#i could deeply explain in excruciating detail but let's not

[l4tchk3y]

BANG!💥BANG!💥BANG!💥

[gor3sigil]

Detransition - My Story

[CW for Domestic Abuse, S*xual Abuse, Social Detransition, Misgendering, Alcoholism]

Recently, I watched “I Saw the TV Glow”, and it blew me away.

The ending really made me want to tell a story that happened to me.

Between the end of 2020 until the end of 2021, I detransitionned, mostly socially as I hadn’t started transitionning medically at the time. I did so because of many factors, and I never really wrote about it in details or reflected on it deeply as it was a very hard time for me. But I think that I now have enough hindsight as to why it happened and how it affected me to be comfortable sharing.

So, 2020 was a crazy year for everyone. I was in a T4T poly relationship, living with my partner of almost 5 years and started to go out with another trans dude. Long story short, because this isn’t about this, but I got into a physical altercation with my living partner during quarantine after years of emotional and verbal abuse, financial manipulation and isolation. I had to flee and live with my boyfriend for almost 8 months after leaving. And it was hell on earth.

I tried to not make a big deal out of what happened, but the fact of the matter was I had no place to call home, I was separated from my cat because she couldn’t live with us as my boyfriend’s place was a one room student flat and we struggled to live both of us here, and I had very little money due to not being able to work because of Covid.

What happened next to me leaving was constant harassment for weeks, the people whom I called friends siding with my abusive ex, and I felt so defeated. I couldn’t go back to my local trans community out of fear, and the community that I still had I struggled to trust again. I was supposed to start HRT before Covid hit, but it was cancelled. I got so much shit for just telling my story because so many people treated it as “slander” to accuse a trans woman of abusing me. I had receipts but never showed them, to protect her and myself. While she hurt me, she still was in a vulnerable position and it was out of the question to put her in danger. Let’s just say that I didn’t receive the same treatment in return and got lied about, harassed and bullied by people who thought she could do no wrong.

I started to totally lose trust in the community I used to feel safe in. And one day, I met a cis man. I talked to him, we got a coffee, he invited me to his place later, he got drunk and SAd me.

Two weeks passed, two excruciating weeks during which I felt so far away from everything and everyone, I coped by smoking a lot, I was in a deep dissociative state. I was disgusted, I felt so betrayed, I felt like I had no safe space. I still can’t explain why I did what I did, but after these two weeks, I still had the hoodie he handed me to go home, and I decided to meet him to give it back and talk.

He gaslighted me, using the fact that I was mentally ill to prove that I must have imagined what happened, and I believed him.

Meanwhile, I started getting nasty comments from my boyfriend and his friends for going out with a cis man.

Let me say that again.

My boyfriend was not upset that I was putting myself in danger, that I was starting a relationship with someone who had abused me, that I was in deep distress and not trusting anyone from my community anymore so I basically ran the other way, in the polar opposite way, with someone who treated me like a woman and called my desire for top surgery “mutilation”. What he was the most upset about was that I was going out with a cis man.

I became a running joke.

And when I told him that I had slept with my new boyfriend, he told me that I had “slept with the enemy”.

We had a two weeks break, after which I broke up with him for good. I had my own flat, and I was so fucking traumatized about what had happened with my ex and the vitriol I received for my new relationship that I decided it was enough. I was trying so hard to fit in my local trans community, that barely supported me when I got abused, and now what was left of it shat on me for going out with a cis man, it was the last straw.

For a year, I was having the most isolated relationship I ever had.

J, my new boyfriend, was my world. He told me that I thought I was trans out of fear. That it was a lie. That I just was scared of being abused again so I decided that to become a man was to be safe, but it was not. That all I felt was internalized misogyny I could work on, find my inner feminine self again and be happy as a woman. And I believed him. Oh, how I trusted him. I was not even in my mid twenties yet and he was in his early thirties, he must know better. I started using my deadname and feminine pronouns again. I bought dresses, skirts, even wore make up on occasions.

For a year, I killed myself. Slowly but surely. I was a full blown alcoholic, the relationship was becoming more and more abusive and isolating, I spent most of my time with him, most of the time we were drunk, most of the time things weren’t consensual, and it became my new normal.

I was retraumatizing myself. Relieving things I lived in the past because I felt so betrayed.

I had no friends left, the only one I still had didn’t hear about me until the end of my relationship with J. One time I saw her in the street, I was drunk, and J corrected her when she called me “he”. Said it was “she” now. And I said nothing.

We were in a poly relationship, and after the one year mark, after a few traumatizing hookups with random dudes on Tinder, I found my current partner. And when I started to get treated like I deserved to be, I started to snap back. I started fighting back when J acted out, I started seeing the dark place I was in.

Two things made me realize how bad I had been lying to myself.

The first one was a TikTok trend, the one with the song “My Little Dark Age”. The first time I saw a trans man doing this trend with photos of him being himself, then going back to the closet, and in present times, out. “Just know that if you hide, it doesn’t go away”. I sobbed uncontrollably for hours after seeing it.

The second one was one time, drunk, with my partner, I was telling them about the “time where I was trans”. And I was telling them about binders, and offered to show them how it was when I was wearing it. I had thrown away everything I had related to being trans in a cardboard box. I took it out and put it on. Looked at myself in the mirror. And burst out in tears. My partner hold me while I said in between sobs: “how could I do this to myself ?”, “it feels so right, why does it feels so right ? I though I’d be happy as a woman !”. And I cried and cried and cried.

Two weeks later I changed my name again. 2 months after, I broke up with J.

I wanted to tell this story as a cautionnary one. I know that I failed myself. But I can’t help but think that I was also failed in a way. By my community, by the spaces I was in both online and IRL. I am not blaming the individuals. This isn’t about “detransition”. This is about care.

This is a reminder to care. To be kind.

I don’t regret what happened. It’s part of me now. But sometimes I can’t help but wonder how things would’ve turned out if, instead of making fun of me for going out with a cis man, my then friends would’ve asked me kindly why I decided to go out with him. What changed in my mind between the night he SAd me and now. Or just offered a shoulder to cry on. What would’ve happened if I had been offered support for the trauma I was going through, if I hadn’t been told that in the end, J had won, he “have gotten what he wanted”.

“Why is it always so easy for cis men, to get what they want ?”

And in these statements, I became an object. A “want”. And I think that’s one of the main reason I lost every ounce of trust I had left in people who swore they were on my side and had my back.

You may not understand why people make some decisions. But please, before any politics get involved, remember than whose around you are people. Human. With complicated and sometimes conflicting feelings. Flawed. And worthy of your understanding.

This is about not letting politics and theories make you forget to care for one another, to protect each other, and to be here. It can change everything.

[ashessonfire]

if you’re still looking for headcanon requests: what about kaz and reader who is disabled/suffers from chronic pain? i don’t often see x reader fics include things like disabilities, and it’s really quite nice to have found a character like kaz whose struggles i can relate to - ty <33

Kaz Brekker x (Chronically ill) Reader - Headcanons <3

- Paring : Kaz Brekker x Chronically ill! Reader A/N - Thank you so much for this request, and absolutely this is important, and i suffer from multiple chronic illnesses and pains too! I am basing it off my own experiences, which is chronic illness, but i hope it's general enough for anyone to relate to :) ════ ∘◦ᵒ 𓅓 ᵒ◦∘ ════

Kaz Brekker's image is one that permeates throughout the whole city, not a soul is unaware of the leader of the Crows

His limp only adds to the terrifying image, broken and twisted in every element of his being, yet completely unrelenting.

However, privately, his leg causes Kaz excruciating pain, a constant ache that never seems to cease, fatigue from stumbling around for too long, or the cold inducing agonizing flares of pain.

As a result, Kaz has become familiar with the aches and troubles, so when his partner reveals they experience something similar? Kaz suffers from a great mixture of hurt and relief

Why is he relieved you may ask?

Well, the bastard of the barrel can finally offer someone a sense of comfort and support, which in most things he finds practically impossible to do.

Sharing the experience with Kaz would offer the both of you solace, although at first it may come across as if he doesn't notice your constant pain.

However, very swiftly small pots of expensive medicines would arrive neatly wrapped on your bed, his cane would conveniently be placed close by during a flare up, and your favourite foods would mysteriously make their way to you, helping to brighten the tougher days.

Kaz is not a man of words, at all, however he would work on verbalizing his concerns, reading you easily and offering clipped but gentle check in's, like :

"How is the pain compared to yesterday?"

"I'm not going out soon, take my cane just in case"

"The painkillers are already in your drawer, I had Inej replace them this morning"

In terms of severe pain, both chronic + caused by a disability, please expect to never move a muscle - he will 100% get someone else to run around and do everything for you, especially when he himself is struggling.

If you care for him in return, you may even get a few faint smiles - he would be so deeply grateful for your attentiveness and devotion (but obviously it's Kaz, he won't show it freely)

Another reason i believe Kaz would be relieved, is that someone would finally understand his own disability and pains

You would be able to return his gestures, offering him the same sense of security and compassion, without overbearing sympathy or pity - something Kaz detests

Just after he broke his leg, I can vividly picture the pigeons of the barrel dramatically cooing at the young boys limp, explaining their sorrows for him with overwhelming pity

After this, he would undoubtedly threaten any sorrow for his condition with an excruciating death

Let's just say word spread quickly, and few dared to repeat this offence...

Kaz would also have little diaries tucked away in his office and at the slat, detailing each symptom of yours during flare ups - allowing him to prepare anything you could possibly need when the next one arrives

Kaz would feel more at ease with you than anyone else, and would likely share his own hardships with you - knowing that the pair of you can relate on a level few others could match

Honestly i just know that he would be in a strange way very relieved for you to understand his own struggles - allowing for him to be more comfortable with you overall <3

════ ∘◦ᵒ 𓅓 ᵒ◦∘ ════

P.S : As a chronically ill person myself, I just wanted to say that my requests will always be open for ideas like this, and my private messages are open for anything. If anyone is experiencing any form of chronic illness and needs someone to talk to, I am here for you!! It can be super isolating and difficult, especially when those around you cannot understand your struggles, even if they try to. Hopefully this post can find all my spoonie crow fans!! <333

[thedragooner]

Final Fantasy 1 ends on a beautifully melancholic note, as it explains in excruciating detail the time travel plot until it ends on the revelation that although your characters have indeed fixed Garland's kicking-koopa-shells-on-stairs infinite lives gambit, the rest of the game's world won't remember their feats. They saved a world that won't appreciate them for it.

This ending deeply resonates me for one specific reason. A lot of 2005 gamer comics have been written about the supposed irony of Final Fantasy's namesake, the long running RPG series with a title that implies it should've ended with the first one. Subsequently, the rumour spread that Final Fantasy's name came about from the state of the company of Square at the time. The development team were working with an overblown budget in a studio that was on its last legs, if Final Fantasy wasn't a success, they could consider their careers over. This would be a lovely story, if it wasn't made up.

In truth, although Square was languishing as a company, the creator of the series Hironobu Sakaguchi said in an interview that the name came from simply trying to find a nice pair of words that would fit the abbreviation "FF" which sounds neat in Japanese and would be a nice logo. That's it! People in the gaming space knew about Square's finances, thought the name was fitting under these circumstances, and it felt so true that the rumour persists even now, at least a decade after it's been proven false.

What I see in this is another moment where the Gamers have missed the forest for the trees. Let's look at the ending of this game in isolation: It's about a group of heroes who has overcome adversity and put themselves out there only for their work to go fully unrecognised. Rather than being upset at this reality, it is a moment of relief, for the world is a better place having done this work. If the gamers wanted a metaphor for what it's like to put your soul into a project that in all likelihood will crash and burn, it's right there, man. Read le full review at: https://dybschannel.substack.com/p/the-real-final-fantasy-1-nes-was

[dropespeon]

the thing about making an isat orv au. is that like obviously siffrin as yjh is the obvious choice. they're both stuck in the time loop and have to learn to ignore the urge to redo things when something goes wrong. siffrin can't remember his past, and yjh didn't exist before the scenarios; their lives both kind of just. started at a certain point. they will both put themselves through the same horrid events over and over again just for the people they care about, just for one chance to meet them again (yjh) or stay with them (siffrin). secretive plotter and loop are Right There

the problem with making an isat orv au is that literally no one else is emotionally stunted enough to be kdj. no one other than siffrin has the right brand of mental illness. they would not do the shit kdj does. like... i can see!! parts of it working!! mirabelle canonically finds catharsis in fiction and her imposter syndrome would be devastating if her favorite messed up novel came to life. isabeau struggles with believing that, were he to show the parts of himself that he's hidden away, people wouldn't love him. etc etc. but they would not pull the shit kdj does. and i can't see any of them Needing the wos equivalent if that makes sense. they could live without it. siffrin could probably make do but like they had Nothing pre meeting the party. i am now going to explain in excruciating detail the (very loose) roles i gave to everyone in my own orv au

some small context first: this au takes place in the in stars and time setting. everything that happened in isat up to the island disappearing is exactly the same, with the only change being that certain characters were well. characters in a novel. it's more of an orv fusion than a proper au. also it really really doesn't follow the plot of orv that loyally. what does happen in it? well you see [i am carried away by government agents]

- siffrin: kim dokja. a good while after waking up on the shore ala canon, some things (not elaborating) happen and siffrin reads a novel about a housemaiden of change stuck in a time loop at the end of the world. they grow deeply attached to this novel, reading it again and again (re-experiencing the same things over and over again!! i sure hope that doesn't become relevant!!). and then that novel comes to life. and siffrin is the only one who knows the ending to this story.

i chose siffrin for this role because well. man where do i even start. the guilt, the self hatred, the dependence they have on their family vs kdj's on wos, their inability to accept that they could not be loved if people knew what they were really like. the martyr complex. but where does loop come into this? well you see [i am carried away by governme]

(orv fans can definitely guess who loop is but. well. let's just say things happen pretty differently)

- mirabelle: yoo joonghyuk. put that fella through the horrors!! mira is the protagonist of the novel siffrin loves. she was a normal housemaiden of change until uhh. the world ended, and she was forced to repeat the same events over and over again. it uh. fucks up her relationship with change a whole lot. what if, no matter how many things you changed, it didn't matter, because it would all just get reset anyways. what if you changed. what if you didn't want to.

mirabelle was!! actually the main reason i made this au? i find her relationship with the change belief deeply interesting and i just really wanted to delve into that in a very mean way. yjh's story contains a lot of themes of determinism and what it means to be a Protagonist, and i feel like mirabelle's does too. they're both really interesting explorations of tropes. and they're both just guys!

- isabeau: han sooyoung. i will not elaborate.

isabeau... yes i know this is a weird choice. odile would be the obvious choice for hsy and i was originally gonna go with her but i thought about it a lot and. i feel like isabeau's character has a lot to explore in the ways of Being Seen and Understood and him being a writer is an interesting angle to explore that from. i do not think he could doom the world for one person in the way hsy did. what is his motive? well [i am carried away b] i have a lot of other reasons i chose him but they would be pretty huge spoilers for my Evil Plans. also this is at least partially because i wanted an isamirasif qpr and also because i had other ideas for odile

everyone else does not directly take the role of orv characters (because this is not intended to be a 1 to 1 story and i like playing with my touys) buttt. i can still give a rundown on who they are:

- odile: I'd most closely compare her to a combination of yoo sangah and jung heewon. she understands siffrin better than anyone. her story is pretty similar to canon, just that she was also a fictional character. she will do horrible things to protect her family!

