how much longer this neverending dream would last? Perhaps forever. The thought of avoiding reality as you waste away in your bed was far more comforting than it should have been.

A loud shout echoed to your right and you fought the urge to shoot a nasty glare at the <i>obviously</i> young soldiers goofing off several yards away. Well, young was a strong word, they were the same age as you. Probably. You couldn’t really tell considering how staunch you were in your decision to not make eye contact. Out of the handful of men playing in the water, they were all naked. It wasn’t that nudity bothered you, you were studying healthcare for Christ’s sake, it was the unfortunate fact that soaking wet, muscular hunks were a particular weakness of yours. You weren’t sure the soldiers would appreciate your ogling, the villagers already avoided you like the plague. Judging by the dirty looks you received from some of the, unfortunately armed and notoriously xenophobic men, they’d heard enough about you to be wary.

You let out another sigh, your scrubbing becoming a tad more vigorous. Soapy bubbles rose to the surface of the water and your face was screwed up in concentration.

This particular Roman century had arrived at the village only a half-day after you did. From what you could pick up from eavesdropping, instead of being sent to North Africa to get a little conquering done, their legion was shipped to Gaul to put an end to some dissent. Once that was over, the officer in charge received orders to head back to Rome so they could be sent to North Africa with the rest of the troops. They had only stopped at the village for a last bit of rest before their next assignment. Or something. You had been noticed, and you had scurried off the second you realized you were caught.

Letting out a small huff, you examined your scrubs and decided that they were as clean as they would get. Once you were back at shore, you wrung out the fabric the best you could before laying them flat on a rock beside the only other outfit you had, aside from the one you were wearing, to dry in the sun. Another bark of laughter drew your eye to the soldiers playing like schoolboys in the river. Weren’t these men hardened warriors of one of the most regimented militaries to exist? Surely, they should be more disciplined. Still, you couldn’t help the small smile that caused your lips to twitch upwards. Even thousands of years in the past, and in your dreams, humans were the same as they had always been.

The sun was warm, hanging overhead like an unripe cherry tomato. You closed your eyes to bask in it a bit more than necessary. Your skin prickled, indicating that there were eyes on you, though you didn’t particularly care. No footsteps approached you and the sound of laughter didn’t stop, so you figured you were safe enough to show your belly. You didn’t realize you had laid down until you felt grass tickle the back of your neck. Perhaps a little nap wouldn’t hurt. A dream within a dream would be rather funny, you thought as you fell into a light doze, lulled by the sound of soldiers playing.

You didn’t know how long you slept for. It was the sound of panic that woke you, sending you upright so fast, your head spun. The first thing you noticed was the merriment had stopped and had given way to an oppressive sense of desperation. You looked in the direction you had been avoiding all day to see a gaggle of soldiers, some clothed, some naked, dragging an unconscious body onto shore. One man was running with his tunic halfway over his head in the direction of the village, yelling for the centurion in charge. You were moving before you could stop yourself.

“Make way! Make way!” Your Latin was shaky, but not the worst in the world. While you were sure your accent was strange, you knew you were at least understandable as some of the men turned to block you from getting any closer. They didn’t look particularly pleased at your arrival, eyeing both your hair and your odd attire with an air of skepticism. You didn’t have time for this. “I am a doctor. A physician. I can help him, we must act fast.”

One of the soldiers raised a singular thick eyebrow. “A physician, you say? You look like no medicus I have ever seen.”

“Does that really matter?!” You shouted, your voice a harsh bark. The longer this went on, the less of a chance you had to save this man. While you were nervous to plow through the wall of stout muscle that blocked you from your prospective patient, you realized you might have to.

The soldier looked like he wanted to say something more, when an authoritative voice broke through the ranks. “Let the man through! We have lost too many as is without losing another to a few hours of games.”

Every head snapped in the direction of whoever spoke. All except yours. The second you saw a gap in the crowd, you slid through and fell to your knees beside the drowned man, the one you determined to save.

First thing you did was check for responsiveness. It was out of habit mostly. A tap on the shoulder, a shout, another tap. He didn’t respond, that was unsurprising.

When you checked for a pulse, you found none, so you began chest compressions. Placing your hands together on his chest, arms straight, you began to push. The rhythm came to you naturally — you had made sure to pay attention in class, and this wasn’t the first time you had done this. Despite the fact that you knew no support was coming, that if you couldn’t get this man back by yourself, he would die, your head remained clear.

Do not lose sight of your goal, do not lose hope, go until you can’t anymore.

After thirty compressions, you took a deep breath, pinched his nose shut, and tilted his head back, placing your mouth over his. You heard a few gasps, and even a cry of disgust as you pulled back to push another breath into his lungs. Determined to pay the growing crowd no mind, you placed your hands on his chest and began to pump his heart again.

This went on for… like with your nap, you didn’t know. All you knew was that you were drenched in sweat, your arms were sore, and your breath coming out in harsh pants. Thirty more compressions, you inhaled a ragged breath and pushed oxygen into his lungs once more. If this didn’t work, you’d have to call it.

There was a hand on your chest, shoving you away, a watery cough filling your mouth with spittle before the drowned man flailed back to life. You didn’t take offense to the harsh treatment. He had woken up to a kiss. That would startle anyone. You rolled him over on his side and rubbed his back as he hacked up a lungful of murky water and whatever he had eaten for breakfast.

