#id never drawn a toilet before

[boxpunks]

Little thing inspired by the work of Jonni Peppers

[bnhabadass]

Pairing: Bakugou x reader Genre: Smut, 18+, Mafia AU Trope: Woke up married Dialogue Prompt: “Aren’t we supposed to be working?”  Warnings: overdosing on cold medicine, mixing cold medicine with alcohol, dub-con, mentions of sex while unconscious, vomiting Word Count: 4,480

This is my contribution to this month’s bnharem collab. I was so happy when I spun the roulette wheel and it landed on my favorite au, the mafia au. I hope you all enjoy and make sure to check out everyone else’s contributions here. Also a big thanks to @doinmybesthere​ for being my beta reader and putting so much work into creating the master list for this collab.

“A fever? Are you fucking kidding me?”

You winced at the voice coming out of your phone. You were curled up in bed, a heavy futon draped over your achey, chilled body. “I’m really sorry,” you croaked into the receiver. “I can’t get out of bed; there’s no way I’ll be able to come into work today.”

“You know how important tonight’s meeting is.”

You could feel the fire in the eyes of your underboss as he spat at you about how important tonight’s festivities were. You couldn’t care less. You hated the guy, but more importantly you hated your father for getting you in this mess.

A debt needed to be paid and your family couldn’t afford to take out a second mortgage on the house. So your father, as smart as he thought he was, went to the nicest restaurant on the far side of town where the boss of one of the most dangerous mobs in the city stationed his office.

A debt for a debt. That’s what he told you as he came home smiling with a big check in his wallet. No one in your family knew where he got the money, but he seemed confident enough that he’d be able to pay it back.

A month went by and one day, three scary men knocked on your apartment door. They said they were there to “collect”.

You were terrified. You thought they were there to rob you, to take the money you had been saving in a rainy-day fund. But no, they came to collect you. Now, it’s been four months and you’re still stuck doing odd jobs for them--grocery and coffee runs as well as spending reports and other money related things you are less than qualified to do.

You hate your job. You hate having to put up with the unorthodox hours and the unsavory jobs and the complaints about your work ethic and the having to do it over again because you didn’t do it right the first time. You want out. If you weren’t positive that if you left they would be able to hunt you down, you would have fled the country by now.

But your father’s debt still hasn’t been paid.

“Look,” you pleaded. “I can come in tomorrow and work double my usual time. Please, Kirishima-san, I just need the day to rest.”

“Not a chance. You’re coming in today and that’s final. If you don’t, well, then maybe we need to take an extra payment from your parents.”

Before you could even process what he just said, he hung up the phone.

Another payment from your parents. You couldn’t possibly let them take any more from your family. With a new threat looming over your head, you mustered up enough strength to push off of your futon and get dressed for the clients’ dinner.

By the time it was 7:00 in the evening, you had taken a large swig of cold medicine and were ready to spend the night serving these criminals.

Outside of the restaurant, two bodyguards were stationed at the front door and one at the back entrance. All three of them were dressed in black from head to toe. You, on the other hand, were tasked with serving your boss’s clients, so your outfit differed from theirs.

You were dressed in attire suited for waiting tables. Black slacks stretch across your legs and your pristine shirt was smoothed against your body. A tight black vest clung to your chest and pressed against your boobs, squishing them together. If it weren’t for the fever, chills, and headache, you would look like you belonged with this crowd of criminals.

You flashed your ID to the guard at the back door and he nodded you in. Your eyes had to adjust to the fluorescent kitchen lighting, but once they did you saw how busy everyone was. It truly was one of the most important nights for your boss, so you understood why you were needed. Still, this night would truly take the most out of you.

“Oi, (L/n),” one of your boss’s associates called for you. “Take these to table four. I’ve been covering your ass for the last twenty minutes.”

“Of course, Kaminari-san.” You bowed your head and skirted over to the table where two well-dressed men spoke with one another in a hushed tone. You placed their meals in front of them and bowed your head.

“Wait,” one of them called as you began to walk away. “I asked for a Jasmine tea. This is Sencha.”

“Yeah,” the other one piped up. “And I asked for a Sencha tea and this is Jasmine.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to yell into the abyss and slap those men across the face. But of course all you did was bow in apology and take the cups back. Kirishima’s words to you over the phone rang loud and clear in your mind.

“Anything they need, you get it for them. These are important people the boss works with and we can’t have idiots like you messing this up for us.”

The men smirked at you and as you turned around to grab their “correct orders,” the man who ordered the Jasmine tea leaned over to leave a hard, painful smack across your ass.

You froze but didn’t say anything and walked away.

It was still early in the night but you had run yourself thin. You needed to sit down or to at least take a sip of water, but there was no room for breaks as you bounced from table to table getting the people what they wanted. You had even left the venue a couple times to retrieve items like the proper creamer one client required in their coffee.

Your throat was so sore and dry and it was aching for a break. Your entire body was aching for a break. But as you saw someone sitting at one of the tables raise her hand to wave you over, you had to put all of your aches aside to tend to her needs.

“Good evening, ma’am.” You bowed your head. “How may I assist you?”

A small smile was on her dark red painted lips. She seemed to be searching for something as she eyed you up and down. “Do you happen to know when Bakugou-san will be joining us?”

Bakugou-san… Were you supposed to know who that is? You had never heard the name before, although you knew your boss had many ties throughout the district. It could be one of them.

“I’m not sure,” you answered honestly. “I could ask my supervisors if they happen to know.”

She waited a moment. She seemed to be searching for something in your expression. “That’s all right. You may go back to work now.”

You bowed and thanked her.

Bakugou-san.

The name did sound familiar, but you’re not sure where you could have heard it. It wasn’t until you were deep in thought, trying to recall where you had heard the name, that you could feel something pushing up against your throat. Oh god. Your stomach was churning.

You ran to the bathroom, pushing someone out of the way to get there. You’d probably hear an earful from Kirishima for pushing a guest, but you needed to find a toilet before--

Oh no.

You barely made it into the stall before emptying the contents of your stomach onto the white tiles of the bathroom floor. Your legs collapsed from under you and you kneeled in your vomit as you coughed up your stomach lining into the porcelain bowl.

Tears fell from your eyes as you struggled to breathe while hacking everything you had into the toilet. The black eyeliner you threw on before leaving the house had smudged into raccoon eyes around your lashes.

You rested your cheek against the toilet, ignoring all of the germs that were most likely crawling up your skin and into your pores. The toilet seat felt cool against your burning cheek and watering eyes. You thought you could die happily here, kneeling on the bathroom tiles in a pile of your slowly cooling vomit.

“Aren’t we supposed to be working here?”

Your eyes shot open, and in trying to stand up you slipped. Your ass landed in the smeared vomit. You winced and let out a drawn out, “fuuuck.”

It took you a moment before opening your eyes again and looking up at the man in front of you. And boy did your eyes widen. He was clearly a guest at the clients’ dinner. His blonde hair was slicked back and the bulge of his muscles under his crisp black button down didn’t go unnoticed by you. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his forearms and as he crossed his arms over his chest, his sleeves began to tighten.

“Who the hell are you and why are you puking on the floor?”

It took you a second to find your voice. “I’m, um...” you trailed off. “(L/n), sir.” You cleared your throat. “I am a worker for the person hosting this dinner.” You tried to stand up and bow, but he put a hand up to stop you.

“You work for them.” It was a statement not a question, but you nodded anyway. “Why? What do you owe?”

You’re not sure why he was asking, but his intimidating glare compelled you to answer his every question. “My dad owes them money,” you admitted. “And he wasn’t able to pay them back.”

“Who do you mean by them?”

You weren’t sure how to answer. You didn’t even know what these people did. For all you knew they were drug mules or assassins. You never wanted to know what they did when you were roped in. After all, the less you knew meant you could have more of a normal life. “The boss,” you finally answered. Who the boss was, you weren’t sure. You answered to Kirishima but he didn’t have much power aside from ordering around you and every other person unfortunate enough to be roped into working for them.

The man in front of you scoffed. “Get up.”

You scrambled to your feet, ignoring the wave of nausea that hit you. The man led you out of the bathroom, and as you walked behind him, people who passed the two of you stopped and stared. Oh no, it had to be from the vomit stains on your leg and down your shirt. You probably stank to high hell and your eyes wouldn’t stop watering from your fever.

The man stopped and you had to keep from bumping into him. “There’s an extra work shirt in the closet,” he said. “There should also be some slacks in there. Leave your dirty clothes in a pile and I’ll have someone collect them.”

His voice was demanding and it took you a moment to register what he said. It wasn’t until he snapped in your face that you moved.

“We don’t have all day, princess.”

You flinched and nodded before scurrying into the closet and flicking the light on. Inside the closet was the restaurant’s sad excuse for a boiler room. The low humming from the machinery brought you back into the present as you searched for the change of clothes you were promised.

There was a crisp white shirt folded on one of the shelves as well as a few different slacks in varying sizes. The shirt was a size too small, so you had to leave the first couple buttons popped open. Before leaving the closet, you tried to think about who the man was and why he was helping you. Was it possible that he wanted something in return?

When you emerged from the closet, he looked you up and down. You were too tired, however, to notice his lingering glare on your chest and the way the button down squeezed your breasts closer together.

“Thank you,” you mumbled, looking down at your shoes. You’re not sure why you were too scared to look into his vermillion eyes, but the way he called you princess earlier as he snapped at you had definitely made you tremble in your core, and you swore that if you looked up to meet his eyes, your fever would only go higher and higher.

“Why the hell’d you come here if you were sick anyway? Are you trying to poison everyone in the damn building?” His words were like little bullets that shot at every one of your doubts of coming in tonight.

You thought back to why you had come in the first place. You were huddled up in your futon that morning when Kirishima called. You begged to stay home, right? But you couldn’t. You squinted hard as you tried to remember why you weren’t allowed to rest. “I was threatened,” you thought out loud. It wasn’t directed towards the man but he nodded in any case.

“(L/n) was it, right?”

You finally managed to look up at him with bleary eyes. “Yeah, um...” You couldn’t seem to remember what his name was. Wait, he hadn’t told you. He had just led you around and given you new clothes, but he never properly introduced himself.

“Bakugou Katsuki,” he said as if he could read your mind. His lips turned up into a smirk. “But call me Katsuki.”

“Katsuki,” you mumbled. “Bakugou Katsuki.” You had heard that name before, but where. “Bakugou,” you mumbled again as if you were trying to put the pieces of a puzzle together. “Bakugou-san.”

He quirked an eyebrow up at you.

“Oh!” It hit you like a ton of bricks and as soon as you shot up, you had to recoil because of the ache in the back of your neck. “There’s a woman looking for you, Bakugou-san, er, Katuki,” you bowed.

He just chuckled. “There’s a lot of people looking for me tonight. Who was it?”

That’s a good question. You squinted as if you were looking deep into your memories to remember who it was who asked for him. “She was a woman,” you remembered. “With long dark hair and dark red lips.”

Katsuki nodded. “I see the Yaoyorozus are here.”

The Yaoyorozus. You weren’t sure what that could mean but you didn’t feel like questioning it, so you nodded instead.

Katsuki was looking down at you. His arms were crossed over his chest but a smirk that had been playing across his face all night wouldn’t seem to go away. “Feeling better?”

You didn’t feel better. Although you felt cleaner in the new clothes, there was still a throbbing in your head that wasn’t going away and the overhead lights made your eyes water. But the way that Katsuki looked at you like he was expecting you to say yes just drew you in.

He could tell that the way you nodded a yes in response to his question was a lie, and his face fell before pushing a hand up to your forehead, checking your temperature. “Have you taken anything today?”

You had to think back to earlier that day when you brought the bottle of cold medicine up to your lips, not even reading the recommended dose before downing what you could and leaving your home. “Yeah, um, I took some medicine.”

The grin that had been spread across Katsuki’s face returned. “Well I guess we’ll have to get you some more.”

He grabbed your wrist and led you through the halls and over to the bar. You didn’t pay attention to where you were going. The world seemed to be going too fast for you to keep up. What you were able to notice was that everyone’s eyes were on you as you gently swayed back and forth, trying to settle yourself down. As you were in your own head, you couldn’t start to picture what everyone else saw when they looked at you. You with your raccoon eyes due to streaky makeup that you couldn’t stop rubbing.

“Here.” Katsuki shoved a glass in your face. “Not necessarily traditional medicine but it’ll get the job done.”

You looked up at the whiskey glass in his hand. The ‘medicine’ was a deep brown color which swirled around as he handed it to you. Your fingers brushed against his thick ones as you took the glass. You lifted it up to your nose and took a deep breath in, gagging at the smell. “Um, I don’t think I should.” You had been warned about mixing alcohol with drugs and the dangers that came with it, but no one had ever told you not to mix drinks with cold medicine. Still, that couldn’t be right, right?

“Come on, it’s good for you,” he egged you on. “Besides, it’ll get that nasty taste out of your mouth.”

You had never tried whiskey before. You were used to lighter drinks, something bubbly with a shot of vodka or two in it. But this was almost too much. You lifted the glass up to your lips and tilted it back. Your lips stung as they made contact with the drink, but you didn’t want to seem weak to Katsuki. He’d taken care of you so far and seemed pleasant enough, albeit intimidating.

As you tipped it back further and took more of the drink into your mouth, Katsuki pushed his hand against the bottom of the glass so you couldn’t tear it away, making sure you would drink every last drop. It stung going down and the cubes pressing against your lip were colder than you expected. You gagged as a couple loose tears rolled down your face from the drink’s burning sensation. You bet you looked even more of a mess now.

“Good girl,” Katsuki said with a low demeanor. With his thumb, he wiped away a drop of whiskey that rolled down your chin.

“And this’ll make me feel better?” You didn’t think you were supposed to drink when you were sick, but you were far too tired to even think about what was wrong and what was right. If he said that it’d make you feel better, then that had to be a good thing. You’re sure of it.

“Sure will.” He placed a firm, calloused hand on your head and stroked down your hair. You nuzzled into his warmth.

It was such a nice sensation that it almost made you forget that you were supposed to be working. That there were people waiting on you to bring them their food and fetch their creamer, people who were ready to slap your ass and laugh as soon as you turned away.

“I have a,” you started, not really sure where that sentence was going. “I have to go back to work.”

As you began walking away, Katsuki stopped you, pulling you back over so your face was practically pressed up against his chest. “No you don’t. You’re sick, remember?”

Right, as if you hadn’t forgotten. But he was right. You were sick and your medicine hadn’t kicked in yet. You couldn’t risk spreading your germs and getting anyone else sick.

You watched the dinner guests from afar. You leaned in to hear conversations about hitmen and other rivaling mobs around town. Some were about money laundering and clients that needed to be taken out, whatever that meant.

At one point, someone asked to pull Katsuki aside and talk alone, but instead he just pulled you closer.

“The hell do you want, Yoarashi?”

Yoarashi was a big guy, bigger than Katsuki, but it was clear even to you that he was intimidated by the blonde in front of him.

“You owe me for what I let you borrow last month.”

“I don’t owe you shit.”

To you, they sounded like they were underwater and you weren’t sure what they were discussing, but you were curious to learn more.

“Come on, Bakugou. Work with me here.”

“I’m a busy man, Yoarashi. Now get out of my face before I have my men take care of you.”

Something about the raw power and the threatening tone behind Katsuki’s voice made you excited. You wanted to melt into his words, but you weren’t sure why.

“Busy man?” Yoarashi scoffed. “Come on, Bakugou. You’ve barely been seen all night. Where have you been, fucking this little lackey of yours?”

He didn’t mean you, did he? Before you could even comprehend what he just insinuated, Katsuki turned you around and pressed your face up against his chest. You could feel yourself growing even hotter as you were pushed into one of his pectorals. One of his hands cupped the back of your head. Was he protecting you?

“Listen here,” you heard him say. “Don’t contact us ever again unless you want to end up like your first boss did. I can make your life a living hell and I will, got that?”

“Don’t think I don’t have other contacts, all right? You aren’t the only one in this town with resources, Bakugou.”

You felt something jab into the other side of Katsuki’s chest. Did Yoarashi hit him? A few seconds went by before you heard the snapping of fingers and two men came over to drag Yoarashi away.

Katsuki released the hold he had on you, and you watched as the tall man struggled out of his hold. “You aren’t gonna tell anyone what you saw here tonight, right princess?”

You shook your head. You weren’t sure what exactly you felt when you saw that man being dragged away. You were scared, of course; scared for your own life and of the raw power that Katsuki seemed to hold. But on top of fear there was something else. There was a tingle between your thighs that wouldn’t seem to go away, and there was also a sense of excitement. Out of all the people here, this man was paying attention to you. You were far from Mafia material, but he clearly saw something in you and you wanted more of his gaze lingering on you.

Your mind felt hazy with Katsuki and you wanted even more. You didn’t know what to do when you felt him smooth his hand down your back. You didn’t know what to do when his usual smirk turned into something much more dangerous. And you didn’t know what to do when he leaned over and pressed his lips against your own.

His lips felt heavenly as they explored you. They were soft and welcoming despite his cold and dangerous exterior. His tongue probed its way into your mouth. He tasted like whiskey and something else which you assumed was just him. He bit your lip and it felt like he smiled when you let out a moan.

When he released, you felt as if the whole world was spinning with Katsuki. You wobbled around a bit and he chuckled. You tried asking if you could sit down, but the words refused to come out. The last thing you remember is seeing the world go black, the sound of the clients’ dinner fading out of earshot, and two strong arms carrying you away from reality.

You were in pain by the time you woke up. Your body, especially your head, ached tremendously and you wished the sun would stop shining so bright through your window. But wait, the window in your bedroom at your apartment faced another building. The sun never shined too bright in the morning when you were at home.

Slowly, you peaked your head out from under the covers and looked around. You weren’t in your bedroom, but you were in a bedroom. The bed you had been asleep in was enormous, but aside from that there was not much else furniture in the room or even any pictures to signify who the room could belong to.

It wasn’t until you sat up that you realized just how exposed you were under the covers. You couldn’t find your clothing anywhere. What were you even wearing last night? Where were you last night?

You remembered being sick and being called into work by Kirishima. You were stressed. You were nauseous. There was a beautiful woman who asked for someone in particular but you were too sick to remember what their name was, right?

And then you raced to the bathroom and met--

A groan from beside you shook you out of your thoughts, and as soon as you saw the person lying in bed next to you, all of your memories came flooding back.

“Morning, baby girl,” Katsuki said.

You didn’t know what to say. Your mouth hung open and you felt lightheaded.

Katsuki was shirtless under the covers and you were too scared to ask if he had anything on covering his lower half. “You put on quite the show last night.”

Last night. Where you met him. What did you do last night? “I...” You didn’t know what to say, and that made Katsuki let out a booming laugh.

“Come on, you remember at least a little of it don’t you?”

You shook your head. Then you shook your head again. You couldn’t stop shaking your head.

Katsuki put a hand on your shoulder and you stopped. He had a shit eating grin spread across his face that you wanted to both punch and kiss at the same time. “First throwing up at my party and then getting blackout drunk in front of all my guests.”

“What?” You could barely remember anything. What did he mean ‘his party’? The clients’ dinner was run by…

Your eyes widened as you realized just who you had found yourself naked in bed with. Who had found you puking on the bathroom floor. Who that stunningly gorgeous woman was asking for earlier.

You clamped a hand over your mouth and Katsuki let out another chuckle. “You really were the life of the party.” He grabbed your wrist and dragged you over to his side of the bed, and you let him. He dragged his hand up and down your exposed body and roughly cupped your sex. “I had a blast toying around with you last night, but now I want you to be able to remember what it feels like when I bury my cock inside of you, sweetheart.”

You hated the way he was grabbing you and the way he forced your legs to open up for him, but what you hated more than any of that was the way his words made your inner thighs ache and how they instinctively parted just for him.

You turned away as he leaned down to smother your chest with rough kisses, and as you looked over to your left hand, you couldn’t help but notice a diamond ring that wasn’t there the night before.

[party-gilmore]

19 year old Dean sneaking out of the motel with clumsily smudged eye makeup and lipstick that Rhonda assured him via text would actually be pretty perfectly on brand and her sequiny borrowed clothes hidden under his dad's big jacket.

He doesnt understand why she told him to dress like this, but the panties thing was pretty nice, so he's willing to trust her... it helps that Dad was so damn wasted he knew there's no way he'd wake up while Dean was on the way out. Getting back in might be a different story, but he's got a change of clothes stashed in the Impala if he needs to swap out before sneaking back in.

Once he gets there, once Rhonda shows him a world he didn't even know existed right under his nose, it becomes more of a tradition. In fact, it becomes the only tradition he feels like he can share with these other people, these... these other queer people.

It's the only connection, the only experience, the only part of his strange hunter's upbringing that he feels like lines up with their own stories. The only part of their culture he feels like he can share, like he can actually be a part of.

Sneaking out, flashy skimpy gender bending clothes hidden from overbearing parents under layers upon layers, changing somewhere along the way or even in the tiny little restrooms of whatever skeevy dive is playing the movie in tonight's town of choice, sharing That Look with the other boys swapping their getups in the same dingy toilet, the confidence building as he strips layer after layer, tearing down his own defenses of Flannel and Denim and Dad's Jacket to raise a wall of freedom and expression and self love, and it always scary every time but in a good way, the way he feels at the top of a roller coaster, gripping the lap bar and so, so ready.

Then after, lingering in the afterglow of the camaraderie and companionship, the same feeling of mutual dread creeping across the little gaggle of young adults he finds himself drawn to as they start the slow trudge back to real life. The layers going back on. The Flannel. The Denim. Dad's Jacket.

The envy as they watch a lot of the older folks and even some of the younger ones - a little bit more every year, as time goes by - laughing and smiling and sparing a quick moment for a mournful but understanding glance in the direction of those who have to build their walls back up before getting into their cars. Heading back home as they are.

Unafraid not to change back.

He never talks about it. Not even when Sam mentions offhand about a show he attended once in college. Just makes a snarky comment about corsets and Tim Curry that has Sam punching him hard in the arm with a reprimand about being bigoted. That's fine. Dean would still rather that than have people know the truth. Not yet, anyway.

He doesn't talk about it to Cas, either. It's not just because it doesn't seem like it would be up the guy's alley, although he was admittedly tempted when putting together his list of things show the falling angel all of what humanity has to offer. He doesn't doubt that even if it's not the guy's cup of tea, Cas would still find it to be beautiful in some way. Probably like, as a tableau of humanity at its purest, most free, or some sappy shit like that.

No, the reason Dean doesn't tell Cas is because it's still too intimate of a thing for him, and with this... whatever it is that's been slipping between, growing stronger with each pass around, he's afraid that letting Cas into that part of his life would leave him tumbling to quickly, too recklessly, into something he knows he's not ready for. Besides, he hasn't been to a show in years anyway. Not since hell.

But then one day.

One day Jack is sitting at the kitchen table, nervously admitting that he's been talking to some kids in town, and he really likes them, and... and not just the girls. Not just one of them either. The whole group. And he doesnt know if that's weird or not and he doesn't know what to do and he doesn't know if that's normal... do other people feel this way? Are there other people out there who are... like me? Or is this... a nephilim thing. Am I the only one.

And for a moment Dean wonders if it would be weird, taking his kid to go see it. But then he thinks about some of the older couples he'd met and talked too, who'd been excited to introduce their kids around Dean's age. Like taking your kid out to a bar for their 21st. A moment to show them a world they could be a part of, as they grow into who they are. To help them find their place in it.

Dean rarely ever let himself wish for things to be Other Than They Are, trying to be enough of a realist to not get stuck in wistful what ifs and maybes. But in those moments? Those moments he found himself wishing for a parent like that. Not that Rhonda's introduction to it wasn't pretty damn great, but the thought of it being a parent, a... a dad, showing him a world he could be a part of and saying 'it's okay, I'm part of it too, go enjoy it but know that I'm here with you when you need me,' it was... well.

Dean clears his throat, realizing just how long Jack's anxious silence had gone on while his brain rattled around in the past.

"Hey kid, how uh... how about we catch a movie tonight? That older theater, the one that's... not the Regal, what's it called... uh, whichever. They're playing Rocky Horror tonight."

Jack's head tilts at the apparent subject change, in the way that reminds Dean so much of Cas, and for a moment he almost calls down the hall to invite the angel along.

But no, he settles back into his original plan. This is a Him And Jack kinda thing. This time, at least.

"A horror movie?"

"Haha, no, not quite," Dean grins, standing and ruffling the kids hair. "C'mon. I know none of my old stuff fits me anymore, so I'll need new gear anyway. I'll take you to pick out an outfit. Bring your ID."

[mintsuke]

Forelsket | 8 - Not a Dream

Tsukishima Kei  x f!Reader

Note: Out of embarrassment, you closed your eyes during the whole process.

A/n: A little short but finally LMAO.

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Perhaps you never quite forgot about the pretty boy, who had quite literally swept you off your feet and stole a kiss from you. Soft-looking blonde hair and a warm shade of honey brown eyes. Tall and stoic, a mysterious kind of guy maybe. 

Yet, all of that was ruined when he decided to open his mouth. A very soft... or harsh... reminder that boys were just not it for you right now. Gosh, if only. You really might have taken Kuroo’s advice to move on by finding a new beau. Was the world just against you, that it decided the men in your life were all shit. Besides Kenma of course. 

Kuroo was debatable. 

So when you wake up the day after you return to Tokyo, world pitch black from the eye mask you didn’t know you had, you weren’t expecting the foreign contents of what was supposed to be your room. 

“Tetsu?” You yawn, confused why your bed felt emptier. The middle blocker had been sleeping over, and you really hope he’s not destroying your kitchen in attempt to cheer you up from yet another barrage of calls from your ex. 

You froze. Was that your voice? Were you sick? Slipping off the eye mask, you set it down on the bed. Ignoring your abnormally larger hard, you brush your palm over the mattress. Were these your bed sheets? You don’t quite remember having this color. Glancing around, you don’t even remember ever having such bad eyesight. 

