#maximum nine points i

[ohtobeleah]

Secret Sacrifices // Jake Seresin

Prologue: [BrainBox]

Summary: Managing the Hard Deck isn’t always easy, especially when a certain Naval Aviator is always just one step away.

Warnings: Illusion of family loss. Jake Seresin X F!reader. Witness Protection Reader. Situationship. 18+ Content.

Word Count: 1.6k

Author Note: I’m getting back into writing after a few weeks hiatus, any feedback, comments and concepts will be greatly appreciated.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The human brain can be seen in scientific communities as the most mysterious organ in the human body. The human mind can generate up to seventy thousand thoughts a day, which means there are around two thousand nine hundred thoughts created every hour. 

“Mommy!”

The human brain can store around about two point five terabytes of information at any one time. That capacity of storage is equivalent to about three million hours of television reruns or one million high-quality photos. Take your pick. 

“Come on—wake up! WAKE UP PATRICK!” 

The human brain can generate an electric current of about twenty-three watts. That’s enough to light up a round bulb. And although the human brain only accounts for two percent of your total body weight, it consumes more than twenty percent of the human body's total energy. 

“Please don’t leave me, not now—oh god please don’t leave me.” 

The length of all blood vessels in the brain, if combined, would reach a maximum length of about one hundred and sixty thousand kilometres. That’s enough distance to wrap about the earth’s circumference four times over. 

“Mommy I’m scared!” 

Each nerve neuron in the human brain has up to ten thousand connections with other neurons, not only that, but there are upwards of one hundred billion neurons in the brain. Which means there are more than one thousand trillion neuron connections formed in the human brain. 

“We just have to keep running baby.”

The amygdala, a part of the brain responsible for coordinating emotions, has an information processing speed of upwards of twenty ms. This speed is even faster than the speed at which humans can perceive something. 

All of these facts lean towards the idea of the human brain being some sort of supercomputer that we have been given. Programmed into our very existence by evolutionary biology. 

“No baby girl you stay with Mommy, it’s okay—don’t you close your eyes again okay?”

And yet? Despite all the wonders and capabilities that the human brain can accomplish—Your brain keeps you stuck in a time loop of unimaginable grief and despair. 

“Brewer?” The world around you had seemingly stopped for a few moments. The regular Friday night hustle of the Hard Deck had all but dissipated into silence when the overwhelming haunting noises of your own personal hell had become too loud to drown out. “Hello? Earth to Brewer?” 

“What?” You frowned as you shook yourself back into existence. What you found, or more accurately, who you found standing before you across the bar made your heart skip a panicked beat. “Jesus Seresin, you scared the hell out of me.” You sighed as you felt your heart beating rapidly inside your chest. The same heart that had loved and lost so much. The very heart that right now was plagued with the dilemma of falling for the sandy blonde who stood before you with eyes that could rival the Emerald City itself. 

“How?” Jake questioned as a confused frown took over his face soon after the words left his mouth. “I’ve been standing here for like two minutes just watching you zone out like some space cadet.” The chuckle that escaped Jake's slightly parted mouth soothed your beating heart into a steady rhythm. 

Oh. How long had you been zoned out for?

“What can I get ya?” You decided to let it go as you shot Jake a short but harmless smile. There was no need to ask or spend too much time focusing on how long you’d been stuck standing still cleaning the same spot on the bar over and over while your thoughts consumed you. Besides, you didn't really want to know how long Jake had been standing there looking at you like a moth drawn to a flame. 

“The usual, times four thanks barkeep—“ Jake replied as he reached into his back pocket, finishing out his wallet. A simple brown leather moment that always made you feel like your past was trailing right behind you. “Plus a lemonade with lime for the underage Back Seater.” There it was, that signature Seresin smirk accompanied with that wink. Insufferable. Cocksure. Endearing. 

“Four Budweisers and a lemonade coming right up.” You smiled once again as you threw your bar towel over your shoulder and got to work. Jake took the time to perch himself on one of the empty bar stools that littered the outskirt of the bar. Patrons buzzed around the Hard Deck like there wasn’t a care in the world to be had on a Friday night. “And lay off Bob, he gets your drunken ass home more often than not so you should be more thankful for his intolerance to alcoholic beverages.” 

Jake beamed at your lighthearted remark, they came few and far between. Whenever he was graced with the pure nature of your smile or your dry sense of humour, Jake reveled in it. So much so the crush he harboured had become common knowledge to half of Miramar. Yourself included. He wasn't a shy man, far from it. Jake knew what he wanted and, usually, he got it. 

But you? You had been playing hard to get and hard to crack ever since you showed up to the Hard Deck around six months prior. From the first moment Jake saw you he’d been caught hook, line, and sinker. Six months of chasing the same girl round in circles. 

“What had you lost, Brewer? Daydreaming on the clock isn’t usually your thing?” Jake asked as he got comfortable, leaning forward on his elbow as he watched you grab four Budweisers from the cooler fridge beneath the bar. He didn't miss the look on your face, the one that would occasionally replace the mild-maned stare you'd give off to slightly agitating customers. It was a look Jake couldn't really read–one that he wasn't sure if he would ever get to the bottom of, but he let it go, didn't press.  

“Just got caught up thinking about how I'm gonna spend my Sunday off.” Of all the lies you could’ve made up that seemed to be the most believable. 

“What are we doing on Sunday, Brewer?” Jake teased as you placed the still-capped amber bottles on the bar before him. The smirk he wore said it all, he was waiting for you to bite. And bite you did. 

“God, you've got tickets to your own show don't you, Seresin?” You shook your head with a laugh as you popped the caps on the beers you'd collected. “I– am planning a reset, just have a lot of housework to get done, laundry, meal prepping, self-care.” You teased the meaning behind self-care as you reached for the soda gun. “Which reminds me I need new batteries.” 

Jake caught the look in your eyes as you filled the glass to the brim with ice with your free hand and let the liquid drain from the gun. “Kinky girl, you sure we aren't hanging out on Sunday?” The smile, that damn infection smile that could light up the darkest of rooms made your head spin. But you couldn't go there. Harmless flirting was one thing, but crossing that line could cost Jake everything. 

He wasn't even aware of how close he was tempting death. How close he was standing to fire. How close he was standing to a woman who had lost everything in the name of being a good person. 

Unlike Jake, you had already lost everything. 

“In your dreams, Bagman.” You chuckled lightly, Jake's order was all but done. “Cash, Card or on Bradshaw's Tab?” The question remained unanswered for a few moments as Jake just sat there taking in the sight of the bartender who had him wrapped around her finger with ease. A spot he wouldn't mind staying forever if you'd let him. But for now? He knew he had to play the long game: Catch me if you can! you had forced him to play. 

“You tempt me, but card it is.” Jake confirmed as he fished his card from his wallet. “Someone has to keep Rooster from going into financial ruin.” It only took a few seconds for you to place all of Jake's drinks, the four beers and one lemonade with lime, onto a carry tray. “I think Payback’s been piggybacking on his bar tab too.” Jake smirked as he gave you an all-knowing look. You had been caught red-handed, but it was all circumstantial evidence at best. 

“Never took you as a softy.” Bradley Bradshaw still owed you an apology for his drunk and disorderly behaviour a few weeks ago. Behaviour that saw him hurling abuse your way when you cut him off. The guy was going through a breakup of sorts, of course you felt bad. But until he said he was sorry? His tab was racking up a pretty penny of top-shelf liquors and extra beer orders from the boys. “But fine, tap your card whenever you’re ready.” 

“This place is starting to charge a premium price for cheap booze ever since they hired a new manager.” Jake let out a sigh laced in banter as he paid for his order, the tip he left never went unnoticed either. Jake was good like that, he always tipped with a smile and a few extra bucks to make his almost cheesy pickup lines and banter worth your while. “And there's a lot of things you don't know about me Brewer.” With one final wink and signature smile, he was off. 

“Funny.” You mumbled to yourself as you watched Jake walk away back towards the same booth the boys all lingered around whenever they weren't hogging the pool table. The same booth you frequented the most. The same booth you gave a little more attention to–because Jake Seresin, despite all your might, had a hold on you that you couldn't seem to get out of. 

“I guess I could say the same damn thing.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***

Tags: 🏷️ @a-reader-and-a-writer @xoxabs88xox @hiireadstuff @buckysteveloki-me @athenabarnes @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt @tayl0rhuynh @na-ta-sh-aa @kmc1989 @sunlightmurdock @mamachasesmayhem @jaxfart @lauenderhaze @sugarcoated-lame @maisie-rebloging-blog @captainmoonknight @seitmai @shanimallina87

[ultimate-shipper-trash-blog]

I'll Send an SOS to Your Heart

-------

"Ok, I'm imagining things."

Steve is laying on his bed watching his lights flicker.

He plugged in one of those space projectors that's supposed to make your ceiling look like the night sky.

It's not weird that they're flickering, the light was a dollar at Melvads he wasn't expecting it to work long.

The weird part is that the stars keep making a heart shape.

He sees the heart flash a couple of times before he flips over and hides deeper into his pillow.

"No." He groans. "No more upside down shit."

If some upside-down monster was flirting with him he quits.

All the lights in his room surge to maximum brightness.

"Fuck off."

The lights draw a middle finger.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" He jumps out of bed and points at the orbs.

It draws a winky face. (;P)

"Who are you?"

His blood runs cold. An upside down monster can't flirt with him. They don't know English. He has an idea but it can't be true.

They left him there. He's dead.

...isn't he?

'SOS' the lights read.

"Fuck." Tears spring to his eyes. "Eddie?"

'Hiya'

-----

He spends a while talking to Eddie.

It's tough.

It takes a while to write everything out and Steve is still trying not to hyperventilate or cry or pass out so it's taking a lot of energy to keep up the conversation.

'Sleep?'

"No."

'?'

"Nothing I'm just...not tired."

'Liar'

"WHAT! I'm not I just-"

'-_-'

"Fine."

':)'

"I'm scared."

'Me?'

"No, I'm scared this is a dream. That I fell asleep hours ago and I made you out of my guilty conscious. I just don't want to lose you...again."

'Back'

"Back?"

'Bring back'

"Bring...you back?"

'YES'

"You think we can bring you back?"

'Plan'

"Yes! I'll call everyone we can figure it out. Oh! We have El to help us this time! You're gonna love her Eds she's just like the kids you look out for and she's magic! I'll call them right-"

'NO'

"No?"

'tom- sleep now'

"I think this is a little more important than-"

'Sleep <3'

Steve looks over at the clock, 4 am.

Shit.

"Ok. I'm going to sleep. Will you...will you be here in the morning?"

'W STEVIE'

"Ok. Goodnight Eddie."

'GN <3'

----

The plan goes off without a hitch.

It takes them about two weeks to formulate and execute the plan.

Steve spends his days and nights talking to Eddie, keeping him updated. Keeping him in his life.

He speed runs a crisis or two when he realizes he wants to spend the remainder of his days speaking to Eddie.

He can't wait until he's here with him.

Alive.

-----

So it's more complicated than he thought.

Maybe there's a hoard or bats blocking them from Eddie.

Maybe Steve throws himself in front of the kids and fights off the creatures long enough for them to find Eddie and get him back home.

Maybe Steve bleeds a little too much and collapsed as soon as they reach the other side.

----

He wakes in the hospital to nine pairs of eyes staring at him.

They're all arguing with each other. Their voices low as if they're trying not to wake them.

He wants to talk he wants to reach out.

Eddie is standing by the door in a baseball cap and sunglasses as if he was trying to be inconspicuous.

As if Eddie could ever hide from Steve. Steve would find him anywhere he is.

God, he's here! He's in the room! All this time apart and he's so close!

"Mphahhpsh" he can't form words but it doesn't matter.

Everyone stops and Eddie's eyes meet his. His eyes look wet and he looks skinny and exhausted.

He's never looked more beautiful.

Eddie's eyes turn down into a determined glare. He pushes past everyone until he's inches away from Steve.

He takes a deep breath and then leans down and kisses him.

Flat on the mouth. In front of everyone.

The shocked noises are what pulls them apart.

"I'm so happy to see you, I really like you," Steve says.

"That's my line." Eddie smiles and kisses him again.

"Don't ever try to save me again I can't ever see you in a hospital again," Eddie presses their noses together.

"That's my line."

Eddie chuckles and pushes his nose into Steve's cheek. "Dork."

"Yes, yes, you're both terrible. Now what the fuck is happening."

They break apart to see the crews shocked faces. Mike's face is pale and Dustin is an interesting shade of red.

Robin is staring at him a little proud.

He sends a wink her way and pulls Eddie in closer.

They'll figure it all out later. They have time.

----

This started with once sentence in my brain and grew into three different plot points I put together in a rush. :P

Please comment I love to read em!

[gremlins-hotel]

From the notes of Capt. Alfred Jones: "Davie was a bus and the 'Flying Fortress' moniker seemed to pass her by, but it was a ship with a brave crew. The trudge of getting back to England from enemy territory is a story for another day. I miss her and sometimes I miss the boys we lost that day."

-✪- -✪- -✪-

B-17F "Dear Davie": *U.S. Army Model B-17F-65-BO Air Corps Serial No. 42-29670 Delivered Cheyenne 31/1/43; Pueblo 18/2/43; Salina 15/2/43; Brookley 19/3/43; Smoky Hill 23/3/43; Dow Field 18/4/43. Assigned to the 333rd Bomb Squadron/94th Bomb Group [TS-L] "DEAR DAVIE" 22/4/43; Missing in Action near Hamburg 25/7/43 with Alfred "Comet" Jones, **Co-Pilot: Daryl "Speed" Reed, Navigator: Richard Reed, Bombardier: Charlie Marstaller; Radio Operator: Johnathan Graves, Flight Engineer/Top Turret Gunner: Clyde "Pepsi" Ray, Ball Turret Gunner: William Ortlieb, Waist Gunner: Leslie Lipsey, Waist Gunner: Paul Rapoport, Tail Gunner: Thomas Pugh (6 Killed in Action); "DEAR DAVIE" lost to flak/anti-aircraft fire, crashing near Uetersen, 15 miles NW of Hamburg, Germany.

-✪- -✪- -✪-

[nerd things & acknowledgements below cut]

Notes on the B-17F... The B-17F was an upgrade of the previous E model, with several notable changes: A one- or two-piece plexiglas nose cone, as opposed to the ten-paneled cone of previous versions. Reinforced landing gear allowed for a greater maximum payload, from 4,200 lb (1,900 kg) of ordnance to 8,000 lb (3,600 kg). Flight and combat range of the F model was improved by 900 mi (1,400 km) with the addition of nine self-sealing rubber fuel cells in the wing root, aka, "Tokyo tanks". The F model was generally characterized by being tail-heavy - which lead to part failure - and woefully undefended from the front; the early F models had no front-facing armament, leaving a 60° blind spot to the direct front of the aircraft - a flaw which was exploited by German pilots, who held air superiority. Later F models would see a list of possible available modifications (factory and field) such as inserting two .50 caliber machine guns into the nose cone to solve the blind spot. Other modifications to later F models were bulged cheek turrets, as opposed to the window-mounted guns of earlier iterations, and the available addition of the iconic "Bendix" chin turret. The chin turret is far more common on the subsequent G "gunship" variant. ("Dear Davie" is an early F model without the nose mount, bulged cheeks, or chin turret.)

*This model production block, serial no., and fate are borrowed from real-life B-17F #42-29670, "Thundermug." "Thundermug" was an aircraft that originally served in the 333rd Bomb Squadron/94th Bomb Group alongside my great-grandfather and his usual steed, "The Gremlins Hotel." It was transferred to the 544th BS/384th BG, at which point it went Missing in Action over Hamburg from flak/aa-fire; 8 of its crew became POWs while 2 were KIA. I have had the honor to speak to descendants of both of its crews and help them research "Thundermug"; I wish to voice a mere glimpse of their stories in a unique way.

**All names of Alfred's crew are either cobbled-together family names throughout our history here or entirely fictitious - though some were inspired by real people whom I grew up with stories of. All inspirations were individuals that lived good lives post-war.

[tavs-tressym]

Delicious Denial - Chapter Nine

(AO3 Link) | Master List | Ko-Fi

Rating: Explicit, 18+

Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Tav (You)

Word Count: 3770 (approx)

Tags: Fluff, eventual smut, domestic fluff, camp life, slow burn romance, sexual tension (A LOT).

WARNING: References to abuse, graphic descriptions of injury

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A reimagining of the game's events if Tav had zero magical or fighting ability. But she's still pretty fucked up. 👍

(Lots of comforting camp life content)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Did somebody order a random burst of productivity? 🤠

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chapter Nine - Tantrum

“Get up.”

A clank of metal thunks into your bandaged abdomen. Air escapes you and your blurred eyes widen in search of the assailant. You find her. “W-what?”

“Get up.” Demands Lae’zel for a second time, standing proudly above you, paying no mind to your discomfort or exhaustion. You look down and see the weight trapping your legs: A greatsword.

“Why? What’s happening-?” You call out in vain, but she doesn’t waste her precious breath on helping you to understand as she walks away. Are you supposed to follow her? She stops and looks over her shoulder, impatiently waiting for you. You slide the sword off your lap despite the protest of your bruised muscles. “Nnngh!” You sigh with relief and, through great effort, slowly begin to pull yourself up.

“Stop it, you know she shouldn’t be moving, right now.” Shadowheart advises, glaring up at Lae’zel, still hovering her luminescent hand over your wounds. Lae’zel scoffs and rolls her eyes, marching over to pull you up by the scruff of your neck with ease. Hissing with pain, you attempt to push her off, but she holds on strong. To her, you’re nothing but air. Wasted, useless air. She begins to drag you away, picking up the greatsword as she goes. “H-hey!” Shadowheart calls out, reaching out to continue the spell.