- bonnie: closest to lee gilyoung. little kid who is achingly similar to the protagonist. little kid who is so dependent on the protagonist but also gets hurt by their acts of sacrifice more than anyone. still figuring out if them and nille are novel characters or not

- claude: yeah she's here also. i needed more novel characters and i like her!! still figuring out the specifics but she was one of the main characters of the WOS equivalent

- euphrasie: heh. well lets just say. namgung minyoung

- nille: see bonnie. joins the party a lot later than everyone else

- the king: heh. well lets just sa[i am carried awa]

- change god: [i am carrie]

- loop: [i am c]

[infinitebells]

Bella could you write some sweet hcs of liam, albert, sebs & sherly body worshipping their s/o’s?? 🤭

OF COURSE BB

william

✧ he may not show much affection, but when he worships your body the man will not leave any part of you untouched

✧ he palms over all of you, murmuring how beautiful you are to him and how perfectly perfect you are

✧ if he’s body worshipping you, expect him to be a service dom that day, because while he still wants to take care of you, his mind is only on you feeling good

✧ he doesn’t care if he doesn’t finish, he’s here for your pleasure and your pleasure only

✧ he loves kissing you deeply while running his hands all over you, whispering against your lips just how much he loves you

albert

✧ ever the gentleman, if he’s body worshipping you, expect to stay in bed for the entire day

✧ the man would literally go body part by body part, explaining in excruciating detail why he loves that specific part of you

✧ “i love your eyes because the color that swirls around in your irises is equal parts beautiful and mysterious. it makes me want to sit and stare at them for days on end, watching how they light up whenever you’re happy, or how they turn glossy when you’re lost in thought,”

✧ he is so super vocal when worshipping you, taking his time to pull those beautiful cries out of you as he works his mouth against your groin

✧ expect to have his lips on you the whole time

moran

✧ i kid you not, he’ll kiss every inch of you

✧ he doesn’t leave anything untouched, kissing, nibbling, sucking, anything to keep his mouth on you

✧ after every mark he leaves though, he’ll kiss it softly afterwards and whisper how beautiful you are to him, how sexy and perfect you are

✧ like albert, he takes his time and focuses on making you gush around his fingers as he tilts them up to brush steadily against that one spot inside of you that has you seeing stars

✧ you will definitely be covered in cum when he’s done

sherlock

✧ he would be the one to lay rose petals across the bed and proceed to treat you like royalty for the entire night

✧ you would be so pampered, starting with massages wherever you want

✧ these would usually be followed by long, sensual makeout sessions where he holds you impossibly close to him

✧ on these kinds of nights he does whatever you ask him too, letting you take the lead

✧ he pays special attention to aspects of you that he knows you’re insecure about, leaving hickeys and bite marks everywhere

✧ he not only leaves physical marks, but he basically recites love poems while grinding onto you, reassuring you that you could be as loud as you want with him

[allegra-writes]

“About you”

Tom Hiddleston x Reader

General audiences

Warnings: None

You and Tom have been friends for a while, and even though you have a huge crush on him, nothing’s ever going to happen between you. You would know, you tried. He just doesn’t see you that way. Or does he? 

“Maybe if I ask you why don’t tell me, I won’t try hard enough…

I refuse to give it up, my lady” 

About you - Hola a todo el mundo

MY MASTERLIST

‘Hurry up, y/n, we’re gonna be late’ Your best friend, Mary, pulled out your earbuds, effectively pulling you out of your musings.

'I’m coming, I’m coming!’ You replied, walking faster after her. You ajusted your earpods and your coat firmer around you, not that it did any good. Why did you decide to wear a dress on such a cold night? Probably for the same reason you had accepted to go out on the first place. That reason was currently standing just a few yards away from you, waiting for you girls outside the station and looking down at his phone: Tom William Perfect Hiddleston. Blonde hair, dreamy eyes and a smile that could melt glaciers. Always kind, always funny, always dangerously charming. He looked up and met your eyes, and that aforementioned smile took over his face, warming you up inside. Huh. Seemed you were right about those glaciers after all. Feeling the heath creep up your cheeks, you couldn’t help to smile back.

'Seb! Oh my gosh it’s so good to see you! We missed you so much!’ You heard Mary say and took your eyes off of Tom’s. Seb, Tasha and Nick, the rest of your group of friends, were already there as well. Apparently you had been too busy staring at Tom to notice. You wished you could say that had never happened before, but sadly it was quite a common occurrence.

'Seb, you look great. New York did you good!’ You stood on your tip toes to be able to hug your much taller friend.

'Darling, you look gorgeous as ever!’, Seb replied, holding you tight to him. Over his shoulder you thought you saw a flash of something crossing Tom’s face, but it was gone as soon as it got there and you wondered if maybe it was just your overactive imagination, always looking for signs that weren’t there.

'Well well, that’s enough, let her go, you’re going to end up smothering her’ Tom reproached jokingly, placing a hand on Seb’s right shoulder and he let go of you.

'Ok, now that everyone has had their fill of dear Sebastian here’, Mary suggested 'what do you guys say if we actually get into the underground station so we can get going and maybe make it to the play on time for a change?’

You did exactly that and soon the six of you were packed into a carriage full of people. Mary and you got seats and Seb stayed close to you, but Tom and Nick ended up on the other side of the coach. You weren’t sure where Tasha was. You turned up your music but after a couple of minutes, Mary was tugging at your earphones one more time.

'Tom is staring at you’, She whispered conspiratiorially, 'Again.’

'You’re delusional’ You replied without lifting your eyes.

'I am not such thing!’, Mary insisted 'Why do you think he’s even here, taking the tube with us? He does have a car, you know’

You made a face, you hated that car. It was ostentatious and flashy and always calling the wrong kind of attention. Namely, the attention of shallow and plastic looking women who threw themselves at the car’s owner. But then again, as far as you knew, he maybe even enjoyed that.

'Maybe he feels like drinking tonight and doesn’t want to have to worry about driving’ Was your nonchalant response.

'Oh, please! He never drinks. Not more than exactly one beer.’

'Maybe he will tonight!’

'That’s not it and you know it! Sebastian, back me up here!’

'Oh, would you look at that! Tash has found a seat. I’ll go ask her if I can sit on her lap’ And with that, he was gone.

’… Coward.’

'Seriously, Mary, would you just let it go? Please?’ You pleaded, resting your head on the cold glass of the window, felling suddenly very tired.

'Ok, hun, this isn’t like you. Tell me what is going on?’

'Just drop it, please. He doesn’t like me that way,’ you said weakly, trying not to let the hurt show in your voice.

'And how would you know that?’

You finally took your earphones off and turned to face her.

'Because,’ You looked at your best friend in the eyes and confessed 'I have already asked him out’

Her face immediately fell and for the first time, she was left without words. It took a few moments for her to ask, really softly,

'And he said no?’

'He said yes’

’…I’m sorry, I’m not sure I’m following, you’re going to have to explain’

You sight deeply, you didn’t really wanted to remember that night. The memory of it still brought tears to your eyes. However, you swallow hard and tried to relate your story through the knot in your throat.

'Remember that night last summer when I dragged you guys to see that band with me, Louden Swain?’

'The one with the hot singer, yeah.’

You shook your head. Trust Mary to forget what she had eaten for dinner, but to recall the hot musician from three months ago.

'Anyway, remember how you guys all had something to do the next day, because it was Thursday night and you all left as soon as the show was over?’

You waited for her to nod before you went on 'Well, Tom and I stayed behind, so I ask him if he would like to have a beer with me. And we went to a pub near by…’ You trailed off remembering that night, how Tom would throw his head back laughing at something you said and everything felt just so natural, so easy.

'And? What happened then?’ Mary urged you on.

'We talked, we laughed, we had a nice time. It was… Just like we always are. He was my friend Tom. He didn’t flirt. He never tried to make a move.

“He’s Tom, he’s shy! And he’s a gentleman, he wouldn’t try to…’

'Mary,’ you cut her off 'I’ve seen him with women, being all smooth talk and debonair. He just wasn’t like that with me. After the pub, he walked me home and when we got to the door, he hugged me goodnight. He hugged me’

You sighed deeply, and blinked hard trying to get rid of the sting in your eyes.

'Maybe he got nervous…’ But she sounded unsure. You looked at her, trying to will her to understand. You wished for the thousand time you were like her, guys just seemed to gravitate towards her wherever she went. And why wouldn’t they? She was beautiful, funny and moved with confidence, always knew what to wear or how to do her make up. You weren’t like that at all.

She fell silent after that and eventually, you pulled your phone out to turn your music on again, but found you had a new text from Seb.

She’s right tho, you know

It was all it said. You turned around looking for him and finally spotted him a couple seats farther back, with Tasha firmly on his lap, seemingly completely at home there. 

What do you mean?

You sent to him. A few seconds later, your phone chimed again with his reply.

Tom has a crush on you

You stared at those six words an embarrassingly long time before your brain started working again. When it did, you typed,

Not you too. It’s not like that. You guys just don’t know.

This time, his response took a little longer to arrive.

About the time you guys went out after that show and how he froze and didn’t kiss you at the door when he should have? Yes I know, he told me everything about it. In. Excruciating. Detail. And about how you didn’t call him the next day or the day after. He sulked 'bout it for weeks.

Seb was still typing when you interrupted the rest of his tirade with

I thought the guy was supposed to do that

He started typing again and soon you got another text, this one exasperated.

ARE YOU FREAKING SERIOUS?? For all your talk about feminism and equality and empowerment he thought if you still liked him YOU would call HIM. He thinks you friendzoned him that night.

Your obnoxious answer was

He never made a move

You looked over at Seb just in time to see him rub his face with his hand in frustration before texting

Not every guy needs to go for the kill on the first date you know? Some of them actually care about more than sex. There are some gentleman left out there.

You caught his eye as he placed his big hand on Tasha’s naked tigh. He winked at you and sent

Not me, tho. I’m a pig

That made you laugh out loud.

You looked out the window and saw there was only two more stations left before Picadilly. You were almost there. Your phone ringed with another text from Seb again.

Go on, you. Prove me wrong. Ask him out.

You bit your lip and looked at Tom, apparently deep in conversation with Nick. Not even the ugly fluorescent lights from the tube could make him look bad. It was unfair, really. You took a deep breath and before you got nervous and changed your mind you text him

Wanna do something together after the play?

You saw as he felt his phone vibrate and opened your text. His face lit up with the big, boyish smile that you adored. He bit his own lip and raised his eyes to meet yours through the crowded carriage and as his expression softened you were finally sure that your friends had been right all along. Because he was looking at you like you were everything that existed in that moment. There was no carriage, no crowd, not anything. It was just the two of you.

Anything you want, I’m yours

A text message wasn’t supposed to leave you breathless. But sure damn it did.Not to be bested, you sent back

What I want is for you to kiss me goodnight this time

There. There was no mistaking now, that wasn’t a "you’re my friend” kind of text. You literally couldn’t make it any clearer to him.

The train came to a stop and you had to get off, so he couldn’t answer. But as soon as you reached the stairs, you felt him entwine his fingers with yours.

And as soon as you got out the station and into the street, you felt him tug on your hand hard, making you turn around and crash into his waiting mouth. That’s when the world really stoped. That’s when everything truly disappeared. The dark, loud, bussy streets suddenly went pitch black and silent.

It was as if you had never been kissed before. As if you had never felt soft lips pressing on yours, nibbling them, coaxing them open, warm breath mixing with yours, big hands cupping your cheeks carefully, delicately, a tentative tongue licking your parted lips… All too soon it was over, but he didn’t let go of you just yet, and you didn’t try to get away. It was like gravity, there was no resisting it. He finally rested his forehead on yours and whispered against your mouth

'How about I just kiss you hello?’

The end.

This was the very first fice I ever wrote, back in 2018 and I realized I never posted here. Such a trip through memory lane! i hope you didn’t find this too cringey, cuz it will always hold a special place in my heart💖

[treksickfic]

The City on the Edge of Forever

I’m so excited to share this with you, anonymous requester! After you sent in your prompt, I had another anonymous reader get in touch with me to let me know they’d already written a story that matched your wishes exactly. 

The author of this story is French, not a native English speaker, and they’ve written a beautifully touching story that expands on the TOS episode, City on the Edge of Forever.  I am posting it here on my blog, with their permission, because they do not wish to have an account nor have their identity attached to the story. This writer has already become dear to me and I’m honored that they trusted me with their writing. I hope you enjoy it!

It’s a long story, nearly 3,000 words, so RIP to your dash if you’re on mobile.  I didn’t want to post it on AO3 or anywhere else except my blog, which feels safer.

Trigger warning for panic attack and trigger warning for some mild emeto, if you’re sensitive to that. It’s not very graphic.

“James Kirk, I demand an explanation!”

Scotty, Uhura, the teleportation technicians, and the security guards were completely dumbfounded by the doctor's explosion. They watched the captain stagger off, livid, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He disappeared without a word, with long stiff steps, from the room.

“Jim!” yelled McCoy.

 “Not now, doctor.” Spock's cold, dry voice stopped him.

Spock squeezed McCoy’s arm firmly and Scott was sure to read in his black eyes a burst of fury. McCoy noticed it too, because despite the storm of his own eyes, he remained silent.

“Everyone, at your posts,” declared the Vulcan. “Scott, you are in charge for now.”

“Yes, sir.” Scotty nodded, refraining from asking any questions.

As soon as they had come through the Time Gate, seconds after they left, it seemed, but many weeks later for them, he had seen that they were not fine at all. The captain was pale, deaf to their questions, obviously struggling with the tears that filled his eyes. The doctor was just as white, his face contracted with a terrible anger. As for Spock, he kept his eyes fixed on Jim, his usual indifference altered by deep and obvious concern.

What the hell had happened?

This is precisely the question McCoy yelled at Spock, pulling himself brutally out of his grip as they entered his office, safe from prying ears:

“Damn it, Spock!”

 “If you calm down, doctor, maybe I could explain.”

 “Calm down? CALM DOWN? Shit, Spock! How do you want me to calm down?”

 “Breathing. Deep, and slowly. Start by sitting down.”

 “Don't fuck with me!”

 “The Vulcans don't fuck with people. Now, please calm down.”

 Jim killed someone without thought. There's no way I can calm down. Shit!”

Spock gritted his teeth and an aura of icy disappointment emanated from him:

“Jim killed someone without thought...do you get along, doctor? You've been aboard this ship for over a year. You even pretend to be the captain's friend. How can you accuse him of this without thinking for two seconds?”

 “I saw it ! He prevented me from—"

“--and your poor little mind preferred to give in to this abject emotion rather than try to find a logical explanation. Jim, the most compassionate man we know…would he have acted like this for no reason?”

These words had the effect of a cold shower on McCoy. He shook his head, gradually coming to himself. He hadn't actually thought for a single moment, mired in a nauseating fury that he hadn't even tried to control. Shame replaced anger and he sagged in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment.

The past few weeks had been a total blur. He had woken up in a room with antique furniture, with an adorable woman at his bedside: Edith Keeler. It had taken him some time to realize that she was neither a hallucination nor a very good actress, but that he was indeed in a different era. Back in the 1930s. And he had barely had time to figure it out and come out of the bedroom to find answers before Jim and Spock, overjoyed, fell on him.

The next second Edith was dead. And it was Kirk's fault., He had kept him from coming to her aid. It had been too much emotion, too quickly and too soon. He had not managed to digest it, even less to understand anything other than what he had seen:

Jim had killed Edith.

But now that Spock had brought him back to reality, it all seemed absurd. And he noticed certain details: His friend's trembling when he held him; the tears in his green eyes when he leaned against the wall; Spock's unusually soft words when he had defended Jim, "he knows doctor, he knows."

How could he have seen nothing? Holding back a moan, he confronted Spock's stern face again:

“Explain it to me.”

“I'll do it quickly. In the timeline of our current story, Edith Keeler dies in 1930. In the one you walked through, paranoid after the cordrazine syringe accident, her ideals of peace and openness reach Roosevelt's ears and America becomes a peaceful country. That prevents its involvement in the second world war. Germany wins and dominates the world. Our time, therefore, does not exist.”

“Oh.”

“By the time you got there, after roughly locating your destination, we got to know Edith. A very charming woman, particularly intelligent.”

“And, Jim—"

“Was deeply in love with her. But for the good of a whole world and not solely himself, he let her die and prevented you from committing irreparable damage.”

“My god.”

McCoy put his head in his hands, overcome with excruciating guilt. Spock watched him, suppressing the harsh words that itched on his lips. The man had realized his mistake. It was useless to add more in the current state. He sighed for a long time, feeling unpleasantly empathetic towards Jim. He admired the way the man had managed to silence all of his instincts to save everyone:

“You should go see him, doctor. I think leaving him alone right now is not the best solution. Especially since he slept and ate very little while we were on earth, and even less after he realized that Edith had to die. He was ill several times during the night. He needs help.”

“Perhaps it is better ... Chapel—”

“No, Leonard,” Spock said, as kindly as he could. “He needs you.”

McCoy let out a deep sigh. He felt silly, and unforgivable. But for the sake of his friend, and indirectly, the sake of the crew, he knew Spock was right. Grabbing his medical equipment, he left in the direction of the captain's quarters.

 *****

Jim rested his forehead against the cool edge of the toilet. The doctor's words were circling in his mind, adding further weight to his overwhelming grief. He felt sick, his stomach as tight as his chest. A discomfort that had become familiar over the past few days. The intense nausea that rolled and rolled, threatening at every moment to overflow was a most unpleasant physical manifestation of his stress.

Despite his efforts to conserve food that was already scarce in their daily life in 1930, there were times when he couldn't do anything about it. Nightmares woke him in an agonizing sweat, on the verge of ruining the atrocious coarse cover of their flop.

He managed each time to sneak into the bathroom before returning the meager pittance with spasms he tried to silence. He also appreciated the discretion of Spock, who had the delicacy of pretending to sleep when Jim returned to his bed several minutes later, breathless and exhausted. But now that he was alone, aboard the Enterprise, he had no reason to contain himself, and did not fight the gagging that came out violently, like revenge for being held back so long. His stomach, however empty, kept revolting, replacing his sobs with endless contractions.