Through the blurry blobs, you spot glasses on the nightstand and don them as you examine your surroundings. You notice the shelves lined with figures of dinosaurs and the school uniform and volleyball jersey that hangs on hooks on the door to your room... at least whoever’s room you were in. 

You were either kidnapped by a prehistorical nerd, or your childhood friend had somehow changed the whole layout of your room within hours. The latter didn’t seem to convincing, but knowing Kuroo, it was still possible. 

Scratching your head, you squeeze your eyes shut at your lack of longer hair. Soft and short strands met your fingertips as you swear to any god out there, if Kuroo Tetsurou cut your hair in your sleep as some sort of prank - he was going to meet his death.

Slipping out of bed, you glance down at your abnormally longer legs. You’re equally as weirded out as you stand and find that you reach the height of the doorway when you leave the confines of the room and into an unfamiliar hallway. Through trial and error, you find the bathroom, switching on the lights as you glance at the mirror. 

Your heart stops.

Was... was that you?

“Hah?!” You exclaim in shock, gripping the edges of the counter to stare at your reflection. Familiar honey eyes stare back in mirrored shock, wide in disbelief, as you recognize the face of the pretty boy from just the day before. 

Slowly raising your hands to your face, you watch as the reflection mimics the way you brush your digits over your cheeks. 

Was this real? Were you hallucinating? A dream? 

You pinch yourself with a wince at the sharp pain.

Not a dream apparently. 

“Hey— you’re unusually loud this morning, you okay?” 

You flinch, glancing over at the male standing at the doorway. He’s slightly shorter than your current body, sporting the same blonde hair color and honey colored eyes. His expression is notably more softer than the stern frown you had seen on the boy in the mirror. 

Currently, you were still finding it hard to believe that you were in that boy’s body right now. You didn’t even sleep that late last night. So how was any of this even possible?

Were you reading too many shoujo books? Body swaps couldn’t possibly be real... right?

“I’m fine,” You answer finally when you realize he’s still waiting for a response. 

Was this his brother perhaps? The similarities in appearances were striking. He was too young-looking to be his father.

He doesn’t seem too convinced by the answer, but he shakes his head and shrugs, “Alright, if you need anything let me know, you look a little pale.”

He was right. When he finally left you alone, you shut the door with a click of the lock and turned to once again appraise yourself in the mirror. The color from your cheeks were draining and you looked as though you’ve seen a ghost. Although, honestly the expression seemed so out of character and weird on the middle blocker’s face.

You were starting to panic, chest tightening as you gradually grew dizzier. Taking a seat on the toilet seat cover, you placed your head in your hands. 

Deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. 

You stayed like this until you felt the world come to a stand still and you could breathe normally again. 

How did this happen in the first place? Your brows scrunched together in hard concentration, thinking back to your only interaction with the boy. The pads of your fingers brush over your, well... his bottom lip, remembering the static of electricity that had shocked you when you’d both kissed that night. Could it have been...? Was that even possible outside of anime and manga? 

Then you felt it. Horror struck across your expression as you glanced down at your crotch. 

You really had to pee right now.

.

Tsukishima opened his eyes to the bright shine of the sun slicing through the blades of the blinds. Irritated, he wondered where his eye mask had gone in the middle of the night. He shifted to sit up when he realized he was being held captive by a tight hold around his middle. 

Finally growing aware of the warmth surrounding him, he raised his chin to glare up at the sleeping face of Kuroo Tetsurou. 

Wait. What. 

He looked up and down multiple times, squeezing his eyes shut and reopening them, in case he was hallucinating. Each time, he grew even more uncomfortable with how close his mentor was, and even more disturbed by his sudden appearance.

“What the fuck are you doing in my house Kuroo-san?” He spat harshly, before his mind went blank at the pitch of his voice. 

Seriously what the fuck?

“Mm, Kuroo-san? I don’t remember pulling a prank on you just yet (F/n),” The raven-haired middle blocker hums, stirring from his sleep at the sound of his name. 

Tsukishima didn’t remember seeing Kuroo last night, nor did he remember getting in bed with him. The disgust at the thought and the experience right now, was making shivers run down his spine. He needed to get out of this weird cuddle position they were in, and fast. 

“Let go of me you pervert, I’m not into that,” He hisses, ripping himself from the other middle blocker’s arms. The sound of his voice continued to throw him off as he sat up and glanced around the room. 

What was going on? His eyesight had significantly improved. Moreover, this was definitely not his room.

“(F/n), are you okay? You literally asked for cuddles last night?” The other male says, more confused now as he sits up with a drawn out yawn. 

“(F/n)? Are you blind now? I’m Tsukishima?” He snaps in annoyance.

Who the hell is (F/n)?

Kuroo’s eyes open wide now, more awake and even more confused by his answer. 

“I’m serious, are you okay? Did kissing Glasses-kun mess you up that bad?” he asks teasingly, ruffling the shorter’s hair. 

That’s when Tsukishima notices his longer hairstyle. He’s also suddenly aware of how much bigger his mentor appears in comparison to himself. Had he always been that much larger than him? They were supposedly about near each other’s heights. 

Wait. Kiss?

Tsukishima turns to him with squinted eyes, frowning up at the elder.

“How do you know about the kiss?” 

The older blinks down at him. Really what was going on with his childhood friend? Were you having a random case of amnesia? So suddenly, was that even plausible?

“You told me? Are you sure you’re okay? Did you fall down again before I came over?”

His brows furrowed, he didn’t tell anyone, not even Yamaguchi told the two idiots plus Yachi. His friend didn’t even talk to the opposing captain either, so how?

“No what the fuck, besides that, where are we? This isn’t my house.”

Kuroo makes a face at that. 

“We are at your house (F/n).”

“No, and I’m Tsukishima.”

Hazel eyes squint down at him. Kuroo opens his mouth to say something when his phone vibrates incessantly on the nightstand. With his back turned to reach for the device, Tsukishima glances at the table to find a picture frame of the Nekoma captain, his pudding-haired setter, and you  — the girl he’d knocked over on his descent down the stairs and kissed just the other night. 

Picking up the phone, Kuroo is momentarily surprised to be receiving a call from the caller ID titled as “Tsukki”. Once accepting the call, he’s about to express his surprise about receiving a call from the aloof blonde, when his eyes widen at the frantic voice on the other line. 

“What do you mean you’re (F/n)?”

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[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 35

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 35

The bungalow was surrounded by aged trees, blocking the sunlight year-round. A chill ran through his body as he walked into the building. The faint musty smell and moisture in the air reminded him of a basement filled with children's toys. Lin Yan followed the Zhongshan man into an office with an old-fashioned wooden table. On the table, there was a large stainless steel thermos. The desktop computer occasionally made some buzzing noises. The office was close to the toilet. It didn't take long for the smell of amonia to rush into his nose.

"Sit down, Lin. I'll grab the contact information of the recent archaeologists that were there. It's still locked in the cabinet." The Zhongshan suit man said as he poured Lin Yan a glass of water in a disposable paper cup. "The files on the table are more than 20 years old. They were just transferred out of the archive room. Feel free to look through them."

"Thank you for your help." Lin Yan said politely.

"No, it's no trouble at all. It's great to see young people so active nowadays. We all heard about what happened with the porcelain appraisal. That was really something. Professor Chen wouldn't stop bragging about it when he got back." The Zhongshan suit man chuckled. He placed a bowl of melon in front of Lin Yan then grabbed his key and left.

Lin Yan sat at the table and waited. The office decoration was old but good quality. The real leather swivel chair was comfortable to sit on. The shade of leaves outside the window blocked the sunlight. A sparrow leaped lightly among the branches. It flapped its wings and flew away.

There were a lot of files about the Ming tomb on the table, sorted into vellum envelopes. Lin Yan flipped through them. They included a large amount of background information on the time period, project approval forms, equipment rental statements, reimbursement vouchers, and so on. An envelope labelled 'Staff Information' caught his attention. Lin Yan brushed off the dust and opened the envelope. There were several smaller envelopes inside with labels written in faded ink. The top one was labelled "1987 Shanxi Archaeological Team Payroll", followed by several others, such as rosters, contact information, etc. The bottom one was marked with the word 'important,' written in red, and the label read: List of work-related casualties and compensation details.

Casualties? Lin Yan picked up the envelope. It was very thin. It was almost like there was nothing inside. The glue on the seal had expired and could be opened just by a light tear. The brownish-yellow paper had become hard and brittle after not being handled for a long time. Lin Yan carefully slipped his hand in. The envelope was empty. Only after fumbling inside the envelope for a while did he find a small thin piece of paper. The hand-drawn table lines were smudged at the top. At first glance, he knew that whoever wrote it had drawn it in a rush. The ink hadn't dried before they dragged the ruler across the page.

A series of footsteps echoing in the hallway approached. Lin Yan jumped, instinctively shoving the paper back into the envelope. it took him a second to remember that he had been given permission to go through the documents. The old information always gave him an anxious feeling, like he was intruding. He felt like a thief, fleetingly travelling back in time from modern times.

The footsteps moved further away. Lin Yan carefully examined the paper in his hand. Everything had also been written in pen. The names, reasons for compensation, amount of money compensated and other items were divided into columns. Lin Yan skimmed over the columns, heart bursting with fear

"Li Erzhuang, hand fracture, compensation of 30 yuan for medical expenses, collected and signed for."

"Sun Dapeng, psychosis, compensation for medical expenses of 150 yuan, collected and signed for."

"Wang Aiguo, psychosis, compensation for medical expenses of 150 yuan, collected and signed for."

". . ."

All the remaining reasons for compensation written in after the names were for psychosis, but the diagnosis details are all blank. The signature on the back was pretty crooked, too. Some of the ink was written so lightly that it was barely visible. Back then, villagers weren't very educated and many could only write their names. He glanced at the page filled with awkward handwriting. When he reached the last two lines, the signature column was blank. After a double-take, the column for the reason for compensation was listed as 'dead'.

"Jun Xiangdong, Jiang Ying . . . did these two die?" Lin Yan gulped. He carefully flattened the paper and muttered: "Compensation of one thousand yuan . . . Hey, that's weird, for these two people. How come it's written that their compensation hasn't been claimed? A thousand yuan was considered a huge sum of money in a village at that time . . ."

Lin Yan confusedly opened the envelope containing the staff list. He pulled out a stack of yellowed paper, flipping through each of them. Besides the detailed information of the students sent by the university who participated in the excavation of the Ming Tomb, the rest were locals. Most of the villagers were uneducated. They only filled in their name, age, gender and village name. Lin Yan counted them. There were 13 people in total. The oldest was only 24 years old, and the youngest was only 16 and 17. Eighteen-year-old children make up the majority. Lin Yan recalled what the professor said and let out a sigh. He couldn't imagine what it must have been like for those children to be haunted by illusions and see their friends die in front of them in such a strange way.

It was too much to think about. Lin Yan glanced back at Xiao Yu. The ghost was standing leisurely by the window with his arms crossed, looking at the scenery, as if this had nothing to do with him.

When turning back to Jun Xiangdong and Jiang Ying's forms, Lin Yan was surprised to find that the information left by these two people was almost blank. Compared to the information awkwardly filled in by the other villagers, only their villages and names were listed. Written next to them in black pen were the words "wage uncollected".

Lin Yan stared at the list of villages and frowned. He mumbled: "They're all foreigners? No wonder no one got any money after they died . . ." As he turned over the page of information on the two, there was only one last name at the bottom. The name on this page was Wang Zhong. Similar to Jun Xiangdong and Jiang Ying, there was almost no information is almost blank. He also wasn't a local. Written in big black letters in the upper right-hand corner was: "Wage uncollected".

"Wang Zhong, Wang Zhong . . . This person isn't on the compensation list." Lin Yan glanced through several forms and muttered: "Was he so afraid that he ran away without even getting paid?"

Lin Yan was immersed in a few old documents when, suddenly, the office door squeaked open. Zhongshan suit guy rummaged through the file in his hand as he walked in, muttering to himself: "What's going on . . . "

Hearing his voice, Lin Yan hurriedly put down the files and stood up. Zhongshan suit guy stepped in and waved his hands: "Sit down and sit down. My memory's not what it used to be. Obviously, I put it all away before I went on a business trip. Why can't I find it? "

"What can't you find?"

"Professor Chen said you are looking for the staff roster from the Ming Tomb archaeological expedition in Shanxi. I purposely found it and put it together. The cabinet was opened just now and everything else was there. The fortune-teller's information is the only one that's gone." Zhongshan suit guy shoved everything back into the folder and said to Lin Yan: "Look, everything is numbered. Everyone has one. I filled it out when I joined the team. I kept a copy of it for payroll statistics."

Lin Yan flipped through several forms, each of which was detailed with the staff’s name, ID number, telephone number, address, working hours and position, etc. Indeed, like Zhongshan suit guy said, the number between No. 34 and No. 36 was missing. But the information from the 30th onwards was very brief, some even only listing names and phone numbers. Those people are temporary workers. No. 34 was hired to drive a tractor. No. 36 and 37 were temporary cooks. The form ended on No. 37.

No. 35 should be the mysterious fortune teller.

"This man wasn't part of the team. He came to watch over things with a feng shui compass. He stayed to explain his plan for the excavation then left. He negotiated the price with me and said that he would wait to get paid until his method was proven useful. We had the money ready to go but he never came to get it, otherwise, the financial account would have been recorded."

Everything was done so neatly. Lin Yan stared at the extra space between No. 34 and No. 36 and furrowed his eyebrows. He didn't even want the money? What was he after?

"Please think it over again. Did you take it out before and put it somewhere else?" Lin Yan was a little impatient. "Or did another colleague take it away?"

Zhongshan suit guy rubbed his hands and stroked the key in his hand in confusion: "Impossible. I'm the only one with a key to the cabinet. I had organized everything and locked it in the cabinet before I left on the trip. It was gone as soon as I got back."

Lin Yan's heart skipped a beat. This seemed too coincidental. He glanced back at Xiao Yu. The ghost was staring at the door with furrowed brows and didn't respond to him.

Seeing that Lin Yan's screwed-up expression, Zhongshan suit guy picked up the paper cup on the table and filled it at the water dispenser. He put it back in front of him and comforted him: "It's okay. You sit and drink some water and eat some melon. I'll keep looking for it. I remember when that man first came and spoke in a mysterious way, no one believed him. He left a phone number and address, saying we would definitely have to call him again. And he was right."

"Where did I put it . . ." Zhongshan suit guy talked to himself while fiddling around in the office. Lin Yan wanted to help but was pushed back into the chair. He was forced to stare at the desktop screen saver. A bright, shimmering mass of lines shifted on a black background. Green, red, and blue lines slowly changing, becoming larger and smaller, rolling into a big mess. He couldn't make sense of it.

"Today isn't a good time. If you come at another time, you could ask someone else. Actually, today is our day off so the whole building is empty. I'm the only one who came here for a reason."

Lin Yan smiled embarrassedly: "That's too much trouble for you." Then a thought struck him and he casually mentioned: "There are still people here. I just heard footsteps in the hallway. They just passed by but didn't come in."

Zhongshan suit guy was washing his hands in the washbasin by the door but abruptly stopped when he heard this and looked up: "Impossible. There's no one in the building but flies. There are only three offices, I just checked them and no one's there."

Lin Yan took a sharp breath. He looked towards the dark corridor in the doorway and suddenly felt an ominous feeling.

Maybe it was just him passing by to check the information, Lin Yan reassured himself. When the sun changed its angle, a few loose beams of light penetrated into the room through the gaps in the leaves. The soft yellow light peaked in. The dust dancing in the light fell onto the dark brown tabletop. Beams jutting to the side illuminated a cactus that had been watered too much, its petals hanging down limply.

"Hey, I remember, wait a second." A hint of excitement flashed through Zhongshan suit guy's voice. In the lower part of the glass cabinet, he pulled out an old jacket and searched through the pockets. He fished out a crumpled note from a small pocket in the lining. He fumbled with the crumbled note, studied it over, muttering: "Right, right, this is it."

Zhongshan suit guy slapped the note down in front of Lin Yan's eyes: "The address and phone number."

Lin Yan's expression relaxed.

By noon, the weather was getting hot. Zhongshan suit guy turned on the fan. The buzzing of the fan blades and the rustling of the papers being blown rang out incessantly. Lin Yan put the phone up to his ear and held a pen in his other hand, scribbling on a notepad, the tip of the pen trembling slightly because of the anticipation.

"Beep . . . beep . . ."

". . . The number you have called is temporarily unavailable."

The voice of the phone message came four times in a row. Lin Yan and Zhongshan suit guy exchanged a glance. He dropped the receiver and languidly stretched. Looking at the lower part of the note, the address handwritten in pencil looks familiar. Where had he seen it? Lin Yan tugged at his collar. He wanted to unbutton it to get some air, but he suddenly remembered the string of hickeys on his neck and he hurriedly buttoned it back to the top.

There was a splash of water from the water dispenser, followed by a series of gurgling noises. A thought flashed through his mind. Lin Yan froze in place with his cup in his hand, like the solution had smacked into his brain like a hammer strike.

"Mr. Chen, what does the fortune teller you mentioned look like?"

Zhongshan suit guy thought for a moment and recalled: "It's been a long time so I don't remember clearly. He looked like he was in his 40s or 50s. He's about the same height as me, and his hair is very short."

Lin Yan gulped and entered the address into his phone's GPS. The green route map was displayed, extending all the way to the northwest.

That's it. Lin Yan stared at the red dot indicating the destination in the upper left corner and quietly thought to himself: I found you, temple master.

[redrobinfection]

(16) Graveyard

SociallyAwkwardFox’s Spooktober (2018) - Day 16 “Graveyard”

Tim & Damian | Implied JayTim | Implied DickDami | College AU | No Capes | Crack | actual discussion of literature | Dick Grayson was adopted by the Drakes instead of the Waynes | Want to write/create with me? Find the prompt list here!

~*~

"How about four out of seven?" Tim asked with a shrug, winding up the toilet paper roll again.

Damian, his fellow barista, threw his roll at Tim's head, missing wildly. He glared. "You cheated, Drake!"

Tim rolled his eyes as he retrieved Damian's roll and began winding it up too. "How could I cheat at coffee cup bowling, ‘Wayne’?"

"You wind your roll too tightly. It doesn't unravel as much when you pitch it and thus has more mass by the time it hits the cups."

Tim raised his eyebrows. "What are you now, a physics major? That just sounds like strategy, dude. You are free to roll your roll as tightly as you'd like. That isn't against the rules."

Damian fumed. "The rules you made up! This is why I said we should use the rice crispy ba--customer."

Tim whirled on the spot, seeing that, indeed, a paying customer had entered their little, semi-enclosed coffee shop. Outside, a few students sat or sprawled over the sectional couches that filled the large basement of the university student union in which the shop was located.

Tim turned and vaulted over the counter. He heard a quiet "-tch-" from Damian as he walked to the hinged raise-able section of the counter and let himself in.

Tim straightened his apron and stepped up the register with a smile. The customer stood about five feet from the register, head tilted back, studying the menu board over Tim's head with bleary eyes. The guy was like a zombie, he was that exhausted. Tim cut his eyes over to the clock on the wall. 3:45 am. Hell of a time for coffee.

Tim glanced over his shoulder at Damian, who was reawakening the cranky espresso machine with deft fingers. Seven hours and forty-five minutes with Damian "the Demon " Wayne down, only four hours and fifteen minutes to go. Tim turned back to their customer and sighed. This was going to be a loooooooong morning.

At second glance, there was something familiar about the guy, but Tim couldn't put his finger on where he knew him. The guy had pretty teal eyes, but they were reddened and dull, like he hadn't closed them except to blink in way too long. He was also pretty well cut, Tim noticed, with clearly muscled arms and pecs so defined that Tim could clearly see them through the man's sweater. Maybe that's how Tim knew him? Maybe he'd seen him in the UREC weight room?

The guy's most eye-catching feature by far was the white forelock that curled down over his forehead. He was the third person Tim had met to have a whitened forelock like that; the other two were fraternal twins who had had small patches of albinism right at their widows peaks which affected both the skin and hair. Tim idly wondered if this guy's white lock was natural too. In any case, it looked frickin' cool, a lot cooler than his own; the best thing he could say about his own hair was that he could pull off the 90's curtain cut plus semi-mullet well enough that he could go an entire semester on a single haircut.

Tim was drawn out of his thoughts when dude finally stepped up to the counter and began to speak.

"Uh, hi, could I get a large, double-shot caramel latte?"

"Absolutely. How many pumps of caramel do you want?" Tim asked cheerily.

The guy looked up from digging through his overly stuffed messenger bag. "Uhh…the normal four should be fine."

"Okay, that will be $6.47. Can I get a name for the order?"

The guy didn't look up this time. "Uh, Jason. Gimme a sec', I know my wallet is at the bottom of this thing somewhere."

"No problem, take your time. It's not like we have a line, anyway," Tim joked.

This guy looked so dead right now--inside and out--that if he didn't find his wallet, then Tim would probably just buy the coffee for the guy himself. He understood better than anyone the sudden need for caffeine at odd hours of the day. He's not sure how he would have finished half his computer science projects this term without a much-needed double-espresso every couple of hours, to be honest.

The guy--'Jason' apparently--finally fished out a small money clip then handed over a student ID card. "Put it on my Dining Dollars, please."

"Yeah, no probl- wait a minute!" Tim cut off, staring. Suddenly, it had hit Tim where he knew this guy. "Aren't you that kid who always sits at the front of Professor Hyatt's nine-fifteen, Tuesday-Thursday, Modern European Literature and answers all the questions?"

The dude raised an eyebrow. "Uh, yeah. Why…? Wait…" He squinted and leaned in. "Aren't you the kid who once tried to sit all the way back in the AV booth, since, and I quote, 'the back wasn't far enough back'?"

Tim grinned as he swiped the ID card through the register. "Haha, yeah."

Damian moved as if to step up to the counter, the guy's drink in hand, but stopped dead about a foot away. He stared.

"Wait. Aren't you the guy who always comes in, gets tea, and sits in the window over there and reads romance novels?" Damian asked, eying him appraisingly.

The dude huffed. "Yes. My name is Jason--by the way--and they're not romance novels, it's classic lit. Now can I get my coffee?"

Damian handed the coffee over the counter, but raised an eyebrow skeptically. "You mean to tell me Rebecca is not a romance novel?"

"Wait, what!? Do you mean Daphne du Maurier's Rebecca?" Tim asked as he handed Jason's ID card back over the counter.

Damian nodded wordlessly. Tim snorted, then said, "That's not a romance! That's a totally a murder mystery! You must be confusing it with Jane Eyre. I get those mixed up too."

Jason nodded in agreement, tucking his ID away before taking his first sip of coffee. He moaned, his eyes fluttering for a moment as he savored in the sweet bliss of piping hot caffeine at 3:49 in the morning, then he looked at Damian and said, "Well, actually, I'll give you that one, uh…" --he paused to squint at Damian's name tag-- "...'Damian'; Rebecca is a modern romance novel by classification, but it's also a crime thriller just like--whazzatsay?--'Tim' said."

He turned to Tim. "I'm not surprised you'd confuse it with Jane Eyre, considering that a lot of scholars believe du Maurier adapted it from Jane Eyre."

"Wait, really?" Tim said with a laugh. "I'm glad I'm not the only one thinking that! Rebecca is like the less boring version of Jane Eyre."

Jason froze halfway into sitting down in one of the arm chairs that lined the wall closest to the door and looked up at Tim as if he had just suggested burning down the library or something similarly unthinkable. "Whaaaaaat?! I can't believe you just implied that any of the Brontë sisters' works is boring!"

Tim laughed again. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I was only twelve when I read Jane Eyre, so maybe I'd enjoy it more if I read it again now--with a mature perspective--but I remember Rebecca being a blast for thirteen-year-old me so…" He smiled, then shrugged.

Jason stared. "Twelve? Thirteen? Jeez. What else were you trying to read that young?"

"I mean, I read Moby Dick the year before that, in sixth grade," Tim admitted, shrugging until his shoulders hit his ears.

Jason gave him a flat stare. "Moby Dick? Moby fucking Dick? You've gotta be kidding me. And lemme guess, you also thought Herman Melville's masterpiece was a load of crock?"

Tim laughed, but shook his head and waved his hands placatingly. "No, no, no. I only understood, like, every fifth word--so.many.whaling.terms!--and it took me four months to get halfway in only to realize there was no way I was going to finish it by the end of the school year--I ended up skipping to the end and guessing for a lot of the AR test questions--but I definitely got the sense that it was a seminal work and that I was just too young to appreciate it. I've always meant to go back and try it again, but I still haven't gotten around to it."

"Why the hell were you trying to read Moby Dick at the age of twelve?" Jason asked incredulously, leaning back in the chair and taking a long sip of his coffee.

"Eleven, but, ah, well, my mom was convinced I had to be The BestTM in everything, so she pushed me to max out my Accelerated Reader level by the end of sixth grade and demanded that I always get the most AR points of anyone in my class, so I read a lot of the 20 point-and-up books." Tim tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I think Moby Dick was 47 points...Rebecca was 25...Jane Eyre was 33..."

Jason stared, shaking his head slowly. "So…what? You're fine with Moby Dick, a romance of the American Renaissance, but a gothic romance of the British Victorian era like Jane Eyre isn't good enough for you? Next you'll try to tell me you think Wuthering Heights is a snooze fest!"

"Well, I mean, I never could get into it, so…"

Jason slammed both hands down on the arms of his chair, incensed. "Okay, Mister, get your butt over here and sit down, we need to have a talk about Victorian Gothic and why, hands down, it is some of the best literature ever written."

Tim laughed again, then bit his lip, considering the offer. He glanced around the nearly empty coffee shop. Then he leaned over the counter and looked out into the lounge--there were exactly four people there and only one of them wasn't completely asleep in their books. Yeah, he could probably afford to humor the man.

