#property market shifts

[bitcoinversus]

Austin, TX Rental Market Faces Rising Vacancies, Declining Rents

Austin’s rental market is experiencing challenges, with vacancy rates climbing and rental prices decreasing. As of September 2023, the city’s rental vacancy rate reached 11%, surpassing the national average of 6.6% and indicating a substantial increase from previous years. Rental prices have also declined. Austin’s median apartment rent has fallen significantly, with a 15% decline from its peak…

[honestlyvan]

The easiest way to wrap your head around this is to consider that "fandom" is a discrete subculture that a subset of the entire fan base of a work.

Fandom is not a creator fanclub or a creator support network or a creator advertisement platform. Creators interacting with the fandom directly is a very new development brought about by the general erosion of communal boundaries. (This part also includes fans taking the fruits of fandom to the creator's table. Stop tweeting fanart at creators, they can find it themselves if they really want to.)

Literally the only thing that stops a creator from being a problem for the fandom is the maturity and understanding of the subculture. For every creator that is delighted by their fandom, there is always going to be one who hates you on principle for not reading their work exactly as they wanted you to read it, not interacting with it in the way they intended, whether it's as banal as liking the wrong characters or as complicated as writing the wrong kind of fanfic, and whether or not this becomes a fight depends entirely on whether they see it as their right to tell us about it and start that fight.

The more involved in fandom that creators get, the more pressure there is to bring fandom in line with the intended or the desired fan base. There more there is pressure to bring it in line with what is profitable, with what is marketable. Creators interacting with fandom have a direct profit incentive to do so, whether they're aware of it or not. (You'll note that this part is also relevant to what kind of fanworks creators encourage.)

Fandom is not for creators. Fandom has never been for creators. The relationship between creators and fandom is not hierarchical, and it's not mutual. Carve these words in your heart.

Once again, creators and artists trying to ban fans from shipping certain characters/making NSFW content/etc never actually stops fans from doing those things, it just makes them resent the creator in question and be far less willing to directly support and interact with both the creator and their works 💕

People still talk shit about Anne Rice and she's dead. Don't be the next person to be compleely disavowed by your fandom.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

A profoundly stupid case about video game cheating could transform adblocking into a copyright infringement

I'm coming to DEFCON! On Aug 9, I'm emceeing the EFF POKER TOURNAMENT (noon at the Horseshoe Poker Room), and appearing on the BRICKED AND ABANDONED panel (5PM, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01). On Aug 10, I'm giving a keynote called "DISENSHITTIFY OR DIE! How hackers can seize the means of computation and build a new, good internet that is hardened against our asshole bosses' insatiable horniness for enshittification" (noon, LVCC - L1 - HW1–11–01).

Here's a weird consequence of our societal shift from capitalism (where riches come from profits) to feudalism (where riches come from rents): increasingly, your rights to your actual property (the physical stuff you own) are trumped by corporations' metaphorical "intellectual property" claims.

That's a lot to unpack! Let's start with a quick primer on profits and rents. Capitalists invest money in buying equipment, then they pay workers wages to use that equipment to produce goods and services. Profit is the sum a capitalist takes home from this arrangement: money made from paying workers to do productive things.

Now, rents: "rent" is the money a rentier makes by owning a "factor of production": something the capitalist needs in order to make profits. Capitalists risk their capital to get profits, but rents are heavily insulated from risk.

For example: a coffee shop owner buys espresso machines, hires baristas, and rents a storefront. If they do well, the landlord can raise their rent, denying them profits and increasing rents. But! If a great new cafe opens across the street and the coffee shop owner goes broke, the landlord is in great shape, because they now have a vacant storefront they can rent, and they can charge extra for a prime location across the street from the hottest new coffee shop in town.

The "moral philosophers" that today's self-described capitalists claim to worship – Adam Smith, David Ricardo – hated rents. For them, profits were the moral way to get rich, because when capitalists chase profits, they necessarily chase the production of things that people want.

When rentiers chase rents, they do so at the expense of profits. Every dollar a capitalist pays in rent – licenses for IP, rent for a building, etc – is a dollar that can't be extracted in profit, and then reinvested in the production of more goods and services that society desires.

The "free markets" of Adam Smith weren't free from regulation, they were free from rents.

The moral philosophers' hatred of rents was really a hatred of feudalism. The industrial revolution wasn't merely (or even primarily) the triumph of new machines: rather, it was the triumph of profits over rent. For the industrial revolution to succeed, the feudal arrangement had to end. Capitalism is incompatible with hereditary lords receiving guaranteed rents from hereditary serfs who are legally obliged to work for them. Capitalism triumphed over feudalism when the serfs were turned off of the land (becoming the "free labor" who went to work in the textile mills) and the land itself was given over to sheep grazing (providing the wool for those same mills).

But that doesn't mean that the industrial revolution invented profits. Profits were to be found in feudal societies, wherever a wealthy person increased their wealth by investing in machines and hiring workers to use them. The thing that made feudalism feudal was how conflicts between rents and profits cashed out. For so long as the legal system elevated the claims of rentiers over the claims of capitalists, the society was feudal. Once the legal system gave priority to profit over rent, it became capitalist.

Capitalists hate capitalism. The engine of capitalism is insecurity. The successful capitalist is like the fastest gun in the old west: there's always a young gun out there looking to "disrupt" their fortune with a new invention, product, or organizational strategy that "creatively destroys" the successful businesses of the day and replaces them with new ones:

https://locusmag.com/2024/03/cory-doctorow-capitalists-hate-capitalism/

That's a hard way to live, with your every success serving as a blinking KICK ME sign visible to every ambitious person in the world. Precarity makes people miserable and nuts:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

So capitalists universally aspire to become rentiers and investors seek out companies that have a plan to extract rent. This is why Warren Buffett is so priapatic for companies with "moats and walls" – legal privileges and market structures that protect the business from competition and disruption:

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/warren-buffett-explains-moat-principle-164442359.html

Feudal rents were mostly derived from land, but even in the feudal era, the king was known to reward loyal lickspittles with rents over ideas. The "patents royal" were the legally protected right to decide who could make or do certain things: for example, you might have a patent royal over the production of silver ribbon, and anyone who wanted to make a silver ribbon would have to pay for your permission. If you chose to grant that permission exclusively to one manufacturer, then no one else could make it, and you could charge a license fee to the manufacturer that accounted for nearly all their profit.

Today, rentiers are also interested in land. Bill Gates is the country's number one landowner, and in many towns, private equity landlords are snappinig up every single family home that hits the market and converting it to a badly maintained slum:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/22/koteswar-jay-gajavelli/#if-you-ever-go-to-houston

But the 21st Century's defining source of rent is "IP" – a controversial term that I use here to mean, "Any law or policy that allows a company to exert legal control over its competitors, critics and customers":

https://locusmag.com/2020/09/cory-doctorow-ip/

IP is in irreconcilable conflict with real property rights. Think of HP selling you a printer and wanting to decide which ink you use, or John Deere selling you a tractor and wanting to tell you who can fix it. Or, for that matter, Apple selling you a phone and dictating which software you are allowed to install on it.

Think of Unity, a company that makes tools for video-game makers, demanding a royalty from every game that is eventually sold, calling this "shared success":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/10/03/not-feeling-lucky/#fundamental-laws-of-economics

Every time one of these conflicts ends with IP's triumph over real property rights, that is a notch in favor of calling the world we live in now "technofeudalist" rather than "technocapitalist":

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/28/cloudalists/#cloud-capital

Once you start to think of "IP" as "laws that let me control how other people use their real property," a lot of the seemingly incoherent fights over IP snap into place. This also goes a long way to explaining how otherwise sensible people can agree on expansions of IP to achieve some short-term goal, irrespective of the spillover harms from such a move. Hard cases make bad law, and hard IP cases make terrible law.