He had barely activated the door to his quarters when they had started, and he had yielded to the spasms with some relief. As unpleasant as vomiting was, his whole body tense and sore as he curled up over the toilet, at least it kept him from thinking about it. Being sick kept his mind on constant alert, focusing his attention on the spasms, gasps, bile, burning and kept the fear away. Unbearable, interminable, but ... secondary.

He coughed cautiously, catching his breath, feeling even sicker from the pungent smell that hung around him…the smell as horrible as the way he felt. This place of suffering and abandonment suited him.

He leaned over awkwardly when the bile passed his throat for the umpteenth time and spilled out in a long convulsion. He grabbed his stomach and closed his eyes so he couldn’t see the mess coloring the water again. The dizziness began to build, the light becoming unbearable as a migraine took hold of his temples, seeping through to his sinuses. He shivered, trying to reach for the chase to vent some of his weakness, when a hand rested on his forehead. Incredibly cool, it brought such comfort that he could not suppress a fragile sigh.

Tenderly the hand placed a damp cloth on the back of his neck and then finally came to cover his eyes. There was the terribly aggressive sound of the toilet flushing, then a voice whispering for the light to drop to 20%.

That voice ...

His comfort immediately ceased, replaced by anguish. He coughed sharply, spitting out more bile in an effort to shake off the impending grief. He could do nothing against the intense tremors that made him gasp, nor the panicked sob that burst through the vomiting.

“Shhh, Jim.” The voice was a broken whisper. “Shhh, everything is fine.”

Kirk wanted to yell at him to go away, to leave him, not to hurt him anymore. Irrationally afraid of the anger that had rained over him earlier at the prospect of having to face reality. Instead he could only moan, shaken by a horrible, nauseating cough.

Feeling Jim shake and panic under his fingers, McCoy was crushed by an intense wave of guilt. He had seen Jim gripped with grief, stress, drunkenness, anger... but never so completely. It was the first time he seemed ... broken ... and it was largely his fault.

The abnormal heat radiating from his skin indicated a high fever and explained his lack of self control. McCoy took a syringe out of his bag and spoke in a very soft voice so as not to hurt his friend's headaches.

“Jim, I'm going to inject you with a painkiller, it'll help you relax.”

He had no other answer than a small hiccup and a burst of bile.

Nervous vomiting, McCoy noticed. It was serious. He was going to have to play it safe to get the captain to calm down enough to free himself from his sadness and he hoped the hypo would act quickly. He thrust the syringe into his biceps and took advantage of the slight respite that followed to quickly run the medical tricorder over Jim’s upper body.

The latter told him what he already knew: extreme stress, high fever, deficiencies in iron and magnesium, low blood pressure...nothing to indicate a gastric bug apart from weakness due to deficiencies, which reinforced his theory of psychogenic nausea.

McCoy was relieved to find that the sedative had done its work: Jim was shaking less and seemed more lucid.

“Bones...what--?”

Bones. So he didn't blame him. This man's empathy would kill him eventually, the doctor thought. He put a protective arm around the Jim’s shoulders and another under his chest to support him. He could feel the angry stomach muscles that continued to struggle and tighten. He gave a sad little smile.

“We are going to talk about all this. But first, we are going to get out of this horrible room. You need to lie down.”

“Um, that's not safe,” Jim grimaced with a little hiccup.

“I'll take a bucket, but I want you to lie down. Doctor's orders.”

 “If it's an o-order,” he stammered, in a slight attempt at humor.

Jim allowed himself to be helped without opening his eyes, too ill to protest, and too weak to fend for himself. Bones almost carried him to his bed.

Once lying down, McCoy carefully removed Jim’s boots and socks, pulled up a wonderfully warm blanket and put a cloth on his forehead. Then Jim heard the familiar whirr of the tricorder passing once more over his body and finally the sound of several mixes. Careful fingers rested on his right temple.

“Can you open your eyes?”

“Urgh, Bones, I'll throw up if I open them.”

“There is a bucket, don't hold back. I need you to look at me.”

Jim groaned but obeyed. The light, even though very dim, made him moan in pain. It penetrated his head like a blade and triggered, as announced, a violent nausea.

McCoy held him very gently as he threw up a thin trickle of bilious saliva. He fell completely exhausted on the pillow once the attack was over. The doctor muttered something unintelligible and wiped his face.

“I should send you to the infirmary, Jim. You have serious deficiencies and that added to the stress...this is a perfect combination for a migraine in due form. I'll put you on an IV to regulate your sugar levels and give you a strong pain reliever. It should help you feel better.”

Once everything was in place, a tactical, hesitant silence settled between them. Jim could feel his presence, sitting on the edge of the bed rather than a chair, and the warm, warm hand pressed to his shoulder. The exhaustion and sadness rose in power now that the disease could no longer build its walls around his mind. He saw Edith again. Edith and her sweetness, her love, her joy, her magnificent ideas.

"She's fair ... but not at the right time," Spock had said, trying to make her listen to reason when he...he told her that she had to...die. He had desperately looked for another way but...but—

He clenched his teeth, overtaken by the intensity of the pain. By the gesture. He had even been unable to look at her body. He had not turned around, refusing to see what he had just done, struck head-on by the horror and disgust emanating from the doctor.

He swallowed, feeling the tremors start again, the despair skyrocketing. McCoy, hearing the gasps in his friend's tight breath, tightened his grip on his shoulder.

“I ... I loved her...Bones—"

A tear gathered in the corner of his eye and he sniffled, trying to pull himself together:

“Jim,” McCoy whispered, his own emotions rising. “I ... I don't even know how to apologize.”

“You have nothing to excuse. You are right. I ... killed her.”

“No. You saved our world. You did what you had to.”

“Oh, you spoke to Spock,” Jim whispered with a bitter smile.

“Yes.”

Despite the darkness, McCoy could see the paleness growing and the captain's face tightening with the effort to hold back the sobs. He searched for a moment for words he could say to alleviate the pain. Not finding them, he shook his head.

Jim tried to speak, with difficulty. “I shouldn't—”

“You have the right to be sad. You just lost the one you love in an act of unimaginable courage. Jim, I'm an overly impulsive old fool, I can't even imagine what you've been through and I sincerely ask forgiveness for this unjustified anger.”

“Please, Bones—"

“No, let me finish. Thank you for your understanding, but you don't have to. I acted like an idiot.”

“You couldn't have known.”

“That's no excuse. I know you and should have taken a step back.”

“What is done is done.”

“Jim, what I'm trying to say is that you must not let my emotionally spoken words get to you. You didn't deserve it.”

“I...I searched and searched...and searched again. I couldn't get away from her even when I knew that—”

“You were in love.”

“No, Bones. I'm in love. A selfish person who regrets choices that he shouldn't regret.”

“You are human, and you are suffering. Let it go.”

Another tear rolled down, then another, and finally it was a torrent that poured into the pillow. The captain put a hand over his mouth to silence the gasps of despair and the overwhelming agony of loss. Bones gripped his shoulder, patting it in a comforting gesture. He watched Jim sob like a child, breathing laboriously through exhaustion and mourning. Then he gradually calmed down until he fell into a deep sleep.

The doctor sighed and wiped away his own tears that had started at the same time as his friend's, and that he had not tried to stop. He readjusted the IVs and scanned Jim’s body for the third time. His fever was still high from a mild viral infection after several weeks in the cold and fatigue undernourishment. Jim would be off for a few days and stay in bed.

When he left the room, the doctor was not surprised to find Spock standing and waiting with arched eyebrows.

“How is he?”

 “Exhausted and cold, but fine.”

 “Has he been able to express his sorrow?”

 “I guess, yes.” McCoy smiled, thinking of his friend's relaxed face as he left the room.

“And were you able to express yours?”

The doctor jumped slightly, not at all prepared for this question, much less for Spock to say it. He was sometimes pleasantly surprised by the well-hidden sensitivity of his Vulcan friend. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed it.

“You are about to cry.”

“Damned be your insight, Mister Spock,” the doctor growled, a little annoyed.

“Humans all must cry at one time or another to get better, doctor. I do not understand why you put a manly bulwark in front of this natural mechanism.”

Bones laughed. “Wouldn't you find it embarrassing for me to break down in tears right now in your arms?”

He expected Spock to answer him, "Vulcans don't know the gene, doctor." Instead he replied, in his usual relaxed and serene tone, “If that makes you feel better, no.”

Such compassion was so strange that it almost seemed out of place. Leonard burst out into a frank laugh that turned without realizing it into a flood of tears. Tears of his own sadness this time, not empathy or guilt. Sadness he didn't think he had. Maybe he was also a little in love with Edith after all. And that the Vulcan understood it well before him.

Spock, moreover, did not pretend to leave, contenting himself to stay by his side until McCoy’s tears turned back into laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” the first officer asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, Mister Spock, because I’m thinking of the absurd spectacle we would have made if someone had been there. The ship's doctor weeping like a baby in front of a motionless Vulcan and their captain's closed door.”

Spock coughed and McCoy would swear to anyone who wanted to hear it that he was blushing.

“Well, you're not a hopeless case,” he said with a smirk, patting him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Spock.”

Then he turned on his heel towards the infirmary without hearing the relieved sigh of his alien friend.

[kstewdeux]

InuKag Week 2020: June 10th (Confession)

@inukag-week

Eh I’ve been early on all of them. YOLO

Tiptoe

A muscle twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye while mouth formed a rigid grimace. With arms folded tightly across his broad chest, sitting crosslegged against the base of a rather ordinary tree, Inuyasha tried to fall asleep like everyone else but didn’t trust himself to do so. Last time he passed out, he literally killed a whole lotta people. Bad people, sure, and people trying to kill him but that was probably just pure dumb luck. It could have been Sango or Miroku or Shippo. It could have been Kagome. Probably would’ve been Kagome if Sesshomaru hadn’t shown up.

A shuddering breath escaped him at the thought as he bounced his knee and weighed his options. He could try running. That was an idea. That usually calmed him down. Or eat something. He hadn’t really eaten. Maybe that was the problem?

Raising a hand to rub at his unusually tense neck, Inuyasha sighed heavily and glanced over at the one other thing that typically helped his nerves. That made him feel normal and not like a dangerous wild card who might kill them all without warning. Kagome was his fail-safe. The only one who had the power to talk him down no matter how far gone he was. Which was probably not the most healthy thing in the world but it was what it was.

Bouncing his knee at a slight faster pace, he bit his lip and stared up into the branches. She’d get mad at him. Probably think it was something perverted if she knew.

His knee stopped bouncing as his nostrils flared.

If she knew.

Glancing around at the others, he gauged each of his companions in turn before feeling securing enough to move. Everyone was asleep. All he had to do was be quiet.

He could do that. That was a thing he could do.

Swallowing thickly, he gracefully and silently got to his feet and began slowly moving towards Kagome’s sleeping bag. He’d just lay down next to her for a little bit. A few minutes. That’s all. That was a perfectly normal thing to want to do, right? They sat next to each other all the time. What was so different about laying next to her?

Unwanted images flooded his mind shortly thereafter and he paused to roll his eyes. Of course his frazzled mind had to go there. Of course it did. Because that was helpful. The last thing he needed today was to get horny on top of nerves and do something impulsive or crazy. More impulsive and crazy than, ya know, laying next to a girl in her sleep to lessen anxiety.

Letting out a slow steady breath, Inuyasha continued stalking towards the sleeping bag - every so often glancing at the others to make sure he wasn’t about to get caught. How was it that he could sneak around unseen for decades without getting caught and feel invincible but cross a field and suddenly he felt like a lost child.

Maybe because he did feel like a child desperately wanting reassurance. Wrinkling his nose, he had to consciously stop the disgusted groan that wanted to escape. That was a gross thought. Kagome was not his mother. In no way did he see her as a maternal figure in his life. Unless....unless, ya know, one day, maybe, they...they...and then...a kid might...

Stopping less than a foot from the sleeping bag, the wind played lazily with his hair as he stared down at the young woman who’d stolen his heart. That was such a stupid dream. An impossible dream. A painful dream he couldn’t afford.

And yet....would it hurt to allow himself a moment? Just to lay next to her? Not just to calm his nerves, although he did need that, but...ya know...to...to...pretend he was laying next to her for a different reason?

Closing his eyes, Inuyasha clenched his fists and tried to dismiss that image through sheer force alone. All he was doing was calming himself down so he’d have a clear head tomorrow. That’s all this was. That was all this could be.

Shippo snored loudly and Inuyasha slowly opened his eyes only to find Kagome looking up at him. Amber eyes widened in horror as she continued watching him curiously before he whirled in the spot and marched back to the base of the tree without so much as a glance back.

Inuyasha heard her following him but he wasn’t about to stop and explain why he was standing over her like an insane stalker. Kagome would want answers like the prodding noisy bitch she was and he was not about to give them. For so many reasons.

“Inuyasha,” Kagome hissed quietly as she continued behind him, “Inuyasha, is something wrong? Did you hear something?”

“No,” he huffed as he hopped into the tree branches and Kagome stared up at him in confusion.

“What do you mean no?” she whispered just loud enough for him to hear, “Then why were you standing over me like a gargoyle then?”

“Like a what?” Inuyasha snorted as lolled his head to glare down at her.

“Just come down here,” Kagome hissed, “It’s okay to use your words Inuyasha. Is this about earlier? About the bandits?”

Inuyasha sighed heavily but didn’t budge or answer.

“Is your wound not healing?” Kagome asked softly as she searched his face, “Do you need me to change out the bandages?”

“It’s fine,” Inuyasha hissed angrily, “Go to sleep.”

“I wasn’t really sleeping anyway,” Kagome admitted with a soft laugh, “I was worried about school.”

Inuyasha furrowed his brow and his mouth parted slightly. That couldn’t be right. Her heart rate and breathing was steady. She’d been asleep. He was sure of it. But...he’d also been pretty distracted.

“Well come down here or let me up,” Kagome sighed barely above a whisper as she wrapped her arms around herself and shivered, “Or just stay there and let me freeze to death because I’m not leaving until you talk to me. That works too.”

That was playing dirty. She knew he couldn’t ignore that. Groaning, Inuyasha rolled out of the tree scooped her up and jumped back. In a way this did solve one of his problems. More than solved it. Breathing deeply, he let her scent wash over him, let her presence calm him like it always did and he literally felt all the pent up tension melt right out of him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kagome hummed as she snuggled into him and his heart damn near melted at the token of affection.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he sighed as he absently stroked her arm and smiled secretly, “Thought I heard something was all.”

“Uh huh. So...why did you say no then?”

“You calling me a liar?”

“Not if you tell me in excruciating detail what you thought you heard,” Kagome teased and Inuyasha let out a sigh of defeat.

“Fine. Fine. I didn’t hear nothing,” he admitted with a huff of frustration, “Let a man have his secrets.”

“Those secrets have something to do standing over young defenseless girls and little kits?” Kagome teased good-naturedly and Inuyasha tensed.

“I...” he sighed heavily as he struggled with himself and held her a little tighter, “Earlier was just...a lot. Felt stressed I guess.“

“And so...” Kagome began and he cringed as he realized where she was going, “You came to find me.”

The miko preened while Inuyasha fidgeted slightly and didn’t answer.

“Because you just love...”

Inuyasha legitimately forgot to breathe as she so blatantly called him out. Well if he was going to hell anyway...

“You’re right,” he blurted shakily as his heart raced, “That’s...that’s why I...”

“To bother me,” Kagome finished lamely - their voices overlapping in an awkward dance - and Inuyasha instantly wished for death.

“Yeah....that...”Inuyasha cleared his throat as his heart withered up and died before shaking his head and effortlessly dropping to the ground, “You should get some sleep.”

“Inuyasha wait...”

But he was running at top speed before she could finish. Sighing heavily, Kagome was torn between wanting to kiss him senseless and strangling him to death. He didn’t even give her a chance to respond and would probably avoid her at all costs. Why did he have to always assume the worst?

“Sure. Go ahead. Run away,” Kagome scoffed sarcastically with a roll of the eyes, “Why stay to hear me say I love you too dummy?”

Turning back towards her sleeping bag, the miko honestly didn’t get far. A few steps at most before she found herself scooped up and back in the tree. Completely startled, Kagome held her hand over her chest as she tried to overcome the sudden shock.

“Warn me next time,”she laughed breathlessly, “You can’t just...”

Her words trailed off into a happy hum when he pressed his lips against hers . His hands quickly adjusting her body so she straddled him before pulling her closer.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything before?” he laughed shakily when he finally pulled back before instantly dipping back in with almost feral desperation. Completely love drunk, his hands vacated their place on her back to cup her face - angling her to deepen the kiss as a needy whimper escaped him. Every moment was better than the last and it was almost painful when the moments stopped.

“Didn’t know I’d get this reaction,” Kagome laughed softly when they broke for air, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” he hummed as he gave her the brightest smile she’d ever seen on his face, “Maybe today didn’t suck so much after all.”