He turned to Damian. "Hey, Dames, I'm going to make myself a coffee and take my break. You good to hold down the fort?"

"I told you not to call me that," Damian snapped, but there was no real heat to it; he liked to pretend that he hated the guts of all his coworkers, but Tim knew that he was Damian's favorite. "However, yes, I think I can manage. Go take your damned break, but when you come back I fully expect a rematch in bowling…and don't you dare cheat this time!"

Tim rolled his eyes and groaned, then turned toward trying to coax Ol' 'Spressolino--their affectionate name for the cantankerous espresso machine--into spitting out a double-shot for him. "It's not cheating, but fine, we'll do it your way," Tim replied. "But I'm telling you, you have to buy those rice crispy balls. I definitely don't want to have to explain to Barbara why some of the food on sale looks like it went through the spin cycle in a dorm washer."

Damian grinned smugly. "My pleasure. It will be a small price to pay in order to ensure your swift defeat."

Tim shook his head, grabbed his espresso in one hand and two biscotti off the front counter in the other, ducked under the counter drawbridge, then slid into the armchair across from Jason. He offered one of the biscotti to the other man and Jason accepted the free food with an appreciative smile. He already looked ten times less zombie-like, thanks to the caffiene, and he was honestly pretty damn attractive.

"Okay," Tim said, peeling the wrapper off his own biscotti and dunking it into his bitter cup of joy, "Educate me."

Between sips of coffee and bites of biscotti, Jason began explaining his thoughts on the romantic period of literature, but barely a minute into his lecture, a plastic-wrapped, ball-shaped rice crispy treat about the size of a cantelope whizzed by their feet and crashed into the ten extra-large paper coffee cups arranged in a bowling triangle at one end of the coffee shop, scattering them in a definitive strike.

Jason jumped in his seat and looked around wildly. "What the fuck?"

Tim sighed. "Daaaaaaamiaaaaaaan…"

"Shut up, Drake! I'm practicing. I need to hone my skills and adjust my form so I can thoroughly crush you in our next round," Damian called back. He marched from the counter to the end of the shop to retrieved his plastic-wrapped projectile.

Jason blinked in confusion. "I repeat: what the ever-loving fuck?"

Tim sighed again, then explained, saying, "It gets pretty boring in here during the graveyard shift, so we invented a game, coffee cup bowling. Normally, we'd sleep or study, but Damian finished his exams two days ago and I don't really study for exams, per se-"

"And sleep is for the weak," Damian finished, nodding as he walked past them carrying his sweet, gooey ammunition.

Tim nodded sagely, in agreement. "Sleep is for the weak."

Jason glanced over Tim's shoulder at the coffee cup bowling 'pins' and then over his shoulder at Damian as he lined up another throw. "You guys are insane," he declared.

Tim made a dismissive gesture. "I mean this is my third graveyard shift in a row and Damian here is almost 20 hours into a 24-hour stint. After that much sleep deprivation, you'd lose your sanity too."

Jason tilted his head in acknowledgement. "Fair enough."

"If you want, you're welcome to join us after we finish our coffee and literature talk," Tim offered amiably.

Jason watched as Damian threw another strike, sending one cup so far it landed in the pot of the ficus in the corner, and raised his eyebrows. "You know what…why not." He turned back to Tim with a grin. "I could use a bit of fun before I go back to work on my Native American Lit paper."

"Are you a lit major?" Tim asked curiously.

"I am."

Tim nodded. "That makes sense."

"And you?"

"I'm a CS major--computer science."

"That makes sense," Jason echoed, grinning.

Tim grinned back at him and waved a hand. "Okay, so as you were saying…?"

"Yes, as I was saying…"

Jason continued his little lecture while they continued sipping their coffee and nibbling on the biscotti. When they had finished--the coffee, not the discussion, because Tim was pretty sure Jason would go on for hours about literature once you got him started--they joined Damian in a game of "ten-cup."

It was in the middle of this heated battle of cups and marshmallow-bonded puffed-rice cereal balls that their next customer found them fifteen minutes later. The man, dressed in flower printed leggings and a black hoodie with "Gotham University Aerial Arts" printed across the chest in blue, took one look at them and grinned.

"Oh, hey! Coffee-cup bowling! I love that game! Do you think I could interrupt you guys for just a sec to get some hot chocolate?"

All three of them--the two baristas plus their customer--turned and stared.

"Hot… wait, what?" Jason said, laughing a little. "Man, it's like 4:30 in the morning. Why are you getting a hot chocolate at 4:30 in the morning?"

The man laughed, too, shrugging before he explained, saying, "I don't like tea or coffee all that much, but I just finished a 20 page paper on ethics in police enforcement and I need a pick me up. I need to get my warm fuzzies going again."

Tim rolled his eyes and sighed, moving back toward the counter to get the man his drink. "You're going to end up being the cuddliest cop on the street, Dick."

"You know it, Timmy!" the man--'Dick' apparently--exclaimed, pulling Tim into a bear hug when he made the mistake of passing too close to Dick on his way to the counter. The hug escalated into a full on octopus hug as he lifted his legs to wrap around Tim's hips. Tim, for his part, ignored the grapple, opening the leaf in the counter and hobbling over to the drink bar with the human cephalopod still attached.

Damian and Jason stared. Damian cleared his throat and eyed Dick with poorly disguised interest. "Wait, do you know this man, Drake?"

Tim blinked dully as he turned around, a cup in one hand and a packet of instant hot chocolate in the other. "Yes. He's my brother." Dick made a squeeing noise and nuzzled his head into Tim's neck. Tim sighed. "My adopted brother," he amended testily.

Dick laughed, dropped his feet back onto the floor and stood up. He nearly wrung Tim's neck as he tried to hug him around the shoulders. "Awww, don't be like that, Tim. We haven't seen each other in two whole weeks and I needed my Tim-hugs! Gotta meet my cuddle-quota."

Tim shook his head and handed the hot chocolate back over his shoulder. "You're insufferably, insatiably clingy when you're this tired, Dick. Go home and sleep."

Dick finally released him to take the drink. He took a sip of the hot chocolate, sighing in appreciation. "Thanks, Tim, and yeah, but, only if you do the same. You're just as bad as me when you haven't slept, if not worse."

"Can't. Working," Tim answered curtly, vaulting the counter to escape before Dick's grabby hands could reach for him again. His brother wasn't wrong; Tim was always up for a good cuddle after a long stint without proper sleep, but he didn't like public displays of affection.

Dick took one look at the nearly empty coffee shop, the three of them, their game, and then laughed out loud. "Ahhh, the days of getting paid to drink coffee and make up games at 4:30 in the morning. I kind of miss it."

"Would you care to join us," Damian asked abruptly. Dick brightened.

"Absolutely!"

And so that was how the four of them ended up bowling for empty coffee cups with rice crispy treats the size of spaghetti squash while blasting ABBA’s greatest hits--Dick's terrible, wonderful idea--until the sun rose and their shift ended, at eight AM.

By the time the four of them walked out the door, Dick was trying to convince Damian to join him in the aerials gym before breakfast, and Damian, clearly eager to do anything with the handsome college senior, accepted readily. Jason and Tim, on the other hand, were back to discussing literature over coffee--now focused on the merits and downfalls of contemporary science fiction and fantasy as an art form--and making their way to the East Campus Dining Hall, so they could continue their discussion over breakfast.

Tim snorted softly as he listened to Jason list all the ways Dune defined an era of sci-fi/fantasy, then smiled at the way Jason took his hand--without seeming to realize it--to pull him forward after the crosswalk light changed out of Tim's line of sight. Oh, yeah, this one was totally gay/bi/pan and he was definitely asking him out the minute he saw the opportunity, Tim decided.

He smiled. Who would of thought he'd come out of last night's graveyard shift not only having seen his demon coworker and his older brother hit it off--of all things!--but having met someone for himself too! He laughed, thinking, you never know what crazy things you might see, or the people you might meet, at the campus coffee shop at 4 o' clock in the morning!

[shhh-no-ones-home]

change of plans javier pena x reader

+++++++++

this is my first time writing for javi so please be kind lol. i wrote this about a week ago after i started narcos but i only just finished season one and havent gotten into two yet. i do have more ideas and prompts for him though so hopefully it gets better

Song: I'm bad at life by falling in reverse

tag list: @cynic-spirit +++++++++

I bounced my leg nervously under the table as we ate. Looking to javier every once in a while as he read over the newspaper in his hand. All I could think about was the damn pregnancy test hiding in my makeup bag in his medicine cabinet. I had just finished washing my hands when he had gotten home from work and didn't have the chance to see the results. It was killing me. Part of me wanted to excuse myself and go look but I was worried he'd catch on. After all, it had only been twenty minutes and he'd come in the door before I was even out of the bathroom. It was suspicious to say the least. I breathed deeply as I tapped the fork against my lip, my eyes making their way to the wall behind him.

"How was work?"

I asked, not looking to him as he perked up at the sound of my voice.

"Oh good, you weren't talking and I was afraid you were mad at me."

He sighed out, a smile making its way to his face. I tried my best to smile back but took a bite so it would seem more believable.

"Nope, just thinking."

I said and be raised a brow. Oops.

"About what?"

Shit.

"The wedding."

I said and be let out a nervous laugh.

"Still planning?"

He asked and I nodded.

"Only just."

I said and he looked back to me confused.

"What do you mean? I thought you said you knew exactly what you wanted?"

He inquired and I shrugged, putting the fork down.

"I thought I did but I was going through magazines earlier with roxy and she made a very valid point that I should ask your opinion first. Ya know, before making any decisions. It is both of our wedding after all."

He looked worried for a second.

"You told her about us?"

He asked and I shook my head.

"No, I just told her I accidently got it in the mail and wanted to know if she wanted to go through it with me. But we got to talking and she said that if she had to plan a wedding she would want her future spouse to be by her side helping make every decision and I think she was right. We should both be doing this."

He reached across the table and took my hand in his.

"You know I want this to be perfect for you. All I care about is you being happy. Hell, you know id do this in a courthouse tomorrow if you asked me to."

He said and I could feel my face go flush, sending him a genuine smile.

"I love you javier pena. So damn much."

I said, looking up at him as he stood, coming to me and kissing me lightly before heading to the kitchen for more food.

"I love you too Hermosa."

He said, back to me. I smiled to myself for a second before feeling sick.

"I'll be back."

I said, running to the bathroom, slamming the door shut, and falling to the floor in front of the toilet. I coughed out as I spilled my guts. Aaaand we're back to why I took the test earlier. God I wanted this to be over already. I had been lucky the past three or four days that every time I was sick it had been while javi was at work. Guess things were quick to change.

"You okay?"

He asked, a soft knock at the door following his words. I breathed deeply as I flushed the toilet.

"Yeah, just go finish dinner and I'll be out in a sec."

I said, hearing him walk away. I closed my eyes tightly before reaching for my toothbrush and running it through my mouth. When it was back in the cup I stared at myself in the mirror.

"Javi, I'm pregnant and we might have to move the wedding date."

I whispered to myself before groaning and rubbing my hands over my face. As they rested against my lips I glanced at the medicine cabinet. I should look. No. I should wait. I shook my head, placing my hands on the sink and stepping back. God why was this so hard. I stood back up, looking over my body in the mirror. What if it's positive? I stood to the side, smoothing my shirt out against my stomach and frowning. Damn, maybe it was positive. Surely I would've noticed even this small change. But then again, was it change? Or have I always looked like this? I shook my head.

"Fuck it."

I said lightly, pulling the cabinet open and snatching my makeup bag off the shelf. I dug into it before pulling the test out, upside down. As I flipped it over I heard the door nob rattle.

"Mi amor, you've been in there for a while. Are you sure everything is alright?"

He asked as I stared at the test in my hand. I didn't know what to do other than look up at him as he pushed the bathroom door open, like a deer in headlights.

"What is that?"

He asked, brows drawn.

"I'm pregnant?"

I said through a nervous laugh, trying to smile in case it would rub off on him. His face fell and I wish I could say it was shocked but I really couldn't read him. He just stood there frozen for a second. After what felt like an hour I flashed the test to him but his gaze didn't leave my own. Then I watched as he turned and walked away from me.

"Javi?"

I asked, following him back out into the living room. He stood in front of the couch, hands perched on his hips.

"Baby talk to me."

I said softly, looking to him a little scared. He huffed, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Javi?"

I tried again and he finally looked to me.

"You're pregnant?"

He asked and I shrugged, tossing the test at him and him catching it against his chest.

"So says the stick."

I torted back, watching him look down at it. Two pale blue lines. He didn't skip a beat before falling into the couch, tucking the stick under his leg as he reached for his pack.

"I need a minute."

He said, lighting the cigarette. I laughed, falling down beside him, hearing the leather creak as it squished beneath me.

"How do you think I feel?"

I asked, dropping my head back and looking over the ceiling.

"We've been so careful."

He said, blowing smoke out into the air and I could feel it burn in my nose.

"I guess not."

I said and he snorted, rubbing his eye with his free fingers.

"What are we gonna do?"

He asked and I deadpanned.

"What are we gonna do?"

I repeated a little angry.

"We can't have a baby."

He said and looked at him in disbelief.

"Why not?! I'm not some hooker you picked up on the street javi."

I hissed out.

"I know."

He said in defense.

"I'm your fiance."

I reminded him.

"I know!"

He called and I froze. He had never risen his voice at. I shook my head.

"Then what is the problem?!"

I yelled back, trying to examine him as he sent me a testing look. I guess I didn't have quite the poker face I thought I did because when he realized I was scared be softened.

"Mi amor,"

He sighed, reaching for my hand.

"I never thought I'd be here again."

He looked to me a little sad, rubbing his thumb in circles.

"I damn near made it to the alter once before but that feels like a lifetime ago. And when I met you I told myself I wasn't gonna do that again. But I'm here anyway."

I lifted his hand and kissed his palm gently.

"I don't want anything to happen to you."

He took the test out from under his leg before sliding into my side. I watched him intently as he looked down to our hands connected.

"I don't want anything to happen to either of you."

He said sliding his other hand gently onto my stomach and I immediately wanted to cry.

"I love you javier."

I said leaning in and kissing him softly. When he pulled away he rested his hand against my cheek.

"We've been keeping our relationship a secret for a year javi. I think it's time to let our friends know we're more than roommates."

I said amused and he laughed, dropping his forehead onto my chest with a sigh.

"I guess Steve can finally stop pestering me, wanting to know if I've done anything with you yet."

I snorted, raking my fingers through his hair.

"What? He didn't believe you when you told him we werent sleeping together?"

He shook his head against me before lifting it and smiling at me.

"Not even a little bit."

I leaned in and kissed him again.

"I think he should've stopped asking after two months, don't you?"

I asked and he snorted.

"Clearly you don't know Steve."

I shook my head in amusement.

"Guess not."

[claraoswaldfics]

Halloween Night

The throbbing in her neck was the first thing Clara noticed as she woke up. The second was that she was naked. What had happened last night?

As she pushed her fringe out of her face, she noticed a trail of clothes winding their way from the door to her bed. Heels, jumper, skirt. She lifted the covers, where she discovered her bra and underwear, neither of which were still on her body. But strangest of all were the orange knee-socks on the unoccupied pillow beside her. Were they hers?

On her bedside table, her phone announced it had finished charging. That should have taken it about one and a half hours, so either there had been a power cut last night, or someone else had recently plugged it in for her. Clara looked at the screen and saw on it a message from her flatmate, Priya.

“Noticed a redhead sneaking out of your room this morning. Congrats on losing your gay virginity!” Dozens of emojis followed; huge blocks of pride flags and fireworks lit up her screen, then the message continued, “Not going to tell the group chat until you’re ready of course, but girl, I am going to need all the deets!”

There may have been more to the text, but it was then that Clara noticed the date. November first. Suddenly it all came rushing back.

 It was Halloween at Glitz.

The club itself had been dwindling for a while now and most of the cool young people had probably moved away to venues that were more ‘hip’ or ‘fresh’. The fact that Clara assumed that was still the lingo was part of why she still came to Glitz. Not often, granted. It was strictly on an annual basis now. An ersatz tradition dating back to their university days (back when they’d all briefly experimented with paganism) to dance at this increasingly outdated, overpriced discotheque every 31st of October.

Even in the rain

Clara was as usual the first to arrive. It wasn’t so much that she was always early as everyone else was always late. The whatsapp group had assured her a few hours ago that they’d be there though, so there was still a chance (however small) that they were already inside.

She flashed her ID to the bouncer, who made a point of studying it. She was 26 now, old enough to appreciate being mistaken for someone younger, but still young enough to be impatient about the delay. Or maybe it was the costume that was holding him up. Thinking about it, it must be hard to tell if someone is who they say they are when they’re dressed as Velma Dinkley.

Ever since she’d gone for a more bob-like haircut, she’d been getting a lot of comparisons to the Scooby Doo character, so it was an easy decision to lean into it for Halloween. This didn’t mean it was an easy or cheap costume – Clara Oswald never did things by half, after all. She’d been nosing around high streets and second-hand shops the last two weekends putting it together. The orange jumper was baggy but sewn so as to give a good impression of her figure. The glasses made her eyes seem even wider, and combined with the freckles she’d drawn on took five years off her face. Surprisingly it was the little red skirt that had taken her the longest to find, only appearing in a last-minute lunch-break scrabble in Oxfam, and between it and the knee-socks, she was showing a lot more thigh than she was used to.

I mean it looks damn good, she thought to herself, but it isn’t half cold…

The bouncer finally nodded her through, and soon she was enveloped by the warm haze and pounding bass of Glitz. Maybe two dozen people were on the dancefloor, jumping and swaying to a song Clara was fairly sure had come out this year, but not one she knew the name of. I’ll dance at the next one, she thought, or maybe wait until the others get here.

It seemed that almost the moment she found a seat at the bar, her phone pinged. Naomi and Ellen weren’t coming. Apparently some couple had been trying to book their wedding venue out from under them so they were resigned to staying in and shouting down a phone all evening.

That wasn’t good. Those two were the lynchpin of all group planning. It was always worth going out with Naomi and Ellen because there would always be a story the next day. This was because the drunker they got, the more they’d dare the other, and those dares usually involved even more drinking. Clara had even had to bail them out once after they got arrested for shagging on a pool table.

But without them, the group dynamic fell apart. Priya loved nothing more than when a plan got cancelled. For her it was an excuse to shrug her bra off and fall asleep in front of the tv. Clara herself only owned two bras, one good but itchy and the other comfy but old, but Priya could have five littered around the living room at any one time. She’d hidden them on one occasion to encourage future tidiness.

And Emerald, the last of the group, Clara didn’t know particularly well. She knew they kept up with Yugioh (somehow) and read PG Wodehouse, but they’d joined the group in Clara’s last term at uni and she’d had her nose too deep in books to get to know her in any great depth. No doubt they’d have put a lot of effort into some anime costume, but if it was just her and Emerald left, they wouldn’t come.

Okay Clara, it’s not too bad. Shake it off, get a cocktail in you. This night could still go well.

The two pings of doom arrived before she was even halfway through her pina colada. Two more cancellations. Urgh. This calls for a consolation drink. And make it a pint this time.

It wasn’t even nine yet and it felt like the night was over. Clara sighed audibly. Such a shame, she thought. It’s my first Halloween as an out bi woman. This should have been like gay Christmas! I had all this Sapphic energy built up inside me tonight and I’m going to waste it fingering myself in the bath reading Jane Austen again. I’m even wearing the bi flag underpants Ellen got me for my birthday!

She’d been considering the idea of a second pint for around five minutes when she got a tap at her shoulder.

“Velma!”

A jolt of electricity raced up Clara’s spine. She knew that voice, didn’t she?

She turned around in her stool just as the lights above the dancefloor shifted. The woman behind her was briefly illuminated from behind, her face a shadow, but her hair a fiery red halo. Putting a hand in front of her face for a second, Clara took in the rest of her body; a purple dress and go-go boots. Her brain rushed to piece it all together, arriving at the costume before the face.

“Daphne?” She replied, weakly.

As the lights shifted again, Clara was blessed with another view of this woman, who was somehow more dazzling out of the spotlight. She stood imposingly tall, her soft moon-like face looking kindly down on Clara. Taken altogether with her vibrant red hair, Clara felt like she was looking directly at a solar eclipse, and one she couldn’t look away from.

“Hi, I hope you don’t mind. My Shaggy’s gone off with my Scooby.” The woman smiled apologetically. “Thought I might go and make some new friends and well… the costume…”

Clara blinked. In fact she blinked rather a few times. She was still trying to process the fact that an angel had descended from heaven right in front of her.

“I beg your pardon?”

The redhead explained herself again. Clara made a note to focus on what she was saying, which, she justified, involved looking at this woman’s lips a lot.

“I did a group costume with these two guys. One was Shaggy, one was Scooby; we thought we’d come here for the night, have a few drinks, have a few laughs, but instead,” the next part of the sentence involved turning her head to shout pointedly “they’re GETTING OFF IN THE TOILETS!”

Clara let out a nervous giggle. It was a good cover for the big red wave of excitation that was coursing through her body. There was something about the way her Scottishness had just announced itself in her voice that made Clara’s thighs shudder. That woman could shout!

“Shaggy and Scooby-Doo?” Clara repeated. “The dog and the dog owner?”

“Exactly!” she bellowed. “Isn’t that mad?”

“That is so mad.” Clara nodded. Agree with everything this woman says, she thought. If she asks you to rob a bank, do it.

“And after only one drink as well!” She continued, exasperated, “They. Are. Terrible!”

“I guess that’s why they call him Shaggy?” It was a weak joke, Clara knew. And I fumbled the delivery. But frankly the fact that I managed a straight sentence around this woman is a miracle. Managing a straight anything was a challenge, to be honest.

And she laughed! She laughed at my dumb joke! I made that sound come out of her! That brogue-y Scottish cackle! Oh this is the best feeling in the world!

“I know! And that dog will do anything for a Scooby Snack!”

God, me too, thought Clara, as she unleashed a laugh a lot less cool than she hoped she would.

Ahem.

“Can I get you a drink?” Clara asked, thankful she still had any rational thoughts left.

“Ooh, yes. Rum and Coke, please.” She smiled. Such a lovely smile. “Do you have a name, or should I just call you Velma all evening?”

“Only if I can call you Daphne” Clara replied with a grin, signalling to the barman. This was a bit of damage control. It was suave and flirty, but she’d missed the window to introduce herself properly, or find out this charming redhead’s name.

“Oh, you want to play that game, do you?” Clara braced herself for the next word, as the redhead’s lips formed around it. “Velma.”

Beads of sweat started to form under her jumper. It was then that Clara realised where she’d heard that sexy Scottish brogue before…

The kissogram from Naomi and Ellen’s engagement!

Six months on and I’m just as flustered.

The drinks came and Clara positively snatched hers off the table. As long as her mouth was occupied with alcohol, she had more time to think. And as always, Clara, try and play it off as glamorous and mysterious.

The more strategic side of Clara’s brain spoke up; so you know who she is, but she doesn’t know who you are. What does that mean? You know what she does for a living – is that an okay thing to bring up? Does the fact that she hasn’t recognised me yet mean my costume is too good…

…or was that kiss unmemorable?

She chanced a look. The woman in the Daphne costume was nursing her rum and coke, but her eyes were still fixed on her over the rim of her glass.

Right. So what if she didn’t remember that kiss. It was half a year ago and in her line of work she couldn’t be expected to remember everyone she’d ever kissed. Clara could hardly do that herself. What it meant was that Clara could make another first impression. A confident, in-control one.

“Miss Blake.” She congratulated herself on remembering that scrap of Scooby Doo trivia.

“Is that Daphne’s last name?” The redhead half-giggled. “I’m sorry, I haven’t watched Scooby Doo since I was a wee bairn.”

Aha! The strategic part of her brain roared into force again. I know more about Scooby Doo than her! I can leverage this to my advantage… somehow! Strategy brain realised it should probably shut up for a bit, and that the reason it had been allowed to think so long without interruption was because the rest of her brain was once again cooing at the Scottish turn of phrase.

“So why Daphne, then?”

“It was a group costume with a bunch of friends, but there were a few no-shows, you know?”

Clara made a gesture to the four people who were definitely not standing next to her “I do know.”

“Between you and me, I’d have quite liked to come as Velma.”

The seriously unstrategic part of Clara’s brain practically roared: Come into the bathroom with me! We can swap clothes right now!

She continued. “besides, what other characters are there to dress up as, as a tall ginger woman?”

Jessica Rabbit, said Clara’s brain.

“Jessica Rabbit” said Clara.

Oh shit, said Clara’s brain.

“Naughty” she chided. “But I don’t think so. Not two years in a row, anyway.”

Oh shit, said Clara’s brain again, but with purpose (and without vocalisation). This is definitely flirting! This could go well! I haven’t made an embarrassing mess of myself!

Tonight, I’m going to rock her world.

“Would you like to take a seat?”

High on her own hubris, Clara hadn’t noticed the seats either side of her were taken. Um…

“I’d love to.”

Sirens blared in Clara’s head as ‘Daphne’ draped one arm over Clara’s back and slid both her indigo tight-clad legs over Clara’s until she was Sitting! In! Her! Lap!

“Oh, you don’t mind, do you?”

In a moment, all of Clara’s newfound confidence melted and words stuck in her throat. Clara worried for a moment maybe her nose was bleeding, or her entire lower body had turned to steam, or worse, that her damn traitor face might be giving Amy some reason to stop sitting on her.

“Oh, not at all.”

THINK OF SOMETHING TO SAY!

“So…”

SOMETHING WITTY, FLIRTY AND MAYBE TO DO WITH HER COSTUME!

“Daphne…”

HERE WE GO! SHOOT YOUR SHOT!

“Would you like to get in the van with me?”

THE VAN???