Five years ago, some anti-fascist counterdemonstrators hit on the clever idea of blaring top 40 music during neo-Nazi marches, on the theory that this would prevent Nazis from uploading videos of their marches to Youtube and other platforms, whose filters would block any footage that included copyrighted music:

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/07/23/clever-hack-that-will-end-badly-playing-copyrighted-music-during-nazis-rallies-so-they-cant-be-posted-to-youtube/

Thankfully, this didn't work, but not for lack of trying. And it might still work, if calls for beefing up video copyright filters are heeded. Cops all over the place are already blaring Taylor Swift songs and Disney tunes to prevent their interactions with the public from being uploaded:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/04/07/moral-hazard-of-filternets/#dmas

The same thinking that causes progressives to recklessly argue in favor of upload filters also causes them to demand that web scraping be treated as a copyright crime. They think they're creating a world where AI companies can't rip off their creation to train a model; they're actually creating a world where the Internet Archive can't capture JD Vance's embarrassing old podcast appearances or newspaper editorial boards' advocacy for positions they now recant:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/17/how-to-think-about-scraping/

It's not that Nazi marches are good, or that scraping can't be bad – it's just that advocating for the use of IP to address either is a cure that's not just worse than the disease – it's also not a cure.

A problem can be real, and still not be solvable with IP. I have enormous sympathy for gamers who rail against cheaters who use aftermarket hacks to improve their aim, see through buildings, or command other unfair advantages.

If you want to tell a stranger how they must configure their PC or console, IP ("any law that lets you control your competitors, critics or customers") is an obvious answer. But – as with other attempts to solve real problems with IP – this is a cure that is both worse than the disease, and also not a cure after all.

Back in 2002, Blizzard sued some hobbyists over a program called "bnetd." Bnetd was a program that provided a game-server you could connect to with the Blizzard games that you'd bought. It was created as an alternative to Battlenet, Blizzard's notoriously unreliable game-server software that left gamers frustrated and furious due to frequent outages:

https://www.eff.org/cases/blizzard-v-bnetd

To the public, Blizzard made several arguments against bnetd. They claimed that it encouraged piracy, because – unlike the official Battlenet servers – it didn't check whether the copies of Blizzard software that connected to it had a valid license key. Gamers didn't really care about that, but they did respond to another argument: that bnetd lacked the anti-cheat checking of Battlenet.

But that wasn't what Blizzard took to the court: in court, they argued that the hobbyists who made bnetd violated copyright law. Specifically, Section 1201 of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, which bans "circumvention of access controls to copyrighted works." Basically, Blizzard argued that bnetd's authors violated the law because they used debuggers to examine the software they'd paid for, while it ran on their own computers, to figure out how to make a game server of their own.

Blizzard didn't sue bnetd's authors for pirating Blizzard software (they didn't – they'd paid for their copies). They didn't sue them for abetting other gamers' piracy. They certainly didn't sue them for making a cheat-friendly game-server.

Blizzard sued them for analyzing software they'd paid for, while it was running on their own computers.

Imagine if Walmart – one of the biggest book-retailers in America – had a policy that said that you could only shelve the books you bought at Walmart on shelves that you also bought at Walmart. Now imagine that Walmart successfully argued that measuring the books you bought from them and using those measurements to create your own compatible book-case violated their IP rights!

This is an outrageous triumph of IP rights over real property rights, and yet gamers vocally backed Blizzard in the early noughts, because gamers hate cheaters and because IP law is (correctly) understood as "the law that lets a company tell you how you can use your own real, physical property." Hard cases make bad law, hard IP cases make batshit law.

It's more than 20 years since bnetd, and cheating continues to serve as a Trojan horse to smuggle in batshit new IP laws. In Germany, Sony is suing the cheat-device maker Datel:

https://torrentfreak.com/sonys-ancient-lawsuit-vs-cheat-device-heads-in-right-direction-sonys-defeat-240705/

Sony argues that the Datel device – which rewrites the contents of a player's device's RAM, at the direction of that player – infringes copyright. Sony claims that the values that its programs write to your device's RAM chips are copyrighted works that it has created, and that altering that copyrighted work makes an unauthorized derivative work, which infringes its copyright.

Yes, this is batshit, and thankfully, Sony has been thwarted in court to date, but it is steaming ahead to the EU's highest court. If it succeeds, then it will open up every tool that modifies your computer at your direction to this kind of claim.

How bad can it be? Well, get this: the German publishing giant Axel Springer (owned by a monomaniacal Trumpist and Israel hardliner who has ordered journalists in his US news outlets to go easy on both) is suing Eyeo, makers of Adblock Plus, on the grounds that changing HTML to block an ad creates a "derivative work" of Axel Springer's web-pages:

https://torrentfreak.com/ad-blocking-infringes-copyright-ancient-sony-cheat-lawsuit-may-prove-pivotal-240729/

Axel Springer's filings cite the Sony/Datel case, using it to argue that their IP rights trump your property rights, and that you can only configure your web-browser, running on your computer, which you own, in ways that it approves of.

Axel Springer's war on browsers is a particularly pernicious maneuver, because browsers are the best example we have of internet software that serves as a "user agent." "User agent" is an old-timey engineering synonym for "browser" that reflects the browser's role: to go out onto the web on your behalf and bring back things for you, which it displays in the way you prefer:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/05/07/treacherous-computing/#rewilding-the-internet

Want to block flickering GIFs to forestall photosensitive epileptic servers? Ask your user agent to find and delete them. Want to shift colors into a gamut that accounts for your color-blindness? Ask your user-agent:

https://dankaminsky.com/2010/12/15/dankam/

Want to goose the font size and contrast so you can read the sadistic grey-on-white type that young designers use in the mistaken belief that black-on-white type is "hard on the eyes"? That's what Reader Mode is for:

https://frankgroeneveld.nl/2021/08/24/most-underused-browser-feature/

The foundation of any good digital relationship is a device that works for you, not for the people who own the servers you connect to. Even if they don't plan on screwing you over by directing your user agent to attack you on their behalf right now, the very existence of a facility in your technology that causes it to betray you, by design, is a moral hazard that inevitably results in your victimization:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/08/02/self-incrimination/#wei-bai-bai

"IP" ("a law that lets me control how you use your own property") is a tempting solution to every problem, but ultimately, IP ends up magnifying the power of the already powerful, in contests where your only hope of victory is having a user agent whose only loyalty is to you.

The monotonic, dangerous expansion of IP reflects the growing victory of rents over profits – income from owning things, rather than income from doing things. Everyday people may argue for IP in the belief that it will solve their immediate problems – with AI, or Nazis, or in-game cheats – but ultimately, the expansion of a law that limits how you can use your property (including your capital) to uses that don't threaten neofeudalists will doom you to technoserfdom.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

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

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/29/faithful-user-agents/#hard-cases-make-bad-copyright-law

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Still as Stone

Kinktober Day 6: Voyeurism

Male Gargoyle Yandere x Gender Neutral Reader

CW: Noncon, stalking, voyeurism, kidnapping, general yandere behavior

Word Count: 285

(Sorry it's another drabble, but I was going to do it anyway, I just wanted more space between drib drabs. Anyway I hope you love it!)

You bought the big dicked gargoyle statue because you thought it would piss off the prudish home owner's association that you lived near.

Despite being just outside of their jurisdiction, they had removed trees at the edge of your property and even sent you fines for not following HOA rules. When you saw the stone gargoyle for sale at a market, you just knew it would tick them off.

It was over a foot taller than you and sported a massive jutting erection above two massive balls.