“Only maybe?” Kagome teased and somehow his grin widened.

“I mean, I did kinda lose my mind. That sucked a lot,” Inuyasha pointed out as he kissed her temple for the hell of it, “But this doesn’t suck so much.”

“Technically true,” Kagome giggled, “So you were coming to find me because you loved me?”

“Was gunna lay down next to you,” Inuyasha admitted sheepishly, “To calm down.”

“Because you love me,” Kagome pressed and Inuyasha rolled his eyes.

“Because you calm me down,” Inuyasha sighed as he rested his forehead against hers, “Because I love you.”

“So where do we go from here?”

“Well there’s that rumor so we’ll probably go east,” he teased as he nuzzled her nose, “And then you have a test so we’ll probably go to your time and then...”

“I meant us.”

“Well tonight we’ll sleep here and then tomorrow we’ll sleep somewhere else and then the night after that...”

“Why do you have to be so difficult?”

“Because it’s fun,” he admitted happily, “And because I don’t understand the question. We’re together now. Seems pretty cut and dry.”

Kagome blinked at him a few times before sighing.

“I guess it is,” she cooed as she rested her head on his shoulder, “So....I’m sleeping in trees from now on I take it?”

“You bet your fine ass you are,” Inuyasha snickered before burying his nose and kissing the nape of her neck.

“Even if we’re staying at an inn?”

“Okay maybe not ...”

“Or in my...”

“And you say I’m difficult.”

[i-will-physically-fight-you]

A Singular Cog in the Machine Chapter 3

Chapter Title: Soul and Emotion

Summary: "It was pure logic when it came down to it. Why allow harm befall the others if Logan could stop it? Surely, it was much more beneficial for only one to be harmed than for all to undergo excruciating pain and misery. A broken cog is more easily replaced than if the whole machine fell apart.“

Logan adheres to the belief that needs of the many far outweigh the needs of the one, the latter being himself. Or in other words, Logan tries to sacrifice himself for the sake of the others. Fortunately for Logan, they won’t let him get away with that.

Chapter Word-Count: 2k

Pairings: platonic lamp

Warnings: Injuries, Referenced Torture, Crying, Misunderstandings, Angst With a Happy Ending

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | End       AO3 LINK

As promised, here comes the comfort! I want to give a quick shout-out to both @delimeful and @today-only-happens-once as their own sci-fi aus helped inspire me to finish what I started with this one heh <3

-

Logan woke up alone for the first time in a long while. Approximately sixty-six cycles, five hours, thirty-two minutes, four, five, six seconds ago. 

‘Internal Clock program is running functionally,’ Logan thought as he closed his eyes, running a quick diagnosis scan. It was not...completely optimal. Parts of his code had been ravaged, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. His biological body still suffered grievous breaches. His artificial eyes were damaged, only working at 70% efficiency. 

This made viewing things from a distance rather difficult. However, it was clear enough to recognize he was not in his own quarters. Rather, he was still in the ship’s common recreation area. The “living room” as Virgil referred to it. 

He laid on the couch, swaddled in soft blankets and cushioned with a plethora of pillows. Both he expected came from Patton’s hoard in his quarters. He was almost surprised not to see a stuffed animal in the crook of his arm. The television was on, the volume lowered to only a pleasant murmur could be heard. Images of animals flashed onto the screen. A nature documentary, one that Logan had previously found to be captivatingly informative.

 “--we’ll take care of you, we’ll watch all your favorite nature documentaries, how does that sound?”

Patton had said that, he recalled. But when? He tried locating the source of the memory file. Except--

ERROR MEMORY FILE CORRUPTED.

He dug a bit deeper, finding more and more memory files in a similar disarray. He’d known this problem was occurring. But that didn’t explain the chill that swept through his body just then. A fever perhaps? No, his body temperatures remained at their normal regulated levels.

Before he could contemplate this further, his ears picked up on noises in the distance. Too far away to make it out from his position. There was a simple solution to his quandary. The ship computer. Or Odysseus as Roman insisted on calling it. He could request an audio transcript. 

Pinging...pinging...pinging…

He couldn’t reach the ship computer. That was not optimal. His only option was to investigate the noises himself.

Logic dictated he was wounded. He should remain on the couch unless absolutely necessary. He remained put, concentrating on the television. The urge to find the source of the noises would not go away. It festered, growing rapidly like a disease until he could not withstand it any longer. 

Standing up from the couch proved far more difficult than he anticipated. His torso flared in pain, his legs shaky and unstable. He gripped the side of the couch, breathing in deeply. His vision spun, distorted and decorated with bright spots of light. It took a moment for it to completely clear.

He looked down the corridor, the distance stretching into oblivion. No, that was a falsehood. It was only ten meters long. However, in his current physical state it might as well be a thousand meters.

It didn’t cause his pressing curiosity to fade in the slightest. He took a step forward, his foot stinging like pins and needles to quote an idiom of Virgil’s. He didn’t collapse. Granted, he heavily leaned onto the couch for support. He took another step forward and then another.

 He held onto the corridor wall the whole way, a small grunt of pain leaving him. The dizziness returned, but he pushed through it. All that mattered was reaching the end of the corridor. If Logan’s memory was still accurate, it should lead to the ship galley. Perhaps the others were engaged in re-energizing through fuel consumption? 

As he drew close, the noises crystallized into recognizable speech. 

“Are you sure?” Virgil’s voice asked, pointed and edged. Someone responded, much too low for Logan to catch. He gritted his teeth, propelling himself onward at an accelerated rate. His vision frizzled and crackled, everything becoming a blobby mess of colors.

“Maybe we should--Logan!” 

An arm wrapped around his waist, hoisting him up. Logan opened his mouth to protest when a wave of nausea hit him. He quickly shut it in favor of keeping his stomach contents down. The person guided him to a chair, careful and steady. He sat there, grimacing as the nausea gradually subsided from his systems.

When he glanced up again, he met the furrowed brows of Roman, Patton and Virgil. They gathered around him, forming a semi-circle. He examined them, scrutinizing every detail. His drive whirred from the amount of tests he processed in the matter of nanoseconds. Each one proving the validity of his suspicions every single time.

“You’re real.” He croaked.

They all exchanged a glance.

“Yes, we’re here Logan, you’re safe now,” Patton confirmed, laying a hand on Logan’s shoulder. A gesture meant to be reassuring except it wasn’t reassuring at all. 

“No,” Logan shook his head, “You should--cannot---I don’t--it does not make sense!”

“Why does it not make sense?” Roman asked, dropping down on one knee. He acted odd,  more muted than usual. The way his head bowed indicated a sign of exhaustion. Logan shook this thought aside in an attempt to formulate a response.

“To quote Spock from the movie Star Trek II Wrath Of Khan, ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one,’” Logan said. Upon their blank stares, he elaborated, “A singular cog in the machine is more easily replaced than if the whole machine falls apart. As the ship engineer and navigator, my role is vital but replaceable, therefore--” 

Patton drove into Logan, embracing him firmly around his middle. The titekan’s whole frame shook as deep, guttural sobs fell erupted from him. Logan blinked, almost short-circuiting from this unexpected turn of events.

“I...do not understand.” Logan admitted. He glanced up at Roman and Virgil only to find them in similar states of malfunction. 

“You colossal intelligent idiot,” Roman murmured, his face dripping with ivory tears. He shoved his head against Logan’s shoulder, placing his arms around both him and Patton. “Did you really think we could function without you?”

‘‘Yes,’’ Logan wanted to say, but he couldn’t. The word wouldn’t come out of his clenched throat. Virgil was the only one left standing at this point. He was the captain, the system administrator. He was a much-appreciated source of reality.  Surely, despite his human emotions, he understood the logic. 

“Lo,” Virgil sighed, running his hand through his hair, “When you disappeared, we searched all over the galaxy looking for you. We looked for weeks. And after we found you, we’ve been taking care of you in shifts. You know why?”

Logan shook his head.

“Because you’re not a broken cog to us. You’re more than that--you’re a kraffing sentient being. You’re--” Virgil’s voice wobbled. He inhaled harshly, pushing on, “Dammit, you’re family, Logan. And it’s cheesy but we don’t give up on one another. Never.”

“Captain Fearless is right,” Roman said, and Patton made a rumbling sound of agreement.

“Oh,” Logan managed, swallowing, “Oh.”

He’d thought so much about the others’ and their importance to the system. He analyzed and calculated it all. He saw how removing any of their variables would be detrimental. But in all his calculations, he never considered how he himself affected the equation. 

“I did not--I made a slight miscalculation--” Logan breathed in, “I am sorry.”

“No,” Virgil said, stepping closer, “I’m sorry. It’s my fault. I should’ve told you, I assumed it was an understood thing. We could’ve rescued you sooner if I hadn’t second-guessed myself--”

“Virgil.” Logan said, the clenching feeling in his throat tightening. Wordlessly, he reached out a hand to Virgil. He wasn’t quite sure what he was attempting to convey. Fortunately Virgil seemed to understand. He leaned over and joined the entangling of limbs and bodies. 

‘A group hug,’ Logan’s dictionary program informed him, ‘an instance of three or more people embracing one another simultaneously, typically to provide support or express solidarity.’

They held onto one another for quite a while, not moving a single muscle. Great globs of tears were shed amongst them all; even Logan wasn’t immune to it. He rationalized it was his body reacting to the others’ emotional displays. It probably did not have to do with the strange, tingly warmth lit up inside his chest.

He would worry about this sensation if not for the melatonin in his system starting to take effect. He closed his eyes, a long intake of oxygen following this action. 

“Logan?” Patton sniffled.

“Yes?” 

“Th...there’s something we need to tell you about.”

Logan’s eyes fluttered open. He looked expectantly at Patton, waiting. The titekan opened his mouth to continue, but Virgil and Roman beat him to it.

“Patton, are you seriously going to tell him--”

“We should wait--”

“No,” Patton said, interrupting them both, “we can’t keep this from him. He deserves to know.”

It didn’t increase in volume, but Logan’s heart was the only thing roaring in his ears. Deserves to know? The only scenarios Logan could come up in his mind was his tests were faulty, wrong wrong wrong about this being real. It was all fake. A simulation, surely or worse; an experiment. The thousand eyes watching him behind a screen, shattering his hopes once more.

“Logan?” A soft hand touched his cheek, “you with us?”

“Yes,” Logan heard himself saying, “Yes, I’m here. Go on, Patton. What is it that you’d like to divulge?” 

“When we brought you back, I did a few medical scans, to try and see if there was any internal bleeding going on,” Patton hesitated, refusing to meet Logan’s eyes, “I found an AI chip in your brain.”

What? Impossible, his AI was supposed to be undetectable by scans--

“That disgusting buvah must’ve stuck it in you for the kriffs and giggles,” Roman growled, his scaled tail whipping with indignation. 

“As far we can tell, it doesn’t have a tracker,” Virgil said, “and removing it could be lethal.”

“Okay.” Logan said faintly. 

“Okay?” Roman repeated, squinting, “We just told you that you have a freaky AI chip in your brain and your response is, ‘okay?!’”

“Hey, lay off him, Princey,” Virgil hissed, “He’s been through a lot, you know that.”

“Well,” Logan began, “this is not how I expected to inform you all of the fact that I am an advanced artificial intelligence operating inside of a biological body.”

“What?!” Roman gaped at him. Virgil and Patton also stared at him, showing similar signs of duress. 

“I did not think it was imperative intel as it did not negatively impact my performance as neither an engineer or navigator.” Logan said. And while it was true, it was also a bit of a lie. The reality was that most people seemed to be wary of AIs. This was why he chose to clothe himself with a biological body to blend in, so to speak. All it took was working lungs and a beating heart for others to respect and listen as illogical as that may be.

“I admit, that perhaps that was another lapse of judgment on my part. I understand if knowing this...makes you uncomfortable,” Logan added, a weird twisting feeling settling in his gut. Perhaps he was ill? He could not find himself to meet their gazes. He tried not thinking about how that was a sign of nervousness. He was not nervous, after all, AIs do not get nervous.

“Freaky?” Roman let out a high-pitched laugh, “did I say freaky? I meant to say there’s a freaking fantastic AI chip in your brain.”

“I agree,” Patton chirped up, “You could almost say that he’s too cute to compute!”

Now it was Logan’s turn to gape at them. “It really does not bother any of you?”

“It’s like I said,” Virgil told him, a small smirk growing on his lips, “you’re family. We love you, AI or not.”

Logan blinked, slowly processing the others--no, his family’s words. It didn’t make sense. His systems struggled putting it in neat, quantifiable boxes. He feared trying would only result in his systems crashing. For once, however, he found it didn’t matter that didn’t need to make sense.

So his response to this was purely logical. In ways Logan refused to elaborate or share even within himself.

“I...find you all sufficient as well.”

[angrylizardjacket]

only fools {Dominique Beyrand}

Summary: You’re in love with Roger’s new girlfriend. Is it easier to pretend you don’t have feelings or come clean? You say both, eventually! The truth is bittersweet.

A/N: 4331 words. ANGST!! I don’t know much abt Dominique so this is based 100% on borhap, tho there’s a few bits abt the band from real life, but its borhap based for the most part. i hope you like it!! i’m pretty sure the reader is gender neutral, but there may be 1 or 2 female pronouns accidentally. there’s mentions of cheating.

----

You’ve been friends with Queen for arguably too long, know them now in excruciating and almost intimate detail, and are absolutely immune to their various charms and stardom. It started in university, with you as a popular radio jockey on campus, and living in a flat around the corner from Freddie and Roger’s little market stall in Kensington. 

You know of their band, of course, you’ve always got your ear to the ground for local talent, and you jokingly tell them that if they ever get an album together, you’d be the the first to play it. A year and a half later, they hold you to that. 

When they’re making it big in the mid-70s, and you’ve scored your own show on an actual radio station, they start turning to you when they want to release a single, or give an interview, and people start asking why. You simply shrug and smile, which is easier than explaining that you’d spent a good deal of your second year of uni bothering Freddie and Roger at their stall instead of doing your homework, and somehow that became a friendship, and now you and John have tea every Monday afternoon, and Brian tried to teach you guitar once, but ended up waxing poetic about his thesis when you noted that his desk was rather messy.

So yes, you know them rather well, since the start of the band’s musical career, in fact, and have witness, and occasional party to, some of their dumber, post-gig antics, which has given you both regrets, and immunity to their antics. Never again will you be Roger’s look out when he climbs to a third story balcony for a girl - he lost a shoe on the second floor and it hit you in the back of the head. Prick. 

Which makes it rather unfortunate that you’ve taken such a liking to his latest girlfriend. At first you tell yourself that it’s simple and platonic appreciation for another individual with a head on their shoulders, that you liked her in the same way that you like John or Brian when they were being sensible. When you go out with the band, which isn’t a lot these days, but still it’s enough, she seems to make a point of including you, of smiling at you like a friend though you barely know each other. 

Always, she is by Roger’s side, and you think this is the first time you’ve seen him properly smitten, which makes it ache, in such a strange way, when she smiles back at him. You’ve never felt like this over Chrissie, or Veronica, or Mary. But you push it down, and when they invite you to go to their concerts, you find yourself in the wings by her side, and you dance with her at the afterparties when she offers her hand, and she invites you to lunch to catch up every few weeks.

It’s perfectly harmless, you tell yourself as you actively repress the strange sort of desire she unknowingly elicits from you. 

There’s something about her, beyond a pretty face, and a vicious smile, more than her sharp wit and dangerously intoxicating perfume, like she could ask you to walk over hot coals and you’d crawl to make her happy.

When she laughs over lunch, like actually laughs, full-bellied, head thrown back, glowing in the afternoon sunshine at something you’d said, you suddenly remember every stupid and horny antic Roger has ever been party to, often at the expense of whatever girl he was meant to be seeing at the time, and you want to tell Dominique to run fast and far, to try and protect her. But Roger’s told you he’s changed, that he’s in love, and you grit your teeth.

You’re kind of fucked.

And there’s no-one in your life who you can talk to without being judged for feeling like this. 

So you take what you can get. 

You go out with the band when they invite you, you catch up with Dom often when they go on tour, and you realise, with a strange and painful clarity, that she’s become your best friend.

“How come you’ll agree to help Dom with shenanigans, but not me?” Roger plays at being jealous of your not-so-secret favoritism, his arm around Dominique in a hotel bar that had been closed for a private, Queen function, currently buzzing with the band members, their various significant others, members of the press, members of their tour group, and management team. And you. 

You and Dominique share an amused, almost conspiratorial look. 

“Because I actually like her,” you tell Roger, flatly, and he raises is eyebrows when you look back at him. You don’t miss Dominique’s pleased little smile that she hides in her glass.

“That’s just about the meanest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he shakes his head, clearly not actually taking your words to heart, but you huff a laugh.