“The van?”

“The um… the mystery machine.”

“Oh, the van from the show”

“Yes”

“So you want me to get in the Scooby Doo van with you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a van?”

“No.”

“But you just invited me to your van.”

“Yes.”

Clara blinked a few times while her brain rebooted.

“It’s a metaphorical van.”

“And what exactly is it a metaphor for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Truly, this is one mysterious machine.”

“…Yes.”

A few mortifying seconds later, her strategic brain came back online. As did her non-strategic brain. They both made this noise: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!

The Daphne impersonator slid her legs off Clara and stood crouched at eye-level.

“Look, can I propose something?” asked the redhead “Instead of you trying to entice me out of the club, into a dirty alley, and into the back of your metaphorical van, why don’t we just get a taxi back to my place?”

Clara fell off her seat.

“Oh my God, your little flustered face!” She belly laughed. “Oh we are going to have such a lot of fun tonight! Come on, Clara.”

Their hands touched as the redhead reached down to help her up. In all future memories of this moment, it seemed to Clara like she was in Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam. Any hints of the reality, that a wide-eyed, shakey-legged sex-addled Scooby Doo cosplayer was being picked off the floor of a bar, were quickly purged from her mind by a greater realisation.

“You know my name.”

“Of course I do. I don’t get to snog many girls in my line of work.” She winked “And I make a note of the cute ones. I’m Amy.”

Clara nearly fell to the floor again.

But Amy kept her on her feet, one arm pulling her whole body to her.

“How about we get you into that taxi, I let you calm down for a little bit, and then you and I can get to know each other, okay?”

A sigh of relief from Clara; this was going well at last!

“Okay.”

“And then after that we can make out a little and I’ll put my hands up your jumper, sound good?”

“Oh God yes.”

 END OF PART 1

[dreamcatcherjiah]

Hey lovely i realised you were taking requests still...i have a bit of a dramatic one so i dont mind if you dont wanna do it so i have anxiety and depression and when i am feeling really down i sometimes dont answer my phone there was a situation where i was overseas for work and bc of being far away from my bf i got rly depressed and didnt answer my phone and he panicked and nearly flew out to me would you mind recreating that situation with yoongi (seeing he deals with mental illness too)?

Hello love!! Thank you for requesting 💖 For this drabble I’ve drawn from personal experience of how I felt a while ago, so if this is not what you had in mind I'm sorry love. If you feel the need to talk to anyone, please reach out to me, I can be a listening ear or just be there 🥺💖

Pairing: Yoongi x Reader

Word count: 1.7k

TRIGGER WARNING: DEPRESSION AND ANXIETY

When your boss told you about the business trip to Germany you were so excited you immediately texted Yoongi. This was a huge opportunity for you, enough to shake you out of the new slump you had found yourself in. The trip in and on itself was a piece of cake. You would fly out to Germany a Sunday to be there by Monday, manage a couple of new transactions and write a report for the CEO and fly back by Friday. Simple. Yoongi was ecstatic, so happy about this new opportunity that he couldn’t stop bragging about his wonderful girlfriend who had been promoted and would be travelling the world in no time.

This bragging was endearing and so you had been telling yourself since you told him the news; the problem was that you couldn’t help the tingling at the back of your head telling you that spending time away from him wasn’t what you wanted. You already spent a huge amount of time away from each other when he was on tour, but now you were the one flying away from him, alone, to a foreign country. You didn’t even want to start thinking about how much you would miss him, even less the whole week you would be sleeping alone in a strange hotel room. 

Busy with packing and organising documents you just set your phone in the kitchen table and went about your apartment picking things here and there, double and triple-checking if you had everything you would need. Your laptop and phone were inside your little carry on bag and so was your phone charger. The one you couldn’t find was the laptop’s. You put everything upside down looking for it, looking even under the bed, only to find it rolled and tucked in a corner of your suitcase. The sunglasses were in your bag, so was your lip gloss and your purse, all your credit cards and your ID, your passport. You were double-checking everything again when you heard the code being punched in the keypad. Waiting just a little longer, you heard the pit-pat of Yoongi’s feet against the floor getting closer and closer to your room. 

“I should have known you were packing,” he said, hugging you and leaving a soft kiss to your cheek, “you weren’t answering your phone.”

Giving him a guilty look you apologised for worrying him and kept on packing while he showered. That night you were laying awake waiting for the alarm to ring while Yoongi snored away on the other side of the bed. You would miss him so much, his soft snores and the little pout he made when he slept deeply. Noticing the numbness enveloping your head again, you turned your whole body and buried your head in Yoongi’s chest. He was the best buffer against your darkest moments. 

Before going to the airport and against Yoongi’s moaning — “you have checked this already a hundred times, love.” — you checked everything again, turning off the electrical appliances and closing all the taps. You were really bad at saying goodbye and your boyfriend did know that. With a sweet kiss and several whispered I love you’s you took the taxi to the airport and silenced the tiny voice in your head that was trying to list every single thing that could go wrong. 

Conference after conference you noticed how your brain got slower. You were alone all the time while you managed to do your job by keeping yourself busy and not thinking much. You arrived at your hotel so late at night that the only thing you had the strength to do was showering and dropping on the bed to try and get some sleep. 

You were missing Yoongi so much it physically hurt but you didn’t want to call him. He was three times as busy as you were, even forgetting to eat or sleep if he got too hooked in producing a song. Calling him and telling him you were feeling numb again and that you wanted to hold him and never let go would only worry him. When he called there were two possible scenarios; you either felt guilty for not picking up and worrying him further, or you felt a sudden rush of tears filling your eyes seeing how you longed for him to be there with you. The slower the days passed, the stronger the urge to bury yourself amongst the blankets in the hotel bed and sleep grew. By Wednesday it took you nearly half an hour to convince yourself to pull your body out of the bed. Yoongi had given up calling and started flooding your phone with texts since he woke up until he finally fell asleep quite later than recommended. You were making him worry and that made you feel worse. 

You found yourself getting distracted from the most insignificant task with memories from the first days of your relationship, how shy Yoongi was and how he wouldn’t call you after a day afraid that he was being pushy. The day he had opened up to you about how he felt and you both cried when you found out you had more things in common than met the eye.  On Thursday your boss called you out for being absentminded in the middle of a meeting, he had caught you daydreaming about what Yoongi would be doing back home. You wouldn’t know even if he was already awake because you had switched off your phone, overwhelmed by guilt, nostalgia and the numbness on your head that didn’t let any rational thought go through. Missing him, the crushing sadness and the tight knot in your throat were making it difficult to breathe and function properly. When you got to your hotel room that night, slipping off your shoes and checking your work email on your phone, a notification pops up and you frown, opening your personal email.

Min Yoongi

To: yn-yln@xmail.com

Subject: I am desperate.

My love, you have stopped answering my calls, you ignore my texts and you’re alone in a foreign country. I know what loneliness can do to you and I only want you to be safe. If I don’t receive an answer to this email or any of the thousand texts I’ve sent you I am flying to Germany to make sure you’re alright. I just want to know you are safe, if not okay. 

I love you with my whole heart. 

Yoongi.

Tears had started flowing halfway through the message, making you feel so guilty that you closed the email and were calling Yoongi, not caring about anything that wasn’t hearing his voice at the other side of the line. The tones of the call were low reminders: you have time to hang up, he will be worried, you will only worry him more. But you pushed on, ignoring your anxiety’s voice and waited with bated breath until you heard Yoongi answer the call. 

“Y/N, are you feeling okay? Where are you right now? Have you showered?”

You silenced his endless questions with a quiet sob and sat on the edge of the bed. Oh, how you’d missed his voice! And you told him while sobbing, how hard it had been, how lonely and sad you had felt and how anxious of disturbing him that you had gone back to not picking up the phone and wanting to sleep all day long. He sounded agitated and out of breath but you were so focused on not letting your anxiety drive you into a panic that you didn’t notice. 

“Do something for me, sweetheart,” he was saying, now slower and calmer after finally being able to contact you, “get out of your work clothes and take a hot shower. I won’t hang up and be here with you okay? Can you do this for me?”

Your heart swelled at how he was still taking care of you from so far away. He knew exactly what to do when your thoughts numbed. He would always make you take a shower, drink some water if you couldn’t stomach any food and lay with you while his breathing brought you back. He was not pushy, he didn’t make you talk or explain why you were feeling the way you felt. He was just there, a strong dependable presence that kept you sane. 

Listening to him hum to you about his day and things the rest of his friends had done, you went into the bathroom and undressed slowly. You sat a short bit on the toilet lid and just listened to his voice until you almost smiled at some funny thing Jungkook told him to tell you. In a better mood, you entered the shower and let the spray run down your head, the hot water untangling the many knots on your back and shoulders. You imagined that the heat from the shower was a hug from Yoongi, a warm embrace that you could feel through the distance and you loved him even more than you thought possible. Hearing him still talking while worked away at his keyboard made you smile and you switched off the water, getting out and covering your body with a huge white fluffy towel. 

“You’re finished, my love?” He asked and your heart swelled again.

“Yes. And I’m feeling much better, Yoongi. You’re the best.”

“Well, your day with me isn’t over, missy. Now, I have a ton of new songs separated into genres that I want you to listen to while you lay on the bed and we talk until you fall asleep, okay? Tomorrow, before you know it, you will be back here with me and I’ll be able to hug you to sleep. Is this good enough for now?” He whispered into your ear, as if unsure if you wanted that, but as always he knew perfectly what you needed.

Wearing your pyjamas and under the blankets of the huge bed, Yoongi played songs, melodies, beats, anything he was preparing for release or working on. You two chatted away about where would you go once you could go on vacation together and you fell asleep with a smile on your lips hearing the man you loved telling you he loved you back and finally feeling comfortable and safe again.

[dammitadolfnomorecake]

Once Bitten, Twice Stupid prt.18

Keith was freaking the fuck out. He’d dropped the styrofoam cup of tea, probably a good thing considering he didn’t know how to brew tea, and now Keith found himself with an armful of bat, and Lance’s clothes pooled on the floor by his feet. What the hell was Lance thinking transforming where everyone could see?! He’d been loosening up, but now what the hell was he supposed to do about this?

Gathering up Lance’s clothes, a shoe was dropped somewhere along the way as Keith fled into the closet bathroom. Lance was making all kinds of weird noises, and what the heck was he supposed to do about it? Shiro didn’t give him directions on looking after a bat! How...? What...? He was supposed to kill vampires, not keep them alive! Training didn’t tell them how to not kill a vampire or torture them. Lance had ruined everything with his stupid niceness. If Lance didn’t turn back, he couldn’t keep training with him. He needed Lance to get stronger. Shiro had lost Adam and Keith had been useless. He wouldn’t let Shiro lose anyone else.

Squeaking loudly, bat Lance fought as he tried to bury himself up near Keith’s armpit. His sharp little claws catching in Keith’s skin. First thing was first, this bat needed to chill the fuck out... in the form of being wrapped up in Lance’s obnoxious green jacket. The thing was deader than roadkill, clearly well loved and worn. The second thing was calling Shiro. Lance would have been annoyed with him if he knew he’d had a way of contacting Shiro the whole time. Shiro had told him to watch Lance. Not to be forced into being nice to Lance and his friends... which he’d annoyingly found himself drawn too. He couldn’t afford to have friends. Friends were weakness.

Lance objected to being wrapped up, squeaking loudly

“Oh, shut up. I’m calling Shiro”

If a bat could cry, which Keith had no idea if they could, he’d have thought that maybe Lance was crying. The undead arsehole had too many emotions. Sitting on the toilet lid, he hugged Lance with his free arm, retrieving his phone out his pocket and raising it to his eye. A quick scan confirmed his identity, his phone unlocking to reveal the background of the Blade of Marmora logo. He’d worked his arse off to get into the Blade. Harder than any of the others, but it never seemed enough. Thumbing through his phone, Keith took a deep breath. He wasn’t supposed to call Shiro unless it was a dire emergency. Other hunters were aware of Lance. His safety couldn’t be guaranteed. He wasn’t... he was a lame vampire. No great house with servants. Just a weird cat that liked to attack Keith’s toes.

Calling Shiro, the hunter let it ring half a dozen times before hanging up, Shiro calling him straight back. It was their code. If it was ultra life threatening, he didn’t hang up. If Shiro didn’t answer then Keith generally panicked himself into leaving an overly aggressive message, because he wasn’t losing his brother like they’d lost Adam. Ringing and hanging up was Keith’s “I need to fucking talk to you, you wanker. Call me back or I’ll stab you” approach to things. Not quite an emergency of epic proportions, not quite not an emergency of epic proportions

“Keith?“

“Lance-is-a-bat-and-I-don’t-know-what-to-do”

“What?”

“Lance is a bat. Like an actual bat. He said he couldn’t turn into a bat. But he’s a bat. Shiro, what the hell do I do with this?”

“He’ll turn back on his own. Let him loose in his room, and keep Blue away”

“That’s not very helpful! We’re not at his house. We’re at the fucking hospital. His mother had a fall and he’s been sick, like really sick, and now he’s a bat!”

“Whoa, kiddo. Take a breath”

Keith glared at Lance, he wouldn’t be like this if Lance wasn’t so damn weird

“Shiro. I need help”

“I know, I heard you. Now, what do you mean Lance has been sick?”

Keith didn’t know about daily vampire life, because normally his targets were dead by now

“He’s drinking more blood. He’s having nightmares. He seems really lethargic. His Mami is in hospital and he was a wreck so I drove him. I don’t know what happened but he came out and turned into a bat”

Shiro gave a heavy sigh. Keith wished he was right there next to him. He missed his brother so goddamn much. He didn’t blame Shiro for leaving him behind, but he didn’t have the people skills his brother had, nor did he know what to do now his body was changing into something else. He knew Lance was lying. He hadn’t felt the same as before his blood got into his cut hand

“He turned into a bat after he fed on you. It seems to happen when he reaches his emotional threshold. I’m going to send you somewhere to get help. They’ll be able to help him, and you’ll be safe there too”

“We’re not coming to you, are we?”

Shiro sighed again

“No. It’ll be another few days yet. You can do this, Keith. Keep your cool and I’ll be home as soon as I can”

“I don’t know what I’m doing. His friends want to be friends and he’s like... he’s got emotions...”

“You’ll be fine. Here, I want you to go to the address I’m about to send you to. It’s Vatican Ordained. Showing them your credentials will be enough. I’ve got to go. Remember, you’ve got this and I’m proud of you”

“I...”

“Patience yields focus. Never forget that”

Keith hated each time their phone calls ended. Lance was stupid, but he had a point. Yeah, he had enough trauma to sink a ship. And a boat load of issues to go along with it

“Shiro’s sending us somewhere safe. Just... try not to kill me or bite me...”

Stupid vampires. Why’d he have to make things complicated by not being a blood sucking family ruining beast?! Instead he was some... cranky stranger who kept either being weirdly nice or hostile for no good reason. Keith’s phone dinged with the address, thankfully it wasn’t across the city. Lance’s bronco was like trying to drive a damn tank. The second hand thing they’d been driving the night they tracked down Lance actually belonged to a lesser hunter, who’d been some kind of a friend of a friend to Shiro. He’d shown them how to damage the wires enough that they could drive but once they stopped that’d be it. In another life Keith had entertained being a mechanic, he loved pulling apart his bike in his apartment. Shiro had always worried he’d get himself into an accident, Adam had been planning on trying to talk to him about switching to something “safer” before he lost his life. Now was not the time to be remembering. He had a dumb vampire to save... Fucking Lance had flipped his world upside down... or was it the vampire in his blood responding to his sire being in danger? Fucking Lance.

*

Pulling up in front of “Castle Altea”, Keith was sure Shiro had sent him to wrong place until he saw the Blade of Marmora sticker on the window. The place looked like some weird bookshop that was bound to be full of wannabe witches. Lance hadn’t wanted to settle the whole drive. He’d pretty much wriggled his way out of his jacket, now curled up and cling to Keith as he still made those god awful squeaks. Wrapping his jacket around the bat, Keith zipped it up enough to hide Lance in a very conspicuous bludge at the front. If the place belonged to the Vatican, then it should be safe. Sure, he technically worked for them, but it wasn’t like he’d ever met the pope, nor was he a regular in church. He’d stuffed up the night he’d met Lance. He was supposed to inject himself with synthetic adrenaline, but used the needle he had prepared for Lance instead. A very painful blunder to his name.

Letting himself into the bookstore, Keith headed over to the counter. The woman there looking at him in confusion. Right. Credentials. Pulling his phone out, he unlocked it again, before opening up his ID

“I need to see someone about a bat issue”

“Through the doors at the end”

That wasn’t very helpful. The hunter couldn’t help but feel he was walking into a trap. More so when he stepped into the elevator and found it lacking in buttons.

Riding the elevator down, there wasn’t even the cheap music there to distract him from Lance. The small body felt too warm to be that of a vampire. They were as cold as they were cold hearted. As the elevator came to a stop, Keith was nearly reaching for his blade hidden in his boot. The doors opened to reveal an overly bright office of sorts, a tall man with wild orange hair stopping mid pace to stare at him

“You’re not Lance”

So they knew Lance?! What kind of place had Shiro sent him too?!

“You know Lance?”

“I know you’re the second person to show up driving his car...”

Shiro would have been the first...

“I need help”

“Come this way, my boy. I’m Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton the Third. By any chance, would you happen to be Keith?”

This guy was way too friendly. Keith stepping out the elevator

“You know me?”

“I had the pleasure of meeting your brother before. Now, what’s happening to our young Lance?”

Falling into step with Coran happened too easily. Keith unzipping his jacket to reveal Lance’s head

“He turned into a bat”

Coran peered down Keith’s jacket, Lance still snuggled against him

“He did what now? Oh my, that’s unusual”

What?! Coran was supposed to help, not make it sound like a first!

“Can you help him?”

“Never fear, boy! We’ll get to the bottom of this, or my name isn’t Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton the Third. This organisation was built by my Pop-Pop!”

Wasn’t “Wimbleton” the name where those rich people played tennis? It didn’t sound like much of a middle name... who carried that name on? Coran was clearly some kind of non-human. He carried himself weirdly...

“You... know Lance, right? You’re not... going to experiment on him, are you?”

Coran laughed

“No, no. No more than usual. I must say, you’re not what I was expecting”

Keith had heard that his whole life. Usually when people expected more of him, the comment causing a knee jerk reaction to anger

“What do you mean like that? Because I’m a hunter and not a monster?”

Coran pinched the right end of his ridiculously groomed moustache

“Not at all my boy. Lance was quite distressed having bit you. Suffered quite a bit. I don’t suppose you know how his arm healed up? Allura has been quite worried about him”

“His arm?”

And who or what was an “Allura”?

“Yes. He’s had a bit of a struggle with his teeth. A few teething issues. Not used to a fresh feed, so to speak. Very traumatic for him”

Keith had called bullshit over Lance never having fed from a human. Vampires had zero impulse control. Then again, when he’d cut himself on the mug, Lance hadn’t tried to drink instead he’d run away. Lance had never fed... at all... from a human?

“He’s never bitten a human? How do you know that for sure? Surely he had to have”

“Nope. He’s quite unique in that respect. It tore him apart that he had to bite you. He’s always been a soft and kind boy. Mercury, nasty stuff when mixed with blood. Ah well, best I stop talking about his secrets. Lance is quite the popular vampire here. He’d held onto his human roots quite tightly, never letting himself have much of anything”

He had a nice enough house, maybe a bit old, but nice enough. It had four walls and ceiling, without leaks... so it did it’s job fine...

“How long have you known him?”

“Oh, must be on 36 years now. But that’s his story to share. Lance, you’re going to be okay. He seems very attached to you”

“I wish he wasn’t. His claws are sharp”

“Once we’re somewhere a little more comfortable, we’ll try removing him. I wonder if this is to do with the changes in his levels. Tell me, what has Lance been like over the last two weeks?”

It was probably okay to confide in Coran, but Keith barely knew the man. He didn’t know how he fit in with the Blades, or is he really was a friend. If he was, why hadn’t Lance tried to fly to Coran? But Coran clearly knew and liked Lance. This was where he needed a people person... This was where he knew Shiro

“No offence, but I just met you. How can I trust you so soon?”

“Very wise. You are in dangerous territory associating with the very vampire you were sent to slay”

He needed a way in. A way to prove Coran had known Lance as long as he claimed

“So you know about Nyma and Rolo?”

Coran’s eyes immediately widened, his face loosing some of its colour before he composed himself

“Lance told you about his sires? He must trust you very deeply to mention that particular topic”

Keith had wondered if Nyma and Rolo were Lance’s sires from his behaviour. Coran confirming it made him feel guilty as it wasn’t Lance himself telling him

“I wouldn’t say that... I don’t know him, but he hasn’t seemed well. He’s... seemed really tired. And he hurt his arm. He got blood everywhere... and when I cut my hand he didn’t want to feed”

“I suspect that took a great deal of willpower on his behalf. Not all vampires can deny the call of blood. He did have some issues after he fed on your blood, with the mercury in your system, yet he should have improved after having his blood changed”

Lance had had what done? His blood changed? Did that mean Keith’s blood was changing too because he was part vampire now? He’d toned down questioning his sir so Lance would train with him

“I have no idea what you mean”

“Ah, yes, not a common procedure. It involves draining the individual entirely of blood before new blood is run into the body though an IV system. The whole process takes roughly twelve hours from start to finish. Here, this is my personal examination room. Allura should be along quite soon”

There was something seedy sounding about a “personal examination room”, the room proving to be a small examination room as one would expect to find at a doctor’s surgery

“Go ahead and take a seat”

Whenever Keith heard that he was always tempted to take the physician’s seat instead of the ones beside the desk like he was meant to. He tried it once, and had gotten a very stale laugh and told to move. Some people had no sense of humour. Humouring Coran, Keith sat in the closer of the two chairs beside the desk

“Very good. Now, I don’t suppose you’d mind zipping down your jacket. I want to take a look at Lance”

Keith didn’t know why he did mind, making himself angry over it. Lance was a vampire, his sword enemy, he wasn’t attached to the man in the slightest, but some kind of desire to protect him had welled and as much as he wanted to deny it, it’s ugly unwanted head kept popping up. Forcing himself to unzip his jacket, Lance squeaked harder than ever

“Oh, my. He certain is a bat”

No shit

“Lance, you’re okay. You’re safe here, it’s Coran. I’m going to touch you now, but you’re safe. Nothing’s going to harm you”

Lance clung to Keith’s shirt as Coran tried to pull him away. He looked absolutely miserable and very sorry for himself

“Well that’s odd. He’s usually much warmer when he visits. Perhaps he’ll warm up to Allura. Best let him sit there for a while longer”

Without the jacket to keep him in place, Lance slipped a little, Keith moving his hand to Lance’s back

“What’s wrong with him?”

“That, my dear boy, is the million dollar question. Now, you say he’s been quite unwell of late. No doubt he’s extremely stressed and distressed. A vampire never forgets, and if he’s dreaming of his sires, he’s forced to relive those horrible memories again and again”

That didn’t sound fun... maybe... maybe fighting Lance daily as training really had been too much for him. Lance seemed pretty vocal about voicing his dislikes, but it was hard to tell when “no” really meant no. Lance would tell him he hadn’t cooked him anything for breakfast, but when Keith went to make something he found Lance already had made him something. Keith didn’t understand him... He just... needed him. Disturbingly he... he kind of... maybe... acknowledged Lance wasn’t the vampire monster he though he’d be. He had two humans as best friends, but he didn’t feed on them. He didn’t seem to have them under his control... and... he hadn’t turned his mother. Wasn’t that something they did when a family member was sick? A quick turn and they’d be happy and healthy forever? He was weird, tall, loud and dorky... It made Keith’s head hurt trying to think about it.

“Keith?”

Keith blinked are Coran

“Sorry, what’s was that?”

“I asked how Lance has been of late. Has he been showing any other symptoms, like his facial features?”

“He was all fangy today... His mother had a bad fall, and his fangs were out... and I think he’s been drinking a lot more too”

“Lance generally has exceptional control of those instincts. He’s a fine example of a turned vampire leading a normal life. He keeps his ego in check, always willing come to see me when things get too much. I suspect he felt scared too on the chance he led you here”

“He doesn’t know... that you guys have hunters here?”

Wasn’t that basically lying to Lance? Telling him he was safe when there people here who’d gladly chop his head off...

“It’s a little complicated. The kind of thing only for those in know. Everyone here adores him, so it hasn’t been necessary to discuss it. We provide help to all magical beings, and hunters alike. In some circumstances we unfortunately have to be the ones to make that call. Had a nasty vampire nest back in the 1900’s that made that kind of thing a necessity. He’s really been a model citizen. Feeding from a human for the first time is highly addictive to most vampires. Lance has been on blood bags since the age of 8. I suspect if he was anyone else, you wouldn’t have been so lucky”

Keith kind of felt even worse hearing it from Coran, there was something in his purple eyes that tugged at him. Keith had spent years discriminated against thanks to his eyes, but now he felt a longing, as if Coran might understand him... which was ridiculous...

“I got the syringes wrong. I was supposed to take the synthetic adrenaline. The mercury and silver were for him”

His confession rolled off his tongue, Keith’s cheeks heating up, flaring into a burning warmth as Coran laughed openly

“It’s not that funny”

“Oh, my boy. I don’t know what they’ve been teaching you. Whilst mercury certainly makes vampires ill, and silver can be just as bad in large doses, both have a far lesser effect on those turned. Lance barely reacts to silver outside a small amount of irritation. Mercury was much more effective. Everything is more effective once blood is added. That’s why he fell so ill”

They had theory classes, but Keith was always better in combat. He had Shiro to teach him... plus his teachers said he had disciplinary issues. He’d been told if he didn’t up his grades, he’d loose his current ranking. If he did that then he might be split from Shiro permanently. Shiro would worry too much if that happened, he wouldn’t be safe because he’d be distracted. Out of the two of them, Adam had always been smarter and calmer. Shiro was much warmer and calming, more down to earth and not off reading ridiculous ancient texts. All that reading and Adam had still ended up dead. Every time someone got close to him, they seemed to end up hurt or dead. Lance shouldn’t be clinging to him. He was going to the reason Lance ended up dead. He was supposed to have killed him, burned the house and left town long ago. Not got all tangled up in this...