You didn't expect the act of purchasing him and taking great care of him to cause the spell that kept him frozen as a statue to break.

How were you supposed to know he was a living gargoyle that had been sealed as a statue for over seven centuries?

You didn't expect him to develop an obsession with him because you freed him.

You didn't expect him to spy on you through your window, to watch as you got dressed, for him to stroke his mighty cock while seeing you in your private most intimate moments.

You didn't expect him to start stalking you at all hours no matter where you went, using his magic to blend into shadows and remain hidden. When his position in your yard shifted, you thought it was the work of the HOA trying and failing to remove him.

And you certainly didn't expect for him to lose patience and steal you away. For you to be on your back with an outline of his dick bulging out your belly as he fucked you ferally over and over before dragging you back to his home dimension for an eternity of fucking and cockwarming.

[msfantasy-anime]

Something Stupid

Izuku Midoriya x Reader

Summary: Izuku and Y/n finally make it official

Final Part

A/n: this was my first series started on this blog and it was never finished </3 anyway a rushed ending for the sake of closure.

Well there was no denying it.

You were head over heels for that bloody broccoli coloured hero.

God, how did you let this happen? How does one not notice when they’re falling in love?!

All questions that swim laps around your spinning mind as you try to make sense at the sudden shift in your heart.

Izuku Midorya, Japans number one hero, Deku, was the man who stole your heart. More so, he ardently admitted his love for you, and what did you do in return? Run away like the bloody coward you were.

This was just meant to be fun.

Feeling far too fragile in that moment to having your feelings returned. The prospect at a happily ever after in arms reach, it’s too frightening to give in. Besides your rational thoughts, continue to tear away at your optimistic thoughts.

Your a villain, plain and simple. He cannot be with someone who engages in illegal activity, it’ll ruin him.

His fan base will not tolerate someone who isn’t Uravity, he’ll loose his supporters.

It’ll ruin his career.

You’ll distract him from his duties as a hero, you might ruin his growth.

Your thoughts continue to spin erratically, abruptly stopping at the feeling of Izuku’s hand.

“Did you hear me? I said I was sorry for putting you in that awkward position. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that.” Izuku said his hand caressing your own.

You quickly pull your palm away, feeling your nerves complain at the loss of comfort. Izuku only looked down at your hand glumly, sadden at your retreat.

“I cannot be with you Deku, it’ll ruin you. I cannot do that to you.” A small sad smile plays at his lips.

“I’m grateful that you are concerned about me, but seriously, you really don’t need to be so worried about my marketing, there are ways around it.” You begin to shake your head.

“No, Izuku, you are just confused. You’re in lust, not love.” You explain. To which Izuku looked firmly into your eyes.

“I know the difference, and I am in love with you Y/n.” Your cheeks burn at the declaration. Your mind reels away, coming up with a ‘real’ explanation. There is no way he can ‘love’ you, he barely knows you. “There are many things to love about you, and many more things to learn about you, but, the thing I love most about you is your unyielding compassion for others.” It was as if his words blew your dark world away. “Your whole career is centred around returning stolen mementos to those who cannot retrieve their rightful property. Your empathy for my friends- just you care so much about others. Even now, your telling me you don’t want to be with me because your concerned about how it would effect my career. But at no point have you admitted that you don’t love me.”

You bite down on your quivering lip.

“I-I can’t.” You whisper painfully. But Izuku’s face remains stern.

“Tell me why you can’t and I’ll leave you alone. Do you not like me?” You shake your head.

“… n-no…” The corner of his mouth tugs.

“Do you not want to be with me?” He asks, making your heart clench.

“No! I-I do but-“

“But what?!” He asks firmly, you continue to squirm under the uncomfortable confrontation of having to openly admit your true feelings.

“I’m just not good enough for you.” You finally admit, half expecting Izuku to accept your answer and agree. But instead he continues to press on.

“Why?” Your thoughts come to a stuttering halt.

“I… don’t know.” But Izuku stares at you unsatisfied in your response, so you continue. “I’m just … scared.” You whisper, making Izuku hunch into the table and grabbing your hand tightly.

“I’m scared too.” He whispers making your heart thud. “I’m scared I won’t get a chance to love you the way you should be- that you’ll reject me and I’ll go home alone. I’m scared that even if I put myself out there and we get together. You’ll just stop liking me one day and it’ll all end.” But you begin shaking your head.

In what world would you just stop loving Izuku?

“Fuck it. You’re right. I-I do want to be with you but can we take it slow? Figure out out footing first before we tell our friends?”

“Deal.” Izuku agrees, leaning over and planting a lip lock kiss.

[belovedstill]

svsss 10th anniversary snippets ◀ [ 7/7 ] the new fan @ ao3 | bingqiu | disciple years inspired by this adorable art by @hootyhoowoo ✨

It starts with a walk through the town market at the foot of the Cang Qiong Mountain. Shen Qingqiu took several of his disciples on a low-level mission to teach them how to not cause more harm than good when saving a village from a havoc-wreaking beast. It’s easy to fight with reckless abandon; it’s much harder to keep the local people’s property safe while subduing the danger.

They’ve done well. As a reward, Shen Qingqiu has bought them each a tanghulu on their way back. With how their eyes shine, nobody would ever be able to tell they are young men and women but rather believe them to be little ducklings!

The ducklings have just tripped towards the mountain, chattering around the sticky treats, but Shen Qingqiu himself has stayed behind. A nearby stall has caught his eye.

“Ah, the Esteemed Master has an eye for exquisite goods!” the vendor said in a greeting, spreading his arms over his wares. “Only the highest quality here! Is this Master looking for a jade pendant to gift to his beloved? Or maybe a hair ornament to add to the guan he’s wearing?”

Before Shen Qingqiu can get a word in, the man looks to the side, where a lone duckling shyly steps closer.

“Shizun…”

The vendor smiles. “Or maybe a sword tassel for the Young Master?”

Shen Qingqiu sighs and shakes his head. “This one is simply looking.” Then, when the vendor lets him be for the moment, he glances at his disciple. “What is Binghe doing, not getting back with the others?”

Luo Binghe, who’s holding the tanghulu stick with both hands as if it’s a priceless offering rather than a common candy, pinks a little. In embarrassment, surely.

“This one was worried somebody would bother Shizun and wanted to be there to help, just in case.”

Aiya, what a sweet sheep!

“This Master doesn’t need protection,” he says gently, “but if Binghe is already here, he should stay close so nobody bothers him instead.”

“Yes, Shizun!”

Shen Qingqiu turns back to the stall and looks over the spread of the trinkets. On a closer inspection, the goods really do look quite well-crafted. His eyes are immediately drawn to the collection of hand fans. There’s quite the variety: simple fans made entirely of carved wood, bamboo and paper ones with auspicious characters and romantic poems written in elegant calligraphy, ones with painted scenes of nature…

He glances at Luo Binghe when he shifts a little closer, his eyes also on the fans.

“Does Binghe like any of them?”

Luo Binghe looks up at him, startled, then looks away just as fast. He points at the fan with two graceful cranes spreading their wings, ready to take flight, and mumbles:

“This one looks the most up to Shizun’s tastes.”

What a filial disciple, thinking of his Master first!

Warmth expands in Shen Qingqiu’s chest as he points at the fan. “I’ll take this one,” he tells the vendor. He glances sneakily at the flustered Binghe from the corner of his eye, then back at the stall’s trinkets.

Surely, a little spoiling won’t hurt? he thinks, nodding to himself. It’s just to curry favour.

“This jade pendant, too, please.”

The stall seller bows with a smile and wraps the two objects into separate parcels. “This Esteemed Master has wonderful taste, wonderful taste, indeed!”