“And her shenanigans never landed me in the emergency room -”

“Hey, I was the one with the sprained ankle -”

“You acted like you were dying, Rog,” you sighed deeply, “you tried to bribe me to run a red light,” and Dominique gives her boyfriend a surprised, vaguely judgmental look as Roger quickly turned pink.

“I was in grave pain.”

“Darling, you are a grave pain,” Dominique told him sweetly, and Roger pressed his hand to his chest, scandalised. 

“Et tu, my love?” 

But Dominique’s looking at him all fond and sappy when she tells him that you’ve got a point; you excuse yourself right as Roger lowers his voice and reminds her that there’s times she seems to think he’s pretty great, voice laced with heavy innuendo. 

You’re discussing the band’s latest album with their sound tech when Dominique finds you again, looking recently debauched, lips all kiss-bruised despite her fresh coat of lipstick. You quietly and desperately wish you would have been the cause of her unkempt state, the sight alone making you want to do unseemly things to her. 

“Sorry about that, Roger had a point to prove,” she says lightly, as if nothing had happened, and she snakes her arm through yours as she joins the conversation.

“Did he prove it?” You asked flatly, if only to play along for her benefit. Her cheeks flushed for a moment as she cleared her throat, looking over her shoulder.

“Twice,” she had to try and hide her grin from the scandalized sound tech. When you followed her gaze, your eyes met Roger’s; he’s so damn smug. You felt like you were going to put your fist through a wall.

The next time you caught up with Dom, however, a few days later, she apologises again, looking guilty for reasons you can’t quite understand.

“Why are you apologising? You didn’t do anything wrong,” you assured her, gently putting your hands on hers over the table; when she meets your gaze over the table, she blinks quickly, processing the information. 

“I just felt like I should,” even she doesn’t know why she’s apologising again, “it wasn’t... it was inappropriate.” She finally settles on, and you give a fond, if longsuffering smile.

“When’s Roger ever appropriate at a party?”

“I suppose,” she still looks unsure, however, but the waiter comes over and the ordeal is forgotten. 

Except that it’s not. There’s something new in the way she looks at you, almost hesitant, faintly apologetic, and even a little confused. It’s not something you’re used to, Dominique’s always been endlessly confident and forthright, she’s never been cautious in the history of your friendship.

“I’m worried you think less of me,” she says, blunt as always, when you finally ask what’s wrong.

“Dom, nothing you could do would ever make me think less of you,” you tell her with probably too much honesty. After a moment spent mulling your words over, she moves closer on your plush little sofa, until her leg pressed flush against yours.

“I care about you a great deal,” she tells you, with her own sudden burst of honesty, “and it’s been rough with Roger on tour; I don’t think I could have gotten through it half as well without you,” and she’s looking at you, almost nothing in her expression, like she’s gauging your reaction to let her know how to feel about all of this. 

You’re absolutely terrified she can read every feeling and emotion as it passes through you at her words, and the I want to kiss you to make you shut up about your stupid boyfriend that’s flashing like a neon sign at the front of your brain. 

“I care about you too,” is what you manage after a beat of panicked hesitation, trying not to act as flustered as you feel. Her smile is warm and confident, however, and she thanks you gently, turning back to the TV that had become white noise in your ears. You spend a good few moments more just watching her, wondering what that was all about, before she leans against you, and you just kind of have to accept it.

But there’s something different now, a new energy between you both when you spend time together; she’s more tactile, more prone to staying with you at events, more likely to pick you, you realise.

“Are you trying to steal my girlfriend?” Roger once jokes, and you try not to let your panic show.

“If I was, you’d deserve it,” you laugh, but his expression scrunches up, reading the insult and implications in your words. You get the feeling Roger doesn’t much like you anymore.

But Dominique’s skin is always warm against yours, her hand in yours when strolling about the city, and you get lost in her perfume and her laughter, and some nights she comes over while Roger’s away, and you get tipsy together while watching TV or listening to music, and she’ll curl into your touch and whisper you’re too good to me like it’s a guilty secret the rest of the world can’t hear. She sleeps on your sofa rather than going home to the luxurious, empty bed she shares with Roger, and in the morning you wake to her humming and making breakfast. 

There’s something so domestic about it, and she’ll smile at you, sipping tea in the kitchen, and your heart will melt. 

You want to be allowed to love her, but Roger will always come home. 

Once, twice, a slow song will play on the radio, and she’ll ask you to dance, wrapping herself up in you as you sway in your living room, both of you drunk on a Sunday evening, her breathing slow and even, her eyes closed, and you wonder what she’s picturing. Maybe her boyfriend. Fiancé. Fuck.

You’re so caught up in your thoughts that it takes her hands holding your face to register that you’d both stopped moving. Her smile is soft, eyes warm.

“You’d look beautiful in a ball gown,” she says with quiet adoration, and before you can process that that was what she was thinking, your body’s moved of it’s own accord, and you’re kissing her. 

And she’s kissing you back, tasting like wine and fruit, lips soft and gentle, fitting against yours perfectly. She sighs softly against your lips, hands coming to fist in the collar of your shirt as she pulls you closer and I love you tumbles involuntarily from your lips. She pauses.

“I know,” her voice is gently apologetic, barely more than a whisper, “I’m sorry.” You can see she wants to say more, wants to kiss you again, like she wants to live in this moment before it had suddenly turned sour. Her I love you too goes unspoken, but she cups your face in her hands again, thumbs running across your cheeks, across the sudden, faint shock and sorrow written in your expression. She doesn’t step back, she doesn’t even try. 

“I should go.”

“Do you want to go?” You ask, voice soft, the words barely registering to your own ears. There’s a long moment of silence as she considers, weighs her options, hesitates before kissing you again. It hurts, it’s a uniquely masochistic form of torture you’re putting yourself through, but she stays, and the next day you both act like nothing happened.

She’ll make breakfast, smile at you over tea, and in a few months, she’ll marry Roger. 

You’re not invited to the wedding, and part of you is grateful. 

“Aren’t you going to tell me not to go through with it?” She half jokes over coffee a few days before, which shocks you.

“Why?” You’re concerned rather than amused, and she looks a little guilty when she meets your gaze.

“I- do you... still have feelings for me?” She asks, uncertain, and you sigh deeply, sitting back in your chair.

“Do you love Roger, Dom?”

“Of course,” she answers immediately, a little defensive, which seems strange given the situation, but she thaws and takes a long sip of her drink, “I do, I really do.” She admits, sounding almost disappointed in herself.

“Then it doesn’t matter what I feel; do what makes you happy.” You’ve come to terms with the fact that you’d lost to Roger a long time ago; brief affair aside, you don’t want to make Dominique question her world so close to her happy ending. 

So you pointedly don’t ask how she feels about you.

According to the photos in the tabloid, it’s a beautiful wedding, and Dominique and Roger make a picture perfect couple. You spend three days in your house, wrapped in a blanket in front of your TV; you don’t take the phone off the hook in case work calls, but Dom’s on her honeymoon, so you’re not expecting to get any calls from her. 

There’s a full month of radio silence while she’s being whisked off to somewhere romantic, and it’s the longest the two of you have gone without talking since you’d met. The minute she gets back, however, she calls and asks you to lunch, but hesitates, adding that if you didn’t want to -

“Of course I want to!” You’re delighted to hear from her, and only realise once you hang up how much it’s going to hurt. 

Her wedding ring catches the light and you want to immediately flee to the Scottish highlands and become a goat farmer and never talk to another living person again at the sight of it. You smile, and hug her in greeting.

You talk about work, both yours and hers, and about how Freddie’s buying a mansion in London, and how cute John’s kids are, and about everything but the very recent wedding she’d gone through, or the husband she now has.

This time, when you take her hand to traverse the city together, you feel the cold metal of her wedding ring, and something inside you dies, just a little. It’s like she can tell, however, because she immediately skirts around you to take your other hand, tucking you close. And you let her. Every time, you let her. 

Nothing happens between you both, nothing like before, but she still comes over when Roger’s on tour, still sleeps on your sofa, still spends time with you around her busy work schedule, and it hurts to see her hurting, when she gets tired and lets slip about the rumours she’s heard. Apart from one night, she’s practically been a saint to the drummer; his record, however does not appear to be so clean. But she puts on a brave face, and he always comes home.

Freddie throws a party in the early eighties, dressed in a crown and cape, he’s invited everyone remotely outlandish in London, so it seems, and of course his band, and you. You find them all on a cluster of gilded sofas, looking already worn out by the whole affair, despite everyone partying around them. But Dominique brightens when she sees you, and pulls you in to the conversation. Roger, already in a mood, does not even look at you as the rest of the band greets you warmly where you’ve perched on the arm of the sofa by Dominique, her free hand coming up to rest on your thigh. 

They’re teasing Roger about his car song again, which you refrain from, not that you don’t love teasing him about that ridiculous song, but you’re also pretty sure that if you speak to him, he’ll throw his drink at you. 

But Freddie joins them, too exuberant by half for the muted mood of the band amidst the partygoers, and Roger’s ready to leave when Freddie makes a comment that turns your blood to ice.

“Loyalty’s so important, don’t you think Dominique?” 

The world around you fades away to her reaction. No-one’s looking at you, they’re all looking to Roger, because it’s an implicit confirmation of the hoards of rumours Dominique’s been trying to live in denial regarding. 

“Watch it,” Roger warns his bandmate, and Dominique looks pissed, but for the barest moment, she casts her gaze over her shoulder, to you, and you can read the heartbreak in her eyes. 

You wish you’d told her to run years ago after all. 

You wish you’d never believed that Roger had changed.

You wish you’d told her not to go through with the wedding.

You wish a lot of things in that moment. 

But there’s no time, and she’s gone with Roger, both of them furious for different reasons, while your heart lays beating in the seat she’d just left. Looking around, your head is full of a fog in the wake of Freddie’s words, and their departure, and it’s like no-one else can see that your whole world has gone to Hell.

“I need to stay with you,” Dominique calls you the next day, sniffling, and you’re agreeing readily, asking if she needs a lift over. 

She brings a suitcase, and a tearful apology for barging in like this. You wrap her up in a hug, telling her not to worry, that it’s not a bother and she bursts into tears. You order food and wrap her up in a blanket, and stay by her side until she falls asleep against your shoulder. You carry her into bed, tuck her in, and then grab your jacket and go out.

“I should kick your ass,” you snarl after Roger finally lets you in where you’d been kicking at his front door. He looks disheveled, but not like he’d been sleeping, like he’d been crying.

“Are you here for the rest of her things?” He asks flatly, and you do actually shove him, hard enough that he hits the ground and slides against the tiles.

“You stupid, insensitive fucking asshole!” You yell, fuming, “get up, Roger, get up!” You demand, and he does, slowly.

“I’m not going to fight you; you won, okay? She hates me -”

“And she has every right to, don’t play the fucking victim here, don’t try and act like you weren’t the one to sleep your way across the world while you knew she was waiting for you!” Your lip trembled at the thought of all the late nights you’d spent comforting her, reassuring her that it was just the tabloids taking things out of context, “she loved you so fucking much, you stupid fucking slut!” He laughed humorlessly at that, sitting back down on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest.

“We haven’t loved each other for a long time now.”

“That’s not true.”

“She loves you.” 

“That’s not true.” There’s a wobble to your voice, your fraught emotions turning quickly to desperation. 

“I know you slept together,” he says, finally looking at you, and your mouth snaps shut. He doesn’t seem mad, he doesn’t seem... anything. It’s just a fact, no malice behind it. “She told me the day after it happened,” he paused, “and I told her it was okay, told her I did similar stuff in my youth, but if we loved each other, we’d have to be better people, for each other.”

“And she loved you,” you said with dawning despair, realising what he was implying. He nods, gaze drifting, as if not quite registering everything that was happening, “but you...”

“By my own logic, I was already falling out of love; I was a hypocrite. I am a hypocrite.”

“You’re self aware,” you said, sitting down as the fight left you.

“Not really, she yelled it a good deal at me yesterday. She’s right, though.” He takes a deep breath, resting his chin on his knees as he stares at the other wall. “We used to be friends,” he muses and you hum in response, “we used to be a lot of things; young, broke, nobodies, friends.” He lists, and you agree quietly, “I think I knew you would be better for her, even from the start.”

“You knew I loved her from the start?” You ask, not even trying to deny it, and Roger looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

“I’m not blind,” he tells you with surprising bitterness, and you clam up at that, “but she loves you because you’re still here, even though she loved me too.”

“Because I’m an idiot,” you mutter, shaking your head.

“Probably,” he agrees, and when you make an indignant noise, he gives a flat look, “you didn’t talk her out of marrying me even though you’re in love with her.” He reminds.

“I never want to be the cause of her unhappiness,” you explain softly, mirroring his sitting position, your chin on your knees. Roger nods, “but you hurt her, and I came here to kick your ass.”

“Will you love her like she deserves?” He asks softly.

“If she wants to come back to you, I won’t stop her.”

“You love her better than I ever could,” Roger says with realisation. You’re not going to disagree with him.

When you get home, she’s still asleep in your bed, and you curl up on the sofa, restless all through the night. Dominique wakes in the morning, and comes out, sees your eyes open, rough from sleeplessness, and tears well in her own as all the memories from yesterday come flooding back. 

“Do you want breakfast?” You ask, voice rough, and she nods. You stand, and head to the kitchen, moving automatically around the little space. She watches, quiet eyes, unsmiling, contemplative, but she’s not crying. 

“What do you want to do today?” You hear yourself asking, voice carefully neutral. 

“Do you... do you still love me?”

You freeze. It takes a moment, but you finally look at her, expression blank. 

“I don’t think this is the time-”

“You’re always telling me to do what makes me happy, asking me what I want, what do you want?”

“I want you to be happy,” you tell her softly; her eyes are getting misty, but she’s still not satisfied with that answer.

“I want you to think about yourself for once; what do you want?”

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment as you try to organise your thoughts. 

“I want to be able to tell you I love you, and not have you hesitate to say it back -” you admit, but she cuts you off, words quick.

“I love you.”

“I -”

“I love you.”

“Dominique -”

“I love you, and I have for years. I love you.”

“Then why did you marry Roger?!” You finally explode, and her eyes go wide, before he gaze drops to the counter with shame.

“Because I thought it was what I was meant to do; I cared about him a great deal, but we- we weren’t meant for each other. I don’t love him like I love you and I’m sorry it took me so long to figure that out.”

“I don’t want you to be saying this just because you just broke up with him and you’re looking for a rebound or a safety net,” you admit, and she looks at you with a calculating gaze, understanding your hesitation, “I do love you, Dom, and you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like, but I don’t want to be with you until you’ve had time to process everything that’s happening. You need time. You’re not in your right mind.”

Dominique swallows hard, nodding very seriously. Her gaze is intense as she watches you get back to making breakfast. Silence hangs in the air, strange, undefinable silence laced with emotions like static electricity. 

“Can I kiss you? Just once?” She asks, and you look at her over your shoulder, spatula in one hand, a warning in your voice when you say her name, “just once.” She promises, eyes wide and the barest of smiles on her lips. You could never say no to that smile. You turn down the stove for just a moment, and step up to the counter, leaning over it to meet her. 

Kissing her feels like coming home and freedom at the same time, and she’s warm when she brings her hand up to your cheek, humming with tentative joy against your lips. When you pull back, you let yourself linger, just inches from her, getting lost in her eyes, in her smile for the barest moment.

“Would you like me to make tea?” She asks, soft, grinning.

“Would love that,” you agree, a little breathless, stepping back to the stove. 

“I don’t...” she paused by the refrigerator, “I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to make sense of this, my whole life, I...”

“That’s why we’re waiting; if I’m not what you want, if you go a different direction, if you just wanna be single for a few years and end up meeting someone else, I’ll respect that,” you assure her, “but if I am what you want, Dom I’d wait forever for you.”

[royalbluehues]

Hope and Wait.

Title: Hope and Wait.

Author: royalbluehues

Warnings:  No warnings. BUT. This is an AU where the thing that happens to Blake doesn’t happen to Blake. 

Pairings: Tom Blake x Reader

Author’s Note: Yeeyee, the fic for the man without a plan is here.  If you like it, and if you really do, let me know. Thank you for all the wonderful and sweet comments I’ve been receiving, it makes my little heart go pitter patter :’)

I think I’ve watched 1917 seven times now. I have a problem.

Also, was I supposed to find out that the girls in the postcard that Schofield keeps were his daughters and the woman was his wife? Also, can someone also please tell me why I thought that was his mother despite her looking so young?

Mad respect to the cinematic Mrs. Schofield, but, deuces. We’re vetoing her because I’m too in love with him. Let’s use the free artistic license we’ve been born with and write her off as his mother in her prime. And his daughters as his sisters. (Isn’t it sad I feel like the cinematic Mrs. Schofield is fuming at me?)

The next installments of Come Back To Me and I Promise are in progress! (Yay!)