Your heels drag in the dirt as you feebly struggle in her grasp. “Nngh-ahh!” The pathetic lump that is your body hits the dirt before her. “What the fuck is wrong with y-ahh!” Another hit to the abdomen from the tossed sword.

“Pick it up.” She glares at you. You glare back.

“If you want to kill me, just do it already.” The forced bravado in your voice wavers slightly.

“Chk...” She responds simply, flicking a stray lock of her hair in the air. She doesn’t ask again. Inspecting her face and the way she grips her own weapon, you realise just how quickly those muscles could tear you apart. And yet, they don’t.

“What do you want?”

“I want you to pick up the damned sword, istik.”

Sighing, you reluctantly stumble to your feet, arms hanging from your bandaged torso. You stand before her, breeches soiled with dirt and blood, bandages corset tight and inhibiting your maximum breath capacity. You heave with the effort it takes to stand and strain to reach the sword below. It’s in your hands, tugging at sinews that scream to your nerves. After you drop it, you glance up at her. She watches you intently, offering no assistance.

“Again.” She commands.

“I-it’s too heavy-” You concede.

“Again.”

You sigh and focus, willing your muscles to push through the pain and eventually, you lift the handle off the ground, the blade scoring the earth below. You grin up at her proudly and you swear, for just a moment, the corner of her lips twitched into the slightest smirk of her own.

The tip of her identical blade points towards you in challenge, her singular, glorious arm outstretched. “Now fight.”

“F-wha-?!”

She charges towards you and attempts a strike, to which you flinch and cower. She stops, inches from your neck. “You have a weapon. Use it.” Peering from behind your bracing hands, you see her making her way back to her starting position. “Again.”

Your eyes widen as her graceful steps seem to dance towards you, beautiful, methodical… Deadly. You struggle with the weight of your weapon, managing to hold it up in time to hear the clank of your connecting metal. She counters with ease, blades screeching as she masterfully choreographs the movement before your eyes. You lose control of it and stumble back as she prepares a new blow. She lunges at you, and hits nothing but the memory of where you used to be.

Looking down at your feet, you almost don’t recognise them as they had worked of their own accord, instinctively dodging her attack. You glance up at her, panting and surprised. She doesn’t praise. She furrows her brow and tries again. Stumbling back, your ass hits the floor, sending a jolt of pain through your aching muscles. Cold, sharp steel grazes your chin and you open your eyes to see the amber fire within hers.

The lines of her blade may as well be the lines of her face, of her body. It isn’t an extension of her. It is her. And you start to think there’s something… Thrilling… About being at her mercy.

“Do not let your guard down. Not even for a moment.” Her fierce glare seeps into your soul. She tilts her head down, allowing strands of her reddened hair to caress her cheeks. She pays them no mind. Her focus is her target. Her focus is you. She lowers her blade and steps back.

“Again.”

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

Bruised but somehow not broken, stumbling back to camp never felt so good. Muscles pained but, finally, with purpose.

“What in the hells- Tav?!” Wyll leaps up from his spot around the campfire, rushing towards you to help you stay standing. Looking down at your own legs, inked purple and blue, you wonder how they hold you up, you wonder why you don’t feel it as much as you did before.

Lae’zel, who was following closely behind you, blocks Wyll’s frantic path. Some standing, some sat, all companions turn to face the scene. “Enough coddling. All of you.” She demands, firm and powerfully unyielding.

“Soldier, are you-?!” Karlach moves closer, but is, once again, blocked by Lae’zel’s magnificently crafted form. They stare each other down, neither formidable woman relenting until Karlach flicks her eyes to you, seeking insight.

You nod reassuringly and move to stand beside Lae’zel. “I’m fine, really.”

Your new mentor looks down at you… Approvingly… You think…?

Limping your way to the campfire, you sit beside Shadowheart, whose hand is itching to heal your wounds. But she refrains as you do not ask for aid. You sit there, in pain and loving every sting and pang of it. Astarion finally dares to glance up at you as you close your eyes, lean back on your hands and breathe through your aching. Feeling confident you won’t notice it, his gaze lingers on your neck, the scars he left behind accompanied by new abrasions that are a little too close to them than he’d like. It’s the first time he’s properly seen them since he put them there. They seem to be healing well. He shifts in his seat, unexplainably uncomfortable at the thought of them disappearing into your skin. Your eyes twitch with exhaustion as you begin to pry open. He looks away.

The others take their seats by the fire, occasionally glancing at you with concern. Shadowheart’s seething focus is mainly on Lae’zel though, who is digging into her meal without a care in the world. They lock eyes and you swear you hear a crackle in the air. Gale hasn’t looked up at all. He’s so still… Has he been like this… All day?

“Gale…?” Wyll speaks softly as he sits beside him, placing a comforting hand on his back. You watch as Gale slowly lifts his tired head, not daring to look at you.

“Gale?” You give it a try, maybe he’ll speak to you, if you invite him?

“I…” He begins. “Tav… I… I thought… You were…”

“But I wasn’t, was I?” You cut in dismissively, immediately defensive and irritated that he still speaks to you like a gloved hand, handling porcelain.

He sighs and rubs his face before looking up at you. “Tav, you don’t understand, you could have-“

“But I didn’t.”

“I know, but you could have and it would’ve been all my fault and-“

“But I didn’t. Did I?” You state firmly, loudly, gaining everyone’s attention. You look around, locking eyes with everyone individually, even Astarion. “I chose to leave this camp. I chose to take that risk. I merely invited Gale to come with me. What happens to me is on me, and only me.”

“Tav, you were hurt. That’s on all of us.” Chimes in Karlach, who only suffers further heat from your piercing gaze.

“How many times have I cleaned your blood from your clothes, hmm? How many times has Shadowheart casted a healing spell, hmm? You are all injured, all the time. Why is it so different when it’s me?!”

“Because, unlike you, we can handle ourselves!” Shadowheart blurts out, earning a targeted, furious glare from your eyes.

“Well, fuck that!” You stand up abruptly, trying not to wince at the pain. “Look, I’m not a fighter, I know that... But I’m also not stupid. Having me by your side is going to get someone killed eventually.” You make eye contact with Lae’zel and smile proudly, standing up straight. “From now on, I want to train. And anyone who wants to stand in the way of that can go fuck themselves! Does that sound fair to all of you?!” You look around, daring anyone to speak. Lae’zel grins. Astarion’s mouth curls into a smirk, you don’t know why exactly, but you also don’t care. The rest look up at you, speechless. With a defiant huff, you storm off, not interested in what anyone else thinks anymore.

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

“Fucking bullshit-Ugh!” You kick your bruised leg into a tree and clutch it as it aches. The pang fuels your roar of anger as your hands turn into fists and your purple knuckles collide with the bark. “Aaargh!”

“Oh, I do hope you’re not pretending that tree is me…”

You turn to the voice with a fury in your eyes that doesn’t lessen, even as you realise who it came from. “Fuck off, Astarion! I’m not in the mood!”

He pauses, a little taken aback, but not by your anger, but by something else. “So you can speak to me, after all…”

“W-what…?” You say, still panting from your punches, hands still clenched into fists.

“Just glad to have finally been acknowledged, is all…” He walks over to you, no, past you, and examines the tree. There’s not much damage aside from smears of blood from your own knuckles. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t.” And why not lie? You don’t owe him anything. But then he looks at you with the most ‘seriously?’ of expressions and you sigh in defeat.

“Why?” He asks strangely softly as his gaze flicks back to the reddened bark of the tree. You shrug, avoiding looking at him.

“Did I make you uncomfortable? Hurt you?”

“No… I mean, no more than… Intended…” Your fingertips ghost over his mark on your neck. He swipes his thumb through the blood on the tree and admires the colour against his skin.

“Did you enjoy it?” It’s a simple question, infuriatingly so. But, you haven’t felt anything but anxiety about the whole thing since it happened, so how can you answer him? You want to bite back, avoid the question and forget it ever happened… But you can’t, because, for whatever reason, you know he won’t let you. So, you reluctantly search your memory and open yourself up to whatever feelings you remember.

His cold skin on yours, his fangs in your neck, his breath on your ear, the taste of his spit. You feel it all again. You feel your heart beat faster and the pooling between your legs at the thought. Of course, he never properly touched you… But, you touched him. And you suppose it served it’s purpose-… Okay… You really liked it…

You nod. “Yeah, I did.”

His eyes move to fully focus on you now. “Even though you didn’t…?”

“I still enjoyed it…” You look away.

“You did…” He repeats, in a tone of slight surprise and subtle confusion. But, it’s not a question and you’re not about to give him any more than you have to, so you stay quiet. For a moment, he simply examines you, presumably to glean any further insight into your answer. You feel the weight of his gaze and decide to meet it with your own, determined not to let him in. He takes a deep breath and clears his throat, looking away again.

“Your little tantrum earlier was certainly entertaining...” He states flippantly as the grin you know all too well stretches across his face once again.

You scoff. “It wasn’t a tantrum.”

“Darling, the only thing missing from your dramatic exit was a toddler’s stomp.”

You scowl. “I meant everything I said.”

“I know.” He says quickly, without mockery and with confidence. You open your mouth to retort before you realise he’s being sincere, and nothing comes out. “Tantrum or not, I… Admired you… For what you did back there... You stood up for yourself…” You can tell it was a fight to get the words out and you can’t help but wonder why he’d even go to the trouble.

“Thank you…” You say earnestly. He nods and you mirror his exact expression from before, seeking insight.

“Although, going out there with nothing but Gale to protect you, wasn’t your brightest idea was it, dear?”

“Oh, shut up.” You fold your arms and roll your eyes.

He huffs with amusement, holding his hands up in playful surrender. “What? I’m just saying… If you intend to ‘carpe diem’ once again, maybe pick someone more like-”

“Let me guess, someone like you?”

“Me? Oh gods no, darling. I’m not going to valiantly lug your unconscious body all the way back to camp.” You scoff, slightly offended, but mostly amused. “No, no… Someone like Wyll or Shadowheart… Maybe even Lae’zel, since I see you two have found an understanding…?” He pries.

You nod, smirking. “Yeah, I think I might have made her smile once.”

He gasps melodramatically, clutching his chest before leaning in closer. “Now that is admirable.” He murmurs to you with a grin. A grin that is merely inches away. You observe it for a moment before speaking again.

“Why did you follow me out here?” You ask, still smiling.

“I… Well, I…” He pauses, grin faltering and standing up straight as he thinks on his answer. “I was wondering if I could, um… ” He glances at the wounds on your neck.

“Ah… And you thought now would be the best time, huh?” You gesture to your beaten form.

He looks at you guiltily and you almost believe it, he shakes his head. “Yes, of course, you’re right… You need to, um… Save your strength. Forget I asked...” Taking a step back, he looks around, hands absentmindedly tapping his outer thighs.

You try to recall the last time you fed him and remember that due to your injuries, you had taken a couple of days off from your responsibilities to recover. He hasn’t fed since. At least, not from you. “Is it bad…? The hunger, I mean…”

“It…” He sighs. “It’s been worse before... Much worse… I’ll live.” He glances at your neck again, but this time, not with longing. He reaches out his hand. “May I…?” Intrigued, if not a little wary, you nod. With your permission, he brushes his cool fingers lightly over the puncture marks along your pulse. “Do they hurt?”

You shake your head. “Not anymore. They just, kind of, itch, now…”

At your words, he allows himself to apply more pressure to your skin. His hand gently cups the side of your neck and traces the shape of the wounds with his thumb. After his moment of appreciation, he takes a deep breath and places his palm over them. The ice that is his skin soothes the inflamed marks as you gaze up at him, watching the way his eyebrows twitch as he touches you. He sees your eyes, the way they’re locked onto him, and offers a slight smile. It could mean a thousand things, it could mean nothing, you don’t know, but you do smile back.

It’s almost comical, the situation you’ve found yourself in. One month ago you were staring at that crack in the ceiling, the same one you’d stared at for years. You noticed how it had gotten bigger, how it had stayed with you. How it had been there when the tears in your eyes had blurred it, and when you couldn’t muster any tears at all. How it had been there when you were desperate to feel something, and when you wanted to never be touched again. Now, you haven’t seen a ceiling in weeks, only stars and clouds. You think it’s certainly prettier than that crack. But you do miss it’s company. You miss how it watched your wounds heal, how it was a witness to the new ones being created. Now you have wounds, they sting and they ache, but you hate the idea of covering them. You want the world to be your new crack in the ceiling, to witness your pain and your revelry in the fact that it did not break you.

Even the ones that Astarion put there, you see no sense in covering them. Unlike many of the others in your life, you feel no shame in wearing them. Because these were your doing, your choice to make. You cherish the proof of that moment. The moment that you shared something, that it wasn’t taken from you.

“Thank you…” It slips out before you can stop it. His brows cock in confusion, shouldn’t he be thanking you?

“Wh-”

“No, don’t… Don’t ask why… Just… Thank you…” You cut him off, he narrows his eyes at you in inspection. But, then he takes a deep breath and nods, utterly perplexed, but respecting your wishes nonetheless. You can’t help but huff in amusement at his bewilderment.

He rubs his thumb against your neck, his fangs protrude ever so slightly over his bottom lip as it stretches into a smile. You acknowledge them, but what really grabs your attention are the others. The blunt, ‘normal’ looking ones. They’re perfectly aligned into perfect rows. Perfect pearly whites. A contrast to your off-kilter, off-colour bite. Must be those high-elven genes, you suppose… You watch them as they gently press into his lower lip. Then, your eyes flick up to see that you’re not alone. He, too, is watching your parted lips as they slowly relax from your earlier smile.

“You know, if you want to kiss me again, you only have to ask…” He says, not breaking his concentration.

“Oh-er, no I wasn’t-” You say, caught off guard and uncharacteristically flustered.

“Oh, you weren’t?” He steps closer, grinning.

“No, I was just-”

“Staring at my lips for a strangely long amount of time?”

…

Shit…

“Look, it wasn’t like that…”

“Oh, of course it wasn’t, my dear… My mistake…” He places his hand on his chest in a feigned apologetic act. You sigh and look up at him with a firm, almost scolding look, to which he only grins at. “Would it help to know that I haven’t been able to get the idea out of my head, since the last time?” 

Okay, that stops you in your tracks. You go to retort whatever tease he was planning next, but yet again, he has rendered you speechless. He chuckles softly, stepping closer again. “Don’t tell me you’re surprised, darling. We shared a wonderful little moment together… I only want to show you what you missed out on… What I can really do…”

“Missed out on…? What?” You question, genuinely confused, you know you didn’t leave that tent wanting.

“Well, I just don’t feel that you got to experience my…” He takes a deep breath. “Full portfolio of talents…” His eyes glance back down to your lips. “I’d quite like to show them to you, if you’re willing?”

Only in that moment do you realise just how long the air has been trapped inside your lungs, but you can’t bear the thought of breathing it out, because you know just how shaky it will sound. Instead you swallow, eyes locked on his. But his eyes wander, they wander all over your face, taking in every detail of your deliciously stunned expression. He can’t get enough of this, reducing you to little, if any, words. It’s certainly a rarity. And he adores it.

That… ‘Moment’… Was a moment of desperation. One you hadn’t thought to repeat. Certainly not whilst comfortably present in your body. But, you can’t deny the building heat in your core at the thought. The thought of potentially going even further with him than before. But you also can’t deny the pressure in your chest, the kind that makes you feel naked, and not in a good way…

“I…”

He hears your hesitation and removes his hand from your neck, you almost lean into it, not wanting his touch to end, but you stop yourself. He observes you, your body, black, red and blue. “If it’s pain you’re worried about, I can help with that…” He steps closer. “You won’t have to move. A. Muscle…”

Panic? Lean in? Step back. “I don’t know, I need to think about it…” You hate how uncertain you sound. He doesn’t.

“Hmm… Alright, don’t answer now.” He pauses to think for a moment. “Tonight, I’ll stay up in my tent. Once you’ve realised that resisting my charms is futile, come and find me.”

You take a deep breath. “And if I don’t?”

“Darling, I never refuse an opportunity to enjoy a candlelit book and a cup of wine.” That earns a slight smile from you. “And… I’ll gracefully assume that our last… ‘Encounter’… Was just a blip, a momentary lapse in judgement.” His playful grin falters a little. “We can… Forget it ever happened…”

After a moment of contemplation, you nod in understanding. A new variant of pain hits your chest at the thought of him backing off completely, different from everything else you’ve suffered today. And honestly, you’d rather feel the hilt of a sword in your stomach than whatever this is, right now… You need space to mull this over logically, not emotionally.

“Alright… I’ll… Yeah, okay…”

He grins. “Good…” He takes a moment to appreciate your flushed cheeks and the way your eyes struggle to meet his, before stepping back. He looks towards the dim orange light from your campfire, peeking through the trees. “Well, if I don’t see you… Goodnight, darling…”

You nod. “Yeah… Goodnight…”

He glances back at you and smiles before turning on his heel and sauntering off towards camp. You watch his every step and he knows it, purposefully slowing his steps.

He’s gone.

You are alone.

And you have a choice.

…

Shit…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Next Chapter

Previous Chapter

[deanbrainrotwritings]

— HEARTBEATS AND FLATLINES

SUMMARY : dean was so focused on you he’d blocked everything that was going on in the background of his life as it were white noise. he didn’t realise how much that put you in danger until you went out of your date.