“You’re back,” You muttered softly, as comforting as you could. “Breathe. Slow and steady. It feels good to be back, doesn’t it?”

The man met your eyes, his own a startling shade of honey, a confused, but grateful, smile on his lips. “I thought I was gone.”

“Yeah, we all thought that!” A soldier with a shaved head nudged him roughly with his toe. “Medicus here worked a miracle with his lips.”

A hand reached down to clasp your shoulder, shaking you firmly, if not playfully. You looked up to see a man with floppy blond curls grinning down at the man you just saved, his lips pursed. “The kiss of life!”

You let a small, uncomfortable laugh titter from your mouth. Being surrounded by so many people was awkward, and their banter was even more so. You felt entirely out of place. Rather than focus on that, you fixed your attention back on the man you saved.

“What’s your name?”

“Sextus Aelius,” He answered, voice hoarse.

With a small smile, you gestured to another soldier to hand you a nearby tunic. Sextus — you wouldn’t laugh about his name, you wouldn’t — had begun to shiver, even in the hot sun, and you wanted to keep him warm. Not to mention he was still naked. You tried not to study him too much, focusing on the sharpness of his jaw and the gentle slope of his nose rather than his nudity.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Sextus, I am—” You were cut off by a cacophony of noise, a few whistles interspersed within. A bit of heat rose to your face when you saw Sextus’ bewildered expression. “I fear I have made a blunder.”

To your relief, he merely laughed. “Aelius. Call me Aelius.”

“Right. I apologize, Aelius. How do you feel?”

Once you had given him the tunic, he slipped it on over his head, covering his modesty — not that anyone but you seemed to care all that much about it. When he stood, two men came to his side to steady him. Despite this, he still offered you his hand. It would be rude to deny him, though you didn’t feel comfortable accepting help from a man who had been, by many’s standards, dead a few minutes before. You gave him a small smile and pushed yourself to stand on your own.

“I could be better.” His grin was lopsided, the boyish kind that showed off his teeth. It was endearing enough for you to be proud of saving a good man, rather than a mere man. When he spoke next, there was no small amount of awe in his voice. “You saved my life, I am not sure if that is something I can repay.”

A snort pulled from your throat as you waved him off. “No repayment necessary, I only did what needed to be done.”

Aelius looked about to argue when he paled, his gaze flickering behind you. There was a creeping sensation of unease crawling up your spine, similar to when you had earned your parents displeasure. Standing behind you was a presence, one with enough authority to cause the men around you to stand at attention.

Thankfully, it didn’t seem directed at you. For now.

“What is the meaning of this, boy? I allow a bit of slacking off and you go and die on me?” It was the voice from before, the one who commanded his men to let you through. Taking a guess, you’d say this man was the centurion leading this particular century back to Rome. You didn’t dare look behind you, you didn’t dare move. Anything to keep his frustration off of you. It didn’t last long. A large hand clasped you on the shoulder, grip firm, but not harsh. “And to be saved by a foreigner! You should be on your knees thanking him for whatever trick on the gods he played at your behest.”

“That is unnecessary,” You tried to argue, only for the centurion to give you another shake.

“A humble medicus at that! Lucky boy! Very, very lucky!” He let go of you and gestured for Aelius to be taken elsewhere. “To the tents with you while I think of a suitable punishment. No man has died and lived to tell the tale on my watch, so I must be creative.”

Aelius, at least, looked ashamed, though the man with the floppy blond hair leaned down to whisper in his ear, a smirk dancing on his lips. Whatever was said earned him an elbow to the ribs. Men never change.

Before they could get too far, you found your voice. “Monitor him through the night! Fetch me if he stops breathing again!”

It was only once you heard the affirmative did you relax. Which lasted a moment before the centurion turned you around so you were facing him. His gaze was hard and his arms were crossed over his chest. Unlike the men before, the centurion was wearing his full armor, save for his helmet, another thing you were thankful for. You were not easily intimidated, but this man? He could crack you like a peanut.

After a moment of sizing you up, his eyes trailing from your clothes, so different from his own, with trousers instead of a tunic and a graphic t-shirt in an alphabet he knew, but words he couldn’t understand, to your green dyed hair. He didn’t seem impressed. In fact, he seemed suspicious.

“Lucius Marianus.” Unfurling one of his hands, he held it for you to shake.

With an awkward smile, you took his hand and introduced yourself. His grip grew a bit tighter at the sound of your obviously foreign name. You fought the urge to run away.

“A pleasure, Marianus.” This time, you called him by his second name, determined not to make the same mistake as earlier with a less forgiving man.

“Where are you from?” Quick and to the point, you could respect that. Logically, you knew that this wasn’t real, that ultimately, this was your dream and you held all the power, but there was a little voice in the back of your head telling you to be careful. “Are you a citizen, a slave, or a free-man?”

Licking your dry lips, you let your hand fall to your side, shoving it in your pocket before Marianus could see that you had begun to shake. “I am from a country far away. Across the western sea, farther than any have ever gone. I am a citizen of my country, but not of Rome, and I am no slave, so I suppose that makes me a free-man.”

“You suppose?” He pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow. “Well, I ‘suppose’ I won’t assume you’re a liar and a runaway. If I hadn’t just witnessed that…” Marianus paused, searching for the right word, and you hoped it would be one you recognized. “Technique of yours, I would figure just that. Tell me, medicus, what exactly did you do to one of my men?”