Shen Qingqiu pays for the purchase, takes both parcels, and leaves for the entrance to the sect, Luo Binghe in tow, even if he keeps falling several steps behind from time to time.

Before they reach the bottom of the stairs, he stops and turns to the boy. He holds out the smaller parcel to him.

“As Binghe so graciously helped this Master pick his new fan, this Master picked this trinket for him.”

Binghe stares at the gift, then looks up, wide-eyed, and stares at him instead. The tanghulu is still held tightly in both his hands.

He’s… very quiet.

Shen Qingqiu can feel a drop of sweat form at his temple. Has he said something out of line…? Cover up! Must cover up!

“It’s for protection and good luck,” he says in his best Immortal Teacher voice, “but Binghe can just as well keep it and sell it later if he ever needs—”

“No!” Binghe cries, so suddenly that the mask of Shen Qingqiu’s Shizun face falters for a split second. “This Binghe will treasure it! A gift from Shizun… This one will never take it off!”

Can a chest burst from such overwhelming fondness?

Luo Binghe reaches both hands to accept the parcel with bright, bright eyes and coloured cheeks, and looks adorably distraught when he realises his hands are still too full to respectfully receive a gift.

Shen Qingqiu sighs a soft smile and unwraps the parcel. The pendant has come with a string long enough to make for a comfortable necklace.

“Shizun will put it on Binghe for him.” This way he can keep holding onto the tanghulu; a very pragmatic decision.

Luo Binghe stays very still when Shen Qingqiu carefully loops the new trinket around his neck, not a breath in or out. The string catches on the curly hair, so he gently pulls the strands away and pats them over.

There, that shouldn’t have tugged at all.

Binghe looks so moved, Shen Qingqiu can’t help himself and gives the top of his head one last headpat, before he turns towards the stairs up the mountain.

“Let’s go home, now,” he says. “Everybody must be waiting.”

It takes a while before Binghe catches up to him this time.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"Paranoid, paranoid, paranoid

Things feel out of order

Look and look around, I'm not sure of

Pair of paranoia, no

I can feel it in my aura…"

Tyler the Creator—"Noid"

Life in New Orleans dragged to a crawl for Celeste. Pure drudgery.

With Terry gone, colors didn't look as bright in the world. Food lacked taste and texture. Getting out of bed in the morning took prayers and innate willpower. Her mother sent over aromatic herbal bath salts to soak her body in. Grand-mère left Tupperware sealed containers of sausage gumbo, or fried chicken wings on her stoop that Celeste found after work at night. She acted like an addict suffering from withdrawals. Micah said she might be anemic. She thought about making a doctor's appointment.

Lighting candles and praying didn't make her feel better. Bargaining with lower-tiered saints didn't either. She spent her lonely nights sitting on her stoop chain smoking and drinking more rum punches than usual. The trilling of insects and the calls of nightbirds kept her company until she became numb and crawled into a cold bed.

Dark dreams rattled the peace of her sleep and Celeste often woke up in a sweat, paranoid that she was being watched by some unknown entity in her bedroom or outside her French doors. Her dreams were of a macabre nature with visions of walking in the French Quarter at night, or traipsing along the riverfront at sunset hearing the flapping of large wings behind her back. Terry never appeared in those nightscapes, although she caught glimpses of a shadow slithering across the ground, trying to catch up with her running footsteps. His voice called out to her, and she'd wake up hoping for daylight so she wouldn't have to lie awake for hours waiting for the sun to burn away the eerie webbing of terror that entrapped her every evening.

The worst night happened when sleep paralysis took over her body, and she swore evil shape-shifting shadows crept along the ceiling trying to steal her breath. Eventually, she could wiggle her toes and fingers and slowly regain control of her limbs. On those nights, she missed Terry's enormous body spooned around her, protecting her from the bogeyman.

To his credit, Terry called and left her messages, not completely dumping their connection cold turkey. However, he always chose times when he knew she'd be at work and unable to speak. He still professed his love for her, but he wasn't coming back soon. She left him a voicemail asking for his address, willing to make the drive up to see him, even if it had to be a quick turnaround trip. He never gave it to her.

Long summer days took over. The southern heat rolled in, and so did the start of hurricane season.

An oppressive heatwave layered itself all over Louisiana, and no matter how many cool showers she took, her body sweated buckets in the sauna-like atmosphere. The weather didn't stop her from walking or riding her bike around her neighborhood. She forced herself to stay active, visiting her grandparents more often, and attending random brunches Joyce pulled together.

Nothing filled the void of Terry, though. Eventually, his calls and text messages thinned down to an occasional heart emoji.

On a rare two days off, back-to-back, Celeste slept in and ate leftover pizza. She pulled her locs back into a high pigtail and prepared for a long meditative walk to the French Market to meet up with Joyce and some new people she didn't know. No more moping about Terry. Life had to go on and there were other fish in the Mississippi River. Blah, blah, blah.

Wiping her face with a cool washcloth, she painted on shimmery orange lipstick and added a few gold hair decorations to her locs. She broke out the lime-green summer dress and clear jelly sandals that always made her feel pretty and summery.

Locking her cottage door and the iron security door, she waved to a neighbor across the street and headed north, her feet automatically walking her toward the B&B Terry stayed at. Walking past the property, she looked at the playful statues on the roofs and stopped.

The gargoyle statue was no longer curled behind the big dragon figure. Celeste paced back and forth, craning her neck to see if the glare of sunlight prevented her from seeing it. No, it was definitely gone. She pulled out her smartphone and swiped the screen until she came to her photo gallery. When she looked at the image on her phone, it reminded her of how unsightly the statue had been compared to all the other goofy figures displayed on the roof. Maybe the owners came to their senses and realized the thing didn't match the whimsical vibe they tried to cultivate.

She carried on her merry little way and entered the Quarter, wishing she'd thought to bring an umbrella for the direct sunlight burning her skin. Passing by one of the many historic hotels, she glanced up to see a sight on a wall that knocked her breath short.

A stone-gray gargoyle fixture clung to the side of a sweltering red brick wall holding out the head of a gorgon…Medusa. The face of the creature looked exactly like the one on the B&B . Celeste walked past that part of the Quarter too many times and knew for a fact no gargoyle statue had ever been there before. She snapped a picture of it and hurried along to her brunch meet up.

She forgot about the gargoyle until two hours later when her entourage of seven window-shopped, and she glimpsed a different, more ferocious-looking gargoyle statue peering down from the roof of a boutique shoe store. Its six-foot wide flint-gray wings cast a shadow across the sidewalk. The outstretched clawed hand looked ready to snatch pedestrians off the street. Celeste shivered and nausea overtook her stomach. Acid churned in the back of her throat and she almost vomited her lunch special onto her sandals.

"Duchess, what's wrong?" Joyce asked.

She pointed at the statue.

"That was never there before."

Joyce stared at it. Celeste pulled out her phone and showed her the other gargoyle.

"This one I found on the side of a hotel. Another just like it was a few blocks from my house. It seems weird to me. I feel like I've been seeing a lot of weird shit lately."

Celeste rubbed her stomach and burped. A sour taste coated her tongue.

"I don't feel so good."

"Do you need to sit down?"

"Yeah."

The group pitched themselves up at a dueling pianos bar to get Celeste off her feet. Everyone ordered frozen mango margarita drinks except for her. She went to the public restroom and hung her head over the toilet. The sickness passed, and she used the sink to rinse away the sweat on her face.

Feeling better, she returned to her group and settled in for chit-chat and getting to know a man that Joyce brought for her to meet. The sun went down and the heat dropped by two measly degrees. She snacked on creamy artichoke dip and pita chips, listening to all the lively conversations around her until she noticed a man staring at her from the main bar. His dark skin gleamed with good genetics, and his dashing eyes zoned in on her quickly. She thought he was flirting, but his direct gaze came off predatory.