PAIRING : vampire!dean winchester x fem!reader

CHARACTERS : Clayton (OMC) 

WARNINGS/TAGS : explicit(18+), baker!dean, kidnapping, stalking (it’s only hot if dean does it), angst, unhealthy obsession, yandere!Dean, possessiveness, soft Dean, nerdy/dorky Dean returns, reader isn’t perfect, vague chronic illness, affection, obliviousness, violence, gore?, drugging, and more to come

WORD COUNT : 6.8k

A/N : this will soon fill the square for stockholm syndrome on my @jacklesversebingo card. lmao, it’s like venom/eddie with anne when she got engaged. I listened to MCR's bullets album for the maximum vampire vibes xx

Dean was restless on the days leading up to your date with Clayton. 

He tried not to make it too obvious, his deep disappointment and displeasure with your choice. Well, to him it felt more like heartbreak, an emotion more painful than any of those words could convey. 

He didn’t ever want to avoid you. He didn’t want to push you away by saying something rude about Clayton or doing something that would end up hurting you. He wanted to be near you, always. So he planned ways to avoid the topic instead, but you were entirely indifferent about Clayton and your date with him. He had no idea if you really actually liked the guy, or if you were nervous, or if you thought of him often. 

Dean couldn’t pick up anything from you. Maybe your cheeks heated up a little and your heart raced if you spoke of him, sometimes. But it was almost instantly gone after a few moments, like you just needed to find a baseline. It was not the way a regular person would behave if they ever were attracted to someone in any way. 

He was still a little rattled. Because you hadn’t changed. You still became flustered if he was kind to you. You always spoke to him, spent most of your time with him. It was why he got whiplash from the news of your date. 

Wouldn’t you, now that you considered him a friend, tell him all about Clayton? What would be your reason not to? Why didn’t you gush about the man any chance you had? Why wouldn’t you bring Clayton to the bakery when you came by? Why wasn’t your social media flooded with a few or many posts about him? Why wasn’t it obvious or at least detectable that you liked Clayton?

“Can you believe it?” It was the old guy, Nico, talking to his son Anthony. “Your aunt’s house costs $320 000, I can tell you it’s not what it cost when she bought it.” 

Dean slowly tugged his consciousness out of his reeling head. He focused on the sweet chocolate batter he was whisking at angrily and relaxed his wrist to slowly stop. 

“Do you think he’d be into a single mom? Look at him, he’s so pretty and young.” That was Tamara Stewart. You didn’t like her. So, the answer was no. He was petty like that. 

He picked up the crinkly bag of chocolate chips and dumped a handful into the batter. He tried to distract himself from his devouring thoughts by eavesdropping in on the dozens of conversations his customers were having.

“But Jon sucks, we’re playing ranked and he doesn’t know what he’s doing.” 

Dean gently mixed the chocolate chips with the batter, getting lost in their conversations until he’d flattened the top of the batter and scraped the surrounding area of chocolate until the bowl was clean at the top. 

“Nine murders already, Frank.”

Dean froze and looked up, watching brown eyes sweep over a bright phone screen. He could hear both heart rates rising in fear, their bodies tense as they shared the news. 

“What’s the police doing about it?” 

George continued to scroll through his phone, his brows pressed together in stress and said: “No idea, doesn’t say much.” 

Dean quickly took the glass mixing bowl to quickly pour the batter into the prepared muffin pan. His ears found their point of interest, the conversation between Frank and George. Still, Dean pretended to deeply concentrate on baking and walked to the back to shove the pan inside the oven and remove the croissants and sweet scones he’d made.

“I swear, this is fucking weird.” Frank rubbed his forehead anxiously. “They said it themselves on the first three murders, there wasn’t any blood at the scene. What the hell kind of animal does that? Sounds like a person to me. Probably dumped the body there, killed it somewhere else.” 

Oh, Frank. You don’t know the half of it. 

The following day, Dean was feeling unpleasantly wound up. 

He was hurt over your date with Clayton. 

And now, he was concerned for your safety as the day of your date came closer. You lived all alone in the woods. And there were vampires in town murdering people carelessly, as if they had no fear of getting caught. A beautiful and lovely woman was what you were to him, but to them, you were just a meal.

It didn’t just put you in danger. It put him in danger. Those vamps could easily move on, but a hunter could still follow. What hunter came by could find him, think the worst with the pile of incriminating evidence, and kill him. Or worse, Dean would have to kill the hunter out of self-preservation. 

He moved the murders to the top of his list of priorities because it still was all about you. Keeping you safe was all he could think of. It was like working a case again. Except it was easier because he was local, people knew him, trusted him, and liked him. What was harder was doing it alone, no Sam, no Cas. 

As always, Dean could count on flirting to get information out of police and detectives. A smile here and touch there proved that he still had it. Except this time, there wasn’t much he was interested in receiving because his entire body belonged to you. 

But at least he got a few photos of their files with his phone. It was easy enough to narrow down which monster was doing the killings. Vampires hardly ever changed their habits. But these vamps weren’t sloppy. They fed somewhere else and dumped the bodies randomly in the forest. They probably had different vamps from the nest dispose of the bodies so the locations were skewed and appeared random, but always deep in the forests. 

The victims were random. Three were dressed in running clothes, two wore work clothes, but the other four were dressed casually—killed on a day off or while they were out for fun. There was nothing they had in common, they probably bumped into the vamps, wrong-place-wrong-time type of deal. 

Their clothes were dirty, bloodied, tattered. They had bruises and cuts, but nothing that pointed to something that had human form. And to hide the vampire bite, the necks of the victims were completely torn by teeth. It was lazy work from the police, in Dean’s opinion, to blame mountain lions. Anyone with a brain would wonder how those people ended up in the forest to be attacked in the first place. 

Still, Dean had to find them and put an end to their nest. He wouldn’t stop you from going on your date, even though he’d previously planned on messing with your car so you wouldn’t get there… He hoped you’d be safer with… Clayton, and hoped that whenever he took you, you wouldn’t be left alone to end up as prey to the vampires.

All he had to do now was find the exact location of the nest and put an end to the vampires’ murder spree. 

SATURDAY — morning

You seemed a little more nervous than you were any other day when you entered his bakery. 

You asked him for some tea with honey, and he’d gladly obliged with a nice cup of chamomile tea that warmed your entire body in seconds. 

Dean, despite wanting nothing to do with what will happen on your date, wanted to comfort you. He sat down next to you, something he hardly did, and wrapped his cold hand around yours. You seemed a little surprised by his proximity, but you didn’t appear displeased. Instead, you turned your body towards him and smiled contently.

“I’m not exactly an expert in love, but shouldn’t you be… you know… a little more excited?” He asked, feeling elated that you placed your warm hand above his despite the way his touch made you shiver. You looked into his eyes curiously, tenderly brushing fingertips across his knuckles as you pondered his question with a fiery heat across your cheeks. 

“I sort of am,” you replied measuredly. He was glad he couldn’t physically cry because he would have been sobbing pathetically as a strange little ache settled in his chest. “I’m just trying to take it slow.” You tapped your shoe against his thoughtfully and he turned to touch his leg with yours, a harrowing need to be close to you overpowering any respect for your personal space. 

You instantly snapped out of your train of thought when he did, but your body completely decompressed as your eyes moved up to his face. He felt like you were seeing too much of him. 

“Slow?” He chuckled incredulously. His tone made you smile, but your brow raised, inquiring about his humour. “I think you might be takin’ it :0so slow you’re leaving your emotions behind a little. Most people would’ve been talking about their partner-to-be any chance they got.” The more he spoke, the hotter your face got. At least you finally looked away, appearing somewhat guilty. He slowly pulled his hand away from yours as your heat turned his want into need. “I guess I’m just wondering why you’re so nervous. You… like… the guy, you shouldn’t be this nervous,” he muttered.

He was glad you didn’t think much about the discontented tone of his voice, but you thought again for a few minutes after considering his words. “I’m… always watching people. I don’t need stuff to happen to me to learn something about life. For one, I’ve seen people falling hard and fast for someone... then it all falls apart, they're stupefied by the other person…” You breathed and ended your ramble. “Basically, I’m just trying to be smart and rational, so that I don’t end up in a bad situation.”

Dean blinked at you. 

Suddenly, everything that you were seemed to make sense. It dawned on him that you weren’t trying to be mysterious at all. You were just… calculating, and you applied that same logic to everything in your life. You always took long pauses to think before you spoke, you reacted slowly to his advances to contemplate him and then you made your move—depending on what you thought was appropriate, like a game. You were quiet because you were always observing others, learning from them, and then applying what you learned—to be accepted. You kept people at a distance out of fear and he knew more about that than anyone. 

“I don’t think there’s anything rational about love.” He knew that better than anyone, too. Why was he standing so close to you now? Knowing you could feel his unusually heatless body. Why did he stick around knowing he’d stolen your things and photographed items in your home? Why when you could easily find out that he was stalking you? That he’d broken into your home. That he longed for you and stayed by your side even though you didn’t and probably never would.

“That’s exactly why I’m trying to control it as much as I can. To have something seize me that way, to make me feel like I’m losing control of myself. I don’t think I can handle that kind of thing-”

“So that’s what it’s about? Staying in control?” He wanted to laugh. You and him were more alike than he thought. Not only did he have to restrain himself with his hunger for blood, but he had to wrest his desire to keep you all to himself. 

“Well, I think I’ve been through enough that it makes sense for me to be… controlling,” you argued indignantly. Your pout made him laugh, and his laugh made you smile. Then, you sobered. “I had no control over a lot of things in my childhood, even as I grew older. Even my illness dictated how I lived my life. There’s a lot of things. Abusive friends. My father. I was powerless most of my life. So yeah, I… I guess I’m just afraid to feel that way again. And love, romance, that’s even worse.”

Dean wondered with hope if you were trying to control yourself around him; if your date with Clayton was your way of controlling the way you really felt; if you felt so afraid about how strongly you might want or even need him, and forewished that it might be as much as he needed you. 

Dean reached out to grab your chin and made you look up at him again. You bit your lip and lifted your eyes from his shoulder to look at the greenness of his. He could already sense the blood rising to your face and your hand gently wrapped around his wrist, but you didn’t push him away. 

“When you find the right person, you won’t be afraid to lose yourself. Trust me.” Dean’s stomach somersaulted when your eyes dropped down to his lips and you licked your own. You pushed his hand away to wrap your arms around his neck, and he welcomed your first embrace. He could feel your warm breath by his ear, feel the heat of your body like the surface of the sun kissing his own when he circled his arms around your waist, and your heart thudded heavily, echoing against his empty chest.

SATURDAY — evening

The sun had set, swallowed by the horizon, pushed back by dark-blueness, leaving the moon behind in tall green trees. 

Damp dirt crunched beneath his once-retired boots. The scent of wet earth and rotten wood from the abandoned house the nest was vacating filled him with painful, nostalgic memories. He could smell human blood and salty sweat, he could hear quiet whimpers and panicked breathing. New victims. He focused on that instead.

He knew that facing the nest after the sun had set meant they were all going to be more awake. He could’ve missed work to do it during the day, but then it meant he wouldn’t have seen you. And he would not have been able to be so close to you, to fill his lungs with the delectable scent of everything that was you, to feel the sunniness of your body pressed against yours when you held him in your arms. 

He’d cherish that forever, if it was all you could give him. You wouldn’t ever know, but if you never chose him, he’d hide in the shadows of your life and do absolutely anything for you. Always.

Dean’s fingers twitched at the back door he was about to enter. Was he really just going to burst in there without getting a proper look inside? He cautiously made his way around the house to catch glimpses of the inside of the dark and ruined house. 

He counted the vampires downstairs, four women, two men, and the victims, two men. He couldn’t sense much from the second floor of the house, but he had to make do and act before they could kill the men. Dean could hear one of them, his weakened heartbeat, shallow breaths, not much energy left. The other must have been freshly caught… what a morbid way of putting it. 

He internally hyped himself up, swung his machete in his hand—like riding a bike. Hopefully. The sharpened edge of the machete was coated in a sticky layer of dead man’s blood, which intoxicated him slightly, but it had to be done. 

Now, he entered. 

He was greeted with hisses and bared fangs, and was thrown into decrepit walls and shoddy furniture. He was punched and clawed at, tackled and dragged across sodden and grimey floorboards. He was even bitten pointlessly by them. His skin healed and he stood back up and slashed his way through the modest, abandoned building. His freckled face, grey t-shirt, and old blue flannel spattered with blood. His jeans were covered in mud, old rain, and spilled vampire blood. 

His body thrummed and he felt alive. All those sensations against his skin were magnified and spectacular. He felt almost as alive as you made him feel. Saving people. Hunting things. It was like revisiting an old friend and going over fond memories. The family business, emphasis on the family. 

He’d tried so hard to get out. He did get out. But going back in was like relapsing, going back to a habit that he had always known was bad for him, deep down. 

Finished with the vampires downstairs, Dean hastily untied the men and ordered the more-lucid one to run and not stop until he was safe with the much weaker man. The man, Blue Shirt, had no idea what to think, didn’t argue and struggled to speed up as he carried Yellow Shirt out of the hell hole they had almost died in. 

Dean jogged upstairs and stopped at the woman who smirked at him. As if they knew each other, as if she had been expecting him. Uh-oh? Then two other vampires appeared behind her, bigger than the ones he’d killed downstairs, retracting their fangs with menace. 

“You don’t think we’d all just be waiting here… did you, Dean?” 

“What?” He voiced his bewildered thoughts. 

She took the opportunity to knock the machete out of his hand, as he assessed the two other vampires and attempted to absorb her words. She grabbed him by his neck to smile sweetly, only to smash his face into the window, and effortlessly threw him to—Yogi and Boo Boo. Dean smirked at them as they held him up, because the other guy was short, Boo Boo. That really eased the dull pain in his face. 

Now, he faced her again and she traced his jawline with her cold fingers. At that moment, as he sized her up, he decided she looked like Selene from Underworld. 

“The rest of the nest is out watching that pretty lady you’re obsessed with…” Dean’s face fell, enough to amuse Selene far more than she already was. “What’s her name…? Whatever, good… taste…” She smirked and leaned into Dean, enough for him to feel the dull air of her breath. 

“No,” he grunted, struggling against Yogi and Boo Boo as thoughts of you filled his mind. Thoughts of you going up against horrifying monsters you were not aware of and that you were not prepared to face. Why you? Why would they do that to you? 

“Yes, she’ll probably be as sweet as all that food you feed her.” Selene moved away to look out the shattered window, thoughtfully. “Does she smell good? God, I wouldn’t be able to stand as close to her as you love to be. I’d eat her right up, feel her body go limp as I swallow her warm blood… yummy.” 

Yogi and Boo Boo laughed cruelly, the grins on their faces that Dean peeked at showed their agreement with her words. 

“Shut up,” Dean growled. “Why are you going after her? What do you want with her?” It didn’t make sense for them to go after you. You were everything to him, but to them, you were nobody. Just a human. Unless it was about him. God, why did he have to piss so many monsters off?

Instead of responding to his question, she changed the subject and asked: “Alia saw you hunt coyotes and bobcats? What’s that like?”

Dean did not want to waste time talking about his diet if your life was in danger. It was a rash move to lunge at her, but his mouth connected with her neck and his fangs retracted on instinct, piercing hard flesh and disgusting blood that he sucked until she fell. 

He struggled against Yogi and Boo Boo’s grip, and was eventually torn off of her by them. Not without taking a chunk of her neck, which he spit out along with the blood he’d sucked from her already-dead body. He fought harder this time, for you and managed to get Yogi tangled up in Boo Boo when he shoved them into each other to swipe his machete from the floor as Selene recovered. 

He was grabbed roughly by Yogi or Boo Boo when they’d scrambled back up, but he kept his grip on the machete as he hit the wall one of them had pushed him into. He groaned as he turned, swung the machete, and Yogi’s head thumped loudly on the ground, a spray of his blood covered Dean, Boo Boo, and the wall. 

Selene kicked the back of his knee so he fell to the floor with a loud crack, and he was kneed in the face by fucking Boo Boo, then tackled into him by Selene. God, will it end?

Dean scrambled to get back up and removed her from his body by slamming himself with her on her back into the wall. Her breath rushed out as her body hit the wall painfully loud. Dean had barely managed to stand up straight when Boo Boo began to charge at him. Dean used Boo Boo’s brute strength to knock him into Selene before she could get up properly. 

Dean picked up his weapon again and drove the sharp edge across the back of Boo Boo’s head so he could see his brain slice through the middle with the partially diagonal slice from his machete. Dean kicked part of Boo Boo’s head away as Selene shoved his body off her. She stayed down and sighed defeatedly while glaring up at Dean. 

"It has come to this, the hunted, becoming the hunters to the hunted."(1) Dean quoted smugly, swinging the machete in his hand smoothly. 

“What?” She spat, wiping Boo Boo’s blood from her face. 

“Seriously? All this time on your hands and you don’t pick up a fucking vampire movie?” Dean rolled his eyes at her unwavering glare and sighed, squeezing his fist around the handle of the machete. “Can’t say this was nice, but, uh��it kinda was, actually. Huh.”  

Dean wiped his face with his flannel as he tore through the road on his way to you. Thank fuck you’d let him know where you’d have your date, even though his intentions weren’t exactly pure. If he hadn’t had to go after the nest, he probably would have sat nearby to hear everything you had to say. Maybe he’d even planned to interrupt your date and stir up some jealousy and.. but perhaps it was good the universe prevented that from happening. 