With a light knock the door, a smiling woman let herself into the room

“Ah, Allura. Right on time. Keith was just telling me about Lance. Seems we should have called him back in sooner”

Allura’s face lit up, Keith holding Lance a little closer to him. This woman seemed smitten

“Oh, my! Oh, Coran, he looks positively precious”

“Eptesicus fuscus, if I’m not mistaken”

“You would have thought, Vampyrum spectrum. Lance has always loved a cliche. Oh, look at him, Coran. He seems very much attached to Keith”

“Vampyrum” had to mean vampire. We’re they trying to... identify Lance? A bat was a bat? It made noise, shat, and flew. That was kind of it. Lance squeaked, Keith realising he might have been holding Lance a little tight

“Ah, yes. Well, it really is rather a lottery when it comes to shape shifting. Let’s be glad he’s a bat and not some kind of wolf”

“I never thought I’d see this happen. Lance has always had such control over himself”

“Keith mentioned that he hadn’t been feeling himself of late”

“Feeding from a human really was rather traumatic for him. Lance, it’s Allura, will you come to me?”

“He seems... uh, pretty settled...”

Keith was confused by the look shared between Allura and Coran. He wasn’t holding Lance because he liked him. Lance just seemed like he really didn’t want to move. That was all. And Lance was his prey. His problem to deal with, when Shiro finally came home to tell him how they were dealing with it

“I don’t intend to hurt him. Lance, it’s Allura. Can you come to me? I need to take a little look at you. Make sure you haven’t hurt yourself transforming like this”

“He... has this sore on his arm that came up... I don’t know long he had it, he usually has his arms covered...”

Lance squeaked loudly, as if telling Keith to stop dobbing him in

“He was supposed to rest that arm and take it easy. Did he rest in his grave soil?”

“I think so? He buried himself in the garden for a night... is this because he turned me? Is that why he’s sick?”

Allura giggled as she reached for Lance, Lance flapping his wings as he tried to hold onto Keith

“Keith, can you unhook his nails, please. He won’t be happy, but he can go straight back to you once I’ve examined him”

“Why did you laugh?”

Lance cast him a pleading look as Keith tried to unhook Lance, before giving up and awkwardly struggling both his shirt and jacket off. He didn’t have the greatest body, not with the battle scars across his smooth pale flesh. Pulling his jacket back on, the hunter zipped it all the way up. He hadn’t signed up for a strip show. Carrying an angry Lance to the examination table, Coran moved to Allura’s side, both too busy to look at him. Lance was not having a fun time

“You don’t seriously think you’re a vampire, do you?”

Adam had said he wasn’t... he’d lured Shiro home... trying to keep himself a live at the cost of Shiro. Shiro refused to tell him everything that had happened, Keith hurt because Adam had pretty much been his brother-in-law. Sometimes like a dad, sometimes like an uncle, and always finding something to scold him over

“His blood...”

“My boy, you’d certainly know if you turned. Blood roaring in your ears. Skin feeling as if it was boiling off your bone. Teeth, long and hollow, perfect for sucking on your sweet blood! Senses so heightened the world seems like a whole new place. The smell of death upon your skin. Other vaguely creepy things. Perhaps we should have Keith hold him, he seems very distressed”

Allura nodded, her bottom lip trapped in her teeth as she worried over not hurting Lance.

Keith wasn’t about to take the words of a complete stranger as law. His body was going through changes, whether everyone around him believed it or not. Lance was trying to remain hidden in Keith’s shirt, little wings flapping helplessly

“I’ll hold him”

“Good. Come here, sit up here next to him”

Coran agreed so readily Keith would have raised an eyebrow, instead, he was too busy attempting not to look as worried as he was. What if Lance never turned back? What was he going to tell Hunk and Pidge? Blue was okay, but she wasn’t his cat. He didn’t even know how to look after a pet. Adam said it was cruel with how little time they spent at home. Keith had always wanted a dog, but Blue was kind of cool. She purred super loudly, and drooled on his fingers when he scratched her chin...

Sitting himself beside Lance, Lance nosed at Keith’s leg through the confines of the shirt. Allura and Coran were both reading far too much into things as they smiled fondly at the moving bundle

“Try lifting him up. I want to check him, so hold him facing towards me”

“You’re not going to hurt him, right?”

“No, no. But I do think I know why he was so hesitant to come to me. I probably still smell like werewolf to him”

“There’s werewolves here?”

Allura nodded

“Just the one at the moment. I don’t know if you’ve ever had to deal with a werewolf that’s got a cavity, but it is not fun. Thankfully he was drugged for the procedure and the tooth came out easily”

Keith didn’t know if that was a joke or not. He’d never thought about werewolves getting cavities before... He’d never thought of a lot of things before. Lifting his the neck of his shirt, Lance squeaked at him

“If you bite me, I’m going to throw you. Just so you know. I don’t like bats and I don’t like idiot vampires that turn into bats in the middle of a public space”

Lance gave him a sad look, Keith summoning up his courage as he held his hand out. Sniffing his fingers, the bat gradually crawled close enough for Keith to lift him

“You bite me, you fly. Understood?”

Holding Lance around the stomach, Allura smiled down at him

“There you are. I know you’re probably really scared right now, but it’s okay. You’re in a safe place”

Both her and Coran had said that enough that Keith wondered if it was some kind of spell. Taking Lance’s left wing, she gently stretched it out, Lance protesting in squeaks

“I know. Coran, that wound should have healed by now. Especially if he’s been drinking more blood. Lance, you’re not going to like me very much, but I’m going to give you a shot to help with the healing. And take a little blood for analysis. Don’t worry, Keith isn’t going anywhere”

Coran prepared the needles, Lance squeaking as he tilted his head up to look at Keith

“Don’t give me those eyes. Shiro told me to bring you here for both our sakes. It’d be nice if you could get your shit together. I’m sure your Mami wants to see you as soon as you’re human again”

“That’s right. How was she?”

“The nurse said she’d fractured her hip, and she’d done a number on her face”

Coran sighed

“Miriam’s always been such a strong woman. Alas, time marches on for all”

“You know her?”

“Oh, yes. Allura and I were quite fond of her. Lance was turned quite young after all. I’ve known her as long as I’ve known him. She’s a tough one. Stayed by his side through all of it, she was quite forceful in ensuring her son was fed and protected. I might pop by later and pay her a visit”

“And the rest of his family?”

Coran’s smile faltered

“Ah, best let him tell you about that when he’s ready. Rightyo, Lance this will all be over rather quickly, then you can take a little rest here with Keith while we wait for the results”

Lance didn’t love the injections. His little claws scratched at Keith’s arms, yet surprisingly he didn’t squeak at having his blood taken or the following injection. He seemed to have squeaked himself out, head turned and buried against the zipper of Keith’s jacket. Coran gave his head a little scratch as he leaned into stick his face right up in the side of Lance’s

“Good boy. I’ll get you a saucer of blood. Keith, do you mind if I take a sample of your blood? Your brother mentioned you seemed to think something was changing within your body. It’s highly unlikely it’s vampire related, but we need our hunters fighting fit”

“You’re not going to curse me or something are you?”

“Good heavens! Of course not. You are quite the paranoid man. We may be fae, but gosh, no, we’re not that uncivilised”

Whelp. He’s hurt Coran’s feelings. Keith wasn’t completely sure what a “fae” was. He was specialising in vampires, after Adam was turned everything else fell away. Vampires had ripped his family apart, they all deserve to pay. That’s why he couldn’t afford to be soft towards Lance. Lance was a vampire and vampires were always bad news.

[chicha3maddy]

Queens part 1: Ex-Wives

I had this idea to write up a fanfic with the same format that the show uses... so at that rate this would be the first chapter of 9. It’ll have some flashbacks and some references to the soundtrack, but really it’ll tell the story of these lovelies meeting and putting their show together. :) Thoughts are very very valid and appreciated!  tw: assault (implied)  ... Catherine Parr sat on the sleek leather couch in her studio, watching the clock and waiting. She had her hands folded carefully in front of her, curtailing the urge to rub them against her pants or- even more likely- reach for the journal on the little table beside the couch. The analog clock hanging on the living room wall read 12:57: the other girls could be here any minute. 

It had been just under one year since Catherine Parr, sixth wife of Henry VIII, had closed her eyes, breathed her final breath, and woken up almost five centuries into the future. As if not being dead weren’t enough of a shock, she had suddenly had the modern world to contend with: cars, blenders, iPads- hell, even things like lights and toilets- had been completely unfamiliar to her. With no memories of this timeline to speak of, no evidence of friends or family in the beautiful studio apartment she apparently called home, Catherine had had to start completely from scratch. She had cobbled together what she could from things found in her apartment: an ID that put her at 28 years old, a newspaper that listed the year as 2019, a planner that informed her in her own confident handwriting that she had gigs booked all month in the lounge down the street. Within the haze of shock in those first few days, Catherine had drawn the dumbfounded conclusion that she was, as of very recently, no longer dead; that the world had popped her out of existence in the early sixteenth century and landed her here, amidst the hustle and colour of modern-day Britain. She had been given, for whatever reason, a second chance. A new start, with no ugly, diseased Henry or ruthlessly effective patriarchy standing in her way. (As a young woman of colour she learned quickly that the patriarchy wasn’t gone for good, but hey, at least she was allowed to headline her own show and pen things in her own name here.) 

It took her almost six months to even wonder about the other wives. They might never have crossed her mind, if she hadn’t been scrolling through Instagram one day to see a viral video of a gorgeous woman rapping her heart out to a Kanye song. Stage name: Anna of Cleves. And just like that a wild idea was born. 

Fists hammering against the door snapped Parr back to attention. Her heart in her throat, she stood and opened the door. A green blur burst into her apartment, muttering curses and shrugging her jacket onto the floor. A woman wearing a red T-shirt and black cutoffs followed slower. This one Parr recognized; Cleves, her short black hair still in the distinctive style of her Instagram concert vid. Parr stared at them, trying to curb her surprise; she hadn’t expected anyone to arrive together. 

“You had better explain yourself right now.” The other girl, who if Parr had to guess must be slightly younger than her and Cleves, glared daggers at her, her long dark hair whipping as she stuck her face up into Parr’s. “You call me out on Insta, tell me all these things no one should know, and then send me money to fly here, no explanation, no background, no nothing! And my bus was delayed, and traffic was murder, and overall it’s been a shite day, and now the one who’s supposed to have all the answers is just standing here gaping like a fish!” The girl pointed accusingly at her, eyes still narrowed in dislike. In spite of herself, Parr smiled slightly. The girl hadn’t had any pictures of herself up on her Instagram, but with an attitude like this she really could only be one person. 

“Anne Boleyn?” she tried. The girl���s face, already balled up in anger, became dark as a thundercloud. 

“How do you know my name.” 

“I’ll explain, I promise.” Parr ushered them further into the apartment. “Please sit. I promise I’m not a serial killer, I- I have a very good reason for all of this. We’re just still missing people, and I need them to get here before I can explain myself.” Boleyn didn’t look at all happy about this pronouncement, but for the time being she kept her mouth shut. “How…” Parr began again, “How do you two know each other?” 

Anna of Cleves raised one eyebrow. “We don’t.” she said flatly. “We met on the way up here.” 

“We didn’t really ‘’meet’.” Boleyn huffed. You never gave me your name.” 

“Wasn’t sure if I should trust you,” Cleves said coolly. She stared calmly back at Boleyn as a new silence stretched, making it clear without saying another word that she wouldn’t be offering her name now either. Boleyn leaned back into the couch, exasperated. 

Another knock at the door. Parr opened it, coming face to face with a fourth woman. She was dark-skinned and tall, owning the doorway like it was her job. She eyed Parr carefully, giving Parr the distinct feeling that she was being searched. “Are you the incredibly unprofessional young woman who decided Instagram was an appropriate way to request an unexplained audience with a woman she had never even met?” 

“Yes,” Boleyn answered, suddenly right at Parr’s shoulder. She jumped. “And don’t expect any answers, because she’s been mum so far as to what any of us are doing here.” 

The woman blinked in confusion. “There are more of you?” 

“Don’t group me in with her,” Boleyn scoffed. “We’re in the dark, just like you. Scary Internet woman gave us an address and money to come here and meet her, sound at all familiar?” 

Parr, trying to maintain her composure, ignored Anne and offered a smile. “You must be Catherine of Aragon. Please, come in.” 

Aragon didn’t budge an inch from the doorway. “I must be?” she repeated, crossing her arms. “Why must I be?” Parr took a breath. She had known that this would be an uphill battle, but seeing all these angry suspicious faces in the flesh was an entirely different matter. 

“I know you all took a leap of faith coming here, and I’m grateful to you for that-” Parr began, but was interrupted by huffing and puffing from behind Aragon. Aragon turned on her heel and both women watched a fifth straggle up the hallway, dragging an enormous set of baggage, and blowing her blonde hair out of her face.  “Sorry for being late- I got lost-” she sputtered. 

“Late?” Parr glanced at her clock, which read 1:01. The blonde woman stared miserably between her and the clock, offering a pained shrug as if to say “I have no excuse.” Parr decided to pick her battles; at least one of them had a vested interest in being punctual. 

“We’re actually still waiting on one, so you’re all good-” 

“Another one?” Boleyn interrupted incredulously. “How many flights did you pay for?” 

“By the looks of it, five,” Cleves deadpanned from the couch. 

“Actually I walked here, I live just down the street,” Aragon added. 

“And I took the rail from Northern,” Jane, still a little breathless, chimed in. 

Boleyn, looking a little like her head might pop off, opened her mouth again, only to be cut off by Aragon. 

“-So, we’re still waiting for one?” she prompted Parr. Parr nodded gratefully. 

“And then I’ll explain everything. I promise.” She ushered the girls inside. Cleves moved over on the couch and Aragon sat beside her, while Boleyn opted to perch on the leg of an armchair opposite. Jane slumped down in the chair, luggage crowded at her feet. 

“I’m Jane,” she said to no one in particular. “Nice to meet you all.” As the other women mumbled greetings, Cleves suddenly frowned. 

“Hold on…” she said slowly. “Jane Seymour?” Jane started and stared at her. 

“How did you know my last name?” Cleves ignored her, gesturing to each woman in turn as she went on. 

“And you said she’s called Catherine of Aragon, and she’s Anne Boleyn…” She looked sharply over at Parr, understanding dawning on her face. “We’re the wives.” 

The room went dead silent. Four pairs of eyes landed on Cleves, and then drifted over to Parr. 

“What do you mean we’re the wives?” Jane asked tremulously. “I’m not anybody’s wife.” Even to this room of near-strangers, Jane was not a very good liar. 

“I thought I was the only one.” Cleves said, disbelieving. “When I woke up here after I died. I thought I was crazy, or I’d imagined it, but… I didn’t.” She looked around the room again, new understanding in her eyes. “We’re Henry VIII’s five wives.” 

This time, the room exploded into activity. Boleyn stood up, eyes wide, and snarled- “Wait, you’re the actual Catherine of Aragon?!” Aragon growled back at her, also jumping to her feet. Jane made a noise of relief, crying “I thought I was the only one!” while Cleves demanded “But why? Why are we here?” All four voices overlapped and climbed over each other, fighting for attention. Parr, not knowing what else to do, put her fingers to her mouth and gave a shrill whistle. All four women stopped; Jane put a hand up to her ear while Boleyn glared at Parr. 

“I know it’s a lot,” Parr began, and put up a hand when Aragon and Boleyn opened their mouths to interject. “We all died. And we all woke up here, with no understanding of where we were or what happened. We’ve all made lives since, thinking we were alone, not knowing how or why we were younger, and looked different, but were still unequivocally ourselves.” She paused. Cleves was nodding, slowly. “But we’re not alone anymore. There are five of us here now, and we’re going to talk this out together. Work this out, together. That’s why you’re here.” Silence again. And then: 

“Six.” said a quiet voice from the doorway. Parr started and turned around. There stood a slim teenager, tall and lanky, clutching a backpack to her chest. Parr’s heart immediately melted; this must be Katherine Howard. “I heard what you said.” Howard picked up her voice a little, looking from woman to woman. “You’re really… them?” 

“We’re really them.” Parr said warmly, motioning for Howard to come inside. She walked in slowly, uncertain, and perched on the very end of the couch, eyes still drifting around the room. 

“I can’t believe this. This can’t be real.” Boleyn shook her head. “I won’t believe it.” 

“Did it seem real enough when you woke up from your execution to find yourself in the future?” Parr countered calmly. Boleyn’s fists clenched, but her eyes were filled with doubt. 

“You were executed?” Aragon said incredulously. “After all that?” 

“Yeah, you just missed it,” Boleyn drawled, faux sympathetic. “I’m sure you’d have loved to see my head removed from my body.” 

“I bet it would have added another decade to my life!” Aragon shot back. Hunched on the couch, Howard’s hands shook. Cleves’s eyes flitted over, she noticed, and she interrupted the two bickering queens a second before Parr would have. “Knock it off,” she said firmly. “This isn’t productive.” 

Aragon, her hackles still raised, forced her eyes away from Boleyn. “Fine.” She said eventually. “So I was the first. Of…” 

“Six.” Parr finished for her. Aragon mouthed this to herself in disbelief, making a face as if the number tasted foul. Jane, silent for some time on the couch, raised her voice. 

“Henry was already getting up in years when we married…” she said hesitantly. “Why were there three more? Who are you, what happened to you?” 

Parr brightened, sensing that they were finally getting somewhere. “Yes. Aragon, Anne, Jane, I think you all know each other, at least vaguely.” Boleyn nodded tersely. Everyone knew that there was bad blood among the first triad of wives, but there would be plenty of time for scrapping. “And we three know what happened to you, but you don’t know what happened after you. So… why don’t we start there.” 

“And why do you know so much about us all, little miss-” Boleyn abruptly ran out of momentum, realizing she didn’t know Parr’s name. 

“Parr.” Parr shrugged. “It’s in the history books.” 

“We’re in the history books?” Jane whispered, slightly in awe. 

“Well… it’s mostly Henry. But we’ll get to that.” Parr leaned against the wall, knowing better than to attempt to squeeze onto the already crowded couch. “For now… Cleves, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” 

Five pairs of eyes fixed on Anna of Cleves, who shrugged one shoulder. “Not much to tell. She-” she points a thumb at Jane- “died, and Henry wanted another wife quick.” Cleves breezed on, not registering the deep hurt that fell across Jane’s face. “He had me sent for from Germany because he liked my portrait. Turns out I’m not so pretty in person.” Cleves’s voice, nonchalant before, coloured with the slightest hint of bitterness. “We lasted six months before he divorced me. I negotiated a castle though, so no harm no foul.” She leaned back into the couch, met with silence. 

“That’s it?” Boleyn finally said. 

“Hm?” 

“I said, how the hell is that the end of your stupid story? Did you at least die of something terrible later?” Cleves shrugged, but something in her eyes gave away how little she appreciated Boleyn’s tone. 

“Anne, it’s not her fault she wasn’t beheaded,” Jane interjected. “I think it’s amazing that someone got a good deal.” Boleyn tensed, but relaxed again with visible effort.  “It doesn’t matter. If you’re done let’s hear from number five.” She looked to Parr, and then to Howard. “Which of you is it?” 

Howard had been slowly shrinking smaller as Cleves told her story. Now she looked up and offered what was probably meant to be a breezy smile, though it came off more as a grimace. “It’s me.” Everyone waited. Howard cleared her throat and adjusted herself on the chair leg, sitting a little straighter. “Well. I was a lady-in-waiting. And then his Majesty- um.” She looked down. 

“Apologies, but....” Aragon spoke. “Would you mind telling us your name, child?” 

“Oh- sorry- Katherine Howard.” Howard swallowed again. Boleyn’s eyes widened- she recognized the name. 

“My little cousin.” She said slowly. Howard nodded. The two had never met, but they were first cousins. How ironic that their lives ended in the same way, Parr thought to herself. 

“Thank you. Nice to meet you. Go on.” Aragon nodded for her to continue. 

Katherine played with a length of her hair and cleared her throat.  “So we got married. And then this courtier-” her voice began to shake, and she stopped. 

“Take your time,” Parr said quietly. Katherine shut her eyes. The other women shifted, uncomfortable, knowing where this story was probably headed. 

“Well we- slept together. And then everyone- well the king found out about- other men. So I was beheaded.” Katherine had tensed, her shoulders rising as if to protect her neck. In spite of her submissive posture, she looked towards the other girls challengingly. “The end.” 

“That blows,” Boleyn was the first to say. Aragon and Cleves nodded, while Jane’s eyes had filled with tears. “Is there a reason you got aged down so much in this reboot?” Boleyn asked. Howard looked at her, confused. Boleyn clarified ungracefully: “I mean we’re all younger than when we died, but you look like a kid.” 

“I didn’t get aged down.” Howard said, still confused. Boleyn screwed up her face, uncomprehending. 

“How…” Jane looked as if she could barely stand to ask- “How young were you when you… married the king?” 

“Sixteen.” Howard answered promptly. 

“And… when you died?” 

“Nineteen.” A collective rumble of disbelief and anger went around the room. 

Jane stood, the tears spilling over her cheeks. “Is it okay if I hug you?”  “I- I guess-” Before Katherine could finish, Jane rushed over and wrapped her in a hug. Katherine hugged her back uncertainly as Anna shook her head in shock and Cleves muttered darkly to herself. After a few moments, Jane hopped up on the couch and positioned herself beside Katherine, squashing Cleves and Aragon up against each other. She nodded at Parr. 

“Your turn. Tell me it isn’t as bad as being beheaded at nineteen?” Parr shook her head. 

“Not even close. I married him, it was fine, I even outlasted him in the end.” She shrugged. “It was fine.” 

“You said that,” Boleyn said, but without any fire. All six women, to some extent or another, understood that “fine” could mean any number of things. Parr was downplaying her misery, the same way that Cleves had downplayed her humiliation and Howard had downplayed her assault. Already, they were protecting each other. A feeling of solidarity settled across the room; an hour ago, they had been alone against the world, with no one to understand their fears or their pasts. Now… well, that was the question. All the six of them had in common, really, was one man and a time period, but there was a shared pain too that had just been accidentally unearthed. No one was quite sure where that left them. 

“So… why did you call us here?” Aragon addressed Parr squarely. Parr steeled herself: this was the moment of truth. She reached carefully over to the end table and grabbed her notebook, which she opened and laid onto the coffee table. Boleyn came over and peered from the side, and all four girls in the couch leaned in to read the words, written in Parr’s meticulous handwriting. 

Welcome to the show, to the historemix

Switching up the flow as we add the prefix 

Everybody knows that we used to be six wives 

Raising up the roof till we hit the ceiling

Get ready for the truth that we’ll be revealing

Everybody knows that we used to be six wives

But now we’re 

Ex-wives 

After another long silence, the girls turned to Parr, who was smiling a secret smile. “Queens, let’s make a band.” 

[blue-honeycomb]

Escape Artist: Prologue [Aizawa x Reader]

Sorta reader insert, but not entirely. It's complicated. Either way, let's see where this takes us.

Masterlist

Prologue | Part 1

--------

Anyone would expect something as unnatural and intense as interdimentional time travel would have a lot of prompt and circumstances surrounding it, but the reality of it wasn't quite so complex. See, one moment she was sitting on her living room couch playing lazer pointer with her kitten, then she blinked and found herself on her ass in an alley. A clean alley, granted, but decidedly not her couch.

The short of it was that she'd somehow ended up in Japan, several hundred years in the future and in an entirely different dimension laden with superpowers and acid trip worthy mutations. Her only saving grace was the 'quirk' this new place saw fit to gift her with.

It's called 'The Gamer', and as anyone who's not been living under a rock for the better part of their life can guess, it basically gives her the perks and abilities of a videogame character. Namely, for her most immediate needs when she'd first arrived, the ability to function optimally without food, water, sleep, a toilet or even hygiene. For a woman who's suddenly found herself homeless, helplessly displaced and legally non-existent, it was truly the greatest boon this world could have given her.

So she wandered the streets, aimlessly but just put together enough thanks to her quirk to not draw unwanted attention. She found the language option about five hours after she'd arrived, and that helped a lot with just about everything. As did the subtitles option for any signs she came across, because, as she learned quickly, a audio-based translation system only works if words are spoken.

Other than those few changes she'd made to help her function in her new world though, she didn't think too much about her quirk and its implications while she grieved the loss of her family and precious fur-babies. It wasn't that she wasn't capable or able to, but rather that she just wanted to put her thoughts in order before she set up her life in the new place. Having the ability to coast through life on the minimal certainly gave her the option to.

That changed, however, three days into her displacement when she came across an unexpected variable to her plans- or lack thereof.

She'd been walking through the parts of the city with a more active night life to avoid any awkward question as to her nightly wanderings, when she'd heard a commotion in the alley over. Normally, she'd have ignored it all together or even steered clear of the sound to avoid conflict, but be it luck or fate the alley the noise came from was wide and bright giving her a glimpse at to it's secrets.

A young child was attempting to get into a dumpster, successfully perched on stacked boxes in order to reach the lid but lacking the strength to get the lid up. Honestly, it was quite pitiful and she couldn't for the life of her understand how a child could be so blatantly roaming the streets without having drawn the attention of near every adult walking by. But somehow there was indeed a homeless child trying to break into a dumpster and adults walking by not ten yards away. So she did what she'd assumed any good person would do in just such a situation.

"Do you need help, little one?" She asked with a warm smile, calling upon her years of customer service and babysitting experience to brighten her expression and pitch her voice to its sweetest, softest tone.