Glancing around, she pretended to take an interest in the active street life as the Quarter came alive for another night of debauchery. On the corner, a striking Black woman with a bald head and gothic make-up watched her. Her black painted lips peeled back into a slick smile and Celeste's intuition kicked in, warning her that something wasn't right about the woman. Her entire focus was on Celeste, just like the man at the…

Shit!

Celeste blinked, and the man at the bar moved toward her with a disjointed stroll. His movement reminded her of glitches in video games she played as a teen, when the operating system hadn't quite worked out the kinks. Unnatural. From the corner of her eye, she caught the slow track of a dark-brown beauty who smiled in a way that chilled Celeste in her gut. It was the smile of something trying its best to look…human. The parts of Celeste's skin that Terry once bit flared with a sharp stabbing of pain, the bruised nerve-endings waking up all the way. Her body wasn't right all over.

"I have to go, it's late," Celeste yelped.

She leapt to her feet and hugged Joyce.

"Wait, we can give you a ride to your place after we finish the rest of these appetizers," Joyce said.

"No…it's okay. I have to go to work in the morning."

"I thought you had the day off from both jobs."

Celeste shook her head and threw a ten-dollar bill on the table to help with tips. She brushed past the disappointed blind date and tried to hide herself within the crush of bodies milling around the party atmosphere. Her heart almost stopped when the strange man and woman from the bar followed her.

She ran like she was doing the fifty-yard dash in tenth grade, her legs stretching out to move her ass far.

Home.

She needed to get home, lock her doors, and hide.

Her emotions caught in her throat. Something was wrong with the world she lived in. Ever since Terry came into her life, she'd overlooked strange occurrences because she was caught up in the exhilaration of new romance and new dick. She'd ignored all the weirdness, because she didn't want to connect it to Terry. Now she even wondered about the missing white guys, Carl and Jacob. Terry did physically assault them and afterward, they went missing. The coincidence of them all interacting together nagged at her subconscious.

"What the fuck is going on?" she screeched when two twin gargoyle statues overlooked the roof of a picturesque townhouse filled with three-stories of revelers drinking and shouting down at passersby. Gargoyles were not a thing in New Orleans. It wasn't even Halloween season yet.

Celeste glanced over her shoulder to track any other weirdos following her. It looked like she lost them in the packed narrow streets. She double-backed and headed up to Rampart to bypass the Quarter completely. Flagging a taxi, she jumped in and gave directions to her house. She ducked down in the backseat and pretended to check her phone.

"Night, Miss," the older Haitian driver said.

"Mèsi," she said.

"Ou ayisyen?"

"Non, Black Creole from here," she said.

"Mwen wè…but we are kouzen, oui?"

"Oui," Celeste said.

"Are you okay?"

He looked at her closely from the rearview mirror.

"Um…I'm fine. Goodnight."

She paid in cash from some money Terry left behind and darted to her front door. Jamming the key in both door locks, she twisted them open and ran inside. She turned off the living room track lights that were on a timer and fled to her bedroom.

Sweating and panting from the exertion, Celeste sat on her bed in the dark and waited for her heart to stop pounding. After an hour of sitting, she went to the restroom, and showered for bed. Her smartphone lit up with a text from Allen, the guy Joyce fixed her up with. He left his number and told her to call him whenever she wanted to hang out.

She checked the inside lock and security bolt on her front door and back. The sour taste of liquid rose in her throat and she rushed to the sink in the kitchen and vomited up pita chips and the artichoke dip that looked like beige slurry. She rinsed her mouth and wiped her lips just as a loud pounding on the front door started.

The hell?

She peeked around the corner of her kitchen. Dark figures moved outside the colored, frosted glass panels of the top half of the front door, even though her porch light was off. The corner streetlight flickered on.

Her stomach tightened, and she held her breath, afraid that whoever was outside could hear her breathing. She stood completely still and waited. The pounding started again.

"Hello?" a female voice said. "I'm a cousin of Terry's. He wanted me to bring you something."

The lie rang hollow, but Celeste's heart softened at the sound of her lover's name. She pushed her back against a living room wall hidden by a bookcase, determined to ignore the person until they went away.

"Celeste? My name is Dominique. I'm here on vacation and Terry asked me to drop off a gift. I'm saving him thirty dollars by bringing it myself instead of him mailing it."

Dominique's voice sounded sweet and very country.

"He's coming down to see you in a few days and he wanted to give you this. I think it's a fancy dress. He said you looked real pretty at Durand's the last time you were in a dress."

Celeste lingered near the bookcase, but she stepped further into the living room. Only Terry and her friends knew about Durand's.

"You know what? I'll just leave it on the porch. Sorry I came here so late. I dropped by earlier, but you weren't home, and I didn't want anyone to steal it if I left it behind."

Celeste crept another few inches toward the front door. She lifted her cell phone out of her purse and kept the police number on her screen. The cell phone still listed it under Freddie's name as "Freddie/Work". Dominique banged on the security door again.

"Just leave it on the porch, please," Celeste called out, annoyed by the intrusion, her finger hovering above the police contact.

"No problem," Dominique said.

She heard movement and footsteps walking away. Waiting for an hour quietly, she finally cracked open the front door and kept the security door locked.

No package.

She looked down at the bottom step and still didn't see any box or bundle. Glancing at Freddie's police number, she debated about calling him.

"Hello, Celeste."

She dropped her phone on the floor, cracking the screen. The strange man from the piano bar stood at the top of her stoop, his dark, foreboding eyes mesmerizing her to the point of her falling into a dazed stupor. Behind him, one step down, was the Black goth and the dark brown beauty with the uncanny valley smile. Two other Black women in dark clothing waited on the sidewalk, watching her with sinister eyes.

The man smiled, revealing platinum grills. The dark brown of his eyes faded into silver orbs that enchanted her with their strange ethereal glow.

"We don't mean to frighten you," he hissed, his nostrils flaring and sniffing at her from behind the iron security door.

The women also inhaled deeply and licked their lips, staring at her throat.

"What the fuck do you want?" she said.

"This bitch talkin' spicy, Deacon," the Goth said.

The man tutted at Celeste, shaking his head.

"No, no, no…that's not how you speak to The Deacon, my sweet sustenance. We're here to ask you about Terry."

"What about him?"

"Where is he?"

"I don't know."

The man pounded the frame of the iron door. Celeste jumped and stepped back.

"Don't fucking lie to me, Duchess!" he shouted.

He turned his head away as if to gain control of his emotions. His lips curled into a deceptive smile.

"How do you know me? Who sent you here?" she asked.

"Let us in, Celeste," the Goth said.

"Yesss…invite us inside and we can…talk. Open the door," The Deacon said.

His silver, unblinking eyes held her in place, and the colors around his towering frame drained away. When he spoke again, his voice echoed inside her head, reminding her of the way Terry invaded her thoughts…read her mind. The canine teeth of the platinum grills elongated, becoming wolfish and frightening. Fangs.

"Let us come inside…"

The four menacing women dropped the façade of humanness, their fangs exposed and dripping with saliva. Celeste's security door had wide enough gaps to reach an arm inside, but The Deacon didn't grab her through the openings.

It occurred to her that the door was a barrier they couldn't cross without her permission. As long as she didn't verbally consent to letting them in, she was safe on the inside. But if she stepped out...they would feast.

"I smell him all over you…inside of you…open this door so we can speak of my brother without eyes upon us."

Celeste raised her left hand and flicked on her porch light. The bulb didn't emit UV rays, but it improved her visibility and momentarily distracted them... long enough for a shadow to stretch across her doorway.