“I, uh…” Your tongue felt too big for your mouth. Whatever answer you gave this man, it better be satisfactory. All you could hope for was that the truth would be enough. “His heart was no longer beating, so I pressed upon his chest as hard as I could in the same rhythm that his heart would take.”

Marianus nodded, his expression contemplative. “And the kiss?”

“It was not a kiss!” The words burst forth before you could stop them, your face flaring even hotter. This entire conversation was reminiscent of one you would have with your father, and Marianus’ disapproval was getting to you more than it should. “I was breathing air into his lungs. I inhale, pinch his nose shut so the air doesn’t escape through his sinuses, and then blow into his mouth. If his chest rises, I am doing the procedure correctly.”

“Still, an intimate gesture to bestow upon a stranger.” His lips twitched upwards ever so slightly. You got the feeling he was teasing you now. “From what I can gather, this technique of yours mimics the functions of life in order to coaxe the spirit back into its vessel.”

You blinked, opening your mouth to argue with scientific facts. A beat passed before you snapped your jaw shut with an audible click. Better to not look a gift horse in the mouth. “I, uh, yes. It does. That is exactly it. You are a very intelligent man, Marianus, perhaps a career in medicine is calling your name.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, medicus.”

An awkward grimace pulled at your lips. “Right.”

Marianus was both unmoved and undeterred by your lame response. You expected him to leave you be. After all, despite the fact that you saved one of his men from drowning, you were still an outsider to both the village, the army, and Rome. In your head, he owed you nothing, all you did was your duty and you expected nothing in return. Marianus seemed to think otherwise.

“Where have you been sleeping, medicus?” With a sharp nod of his head, he gestured to your duffel bag and drying clothes. “I assume outside in the heat considering how poorly you are spoken of in town. Looking and speaking as you do, it’s no wonder anyone is hesitant to even allow you to sleep in their barn.” Again, the edges of his mouth curled upwards. “You are far more useful than previously anticipated. For once, I am happy to have my assumptions proven false.”

“Um, thanks?”

“Fetch your belongings, there are more men waiting to be your patients back at camp.”

You blinked, dumbfounded, before a sharp raise of Marianus’ black eyebrows broke you from your spell. If there were more people to be treated, you didn’t have to be told twice. With a bit of pep in your step, excited to have something to do rather than waste away in tedium, you stuffed your, now dry, clothes into your bag and slung it over your shoulder. Marianus eyed it with no small amount of reservation.

“Do you carry any weapons?”

You thought about your taser and pepper spray tactically placed in an easy to reach pocket on the side. “No. As a doctor, I consider myself a pacifist.”

Marianus snorted. “A good way to die.”

“Better to die giving life than taking it,” You replied easily. This wasn’t a lie. While you didn’t fault other’s for violence — how could you fault human nature? — you would rather heal before harm. A part of you hoped to balance the scales, do enough good to make the bad seem worth it. It was a lofty goal, one you tried not to dwell on. So long as you managed to help even a single person in your life, you would be happy, though you’d never confine yourself to such a meager goal. “If you don’t mind me asking, do your men not already have a doctor to treat them? Why take on a stranger’s help?”

“We did. He is no longer with us.”

You frowned. “A shame. Lose one soldier, and you only lose one man. Lose a doctor and your losses double. I never met him, but I’ll remember him fondly.”

“You’re soft. It’s a shame.” His words made you raise your eyebrows, and, when you looked at him, there was pity in his dark eyes, though it was only there for a second.

Marianus clamped his hand on the back of your neck and began to steer you in the direction of the camp. With few trees in sight, only lush farms and tall grass, the countryside was a sight to behold. You glanced over your shoulder to see the river and the village disappearing in the distance. While the road the two of you walked on was dirt, it was well trodden, no stones or holes to trip over. This truly was the Roman Empire. How your mind managed to conjure an image so beautiful and so unmistakably alien was beyond you.

“Has there been anyone caring for the injured?” You asked.

“Our veterinarius has been doing what he can, though I don’t like it. These are men, not animals.” To punctuate his displeasure, Marianus spit on the ground.

You nodded placatingly as you approached the first cluster of tents. Some of the soldiers recognized you, though you didn’t recognize them in return. Word traveled fast when you save someone’s life, you supposed. “I’m sure he’s doing his best.”

“His best is not enough,” Marianus grumbled.

Before you could respond, the stench of infection and sick filled your senses. If you hadn’t done clinicals or worked in healthcare while you completed your studies, it would have caught you off guard. Instead of blanching, you took your last deep breath of clean air, and braced yourself as much as you could. Marianus almost seemed impressed by the determination on your face as you pulled back the flap of the tent, joining a frazzled looking man — the veterinarius, you assumed — in his rounds.

All you could do was your best, and you intended for that to be enough.

Even as a student, you had steeled your heart to the worst suffering had to offer. Growing up as you did, with parents more interested in results than feelings, it became all too easy to turn off your bleeding heart and do what was necessary. By now, it was as simple as breathing.

Your bedside manner was gentle as you helped a few men, too injured to move, drink water from a ladle. If you were any less busy, you would have insisted it be boiled. Marianus would likely scold you, it was unrealistic for an entire century to boil water for every sick man, let alone every soldier, no matter how sound your advice was. Posca would do for now, as it always had.