The child cast a startled glance her way before stilling and watching with barely contained suspicion as she stopped no more than 3 meters away. This close, a few things about the child's situation began to become clear to the woman.

His clothes were dirty but still in good condition, so she concluded he must have only recently become homeless. He was small, possibly even too small for his age and that's why he looked younger than he probably was. There were dark lines below his eyes that were too solid to be painted, so she concluded it must be one of those oddities everyone seemed to possess in this world. It was the half healed bruises that really caught her attention though. Simply put, the boy was littered in them from his lined cheeks to his filth covered hands.

Something dinged twice in her ear, but she chalked it up to some unseen mechanism in any one of the electric-based oddities scattered along the alley walls. It wouldn't be the first time something built after her time had left her confounded or startled out of the blue.

The stare off continued for a few moments until the boy suddenly begun to glow blue from the lines on his face and under his clothes and bolted down the alley faster than her eyes could track. He was there and gone before she could even blink, only the faint shifting of misplaced air left in his wake.

And that was that. Or at least, it might have been for anyone else.

It was as she was about to head back for the main road that something dinged again.

It took her longer than she'd like to admit to figure out it was coming from her quirk.

[New skill aquired: Observation]

[Congratulations! By aquiring your first skill you've passed the tutorial level. You now have full access to all of your quirk's abilities, including 'Stats', 'Skills', 'Bio', 'Inventory', 'Perks', 'Equipment' and 'Storyline'. Good luck, Gamer!]

And so, her life in this new world truly began.

---

Week 2

---

In all her years as a law abiding citizen in her former world, she never thought she'd become a career thief (Well, burglar, but she doesn't care much for technicalities). Then again, she never thought she'd end up with such an OP power either. Like right now walking around a darkened grocery store in the middle of the night, alarms flashing but completely unconcerned as she stuffs her inventory with food, drinks and any little nicknacks that might be useful.

With the ending of the tutorial came the swift realization that though she didn't need to eat to survive, the use of her quirk drained her energy reserves and that eating and drinking were the quickest- maybe even only- way to replenish them.

Her [Environmental Awareness] skill detects the approach of a hero (like, actual hero with powers and everything) and in the span of a heartbeat she's cast in the muted grays of her ID creation. She simply walks to the window, busts it open with a bat from her inventory and carefully slides herself from the store with minimal fuss, ever mindful of the broken glass.

Then she walks away, down a empty street void of life and color. Far away from the store she'd just robbed and the hero who'd come too late to stop her.

And just like that the underworld's newest villian, The Escape Artist, strikes again.

---

Week Three

---

The glowing boy was in the same part of town as he'd been when she'd first seen him, if a bit more out of the way this time. It took time to find him though, because the little shit was fast as a jack rabbit when startled and just as mean, but she eventually managed to get him cornered. Well, cornered was a strong word for what she'd done. More like followed him until he whipped around and glared her down like an unimpressed alley cat.

He glared, she offered food. The rest, as they say, was history.

He was the first, but he was far from the last.

---

Month 2

---

"You can have another one you know." Escape Artist said softly, holding out a still steaming meat bun to the skittish child standing a good five feet away from her, eyeing the food hungrily. The evidence of his first was still on his fingers and face, but evidently one just was not enough this time.

She'd had this child come to her before. Not to live with her as many of the other children she'd come across did, but simply because he knew she'd feed him if he just stuck close enough after her bi-weekly raids. He didn't have a name as far as she could tell, or more than likely does but just won't tell her, so she just refers to him as the Feral Grimlin. Which would have been funnier if the rabid little creature understood a single thing she said.

Not because he didn't understand his native language, but because she couldn't speak a lick of Japanese and apparently her Language options is a one way deal. Something, unfortunately, she didn't find out until she was asked where a karaoke bar was by some random drunk. After she'd pointed and told him where she'd seen one he'd given her a disgruntled expression, called her a 'damn foreigner' and then walked away in a huff. Not fun, but better than it could have been. It had simply been the first time she'd talked to someone who hadn't run away the moment she'd opened her mouth.

The child stared her down with his slitted, pale gold eyes, the length of his pointed ears pressed flat to his skull as he crept forward a step before stopping. In a moment of inspiration, Escape Artist pulled another bun from the rapidly depleting pile, offering both to the feral child.

His eyes lit up at the sight, before he seemed to remember himself and leveled her with a less than intimidating glare. He looked more like disgruntled kitten than anything and she had to fight not to chuckle.

To her left her first ever adoptee gave an unimpressed snort, mouth still stuffed with meat bun and gray eyes just as suspicious as ever as he eyed the gold eyed child with vague condescension.

She cast the little brat a sideways glare, equally unimpressed by this attitude as he was with the Grimlin child's. That moment of inattention was all the Feral Grimlin needed to dash forward and swipe the buns from her hands though, vanishing away into the dark a heartbeat later.

The gray eyed boy huffed a laugh, the lines across his face and body glowing faintly with each burst of sound that escaped him. His recently washed hair gleamed with the light too, pulled tight into a ponytail that flashed blue against the lamplight.

She smiled, still a little off put but not as much as she probably should have been. He was a little shit, yes, but he was hers and she loved the pint sized bastard too much to ever really be mad at him for long.

It was the first time in a long time she'd felt so shamelessly happy.

---

Month 4

---

She stole a child for the first time. Or, more specifically, she saved a child from being stolen by stealing her from whoever it was who'd been in the process of transporting her to some unknown location. In short, Escape Artist's world seemed now to revolve around who was the better thief and sometimes the consequences was another mouth to feed.

Luckily, one trip to the local police station later in ID mode and a brief appearance in the waiting room to plop the confused, sugar-loaded, sticky-faced child into the nearest chair and Escape Artist's part was done. Thankfully, with one less mouth to feed to go with the seven others waiting at home (plus about 3 other feral shitheads who lived elsewhere).

That was the first child she'd ever stolen, and that day the villian Escape Artist, the uncatchable thief of petty goods, earned the beginnings of a different reputation all together.

That child was the first, but she was far from the last.

And this is when the story truly begins.

[somethingjustsouthofbrilliance]

When the Colors Bleed Away (chapter 2)

I barely had time to write lately, so all my WIPs have suffered as a result. But I’m trying to get back on the proverbial horse here and get my WIP list cleared.  Starting with this little guy.  Sorry for the long wait, everyone.  Hope it ends up worth it.

Link to chapter 1

Tagging @sugardoodle @id-prefer-not-to-thanks @iloveyouthreethousand3000 @tonystanktableforone @irnson @swanheart69 @lo-anlurui @keltainen13 @jazzyswonderland @pandaofthewest @shiskabubble @magicalme92 @geekymoviemom @um-ha-you-thought @catsarecutebutaliens @talesofirondadspiderson @memelovescaps @burningsoulbloodyheart @little-big-mac2 @starbird-16 @jelly-pies @the-poets-muse @fantasticnewt-imagines @trippy-alexissss @lizzie990 @suchatwistedfairytale @smitemewiththyfootwear @misskirkstark @notwhat-i-seemtobe @your-wonderful-stargazer @furiouszombietidalwave @schalabi422 @stonequiet @tonystark5ever

Chapter 2

 A familiar whoosh of thrusters cuts through the air above him, filtering through the violent whirlpool of fear and loss that rages within him, slowly but surely dragging him down, down, down.  It takes him a moment to register the origins of the sound, the reason for the familiarity of it. And then it finally clicks and he jolts, his arms tightening involuntarily around Mr. Stark’s limp form as the red and gold suit lands beside him with an uncharacteristically heavy, graceless thump.

 “F…FRIDAY?”

 The suit’s cold blue eyes regard him silently for a brief moment, before it steps closer, an arm extending toward them.  

 “Let me take him, Peter.” FRIDAY’s normally warm Irish lilt sounds tight somehow, clipped.  “Please, while there’s still time.”

 And Peter can hear it now, underneath the deafening roar of panic: a faint thump-thump-thump of Mr. Stark’s heart. Faltering, fading…  

 That sound, that treasured and inexorably dimming proof of Mr. Stark’s ebbing life, is enough to spur him into action.  He scrambles to his feet as quickly as he can without jostling the unresponsive man, carefully transfers his precious cargo into FRIDAY’s waiting arms. Watches as the suit straightens out, Mr. Stark’s limp form cradled with utmost gentleness against the metal chest.

 “Get in the car, Peter. It’ll take you back to the Tower.”

 And he starts violently at the unintentional, cruel echo of Mr. Stark’s earlier words.  If only he had listened then.  If only he’d done as he was told while Mr. Stark was still safe, instead of making the man stand there and argue with him…

 The sound of the suit’s thrusters engaging cuts off the self-recriminating spiral of his thoughts, and he’s left to stare numbly up at the rapidly disappearing streak of red and gold, until it becomes nothing more than a tiny speck in the distance.  Only then does he will his legs to move.

 ***

 He spends the ride back to the Tower hunched over in the back seat of Mr. Stark’s car, staring glumly at the expensive black leather of the seat in front of him.  The seat Mr. Stark should be sitting in, if he weren’t… if Peter hadn’t… if…

 He clenches his teeth on a useless howl of anguish; curls further in on himself.

 FRIDAY doesn’t speak to him as she guides the car swiftly through the city streets, and he isn’t sure how to feel about that.  He would have preferred if she’d said something, he thinks.  Chastised him, perhaps.  Yelled at him.  Assured him, however falsely, that Mr. Stark was gonna be okay.

 But maybe it’s best she doesn’t speak to him.  Maybe he doesn’t deserve anything more than her silence.  It was his fault, after all, that her creator wasn’t protected when it counted, that he got hurt as badly as he did. How could he expect her to speak to him, to offer him any comfort after that?

 The car comes to an abrupt stop, jerking him out of his somber musings, and he looks up, blinking owlishly at his surroundings.  The Tower.  They were back at the Tower, and how did he not notice that?

 “Medical wing, Peter,” FRIDAY’s voice breaks the oppressive silence, bringing his attention back to the confines of the car.  “The elevator will take you straight there.”

 He doesn’t need more encouragement than that.

 ***

 May is the first person he sees when he steps out of the elevator.  She looks frazzled, he notes, her face lined with concern as she paces nervously in front of the darkened windows of the OR.  He wonders if the way she holds herself – all stiff and trembling – means she knows something about Tony, if the doctors said anything yet, if Tony’s…

 “May?” he calls out, taking a small, hesitant step forward, desperately needing to know but just as terrified of what she might tell him.

 She whirls at the sound of his voice, rushes toward him, arms held out in invitation and need. And freezes mid-step, the expression of relief morphing into one of breathless horror.

 “Peter…” she gasps out, hands grasping painfully at his shoulders as she stares at some random spot around his midsection before raising her troubled wide-eyed gaze to Peter’s face.  “Peter, honey, are you hurt?”

 He frowns at her in confusion, mouth opening as he moves to reassure her that he is, in fact, perfectly unharmed. But then he glances down to where May’s gaze was drawn just moments ago and the words of reassurance die on his lips as he sees what it is that has captured his aunt’s attention.  Blood, Mr. Stark’s blood.  The front of his tee and jeans are soaked with it, stiff and heavy against his body. He shivers, as an unpleasantly cold sensation wraps itself around him, his stomach tightening in a painfully uncomfortable knot.

 “I…,” he mumbles, the back of his throat burning with rising bile.  “I’m…”  And then his throat closes off completely and he tears himself violently out of May’s grasp, her worried calls of his name ignored as he makes a desperate dash for the closest restroom.

 Later, as he kneels on the cold tiled floor, hands clutching the edges of the toilet bowl, his stomach twisting with dry violent heaves, May’s stubborn unwavering presence beside him and her cool trembling hand against the back of his neck are the only things that keep him from breaking altogether.

 ***

 “So, you don’t have to worry about that guy anymore, Mr. Stark.”

 They said he should talk to him; that it might help, might guide Mr. Stark back to them, help him wake up. So he comes here and he talks. About his classes, about his tests, about the experiment he and Ned have been working on, about the prank MJ pulled on Flash.  He apologizes, over and over and over, telling him he meant none of it, that he needs him, always have, always will.  He pleads with him to wake up.  He talks until his throat is raw, until May comes in to quietly usher him out of the room because it’s time to go home.  

 He goes.  And then comes back again the next day.  And the next, and the next.  No matter how much he dreads those visits. No matter how much he hates the coldness of that room and its sterile smell, the stubborn awful stillness of Mr. Stark’s body and the steady beeping of the machines surrounding his bed.  He comes back and he talks, because he has to hope that it’s gonna work.  Because that hope is the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

 “FRIDAY tracked his face and the car he was driving when he… when you were attacked.  So she hacked into that car’s computer and she made him… He’s gone.” He chews his bottom lip, momentarily unsure.  Then shrugs off his uncertainty, brows pulling together in a frown of determination.  “I know you’re probably not gonna like it, Mr. Stark, but I’m glad she did it.”  His voice turns hard, the fingers of his left hand curling into a fist.  “It was the right thing to do.  Your bots, your family – we care so much about you, and this guy, he almost took you away from us, and…”

 “She did the right thing,” he insists, quieter now, his gaze tracing the slow rise and fall of Mr. Stark’s chest, lingering guiltily on the thick swath of bandages that peeks out from underneath the hospital blanket.   “She did.  I only wish… I wish I’d done something, too.  I should have done something.”

 He shakes his head, swallowing past an already familiar steadily building lump.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark.  I’m so, so sorry.  For everything. I…”

 His eyes burn, and he squeezes them shut.  Only to force them open in breathless panic as the same haunting images flash before him in his mind’s eye.  Looks frantically at the motionless figure of his mentor, his gaze drawn once more to the man’s bandaged chest – white, all white, no traces of red.

 “I can’t sleep, Mr. Stark,” he confesses hoarsely, his hand inching hesitantly toward Mr. Stark’s slack fingers, needing the contact and simultaneously terrified of receiving something he’s sure he doesn’t deserve.

“I can’t sleep, because every time I close my eyes, all I see is blood.  Everywhere.  S-so… so much of it, and I can’t… I can’t see anything else.  It’s like… like all the colors are just gone and it’s just … just red… a-all around me.”

 He clings to Mr. Stark’s hand, desperation momentarily overcoming fear.  Throws a hopeful glance at the man’s face, feeling that hope crumble once more into despair at the sight of the man’s slack, unresponsive features.

 “I don’t know what to do anymore, Mr. Stark.  I can’t… I need you to wake up, sir. I need you back.  I need…. Please,” he whispers, exhaustion and despair settling deep in his bones, dragging him down.  He lets himself sag forward onto the bed, his forehead thumping gently against Mr. Stark’s hand.  Feels his eyes droop closed again, whimpering in a pitiful appeal for mercy as the ocean of red encroaches on his vision once more.  But he’s too tired, too weak to fight against it anymore, and he gives in, letting his eyes slide closed, a breathless huff of a plea accompanying him to his tortured slumber, “Please, wake up.”

 ***

 His sleep doesn’t last long. It never does these days, the cruel images of Mr. Stark’s bloody lifeless body ripping him unceremoniously out of the latest nightmare.  

 But something is different this time, he can feel it, even through the residual haze of his haunting dreams. Still, it takes him a moment to register the feel of shaky fingertips carding awkwardly through his hair.  But when he does, when he does…

 “Mr. Stark!” He sits up with a jolt, a little too quickly if the way the room spins around him is anything to go by.  But it doesn’t matter.  Nothing matters, because Mr. Stark is awake.  Mr. Stark is awake and he’s looking right at him, lips pulled in a wan, pale smile.

 “Hey kid…” And there’s a hand lifting weakly toward him.  And it’s all the permission Peter needs.

 He grabs the proffered hand, presses it with hungry reverence against his cheek.  And in the next moment he’s down, draped, blanket-like across Mr. Stark’s chest, as gently, as cautiously as he possibly can, while giving into the overwhelming need to curl himself around the man. Burrows his face into his mentor’s neck

 “I missed you,” he breathes out hotly into Mr. Stark’s skin, heedless of the tears that run unchecked down his cheeks.  “I missed you so much!”

 And heaves a shuddering sob of relief as he feels Mr. Stark’s arm wrap a bit clumsily across his shoulders. “I missed you, too, kiddo.  I missed you, too.”

FIN

[pen-whipped]

∞ Wold in an Inch ∞

                    ~for Carlton & Erica~ 

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∞ Prologue ∞

Never give ‘em the last inch was scratched on the wall of the jail cell next to several pairs of initials with hearts drawn around them. A 12’ X 10’ holding tank decorated with similar slogans and signatures where people seem to have thought about only two things while they were here: holding on to one final piece of anything to control and … Love. The walls, ceiling, and floor were coated with thick grey paint where the scriptures were etched; and a metallic bench, toilet, and sink matched all the blandness. Here I realized that one of the greatest motivators of the world is Love. I thought of The Trojan War. Boudicca’s Rebellion against Rome for her daughters. Rama and Sita. Fairytales and over-stretched history, of course. I also thought about ... Nationalism—the disgusting love of country. Racism—the even more disgusting love at the expense of its hatred for others. Capitalism—the love of material goods beyond need and necessity, at the expense of others. Religion—the love for some version of god or gods and the ideals and values that uphold that version. Movements and Rebellions in the name of Love. And so of course I thought about Ernesto “Che” Guevara and how when asked by a reporter, “What inspires a revolutionist,” he responded after a pause and a grin. “Amor” (Love), he said.

I realized then that the other motivator of the world is this power structure that harnesses the actions of those motivated by Love or some extension of Love such as jealousy, desire, passion, rage. Of the two locals I was locked up with, in this small shithole Texas bo-dunk town, one hospitalized a man who slept with his wife and the other had a physical fight with his own wife. A third man loved a woman so much that he joined the carnival she was part of so as to not ever be without her, and thereby revoked his probation. And me … I was headed to a wedding from Colorado to Austin, TX, where my best friend had claimed the love of his life.

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∞ Rite of Passage ∞

You forget these people exist. Even having been raised around them, with them, and by them, you just forget. I was born and raised in Texas, in their jungle like Tarzan with gorillas. And that’s actually the perfect analogy because right when the state trooper says to me, “With a Black in the White House, Queers havin’ a Christian’s marriage, and dope bein’ legalized all over God’s good country, you just cain’t be too careful these days,” what comes to mind is the evolution chart where a drawing of a man standing upright is preceded by different hunchbacked ape-like creatures. Here, barely across the border into the Texas panhandle, knuckles still drag on the ground. You spend over a decade in the land where people walk upright and you forget the knuckle draggers exist.

Karl Marx tells us that killers first make an enemy of their victims before killing them. This is how the crime is justifiable. Such sociopaths have the same characteristics of a nation that makes an enemy of another nation before destroying it. America and its fictitious WMD ploy that led to the Hussein regime’s demise. A nation ran by a Texan. “Now that’s when the country had its head on straight,” he says peeking through his rearview mirror at me behind the glass that separates the front seat from the back.

Red neck adages—they’re like poetry without everything poetic.

“A good Christian was pullin’ the reigns then,” he continues.

I wonder why they speak in parables—southern draw riddles filled with similes and metaphors. His “Christians,” sound more like “Chrust-yens.” I get it. The same way Jesus’ parables made all the rest of the world understandable for the knuckle draggers in his time, so do the redneck adages for our time. And they loves them some Jesus too. He’s everywhere.

I could take his last adage a million different directions other than the one these handcuffs connected to the yellow rope ran through them and around my waist and back up through my thighs insists that I do. He’s fucking hogtied me. I look at the cuffs and yellow rope and think how man is the cruelest of all animals, for a dog would only bite another dog, but we … we shackle and belittle, demoralize and strip identities, rape and enslave, indebt and un-educate one another to the point that we ourselves forget that others are living, breathing human-fucking-beings. But, even with this in mind, I say with a hint of delight, “And we was all better off when it was,” leaning forward to the hole in the glass divider, referring to when a good Southern Chrust-yen led the nation. Never mind that it was war, poverty, and a greater divide between the classes that he led us to.

To reverse Marx’s notion of the killer, if the victim can make the killer identify him or her as one of the killer’s own, or at the very least as a human being, then the victimization is more likely to cease or at minimum the inflictions lose harshness.

There’s a Bible in the front seat, and I’ve heard numerous Chrust-yen references and seen two crucifixes since I was pulled over: one around the narcotics officer’s neck and one dangling from this trooper’s mirror. So I continue, “Yes, sir. My uncle’s lil’ chapel in Amarillo donated all they could to support both Bushes, Junior and his daddy.” (There’s no chapel. No donations. The point is that I too am a Christian, and even greater so, I too am a Texan—though I was born in Texas, I am neither a Christian nor a Texan; he, however, should believe that I am both).

His eye brows perk up. He glances twice in the mirror before saying, “You from Texas?”

“Yes, sir. Born ‘n raised,” I pronounce with a draw that would win me an Academy nomination. “Up north they still make fun’a my accent.” He tells me he didn’t even notice the accent till now. “I hide it so much, ya know. So’s to not get made fun of up ‘er in Colorado.” … and so the game goes until I’m a human being, and then eventually I’m one of his own and he’s telling me about his family, his farm, his career, and finally I get him to admit why he stopped me. This is only an inch, but it’s something.

I’d like to thank The Academy, first; then my rhetoric teacher; followed by my redneck uncles for the southern draw and simplified grammar.

He’d been claiming I was driving over the speed limit, even though that’s anything but true. Since I don’t have a driver’s license, I kept to the limits the entire drive and planned on it all the way to my destination. Never once drove 5mph more than the limit. And so each time I’d asked how much over the limit he clocked me at, he’d just say not to worry since he’s droppin’ that charge.

“Reason I’m takin’ you in is cuz drivin’ without a DL is breakin’ the law here in Texas.”

But the reason he pulled me over … the reason two K9 Units parked on both sides of my rental car only minutes after I was pulled over … the reason the narcotics officers gave me the 3rd degree interrogation about drug trafficking … is, as he says from under his ten gallon hat, Colorado just passed a law legalizing marijuana, and well, “With a Black in the White House, Queers havin’ a Christian’s marriage … dope legalized in God’s country … you just can’t be too careful these days.”

“Now listen,” he goes on to say, “I realize I’m ‘bout as tight as bark on a tree when it comes to the law. Some may’a just gave ya a ticket and sent ya on yer way, but I believe it’s just as likely fer you to sneak back ‘cross the state line and never return to pay for yer crime. You’d just be whistlin’ Dixie up ‘er like you’d never did nothin’ wrong down here. This a’way,” he says, “You have to wait and see the judge in the mornin’. Pay yer dues and what not.”

I’m shackled like a killer who’d forgot to make an enemy of his victim first. Hogtied like a baby pig that’d escaped the pen. A one-time freed slave who’d left the North and returned South only to be caught without his emancipation papers. I’m thinking in redneck adages. I was driving without a fucking driver’s license for crying out loud!

More laws lead to more crimes lead to more criminals lead to more jobs to catch, house, and process the criminals, which lead to more revenue leading ultimately to more money circulating within the system. Criminals are filters for the process in this way, lab rats exploited for the greater good, space monkeys for the ruling knuckle draggers. Karl Marx claims that in capitalistic societies, the people are concerned more about money and commodities than they are other human beings.

Dogs, on the other hand, well … they just bite one another.

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∞ Crossing the Threshold ∞

It’s hard to believe Nietzsche’s claim that we should celebrate the rebel for reminding us of our enslavement to the system when I’m told to strip all my clothes off and lift my dick and nuts up to show that nothing’s stashed away in some secret compartment.

The first steps to make a slave of an individual are to separate them from their own kind and then strip them of their identity. Separate the rebel from his support group and give him the title criminal, thereby giving a less lustrous title and making the act of any rebellion lose any glory to others contemplating similar actions.

Ranchers hang dead wolves on fence posts for similar reasons. Other wolves are deterred from entering land when they see the carcass of what was one of their own that dared to “trespass.”

Romans left messiahs hanging on crosses to discourage other messianic aspirations.

A simple change in titles shows the power of words.

They take my cell phone and my wallet with all its contents including cash and ID card. No contact. No identity. They take my clothes, which could in many ways show identity. And as I hold my dick and nuts in my hand and he gazes long and hard at my taint, I think, I just didn’t have my mother fucking driver’s license, though I dare not utter a word.

To fight monsters is to become one, Nietzsche says.

I’m handed a green jump suit and a pair of flip-flops, and with that, a new identity. I am no longer the rebel who dared to drive to his best friend’s wedding without a driver’s license; I am now a criminal in the Republic of Texas. I’m a fucking dead wolf on a fence post. Jesus hanging next to others who did not abide by the law.

I am one step closer to the beast’s belly as they seat me next the woman who��s only job is to tag the slaves and send them to their quarters.

“98% of Colah’rahdins that we pull over have marijuana on ‘em. That’s statistically,” she says popping her gum and not taking her eyes off the computer screen for one moment.

I’m not human to her. I’m a product with a barcode that she runs across the scanner. I’m an enemy, soon to be a victim. A rebel turned criminal. I am not one of her kind.

“They come in here cryin’, talkin’ ‘bout how it’s legal up in Colah' rahda. Well it ain’t down here. Those types is ‘bout as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.”

She’s as poetic as the trooper. Stoic.Short, round, and full of attitude. Dedicated to a system that is more unjust to those who are of no concern to it than it is unjust to those who are offensive to it. Another Nietzsche claim.

As a new challenge arises within me, I notice something in myself that I begin to notice in all human nature. I want to break this preset image she has prescribed me with, partially as a challenge of wits, but also because I want to get as much as I can from her, however little it may be. Even if … it’s just an inch. With the trooper gone and the officer who checked my taint nowhere to be found, this lady has current reign over me like a slave master.