The only problem was that you were in danger. He had no idea what he would say to you once he stood before you at that restaurant-brewery where they made your favourite burgers. What could he say without sounding batshit crazy? Without frightening you to the point of making you want to be far away from him—forever?

That didn’t matter. If you didn’t listen, he'd have to force you, for once, into listening to him so you wouldn’t be in danger. So you wouldn’t die. You were human. You were all he had and even though your life was fleeting, he wanted to make sure you got to live a fulfilling life. With or without him. That’s all that mattered. He’d risk it all for you, in this life or death moment.

Finally, he realised he was close to the bar and parked nearby, in the darkened back alley where there was a woman smoking at the first door, a cat with its head buried in a bucket of popcorn at the garbage, and a homeless man covered in ragged blankets near the end of the alley. 

Dean didn’t bother with looking around for much longer. The vampires wouldn’t be going in after him, unless they were stupid. He just needed to go in and get you out, by his side where you were safer. With someone who could protect you against the horrors of the night. And not Clayton, the kind, safe, and boring mechanic that everyone knew and trusted because he wouldn’t charge extra, or lie, or… who was Dean kidding? Clayton was perfect for you. 

Dean broke the door’s handle and pushed his way through people and the cooks, and the man cleaning. He was glared at, but ignored for the most part as he made his way to the front. As per usual, Dean could find you without looking. He could sense you, the way your heart would beat, the brush of your hands across your skin, and the delicious taste of your body. You stood out like the sun in the sky. 

He found you in a beautiful deep red blouse that made you the centre of the entire bar. Without even intending on it. You were so delicate and beautiful, he had to save you. He couldn’t imagine the large cavity the lack of your existence would create, he always wanted to breathe your air and feel your heat and hear your sweet voice. Even if you didn’t belong to him. 

But soon, it was all smothered by Clayton. Dean could smell the remnants of engine fuel and cologne. Clayton with his blond hair and blue eyes and… ugh. It could be Dean beside you. 

It was as if you could feel him. You shivered and your eyes drifted away from Clayton as he spoke enthusiastically about his nephew. Your soft eyes met Dean’s and you looked surprised, then happy, and finally concerned in an instant. Had Dean not experienced time the way he did, he would not have noticed the rapid change in your expression. 

You sat up straight and Clayton finally shut up to look where you were looking. Dean forced his legs to keep moving, fighting against the tar that was created by his endless amazement at your perfect existence. He’d fight gravity to get closer to you, defying every law to protect you, like the Moon and the Earth. He was meant to be next to you. 

“Dean? Wha-what are you… doing here? Wh-what happened? You’re covered in… blood…” You stepped around the table as you questioned him, with a clean napkin clenched in your fretful fingers to find the source of the blood. You wiped away uselessly, before realising it wasn’t his. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t explain right now, but you’re in danger,” he whispered, wrapping his hand around your arm. He pulled you closer and you allowed him to as he scanned the room for any one suspicious or… undead. There was no one. 

“What are you talking about?” You touched his bicep, his eyes moved back to yours, and his face softened. Your touch felt like warm life being poured back into the empty vessel that was his body. 

“I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault,” he whispered. The unease and fear that shone through your eyes made his stomach clench.

“How? Dean, talk to me,” you attempted to regain his attention by tugging on the hem of his shirt—where he was clean of blood. Instead of replying to you, Dean pulled you closer and began dragging you to where he had entered.

“I just need to get you somewhere safe,” he explained, dragging your willing body into the back of the brewery and out into the alley. 

He heard you call his name multiple times, your hard-to-answer questions, and the apprehension in your tone. He slowed down only because he didn’t want to hurt your arm or cause you to trip and fall. Soon you fell into step with him and stopped bombarding him with questions as you looked around tensely. 

“Hey! What are you doing?” Clayton called after you and Dean, he had your jacket and purse. Dean noticed and you stopped moving, and then you stepped away from Dean. He knew you were considering returning to Clayton as he walked closer, but you stopped a foot away from Dean.

Clayton’s blue eyes, like a clear sky free of pollution, were filled with trepidation. He eyed Dean suspiciously and looked over to you. You were completely relaxed despite the terrifying, bloody state Dean was in and you were standing awfully close, trusting him despite the disorientation. 

“What’s going on here?” Clayton asked, but still returned your items to you. You couldn’t answer because you didn’t know how to. All Dean knew was that you hadn’t shoved him off you because of the urgency in his words, the stress knotting up his muscles, and the pleas in his Spring eyes. Why? Why would you just follow him anywhere without hesitation?

“Clayton, stay inside, this… is between me and her,” Dean warned, taking your hand rather than your arm. He could see the impala about a metre away. You didn’t smile when you turned to Clayton, you were still perplexed by Dean’s pressing behaviour, his determination in getting you out, and his insistence left no room for debate. 

Clayton appeared baffled and disappointed. He didn’t say anything, but Dean knew the judgement in his eyes as they stared at each other, the audacity is what his blue eyes were telling him. 

You squeezed Dean’s hand unintentionally. You didn’t know how to explain yourself to Clayton, but Dean saw the apology in the melted sugar of your eyes, and the deep frown of your oil-tinted lips spoke volumes. Your face told too much. Dean loved you. 

“It’s fine! I’ll… I’m sorry, I’ll call you later,” you promised, moving forward to squeeze Clayton’s arm which was covered by a white long sleeve. 

Watching it, while holding your hand, felt like he’d been thrown into a wall all over again. Breath knocked out, fury and jealousy boiled over him like lava. Dean tugged you away, but you didn’t complain. And you obviously didn’t notice what Dean had, Clayton’s gentleman-ly hand almost lifting to caress your cheek or move away that perfect strand of hair that curled perfectly around your face. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, moving his own long and blond hair away from his face as a biting breeze rolled over him. He ignored Dean completely. 

Part of Dean’s brain thought back to Sam, reminded of that kindness and the goodness in his brother shining through Clayton’s face. It didn't make Dean want to whine and throw you over his shoulder any less. He’d do it to get you out, but you would not approve of that. That’s the only reason he didn’t do it.

Maybe you nodded to Clayton, he wasn’t sure because he was examining a group walking towards you. His urgency returned when the five people approached the three of you and Dean sensed the lack of heat and sound from their bodies. Dean spoke lowly to you: “please, we gotta go now, sweetheart.” 

“Okay, Dean,” you conceded, but your tone sounded an awful lot like you believed he was having a mental breakdown, and you were just playing along until you got him some proper help. 

Dean stepped backwards with your hand in his and muttered a curse under his breath. He wished Clayton had just left you alone, but Dean knew it was too late to get you away.

Clayton glanced back at the group coming closer and started to say: “I’ll be-”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Dean Winchester and his prize pet. You weren’t going to leave without introducing us, were you?” The only woman of the group sneered. Was this Alia? Dean forced you behind him. He felt your hands gripping the back of his shirt and your face’s heat beside his bicep when you attempted to peek over his body. 

Clayton saw the way Dean gazed alarmingly at the woman and her group, and stumbled away to stand beside Dean. Dean could hear the rise in his heartbeat and feel the anxious heat that radiated from him. Those vampires could definitely smell the fear on him. 

“Pet?” You murmured to yourself with a pout.

“What do you want?” Dean’s go-to was to find humour in any situation like this one, but he couldn’t focus on distracting the group of vampires since your heartbeat began to rise and your hand clenched his shirt tighter. 

“Straight to the point then, yeah?” She asked, chuckling and eyeing you behind him, then looked at Clayton with indifference. “You killed a lot of people, Dean—” He felt your grip loosen up on his shirt and your breath puffed against his arm. “—You didn’t think we’d just forget about all of it and let you get away with it, did you?” 

“I didn’t kill anyone,” Dean asserted. He scoffed, his lip twitched into a smirk on instinct and she glared at him. “I don’t even know you.”

“Of course not,” she crossed her arms over her chest. “Remember Boris? We were part of his nest. Robert recruited us. You killed him, too, remember?” Dean held her gaze. Why would he feel guilty about killing vampires? “Because of you, we almost couldn’t survive. After you left, more hunters came. Those of us who made it out, those of us who survived you, they were hunted and killed. And then we had to learn to survive on our own.” She stepped closer and Dean backed up into you, your warm hands pressed into his back. “It was hard… I created my own family. And here we are. Here you are.”

She looked at you, peeked over his body where you were hiding. Alia—Dean was pretty sure she who Selene was talking about—seemed to consider her next move before speaking. “You killed them, didn’t you? Did you really think you could just move on with your life like nothing ever happened? And come here to continue killing?” Dean narrowed his eyes at her and her deep brown eyes glared at him, a smirk grew on her red lips. 

Dean needed to get back to the impala, to get the dead man’s blood, to pick up a weapon he could use to fight them off. You’d also be safe inside the Impala. He’d even tell you to go far away, to keep yourself alive until he could find you again. 

Clayton moved beside Dean, looking up into his blood smeared face, slightly shaken. “Is it true? Are you the one killing these people?”

“What?” Dean snapped out of his head, looking at Clayton. You whispered Dean’s name, as a question. “The police said they were animal attacks.” Dean didn’t care about what Clayton thought, but what you thought about him definitely mattered. He also knew it didn’t look very good for him to be covered in blood.

“Okay, then who’s blood are you covered in?” Your voice shook as you asked. Dean sneaked a glance at Alia and her friends. The cruel sneer on her face made it clear to him that she’d intended on pinning the deaths on him—she wanted you to think that. 

He couldn’t explain himself to you. Vampires. Monsters. Why would you believe any of that? You’d just think he’s batshit crazy. You’d be afraid of him. 

“You need to get in my car and stay inside,” he ordered, turning you with his hands firmly on your shoulder. Your mouth opened, ready to argue, and your wide eyes searched his face with hope and fear. Two of the most painful things he’d ever seen piercing the dead heart he thought could feel nothing. 

“Don’t touch her,” Clayton warned, pressing his hand into Dean’s shoulder. Dean growled and shoved him away. 

“Dean! Stop!” You shouted, watching helplessly as Clayton stumbled to the ground. Alia laughed carelessly. “Dean, what the hell is going on?” You asked, ignoring everything that was going on around you to gaze into Dean’s eyes. Your firm tone shook Dean, you usually spoke to him so gently and bashfully. 

“Tell her, Dean,” Alia was suddenly closer, “tell her what you are.” 

“No,” Dean barked at Alia and pulled out the knife he had in his jeans dipped in dead man’s blood and plunged it into her chest while she was busy gloating. You gasped and covered your mouth, stumbling away from Dean and the group of men that suddenly began advancing with menacing snarls.

Alia pulled the knife out of her chest with a scoff and a glare in Dean’s direction. “Dead man’s blood,” she spat.

“Leave her out of this, she doesn’t know anything,” Dean pleaded uselessly. Still, he placed himself in front of you, hoping to get closer to the impala now that his only weapon was in Alia’s hands. 

“You have nothing left, Dean. You’re all alone. Killing her is the only way I can really deal damage to you.” She lunged forward and slashed the knife across his stomach before he could dodge it properly. Maybe he was a little rusty. 

“Dean!” You cried, instantly moving to his side to touch the sliced skin of his abdomen, but it was healing instantly. He turned to you as he hissed and you backed away from him, thrown by the way he snarled at Alia with his fangs bared. 

Alia turned weak and fell to her knees. The five men around her hesitated, looking from Alia to Dean. But Dean didn't have the luxury to demur, so he turned around and grabbed you to push you towards the Impala. 

He didn’t care anymore. You’d seen Alia survive a stab to the heart. You saw his wound heal. You saw his… teeth. His monstrous face. And you were too shocked to move. You just blinked and stared at Dean as he unlocked the Impala to inhumanly retrieve his machete from the passenger seat. 

“Leave him, Ray, it’s her he cares about,” Alia rasped weakly. Dean turned to see the youngest of the group ready to lunge as Clayton stood, trying to wipe blood away from his palms. 

Dean turned back to you and gave you a small shake. You blinked at him and tensed when you focused on him. “Get. In.” He demanded, placing the keys in your palm. 

It actually turned out better than he thought. 

Sure, his clothes were torn up from bites and the knife they were attempting to use between the five of them, but Dean knew he could take the five of them. He could’ve done it as a human. He could definitely do it as a vampire. 

He was covered in more blood than before. His hair was sticky with it and so was his skin, spattered and smeared all over his face. 

Disposing of five bodies was harder to do than he was used to. Usually, he’d have killed them out in those creepy lairs miles away from people where he could burn them to ash. He had Sam to help. This time, he’d have to leave them in garbage bags, in the large roll off containers from the restaurant. People turned the other way when they saw them fighting, probably assuming it was a regular old, drunken fist fight. 

He’d go back for the bodies once he got you and Clayton out of there. At some point, one of the vampires knocked him out cold. So Clayton was asleep in the backseat and you were still shaking in the passenger seat, staring dead ahead. 

This was so not how he pictured things going with you. Now, you were traumatised. You were probably scared of him, even if he’d saved you. He couldn’t blame you. He was a vampire and you’d just witnessed him easily slaughter five people. Only someone with experience in killing could manage winning a fight when they were outnumbered. 

After dropping Clayton unceremoniously into his couch, Dean ran back to the Impala and drove you to his place. He was surprised you’d allowed him to carry you all the way into his living room. And that you didn’t complain about him taking you to his home instead of yours. 

He hung your jacket and purse on the hooks beside the door and worriedly sat on his knees in front of you. He whispered your name and you lifted your eyes to his. You bit your lip. “Are you afraid of me?” 

You shook your head, and murmured, “I’m just… confused and… I don’t know…” 

“I’m here… do you wanna get cleaned up?” Dean took your hands cautiously, brushing his thumbs over your soft skin, over your knuckles. You shook your head, ‘no’. “Want to sleep?” You shook your head again, more vehemently. He smiled softly, a touch of sadness pooling in his stomach. “Is there anything you need? Anything I can get you or do for you?” 

“Dean,” your voice was a little hoarse. He hummed softly. “What the hell… just happened? I mean… how… wh- I can’t believe that…” You trailed off, falling back into the couch exhaustedly, and stared up at the ceiling as you attempted to wrap your head around what occurred. 

“I’m gonna make you some tea so you can calm down, and then we can talk.” Dean released your hands as he moved away from you. Your soft voice calling his name stopped him before he could turn away from you. 

“Will you tell me the truth?”

“Always.”

(1) Underworld: Endless War

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[mrdarcysdadbod]

Still mulling over Anne with an E and I think I need to watch another adaptation or two of AOGG bc I want to criticize the... Misappropriation of narrative space, I suppose, but I suspect that's also just a side effect of the medium, you know? Because what I mean by this is that Anne of Green Gables as a book is very, very narrow in its scope, as it is purely and solely about Anne and, especially early on, she doesn't give other people's stories or perspectives much space in her narrative, and is somewhat ruthlessly self-interested at times in a way that actively constrains the scope of the narrative. To me that's an interesting and delightful aspect of the book as a childhood/coming of age novel, because especially at an age like nine or ten, children really are focused on their own internal world primarily and are still in the earlier-to-middling stages of being more conscious of those around them and their lives and perspectives. A side effect of this is that, for example, we have no clue what's going on with Gilbert other than a few comments from secondary characters and some of Anne's own accidental, quickly interrupted mentions. I find this deeply charming, especially the way that it hints at Anne having editorial sway over the narrative, because she clearly thinks about him far more than he comes up in the text, and I think it could be adapted in a cute and inventive way to the screen, but that's neither here nor there.

The way this relates to Anne With an E is that I think AWaE got too ambitious in widening the scope of the narrative. I'm not even necessarily against the idea of, say, exploring Anne's history and behavior with a modern understanding of trauma rather than an Edwardian children's novel that absolutely wasn't interested in or intending to tackle the emotional realities of traumatized children. And that's a place where it shined (the scene of her cheerfully telling her classmates about "the mouse in a man's pants" to their growing horror was painfully accurate to the experience of not understanding that your funny story is actually deeply worrying), even if it got awkward at times (unfortunately the Anne actress did not carry off the flashbacks well and they were just kind of corny). Unfortunately I do think that there's, I suppose, a maximum amount of gritty reimagining that any narrative can reasonably bear, and I think AWaE way overdid it.

(putting this under a cut bc it got long and wandered away from the point)

I think there's space in that narrative to explore something like, pick two: residential schools or early 20th century modes of queerness or some B plot about con-men that came out of nowhere and mainly served to undermine the notion of Green Gables and Avonlea as a fundamentally safe place - frankly I'm not even against the idea of undermining that notion, in a "challenging the narratives of settler-colonial pastoralism" way, but I think that the residential school plot should've been the thing to do that, as a way of emphasizing that the idyllic safety of Avonlea came not as a result of hardy white Protestant goodness but very much at the expense of displaced and oppressed First Nations people, but I think the way they chose to do the conman B plot was actually counterintuitive to that end, because it positioned the outsiders as the ones seeking to extract profit at the expense of the good hardworking white Protestants of Avonlea, who then became the victims of a thieving invader, when, like. Colonialism, y'know? I digress.