The young man sat angrily outside, only a few yards away from his home, hidden beneath the trees that met the land his father had owned.

He sat, thinking, twirling blades of grass between his index and thumb, feeling the edges press gently into the pads of his fingers.

When Joe had left a year prior everybody spoke of his brave valor. They were proud of him. For Christ’s sake, they were even excited to have someone in the family fight the Great War. 

Now that it was his turn, he was met with a lesser degree of enthusiasm. 

His mother had looked aghast when he proudly held his voluntary draft card in hand, “You will not go.”

His proud smile had fallen, “What? Of course I will. It’s bound to become mandatory eventually Mum.” 

She grimaced at him, shaking her head vehemently as she wiped her hands on her apron, “No. I can’t lose you either.”

His shoulders slumped as he frowned, “You act like Joe’s died. He’s not, you know. He’s perfectly fine, as will I.”

They had argued more, eventually leading to his mother crying which made him feel terribly guilty. He had straightened at once, moving to her weeping form to wrap her in his arms. “Mum, I know you don’t want me to go. But I have to. I have to, mum. Besides, what if I get a medal? Then you’ll be able to hang it up and finally say you’re proud of me.”

His mother ceased crying, her stony face displaying a mix of disappointment and sadness, “You speak like a boy, Thomas.”

She then had walked away in silence, leaving him to stare after her in anger and confusion.

So there he was, sitting on earth and leaning against one of the wooden posts lining his home, internally complaining about his circumstance and lack of enthusiasm he’d received. 

“Mrs. Blake told me you’re set to leave.”

He jumped at your voice, turning to see you standing a foot away from him. You were standing with your hands clasped in front of you, still and silent as you gazed upon him with a look Tom couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

“Christ, love. You’re as silent as a fox.” He moved to roll onto his feet, pushing off the ground with his right hand, letting go of the blades of grass in the mix. “How’d you get word so fast?”

He moved closer to you, wrapping his arms around your waist, but you remained stagnant, not moving a muscle, as emotions flickered through your eyes.

“I had made a pound cake and brought your mother part of it.” Your answer was short. Quick. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Tom wrinkled his nose and let his arms drop, taking a step back, “Don’t tell me you’re angry, too.”

You were silent, biting on your tongue for fear of wilting into a puddle of tears. There was a tightness in your chest.

“You know,” Tom’s voice underlaid annoyance, “It’s not as if parliament won’t be making the conscription mandatory-”

“But you could have waited until then,” You shot at him, balling your fists at your side, “Why on earth would you put yourself into a position of risk?”

Tom’s eyebrows slanted in anger, and he jutted his chin out and straightened, ready to defend himself. “Nobody said that when Joe left.”

You stuck your chin out as well, looking up at him with a set jaw, “Your brother was called for deployment. Mandatory deployment, not voluntary. Tom, I-”

You cut off, unable to form anymore words.

“‘Tom’ what?” He shot back hotly, taking a step closer in a defensive stance, “Are you going to tell me that you don’t want me to go?”

His tone was borderline mocking, rushed and angry. His annoyance was wearing thin. At you. At his mum. At Joe.

It was completely unfair.

You stared at him in silence, the tightness in your throat worsening with each passing second. You were biting the tip of your tongue to keep your composure again, but possibilities of him dying somewhere without you potentially ever knowing caused you to slump forward in defeat, hanging your head as the tears you were holding finally broke loose. 

“Yes,” you croaked out sadly, “It’s exactly what I was going to say. It’s exactly what I want you to do.”

Tom’s eyes widened a fraction, one of his hands immediately taking hold of your waist and the other moving to cup your jaw. He bent downwards to attempt to look into your eyes, “Love, I’m sorry- Please don’t cry, I didn’t mean to make you angry, I-” He let out a sigh, “Christ.”

The hand that cupped your cheek moved to the back of your head to cradle it, guiding it towards the area of his shoulder that you regularly dug your nose into when he held you.

You let out a small sob, unraveling your fists only to grasp tightly on to his ironed shirt.

“Love, I’m sorry. Please don’t cry.” He kissed your crown, kissed your temple, kissed your ear. His thumb moved circles into your hip, the cotton material of your skirt bunching and releasing with his ministrations, “I’m sorry.”

He continued doing so until you calmed.

“I’m sorry.” He told you, “Please forgive me.”

The birds sung somewhere in the trees, and the soft breeze rustled the leaves above and rolling the grass on the hills north of you. 

You moved your face, angling yourself to rest your nose at his shoulder as you stared ahead of you, focusing on particularity nothing. 

Now he moved to dig his face into the crook of your neck, his voice muffled as he apologized once again.

You didn’t accept his apology. And you wouldn’t be accepting it anytime soon. But to make amends, you moved your right hand to cradle the back of his neck, fingertips lightly grazing the hair at the nape.

You felt his lips kiss your neck. Then again under your jaw, gently bumping his nose with yours in search of your lips.

With lidded eyes, he kissed you. Slowly, and passionately. 

Your heart broke as his lips danced against yours, searing this moment into your memory. When he released to allow you to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, “I love you, you know.”

Your eyebrows knitted together, and he watched as the tears pooled at your waterlines, “I love you as well.” 

“Don’t cry.” he ordered, frowning at your saddened features, “When I come back, I’m going to marry you. I’m going to marry you when the first blossom blooms.”

The tightness in your throat returned at his proposal, and as he stared deeply into your eyes, he told you softly, “On that day you’ll be crying because you’ll be happy. We’ll have a house, and we’ll have children.” He stroked your hair, and you breathed in broken sobs, shaking your head as you downcasted your eyes. Tom caught your chin between his fingers, shaking his head in disapproval at your movements, “I’ll take care of you. But until then, I’ll have to take care of you away from home.”

His young blue eyes continued searching yours, “I’ll come home to you.”

~~~

He had left with a grin and mischief sparkling in his eyes. He kissed you upon the lips, once, twice, three times before he bounced away, excitement evident in every fiber of his being. 

Mrs. Blake clutched at her small beaded purse, using her handkerchief to wipe away the tears at the corners of her eyes.

“Let’s go home, Mrs. Blake,” you had told her, offering your arm so she’d loop it with yours once the train left the station. 

You wrote to Tom. 

You wrote four to five page letters, explaining your days in vivid detail and what you had heard. On the days that were not particularly interesting, you wrote to him your favorite verses or some memory of him that would make you laugh. 

When you would finish, you would ask his mother if she would like if you both sent yours together, so that he would have a nice surprise when his mail would come in. 

She would always agree. 

Waiting for word for him was nearly excruciating. At first, his letters would come in more frequently. Four letters during the month. 

The it slowly stretched from four to three, three to one. You were a ball of nervous energy, attempting to rid it by participating in caring for your mother and father and for Mrs. Blake. 

You helped her with her garden, helped her pull the weeds that were growing by her rose beds in vain to rid the ache in your chest when you thought of him. You knitted socks and scarves, vests and mittens in your free time, sending them to any poor boy out there with lack of thereof. You sent bundles of socks to both Tom and Joe to keep and distribute amongst their comrades.

You kept Mrs. Blake company. 

It was set routine. 

One night, in particular, when you had brought over a small basket of groceries to save her from taking a trip, she turned to you. She looked tired. She looked worried.

The small wisp of hair that had begun to turn gray contrasted starkly against her dark hair. But her eyes, the same eyes Tom had, were soft and filled with fondness, “You are perfect for Thomas.”

The day the telegram arrived, Mrs. Blake nearly fainted. 

She handed you the letter, closing her eyes, “Oh, dear Lord.”

You yourself had turned a paler shade, moving to take the crushed letter in her hand, gently pulling it away. Mrs. Blake began praying quietly, knitting needles now strewn aside and forgotten. 

You tore open the top, hands shaking as you fished for the letter, biting your cheek as you unfolded it.

“Is it Joseph or Thomas? Heavenly Father, please-” She cut off, hands moving to cover her face. You were holding your breath, reading with the familiar tightness in your throat threatening to overtake you. 

                                            To MRS. MARY BLAKE

MADAM,

IT IS WITH MY DEEPEST REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT Lance Corporal Thomas Blake 8TH INFANTRY HAS BEEN SEVERELY INJURED IN ACTION ON THE 6TH OF APRIL. NO FURTHER PARTICULARS ARE AVAILABLE. YOU WILL BE NOTIFIED SHOULD ANY NEW DETAILS BE RECEIVED.

                       GEORGE BARNETT, MAJOR GENERAL COMMANDANT

“Who is it?” She repeated, panic clear in her tone.

“Tom’s been injured,” you told her, gulping, “severely injured.” 

You handed her the letter, which she tore from your hands to read. She was stiff and rigid, but all the while you saw she was relieved. 

“As long as he’s not dead.” She mumbled to herself, flopping tiredly into her armchair. “As long as either are not dead.”

You were still rattled, however. Yes, you were grateful to the heavens he was not dead. But the possibility still loomed. You sunk into the wooden chair in which you had been sitting in, the fire crackling the only sound that was heard in the small countryside home. “Yes,” you agreed quietly, gulping down your fears as you reached for the teacup that you had placed by your side. 

You had to come to terms with the only option that was available to you- something that you have been practicing in the passing months:

To do nothing, but hope. Hope and wait.

You took a sip, the heat scalding your tastes buds as your stomach churned, but you paid it no mind. “As long as he’s alive.”

~~~

Tom was mending. Somewhere in France at a military hospital deep within the Allied side. He had nearly died from a stab wound, the report read, but was on the mend and was most likely to survive.

You and Mrs. Blake had cried in relief. 

~~~

On the twelfth day of the eleventh month, you had been in town. The group in which you participated with to sell war bonds decided to try their luck with the townspeople. 

You had been hanging the British flag above your small post, talking with the girls. 

“The war is over!”

You turned your head to the source of the yell, an older gentleman was running down the main street clutching a bundle of newspapers, “It’s over!”

Your breath caught in your throat, reaching over to hold onto Marie. 

One of the girls ran to snatch up a newspaper, jogging back to where you were all huddled. She unfurled it, where the headlines wrote:

                                                  WAR IS OVER!

                                  ARMISTICE SIGNED BY GERMANY

“The war is over!” The man continued to shout behind you, causing the townspeople to come outdoors and into the streets, “It’s over!”

“Oh!” You cried out in true happiness, feeling the sensation rush over you and warming your bones, hugging Marie next to you who held onto you with elation. 

Tears of joy fell from your eyes, and cheering broke out around you. 

It was the first time in a very long time that happiness trumped the fear you were all feeling. 

You ran the two miles home. 

First running to tell your mother the news, then running off to tell Mrs. Blake.

She had been polishing the silver that had been given to her as a wedding present.

“Mrs. Blake,” you told her gasping for breath as you held onto the door, “It’s over.” You gulped, chest heaving from exertion, legs threatening to give out beneath you, and letting out a strangled laugh, “Our boys are coming home. Germany signed an armistice. It’s over. By God,” you breathed out, moving to hug her, shutting your eyes tightly, “It’s over, Mrs. Blake.”

~~~

You married him on the first day of May. The sun shone brightly above the spring morning, and birds twittered happily in the trees. 

Your white dress had been made specially for you, cherry blossom petals made of ivory silk cascaded from your breast to the hem of your dress. In your pinned hair, you wove the first blooms of that season. 

You had met him at the altar, taking his hand as you stood side by side with one another and clutching it tightly.

You turned your head to look at him, noting, for the millionth time, the way he looked much older. Gone was the boyish mischief that sparked his eyes. Gone was the playfulness that crinkled the edges when he spoke to someone. 

Since his return, there were days when he would have episodes of nervous breakdowns. It pained you, for you could do nothing but stay there with him, wrapping your arms around him and whisper words of encouragement.

There would be days where he would remain silent for hours. There would be days where he would cry. For life. For stolen youth. For the horrors he would not share.

The soft features he had were now more pronounced, his jaw set as he looked onward at the priest. 

A nervous tick he had developed in the war.

You rubbed your thumb over the back of his hand, making him blink and turn to meet your gaze. His sea colored eyes softened at the sight of you. He raised your intertwined hands to his lips and kissed yours, giving it a tight squeeze before bringing them down again to their original position. 

When you had said your vows to one another, with your friends and family gazing upon the two of you with unsaid blessings, he gently jutted his forehead with yours.

 “I’m not quite the same man who left,” He mumbled quietly for only you to hear, “but I’m still the same man who’s always loved you.” He wiped at your tears with his thumb, his voice cracking just slightly, “You’ll have to be patient with me.”

He knitted his eyebrows together as he released your hand to cradle your face.

“My love,” You whispered, your voice full of emotion for only him, “We have all the time in the world.”

He closed off the distance by kissing you, holding silent promises and unspoken incantations of his love for you, and you for him. 

.

.

.

Masterlist

Tags: @sexyskywalker @aathepenguin @4lendow-norris @ellar21 @shooky-and-mang

[buckybarnesthehotshot]

my escape (disney’s descendants x marvel crossover) i - nightmares

series masterlist

A/N: yay this is the first chapter of my escape! 

Series summary: Astrid Lokisdottir (OC) grew up on the Isle of the Lost with her father, Loki Odinson. Plagued by nightmares, she’s presented with an escape plan and memories of a woman, memories which aren’t hers.

Series warnings: swearing, mean Loki, kidnapping, I’m not following canon timelines, all characters except for Astrid are not mine, Loki is kind of OOC, the story focuses more on (spoiler alert lmao) Astrid and mother!reader’s relationship

character relationships if that’s a thing: Astrid x Harry Hook, Astrid x dad! Loki, Loki x wife! reader, Astrid x mom! reader, goddess of hysteria! reader

      “My daughter, Heimdall! Where is she?” a woman’s voice shakily demanded, hysteria setting in. The woman appeared as though she’d been through Hel. Her h/c hair was in unbrushed knots, her green gown dirtied and fraying at the edges, her nails caked with what appeared to be a mixture of blood and dirt. Her face, however, was a blur.

      “I don’t know, your highness. Your husband, he took her from the cradle and they were gone,” a deep male voice followed the woman’s. A brown-skinned man appeared in front of her, his thick brows furrowing in concern.

      “Track them down, fool! My offspring, my child, my daughter, she’s out there and I’m not with her. I can’t protect her,” the woman sobbed, her knees dropping to the floor as she buried her face in her palms as heavy sobs painfully racked through her body.

      “I-I can’t,” the man shook his head, disappointed with himself. His glowing golden eyes lost their luster as he cast his sight upon the broken shell of a woman breaking further in front of him.

      “If you can’t find them, what makes your life worth sparing, huh? I thought you, oh great keeper of the Bifrost, could see everything and anything in the universe!” the woman pulled a sword from the wall, gripping it harshly and pointing it at the man.

      “Guards, cease her!” a third voice cut in. Three sets of arms dragged the struggling woman away. She kicked and screamed, yet to no avail. She could not break free from their iron grips. She let out a crazed scream, then came silence.

       That was where the nightmare always ended. Astrid found herself stirring awake, dream fresh in her mind. She had no clue to why the dream repeated itself, embedding itself into her brain. She could remember everything about her dream in excruciating detail; from the paintings on the wall to the way the woman’s screams echoed.

       She could remember everything yet she could never seem to remember what the woman looked like. All Astrid could really remember about the woman was the edge of hysteria her voice held with every word, the way her h/c hair matted, and how her elegant green dress had been soiled.

       She buried her face in her palms, the woman’s scream haunting her, even in her waking hours. She shuddered, trying to prepare herself to starting another day on the Isle of the Lost.

       Once she was sure she could move on with the morning, she headed to the showers to get as clean as one possibly could on the Isle of the Lost. She wore a fresh set of clothing and she headed into her father’s bedroom, smiling to herself as she gazed upon his peaceful form; a form where he didn’t look quite like a god due to the drool and hair sticking to his face.

       “Father, wake up!” Astrid giggled, jumping onto the rickety bed her father slept on. Loki started to slowly stir awake, setting one of his hands to block out the sunlight—or at least what was supposed to be sunlight—from reaching his eyes.

       “Child, would you be so kind to explain why you’re waking me at this ungodly hour?” Loki groaned quietly, rolling over to his side and making space for his daughter. No matter how people knew Loki, he was always so kind and gentle when it came to communicating with his daughter. No matter what she’d done, not once has he raised his voice at her.  

       “I guess I woke up early and felt the need to wake you too,” Astrid shrugged nonchalantly in an attempt to forget the remnants of the nightmare in her head.

       “Child, do you think I was born yesterday?” Loki raised a brow at her, his green eyes piercing into her e/c ones. He could see right through her lies, she knew that.

       “Okay, the nightmare struck again,” Astrid sighed, combing her fingers through her wet black hair nervously. Loki’s face fell, feeling bad for his daughter. If he had his abilities, he would have made sure Astrid never had to deal with the nightmares plaguing her; not repeatedly.  