I start the game with the presupposed idea she has of me. I can’t speak in a dialect that makes me sound ignorant and fitting to the image she has of all who come through here; and I can’t speak from the education level I have that is far above her own. I have to speak plainly. To her. Not above, nor below. All we have in common at this point is our current relationship. And that’s enough to work with.

The strategy behind me telling her, “I bet you see the worst of the worst,” is to separate myself from those who are in fact the worst of the worst. And she responds to this.

“You have no idea.”

Now, to connect more with her, I say, “Well, my cousin’s a prison guard at the federal penitentiary in Colorado; and he tells me that every four years a prison guard works, what it does psychologically to him or her is equal to what one year does to a prisoner. You’re still behind bars and surrounded by criminals in here. Man, I feel for ya’.” Now, I’ve further separated myself from the criminals she’s used to and have shown that I am more on her side of the law, even if just through a relative. I’ve also dabbled in some sort of empathy of her situation, shown understanding as to why she wears that frown and never looks a processee in the eyes.

“This job has made me never trust men again; I’ll tell ya’ that much,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong,” and for the first time she turns her head and looks me in the eyes, “I ain’t no fuckin’ carpet muncher though.”

I’m in. Ten minutes later and she’s laughing with me and barely asking the questions the computer screen tells her to: do I have this ailment or that ailment, am I suicidal or have I ever been suicidal, am I addicted to drugs or have I ever been…and so on.

“Listen,” I say during one of the most intense moments of laughter shared between us, “Can I ask a favor of you?”

Her posture shoots straight up and her frown returns. She doesn’t look me in the eyes anymore and she certainly does not laugh. She says, “I don’t know ‘bout that.”

“Calm down,” I tell her with a smile, “All I want to know is if you can prolong this processing. I ain’t gonna lie, an extra moment spent out here laughing with you is greater than any moment spent in the holding tank.”

An extra moment is an inch.

I see her body ease from its defenses. “You mean you ain’t ready to paint your butt white and go runnin’ with the antelope just yet, huh?” And she smiles.

“No, ma’am, I ain’t.”

All I’d done with the trooper was try to get anything I could from him, even if it was just the admission to why he pulled me over. With her I want as much time out of the holding tank as possible, or at the very least, same as with him, I want her to see me as a human being.

I think about life outside of here, how all we do in life is try to get a little more than we have from those who are in control of us or in control of the things we want. A nickel raise from our boss. A better position in the workforce. A higher grade from a teacher. Equity on homes. More square footage in our lofts. Return on investments. Sex from a lover. Devotion from a lover. Love, period. All we want is to get a little more of the control that controls us. And then Nietzsche comes to mind:

This world is a will to power, he says, and nothing besides.

A new rebel comes in and this lady has me stand in a corner while she processes him. She does this twice more before I realize she’s stalling for me. Rather than process me and have them wait their turns, she goes through them first; thus allowing my processing to be prolonged. I am now a human being.

After the third rebel passes through and into his new criminal identity, she finishes my questions, finger prints, and mug shots; and then says, “That was the best I can do. It’s time.”

I thank her. Tell her it’s more than enough.

“Now, walk down that hall to the laundry room," she motions the direction with her hand, "And then we’ll get ya’ in that tank”

She follows me. Doors buzz open as we arrive at them. In the laundry room she tells me to grab a mat, a sheet, and a blanket, all of which are stacked neatly on different shelves next to industrial size washers and dryers. “If you want two blankets, I can do that for you too; but you’re gonna have to deal with the others bein’ jealous.”

“Gladly,” I say.

“Then unroll ‘em and roll ‘em back up together so it looks like a mistake was made.”

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∞Belly of the Beast∞

“It’s gonna be about 12 hours before the judge is in,” she says as the door shuts behind me. The three rebels from earlier are sprawled out on the floor. Same jump suit as me. Same blankets. Same matts. Same flip-flops next to the matts. We are one and the same.

The messiah on his cross did not stand out from the murderer or the thief on theirs.

One lifts his head up and slides his pallet over to make room for me. “Don’t shit unless you absolutely have to,” he says looking at the silver toilet fully exposed in the corner. As he rolls over and back to sleep, he continues, “Even dogs don’t shit where they lay.” The others never move. I make my bed, careful not to reveal that I have two blankets.

I lie in utter silence.

I think first about Martin Luther King, JR and his Letter from Birmingham Jail, where he too was arrested for being, as his jailers claimed, an unwelcomed outsider in their state. Though I dare not think my circumstances are remotely comparable to his and his time in the Alabama jail, I am reminded of him saying in his letter, Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

And though I was not racially profiled, I was indeed profiled. With a Black in the White House, Queers getting married, and dope legalized all over, a change is slowly coming—a change that threatens the way of life where these types of comments are made. To a far smaller degree, my green and white Colorado license plates are Martin’s black skin. And, with everything stripped from me, I lie here experiencing what Martin called, nobodyness.

This cold, horizontal floor is the belly in the beast of order. All laws, all virtues, all values—all of which are based on perspective, are the means to make order from the seemingly chaotic. And this is the bottom of that order. The exploited who arrive here, or any floor like this one anywhere, are merely, as Nietzsche claims of all exploitations, consequences of the will to power, which is after all the will to life.

I’ve become the consequence of a way of life fighting to sustain itself. I represent the other life that strives to grow, spread, seize, and become predominant - not from any morality or immorality but because it is living and because life simply is… again and again I claim with Nietzsche and experience it now more than ever … a will to power.

I'm sorry that I can't praise the police department. It is true that they have been disciplined in their public handlings, but for what purpose? To preserve an evil system. I try to make it clear that it is wrong to use immoral means to attain moral ends. But now I must affirm that it is just as wrong, or even more, to use moral means to preserve immoral ends. So said Martin Luther King JR in that letter he wrote from jail.

I imagine the letter I’ll write, and think that it has to be dedicated to my best friend and his new bride. Like the little drummer kid in the manger banging bongos next to bay Jesus’ crib, this letter is all I have to give. And in it I’ll mention how I thought mostly of Marx, Nietzsche, King JR, Lacan, and Campbell. It will only be a matter of time, I think, and I’ll be out of here and writing my own Letter from a Texas Jail.

That very matter of time stretches beyond all previously known flexibilities for time. No prior concept of it exists in here. I clear my thoughts of King JR when one of my fellow mates awakens and asks a passing guard for Tylenol. And when the guard returns with a bottle of pills and a sign-off sheet, he asks the guard what the time is. I’d been to Birmingham and visited the King in his cell after I watched him protest with non-violent means he’d learned from Gandhi, saw him arrested by bigots with faces as stoic and prescribed with presupposed ideals of particular people as that of the lady who’d processed each of us in this cell, I sat next to King JR while each pen stroke gave birth to one of the most widely anthologized letters of our time, and when the guard looks at his watch and says, “a quarter to midnight,” I am in utter disbelief.

You can fit days inside the minutes of a jail cell, so I learn. Centuries in its hours.

The other two wake and ask for Tylenol too, admitting quietly amongst ourselves that they don’t need it. “You might as well take what you can get around here,” one says. And it’s at this moment that we all introduce ourselves for the first time and then tell our tales of capture. After this the conversation goes directly to, and never leaves the topic of, pussy. The variations of pussy from looks to feel, from hair lengths to shaved, from menstruating bloody to (what each of them agrees is the best of all pussies:) pregnant pussy. “I wouldn’t know, honestly, never have had that kind,” I say.

But what I really want to say is …

I want to tell the guy who beat his wife’s lover to a pulp about how Jacques Lacan took one of Sigmund Freud’s studies a layer deeper than Freud himself did. Freud demonstrates that at times children will not want to play with a toy, nor will they care at all about a particular toy, until another child wants to play with it. Lacan studied infant twins who could neither speak nor barely move more than their arms and heads, but would easily and obviously be overcome with a fit of jealous rage when the other sibling would suckle from the mother’s breast. I imagine this guy probably not wanting much to do with his wife until someone else did. He threw a fit like an infinite. Something intrinsic in us seems to want to control everything, even if it is only the desire of the other. A child would rather destroy a toy it cared nothing about than to see another child enjoy that very same toy. It’s about control, holding on to every inch within reach.

I want to ask the other cell mate why he beat his wife. He never tells why they fought, but I'm certain it can be connected to Freud’s idea of the Ego being projected from within us and into our outwardly real world surroundings, creating all things we fear and hate, as well as all things we desire and love. This means all things externally felt and imagined are more than directly related to our inner selves; they are, more particularly, our inner selves externalized. Buddhists have a similar belief that all enemies are only such because we have made them so. No one is our enemy whom we have not made be; and furthermore who our enemy is says more about us than them. These ideas combined mean that all things are manifestations of the Ego. We set all challenges and obstacles in our own way. And so I wonder about this other cell mate of mine; what could he have projected from within himself onto the woman that birthed his children; what fear or hatred brewed inside himself so much that he beat the shit out of her as if she was the embodiment of that abstraction from within himself. I wonder…

I want to discuss the carnival love. This guy loved a woman and didn’t want to be without her, but he’s been cycled and recycled in the system since he was a teenager, and so he had to rebel against an order to be with her. He committed a crime as a child and has been paying for it since through a series of revocations and so on. He’s one of the oldest in our cell but he has a childlike quality to him, an innocence that none of us possess, as if this system has kept him in the state he was in when he committed his crime. I think about Nietzsche saying that at one time in history, people who wronged others in their social group were punished with a severity that equaled the crime; and after that punishment, not only did they not repeat the offenses, but they also were considered to have paid their debt for the offense. Nietzsche claimed in the late 19th century (and I would claim is even more the case in our 21st century) that nowadays people pay for a crime for the remainder of their lives, whether it be through the inability to acquire decent work based on criminal records or it be the continuous revocation of the same crime committed decades prior. The overall goal for the endless un-reconciliation is one similar to medical industries not wanting to find a cure for ailments. People dependent upon and stuck within the system become filters for the process of monetary circulation and are best kept as such, as lab rats for the greater good, as space monkeys for the knuckle dragggers.

I’m thinking these things, though I dare not utter a word of them. Instead, I join in with the dogs and bark about the variations of bitches and pussies as I know them. I would separate myself from the pack if I were to provide my insight to anything other.

It’s here I realize we’re all in this cell due to some relation to love, even if by some extension of it: jealousy, passion, and so forth. I represent the beginning stages: a wedding. The carny represents the next: giving up the self for love and fulfilling the desire of the other. The guy who beat his wife is some stage nearer the end, either right before or directly after she cheats on him. And thus the final stage, the guy beats the wife’s new lover to a pulp. And the cycle is complete in a way that makes an enemy of Love and thereby justifies the system that controls it.

I wonder if it all is really, rather than being about love … is all this … is life and the control of it all really about … I mean … could it be that as the dogs in this kennel discuss nothing more than … could all of life, directly or indirectly, really be about pussy? This is, of course, from a man’s perspective; we could say “cock” for a woman’s, or perhaps some ambiguous sexual connotation to encompass both genders (Freud and Lacan would say both genders are phallic, for even the lack of something is the representation of that something that is missing). 

I wonder ... Is love really our own childlike want to control a vagina like a toy? Do we ever leave the Oedipus and Electra Complex stages, where the moment a child first recognizes their own sexual identity, the very next step is to focus libidinal energy on the parent of the opposite sex? Then, all extensions and versions of jealousy and rage focus on the parent of the same sex. Is the guy who hospitalized his wife’s lover not the unrepressed Oedipus Complex, since his desire to possess and control the sexuality opposite his own and destroy the one that is the same as his and therefore the rival to him actually plays out, as if it escaped its subconscious repression? And he, like most of us, dared not think about sharing that vagina, as if it were his little toy that he could not stand the thought of someone else getting pleasure from. He demonstrates how we will throw tantrums that destroy others if they play with or attempt to play with things we claim as our own. We are nothing more than infant twins, each on opposite tits, sucking away and making an enemy of our own brother for indulging as we do. We will beat him to a pulp. Hospitalize or imprison him. Make a repeat offender of him to trap him within the system that supports this behavior because this justifies its existence. Even if it is all over a toy we care nothing about.

The law shapes man into its image, Lacan says, exploiting the poetic function of language to give man’s desires symbolic mediation.

I often think that we are no different from salmon, spending our whole lives trying to get back to the place we came from. We swim up streams of vaginas every chance we get until we die, and sometimes we die by them or because of them. Salmon spawning in the one place it was spawned from. I say vagina, or I say pussy, but really I understand that this is connected to reproduction. This is connected to survival of the species. We humans are a living, breathing organism that strives to grow, spread, seize, and dominate every inch of our immediate surroundings (for us as individuals) until this inch grows into all space (for us as whole organized units).

Everything we do is connected to the womb—that which we crawl out of like Jesus rolling the stone back for resurrection. To die and be born again in the same place, we have to protect the womb. We have to keep it sacred and cleanly, preserve its virgin-like and godly qualities. We have to claim it as our friend, our soul mate, our companion, our wife, the mother of our children. In other words, we build walls of illusion around it like fences around territory. And then we hang dead carcasses on posts to deter other dogs. We have to claim the womb by some way that designates us as the sole owner; meaning, we control it and only we can touch it; only we can play with it; no one else can stick their cocks in it but us; and no one but us gets pleasure from the one we claim as our own. Otherwise … we will destroy it—a Pagan temple where queues of beasts await in provocation. The goddess becomes a fallen statue in her own bed of ash, dripping, oozing, disease infested, and speaking the language of heathens from some dead religion. Decrepit and useless. There will be no rebirth otherwise.

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∞Road to Trial∞

Just before the twelfth hour in the tank, when conversation was dead and sleep was impossible, I lie awake reading all the markings on the walls and floor. Hieroglyphics of the slaves. None betraying the pattern of either keeping control of something or always loving someone. I wonder by what means were they able to leave these marks, but then I see the broken pieces of concrete rock lying loosely about the floor. As an unfamiliar feeling sets in, something beyond boredom and close to devastation, I understand how scratching philosophy into the layers of paint would help ease this approaching panic. A small purpose would be given in this way, a tiny goal, something that lets us and others know we were here, alive, and real; and something that (once again) becomes our own.

I grab a rock and underneath the slogan Never give ‘em the last inch, I start my own contribution, slowly inscribing: and take

The guy who beat his wife, he jumps up as if he’d woke from a nightmare. Sweating and breathing hysterically. He pushes a button on the wall and a woman’s voice comes through a small speaker demanding to know what his emergency is. He can’t speak. He’s hyperventilating. Me being close to panic already, I feel his instability spreading to me. Like some air born pathogen. And from the looks on the faces of the others as they begin to watch, it’s spreading to them as well.

A loud buzzer. The door opens. A guard takes him out of the cell and as he does he says, “Holy shit, this tank’s stuffy’er ‘na horses face eatin’ corncobs.”

The window is completely fogged over, as if we’ve been recycling each other’s breaths for centuries now. The guard stands next to the open door allowing new and cold air to come in. I sit upright, lay a blanket across my lap, wrap another around my shoulders, close my eyes, breath deeply and slowly, and attempt the first meditation of my life. I don’t know what meditating actually is or even what it consists of, nor do I know how to actually do it. But I attempt it anyway, attempting it as I’ve heard of it being done. I eventually calm myself through the process and end up in some place other than where I am.

I journey through Joseph Campbell’s theory of monomyth. Thinking back to Colorado when I, the hero, was called to action as Campbell says is the first step of all heroes ranging from Greek and Roman mythological heroes to Buddha and Jesus. I see the mountains—snowcapped and towering in their implications of a land where it’s okay for Blacks, Queers, and drug users to be human beings. According to Campbell’s theory, after the hero begins his journey, he will first cross a threshold where some foreign creature will take him further into the land of the unknown, or as Campbell says, the entrance to the zone of magnified power … where darkness and danger reside … a passage beyond the veil of the known into the unknown. The threshold guardian takes the hero closer to if not directly into The Belly of the Whale, according to Campbell. Jonah comes to mind, of course. But also, Dionysus and Hestia. Jason and Medea. Odysseus and the Odyssey. Jesus and the Romans. Me and the knuckle draggers. The hero enters the belly of the whale where the metamorphosis begins. Once inside he may be said to have died, only to return to the World Womb anew.

“Where’d you get two blankets from?” the guard asks me, and my eyes snap open and I’m brought back into my cell. I shrug my shoulders, act clueless, and say they were wrapped this way. “Supposed to only have one,” he says and turns around. And with that our cell mate returns, pale but calmed. He apologizes and goes right to his mat and blanket. Everyone rolls their backs to one another; and still seated upright, I close my eyes to the heavy noise of the door shutting.

Campbell says the hero, upon exiting the whale’s belly, is no longer who or what he was when he entered it, and he is then ready for a series of trials and tests from some awaiting female character—either a goddess or a temptress of some sorts—who has the ability to lead the hero astray or to encourage him to continue his journey. After her, the hero meets a male father figure for atonement consisting in the abandonment of the self-generated double monster—the superego and repressed Id. This requires an abandonment of the attachment to ego itself … and one must have faith that the father is merciful. This center of belief will be transferred outside of the self.

After a few moments of being lost in the silence, I wake. I grab my piece of the floor, the small chiseled concrete rock, and I continue my contribution to the slogan. As quiet as I can, next to my two words—and take, I press the rock into the paint and drag it into figures forming the words: back every inch from ‘em you can.

With a small purpose, there is no panic. Time is irrelevant. I take careful pride in my lettering and refurbishing the part of the slogan not created by me. I add a comma after the other rebel’s part of the slogan and a period after my own, uniting them as one and the same and ending them together as such. I brush the remnants clear and blow heavily across the phrase that now reads:

Never give ‘em the last inch, and take back every inch from ‘em you can.

I read it and wonder if others will understand it, or if it will be hidden by all the other slogans like the messiah surrounded by murders and thieves. I wonder if others will add to it. I think in years it will turn into a poem—stanzas by those of us who know what it means to own nothing except that final fucking inch. In decades it will become a new decree … maybe. But really I know it will be lost and forgotten once it’s covered with a new shade of grey paint as thick and dense as the power structure that willed it to be. Winds turn sands and hide footprints this same way.

Centuries pass and then the door buzzes and the guard says, “Westerholt. The judge will see you now.”

I throw one blanket to the carny and one to the guy that beat his wife’s lover. The guy who beat his wife, he says to me, “Hey man. Larry’s the impound guy; I know him. He ain’t gonna give you your car without a license. He’s gonna bleed you for every cent he can.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say. And the door shuts behind me.

A new lady sits where the first did, but they are one and the same, like Romans to a messiah.  She hands me my clothes and directs me toward the same room where I showed my dick to the officer earlier. It’s almost 10am. Within ten minutes I dress, and then I’m given my wallet and cell phone back. And with that, my own identity.

“Directly across the street's the courthouse.  Judge’s chambers is down the hall, last door on the left. She’s waitin' for ya’.”

When all the barriers and ogres have been overcome … the triumphant hero meets the Queen Goddess of the World. This is the crisis at the nadir, the zenith, or at the uttermost edge of the earth, in the tabernacle of the temple …  The meeting with the goddess is the final test of the talent of the hero to win the advantage of her charity …  And if she shuns him, the scales fall from her eyes; if she does not, her desire helps him find peace. So says Joseph in his Hero of a Thousand Faces.

Outside the sun is warm and bright and opposite everything from where I just came. I breathe and taste the air like a newborn resurrected from the womb. Squinting and yawning and stretching. Each vehicle that passes is a truck of some kind: dualies, F150s, and old farm pickup trucks. The buildings are from some other era, pre 20th century. No stop lights in either direction for as far I can see. It’s like a dream. I’m lost on some time travel expedition. If a horse and buggy came down the street and stopped to watch two gun slingers pace and draw on one another, I would not be surprised in the least.

Down the hall of the courthouse and in the last door on the left, I wait to see the judge in an office with Jesus décor all over. Crosses hang on the walls. Bibles on the shelves. Magnets on the filing cabinets: several with proverbs and one with a picture of Jesus holding a lamb. A picture on the wall shows a man and a woman holding hands and walking on the beach toward a sunset that colors the entire scene shades of orange. At the bottom of the poster it reads, Our love is designed by Jesus. And though it’s a silhouette of a male and a female figure holding hands, it’s obvious they are a white couple. A white, heterosexual, non-drug using couple, designed by Jesus himself. I am in God’s country, at least this version of god; and I am about to have one his own protégés pass the same judgment on to me as they would have he himself pass it. Since he hates Blacks, Queers, and junkies I think it fortunate, at the very least, that I am white, heterosexual, only on the proper occasion do I use drugs, and it helps that I really am originally from this god fearing jungle.

She yells from the courtroom next door that she’s ready for me and the secretary gives me a nod. “She’ll see you now,” she says as if I was too stupid or not worthy of hearing the judge’s yelling myself.

The courtroom is empty of people but filled with antique wooden chairs with red velvet cushions aligned in scattered rows. Her desk is at the front of the room. This is not the typical courtroom you see on TV depicting the 21st century. This looks like an elementary school from a time when plainsong and national athems filled the rooms. It’s still haunted by such chimes. 

An old white lady with short and tightly curled grey hair peers over the rims of glasses at me as I approach. I ask her very politely if I may take a seat at one of the two chairs across from her desk. The game has already begun; I know the one inch I want from her. I no longer use the dialect I did in the tank where pussy was the topic. I now speak with a language even elevated above that I did with the lady who gave me my slave tags. I follow our introductions with lots of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams. And when she gets a pencil out to start figuring the total fines, I quickly mention that I am an English instructor at the university back home and so math certainly isn’t my strong point. Simultaneously I have informed her of a respectable career as well as humility exposed through a personal weakness. We laugh a bit at my expense: the joy of all I’ve been through and the circumstances that caused them. I admit fault repeatedly, bring up the importance of the wedding, and I most certainly mention being originally from Texas myself. And not two seconds after she tells me the total for my fines, I ask for my inch.

“Your Honor,” I say, “I wonder if you might consider giving me anything for the time I served in your jail. I spent nearly 13 hours in the tank and just wondered if you can give me anything for that. However little it may be. I would be more than grateful.”

“Well, we don’t give anything for time less than 24 hours served,” she says. And just as I nod in understanding and tuck my chin to my chest, she says, “Usually… that is,” and she smiles. “How ‘bout this?” She scribbles through the original total she’d written down, which was just over 400 dollars, and she draws a new figure that is just under 300 dollars.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

I shake her hand and thank her. And I notice, Joseph Cambpbell was right, scales do not fall from her eyes.

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∞Atonement∞

One step closer to getting out of God’s country, I call Larry’s Tow. After I tell him who I am and ask for directions to his impound lot, he says, “Hell, boy, I’m out-n-about. Only two clicks from ya’ now. I’ll pick ya’ up.”

The final step for Campbell’s hero is confrontation with a male figure who holds the key to either life or death. In my case, the final figure holds the keys to my rental car. And I’ve already been warned by my cellmate that once this Larry guy discovers I have no driver’s license, he’ll care more about money than he does about me as a human. He will see me as some sort of cash cow ready for the prostate milkin’, or something like that; I’m sure. But, as Campbell claims, the hero must have faith that this male figure is merciful. Paralleled with Freud’s claim of the Ego’s projections becoming manifestations, the hero must transfer his inner mercy outward and onto this male figure who then reflects it back as an act. In other words, I have from the time Larry picks me up on the corner near the courthouse until wherever his impound lot is to pull out all the same inch winning tricks I have so far.

As I stand on the corner in the centermost part of this Wild West remake, an oversized truck with a diesel engine’s purr pulls up next to me and the door swings open. “Hop own in,” says the old man. In a Western flick, his name would be Stretch. His boots rest at the bottom of his long thin legs that are wrapped tightly with denim. His belt buckle protects his entire midsection like a shield. Button collar shirt with stripes and his lip’s fat and full of chew. “Colla’rahda, huh? Bet it smells like pig’s shit and cow guts to ya’ll when ya’ll come down here to the panhandle.” And he’s right. The stench is everywhere. Breezes are unwelcome; all they do is spread the horror. “Ta’ us, down ‘ere, That’s the smella’ money, son.”

I don’t hold back. I fire at him with a southern draw, because I know my time is limited. I have to become one of his own and he’s already attempting to separate me from being such.

“Born an’ raised in the panhandle, sir. I know the smell quite well.” With that, I talk about Amarillo being my hometown and I thank him repeatedly for picking me up. Then I continue on with all the same previous strategies as those I used to get every single inch I could from everyone who had some control over my life within this last 20 hour period:

Get those in control to identify with you. Match your language and intellectual level with that of their own; you cannot have those in control thinking you are smarter than they are and you cannot give those in control any reason to believe that you are dumber than they are (one insults their intelligence; the other confirms their stereotype). However, you must behave in a way that lets them know you are aware that they are in control; this will keep them from feeling as if they need to remind you who is in control. This is indeed the classical dialectic of Master and Slave. The slave must know and accept his position, so that he can maneuver through all the barriers that create this position before he can free himself from those very barriers. In other words, a slave must know he is a slave and all the ways in which he is a slave before he can free himself from slavery.

The recipe for making a slave:

• Remove one individual from his or her own people: family, friends, and any other social group.

• Further separate the individual from all people who speak the same language as him or her.

• Just prior to basting, brush away any previously known identities (this includes everything from the individual’s name to associations they identify themselves with).

• Add new identity in 2 parts: Part One. Give the individual a new title, not a name in the sense of a Proper Noun (this should be something derogatory, something that lets the individual know every time he is summonsed by this title that he/she is at a lower status than his master and/or all those who refer to him by this title). Part Two. The slave should no longer be considered an individual. Their new identity should have him/her assigned to all groups similar in stature as their new position, thereby also losing any individualism. Nigger, Queer, Dope-user, White-Trash, Criminal — these are good examples for both Parts One and Two.

• Prior to adding the slave to one holding tank with no windows to the outside, an act of humiliation should precede (public nudity often works well). The walls of the tank should be painted a dull color so the slave gets no stimulation at all. The tank should also be no more than 12’X10’ in diameter. If a tank of this sort is unavailable, a cage or a shack directly behind the master’s mansion should suffice, so long as the cage or shack is in similar condition as all other animals’ cages on the same property.