Returning to my original point about the scope and space of the narrative, I may have the most issue with Gilbert's entire plotline. On the most basic level, it requires a significant reframing and rewriting of his and Anne's relationship at this point in their story, which I just... disagree with. I think it's a misstep to try and reimagine a deliberate erasure of him from the narrative via Anne's (somewhat petty) refusal to include him, even though he's very much present and the reader is regularly reminded of his presence in her life outside the text, as an opportunity to actually remove him from Avonlea and do some weird shit with him. Gilbert Blythe doesn't really need to go on a personal journey justifying his passion for medicine and wrestling with the realities and impacts of the Atlantic slave trade. (If I read that sentence after reading the book but before watching this show, I would find it completely bewildering.) It's not even that I don't think "Canada, as an English/French colonial project, has always benefited from and enabled the violence of slavery even if actual chattel slavery wasn't present there in nearly the same amount as it was in other parts of the empire" isn't worth exploring as an element of the showmakers' clear desire to interrogate and challenge AOGG as, unavoidably, a work of colonial fiction. I just don't think putting Gilbert on a boat achieves that. I'm not sure exactly how I'd achieve it - frankly I'm not well-versed enough in Canadian Black history to have a take - but, to me, deciding to literally import a character to make the point about Canada needing to wrestle with anti-Black racism as much as anyone is, like... I mean it's kind of decentering Black Canadians, isn't it? And the whole thing puts Gilbert in this really weird position of clumsily lampshading the white savior in relation to Bash, but also kind of a white savior by proxy in terms of Bash's relationship to the Black community in Charlottetown. I don't know, I'm not qualified to have much of a take on this, it was just all so bizarre and unnecessary to me.

Returning again to my original point, I ultimately just think that, while the text of AoGG leaves a lot unsaid and implied about what's going on with other characters in the novel, there's only so far you can stretch that and still be telling the same story, you know? And while the core of the book is Anne exploring her place in the world, and that can be expanded to include more serious questions about things like childhood trauma and various societal bigotries, I still don't quite know how I feel about the necessity of committing to, essentially, a change in genre for the sake of tackling some of these issues, because at the end of the day, for all it doesn't shy away from things like Ruby's or Matthew's deaths and the attending grief, AoGG is a children's book, and those challenging episodes still come with a resolution and catharsis, and that's... not really something you can achieve, if you're going to include residential schools as a B plot. Like, for a show set in 1890 or whatever, there's absolutely no way to have any sort of resolution or catharsis about a residential school without egregiously whitewashing the reality, especially in, what, 2019 this was airing? After several years of mass graves getting uncovered? I don't know, I think they were just too ambitious. It's not that the legacies of slavery and ongoing Native genocide don't deserve to be explored, but I'm not sure that an adaptation of a book that is firmly rooted in an idealized image of a rural Canadian childhood is the place for it. It's kind of weird to have the horrific violence of the residential schools sharing space with Anne putting liniment instead of vanilla in the cake, you know?

[celticcrossanon]

BRF Reading - 17th of October, 2024

This is speculation only

Cards drawn on the 17th of October, 2024

Question: How will the tour of Australia go for Queen Camilla?

Note: I'm using my new Rider-Waite deck for this reading, as part of the process of breaking the cards in, so the energies are not going to be as clear as they usually are.

Interpretation: She is very worried and stressed about the whole thing

Card One: Strength in reverse

Strength can mean physical strength or inner strength. In the reverse, it indicates a lack of strength, physical or internal.

The Strength card is the card of Leo, ruled by the Sun, so I was wondering if Queen Camilla would be affected by the weather in Australia, but I looked up the forecast and it is mild - the minimums and maximums for Sydney from the 18th to the 23rd are 17-25, 19-27, 16-23, 15-21, 15-23 and 14-26, and for Canberra they are 12-22, 11-23, 7-25, 7-24, 6-26 and 9-27, all in degrees Celsius, so even the warmer days won't be that warm because the nights are so cool. It might affect the Queen, she is old, so I'm putting that down as a maybe.

The other energy I get from this card, and this is the stronger energy of the two, is that of a lack of internal strength. So feeling not very confident, fearing that something will happen, doubting herself or feeling inadequate in some way. I think she is going to spend most of this visit worrying about The King, to be honest. She could also be comparing herself to Princess Diana, who drew huge crowds when she visited Australia, and I don't think the King and Queen will draw the same crowds as the interest is just not there as far as I can see - not as strong and not as promoted by the media. They will still draw crowds, but not the massive crowds that Princess Diana drew.

I drew a clarifier for this card and it was the Queen of Cups in reverse. Both Queen Camilla and Princess Diana are represented by the Queen of Cups card, which is my card for Cancer people, so there could be some sort of competition going on in the Queen's mind. If not, then the clarifier says that the Queen will not be at her best on this trip - she will be diminished or overshadowed in some way, or she will be acting out of the negative side of her inner nature.

Card Two: The Nine of Swords

This card is all about worrying about something - being physically comfortable but mentally in anguish. It indicates things such as fear, anxiety, negativity, and reaching your breaking point.

The energy of this card is of fear and worry. Somehow, the idea of doing this tour has the Queen in a state of extreme worry, and I'm picking up some fear also, mainly in the form of 'what if' thinking. I don't think the Queen wants to go on this tour and this card tells me that she is not mentally prepared for the tour at all. It could be that she is just worried about The King, but if so it is a very intense worry.

I drew a clarifier for this card and it was the Magician in the reverse. The Magician is the card of manifesting something, and in the reverse it is about not being able to manifest something, so the Queen may be worried that she can't make something happen that she wants to happen, which could be anything from good press to making sure her husband takes care of himself on this trip.

Card Three: Death

Death is the card of Scorpio, the sun sign of King Charles, so it looks like the Queen's worry is focused on her husband and trying to make sure he takes care of himself on this tour. I think that she also wants the tour to go the way The King wants it to go (which it may not) and she is worried about the effect on him if he is disappointed in the tour after putting in so much effort to make the trip.

The Death card is about endings, changes, letting go of things, and transformations. The energy of the card is that this is a farewell tour, a final goodbye, and the Queen wants it to go as well as possible because as far as she knows it is the last visit to Australia.

Underlying Energy: The Six of Swords

This is the card of travel overseas, so that is the going on tour itself that is underlying all of the above concerns. The Six of Swords can mean moving on, leaving things behind you, either leaving a problem behind or being forced to move on from a situation that you don't want to leave and you don't want to change.

The energy of this card is of regret and farewell. Like the Death card, an energy of 'this is the last time' lingers about it, of not wanting this to be the last visit but having to accept that the odds of returning are not in their favour. The woman in the card is huddled up in a cloak, as though she is in mourning for what she has left behind, and it is that sorrowful energy and regretful energy that is coming through this card.

Conclusion:

The Australian Tour is going to be hard on Queen Camilla. She may not show it externally, but inside, she is carrying a lot of worry and she may be having a crisis of confidence. She thinks that this tour will be the last time her husband travels to Australia and she wants the tour to go well for his sake - for him to get a triumphal farewell, if that makes sense. She is worried that this won't happen and that the King's last memories of Australia will be marred by any disappointment he feels from the tour. She may also be worried about her husband's health and how it will hold up to the tour.

There is a lot of worry and fear in this reading, coupled with a strong feeling of regret and a feeling that this is the last time so it has to be a good tour. There is self doubt as well, that the Queen can't make things happen they way she wants them to happen and also a self doubt in general - a sense of 'I'm not good enough', which may be from comparing herself to Princess Diana on tour (or maybe not, the Princess Diana is a faint energy and I'm only mentioning it because it is there as a small thread). She may also find the weather quite trying (again, she may not, this is a minor energy).

It's not going to be easy for her but most of that is coming from her own mind - she has bound herself up in her worries and her concern for her husband and she is most likely making things into a bigger deal than what they are - not mountains out of molehills, but exaggerating things a bit because she is worried and upset and she doesn't have the emotional resources to just take things as they come and adapt to any situations that occur.

[accio-victuuri]

follow up clowning related to gg’s weibo post from here. a reminder first that i don’t think everything has to mean something and most of the time what they post is just plain and simple. we are clowns, so we will speculate but that doesn’t mean we have to find some candy for every content they post before we can enjoy & appreciate it. for example, we also think that the reason GG is doing these solar terms right now, while he is filming LoZ is in the synopsis of the drama, his character is the son of the “director of the Imperial Observatory of the Great Yong Kingdom” , that’s the english translation. but the key here in the original text is this word: 钦天监 [qīn tiān jiàn].

what is it? thank you to good old baidu for always having the answer:

Qin Tianjian is the signature of an official whose function is to observe celestial phenomena, calculate solar terms, and formulate calendars.

calculating solar terms. so that could be the connection he is hinting at that is somehow significant to the character he is playing. makes sense right?

this is not me washing anyone’s candy. i’m only laying out alternative explanations cause that’s how i do things. lol. the addition i have seen going around is kadian related and i’m not a kadian girlie so i was blocking it out when i first saw it. 😅😅😅

okay, now let’s go to the cpn. ⬇️⬇️⬇️

the post he made is his 1085th on weibo. oh what a good number, like a mashup between their birthdays. and the kadian that was used 191919. which means still still still. or you can concentrate on the repeated use of the number 999 ( In Chinese, nine is pronounced jiu, which also means “long lasting.” As the highest single digit, it represents the maximum level of mortal happiness, longevity, and good luck. A perfect ten is reserved for the gods. Case in point: in respect to the Heavens, the Forbidden City in Beijing has 9999.5 rooms, just short of a flawless 10,000. )

who is saying still too? forever with who? wang yibo. based on my first post about it, his use of that word 谷雨 that also came up in LTS lyrics.

another coincidence is that in the song itself, the word comes up in the 0:19 mark. 👀

commemorating the anniversary of when he followed yibo on weibo, 4/20/2018 so he posted on the eve of that day. maybe he is celebrating something else that only the two of them know and it’s not necessarily something as mundane as following a person on weibo. who knows. however, it’s on the bxg calendar so we are marking that down as a possible reason. 📝

i love this explanation tho, that goes back to that actual day years ago and what happened. it was the 5th day of filming CQL and they did not have scenes together, so why did he pay attention and followed him? he was filming the scene in the burial mounds, WWX was drunk and reminiscing about when he first met LWJ. WWX misses LWJ cause he is not there. Was XZ also missing WYB that time? to the point that he went to his weibo account and followed him?

it’s not a secret that XZ prefers it when WYB is there, not only to act with, but just there for him. plus this level of attachment on the 5th day of filming is not surprising when it comes to them.

finally, the imagery of the rain when it comes to them is one that holds some meaning. much like how we fixate on the stars and moon. photos below to show some of those relations to the rain. ☔️

and that lrlg conversation they had that went:

XZ: "I'm waiting for you"

WYB: "I'll come and have dinner with you when it rains”

XZ: "Tomorrow's meal"

WYB: "Then tomorrow"

before we end, i’ll add this quote that seems to fit the whole subject of rain:

"Because it rains so often, many important things in life seem to have happened in the rain. Those memories are now uncovered and still feel wet. Even if they dry, they are like a book soaked in water, with ripples on the paper that are difficult to calm down."

sources aside from the ones directly linked: one / two / three / four 💛

[defectivevillain]

this broken design

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary:

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

word count: 2.3k [ao3 version here]

Reader’s pronouns are unspecified but masc-intended. You take the place of Will Graham, essentially. [Will is the mf blueprint and I love him,, I just wasn’t creative enough to think of a way to fit the reader into the story without replacing him ;( ]

Since Hannibal is your therapist, the relationship [although ambiguous] is ethically questionable. That’s par for the course to many Fannibals, but I’ll put this here in case you’re new to the fandom.

warnings: canon-typical violence, dissociation, breach of doctor/patient boundaries, insomnia, sleepwalking, cannibalism, spoilers for episode 1.

Jack Crawford can’t take no for an answer. That’s nothing new, of course. However, it’s frustrating to constantly be on the receiving end of that disappointed glare of his. You can’t take it much longer. He seems to recognize that you’re beginning to break, because he calls in a doctor for your psychiatric evaluation: Doctor Hannibal Lecter. There’s one unspoken statement lingering in the air when you walk into the room: “You will pass this exam and return to the field.”

Against all odds, Dr. Lecter seems to be one of the more competent medical professionals you’ve worked with. He doesn’t poke or prod at things that make you uncomfortable, testing your limits to the maximum. He doesn’t look at you with the patronizing gaze you’re so used to receiving from your peers. Lecter looks at you and, sometimes, it feels as if he’s looking straight through you.

After passing the psychological evaluation—you have a strong suspicion that Dr. Lecter lied on those forms—you’re back on the field. Before long, Jack Crawford is ordering you to look at mangled bodies once more. You notice that it takes more out of you each time you look. Looking is exhausting and the longer you look, the more time it takes to return to your own body.

You’re able to cope until your encounter with the Minnesota Shrike. You feel your composure beginning to slip as you frantically look through files in the office of his construction site. Thankfully, you can finally put a name to the killer: Garret Jacob Hobbs. He’s a construction worker, a husband, and a father. The guy is entirely ordinary, almost scarily so.

When you arrive at the Hobbs’ residence minutes later, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s expecting you. The house is eerily silent and when you walk in, his wife is already dead. Dread churning in your stomach, you turn the corner, only to find Hobbs holding his daughter Abigail captive. There’s a knife pressed to her neck. The betrayed yet horrified expression on her face cements itself in your mind. You point your gun at him, but he slices her neck before you can shoot him. After firing one, two, three, nine shots, you kneel down and try to stifle Abigail’s bleeding. Your heart races in your chest and there’s a roaring noise in your ears. Amidst all the chaos, however, you can still sense Garret Jacob Hobbs staring at you with a sickening smirk on his face.

“See?” The man had asked, as the light faded from his eyes and his body slumped against the cabinets. You turn your attention back to Abigail, who is now gasping and panting heavily. Your hands shake as you desperately try to stop the bleeding. You’re too rattled to notice the sound of footsteps getting closer until there’s a hand on your shoulder. Dr. Lecter and you lock eyes and, even in the swirling mess of emotions running through your mind, there is overwhelming clarity. Dr. Lecter’s expression is far too calm. Just before you can contemplate that further, he’s gently pushing you to the side and tending to Abigail.

Everything after that passes in a blur. Abigail is taken to the hospital and Dr. Lecter accompanies her in the ambulance. Jack seems satisfied and disconcerted all at once. He pulls you aside and starts talking your ear off, but you admittedly can’t process anything of what he’s saying. Eventually, the agent gives up and leaves you to drive home. Even when you go to work the next morning, you can’t shake the grey haze that clings to your very being. “See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs’ voice rings in your ears. You did see; you only wish you hadn’t.

You begin to have weekly sessions with Dr. Lecter. Jack all but forces you to attend, but the sessions actually prove to be helpful. Dr. Lecter is certainly an eccentric character, that’s for sure. You’ve never quite met someone like him before, and you can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. The therapist is certainly mysterious. You want to figure him out, but, at the same time, there’s a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that is still wary around him. You haven’t necessarily forgotten the strangely calm look on his face in the Hobbs house, the mechanical way with which he accepted the pervasive aura of death all around him.

As great as Dr. Lecter is, he can’t fix everything. Your sleep, for example, is continuing to tank by the day. Since your return to the field, it’s difficult to fall asleep and even more difficult to stay asleep. After the Hobbs incident, you’re plagued with nightmares of dark crimson rivers. A few times, you’re even forced to relive the encounter: the moment Abigail slumps to the ground, the moment you shoot Hobbs again and again and again-

The moral of the story is that you’re not sleeping well. Your sleep has never been great, but it’s also never been this bad. You muse on that thought as you lie reclined on your mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Exhaustion tugs at your very core, but your mind refuses to slow down for even a moment. A voice in the back of your mind tells you that you shouldn’t even try to go to sleep, unless you want to slip into a killer’s skin once more. After staring up at the ceiling for an immeasurable amount of time, your eyes finally begin to fall shut.

Shadows seep into your eyes, coloring your vision dark. For a moment, there’s nothing but darkness. Garret Jacob Hobbs greets you like an old friend, his whispers ripping through your skin and into your very core. You claw at your head and close your eyes, desperate to rid yourself of his haunting voice. Somehow, your effort seems to work and you can’t hear his murmurs anymore. You want to drown in the shadowed void that stretches around you but, suddenly, there are two lights ripping through the blackness. You put a hand over your eyes as the brightness burns holes in your vision. Your eyes water and it takes several seconds for the graininess around you to disappear. To your surprise, there’s a car parked just to your left. You take a step forward and squint at the driver. The window rolls down slowly and your breath catches. A shiver rolls down your spine, and it’s not just the cold air that causes it. 

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried, and you quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

“I-” You try to say, but the words are stuck in your throat. His statement prompts you to look around and find out where exactly here is. Ultimately, you realize that you’re standing in the center of a road. It’s pretty dark outside. You look down and find that you’re still wearing your pajamas—a ragged shirt and sweatpants. Furthermore, there are scrapes lining your arms. You inhale sharply, beginning to feel panic seep into your bones.

Hannibal’s car door swings open and he moves to stand next to you. The therapist is dressed nicely, as always. You’d be more self conscious about your own attire if you didn’t feel so discombobulated. “What is the last thing you remember?” The man asks. You pause to ponder the question.

“Falling asleep,” you answer, after thinking about the past few hours. You were staring up at your bedroom ceiling. You must’ve fallen asleep at some point. There’s an infuriating lack of information- a gap from when you fell asleep to when you found yourself staring at the headlights of Hannibal’s car.

Silence settles in the air, thick and uncomfortable. You don’t know what to do or say, that could possibly justify this. Truly, one moment you were in bed and the next, you were standing in the middle of the road. You don’t exactly want to tell Hannibal that, but he seems to recognize the sentiment anyway. His brows are furrowed and his lips are pursed as he stares at you. His gaze is insistent and heated, so much so that you have to look away—lest you get burned.