       “Was there something different about this nightmare of yours?” Loki questioned, frowning as he saw how Astrid scrambled to bring her words together.

       “No, but I did notice something. Something you’ve kept from me since the first time I told you of the night terror,” Astrid spoke solemnly, e/c eyes piercing deeply into Loki’s green ones. Loki gulped, had she learned of the woman in her dreams?

       “And what is it you think I forgot to tell you about?” Loki questioned, keeping a cool demeanor to mask his nervousness.

       “The woman, she called the tall man the keeper of the Bifrost. Remember those tales of Asgard you’d tell me? How the Bifrost can enable travel through realms? What if it’s a sign from Asgard! What if it’s a sign that we could call upon the Bifrost even on the Isle?” Astrid spoke with childish excitement as her eyes went wide with ambition. Her only dream had been to see the golden city; the city where her father grew up in.

       “Stop this foolishness, at once. Astrid Lokisdottir, there is no escape from the Isle of the Lost. If there were, I would have gotten our asses out of here!” Loki yelled in frustration. Astrid was caught by surprise; never had Loki ever used that tone when he talked to her, Not once, not ever. On the spot, she wanted to break down in tears.

       Loki saw the way her face fell as the words left his lips; he saw the hurt in her eyes as he yelled at her. Astrid however, didn’t know he could tell. She knew better than to let any weakness show so she replaced her sad expression with that as an angry one. How dare Loki tell her off for trying to get them off the Isle!

        “I’m heading to Uncle Hades’ place. If it would appease you, your highness, I’m going to look for a non-Asgardian way off this damned rock! I’ll be gone for a while, God of Mischief!” the brunette spat before storming out of her room on the way out before Loki could say anything. His mouth was agape with unsaid apologies as he sighed.

      “You have your mother’s temper,” he smiled sadly.

[just-panda]

It's funny that this picture would pop up for me around Mother's Day. I schedule posts for Five Lens Photography way in advance and this is one I just scheduled. So I was inspired to write about it. But first, let me explain what's going on here. The bird on the left is a Song Sparrow. The bird on the right is a Brown-Headed Cowbird. Brown-Headed Cowbirds typically lay their eggs in other bird's nests. The moms never make a nest for their babies, instead opting out of that part of parenthood and leaving it up to someone else. A lot of people hate Brown-Headed Cowbirds for this reason. But she takes a lot of time picking out a suitable foster mom for her baby. Some birds notice the BHC egg right away and knock it out of their nest or build another nest on top of it. But this Song Sparrow took this baby under her wing. She's feeding this baby that is obviously not hers and she doesn't have to do that. Look at the picture, like really look at it. It's beautiful especially after you know the backstory.

Sometimes motherhood is nontraditional. I really think it's important for people to not only acknowledge this but to also accept it. It's not fair to assume that only women who have been pregnant and given birth are considered mothers. It's not always the case. I remember seeing a debate about whether or not women who gave birth via C-section are "real" mothers, like vaginal birth is the one and only way. Excuse me? Both ways are terrifying and risky for both mother and baby. If this is what it's come down to, like this is what we're fighting about then I guess there is no hope for someone like me.

I knew at a young age that I wouldn't be a mother, at least not in the traditional sense. My stepmom was pregnant with my youngest brother when I was 15 and she told me the realities of what some women go through while pregnant. I also remember my senior year in high school in anatomy class where our teacher told us in excruciating detail what happens to a woman's body when her water breaks. I had decided then and there, or so I thought. I told my own mother that I wasn't going to have any children. My mother, who had me at age 37, was ready for grandbabies. She probably would've had them if my oldest brother hadn't died. We'll never know.

My mother was one of the people telling me I would change my mind about kids. I would want them someday (spoiler alert: she was right). She told me childbirth is the most forgettable pain. She told me the reason women are here is to bring more children into the world. I was appalled. I was like "wait a minute, what about me?" What. About. Me. At the time, I thought I knew what I wanted: a demanding career with lots of opportunities for travel. I really did.

Fast forward. At age 19, I fell in love. I thought we wanted the same things. I wanted a child badly for the first time ever. I knew I would be a good mom. For the first time, I wanted to be a stay at home mom. I can't explain to you why I felt this way. I think apart of it was loneliness. At this point in my life, I didn't want to be seen. I just wanted to be at home; I didn't want to go out. I figured if I had a little one to take care of, there would be less opportunities to go out. I am thankful everyday I did not get pregnant at this time because there is no way I was ready to take care of a child.

My early 20s, I got married. I wasn't on any form of birth control and I never had been and honestly, it's a miracle I never did get pregnant. I was open to the idea of child. I had a big pregnancy scare in the early stages of dating my ex-husband. I was scared, deeply afraid but eventually I grew comfortable with the idea. I counted the weeks and found that my baby would be due in March. It would be a March baby, like me. I did copious amounts of research about pregnancy and I still carry some of this knowledge. I felt like maybe the baby was a boy. We had names picked out. I was sure. Then one day, all the symptoms disappeared just as quickly as they came. I never went to a doctor to find out but I believe what happened to me was an early miscarriage, a super early miscarriage. I was devastated.

If I'm being completely honest, this was a blessing in disguise. If that baby had come to be, they would be six years old. Just finishing kindergarten. I cannot imagine what that would be like. I ended up with a man who has two daughters and his youngest will be six soon. If my baby had come to be, we would had two kids potty training around the same time. We would have had two kids going through their "terrible twos" and "treacherous threes" together. Sometimes I do let myself entertain the idea that I had this baby...and what our lives would look like. It's hectic and crazy.

So, no. No kids came out of this body and if I can help it, none will. I have a huge list of reasons why and I'm not explaining myself. Do I know what it's like to carry a child? No. Honestly, a dream of mine is to carry a child for someone else. I know what it's like to help raise a child. I do it all the time. I have bottle fed, potty trained, comforted, cooked, sang, danced, taught, celebrated, anything you can think of that a mother would do, I've done it, except the biological stuff. What I don't know is what it's like to carry one. And I know there are so many people out there who wish they could.

One time I wrote that Mother's Day is the day that I realize with startling clarity that I am a parental figure until I'm not. I am a parental figure until Mother's Day and then I am not. I have people ask about my stepdaughters all the time but do they wish me Happy Mother's Day? No. There are people who treat me as a parental figure, admonishing the girls that they should listen to me, but do they wish me Happy Mother's Day? No. Within the confines of my home, I am a parent. I am not called "mom" or "mommy" or any variation and I wouldn't allow it anyway. I just wanted to be an adult they felt safe around. They consider me a stepmom and it's known. It's celebrated. I love it. But it hurts when there are people who know our day-to-day lives and still don't consider me worthy of a simple Happy Mother's Day. It hurts to know I spend way more time with the girls than they do and yet I'm nothing but a girlfriend, an accessory.

People in nontraditional parent roles...I see you. I hear you. You are not alone. Sometimes parenthood looks like children you are not related to bouncing on their toes because you're home. Sometimes it looks like quiet warnings in public to stay together and the resounding, no questions asked response: "okay." Sometimes it looks like getting on the floor to play. Sometimes it's holding a child who is too shy and scared to interact with others at her own birthday party and you're the only one she will cling to. Sometimes it's a gray cat curling up between your feet in the middle of the night. Sometimes it's three animals excited about the prospect of getting a nightly treat. I have to remind myself that I'm doing okay, that I'm doing my best. I try to look past the hurt and confusion I feel and be present. Kids always know who is there and who isn't. They will know that I was there.

[kiradaxx]

Year of Recovery- A J/7 fic

Hello! I’m new to the J/7 fandom, but Voyager has become one of my favorite quarantine watches. I’ve only just watched it for the first time now, and I got sucked right into this ship. I’ve got so many fanfiction ideas swirling around my brain now, and I’ve started writing one of them! This story won’t be complete for a while, but I wanted to put up a couple of snippets of what I’ve written so far to start engaging with the fandom!

This story’s current working title is Year of Recovery, and it is a slightly AU take on the Year of Hell episodes. Janeway crashes Voyager into the Krenim time ship, and successfully prevents the Year of Hell from happening. But what if the timeline wasn’t restored quite as neatly as she had hoped?

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Day 226

This was the moment that would change Kathryn Janeway’s life forever. 

This was the moment that would end Kathryn Janeway's life. Forever. 

She inhaled deeply, staring out the massive tear in the hull of her ship where the forward viewscreen had been just moments ago, watching the ensuing battle that raged around her. Watching her enemy just beyond the gradually weakening emergency force field, the only barrier left to prevent the cold vacuum of space from extending into the bridge. She was already dead on the inside, the empty expression on her face reflecting the weight of the past year’s immense losses and traumas.

So much loss, so much pain, she could scarcely recall it all. Except she could, in terrible, excruciating detail. Every hit Voyager took, every crew member she lost, every friend gravely, even permanently, injured. Every moment of the past year was burned into her brain as indelibly as the scars from the deflector room fire had been seared into the skin of her face, arms, and hands. 

The flames and weapons fire that were both battering and emanating from the time ship, perhaps the worst enemy she’d ever faced, leaped in the glassy mirror of her eyes. For the first time in months, the flames of her own internal fire surged up to meet them, and she had a moment of such pure clarity, she could almost cry at the simplicity of it all.

The voice of her chief security officer crackled in over their comm link. “All our ships have been disabled, Captain. Do you have weapons?”

“Negative, torpedo launchers are down.”

“How do you wish to proceed?”

“I’m setting a collision course.” 

At first there was no response. Tuvok said nothing, but the voice of another came through, strangled by more than just the weak connection. “Kathryn, please, don’t do this.”

She allowed herself one moment, a single breath, to grieve for yet another loss. She didn’t bother arguing, there was no other course left. “I love you,” she whispered, for once not masking the pain or the depth of her emotion. She forced herself to ignore the silence that met her words; she honestly didn’t know if a response would have hurt more anyway. She broke the comm link.

Maybe she could undo this. Maybe not. But she could, and would, end this. Now. 

This would be the moment that ended Kathryn Janeway, forever. She knew this profoundly. And she gave her last words, spoken as a command, enunciated with deadly precision. “Time’s up.” 

So quickly, yet so slowly, Voyager’s bow careened into the hull of the Krenim time vessel, crashing with devastating brute force into the exact coordinates of the temporal core. She thought her death would be louder, scarier. Instead, her final moment was nothing. Nothing but such an abrupt halt to everything, to the momentum of everything her life had ever been building up to. The end was weightlessness and shockwave impact that stopped everything she was and would ever be in an instant so quick, she couldn’t process anything. Flames were swallowing the bridge, swallowing the blackness of space, swallowing her. So much fire filled her vision, the last thing Kathryn Janeway ever saw.

Day 1

“Something’s wrong,” Janeway spoke under her breath, low and muttered, with no real intention to be heard by any other. At a normal volume, she ordered, “Keep looking, M’Kar.”

Chakotay had been gracious with his patient curiosity, was still waiting calmly for Janeway to explain her sudden concern, and she finally attempted to release enough of her internal red alert to offer the explanation she knew she owed him.

“I’ve got a bad feeling, Commander,” she spoke with her eyes fixed to M’Kar and the electrical conduit. Her voice was low once more,; this conversation wouldn’t do to be shouted across the bridge, alarming all those on duty. Chakotay’s brow furrowed in further question, a motion caught from the corner of her eye, and she elaborated, “I don’t know what it is yet, but I can feel something is off.” Louder, she addressed the entire bridge, sitting forward in her chair. “I saw something occurring with that conduit. Some sort of malfunction. If we can’t trace it to the conduit, I want every centimeter of this bridge scanned.” 

                                                                ...

When she stepped back onto the bridge, her face was composed perfectly. She could not say the same for her crew. The staff of the bridge apparently had remained fixed in place when she’d disappeared into her ready room, almost as if she’d paused the characters of a holonovel. They tracked her with their eyes as she crossed the small section of the bridge that separated her from the turbolift, eyes still wide and among a few, even scared. Poor Harry seemed as though he was on the verge of tears. 

One face in particular caught her attention, and she faltered minutely on the small set of steps in front of the tactical station. Seven of Nine, the newest addition to Voyager’s crew. Her stare was piercing as she followed Janeway’s path to the turbolift. Her shock was hidden in the intensity of her gaze, discernible nowhere else in her expression.

Day 3

Her head tipped back and her shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat she’d never let another witness. Staring at the ceiling, she silently asked herself now what? She still had another eleven minutes until she was due in astrometrics, and she’d planned to use those minutes to finish solidifying her composure. Whoever was at her door would simply have to wait until later that evening, she decided. There was no reason she couldn’t already be on her way down to deck 8, in theory, and by ignoring the chime her visitor would hopefully assume this and go looking for her there. She could field their question or request later. 

The door chimed again, and when she still ignored the call, a third chime rang out in her quarters. Zipping up her jacket angrily, Janeway stalked into the main sitting room of her quarters and barked out, “Computer, who is outside my door?”

“Seven of Nine is outside the captain’s quarters.”

She groaned and raked her fingers through her hair. No wonder the chimes continued; Seven wasn’t one to give up easily. .

“Seven of Nine to Captain Janeway.”

                                                            ...

“Seven of Nine to Captain Janeway. Ignoring me is inefficient, Captain. I will not leave this spot until you open the door. Doing so now will save us both time.”

She took a sip of her coffee, lip curling in distaste when the tepid liquid met her tongue. One of these days she’d have to get that damn replicator fixed. “Computer, what time is it?”

“The time is 1753 hours.”

“I can hear your voice, Captain. I am aware you are inside. If necessary, I will continue to aggravate you until you relent.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Janeway rolled her eyes again, twice as viciously and stalked away from the replicator. She slapped her comm badge with more force than necessary, and in a low voice she asked, “What do you want, Seven?”

For a brief moment, there was no response, and she wondered if maybe Seven had not been so confident in her inevitable victory after all. She pinched the bridge of her nose, wishing she had just held out for a little longer, called Seven’s bluff.

“I wish to speak with you, Captain.”

“Can’t this wait?”

“It has waited. For forty-six hours and 32 minutes.”

Perhaps angrier than rational, Janeway took a deep breath in, and remained motionless. She stood with one hand on her hip, and the other clenched at her side, summoning the calm control she relied on to guide her through moments where her temper flared. Finally, she called to allow Seven inside her quarters.

[schrijverr]

The Mystery of Castiel

Dean sets out to prove that his husband, Castiel, is an acual angel walking amongst man. He tries to convince his friends with his documentary. much to the confusion and amusement of fans.

Part of the Famous Husband verse, which is also a series)

On AO3.