• Beat, whip, or whisk the slave at your leisure and to a pulp that is to your liking.

• Serve to a God fearing Christian; and Enjoy!

And since this is the process to make a slave, the recipe need only be reversed for the slave seeking freedom:

• Do not Enjoy! Get/be/remain angry (History shows that angry people are those who shift the course of mankind)

• Do not serve the Christian god. His book and ideals promote slavery (amongst other things like homophobia, patriarchy, servitude to a master [even when not a slave as the current topic], narcissism, and murder of those that are different in any way).

• Consider all beatings, whippings, and whiskings as Nietzsche claims of all things that do not destroy us. Even if they truly do not make us stronger, believe it is so while it’s happening so that you may get through the process and eventually overcome it.

• Remove yourself from the confinements of the master’s tanks, cages, shacks, and even the shadows of his mansion. Position yourself in a way that makes it impossible to be caged (i.e. do not drive without a driver’s license).

• Get your identity back, and associate yourself with those you identify most with, and those whom encourage your self-expression.

• Master the use of language (knowing when and how to use its variations among whom)

The whole reality and its effects lies in the gift of speech, Jacques Lacan says, for it is through this gift that all reality has come to man and through its ongoing action that he sustains reality.

Never has this quote rang truer than here in this desolate Texas dirt-hole town, where language creates both a law and a belief system that imprisons someone for something so minor in its true essence because of how it is greater in its implications. That is to suggest: the act of driving without a driver’s license is not the same threat as the driver and what he represents when coming from a place where value systems are different. But language is the bridge of the dialectical process; and though language enforces, language is used to challenge the enforcer's words. Those who use language like whips and chains to control others as they will themselves into positions of power through it should not be surprised when someone uses language and lashes back in a way that calculates repositioning that same power, even if it is only by an inch in favor of the one lashing back through tongue and pen.

At the impound lot, Larry and I are like old buddies talking about high school football in Texas being better than college football in other states, and Texas women have asses like no other women on the planet (I don’t give a fuck about football. Give me Nietzsche, Freud, Lacan, and King any day. Talk about Campbell and his “follow your bliss” philosophy. Rhetoric and its power to seduce and manipulate. And I damn sure don’t care about Texas ass no more than I do pregnant pussy. But Larry doesn’t need to know any of this). I never lose faith in his mercy; and I’m projecting my inner belief outward and on to him. Tough I dare not do it without the assistance of words, for I believe in the power of language irrevocably.

In this tractor garage just on the outskirts of this shithole Texas town, the lot is filled with locus shelled cars and tow trucks and trailers. And in here, Larry sits at a desk and adds up my cost. Just as he tells me the total, another 300 and something dollars, he orders some other gentleman who's legs dangled out from underneath a truck to go fetch the red hatchback. Instead, just as I hand Larry my debit card, his partner (or employee or whatever he is) rolls out from under the truck and walks right up to us and says, “He ain’t got no DL, Larry. Trooper Walkins told me last night about ‘im not havin’ it. We cain’t let ‘im outta here in that car.”  His greasy cap and brown coveralls become the focus of my hatred.

I turn directly to Larry and ignore ol’ Skeeter, or whatever the fuck his name is, and say, “Larry, I just wanna get home. I’m 50 miles from the Texas border and all I want is to get back to Colorado. I ain’t got no one who can even come get me.”

Larry puts his face in his hands just as ol’ Skeeter, or whatever the fuck his punk ass name is, says, “Cain’t do it. Larry, you ain’t even considerin’ doin’ this; are ya’?”

Skeeter is about to get a drop kick to the fuckin’ throat and a karatee chop to the bridge of his nose right when Larry says, “I don’t know why, but I am considerin’ it. 31 years in this business, and I never have allowed it once." He pauses. Shakes his head. Looks up at me and says, "Why this time, I do not know.”

I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell everyone why … because while I was here in God’s country … I fought, through the use of language—the only tool I’d been afforded and the only tool they did not strip me of—for every last mother fuckin’ inch that was rightfully mine to begin with anyway.

∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫

∞Epilogue∞

The drive home was done at neither one mile over nor one mile under the speed limit. Until I crossed the state line into New Mexico, I felt like a slave on the underground railway. My palms were sweaty; I had cottonmouth; and I kept looking in the rearview mirror for police or troopers. All I wanted was to be back in the north. The moment I was in New Mexico, everything felt differently; and as I approached Colorado, the mountain range in the distance made me feel at ease. I felt proud to call Colorado "home."  I imagined the mountains representing this strange place where black people are accepted, gay people are allowed to love one another, recreational drug use is permitted. I imagined just over the approaching mountain range, Colorado as this land like OZ where witches and flying monkeys all walk upright and don't drag their knuckles on the ground, unicorns and fairies prance and frolic beneath rainbows, more gods than the Hebrew wolf hanging from a cross are celebrated, music plays in streets of gold, dogs chase only their own tails, and police and state troopers spend their time focusing on real crimes.

I missed my best friend’s wedding. The only request he made to his bride to be in regards to the wedding, he said that she could have everything she wanted for the wedding, the only thing he had to have … was me there. It’s been nine days since Carlton and Erica’s wedding and I have not stopped typing this essay since I got home. Every spare moment I found has been spent in front of my laptop laying down this story. I believe dogmatically that language creates and sustains our reality, controls us and gives us the ability to control. And so this story about language, told by way of language itself, is my attempt to capture a moment in time, to control the narrative before it slips away. This is my gift to Carlton and Erica. But more so, it is my apology to them both. Two of the most powerful words in the world, said in any language at any time, are I’m sorry. And though it will never make up for the ceremony I missed, I have just said how sorry I am in just over 9.6 thousand words.

Carlton and Erica, I’m sorry. 

I’m so sorry that I missed the ceremony of your union.

I love you both dearly—forever and always…

One Love.

~Harley

[iambuckyrogers]

3 Nights ... (Chapter 2/7)

Summary: After your friend bails on your trip to Australia a week before you were due to fly out, your best friend Steve swoops in and saves the day. Unbeknown to you, he’s harbouring the biggest crush on you, but will it get in the way of your holiday?

Word Count: 2446

Chapter Warnings: a few swear words, angstttt

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Reader

Authors Note: heads up, y/f/d means your favourite drink :) my pool terminology probably needs work but I’ve just used the names we use at home, pretty self-explanatory that way ;) if you want to be tagged in future parts send me an ask/dm and I’ll add you! Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!! <3

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

“Earth to Steve?” You waved your hand in front of his face pulling him from his daze.

“Sorry, what did you say?” He asked, having dissociated the moment he found out there was only one bed.

“I said I’m going to have a shower and get ready to go out, is that ok?”

“Yeah, of course, go ahead,” Steve sat on the edge of the bed and kicked off his shoes, flicking on the TV to an afternoon game show.

“I shouldn’t be long,” you shut the door to the bathroom leaving Steve alone with his thoughts.

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing and hand across his face and flopping back into the plush pillows. He knew that this trip was going to be hard, seeing you almost every minute of every day was going to test him, but sleeping in the same bed?! That wasn’t something he had anticipated nor planned for. He heard the water start running, muffled singing filtering through the door. He smiled to himself as he listened to you belt out the lyrics to your favourite song, imagining what it would be like for this moment to last forever. What it would be like to come home and find you singing around the house, the two of you juggling kids and work, waking up with you by his side.

“Damn it, Steven,” he scolded, “be realistic.” Trying his best to block out his thoughts he began getting ready for the night, you were probably just going to go into town and have a look around so he opted for black jeans and a button up shirt over a white singlet. The door to the bathroom swung open and revealed you standing in the doorway looking ethereal. You wore a dusty pink crop top and ripped denim skirt, your hair was tied up in a loose bun, stray strands curling around your face. Steve realised he was gawking and quickly snapped his mouth shut.

“My god Y/N, you look great,” the words spilt out of his mouth before he had time to stop them. You simply shook your head.

“I haven’t even done my make up yet,” you brushed his complement off, heading for your suitcase to retrieve your makeup bag and disappearing back into the bathroom.

“But you don’t need it,” Steve whispered as the door closed. He sat back on the bed and amused himself with the evening news, enthralled with the way the presenters spoke and the odd things that they deemed news worthy. You emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, dressed to the nines making Steve feel very inadequate.

“Wow, I feel ridiculously underdressed,” he commented, looking down at himself.

“Don’t be silly Steve, you look great,” you reassured him, straightening his collar and patting him on the chest, “handsome as always.” An expression Steve had never seen before flashed across your face before you quickly turned away and busied yourself with your handbag.

“Phone, cash, card, id,” you muttered to yourself as you checked the contents of your bag, “ok I’m good to go.”

*****

You walked into town, a much more pleasant trip when you’re not lugging 20 odd kilos behind you. The main street was bustling, filled with tourists and locals making the most of the balmy summer night. You stayed close to Steve as you wandered down the road, looking for a place to stop for a drink.

“Ooh what about there?” You tugged on this sleeve and pointed to a dingy looking wood and tin building that resembled a train station from the old western movies he and Bucky used to watch. People hovered around the front, lit cigarettes decorating their fingers as country music pierced the air, it certainly wasn’t Steve’s cup of tea.

“Yeah, why not?” He shrugged, this was your holiday after all.

You clapped your hands and bounced on the spot, grabbing his hand and dragging him towards the droning music. He could see the eyes drawn to you the moment you stepped into the pub but you didn’t seem to notice, too busy ducking and weaving through the masses of people you made a beeline for the bar, never once letting go of Steve’s hand. You flagged down a bar tender and ordered you both a drink.

“Could I please have a y/f/d and a whisky neat,” you handed over the money as the drinks were made

“You remember my drink?” Steve noted as you clinked your glasses together, amazed that you remembered such an insignificant detail about him.

“Of course I do Steve, that’s what you do when you li- when you’re friends,” you explain sheepishly, disappearing back into the crowd. Steve quickly followed after you, excusing himself as he pushed and bumped past people. He found you out the front of the pub, sat at a picnic style table in the back corner of the alfresco area. Warm yellow light illuminated the space, glowing from dusty lamps hanging from the ceiling and basking you in a beautiful glow. He sat across from you and looked around the room, a live band played at the front, their tinny country music filling the small space, in the opposite corner to where you sat was a pool table surrounded by burly guys with beers. It was quaint and, maybe it was the whisky talking, it was starting to grow on him. Speaking of whiskey, he downed the last mouthful in one go, the alcohol burning his throat in the most pleasurable of ways.

“I’m going to get another drink, do you want one too?” He offered, getting up and fishing his wallet out of his jeans.

“Sure, if you’re buying,” you winked at him, pulling the straw from your drink into your mouth with your tongue and draining the rest of the liquid. Steve suddenly felt uncomfortably hot and excused himself, stumbling back to the bar.

With 2 new drinks in hand, he felt far more composed and ready to join you back at the table. As he approached he realised that you were not alone, in the few short minutes that he was gone a group of guys had taken up residence at your table. You were surrounded by 5 of them, laughing at something that they had said

“Here you go,” he sat the drink on the table in front of you, “who are your friends?” he asked taking a mouthful of his drink.

“Oh guys could you squish over?” you gestured for the men in Steve’s spot to move along. Steve squeezed onto the end of the bench, sandwiched against one of the strangers.

“Hey mate, I’m Joel,” the man next to him introduced himself and held out his hand.

“Steve,” he said, shaking the man’s hand with more force than probably necessary.

“I like your accent, what part of the US are you from?” Joel asks, it was an innocent question but for some reason, it had Steve seeing red.

“Brooklyn. Listen guys, we just came here for a quick dri-,” Steve stopped talking, if looks could kill he’d be dead, you were shooting him daggers from across the table.

“Don’t listen to him, he’s just a party pooper,” you ground out eliciting a laugh from the other men.

“Lighten up mate,” Joel nudged Steve’s shoulder, sloshing his beer over the side of his glass and all over Steve.

“Fucking hell,” Steve swore, he lost it and launched himself from the table and marched to the toilet, hands clenching to fists by his side. He paced in front of the mirror, mussing his hair with his hands. He knew he wasn’t your boyfriend. He understood that. He had no control over who you talked to but those guys really got under his skin. Especially Joel. He stopped pacing and braced his arms on the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.

“Pull yourself together, Rogers,” he snarled. After splashing some water on his face he went back to the table, as he got closer he could hear your conversation with the boys.

“No! He’s like a brother to me, I- no. Just no,” you laughed, touching Joel on the arm. Steve sucked in a breath through his mouth and let it go slowly. Not yours, he reminded himself.

“Stevie you ok?” you asked, concern evident in your eyes.

“Yeah Y/N/N just worried about these jeans,” he lied, “they’re Bucky’s and I don’t want to make him mad.”

“That’s understandable,” you smiled, “so now that Steve’s back can we play pool?”

“Of course babe,” Joel winked, “so long as you’re on my team.” He reached across the table and took your hand in his.

“Well, that means you’re on my team then mate,” one of the other guys said, clapping Steve on the back.

They racked up the table and Joel insisted that he broke, sinking the number 10 ball in the same shot. Steve scoffed as Joel proceeded to miss the next ball completely. He leant back against the wall next to you and pulled you into his side.

“Gotta give them a chance to have a hit,” he said into your hair as he held you close. Steve was too distracted by Joel’s hands on you that he sunk one of your balls.

“Thanks, Steve,” you laughed and stalked around the table to find the best spot to take your shot from. Leaning over the far side of the table you lined up the balls, your tongue sticking out of the corner of your mouth as you concentrated on the shot. Steve had to avert his eyes, growing increasingly distracted by the way you were chewing on your lip. He heard the clink of 2 balls connecting and turned back around to see Joel stood behind you, arms trapping you in his frame as you both leaned over the table.

“See just like that,” he said, separating himself from you so you could change your position around the table. This continued for a couple more shots as you sunk more balls. Steve was getting impatient, both from not getting a turn and also seeing Joel’s body pressed up against yours was driving him mad. Finally, as if someone was listening to his prayers you didn’t sink a ball.

“Gotta give them a chance, right?” you giggled, looking up at Joel who wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

“Too right,” he snickered looking at Steve. He whispered something into your ear and quickly left.

“Oh, no is he heading off? It’s getting late anyway maybe we should go too?” Steve looked at you but you just shook your head.

“He’s going to get another beer,” you explained moving next to him, “are you ok? Really?” you lowered your voice and looked at him expectantly.

“No, like I said before, I’m fine,” he said shortly, “I just-I don’t know if he’s right for you. Not really your type if you know what I mean?” You laughed sarcastically.

“As if you know my type, Steven,” you spat his name like it was venom, “I’m working through some stuff at the moment and you’ve got to do what you’ve got to do, you know?” Steve shook his head and opened his mouth to ask what you meant but he stopped by the return of Joel.

“It’s your turn,” you smiled up at Joel who slapped your ass as he made his way to the table.

“This one’s for you,” he blew a kiss to you before he sunk the last of your coloured balls. Steve let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. Joel missed sinking the black ball but he was still rewarded with a kiss on the cheek from you. Steve was fuming, with none of his team’s balls in easy reach, he lined up the white ball with the side of the table and channelled all of his rage into his shot, sending the ball ricocheting off the sides and completely missing all the balls on the table. Luckily for you, the ball came to rest in the ideal position to sink the black ball.

“Awh, thanks Stevie,” you mocked patting him on the shoulder. Lining up the 2 balls you took the easy shot to sink the black one and ended the game. Joel swept you up in his arms and spun you around.

“Dream team!” He cheered putting you back on your feet, “what do you say to another game?” Steve gave a little shake of his head as you looked to him hopefully.

“Not tonight, sorry Joel,” you apologised.

“Ok, well what about we head over to the Northern for a couple more drinks?” He suggested. Steve could think of nothing he wanted more than to go home but he didn’t want to disappoint you. He opened his mouth to accept Joel’s invitation but you beat him to it.

“I’m so sorry but we only got in this morning and I’m completely spent,” you explained, “but we’ll see each other around, Byron’s a small place.” You got out your phone “How about you give me your number?” You exchanged numbers with Joel and he kissed you on the cheek. Steve didn’t hang around, taking off down the street leaving you to chase after him.

“Mind telling me what the fuck is going on?” you panted when you finally caught up with him.

“Nothin’, just tired,” he mumbled kicking a rock along the floor as he walked.

“Fine, don’t tell me just don’t be such a dick about it.”

*****

The rest of the walk was in total silence, neither of you daring to speak. Wordlessly, Steve unlocked the door and let you in, shutting the door once he was inside. You grabbed you pyjamas and retreated into the bathroom. Steve sat on the edge of the bed and hung his head in his hands. He’d been a real jerk tonight, and he knew that, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was in a hell of a lot deeper than he realised. He changed into his pyjamas, shut the curtains, turned off the light and switched on the bedside lamp before slipping into his side of the bed. With his hands behind his head he stared at the ceiling he found himself thinking about something you said earlier when you emerged from the bathroom looking just as stunning as when you were all dolled up. You got into bed next to him and rolled on your side to look at him.

“Goodnight Steve,” you whispered.

“Good night Y/N,” he replied, rolling over to turn off the lamp before falling into a fitful sleep.

NEXT CHAPTER

[ohkvothe]

Everyone knows that there are a lot of locations in London where Harry Potter was filmed (or set), most famously perhaps Platform 9 and 3/4 at King’s Cross Station. But there are actually a lot of film locations in London that you can visit. I have never seen a complete overview of all of them (and how to get there), so here is a walking tour guide for all the film locations you can see in London!

Overview:

Stops: Lambeth Bridge (1). Westminister Bridge (2). Scotland Place (3). Piccadilly Circus (4). Leicester Square Station (5). Australian High Commission (6). Millenium Bridge (7). Stoney Street, Borough Market (8). Leadenhall Market (9). Claremont Square (10). [King’s Cross Station] (11).

Detailed Walk Description:

You’ll be starting off at Lambeth Bridge. In POA, this is the bridge where the Knight Bus drives between the two double decker busses. Additionally, the side of the bridge is shown in the first film (the sort of London opening shot).

Photo of Lambeth Bridge.

Lambeth Bridge in the third Harry Potter film.

This is the view of Lambeth Bridge, today, from a bit further west along the river. Obviously the shot used in Philosopher’s Stone is from further up, but I don’t think there is a way to get into any of the houses along the river.

This is the shot from the first Harry Potter film.

The next stop is Westminister Bridge. Just walk along the river (on the south side), until you get to the next bridge (generally super crowded). You can see the Houses of Parliament across the river (and the currently veiled Elisabeth Tower – fun fact, Big Ben is actually the name of the largest bell inside the tower, not the tower itself). In OOTP, Harry and the Order of the Phoenix members fly under the bridge and along the Houses of Parliament (other sights shown in the flight are Tower Bridge, the HMS Belfast and the City of London and Canary Wharf skylines).

The next stop is Scotland Place in Whitehall. Walk across Westminister Bridge and turn right to walk towards Trafalgar Square. If you’re interested you can enter Westminister Underground Station – you’ll recognize it from the OOTP film. It’s the station Mr Weasley and Harry enter on their way to the Ministry of Magic.

Westiminister Underground Station.

Scene from Harry Potter 5.

Scotland Place today (there’s an arch over the street on the right in the film which is not actually there (the one the phone box is placed underneath). Also there’s massive construction going on at the moment!

Shot from the films.

Before you reach Trafalgar Square (you can already see it in the distance), turn right into Scotland Place. This street was used both in the Order of the Phoenix and the Deathly Hallows movies. In OOTP, the phone box Mr Weasley and Harry use is placed here, and in DH it’s the place where Ron looks around the corner when he, Harry and Hermione are planning to infiltrate the ministry. Somewhere in the area you can also find the place where the entry to the Ministry of Magic was located in DH (i.e. the toilets). However, they don’t actually exist and were just put up for the film in the middle of the street. I don’t know where exactly that scene was filmed, but if you walk around the area you may find it (I think it’s closer to Westminister Abbey).

Scotland Place today (I literally waited for about 15 min because a massive truck was parking right in front of the corner).

Scene from the film.

If you exit the street again and continue walking you’ll reach Trafalgar Square (with the very noticeable Nelson’s Column in the middle). Walk left (past the Canadian Embassy) and then turn right, until you reach Piccadilly Circus. The place was used to film the scene in DH after Ron, Harry and Hermione escape from the death eaters at Bill and Fleur’s wedding (and almost get run over by a red bus). Piccadilly circus got an entire makeover in the years since the film but the GAP is still there!

Taken from Shaftesbury Avenue (Northeast side of Piccadilly Circus).

The next stop is a sort of hazy one, but I thought I’d include it anyway:

The gate between Patisserie Valerie and no. 12 was used as the entry to the Leaky Cauldron in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

Walk towards Leicester Square Station. When you’re in front of the station, walk north on Charing Cross Road. In the beginning of the Half-Blood Prince the camera follows the road up from Trafalgar Square (or rather follows the flying deatheater shadow) and then, just after Leicester Square station, ‘enters’ the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley where the deatheaters kidnap Ollivander. This location of this entry is just behind Leicester Square Station, in Great Newport Street (right).

Australia House (or the Australian High Commission).

Walking on, through Convent Garden and towards Strand, a bit behind Waterloo Bridge you’ll reach Australia House (or rather the Australian High Commission). The scenes inside Gringotts were filmed in this house, but sadly, you can’t enter. Some people have told me that you can talk to the security guards, and if they’re having a nice day they will sometimes let you have a peak inside. I’ve never tried this but you’re welcome to try!

The next stop is the Millenium Bridge. To get the best view you can cross the river using Blackfriar’s Bridge (especially great if you’re an Infernal Devices fan and need a short cry) and walk along the river on the south side (which is a lovely walk, too). After a while, the Tate Gallery is on your right, and you can step onto Millenium Bridge and get a lovely view of St Paul’s on the other side of the river. There are two non-HP things I can recommend here: The Tate Gallery is free to enter, and they have a great viewing platform on the 10th floor! Also, an artist has drawn tiny images on chewing gums on the Millenium Bridge that you don’t notice, but some of them are super detailed and look really nice. Also, the Globe Theatre is right next to the bridge (if you’re interested, you can get 5 pound standing tickets for almost all shows).

Scene from HP6.

Shot of the bridge from the south side.

Stay on the south side of the river and walk further east. The next stop is Stoney Street at the Borough Market. Under the bridge over Stoney Street was the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron in the third (and only the third) Harry Potter film (where the Knight Bus bumps the car and triggers the alarm). In the scene in Harry’s room in the Leaky Cauldron you can also see the Southwalk Cathedral and the railway bridge from the window (I don’t know where you can get the exact shot from though). The Borough Market is a great place to have lunch, if you’re feeling hungry. Just around the corner is The George, one of the oldest and loveliest pubs in London!

This must be the darkest shot from the entire film!

The bridge today – during the day, it’s probably going to be super crowded, but if you really want to see the spot you can come back in the evening when the market’s gone.

For the next stop, you can either walk (about 20-30 min), or you can take a bus. We’re crossing the river again (using London Bridge) and walk towards Leadenhall Market (I know it says Old Spitalfield Markets on the map SORRY). This is a really lovely market where two scenes in the first Harry Potter films were shot. Firstly, the scene of Harry and Hagrid walking towards the Leaky Cauldron, and the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron itself. The first shot is in front of shop no. 39 in the Lime Street Passage, the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron is in the Bulls Head Passage.

Shot from the first Harry Potter Film.

Lime Street Passage.

Scene from the film.

The entrance to the Leaky Cauldron today.

To get to the next location I’d recommend to take the tube (although you can also walk, but it’ll take you about 40 minutes). Walk to Moorgate Station and take a north-bound Northern line to Angel Station. From the station, it’s a five-minute walk to Claremont Square. This is the place where the outside of Grimmauld Place No. 12 was filmed. The row of houses is opposite a small park, and you’ll notice a small gate at the end of the street. That’s the gate through which Moody, Harry, Tonks and the others exit the park after their flight across London.

Scene from the 5th film.

Claremont Square, with the park on the right.

We’re getting to the last stop of this tour. Walking along the street, you turn right and then left, and walk down towards King’s Cross Station. The station is right next to St Pancreas Station, and I read somewhere that J. K. Rowling actually thought about St Pancreas Station while writing the Harry Potter books, because she confused the two. Because St Pancreas station is gorgeous and King’s Cross is a bit meh, outer shots of St Pancreas were used in all Harry Potter films whenever King’s Cross station is shown (most noticeably in the second film, when the Weasley’s Ford Anglia circles the tower).

Shot from the second film.

St Pancreas today (do you notice that it’s getting dark? This tour took so long!)

Enter King’s Cross Station. If you enter through the main entrance, you can walk past the big info screens and look right. There you’ll find an “Official” Platform 9 and 3/4 with massive queues and an official fan shop, where you can have your picture taken with half a trolley in the wall and a Platform 9 and 3/4 sign. The actual scene in the movie was filmed at the barriers between platform 4 and 5. Officially, you can’t get there without a ticket, but there’s a sort of back entrance: If you’re standing in front of the fan shop, turn around. You’ll see escalators going up to the second level. Go up, and at the top of the escalators turn left and walk across the bridge. You’ll cross ticket barriers that are usually open, and you can walk on and take the stairs or elevators down to the the platform.

Scene from the film.

Platform 4 in King’s Cross Station.

And that’s the end of the walking tour. I’ve tried my best to mention all the film locations in London that are accessible, and I hope you enjoyed the little look into Harry Potter’s London. Feel free to send in any locations I missed, and I hope your feet are still in one piece! 🙂

London Harry Potter Tour Everyone knows that there are a lot of locations in London where Harry Potter was filmed (or set), most famously perhaps Platform 9 and 3/4 at King's Cross Station.