For hours, you worked tirelessly, cleaning wounds and calming fevers. You were lucky modern medicine wasn’t all that you studied. In order to help as many people as you could, you focused on ancient and holistic practices as well, though you had an easy preference for the tried and true methods. There was no denying that you were a medical prodigy, a genius for all intents and purposes. It wasn’t that you had an ego — well, maybe you did — it was the fact that it was the truth. You had graduated college before you had turned eighteen and gone through medical school soon after. Right now, you were the youngest student going through their surgical residency in your state, perhaps even the country if you dared to let your pride swell. All of this, your parents would call their doing, that you would be nothing without their guidance.

You grimaced in the middle of setting a skinny man’s broken arm. Better not think about them now, it would only serve to stress you out even further. For all your skill, you caught yourself floundering inside the medical tent, Marianus watching from the entrance as you flitted from patient to patient, and the veterinarius sitting back to take a much needed break. While you had some supplies on you — a stethoscope, a sphygmomanometer, a Taylor hammer, none of which you’d utilized yet, a bottle of antiseptic, some ibuprofen, and three clean syringes — it wasn’t enough for you to feel comfortable. Which was ridiculous, this was your dream, you could do whatever you wanted.

Then again, if that was true, then why were you fumbling through even simple procedures? You didn’t feel comfortable using more invasive methods, not unless you had no other choice. The likelihood of survival was low, even with your steady hands. Perhaps this was a nightmare, a look into what life will be like once you were done with your schooling. Your slumbering mind was preparing you to be the failure you were always meant to be.

Shaking your head, you focused your attention back on your patient. No one seemed to notice your lapse, not even you. You were quite good at multitasking, mixing self-deprecation with stringent work ethic like a talented seamster. The skinny man was lucky it was a clean break, and even luckier, it wasn’t his humerus, which would have been more complicated given your lack of equipment. A bit of sweat trickled down your forehead as you stood, surveying the men around you. You had done well given the circumstances, but you still couldn’t help but feel as though it wasn’t enough.

Nothing was ever enough.

Even dreaming, you felt tired.

Three men had infected wounds. One was oozing pus, which apparently was a good thing according to the veterinarius and Marianus, though you still took care to clean the wound thoroughly. Another man had a fever due to the infection, and, after washing your hands, you took care to clean it as the other. After much reassurance that it wasn’t poison to Marianus — consisting of taking one yourself — you also gave him an ibuprofen for his fever, though you decided you were going to ration them unless it was an emergency. The third man was a bit harder, enough necrotic tissue forming around the infection that you considered surgery. For now, you introduced maggots to the area, a treatment Marianus seemed to approve of, if not with some disgust. In the morning, you would check the wound, and then surgically remove the decayed flesh if the maggots didn’t do enough.

Four men had broken bones, one, his arm, another, his finger, and two, their leg. That was simple enough, if not time consuming getting all the bone fragments to set properly. While you would have much preferred a cast to a splint, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

That wasn’t even to mention the handful of other men with various ailments that filled the tent. Apparently there was someone quarantined elsewhere, suffering from dysentery. According to the veterinarius, the treatment for that particular disease was rest, fasting, and dehydration, which you were in the middle of giving him strict instructions to keep the man as hydrated as possible, it didn’t matter how quickly he discharged it, he needed to be drinking as much water as he could. You didn’t hold out much hope he’d make it, though you’d be damned before you gave up on someone who needed you.

It wasn’t until Marianus clamped his hand on the back of your neck and began to steer you towards the tent’s exit did you realize how exhausted you were. Your eyes burned and your head throbbed. If you were any less of a man, you would have taken one of your ibuprofen to ease the dull ache in your temples. Ultimately, you decided against it. If there came a time when they were necessary and you had run out because of your own weakness, you would never forgive yourself.

“You did well, medicus. Better than I expected, you are very skilled at what you do,” Marianus said as he led you deeper into camp. By now, it was dark, well into the night too judging from the full moon directly overhead.

How long had you been working?

“Thank you. I am usually better than that. I fear my nerves of being in such an unfamiliar country are getting to me.” With the heel of your palm, you scrubbed at your face.

Marianus frowned down at you. “Keep your foreignness to yourself, medicus and you will go far. Though, that will be hard to do with hair like yours.” He looked you up and down, hesitant curiosity creeping into his features. “That strange color… it is not natural, is it?”

A laugh bubbled from your throat. “No, I dyed it. Green is a color I am rather fond of.”

“I am fond of red, but you do not see me painting my hair that color,” He grumbled under his breath, and it reminded you so much of the comments some of your superiors made, that you giggled.

Before you could respond, he gestured to a tent with an outstretched arm. A lantern was on inside, casting the shadow of the single occupant, who was busy sitting cross-legged and writing what seemed to be a letter. While you had reservations of interrupting, Marianus did not.

“Out here, now, boy!” The shadow visibly jumped before pulling back the flap to reveal Aelius. He looked as tired as you did, and truthfully, he stank to high heaven. You struggled not to wrinkle your nose so as not to offend him. Aelius seemed like a nice man.

“Sir?” Was all he managed before Marianus continued to bark his next set of orders.

“Since the two of you were acquainted earlier, and the fact that you were supposed to be monitored, you’ll be bunking together. In the morning, we set a course for Rome.”