“Come on,” Hannibal says. There’s an authoritative tone to his voice and you follow along instinctually. He helps you to his car with a hand on your shoulder. For a moment, you shiver in the passenger seat as he stares at you. Hannibal then shakes his head and takes off his jacket, putting it around your shoulders. You vaguely recognize that you must look truly pathetic, but you’re too cold not to burrow into the smooth fabric.

The moment he starts driving, you begin to remember your exhaustion. In actuality, you never got that much sleep. Judging from the radio in Hannibal’s car, it’s only two in the morning. You were only asleep for two hours and, yet, you walked all the way outside to the road. Gritting your teeth, you decide to look out the window. Despite your fatigue, your body doesn’t want to succumb to slumber. You have to settle for staring bleakly out the window.

“We’ve arrived,” Hannibal later announces. You blink dazedly, looking out the window to find a beautiful gothic home looming over you. Just before you can grab the door and get out, Hannibal is on the other side opening it for you. You fall in step beside him and allow him to lead you down the walk towards his home. He opens the door and allows you to enter first.

You feel extraordinary out of place here, as you usually do in Hannibal’s presence. The foyer has an elegant fireplace and deep blue accents. Paintings decorate the walls and there’s a vase of freshly trimmed flowers on one of the tables. You can see Hannibal having an internal debate with himself about giving you a formal tour or telling you about the pieces. He turns back to you expectantly and you follow him into the living room. You freeze in the doorway, upon realizing that you’re still wearing your shoes (which you don’t remember putting on in the first place). You quickly bend down and try to untie them, but your hands are trembling too much to do it.  

“Allow me,” Hannibal says, getting down on one knee. To your horror and humiliation, he proceeds to help you untie your shoes. You avert your eyes, feeling as if your skin is on fire. He must sense your discomfort, because he arches an eyebrow at you before untying them a little faster. Thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t offer to fetch you clean socks- you’re certain you’d die of embarrassment. Instead, the moment your shoes are off, he guides you to sit on the finely trimmed settee.

For a fraction of a second, when you look up at Hannibal, you see the cold, calculated gaze of a practiced killer. “You’re freezing,” Hannibal remarks. You swallow hard and watch with bated breath as he leaves the room. Perhaps you just imagined that. You look around the room, unsurprised to see hints of animals everywhere—what with the mounted antelope head and various skulls resting on the table behind you.

The Chesapeake Ripper sees his victims as animals, as pigs. You’re not quite sure why the killer comes to mind now of all times. Even so, you try to think about what you’ve gathered about him so far. He’s a middle-aged man with no current family. His tastes are eccentric and his murders are artistic performances. Furthermore, the killer is slippery. You’ve only found clues because, you suspect, he wanted you to find them. The killer is narcissistic; he knows he won’t be caught and prides himself on that fact.

Your head aches with the sleep you haven’t gotten. You rub at your eyes roughly, unable to shake the feeling that you’re on the crux of a realization. The Chesapeake Ripper… The killer refuses to leave your mind. Why is that thought plaguing you here, of all places? You’re in Hannibal’s residence, staring at the rather macabre animal imagery around the space, when it hits you. Everything clicks into place: the conveniently timed dinner parties, the luxurious lifestyle, the entire lack of shock on his face at the Hobbs’ house.

It appears you’ve found the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal chooses that exact moment to reappear. There’s a blanket folded over his arm and a mug in his hands. He seamlessly weaves through the room, coming to a stop over you. You look up at him from your position on the couch. “Are you alright?” You nod mutely, not trusting yourself to speak. The clock on the wall ticks ominously. Your hands are still trembling at your sides, so badly that Hannibal reaches out and cups them in his with a worried expression. You’re certain your teeth are chattering in your mouth. You’re going to die. You’ll be the next Chesapeake Ripper victim. When you close your eyes, you see your colleagues from the Behavioral Analysis Unit staring down at your corpse on the investigation table. You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. Your heart is thundering away in your chest and you know you must look suitably harrowed.

Hannibal extends a hand and you realize that the Chesapeake Ripper is giving you a cup of tea. You watch mutedly as an organ harvester gently cleans the scrapes on your skin. A coldhearted cannibal is placing a hand on your cheek and looking into your eyes, searching for something. A murderer is placing a blanket over your shoulders.

Hannibal sits down after his thorough investigation. Meanwhile, there’s one thought running through your mind: You can’t fall asleep here. You absolutely can’t let your guard down in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, the very cannibal you’ve been chasing for years. You sip the proffered tea and pretend that everything is alright. Hannibal seems content to sit with you in silence, although you can sense his gaze burning into the side of your face. Stay awake, you tell yourself. Stay alive.

Your eyes slip shut of their own accord

chapter two

Mwahahahah. AHAHHAHAHH…. Yes. I had to get that out, lol.

The untying of the shoes scene is a slight allusion to the Death Note scene in which L washes Light's feet. That's one of my favorite scenes in the series, as it hints at the parallels between L/Light and Jesus/Judas and the idea of recognizing betrayal before it comes. [Unfortunately, feet also gross me the hell out, so I settled for the untying of the shoes. Haha.]

This is entirely unrelated, but i got my dna results back and apparently i’m lithuanian 😏 [it’s not that significant or specific of a percentage, but just lemme have this 🙏]. hannibal, if ur reading this, i’m just like you frrrr 😮‍💨 except minus, yk, the cannibalism.

anyway, thanks for reading <3

[mirrorthoughts]

Just a dream

Sooo, fun story! I saw yesterday's @flashfictionfridayofficial prompt "Dark and Stormy Night" and suddenly had the idea to use it to write something for @twbingo prompt "Dream Walking", too.

The funny thing here is, that while FFF's maximum word count for a prompt is 1k, 1k is the Bingo's minimum word count. So of course I challenged myself to write exactly 1k for these two prompts 😂

So, have fun with "Just a dream"! (You can also read it here on AO3!)

________

(Teen Wolf, Pre-Stanny, the night of Stiles' outburst in the locker room about his virginity)

Come to my place at nine. Plan to stay the night. I like to cuddle.

Stiles knew that Danny hadn't really meant his words. At least he was pretty sure he hadn't. Or maybe he had and his 'Yes! I'm kidding!' he'd sighed more than anything had been the lie, the step back when Stiles hadn't quite taken his words seriously. Whatever it had been, Stiles was now standing in front of Danny's house, Roscoe parked around the corner, so Danny's parents wouldn't see him if Danny intended to keep the whole night on the down low. If the night would even happen. Stiles glanced around himself, chewing on his lip as he eyed first the dark corners in the streets around him, then the late evening sky that was hanging full of dark and heavy clouds. It looked like it would be a stormy night.

As if the world had listened to his thoughts, the wind started blowing harder, pulling at his flannel and making him shiver.

He glanced back to Danny's house and took a deep breath. When he stepped forward, lightning flashed over the sky and the rain started to fall. Well fuck. If Danny wouldn't open the door for him, he'd surely be soaked until he reached Roscoe. But the threat of death was still hanging over him so he had to at least try.

-

The room was dark. Outside Danny could hear the thunder of a gathering storm. He was pretty sure that he was dreaming, though, since he clearly remembered going to bed and turning off the lights. It would also explain why there was no one else in the house, not his parents, not his sister. And it would explain why he was sitting here in the darkness, not far from the front door.

Another thunder, then someone started pounding on the door. "Danny??" Danny blinked. What? He went to the door and opened it.

"Stiles? What are you doing here?" "Uh… You said nine?" The boy in front of him pressed his lips together and glanced over his shoulder. Danny couldn't help but follow his gaze into the darkness behind him. Lightning flashed across the sky and illuminated the area for a moment, the following darkness seemed even deeper. What had happened to the street lamps? "Sooo… We're not going to hook up?" Danny's eyes snapped back to Stiles. Oh. Stiles had been genuine when he'd wanted to take Danny up on his semi-serious offer.

No, wait. This was a dream, wasn't it?

"Danny?" He glanced at Stiles, then eyed the darkness behind him with trepidation. Something was wrong. Even if this was a dream, some things felt real.

Danny took a deep breath and stepped aside to let Stiles in.

-

"Stiles! Get up, you have school!" Stiles stared at the ceiling of his bedroom in confusion, collecting his thoughts. He'd just been at Danny's. Or at least he'd thought he'd been. But now he was home. Soo he hadn't gone? Had he come back? Had it been a dream? But it had felt real until up to the point Danny had let him into his home… and he had woken up.

"Stiles?!" "I'm awake!" "Good, I'm off to the station! Don't be late to school!" Stiles slowly climbed out of his bed. He could think while getting ready, because otherwise he would probably get sidetracked. He knew himself after all. So he took his meds, shoved his books into his backpack and grabbed some clothes to change into.

Once he'd brushed his teeth and grabbed some breakfast from the kitchen he was already on his way to school. He still wasn't sure if what he remembered had happened at all. It felt more like a dream, but at the same time it had felt real, too.

During his first classes he couldn't see Danny anywhere - which didn't mean much because they didn't always have the same classes together. Then, once lunch time rolled around, he finally spotted the other boy and- Stiles hesitated. He hadn't quite thought about what to do once he saw Danny. Because what was he supposed to do if everything had been a dream? Nevermind how real it had felt in the moment- no, nevermind how real it felt even now thinking back to it. Just because it had felt real didn't mean it actually had been, right?

A shiver ran down his spine as he realized what he had told himself. He was kind of lucky that Scott was occupied with other matters - read people - these days, because otherwise he'd have a very worried werewolf on his side. Not that he didn't usually wish Scott were a bit more observant or at least would listen better to him, but that was neither here nor there. Right now… Right now he just hoped that he wasn't showing the same symptoms as his mother had. That whatever was happening had to do with something supernatural. That- "Stiles? Can we, talk?"

-

Danny ignored the weird looks he was getting from Jackson and the rest of their clique as he walked over to Stiles, who stared at him, slightly dazed, as if he was looking more through Danny than at him. Maybe not ideal circumstances but there wasn't much time until their next classes and he wanted to resolve this - whatever this was - as soon as possible. "Stiles?" The other boy blinked and stared at him for a moment, then looked around them until he nodded. To Danny's surprise, instead of saying something - Stiles' usual MO - Stiles grabbed his hand and pulled him into an empty class room.

"Was there a storm last night? Danny froze. "No," he said, because he'd asked his parents the same thing this morning. "And you didn't come over either. That was just a dream." Stiles relaxed as he nodded. "Right, a dream."

They stared at each other, both of them sure that neither of them believed it. But what else had happened last night?

-------

[nancy-xx]

Nancy and Sid

The Chelsea was a rather appropriate setting for the events of last week, which culminated in the arrest of Sid Vicious on a charge of murdering his girlfriend Nancy Spungen. When Swedish writer Stina Lindberg stayed there a couple of weeks ago, she was not surprised to find Sid and Nancy as fellow guests Naturally, she sought an interview...

SID VICIOUS Ex-Sex Pistol

Nancy Spungen, his girl friend. There's no mistaking Sid's black, spiky hair and his bovverboy aura. I only see the back of Nancy's head. She looks like an old woman. Hunchbacked. Tufts of almost white hair stick out from underneath her beret. Her coat is an ancient, ankle-length article. It's a Saturday, September 31.1 spot then in the lobby of the Chelsea Hotel on West 23d Street in New York. If you find yourself living at the same hotel as Sid Vicious, if you're a journalist and you like the new wave, you're an idiot not to try to talk to him. But it feels weird. The same evening, I see Sid play with ex-members of the New York Dolls at Max's Kansas City, haven of New York punks. Sid screams, makes faces, and spits. Grabs himself between the legs, doesn't look at the audience at all. They're all awkward on stage, the volume is insupportable, and the music is lousy. The paing audience is less than warm. The only ones enjoying the show are three pale peroxide blondes with fire-engine red lipstick sitting on the stage moving with the music. They're with the guys in the band, Sid seems to want to pack it in after three numbers, and splits. Nancy runs after him and brings him back. He spits, makes another face and starts playing again. He doesn't get through to the audience, and his half-hearted spasms just look pathetic. A lone, doped-out Japanese bops away frantically, but the rest of the audience is frozen. Sid is not a great musician, nor is he a genuine stage personality. Sid is a 21-year-old Englishman enlarged to the size of a Colossus by the mass media. Poor bastard. I ring Sid's room repeatedly to try for that interview. Finally he answers and agrees to talk to me the same evening. At nine p.m. I knock on his door. Room 100, ane flight up at the Chelsea Hotel. The hotel is the first New York building to have a cultural preservation order stamped on it. Brendan Behan, Dylan Thomas, Janis Joplin, Andy Warhol and many other artists and musicians have lived here. These days, there's a motley blend of prostitutes, pop musicians, near-destitute pensioners, French film teams and tourists. The door is yanked open. Nancy all but draga me into the room. Sid leaps up from the bed. He's wearing orange overalls and a chain around his neck. He checks me out nervously, then runs about the room, digging in his clothes and bags Nancy, dressed in a black net leotard and black leather trousers, holds my arm, hard, and babbles "What are we going to do? We don't know a thing. We just got to New York and don't know the score. Is five too much?" Sid searches nervously for something. The room is both bare and disordered. There's a big bed with a TV at the foot of it. A desk, a table, a chair. Two or three gold records are propped against the wall, and there are suitcases on the floor. Sid and Nancy have just changed rooms. The mattress caught fire in the other one. Suddenly I get it. They think I'm a dealer. God. I swallow, then explain who I am. Sid explodes a groan and throws himself onto the bed "Fuck' sighs Nancy. She lets go my arm and lies down with Sid. The TV drones on at maximum volume. I sit on the edge of the bed, laughing at the absurdity of everything. Sid points out that there's nothing to laugh at. I turn on my tape recorder "What do you think of New York?" "Very democratic. Do pretty much what you want. Not that you'd probably do anything much, but that's beside the point" turns out that Sid is trying to put together a band. It "I had a group going. Johnny Thunders. But Nancy smashed up Johnny's girl, so it went down the drain "Did you?" I asked Nancy. " "Yeah. She fed a lot of stupid stuff to me. I've been friends with Johnny Thunders for years. We had a lot of fun. And she couldn't take it. She started it, so I kicked her in the face," So Sid's looking for a new group, and plays with the ex-Dolls in the meantime We talk about the show at Max's Sid blames the audience, "My name's worth quite a bit of bread over here," he said.

"Isn't that because of the Sex Pistols? "No My name's worth a lot on it's own. It's worth more than any of the rest of them." Nancy agrees, and points out that Sid has had more press than any of the others. "Why?" "Because I'm what people call a bad boy. I do things that are outrageous,' he says, with what sarcasm he can muster. "Do you think that you're outrageous?" "No, but that's what they write about me. They're square "Do you think you're a free person?" "No. I'm on house arrest" "Who put you there?" "The world. But I'm going to try to get us free. I won't be able to do it, but if people get the idea for long enough, the idea that punk started off, it'll become like that eventually." We talk about punk's anti-racist side, and about Rock Against Racism, which Sid says he supports, and about England, which Sid reckons is the most boring country in the world-after Sweden, where I come from. America is okay. Sid Vicious is okay, and is doing fine However, the Sid Vicious I see in front of me seerns anything but. He and Nancy make me think of two animals caught in a trap and trying to claw their way. Desperately. out I ring the next day, and speak to Nancy. She doesn't seem to understand me, and thinks I'm trying to put her and Sid down. I tell her she's paranoid, but ask her for an interview. She seems to break down, and suddenly sounds genuine "It's not so strange that we get suspicious. Everybody's trying to get at us, trying to get Sid's money. Every bastard we meet wants to get famous through Sid. They've made a fortune off him here in the U.S., but we don't get anything. I'm a person, you dig? Not a dog" I ask her again about an interview, but she freaks when I say I can't pay her. "You think you can speak to us free?" suddenly she's hard-boiled again and go back to Sweden and make money because you met Sid Vicious? Get fucked!" I begin to see their dilemma. They think they can go on living off their fame, while they're in the process of buming out. Sid and Nancy sense that, I felt. What they didn't know was that the Swedish papers would pay more than any of us thought at the time because someone,   maybe Sid, stuck a knife into Nancy a week after I met them Sid's under real arrest. Nancy's dead. And the pop industry and mass media hysteria are doing okay.

[vicmillen]

I think some of the chain sucks at cooking the way I'd probably also suck at cooking if I need to do it for nine young boys over a campfire. Point is, cooking in bulk is different to cooking for yourself and cooking over campfire is different than cooking over a stove or whatever.

Anyway I just think most of them are either not used to cooking with campfire or not used to cooking a large portion, or both. Not necessarily just bad at cooking period. Unlike Hyrule

Wars would probably be the only one with at least some experience with campfire cooking in bulk, what with the army training. But he only knows how to makes like, a total of three stews that somehow managed to taste exactly the same. Even if it's not really bad, it get old really fast. Wind would also have some experience helping with the ship's cook in Tetra's crew, but he's only good with helping the prep, and he doesn't necessarily like doing it.

Four, Sky, Time, Legend, and Twilight could probably managed a half decent meal, if they're at home and if it's only for a maximum of three to four people. Although Sky knows how to make a good pumpkin soup, courtesy of community service at Lumpy Pumpkin. Which Twilight is also good at, I think? But other than that it's always a hit and miss if they're put on cooking duty. There's constantly problems with seasoning, doneness, pot boiling over, burnt bottom, portion sizes too little or too big, and all the unholy mess that happens when you make things in a unfamiliar portion size.

Hyrule and maybe Time would be better off with foraging ingredients than with anything involving a fire, at least they sometimes help provide for some fresh veggies and fruit. But again, it's not a reliable source, what with them constantly changing worlds and caught up with fights.