Celeste gasped and touched her cheek. It felt like Terry's hand had stroked her skin with the warmth from his palm.

"Fucking bastard!" The Deacon shrieked.

He glanced back at the others.

"His sentinel is here...watching over her," The Deacon said.

He slammed both of his palms on the two middle bars of the security door.

"He will come back here for you, and when he does, we'll be waiting. Tell him he can't hide from us forever."

The Goth woman sniffed the air and bared her fangs at The Deacon.

"The Old Ones are near. We have to go!" the Goth yelled.

The Deacon glared at Celeste and her eyes watered. She blinked once and the strangers at her door vanished like they were never there. Her body swayed and the sound of loud flapping wings above her cottage rang in her ears. Something landed with a thud on top of her roof and walked across it with heavy footsteps. She slammed the front door shut and locked it again, cocking her ear toward the ceiling, listening for whatever new monstrosity awaited her.

Luckily, it didn't stay long. She stood staring at her ceiling with bated breath and a thundering heart rate. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled with familiar urgency. She turned around and looked at her French doors.

Terry's shadow darkened the curtains.

She walked with slow, trance-like steps toward the French doors and stared at the outline of his body behind the thin drapes.

"Are you there?" she asked.

Her voice sounded so weak and helpless.

The shadow didn't answer, and Terry's voice didn't go into her mind. That shit had been real. The first time it happened at the dive bar, she thought she had been drunk, horny, and imagining him talking inside her head. The dawning realization of what he truly was terrified her. Behind those drapes was proof of an abomination to humankind.

And she let it into her home.

Slept with it.

Let it feed from her, thinking it was some fetish kink. Just some deep hickeys and love bites that got his rocks off.

Fucking hell.

She whimpered and held her hands in a prayer position against her lips.

"Are you here with me… Terry?"

She reached for the doorknobs and unlocked them, flinging both doors wide open.

A sleek black cat sprinted across her small courtyard and leapt onto the neighbor's fence, blending into the darkness and out of sight.

Chapter 10 HERE.

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[rjzimmerman]

Excerpt from this story from the New York Times:

At first glance, Dave Langston’s predicament seems similar to headaches facing homeowners in coastal states vulnerable to catastrophic hurricanes: As disasters have become more frequent and severe, his insurance company has been losing money. Then, it canceled his coverage and left the state.

But Mr. Langston lives in Iowa.

Relatively consistent weather once made Iowa a good bet for insurance companies. But now, as a warming planet makes events like hail and wind storms worse, insurers are fleeing.

Mr. Langston spent months trying to find another company to insure the townhouses, on a quiet cul-de-sac at the edge of Cedar Rapids, that belong to members of his homeowners association. Without coverage, “if we were to have damage that hit all 17 units, we’re looking at bankruptcy for all of us,” he said.

The insurance turmoil caused by climate change — which had been concentrated in Florida, California and Louisiana — is fast becoming a contagion, spreading to states like Iowa, Arkansas, Ohio, Utah and Washington. Even in the Northeast, where homeowners insurance was still generally profitable last year, the trends are worsening.

In 2023, insurers lost money on homeowners coverage in 18 states, more than a third of the country, according to a New York Times analysis of newly available financial data. That’s up from 12 states five years ago, and eight states in 2013. The result is that insurance companies are raising premiums by as much as 50 percent or more, cutting back on coverage or leaving entire states altogether. Nationally, over the last decade, insurers paid out more in claims than they received in premiums, according to the ratings firm Moody’s, and those losses are increasing.

The growing tumult is affecting people whose homes have never been damaged and who have dutifully paid their premiums, year after year. Cancellation notices have left them scrambling to find coverage to protect what is often their single biggest investment. As a last resort, many are ending up in high-risk insurance pools created by states that are backed by the public and offer less coverage than standard policies. By and large, state regulators lack strategies to restore stability to the market.

Insurers are still turning a profit from other lines of business, like commercial and life insurance policies. But many are dropping homeowners coverage because of losses.

Tracking the shifting insurance market is complicated by the fact it is not regulated by the federal government; attempts by the Treasury Department to simply gather data have been rebuffed by some state regulators. 

The turmoil in insurance markets is a flashing red light for an American economy that is built on real property. Without insurance, banks won’t issue a mortgage; without a mortgage, most people can’t buy a home. With fewer buyers, real estate values are likely to decline, along with property tax revenues, leaving communities with less money for schools, police and other basic services.

And without sufficient insurance, people struggle to rebuild after disasters. Last year, storms, wildfires and other disasters pushed 2.5 million American adults out of their homes, according to census data, including at least 830,000 people who were displaced for six months or longer.

[familyvideostevie]

august: a no good at waiting one-shot

Almost a year has gone by since you arrived in Hawkins. You and your enemy-turned-friend-turned-love-of-your-life Steve Harrington are feeling a little restless as summer passes. Your anxieties will not leave you alone: Are you going to move in together? Does Steve want to leave Hawkins? What will you do if he goes somewhere else? It all comes to a head on a day spent at Lover's Lake.

fluff, angst, miscommunication, musings about making choices, and lots of love! [5.4k]

this is a one-shot set after the events of no good at waiting, a farmer's market au, so it's best if you read that first! | au masterlist

__

Everything is perfect.

Well, not exactly. But you're happy.

Okay, again, not the whole truth. You're mostly happy. You love living in Hawkins, you love working at New-Bee's and the library, and you love Steve. Your boyfriend, your short-lived enemy, your favorite person. Who is kind of pissing you off right now.

Almost a year has gone by since you arrived in Hawkins not knowing what you wanted or who you were or how things were going to go. This summer has been fantastic -- dates with Steve and nights with your friends, drives to amusement parks and county fairs and visiting Robin's campus. It feels right to be here and you're glad that you decided to stay. You think that maybe you've finally figured out how life is supposed to feel: like this. Like love.

But at the moment, Steve has you in a bit of a rut. A few months ago he told you he really wanted to go on a trip this summer. Something just the two of you, a week or two, exploring a new place. You loved the idea because you love doing anything with Steve, but for some reason he's hardly mentioned it since then. And with the end of summer fast approaching, you know your chances at getting away are running out. As far as you can tell, he hasn't planned anything secret. Sure, things have been busy: El broke her arm last month so Steve took on extra shifts, there was a huge storm that flooded some of the fields, you got a promotion and the library and thus more hours, his car needed new breaks. The stars haven't aligned but there also hasn't been any...effort.

And that's just one thing.

The other thing, which is maybe bigger and actually makes you a bit mad, is you've been focused on figuring out how to move in together. You live at Bob's still and while you spend a lot of time at Steve's loft you've talked about finding a place of your own and your loose goal was to have it sorted by the fall. But he talks about both the move and the trip like they're just dreams, far away things that will never actually happen. He's vague whenever you bring up the new apartments going up on the old mall property, about the for sale signs you sometimes see around town. He tells you that it'll work out, that he wants to be sure you guys have enough money to be comfortable.

Does he not want to move in with you? It's a silly thought, sure, but what else are you supposed to think? He's spending every minute he's not with you at the farm or on errands he's been calling "Hopper Missions" on some property just outside of town. It's like he's filling the time so there's no room to discuss the future, like he wants to pretend it'll be summer forever.

Being in an adult relationship is hard. It's lots of decisions and compromise and learning how to talk to each other even when you don't want to and you wouldn't trade it for the world. You know it'll all work out, you just wish that it was worked out already, so you could enjoy the end of the summer and stop worrying that your boyfriend doesn't want to live with you. You know that you should just tell him how you're feeling, but that's easier said than done. Every time you try you wonder if you're being oversensitive or ungrateful or reading into things too much and you back out. Feelings are hard, okay?