You blinked. Did that include you? While you wouldn’t mind getting out of the village and seeing more of what this dream had to offer, you couldn’t help but feel a bit of uncertainty. There was no telling how long this dream would go on, nor how vast it was. You couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if you strolled ‘out of bounds,’ so to speak. Would you be trapped in an infinite void until you awoke? The thought was enough to send a chill down your spine.

“And I will remain here,” You finally said.

Marianus barked out a laugh. “No. You will join us. I still have a use for you.”

As much as you didn’t want to abandon your current patients, you would rather not push your luck any further than you already had. Crossing your arms, you met Marianus’ furrowed brows with your own. “And that use would be?”

To your right, Aelius made a little noise. Your gaze flickered over to him, catching his motion for you to cease, before you ignored it and fixated back on Marianus. He was looking at you like you’d lost your mind. At least enough to question him. A bit of discomfort made your skin itch, you always hated earning the negative attention of a superior.

For a moment, you feared that Marianus would yell at you until the sun rose. He puffed up, shoulders squaring and his lower jaw jutting out before he deflated with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his angular nose. “You are too soft for the army, medicus, and you are too foreign to hope to set up your own clinic, especially without citizenship. There is very little hope for you in the Empire.”

You looked away, feeling cold even as a summer’s breeze blew against your skin. An argument began to boil in the back of your throat, an insistence that this was a dream, so none of that mattered, but you managed to swallow that poison before it could spew out of you.

Marianus paused, waiting for you to respond. When all he received was a defeated look, he continued, “There is, however, hope for both me and you. The emperors require a new physician and I believe they would be taken by your skill and your…” He looked at your hair again. “Novelty. In return for discovering you, if they choose to take you on, me and my men will be rewarded.”

“I see,” You muttered. Perhaps this was the route your dream wanted you to take. At the end of it all, there was sure to be a lesson or even a vision of sorts that could help you in reality. All you had to do to get it was allow the plot to pull you forward. “And Rome is not far?”

Marianus’ features softened, bordering on fondness, guilt, and pity. “Barely a day’s march, medicus.”

“I will go, then. To Rome with me, I suppose.” Though you smiled, when you turned to Aelius, he stared at you as if you’d been sentenced to death.

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Tag list: @snazzynacho

#geta x reader #caracalla x reader #gladiator x reader #geta x you #caracalla x you #gladiator ii #gladiator 2 #HOLY FUCK FORMATTING THIS WAS HELL #if this doesnt post in the tags im going postal

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mythals-whore · 2 days ago

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ASSIGNING THE MEMBERS OF THE VEILGUARD A TAYLOR SWIFT ALBUM BECAUSE I CAN!!!

Harding - Debut

Obviously she’s our Ferelden farm girl so this just makes sense, but let me elaborate anyway. Harding is VERY Tied Together with a Smile/ The Outside to me?? Not to mention i feel like she would love the angrier songs Picture to Burn/ should’ve said no. We know how she gets when she’s angry. And you can’t convince me she wouldn’t LOVE Our Song.

Neve - Midnights

Do i even need to explain this one?? Neve gives such Midnights vibes, vigilante shit/mastermind/midnight rain???? Also SO yoyok coded. i feel like her romance is very Labyrinth/Snow on the Beach. And the woman who pets all of docktown’s stray cats is very “karma is a cat” of her idc.

Bellara - Red (TV)

This one was hard! It was between Red and 1989 to me. I just think Bellara would love the high energy pop beats (22, WANEGBT, Starlight). But i think she would LOVE Treacherous/State of Grace as well. Will help with the fanfic writing 100%. I put TV here specifically bc Better Man & Forever Winter could very much remind her of Cyrian??? And you can’t convince me Bellara wouldn’t be obsessed with ATWTMVTV.

Lucanis - Speak Now

Purple vibes, obvious. But he’s like, very Enchanted to me. AKA loves reading romance novels and the concept of romance but doesn’t know much about it/has never experienced it but wants it badly. Which is also why Electric Touch/Sparks Fly apply here. Don’t think about Lucanis listening to Castles Crumbling when he gets back from the Ossuary to find that Caterina is gone (+ later if you don’t save Treviso). Also Innocent was written about him, Taylor told me.

Shout to passenger princess Spite which i feel Taylor embodied when she wrote Dear John (iykyk)

Davrin - Lover

First of all, he is SO The Archer. “Ive been the Archer, Ive been the prey” “i jump from the train and ride off alone i never grew up its getting so old” “i cut off my nose just to spite my face and hate my reflection for years and years” its so Davrin (also one of my favorite songs maybe ever so this is big news). Also as @pinayelf pointed out, Assan as the Arrow?? Dying. But also Davrin’s romance is so Its Nice to Have a Friend. I saw someone talk about this not that long ago, but he’s very much a friend first?? Like he gives the vibe that as your LI you just hang out and rib on each other. I just i feel like they laugh a lot. + Lover as an album is soft but very anxiously attached?? Which i feel is the whole inner life of “i am a Grey Warden and im not supposed to get to attached bc it can’t last.” Honorable mentions go to Daylight/I Think He Knows/Cruel Summer/ Cornelia Street

Could also be convinced he is Reputation bc Reputation seems hardcore but is secretly very soft.