So yeah Wild with his amazingly plentiful recipes and experience doing it in bulk does get appreciated a lot. If nothing then for the consistency in quality and quantity. Not to mention he actually enjoyed doing it, the weirdo.

[thecreaturecodex]

Zap Kraken

Image © Turtle Rock Studios

[Sponsored by Soluman Blevins. The second of the Evolve monsters I've done, other than the warpwraith. Mechanically, the Kraken is interesting, but design wise, it's a little drab. Because it's just a Cthulhu. The lightning bolt wings are a cool touch, but otherwise, it's very much a Cthulhu. And in a game that already has Cthulhu and his star-spawn, I wanted to differentiate it a bit. So I tied it to one of my favorite one-shot weirdo monsters from the 3e era.]

Zap Kraken CR 16 CE Aberration This immense creature has a roughly dinosaur-like body and the head of a colossal cephalopod. A vertical maw stretches between its beard of tentacles, and two large jointed appendages grow from its back and crackle with electricity. Its long tail is segmented like the vertebral column of a great beast.

Zap krakens are rare aberrant creatures that use electrical energy for both offense and mobility. Although they are enormous, they fly with surprising grace by manipulating electricity, essentially creating wings of lightning that hold them aloft. They are remarkably stealthy for their size, and can sneak up on prey from above before dropping to melee or merely blasting away with channeled lightning bolts.

Zap krakens are territorial, and maintain their territory by creating banshee mines, so called for the shriek of their explosions. These mines home in on creatures that get too close, and the zap kraken can also visit them to see what it has seen, similar to a prying eyes spell. Although zap krakens typically view other creatures as prey first and foremost, they have a mutual fondness for zeugalaks. Both species have tentacled maws and an affinity for electricity, and sages speculate that they are related to each other. A zap kraken often views zeugalaks the way a nobleman views their prized hunting hounds, using them to flush out prey or occupy melee combatants. 

Zap Kraken CR 16 XP 76,800 CE Gargantuan aberration Init +7; Senses blindsense 120 ft., darkvision 60 ft., Perception +17

Defense AC 30, touch 14, flat-footed 22 (-4 size, +7 Dex, +1 dodge, +16 natural) hp 225 (18d8+144) Fort +14, Ref +13, Will +15 DR 10/magic; Immune cold, electricity; SR 26

Offense Speed 50 ft., fly 100 ft. (good) Melee 2 claws +18 (2d6+8), tentacles +17 (4d4+8), 2 wings +16 (2d6+4 plus 1d6 electricity) Space 20 ft.; Reach 20 ft. (30 ft. with tentacles) Special Attacks banshee mines, lightning strike, shock pulse

Statistics Str 26, Dex 24, Con 28, Int 11, Wis 19, Cha 19 Base Atk +16; CMB +28; CMD 46 Feats Blind-fight, Combat Reflexes, Dodge, Flyby Attack, Hover (B), Mobility, Multiattack, Stand Still, Weapon Focus (claw) Skills Acrobatics +20 (+28 when jumping), Fly +21, Intimidate +17, Perception +17, Stealth +16, Survival +17; Racial Modifiers +8 Stealth Languages Aklo

Ecology Environment warm hills Organization solitary or band (1 plus 1-4 zeugalaks) Treasure standard

Special Abilities Banshee Mines (Su) As a standard action, a zap kraken can create up to three animated mines. Treat these as the eyes generated by the prying eyes spell, only when a creature approaches within 30 feet of them (all creatures or of a type set by the zap kraken on creation), they fly towards that creature and explode. Treat this as a ranged touch attack using the zap kraken’s modifiers (+19 for a typical specimen). If it hits, the creature struck takes 4d6 points of electricity damage and 4d6 points of sonic damage. Whether the mine hits or not, it explodes, dealing this damage in a 5 foot radius (Reflex DC 23 halves). A zap kraken knows when one of its mines has detonated as long as it is within 1 mile of the mine. A zap kraken can create up to nine mines a day, but can have a maximum of three in existence at a time. The save DC is Charisma based. Lightning Strike (Su) As a standard action, a zap kraken can call down a bolt of lightning within 160 feet. It fills a column 60 feet high with a 20 foot radius, dealing 16d8 points of electricity damage to all creatures in the area (Reflex DC 23 halves). A zap kraken can use this ability once every 1d4 rounds. The save DC is Charisma based. Shock Wave (Su) As a standard action, a zap kraken can release an electrical pulse in a 60 foot radius centered on its body. All creatures in the area take 16d4 points of electricity damage and are pushed back 10 feet. A successful DC 27 Reflex save halves the damage and resists the knockback effect. A zap kraken can use this ability every other round. The save DC is Constitution based.  Tentacles (Ex) The tentacles of a zap kraken are treated as a single primary natural weapon

[megamindsupremacy]

Misc PJO Fic Recs (Part 4)

The Stolen God by TsarinaTorment

Python is defeated. The prophecies are restored, and Nero has fallen. Apollo has not been seen since. His trials are over; why isn’t he back on Olympus?

-

Baby Blofis College Fund by zipadeea

Valerie calls her an hour later.

“Sally, what the hell?”

“That bad, huh?”

“Bad? Sally, it’s gold. I went from squirming in my seat to crying genuine tears. And that twist, making him a Greek god, it’s exactly what we’re looking for right now. How soon can you get me the next chapter?”

***

In which Sally Jackson realizes by the time the new baby is eighteen, a semester of college will cost an arm and a leg. And those Fifty Shades of Grey books sure did make a lot of money.

-

to bet on losing dogs by furnaceglow

The thing is,” Apollo said, the coolest prisoner of war in all of time. Prometheus wasn't prone to jealousy, but even he felt a drop of envy at how relaxed Apollo was in maximum security. "How to define a man…are we talking ontology here? That’s broad scope, bigger picture. We can include ourselves in that definition. Philosophy otherwise! Our good man Diogenes. You remember Diogenes! Or are we specifically talking about man for the sake of man? Is this about anthropology, is what I’m saying.” “I’m open to all interpretation,” Prometheus said. “Been a while since I’ve had good conversationalists here. Krios is all grunting, and Hyperion is solely interested in making his quarters nicer.” “Well, he has an eye for interior design, I’ll give him that,” Apollo said.

In which Percy Jackson ascends to a reluctant godhood, his mother loses the war but wins a battle, and for once, Prometheus picks the winning horse.

-

and if your eyes don't speak by Pixelfun20

Estelle Jackson is seven years old when she meets her nephew for the first time, over a grainy Facetime call.

OR

Estelle grew up with stories of Percy Jackson, but it takes meeting his son to realize who he really was.

-

the carriage held but just ourselves by Writeous

The official story is this: Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase, just two months shy of their seventh wedding anniversary, hurtle off a cliff on a lonely mountain road. A tragic accident, a sharp turn taken too quickly. Their 2023 Prius was found buried under debris, three hundred feet below where witnesses claim they fell. Paramedics declared them dead upon arrival, suffering blunt force trauma as their car collapsed with them inside.

The real story is this: Percy and Annabeth watch as Hecate’s children create perfect duplicates of them that are promptly hurled off a cliff. Percy loved that Prius.

(Or: at the end of the Titan War, Zeus offered Percy immortality. Percy was mistaken in thinking it was an actual choice.)

-

Dawn Rises From The East by TsarinaTorment

During the Battle of Manhattan, Michael Yew fell into the East River; his body was never found. Two years later, a homeless kid known only as Ferret has a chance encounter that changes everything he knows.

-

Annabeth and the Nine Step Career Plan by feeling_the_aster_9145

Annabeth Chase does not accept limitations. Everyone knows that. If she wants something, no matter how impossible, she will find a way to make it happen. Though, perhaps she will allow Bruce Wayne and his ridiculous paranoia-induced company restrictions a small portion of the credit.

Actually… now that she thinks about it, the man may have had a point in his worries.

Wayne Technologies does not accept college interns. Annabeth always has a plan B.

-

is it really a crime if you don't exist? by MidnightBunny

"So, what you're saying is," Percy said, staring at the man in front of him. "you're me from the future."

The man took a drink out of the coffee cup in his hand. "Yup."

"And you're here," Percy said slowly. "Because Annabeth's brother's boyfriend is trying to prove the existence of the multiverse."

The man nodded.

"And you got sucked in when he turned it on."

Nod.

"And now you don't know how to get home."

Nod.

"And how did you get sucked in, again?"

The man mumbled something.

"What?"

"I was coming back from the bathroom and opened the wrong door."

-

(I'm so excited this one is back y'all, the author privated all her works but just unprivated them a few weeks back so now I'm recommending you read all of her stuff, especially this fic)

Son of Sea Foam by CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

“She’ll never claim me,” he whispered. Silena shook her head, eyes wild as she looked around for anyone who could be watching.

“My mother doesn’t remember half of her children as it is,” she said with a note of bitterness. “If you do something to impress her, it won’t matter. Return the bolt in her name. She’ll claim you if you act the part. If you stay unclaimed then they'll figure out what you really are," she said, squeezing his hands tightly. Percy's heart sped up.

"I - I don't know the first thing about Aphrodite-"

"My mother was born of sea foam," Silena cut him off. "And if you're really who I think you are... you are the sea. You can pull this off," she said and touched his cheek. "Get the bolt. Survive," she said. Percy swallowed.

"What if I can't act the part?" He asked. Silena's expression went blank for a moment. Slowly, she slipped off her bracelet and placed it in his hands.

"If you're going to be one of us... you better learn."

Or

AU where Percy has to hide the fact he's a Big Three kid otherwise he'll be killed on the spot. Unfortunately for him, unclaimed kids tend to raise the most suspicion... but he might have found a loophole in the form of Aphrodite.

-

This fic on tumblr that’s one of the best PJO fics I’ve ever read

[gabessquishytum]

No sex-ed Dream our beloved 😁 how about the reverse of that last ask? Dream was told as a child that only married couples have babies, and growing up somehow completely missed any evidence to refute that. Even when he later (barely) learns about sex, by the time he’s in college he pretty firmly thinks it’s sex + marriage = babies. He still wanted his first time to be special though, so he’s still a virgin until he starts sleeping with Hob.

When Dream starts having pregnancy symptoms, he simply assumes he caught a bad flu or something. At some point Hob hesitantly brings up the possibility of pregnancy, but Dream just rolls his eyes and says something like that’s impossible, or that he’s pretty sure he would’ve noticed if he was pregnant.

What he’s thinking is “It’s impossible obviously bc we’re not married, and I’m pretty sure I would’ve noticed if we had gotten married, very funny Hob (actually that sounds lovely, but we should probably wait until after graduation)”.

What Hob hears is either “that’s impossible” as in Dream can’t have kids (a bit of a disappointment, but there’s always adoption), or “I would’ve noticed” as in Dream has already checked and confirmed he’s not, maybe he already took a test and it came back negative or he’s on his period, so Hob lets it go, and the nausea quickly goes away anyway and they move on in blissful ignorance (btw if Dream is like me he’s really really bad at tracking his cycles, so he doesn’t even notice that he’s missed a couple months (I’m so bad, if I ever get pregnant missing my period is not how I’m gonna find out 😅)).

If possible for maximum comedy I’d try to keep Dream in denial up until the birth, but Hob will probably bring the subject back up a little more forcefully when Dream starts showing. At first it could be dismissed as a little weight gain (and that’s what Dream definitely thinks it is), but at a certain point it’s clear that that’s a baby bump, it’s literally a baby bump, Dream do you have something you’d like to share???

They finally sit down and clear everything up, then they can both have a little freak out as a treat, that Dream is pregnant, they’re gonna be dads, holy shit they are so behind they need to schedule all the appointments yesterday.

-🪽anon

My love for this au never ends!!!! And I do have a huge soft spot for a Dream who is very obviously pregnant and very much in denial about it. Maybe he insists that Hob has just been feeding him too well! And Hob is staring at the very round very obvious bump (which occasionally ripples as the baby begins to move around and throw punches). Admittedly he likes to keep Dream eating plenty of nutritious meals, but his lasagnes definitely didn't do THAT.

I think deep, deep down Dream knows that he's having a baby, but he's very scared and kind of hoping the whole situation will go away if he ignores it. He still doesn't know HOW he got into this mess. Did him and Hob get married with out realising it? Dream is so confused and anxious and he wants a nine month nap and a hug. Instead he gets a baby (and a boyfriend who loves him very much and is who is NOT going to put his dick inside Dream without a condom for a very, very long time).

Nevertheless, the expectant parents are very very excited!!!! Hob is telling everyone he knows that his boyfriend is pregnant!!!! He's got a lil miracle in his belly!!!! Hob’s gonna be a daddy for real!!!! And Dream pulls off the most beautiful, iconic, celebratory trans pregnancy to the point where the entire campus is invested, and bigots everywhere are drowning in ire and envy.

It's especially nice that their baby, aged around 18 months, gets to be the guest of honour when they do get married. Dream and Hob get a night off from parenting their little one and have a very raunchy consummation of their marriage in their hotel room........ where Dream suggests that now they're actually married, maybe it's time to try for another baby?

Hob takes great pleasure in chucking the condoms out into the corridor. Time to make a baby with his HUSBAND <3

[apprenticestanheight]

THE FIVE DAYS OF SMUTMAS QUEUE: DAY ONE

Bad Decembers - Adam Stanheight x gn! reader

OKAY!! I would not be me if I did not find a way to worm my love for the holiday season into my love for writing, so that's what the fics coming out in this queue are going to be—not all of them will be the pinnacle of the christmas season but all of them will at least be set in december and mentions of the holidays will probably worm their way into several, but the guarantees I can make are that the fics will either be close to or more than 1k words, and that there will, at a minimum, be snowy weather in the fics because we have gotten snow maybe twice where I am and I can't resist.

This one stems from a thought that I had on the sixteenth where I was like "okay angry and aggressive sex with adam, talk it out, then make up sex for round two yay" but it did change a little bit as things do when they start as ideas but get turned into fics! It's not that different from the original concept—the idea is the same it's just that round two is a little different than how I'd originally intended because I believe in my heart of hearts that Adam would be a fiend for giving oral so this fits that headcanon.

lastly, this fic is meant for audiences of 18+! Minors, DO NOT INTERACT.

Fic type- this is smut!

Warnings- adam is a guy with anger issues and they get the best of him (it is mentioned a couple of times that he punches a coworker in the face after he was provoked, and the work environment Adam is in is implied to be shitty anyway, as someone slapping someone else is also mentioned) the reader is gn for all intents and purposes but as I know the anatomy best, they're AFAB but referenced with gn terms and petnames (aside from the word pussy, which only gets used once), Unprotected sex, rough sex, reader is a masochist and Adam is kind of sadistic, oral sex (m! giving) bruises do happen because adam gets a bit manhandl-y and bruises and rough biting ensue, as does rough groping. Pet play is also in this one a few times (in use of the nickname puppy only, gn terms when smut writing aren't my strongest suit so puppy is for some reason my go-to)

December, despite all of the cheer and festiveness it usually carried, was just not your month, so it seemed.

Work was very, very difficult for you, which really shouldn't've come as a surprise come the last month of the year, but somehow always did.

Crappy coworkers always became the crappiest versions of themselves with the onset of the holiday season, and by December, amidst having to listen to your coworkers complain about how difficult their relatives were to shop for, several HR-funded Christmas parties where you and Adam would drink some of the cheapest booze and listen to your crappiest coworkers complain, and a Secret Santa gift exchange with a minimum—yes, a minimum, which to you seemed kind of ludicrous, though a max amount was certainly something you understood—spending allowance of $150 and a maximum of $380, you were angry and exhausted and looked forward to the nine days off you took between the twenty third and the thirty first like nobodies fuckin' business.

The only bright side to working in that company was the fact that you'd gotten the opportunity to get your secret santa—and one of the few decent coworkers you had in your offices, one named Claire who was actually breeching close friend territory more and more by the day—a bundle of things she'd mentioned really needing in those past few weeks thanks to the budget imposed by your offices.

You'd had the chance to get her a couple of the books she liked in addition to a couple of gift cards to grocery stores and gas stations as she was in a very tight situation with her mooch husband who refused to work point blank period. You'd gone over budget with her gift, actually, and it was the first and last year you'd ever do that.

You were working in marketing and sales and you made $2000 biweekly, which covered your half of rent and utilities, groceries and other bills with something like six hundred to spare to use as fun money. When you'd brought it up with Adam, who'd met Claire a good couple times at those Christmas parties and thought she was great for your morale, he'd supported you, said to go all out because you'd have the money back in your account two weeks from your latest paycheck anyway.

So, grocery cards, gas cards, books and around $100 in stowaway cash later, you'd gone over budget by $80 but had zero regrets because of how happy it made Claire at the end of the gift exchange.

For what it was worth—you were gifted a Nespresso and five boxes of Nespresso pods from someone who practically loathed you and probably wanted you to refuse it, but by the 21st you were so sick of work and people and everything else that you just faked a smile, said your thanks in a way that seemed just a little too sweet and definitely a bit too happy, and knew that you and Adam would cherish that Nespresso for all of the glorious coffee it made on your latest nights until it broke in the years to follow.

Getting home from the gift exchange at six, you were tired and angry at the world, pretty much, and it seemed—based on vibes alone—that Adam was much the same.

For Adam, though, it had definitely been work. After the trap, he'd switched from working as a glorified snitch for far less money than all of it was worth to working closely with a gallery that liked the shots he took enough to commission him for collections of photos. The commission money was certainly more than enough—from commissions, he got $3000 a month for 300 photos, which were typically displayed for six, eight, or ten months before he had to pick a new theme and the cycle repeated—but the gallery people he was working with were much like your coworkers in that they became the worst versions of themselves in the holiday season.