You're mulling over the weight of all of these thoughts at the market on one warm Saturday morning in August. Market day is routine by now. It was fun to be here for the start of the season back in May, but you prefer the high summer days when there are endless fruits and veggies to buy and everyone is full of energy and excitement at another day. By now you run the stand practically alone -- local kids free for the summer help you stock in the morning and unload and cover when you're otherwise occupied. You've expanded to four standard candle scents and try out a seasonal one every month or so and the soaps were a very popular graduation gift. You've just tried your hand at chapsticks and they're doing really well.

Most people in town call you by your name when they come say hi. It's a little slow this month, with seasonal allergy honey sticks being less and less popular as the season winds down. So you feel okay retreating into your thoughts until someone clears their throat. You snap out of it and find El standing in front of you with a paper bag. There's a crease between her brows as she watches you.

"Hi," you say. "Is that for me?"

She nods. "I said that you looked sad so Steve told me to bring you something because he's 'up to his ears in husk'. He said you didn't eat breakfast." She uses air quotes. You soften.

"Thank you," you tell her. She keeps looking at you for a few moments before giving you a smile and trotting back to the Sara's tent. Inside the bag is one of her newer experiments -- peach scones. It's fantastic. You munch on it and keep smiling at anyone who comes by, though it's maybe not as effusive as you'd like. You really want to talk to someone about how you're feeling (a voice in your head says that person should be your boyfriend but you ignore it) but you're not sure who to go to. Robin is in Boston visiting Nancy at her hot-shot job at the paper, Eddie and Wayne are on a fishing trip somewhere in Michigan, and you're not about to chat to high schoolers about your love life, no matter how much you like them. You're not sure anyone around here notices your mood like your friends do.

"Why do you look like you swallowed a lemon?"

Well, anyone but your friends and...Murray, it seems. The guy is a little weird, sure, but he's friends with Hopper and Joyce and he really buys "a fuck ton" from the market every week, as Steve once said.

"Hi Mr. Bauman," you say. He frowns.

"Cut that Mr. shit out," he says, though it's not harsh. You do this dance every time he comes to buy an alarming amount of honey. "Your mood is going to ruin the honey."

"I...don't think that's how it works," you say. He levels you with a stare that you think must have served him well when he was a journalist in Chicago, as you've learned he was. "I'm thinking about a place to live?"

"You sure?" he says, poking fun at your uncertainty. "You can live anywhere. Trust me. Cars aren't great, but they'll do. I'd avoid tents. Very damp."

"I guess I was thinking a house," you admit, looking at your fingers. You've never put this into words before and you're not sure why you're doing it now. "Somewhere not too big, maybe with some land so I could get a dog. Not in town but not too far from town." You sigh. "It's a dumb dream."

Murray doesn't say anything. You look up at him and he looks confused. His gaze darts between you and the Sara's stand where you can see the back of Steve's head. "Not the dumbest I've heard."

He slaps down a bill and picks up his usual jar and walks away without another word. Whatever, he's a weird guy.

The day winds down and you're a little too warm to be comfortable and you're just sweaty enough that you want to take a shower and you've stewed in your feelings for too long. Of course this is when Steve comes over. Handsome as ever in his work jeans despite the heat and a Sara's t-shirt he's cut the arms off of, he looks like the lead in a teen movie.

You're loading up the crates to take back to the truck. He squeezes your hip in hello before he starts to help. "How did New-Bee's do today?" he asks.

You shrug. "Average. You?"

"Every damn person in this town wanted corn," he says. "I swear it felt like we sold more than we did for the fourth!"

You hum. It's unfair that your mood has plummeted just as he's shown up and you don't want to take it out on him, even if you consider it a little bit his fault. Steve, for his part, is being a typical boy and doesn't notice. "Hey, listen," he says.

"Listening," you mutter.

"Let's go to the lake tomorrow." That gets you to look at him. He wipes his forehead with his pocket bandana.

"The lake? Why?"

"Everyone says it'll be hotter than today and I think we deserve a day to relax, don't you think?" He squints at the sky, shading his eyes. His arms look lovely like this. "I know we haven't gone on that trip so this is like, a mini trip! Staycation? I think that's what it's called."

"I don't know if a day at the lake in town counts as a vacation, Steve," you say. But even as the words come out you find yourself wanting to go because its something to do. You haven't been swimming in the lake despite Steve's summer bucket list item of skinny dipping. You've actually only been to the lake in general a few times, which is a bit strange since it's such a big place in your relationship. You kissed for the first time at the bonfire on the shore, you told him you loved him in the cab of your truck on a cold night.

"So, is that a no?" He's looking at you with a confused expression.

"It's a yes. Is anyone else coming?"

"No, just us. We can have a picnic or some cute shit, yeah?" He rests his hand on your lower back and maybe it's a combination of the heat and your mood and the universe but you don't want him to touch you right then so you pull away from it. You don't look at him.

"Are you sure you don't have super secret Hopper shit to do?" Silence behind you.

"No," Steve says, dragging the word out. "Hey, are you alright? Did I do something?"

You ignore his question. "Are you going to come get me in the morning?" Usually, you'd go home, shower, and then stay over at Steve's place. This is a clear line in the sand that you're not sure is fair to draw.

"Sure," he says. "But, seriously, what's going on?" You do look at him then. He's got a frustrated set to his shoulders and his brows are drawn like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

You chew on your lip, hands in fists at your sides. "Nothing," you say. He gives you an incredulous look. "Okay, I just don't want to talk about it right now." The last thing you need is to not talk about it but you can feel that you're getting actually bothered about this and you don't want to have a discussion that gets taken over by your mood.

"Okaaaaay," he says. It annoys you even more. Your own shoulders creep up to your ears. "I'll help you pack up and then --"

"No," you say sharply. "I can do it myself."

"Woah, woah, woah," he says. "Okay, alright!" He holds his hands up in the air and the fight wooshes out of you.

"I don't want to fight with you, Steve."

"Who said we were fighting? Do we have something to fight about?"

You close your eyes and tip your head back. It all comes out in a rush. "Steve, I love you and we spend so much time together and I keep trying to get you to talk about looking for a place and you just won't and you want to go on a trip but you won't actually plan it and you want to go to the fucking lake tomorrow and it's like you want to do anything except talk about this stuff and I don't really want to be around you right now."

You don't feel any better for having said all of it. In fact, your chest aches and your nose stings. You don't know if you can look at him.

"I didn't know you were that upset about it," he says finally. It sounds frosty.

"I didn't tell you."

"I can see that," he says. You still don't look at him.

The market is really closing up around you, fewer voices and commotion. You wonder if anyone heard this argument. "I can pack the rest. I'll see you tomorrow." You could have told him you don't want to go but maybe the lake is where you can squash this once and for all.

Steve seems to take the dismissal at face value because you hear him sigh. Part of you wants him to fight you on it right here right now, to sort it out so you can stop feeling so worried all the time. But he doesn't. Instead, you hear his steps and then feel the heat of him as he gently kisses you on the cheek.

"Okay," he says. "See you tomorrow."

And then he's gone.

"Fuck," you say to yourself. You shake yourself out of it and try to pack away the rest of the stall with as much speed as you can muster without breaking anything. The scar across your palm is faint by now but you aren't eager to get another one.

You're almost done bringing the crates to the truck when you hear your name. Will stands in front of your stall, a hesitant smile on his face. He's a sweet kid -- 18, soon, you think, so hardly a kid at all -- and you've gotten to know him a little more since you asked if he wanted to draw the labels for the chapsticks.

"Hi, Will," you say. "Sorry I didn't see you."

He's holding a single sunflower. "Sorry to bother you," he says. "This guy is the only one left today and El said you looked a little down earlier so I thought maybe you'd like it?"