Emmrich - Tortured Poets (The Anthology)

Emmrich would LOVE the flowery language in this. Would love analyzing the lyrics with his besties. He’d love The Albatross (which, coincidentally is one of my favs, guess he just has good taste) and The Manuscript. Also tbh i don’t know much about his romance but “you know how to ball, i know Aristotle” feels like Emmrich with a much younger Rook (shout out to But Daddy I Love Him as well). Idk i think he’d secretly love it. Also relating Robin to Manfred bc that is his son??? On the sad side i feel like Emmrich is very the Prophecy/Peter because he has that dialogue about how he ‘once thought he’d get married’ like he always wanted love but never found it.

Taash - evermore

This was very difficult but i think the general witchy vibes are very “I’m Rivaini, we’re cool with spirits”. Also Tolerate It feels like when their mom comes to visit and no matter what Taash does it’s not good enough. Laash specifically is Dorothea/Ivy to me. And then of course (endgame spoilers) Marjorie after their mom dies and RWYLM if Harding is also gone. As a fan of the ‘pots and pans’ of Closure, they also get this one assigned to them. Just feels right.

#dragon age the veilguard #taylor swift #dragon age #datv #datv spoilers #datv companions #lace harding #neve gallus #bellara lutare #davrin #lucanis dellamorte #emmrich volkarin #taash

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hysteriarice · 2 days ago

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nothin' like a good ole new york slice (yunho x reader)

Yunho x fem!reader

You and Yunho go on a friend date in NYC and...maybe you're becoming more than friends?

word count: ~1k

this is for my pookie @thingslana <3 yolo swag. also this is very innocent and fluffy no smut sorry babes

You exit the theatre in a daze. The familiar streets of New York City seem sparkly and new now that you’re seeing them through Yunho’s eyes. He hasn’t experienced much of the city yet, so you’ve spent the day taking him to a few of iconic spots: Central Park, the Met, your favorite brunch place in Soho. And now you and Yunho have just finished watching his first ever Broadway show—Phantom of the Opera.

You expected it to be dark when you stepped outside. You anticipated the slight chill in the early autumn air. And both of those predictions are true; what you hadn’t considered was Yunho grabbing your hand and holding it tenderly as you leave the theatre. His long fingers interlock with yours, and your head reels. You feel giddy. You can’t seem to think of anything other than the contact, of how his hand engulfs yours so completely.

“Y/n,” Yunho says, “Where are we going now?”

You don’t want to admit that you had just started walking without a clear destination in mind, so you come up with something on the spot.

“Are you hungry?” You start to slip your hand from his so you can get your phone out of your purse. “I was thinking we could go get pizza or—“

He doesn’t let you let go of his hand. You turn to look at him when you realize, and a warmth spreads through you despite the night breeze.

“Or?” Yunho asks softly.

“Or whatever you want to do. We can call it a night if you aren’t hungry.” You don’t want this to end yet, but you don’t want to keep him if he’s tired. You know it’s selfish, but he’s always so busy that when you see him, you want to keep him for as long as possible. And you only have today anyway—he has a show on the other side of the country tomorrow.

“I could go for pizza.” He smiles and squeezes your hand gently, and you almost melt into a puddle right there on the street.

You panic and pick the first pizza place that you see. It is packed to the brim with people. As the pair of you wait in line, he never lets go of your hand. You order, pay, and end up finding a table in the middle of Times Square to sit down at.

As you eat, the evening chill begins to get to you. Your outfit was perfect for the day, but the temperature has dropped significantly since you went to the theatre. Yunho notices you shivering.

“Are you cold?” he asks. Without waiting for a reply, he takes off his sweatshirt and hands it to you. He’s wearing a long sleeve shirt underneath.

“Won’t you be cold without it?” You say, though you still take the sweatshirt.

“A ho never gets cold,” he deadpans, and then, after a moment, bursts out laughing. You shake your head and you pull on the sweatshirt, but you’re giggling too.

“You’re an idiot,” you smile.

“You liked it,” he shoots back. His words catch you off guard. Is he flirting? You have no idea how to respond to that. You had started off the day as friends, but now you aren’t so sure where you stood. You had always assumed that your crush on him is one-sided, but now…

Today, Yunho had held your hand, unprompted. He gave you his sweatshirt. Are the two of you turning into something more? You take a bite of your pizza, silently turning over the idea in your head.

You can feel his eyes on you as you eat, but you are too scared to look up at him.

“I had a lot of fun today,” he says quietly.

“Oh?” You still can’t look him in the eyes. Your face feels hot, and you hope he mistakes your flushed cheeks for a reaction to the cold air or something.

“Can we do this again? Next time I’m in town?”

“Like a date?” The words slip out before you register how they sound. The world feels like it’s tilting on its axis. Your heart pounds in your ears.

“Yeah, like a date,” Yunho responds. You can practically hear his smile. You finally look up to meet his eyes. His face is also a bit red—from the chill or something else, you don’t know.

You want to say something like I thought you’d never ask, but what comes out is more like a squeak. “Okay.”

His smile widens. You finish your food with your heartbeat thudding like a drum in your chest. You can barely focus on the conversation—just him. His smile. His eyes. His hands as they run through his hair.

Eventually you decide to call it a night. You find a street corner to stand on, trying to hail a cab back to your apartment.