The collection he'd been trying to get together had been one part of a four hundred photo collection that captured Jersey in the winter which was due to start displaying on the 23rd and would stay up until the second of January the following year. He was working with three other people and the gallery staff and all of them were too stuck up to actually cooperate with him.

To that point, it had been twenty-one days of screaming matches, crappy coffee made worse by the bitterness Adam felt, and fighting day in and day out to keep his anger internal while he was in the apartment you shared because yelling at you, when he'd worked so hard to keep his anger issues in check? That was, under no circumstances, an option.

The first four months of your relationship had been spent with fights once every two weeks because Adam was still trying to learn how to keep his anger in check after letting it go unchecked for so long, and you'd been dating for five years. In those five years, after that rocky four months, you'd both found a balance and you both loved that balance. Adam wasn't going to fuck it up because he was angry at people who existed in a realm completely othered from the one where you were.

Well—he was going to try to avoid fucking it up for himself.

He's sitting on the couch, stewing in his anger when you come home. You grin at him, exhausted, and Adam leaves to the kitchen before you can get a word in—he'd been warned to expect a joint call sometime before midnight in relation to the collection that he had to take 100 photos for and he was antsy as well as angry, and he doesn't want you to see him like that, spiteful and angry at anything that breathes the wrong way.

He tries to make coffee with the pot you'd taken when you'd moved out of your parents place eight years prior, though the coffee machine seems to have a disagreement with Adams idea as it refuses to work, which causes Adam to snap.

"Fuck!" He shouts, hitting the coffee machine and regretting it because damn, plastic meeting knuckles is a horrible feeling. "All I need is some goddamned coffee, but no! The fucking machine—"

You step into the kitchen. When Adam hears your footsteps, he turns on his heels to face you, sees your grin.

"The coworker who loathes me gave me something that will definitely make your night a bit better," you say. "He probably wanted me to refuse but I figured we would need a new one soon anyway. It's a Nespresso, there are five different coffee types to choose from, and all you need to do is set it up. Shitty month?"

"Shitty is a fucking understatement," Adam grits his teeth. "I'm just so pissed off at the world right now, Y/N. I wouldn't be around me if I were you—when I get like this I am a flight risk because I tend to want to break things. Punched a guy in the face today and was reprimanded for an hour or three, which just made my day a lot fucking longer than it needed to be, and everything is shitty all the goddamned time and I'm sick of it."

You nod, further enter the kitchen and set the Nespresso up while Adam stews in his anger, trying to calm himself down in the ways he normally does only to find that nothing is working. He's frustrated with everything that's happened in the past three weeks, and the more he reflects on that time the angrier he gets.

And then, something happens. You accidentally sidestep onto his foot and the floodgates open, and he snaps. He screams for a solid five minutes about shit that doesn't even relate to you and you just—you just let him. You do fight back but it's like part of you understands that not all of it relates to you anyway so you just let him say his peace, and when he storms off, you don't follow him.

He goes to your bedroom, angry now with the events of the past three weeks, and the fact that he punched someone in the face, and with himself for snapping at you instead of just communicating, and he sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the wall and stewing within his anger until you're opening the door, poking your head in and meeting his gaze.

"You're still angry?" You ask, tone calm and even.

Adam nods, pursing his lips. He doesn't want to be angry anymore, doesn't want to do anything other than let everything go and apologize for all of the shit he berated you for, but he's still angry. Something within him isn't letting him let it go, even as much as he wants to.

"All right," you step into the room. "Would sex help? That way you can just get your frustrations out while also getting endorphins and all that other health shit."

Adam clenches his jaw. "No," he says. "We've never fucked while one of us has been angry, Y/N, and if I'm willing to punch someone in the face while I'm pissed off, I'm a little scared to find out how rough I would be willing to be with you if I did that while so mad I could smoke two joints and still feel it."

You shrug, leaning your back against the door to close it. "So be rough," you suggest. "I don't care, Adam—I think we've discussed it before, but I do like being manhandled. You can leave bruises, too. I don't care how rough you are with me, I just hate seeing you like this and if sex will take your mind off it and if it's something you're willing to do, I want to do it."

"I don't wanna leave you bruised," Adam says. He hates how obvious it is that he's half-lying. He doesn't hate the idea of you bruised—it's just how you end up as such—if someone else hurts you, he'll be ready to commit murder. But if he were ever to do that? He would feel immeasurably guilty.

"You're lying to me," you say, catching onto it immediately. "You don't want me bruised as in black eyes or punches or something else physical and abusive and you would never, ever do that to me so I'm not at all worried about that, but you would absolutely cherish the bruising on my hips and arms from holding onto me that tight during sex. I would cherish them, too, actually."

Adam tsks, "masochist," he says before biting on his bottom lip. He gets to standing, crosses the room and closes in on you, grinning as he feels your breath against his face.

"If I'm a masochist, you're a sadist," you whisper pointedly. Adams hands go to your hips, holding them tightly, thumbs pressing into your skin until he finds your hip bones and you moan just low enough for Adam not to hear it at the contact.

"Mhm," Adam whispers as he leans in so that his lips are millimeters away from your pulse point. "Gonna let me use you, puppy? Need an outlet for my anger, and you did offer."

"Yeah," Adam can't help but smile as he presses himself up against you and notices the way that your arms clench at your sides because you're physically trying to keep yourself from leaning into his touches, not wanting to give into it as quickly as you might've when he called you puppy. "All yours to use, Adam. Please. Don't want you to be angry anymore, and if using me is what it takes then go ahead."

Adams left hand moves from your hip to your face, thumb tilting your chin up and to the left so that he has better access to your neck.

"Good puppy," he whispers, this time close enough to hear the quiet moan that the praise pulls out of you. "That's all you are, isn't it? Just a good puppy, reliant on praise and my cock."

You haven't had sex since early November, so both of you are sexually frustrated, which is the icing on the fucking cake.

You moan in response, grinding your hips against him. He pushes his leg between your thighs as his tongue presses flat against your pulse point, the grip he holds on your hip remaining steady. The hand thats on your face moves down to your hip again, thumb pressing until it finds the bone.

"Mine to use," Adam says after a couple of seconds. The anger that's within him exists like a fire pit in his stomach, burning bright and burning hot and burning unrelentingly. "Right, Y/N?"

"However you want," You don't know how you're managing to speak. "As rough as you want, Adam—fucking hell. Please."

"You're perfect," he loosens his grip on your hips, kisses down your jawline until he's back at your lips again.

When he kisses his way up to your lips, the kisses he leaves in his path are rather sweet. His hands are groping aggressively at just about anywhere they can get to, and when his hands settle on your hips again, your lips are on his and the kiss he pulls you into, tongue sliding into your mouth as you open it in a quiet moan, is enough to leave your lips bruised.

Adam doesn't pull away until you're starting to and he's realizing that he can't really breathe. You press your forehead against his shoulder and take a deep inhale, arms settling around his waist.

Adam pulls away, cups your face in his hands. "Getting submissive on me already?" He asks teasingly, grinning at you a little. "Oh, Y/N. You're so easy."

You hum your agreement. "You always manage to make quick work," you murmur, moving to lay down on the bed that you share. Adam stops you, unbuttoning your work shirt and tossing it into the farthest corner of the room before you can go any further. You lay on the bed as Adam takes off the granddad sweater he'd chosen to wear after having absolutely nothing else in his closet during what would later turn into a laundry evening, happy to stare at the ceiling while you wait for your beloveds next move.

His lips are on yours again seconds later, one hand roving over your chest while the other is near your face after he'd bent his arm at the elbow to hold himself up.

After he's kissed you sufficiently, he moves his lips down your neck, kissing and biting and sucking at the skin mercilessly. You wonder, for a second, if he wants to draw blood and decide that if he does, you'll let him because the pain feels so good.

Adam laughs after he's bitten down on your collarbone particularly harshly and you've moaned lewdly, rolling your hips against his half hard length without thought.

"You're such a slut for pain," he nips at the skin again gently. "I really do think that I could cut you to pieces and you'd thank me for it, Y/N."

the thought of it makes your core wet, and so you give an embarrassed nod. Adam just laughs again, lifting your hips while still maintaining an aggressive hold on them and releasing that hold to take off your pants and underwear, leaving you completely open and bare in front of him.

You shiver as a gust of cold Jersey air gets through the room through the slightly opened window, nipples hard as pebbles from Adams ministrations, and watch him take his own pants and boxers off.

"Want me to wear a condom?" Adam asks.

You shake your head. "I can take a plan B pill," you respond. "Just--please. Please don't make me wait. Need you."

"Good puppy," Adam breathes. He goes back to kissing you before his lips move to your chest, biting and sucking at your nipples in the way he knows makes you melt the quickest. "Gonna let me do whatever I want, mm? Even if it means you're in pain?"

"Adam," you moan as he presses his cold tongue flat against your warm skin. "Fuck—mmm, whatever you want. Please, just—please don't stop. Please don't—"

"Pain slut," Adam laughs a little. "You love this, yeah? Love me using you, manhandling you, not giving a fuck if you get bruised up?"

You moan, pressing the back of your head into the pillow.

"Speak to me, baby," he murmurs, pressing kisses down your navel.

You whimper, bucking your hips against Adams shoulders and Adam repositions himself so that he's eye level with you again, holding your chin lightly.

"Use your words for me, baby," he says. "I know you love how this feels, yeah? I know you love it when I bite you because you like the pain that the biting draws out, but how am I supposed to know you want me to keep going if you don't tell me? How am I supposed to know you're not whimpering, not squirming, because the pain is too much?"

"Adam," you moan, rolling your hips against nothing. "Adam, it—you—oh my fucking—" you moan again, and Adam smiles.

He moves back to where he'd been before kissing down your navel to the place where you needed him most, kissing back up to your lips again and wetting his dick with the wetness from your folds before he thrusts into you in one fell swoop.

He gives you maybe three seconds to adjust to his length before he sets a quick, aggressive pace, one hand on your hips to keep you steady while the other sits on your breast, first finger and thumb pinching your nipple with as much force as he can muster. He needs the anger to be gone, needs it to be replaced by the comfortable, airy feelings that come with sex and post-sex glory, needs to get his anger out of his system before he's at risk of snapping at you again.

He thrusts with as much fervor as he can, trying to rid the anger from himself with each thrust. It works, for the most part, and when his hand finds your throat and presses on the sides but is careful to avoid the front, most of the anger goes out of his system completely.

You lean up into his touch, and Adam laughs at it.

"Pain slut," he whispers, leaning down to bite and suck at your nipples.

Adams release triggers yours, and Adam thrusts through the aftershocks before he pulls out, falling to your right and wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you close.

A few minutes pass by. You get up to use the bathroom and return to Adams embrace, press a kiss to his lips and look at him like you want to talk.

"You've been angry for three weeks," you say. "If you're in a talking mood, let's talk, yeah?"

"I know that photography is what I'm good at, and normally I love it but I think I have something of an independence issue with regard to working there," Adam admits, moving the hand that's on your waist up to your face. He just wants to kiss you senseless, kiss you until he forgets his own name and how to speak words other than yours, but he knows he owes you a conversation—an explanation, mostly, and an apology. "I just can't do it. I can't work with other people. Three people on this project besides me and all of us are in conflict day in and day out because we're all apparently averse to compromise, and yeah, I punched Harry in the face but he smacked Kelce the other day because he didn't agree with one of Harrys ideas. It was payback, which I know doesn't excuse it for shit, but—I just—"

You press a kiss to Adams forehead. "I'm sorry that work has been so terrible," you murmur. "Soon as you get this installation done, though, you'll be able to work on your own again. Gotta practice a bit of optimism, baby. Gotta see the bright side and all that."

Adam laughs. "There is no light at the end of the work related tunnel," he says. "I'll be due in to work with the same group of people in the spring, and then in summer, and then in autumn. I've been told I'll have to do my own installations on top of that, which will mean picking more themes, dealing with more disagreements."

He props himself up on his elbows, presses a quick peck against your lips.

"I'm sorry," he says, green-blue eyes meeting yours. "About earlier—snapping at you like that? It was a dick move, and with the coffee—I flipped my lid in a way that was completely unfair. I'm sorry you had to get screamed at like that, everything just boiled over and taking it out on you is the last thing that I should've done."

You nod. "It was a dick move, and you do kind of need to work on talking it out with me before the shit hits the very angry fan, but you're forgiven," you grin at him. "If it helps, work hasn't been a picnic for me either. Never is during December."

Adam groans. "You work in an office," he notes. "How many of your coworkers complained about how difficult it is to buy gifts on their salary?"

"Everyone who had anyone willing to listen," you laugh. "Claire liked the gift I got her for the Secret Santa gift exchange, though. Glad I was hers—were it Leon, I fear she would've gotten a book on being a housewife or some shit like that. James was the guy who got stuck with me, which means we have a Nespresso. Bastard probably wanted me to reject the gift, too, because he scowled from the window at me while I loaded it into the back seat of my car."

Adam laughs. "Good thing the old coffee machine broke when it did, then," he pecks your forehead, feels the desire to kiss you senseless evade all of his senses. "A broken coffee machine turns into a Christmas miracle! Oh, glorious day."

You laugh, hand moving up Adams shoulders until your cupping Adams face, hand resting against his jawline.

"Was my apology good enough?" Adam asks, dipping his lips to your neck as your hands slide back down his and you let your arms drape over his shoulders.

"Why do you ask?" You know why he's asking, but you want to hear him say it. He had his angry fun, and now you get a shot to have a bit of fun of your own.

"There's something that I haven't tasted since early last month," he kisses until he's at the center of your collarbone. "Miss it, is all. Had a bit of a craving lately too, if I'm honest."

You spread your legs on impulse, already weakened and ready to let Adam give in to his whims. It makes him laugh because of course the bastard notices the movement, and he nods.

"You're amazing," he presses kisses down your chest, careful to kiss lightly over the places where light bruising has started because of how aggressive he was with his groping, kissing delicately over the places where the bite marks remain. You hate how quickly he can get you hot and bothered but admire it all the same, hate how you thrive off the feeling of his wet kisses and his perfect tongue moving down and across your torso.

"You're depraved," you try to say it, but it comes out as a moan, and you feel Adams smile against your navel. "Absolutely fucking depraved, Adam."

"Well, if you weren't so fuckin' ethereal, I might be less depraved, but every time I look at you all I see is perfection. Can't help it, baby."

He kisses across your lightly bruised stomach to your hips, careful to kiss lightly over the already-forming bruises that match the shapes of his thumbs.

"'M sorry about these," he says. "Sorry about all of it—the bruises and the bite marks. I didn't mean to hurt you this bad."

"It doesn't hurt," you assure. "And even if it did—I like the pain, Adam. The pain is good, I promise."

He kisses the bruises on the sides of your hips, too, nods. "I momentarily forgot about the masochism," he admits. "They do look nice, but I just can't help feelin' bad about being that rough."

"Focus on how nice they look," you hope it comes out reassuring. "They don't hurt, Adam. I promise. If I tell you not to worry, will you listen?"

Adam hums, kisses along your stomach to your other hip and takes his time there as well.

By the time Adams gotten to your thighs, you're wet and aching and just about ready to start clenching around nothing. He's got you needy and wanting, which is what he wants, and he loves it.

He turns his gaze to yours as he presses his tongue flat against your clit, loving the way that you writhe, clenching around nothing in response.

"So wet for me," he says, kissing along the outside of your pussy. "Good God, you're perfect."

And then he's licking at your folds, eating you out like he's a man starved, and you're not even trying to be quiet because of how consumed you feel by his lips and his tongue.

He moans against you, clearly getting off from getting you off, and can't help but buck your hips against his face.

He laughs, pulling away for a second. "You're so fuckin' needy," he says, bringing one finger to your gaping hole and slowly pushing it inside you.

You clench around the digit, moaning. "You're the reason. You and your perfect tongue, your amazing lips," you moan, arching your back off the bed for a split second.

He brings his lips and tongue back to your clit, thrusting into you with one finger, doing as you wish when you start begging for a second and a third.

"Adam," you moan, "fucking hell—Adam,"

Your orgasm crests, and you feel Adam moan against you with his own release as you cum over his fingers.

Breathless, your gaze moves up to the ceiling as you feel Adam pull his hand away. You turn to him as you hear him get up, watch him make something of a show out of licking your cum from his fingers.

"Just as good as I remember it," he grins teasingly at you, leaves to go to the bathroom.

Ten minutes later, he's telling you that a bath is ready and you're leaning against him as you walk to your bathroom, sinking into the hot water and pressing your back against Adams front.

"I'll get better at communicating before it boils over," Adam murmurs, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your shoulder. "Promise, baby."

You hum, leaning against him. "We can work on it together, yeah?"

Adam nods. "That sounds like a nice idea," he says.

Silence lapses, though its comfortable. You get out of the bath tub and stumble back to bed because of how jello-y your legs feel, which Adam laughs at even though he knows he's to blame, and when you steal a pair of his boxers and one of his button up flannels, he doesn't object, merely pulls a pair of boxers and sweatpants on himself before joining you in bed and pulling you close.

The two of you fall asleep early that night, curled up together in the quiet of a Jersey evening in the tail end of December. Adam sleeps through the call from the gallery and you sleep through the call that Claire tries to get to you to talk about the aftermath of the Secret Santa gift exchange, but the sleep you get is so good that the missed calls feel entirely justified.