Ships: Destiel

Warnings: None, but I’ll be happy to tag something for you, no questions asked! :)

~~~~~~~~~~

The video opened with a grainy and moving shot of a dark hallway with lights spilling out of a doorway at the end. From behind the camera Dean whispered: “I think there’s something in my house. It feels ancient, powerful. So, I’m checking it out.”

He was close to the doorway and he took a deep breath before rounding the last corner, finally showing the kitchen.

Standing at the kitchen counter was Cas, he was in his pajamas and looked like a dear in headlights when he heard Dean enter. In his hands he held a cereal box from which he was eating dry cereal. The digital clock beside him displayed the time, 03:07. His voice was gruff from sleep as he hurriedly said: “It’s not what it looks like.”

Dean screamed, then his intro rolled. It was a drawn impala that came down the road, it stopped in the middle of the screen and the drawn Dean gave a wink to the viewers, then he sped off again and the smoke was bridge back to the video.

The backdrop was out of focus, but you could make out a bunch of red string and vague pictures. Dean was sitting in front of it, his hair was disheveled and he had dark bruises under his eyes. Of course, the viewers didn’t have to know that was thanks to Jessica's make up skills. He rubbed his forehead and said: “I can’t do this anymore.”

He sighed deeply and went on: “I love my husband, I do. He is my everything, but the elephant in the room hasn’t been discussed seriously and it’s eating me up. I don’t know how to start talking about it without him turning it into a joke. Which is why I am making this video, I want your opinions and tips on how to handle this or just for you tell me if I’m acting crazy. Because I really need someone to tell me what to do.”

He was now looking straight into the camera as he said: “I think Cas is either an angel or some sort of cryptid. He’s just not human that’s all I know, okay. He has to be immortal, not of this world. I mentioned this before, but no one takes me seriously.”

The video changed and a time line came into view, while Dean did a voice over: “I met Cas in September of 2010. According to him he is born in 1990, so he should be 30, if all of this is correct and he has aged just like a human would.”

A dot appeared on the line and 2013 came above it. Dean said: “I started my YouTube channel in 2013, Cas claims to have been 23 at this time and I have footage of him in one of my videos.”

A clip played of Dean telling the camera he was going to try and drink three liters of soda in one go with no break in between. In the background a man walked past.

“I now see that that might not have been the best clip, so here is a picture as well.” Deans voice was heard as a photo of a young Dean and Cas appeared. They were sitting next to each other on the beach. Dean had a beer in his hand and cheered to the camera while Cas did a peace sign in the background, bee sunglasses firmly on his face.

“To compare this to now, here is a picture Sam took of us last week.” Dean said and another photo appeared beside it. This one was taken on the couch the viewers knew so well from live streams. Dean and Cas were sitting next to each other in this picture as well, they had a blanket thrown over their legs and a bowl of popcorn on their laps. Dean was kissing Cas’s cheek while he flipped of Sam, aka the camera.

“He appears to have aged normally, although he is still dashingly handsome, if I might say so. Not the point. Anyway, since he has aged so normally most people don’t believe me, but I’m going to prove it.”, the photo’s faded and the Dean from earlier reappeared.

“I’ve been awake for days now, trying to find all the evidence I could, just to try and convince someone out there, to hear a voice back saying that I am not going crazy.” Dean said, “I am married to an immortal non-human, an angel in the biblical sense, and I need to tell someone.”

He picked up a manila folder, and opened it. He started: “Okay, so the first thing I have is his family. He grew up extremely Christian, or so he says, but I think he’s hiding behind a facade of biblical households to hide the fact that he is an angel himself and therefor witnessed everything that happened within the Bible.”

Dean chuckled: “He’s not even subtle about it. I mean, seriously. His name is also the name of an angel, Castiel the angel of Thursday. And he has eleven siblings, which makes a total of  twelve children, like twelve as in the amount of apostles Jesus had and they also all have biblical names. His brothers are Gabriel, Micheal, Raphael etcetera. He even has a brother named Lucifer that apparently no one talks to anymore, because he defied their father and is now in prison or something. That’s not a good cover story. That’s the Bible retold, but then bad.”

Cas and Dean had discussed what Dean would say about Castiels family beforehand and they had decided that this was enough. No reason to get into more detail about it. This was supposed to be funny and dumb, not revealing and sad.

“What shoots a hole in this, according to Sam is that we have pictures of him from when he was a child.” Dean said and a picture of a toddler Cas with big blue eyes and a small frown already on his face was shown, before Dean went on: “I think that Sam is wrong. If you’re a powerful entity, you can make fake pictures of a baby-you that has never existed. But I will let you draw your own conclusions about that.”

“Coming back to an earlier point,” Dean went on, “his History knowledge. This is also weird, since he knows everything about History, in particular thing about long long ago. Which as he points out is because he studied History. And that’s fair, but it’s weird.”

He rubbed his face again and groaned in frustration: “Ugh, just let me, let me put this into words better.”

“If you studied History, you know History and that’s just how it is. But what you don’t know is suddenly everything about the ancient times, no matter how much you specialized on it, which I know he hasn’t since he teaches History and you need to know more than just one period in order to do that.” Dean said, “We all on the same page?”

There was a silence, like he was waiting for a response. He acted like he got it: “Good, so why- how can he know everything in excruciating detail about that period? And he knows it like he’s been there and he has an abnormal amount of space in his brain for memories.”

A clip played of Cas, Dean behind the camera. They were on vacation, probably, and standing in a church. Dean said: “Can you repeat what you just said, sunshine?”

Cas looked over, saw the camera and shot it a tired look. He rolled his eyes and pointed at a picture of Jesus: “I said that this Jesus isn’t very realistic, because he isn’t smiling. Well, he has a smile, but it’s like this weird serene one. He was young when he was crucified. You really think a twenty-year-old had any patience or chill? I think not. He had a big happy smile,” then hastily, “probably. I think, at least.”

Disheveled Dean reappeared and said: “Tell me that is not fricking suspicious. And that’s just the one I captured on camera. He’s always commenting stuff like that.” his eyes lit up and he snapped his finger as he said: “Like, like he did in the Q&A video we did!”

The clip played of Castiel talking about the Tower of Babel.

“I mean come on. He talked about it like he knew how it had suddenly turned, because he had been there. I know what you’re thinking, it’s a story that gets told to Catholic children. And you’d be right, it is a biblical story. Yet, Mr. History talked about it like it is something that happened, even though it hasn’t been proven.” Dean explained, “And then he tried to cover it up, by saying how it would be an opportunity to find out. Good cover story, angel, but not happening.”

“And don’t get me started on his lack of pop-culture knowledge.” Dean went on, “I mean, I got him a phone. His first phone ever, for his 21st birthday. No one should get their first phone in 2011.”

A picture of Cas came on screen. He was holding up a phone, but it was all wrong. He held in with his pointer finger and thumb, a thumb that was in the middle of the screen, and he looked at it with confusion written all over his face.

“He also knew nothing about movies.” Dean appeared again, “I had to show him everything. And I mean everything. No Disney, no Star Wars, no Lord of the Rings, no Friends, no Indiana Jones, no horror movies, nothing. Almost like he had been away from earth while all of it was made and only popped down recently, which reconnects to my previous point about the specific History knowledge.”

“Another thing is his social skills.” Dean moved on to his last point, “He had no clue how to interact with people when I first met him and when I asked about it he claimed his ‘people skills were rusty’, like he used to have them, but they had faded over time. Which would be impossible, because at that age you either don’t have them or you do, you cannot have forgotten entirely.”

The screen went black again and a list appeared: “So we now have four strange things about him.”

1. Youth and Family

“His youth is filled with weird biblical details that are so accurate or strange that it couldn’t have been a coincidence.”

2. History Knowledge

“Despite his study, this is still weird and suspicious, but I feel like the evidence I showed speaks for itself.”

3. Lack of Pop-culture Knowledge

“This could also be his sheltered upbringing, but he was already out in the real world for two years when I met him, so why he had never encountered any of it is a mystery. With, in my eyes, an easy explanation.”

4. Lack of Social Skills

“Again this could be his upbringing, sure, but even then. If he isn’t lying about his family that is eleven children and parents along with an entire church to communicate with. You still pick up stuff like personal space.”

Dean appeared again and said: “I’ve laid out this evidence to some of my friends, this were their reactions.”

It cut to Sam sitting on a chair, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Sam asked: “Do we really have to do this, Dean?”

“Yes,” Deans voice came from behind the camera, “just hear me out, okay. I get that you didn’t want to listen before, but I have evidence now.”

Sam sighed.

It cut again to Sam shaking his head and saying: “I don’t know, why you’re so invested in this. All of this has a rational explanation, you can see that too.”

“But the family thing is weird, right. It’s so suspiciously correct that has to be fake that just can’t be coincidence.” Dean protested.

“Actually,” Sam replied, “humans have a weird sense of perception about coincidence. So much happens at one moment in the world that something strange or usual is bound to happen, we classify that as coincidence, but it’s just statistics, Math. It’s very interest-”

“Yeah, whatever, nerd.” Dean interrupted, “So, you don’t believe me.”

“No, Dean. I don’t.” Sam told him, “Can I go now?”

“Yeah.” Dean sighed, before it cut to Charlie sitting in the same chair.

Dean asked her: “So do you know why you’re here?”

Charlie nodded: “Yes and I am willing to hear you out.”

“You are?” Dean said, excitement seeping into his voice.

Charlie nodded, then it cut to her reading the final notes in the folder. She bit her lip and said: “I don’t know, Dean. Some off this is pretty suspicious, but I wouldn’t call it evidence of Cas being an angel or other immortal. I mean, the church can be weird.”

“But the History thing is definitely suspicious, right? I’m not being crazy about that?” Dean asked

Charlie answered: “Well, it wouldn’t surprise me, if he had developed a special interest in ancient Christian history while growing up and if he used to be a heavy believer then I suspect he must have thought a lot about how Jesus must have been and stuff.”

Dean huffed, but didn’t respond.

There was a shaky video of Ellen saying: “Dean, I have a bar to run, I don’t have time for your bullshit.”

But then Jo was in the chair and she said: “Dean, I love you and all, but I’m not doing this.”

“Please, just hear me out.” Deans voice was tired and it cracked, Jo relented.

In the end she said: “This is all strange, sure. I might have believed a bit of it, if I hadn’t known Cas. I mean, come on. He’s a dork and a teacher. He loves you, Dean. Don’t ruin that over something stupid.”

A sigh was heard.

After that it was Bobby, who was sitting on the chair. He didn’t look all that pleased. Most knew Bobby from Deans series about Baby where he would sometimes help or appear in the background and stories about Deans childhood.

Dean said: “Bobby, you know me, right?”

“I’d hope so, boy. I practically raised you.” Bobby replied.

“Exactly,” Dean said, “so you know, I’m not one to make random claims about this.”

“I do.” Bobby sighed, clearly not liking where this was going.

“Great.” Dean exclaimed happily, “Because I have collected a bunch of evidence and I want your opinion on it.”

It cut to Bobby rubbing his forehead while he read the last bits of evidence. He looked up and said: “I think you’re grasping at straws, right now. There are more logical solutions than this, but you’re ignoring ‘em, because you want to see this.”

Significantly sadder than before Dean responded: “So you don’t believe me either?”

“No, of course not, you idjit.” Bobby replied, “I walked Cas down the isle, I think I know the damn guy. He’s not some immortal. And don’t go bothering Jody about this either, you hear me.”

Then it cut back to the disheveled Dean, who said: “As you can see they still weren’t ready to listen to me. So I turned to my last resort, Gabriel. Castiels older brother.”

Gabriel was lounging in the chair, smirk playing on his lips and lollipop in hand. He smiled: “Dean-o, it this what it’s come to? Crawling to me?”

Dean sighed from behind the camera and said: “It was either you or Michael, you’re the least worst option.”

“Ahw, you flatter me.” Gabriel said with a wink, then he asked: “So, what is this all about?”

Dean answered: “I’m trying to prove that Cas is an angel, or an other sort immortal, but main theory is angel. I figured you were the best bet to get to the truth.”

The moment the word ‘angel’ left Deans lips, Gabriels face fell although he quickly tried to cover it up. He tried to laugh it off: “You’re being ridiculous. Little Cassie is a nerd, sure, but immortal. Sorry, but that’s hysterical. Besides, how else would you explain me, or the other people at the wedding?”

“I don’t know, other angels? Actors? Lot of possibilities. Maybe it was mind control.” Dean replied.

Gabriel laughed and shook his head, but when he looked up his face was completely serious as he said: “Stop searching, Dean. You won’t find anything, just love your husband in peace and live a long and happy life, okay.”

Dean swallowed thickly and shakily said: “Okay.”

Then it cut back to Dean from before, who said: “As you can see, he wasn’t very helpful. Although he did kind of scare me, the guy nearly threatened me, but he also made Cas more suspicious. He’s hiding something, I can feel it.”

“Anyway, none of my outside resources were helpful, so it’s time to look at our subject himself, Cas.” Dean said and the screen warped to a vlog.

It was filmed in such a way that it was obvious that Dean was trying to be stealthy. It showed Castiel doing the dishes, after a second Dean asked: “Why don’t you use the dishwasher, sunshine?”

Cas looked around and shrugged: “I don’t trust it, Dean. Machinery doesn’t seem to like me and I have not come to an agreement with the dishwasher yet, maybe later.”

Dean laughed: “The dishwasher is not a businessman, Cas. Here I’ll load it in.”

Then it changed to the living room, specifically the couch. It was a solid couch, easily a 1000 pounds. Dean yelled: “Caaaaas!”

From the distance came: “What is it, Dean?”, along with footsteps.

“I dropped my phone and accidentally kicked it under the couch. Can you help me?” Dean answered.

Cas looked at the couch and nodded. First he tried to fit his hand under and swipe the phone out from underneath it, but when that didn’t work, he grabbed the underside of the couch and lifted it as he told Dean to grab his phone, which he did.

Dean smirked at him and said: “Wow, Cas, very sexy. Have you been going to the gym lately?”

He only got an eyeroll in return along with a quick kiss, before Cas disappeared.

What the viewers didn’t get to see was the small carjack that had been carefully edited out, along with Sam, who had operated it.

Then it was Dean running up to Cas, yelling: “Smile, angel!”

Castiel turned to him like a deer in headlights and blinked heavily when the flash nearly blinded him. What was peculiar about this moment was the fact that his eyes seemed to glow an intense light blue, almost as if he was illuminated from the inside, which had been an easy edit, but it looked very cool, if Dean was being honest.

After that Dean said: “I showed these clips, along with a few others that are, admittedly, less convincing to my friends.” followed by a quick compilation of Sam, Charlie, Jo and Bobby shaking their heads and telling him he was an idiot or other variations thereof, “As you can see, they were still unconvinced.” Dean finished.

“They were unconvinced, what I have set out to do isn’t achieved. They aren’t listening and they aren’t seeing the truth. I know what I see, I know what Cas is. And they are just blind for the truth.” Dean told the audience, “So, I’m trusting you to open your eyes and see what is out there. Please, look at this and see the truth.”

Then it went to the endcard. Dean waved and said: “That was it for today. I hope you can support me and tell me that I’m not crazy. If you do, comment about it, like this video, share it to get the word out. Maybe subscribe and ring that bell, so you won’t miss out on any updates about it. Bye Hunters, see you on the-”

He was cut of by the slam of a door. He startled and looked over, but before he could get over the shock the lights overhead exploded and the room went dark. You could hear the heavy and angry voice of Castiel, who bellowed: “Dean Winchester, you have not listened to the warning Gabriel gave you. Your time has come.”

Then the video ended.

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

Oh my god is he okay?!!!?!?!?!

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

Pff anyone who believes this

shit is an idiot

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

I know this is probably fake,

but I’m scared now

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

Don’t lie, who’s been a fan of

Dean since day one?

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

Okay, but are we gonna talk

about Gabriel???

No?

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

You’re not crazy Dean. I once

saw a ghost. The supernatural

is out there and Castiel can be

who you say he is. We don’t

know what the paranormal has

in store for us. Keep believing,

keep fighting!

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

Dudes, if he had time to edit and

upload it then he’s prbbly fine

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

Should we call the police??

Is he ok???

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

Dean be looking like a raccoon

and still be hella fine

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

Cass talking about Jesus is such

a mood, my Christian ass can

relate

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

IS HE DEAD?? DID DEAN JUST DIE!!! HELLO??? ANSWERS PLEASE!!!

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

Really? After all the sweet and

loving Cas content we got, we’re

supposed to believe this??

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

Get yo self a man whos willing

to make a fake docu bout you

pretending to believe youre an

actual angel

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

~

Dean was grinning as he scrolled through the comments on his latest videos. He was quite proud of it honestly and was very happy with how it had turned out and the reaction of the fans. Cas saw him smiling and asked: “So I take it, it went well.”

Looking up Dean said: “Yeah, you might have to answer some questions tomorrow, if you want those kids to trust you after ‘murdering me’.”

Cas groaned, but couldn’t suppress the smile and fond eyeroll.

Then the phone rang, Dean looked at the screen with surprise, but smiled when he saw who was calling. It was Sam, the picture of him sleeping with a plastic spoon in his mouth lighting up the screen. He picked up: “Heya, Sammy.”

Sam answered: “Dean, come save me.”

“What is it?” Dean asked, serious brother mode instantly activated.

But it was lost with Sams answer: “I know you’re trying to sell the whole ‘I got murdered by my own husband who is an angel’-stick, but you’re fans are worried and mobbing me on Twitter demanding answers.”

Dean laughed and relayed what Sam had said to Cas, who also chuckled. Then Dean turned back and said: “I’ll do something about it.”

“Somehow that’s not very comforting.” Sam said.

“Don’t worry about it, Sammy.”

“That isn’t helping.”

“I said don’t worry about it.”

“Dean? … Dean! … Dean!”

Dean hung up and turned to Cas as he asked: “Would you mind filming me?”

An hour later a video was posted on Deans Twitter and Instagram. It was off Cas walking into the living room, where an unharmed Dean was sat on the couch. Cas said: “Hello, Dean.”

Dean looked his way and smiled: “Hey, angel. What’s up? Why are you filming?”

Cas replied: “Some off your fans were worried about you after your last video, so I’m showing them you’re okay.”

Dean frowned and asked: “Why would they worry about me? It was just a dumb video doing Just Dance, not flattering, but hardly worrisome.”

“Don’t you remember your funny little video about me and some conspiracy?” Castiel asked, way too innocently.

Dean frown deepened and he looked confused and he said: “What are you even talking about?”

“Nothing, it was all just silly. Don’t worry about okay?” Cas answered, still holding onto that innocent voice.

Dean smiled at him and said: “Whatever you say, sunshine.”

Then it was over, needless to say that fans weren’t reassured, neither were the kids at school the next day, when Cas pretended he had no idea what they were talking about and shut them down the moment they tried to show him the video on their phones.

@Deanmustbeprotected posted about it on their Insta and multiple conspiracies were posted on every platform.

Dean and Cas along with everyone they’d gotten involved watched from the sidelines with amusement. Mission accomplished!