“I have a flight in the morning,” Yunho says ruefully. A couple of taxis with passengers already in them have passed by.

“I wish you could stay in the city longer,” you reply, watching the street. Yunho murmurs something under his breath that you don’t quite catch.

Finally a taxi slows in front of you. You open the door and tell the driver where to take you. Then you slide over in the backseat to make room for Yunho, but he refuses to get in.

“We’re going in opposite directions,” he says, and you can’t find a way to argue with that, despite wanting to you. You want to grab him by the shirt and haul him back to your place with you, but you know that can’t happen. Not tonight, at least.

Yunho offers cash to the driver. “Here’s the money for the ride. Keep the tip.”

“Hey, why are you—“ You start to stop him from paying for you, but he grabs your hand instead, gently brushing his lips against your fingertips—a whisper of a kiss.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, shutting the door of the taxi.

You melt back into the seat as the car takes off. You’re still wearing his sweatshirt, and it smells faintly like him. Warm and comforting. He’s barely gone, but you miss him already. You aren’t sure when you’ll see him next, but there is one thing you are sure of—you aren’t going to sleep tonight.

#yunho #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez x reader #yunho x reader #atz #jeong yunho #ur mom lol

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karasucatt · 2 days ago

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I Don't Need Your Help(Well Sometimes I Do)

“Hey-”

Shadow yelled, spinning around and launching a doom spear out from his hand. It zoomed past the cobalt hedgehog that had come up behind him, dissipating into the ground but leaving a small cut on his cheek. Shadow's lungs heaved as his hand shook. His eyes met green and he felt his body relax without his permission.

“Dang Shads,” Sonic the Hedgehog let out an airy laugh as he wiped the blood from his cheek, “Did I catch you at a bad time? You haven’t tried to kill me like that since the war with the Dark Arms!”

______

Shadow was more powerful than ever thanks to Doom's influence. But that power didn't come without its drawbacks. His body ached and burned with pain. His body was tired, his mind was exhausted. He had been trying to process his grief with no prevail.

Sonics harassment of his personal bubble didn't help either.

But-

But Shadow couldn't find the words to send the hedgehog away. Maria was happy Shadow had made a friend after all. She would tease him if she discovered that, deep down, Shadow wished that friendship was something more.

Or// Shadow has chronic pain and is bad at feelings and he hates that Sonic can read him like a book.

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When I haven’t seen a hurt/comfort angsty Sonadow oneshot where Sonic finds Shadow struggling with his grief and the chronic pain his doom powers are causing as his body gets used to them post gens so I decide to speed write one in three days-

Anyway enjoy!

Word count; 8,240

#sonic the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog fandom #sonic the hedgehog fanfiction #sonic #sonic fanfiction #sonic fandom #sth #sth fanfic #sth fandom #sonadow #sonadow fanfiction #sonic x shadow #sonic x shadow fanfic

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egosdelirium · 14 hours ago

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So yeah I wrote it

"Oh, it's alright. It's alright, Harry, please–please don't cry anymore—"

Sirius can barely hear his own voice over the pained wails of the boy in his arms. Harry's little face is currently burrowed in the crook of his neck, small hands balled up into fists around the fabric of Sirius' printed Queen t-shirt. He'd bought it at the Game Tour of 1980 and had gifted an identical one to Marlene for her birthday last year. She died in it.

A sudden coughing fit makes Harry shake violently; his breathing hiccups and stutters but the crying doesn't stop, not even for a second, which only serves to make the coughing worse.

"Harry! Harry, it's okay!" Sirius tries to put the boy down, tries to lower his own tone into something a little less panicked - a little less on the verge of hysteria - but he manages neither.

Harry refuses to let go of him: the moment he feels that Sirius might be trying to place him on the sofa or the colorful playmat on the ground, he starts struggling and writhing like a wild animal. He clings onto Sirius' neck and shoulders even tighter, grabbing onto cotton and skin alike with unbelievable strength for a one year old, and buries his face even deeper against Sirius' collarbone.

It hurts. Sirius forgot to trim Harry's nails - again - and he can feel his little fingers leaving red imprints all over his back in his desperate attempts to cling on. In all of this, Harry is still coughing, and Sirius has the brief yet horrifying thought that he's going to choke right there in his arms, on tears and snot and Sirius' own skin.

"I'm only going to put you down for a moment, Prongslet. I just need to let you breathe. I just need to check on you, okay?"

Sirius finds out soon enough that trying to reason with a crying baby is about as impossible as doing so with a transformed werewolf. Harry thrashes and screams even louder when Sirius attempts to put him down once more and only stops when Sirius eventually gives up.

The cough subsides on its own, thankfully, but the crying doesn't.

Sirius distractedly pats Harry's back and bounces around a little, like Harry usually likes him to, but it's pretty much useless. The sobs persist, and so do the screams. A quick glance at the clock confirms that it's four in the morning and that Sirius has been awake for twenty-seven consecutive hours.

Remus is not going to be coming back for another week; he's gone to Wales to attend his mother's funeral and decide what to make of his newly inherited cottage in the countryside.

And anyway, Remus is... a difficult topic, to say the least. Still not quite able to balance the betrayal / murder of their best friends with the full moons that try to kill him monthly and the fact that everyone he has ever loved thought him the spy. Pretty heavy stuff.

Sirius didn't have any time to even think of sorting through all that (minus the full moons) because he had Harry to take care of. Turns out dedicating all his hours to his godson makes for a pretty good distraction on most days. But not this past week, no. This week, something seems to have snapped inside of little Harry James Potter, something so dark and painful that has been keeping him up in crying fits during the nights and in irritable moods during the days.

Sirius has tried everything: toys, music, soothing spells, massages, cuddles, all of Harry's favourite foods, stories, and even muggle television, but it has all been in vain.

Harry just can't seem to fall asleep. He can't get settled. He can't find peace - and he is sure as hell not letting Sirius find any either.

"Please, please stop crying. Stop, stop, you've got to–" Sirius forces his eyes shut when he feels the increasingly rising panic get the best of him. He is shaking, from head to toe, much like Harry is, and exhaustion is threatening to make his knees buckle and give out under him.

He takes a shuddering breath, then another. Harry is still crying. Harry is still screaming, right next to his ear. The noise penetrates his eardrums and echoes around his brain, jumping from wall to wall inside his head.

Sirius is going to throw up.

"You've–you've got to stop. Please!" Sirius tries to bounce Harry on his shoulder a bit more vigorously. His joints ache; he's been trying to rock a baby to sleep for the past...what, six hours?

Remus is not coming back for a whole other week, at the very least. Sirius is all alone in the house.

Worst of all, Harry is all alone with Sirius.

He shouldn't, he should be with his mother and fathe— No! No Sirius can't go there or he'll crumble.

He's been keeping it together for weeks, an entire month, so he can't give up now. If he goes there, he won't return. If he crumbles now, Harry will have no one else in the entire world.

Remus is not coming back.

Neither is Jam—

Sirius gasps. His knees finally give out like they've threatened to, and he collapses on the floor, with Harry still securely wrapped within the safety of his arms.

Harry doesn't seem to appreciate their new position, though, and his screams only get more high-pitched. His voice is hoarse, and the more he yells, the more his throat will hurt later on.

"Stop! Just stop! please," Sirius begs. "You've got to stop, I-I-I can't, I can't think!"

Sirius lays his head against the wall he conveniently finds behind him with a dull thud, a little more aggressively than he probably should've. If he gives himself a concussion who will look after Harry?

Remus is not coming back for a week, still.

Sirius' t-shirt is soaked. Tears and snot. Marlene's was soaked in dark red blood, so really, some people have it way worse than others.

Harry cries, he cries and cries and cries, and Sirius starts feeling delirious. Twenty-seven hours. Harry napped during the afternoon but Sirius was too worried about him to do the same, and that had been a stupid fucking choice. Maybe, had he taken that stupid nap, he wouldn't be losing his mind now.

Harry coughs again, and Sirius starts trembling all over again. Full body shivers.

He lifts Harry from underneath his armpits and places him on his lap, lifting his traitorous knees to act as a sort of backrest. Harry doesn't like this, either; he crashes against Sirius' chest full force and sobs right on Freddy Mercury's smiling face.

"Please, don't cry." Sirius begs, again. The world around him is starting to blur and his chest feels heavy. Is it Harry? Or is something inside him finally collapsing on itself?

"You should go to sleep, hmm, it's really late. Really, really fucking late."

Harry grabs onto Sirius' face, pulling at the skin of his cheeks and cries, cries, cries.

Sirius is losing it. Sirius loses it.

"Stop crying! I'm begging you, I'm begging you!" He rises his voice and hates himself for it, but he can't even hear it over Harry's incessant fucking sobs. "Just stop, stop! Stop! Stop, JAMES STOP!"

Sirius doubles over and gasps like he's been hit with a stunner. Why did he—why? His thoughts are muddled; Harry's green eyes stare back at him, little face contorted in pain and anguish.

James does not have green eyes. James' eyes are brown. Actually, James' eyes are nothing because James is dead.

Harry is here, and James is not because James is dead and Sirius is alone.

Something shakes Sirius' chest, shoulders, and ribcage. Harry still has his chubby hands on his cheeks, but they feel wet now.

Sirius realises that he's crying only when he hears himself echoe Harry's sobs. It hurts. His eyes sting and his lungs burn. He wants James, he needs James, and Harry wants and needs both him and Lily.

Neither of them can have that, and Sirius finally understands why Harry can't seem to stop despairing. How scary it must be, in the eyes of a little baby. Sirius is terrified and he hasn't been a baby in a long time.

He takes Harry very gently in the crook of his elbows and cradles him to the rhythm of their heaving chests. Sirius places his own forehead to Harry's, lets his tears fall freely just to mix with the boy's and tumble down their cheeks onto the Queen t-shirt.

Onto Freddie Mercury's smiling face.

Thinking so many thoughts about little baby Harry crying and screaming every night because he misses his parents horribly and Sirius, who's so tired he's almost delirious from lack of sleep and all he wants is to make him stop but has no idea how. And it goes on and on for hours with Harry yelling at the top of his lungs, and Sirius aches

But also Harry's sobbing tantrums kinda validate Sirius' own grief so sometimes he gives up on trying to soothe him, he just holds this desperate one year old really tight to his chest and lets Harry cry out to Lily and James for both of them

#sirius and harry #harry and the dogfather #sirius black #harry potter #sirius raising harry #marauders #wolfstar #prongsfoot #platonic or not you do you #lily evans #jily

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