You blink a few times. "Did you, uh, hear all of...that?" You vaguely gesture behind you as if the ghost of Steve is standing there with his arms crossed.

Will looks at you for a second, considering something. Then he holds the flower out and says, "Hear what?" Tactful kid.

"Thanks, Will." He tells you to have a good day and goes back to the flower stand. The sunflower stem is velvet-soft in your hand and the petals are a brilliant yellow. It's a bit lonely on it's own but you will put it in a wine bottle and keep it on your windowsill.

Imagining it there, the only stem, standing as tall as it can in the sunshine in your bedroom, makes you want to cry.

--

The thing you're most scared of is Steve wanting to leave Hawkins after all. You knew it was a genuine possibility when you started dating, knew that he wanted to explore the world just as you started to make yours here. You told him you'd go with him anywhere he wanted and you meant it then. But now you're not so sure. You love Hawkins and you love Steve. You don't know what you're going to do if one of them demands you leave the other.

Your mind churns as you go to bed and as soon as you wake up. Maybe he doesn't want to plan a trip because he's afraid he won't want to come back. Maybe he's afraid to move in together because he doesn't want to invest time and money into something he'll leave behind. Maybe he's already got plans and he's trying to figure out how to tell you.

"Stop it," you tell yourself in the bathroom mirror. You're prone to this kind of overthinking; it's why you made the huge mistake of running from him last fall. And while you know him so much better, know yourself so much better, sometimes it's hard to believe that you not only deserve nice things and a nice life full of love but that you already have them. And that's why you don't know if you can leave even if you told him you could.

You sit at the kitchen table in your swimsuit under shorts and a wax-stained New-Bee's t-shirt and feel a bit sick about yesterday. You know that Steve will come get you -- he would have called if he didn't want to go anymore. You don't leave each other in a lurch like that, even if you've fought. But you're worried that you've ruined the chance of a fun day that hasn't even happened yet.

The frustration with Steve still simmers under your skin. But you want to table it to have a bit of fun, if you can. You hear the crunch of his tires in the driveway and you grab your stuffed bag and head for the door. You're greeted with the sight of Steve getting out of the car and smiling at you a little hesitantly. He's in bright red swim trunks and a ratty Hawkins High t-shirt and sunglasses.

"What is this, Baywatch?" you ask him, breaking the tension. He laughs and meets you on the porch stairs to give you a quick kiss. You chase his lips a little but he doesn't call you on it.

"Well, I was a lifeguard," he says.

"Which I bet you did just so you could look hot in the chair."

"Obviously," Steve says. He takes your bag from you. "Actually, I taught kids to swim, too. Jesus, what's in here, a watermelon?"

You roll your eyes. "Just the essentials. Sunscreen, a book, some sandwiches, grapes, a water bottle, spare clothes, a towel, a hat --"

"Okay, okay, damn," he laughs, putting it in the back seat. You get in the car and he heads for the lake, windows down. He was right about the weather -- it's much hotter than yesterday already. It could be a nice day. You want it to be a nice day. But the churning your gut demands you address the elephant in the room.

When Steve reaches for the radio you catch his hand in yours.

"Steve," you say. "I do want to talk about yesterday." He doesn't look at you, chewing on his cheek and tapping the wheel in what you know is a nervous habit.

"Yeah," he says. "We probably should. But I also want today to be nice, okay?" He kisses the back of your hand.

"I do, too."

It's not much but it's enough for now. It doesn't take long to get to the lake. Steve takes you to a different part than where you had the bonfire and where you told him you love him. This area has a dock and some grass and a shore of sand and rocks that you can see from where he parks the car.

"There's no one here," you say, unloading the backseat. "Are we even allowed to swim?"

Steve grabs the blanket from his trunk and you spread it out on the grass. "Yeah," he says. "Five years ago or something they finished a project with some scientists or some shit to make sure the lake was good for swimming. They built this but honestly I don't think a ton of people come here." He shrugs. "Or they knew we were coming and left it to us."

"Lucky us," you smirk. You spread out your items on the grass before shimmying out of your shorts and t-shirt. Steve wolf whistles. "Gross!" you tell him.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "That's a nice color on you. Have I seen this before?" His eyes rake over you and you plant your hands on your hips instead of crossing your arms.

"Have we been swimming before?" you ask him.

He grins. "Good point." He pulls off his shirt in one motion from the collar like boys do and without another word sprints down the small hill and onto the dock, jumping off the end and into the water with a yelp and a splash.

"Such a child," you mutter, but you're endeared. He surfaces and shakes out his head like a dog.

"Okay," he says. "It's kind of really fucking cold."

You stop in your tracks, feet just on the edge of the dock. "Really?"

"No," he says. "It's only a little cold. Nice, though." You look skeptical.

"Did you put on sunscreen?" you ask, stalling.

"Yeah." Steve swims in slow circle. "Did you? I'll do your back," he says with an eyebrow wiggle.

"I did it already," you say primly. You knew that if you ended up touching too much on this date, you'd never get to talk about the stuff you need to talk about. "So no back rub necessary." Steve shoots a stream of water at you with his mouth. It gets your knees.

"It is cold!" you squeal. Steve looks too pleased with himself. "It's on, Harrington." You take a few running steps and cannonball into the water.

Honestly, once you've been under for a few seconds it's not so bad. You surface and find Steve grinning at you. "That was cute," he says. You splash him.

After acting like children for a little you both float on your backs, hands clasped, watching the sky. Your conversation and teasing fades and in its place returns your anxiety and frustration from yesterday.

Steve seems to think you're hungry. "Let's eat something," he says. "And put on some more sunscreen."

He gets up on the dock first and runs to get your towels. He wraps yours around your dripping shoulders and you stand in his arms for a second, hand pressed to his heart to feel it beat. You love him. You will work this out. You wonder if it's possible for something to go wrong not because you don't love each other enough but because you love each other too much.

"I made you a great sandwich," you say, pulling away. "And you need more sunscreen, too. Your nose is getting red."

"Wait, really?"

You settle on the blanket and lay out your lunch. Steve pulls berries from his own bag and you eat in a silence that is only a little tense until he tosses a strawberry top into the grass and sighs.

"So, I'm guessing now is the time to talk about it?" he asks.

"Do you not want to?" You don't want this to be a fight but you don't know what else it's going to be.

"No, of course I do," he says. "We need to, clearly." He crosses his legs, his tanned stomach rolling in the way you adore over the waistband of his swim trunks. God, you love him. That's why you have to figure this out.

"We do," you say, squaring your shoulders. "I'll start." The frustration returns full force. "What the hell have you been up to, Steve? You're busy all the time and I don't need to know what you're doing because I do trust you. I just don't get why you can't tell me what you're doing on these weird errands and you won't talk to me about going on a trip or moving and I thought those were both things we wanted."

"I do want those things --"

"I've been looking into what we can afford in Hawkins and thinking about places we could go and I'm busy busting my ass at the library when I'm not at New-bee's so that we can live somewhere nice. And it just seems like you don't actually care that much about moving in together because --"

"I do, care," he says over you. "I just don't want to live in Hawkins."

Time slows down. Your heart thunders in your ears. "What did you say?"

Steve looks stressed. He reaches for you but you don't want to touch him so you cross your arms. A look of hurt crosses his face but it fades quickly.

"Let me explain," he says. "I can explain it all. If I had known you were feeling this way I would have much earlier. Why didn't you tell me?"

You shake your head to clear it. He doesn't want to live in Hawkins? Well, what does he want? Does he want you, still? "Because I didn't think you'd make me feel this way," you say hoarsely.

He takes a deep breath. "I wanted to go on a trip this summer, yeah. I thought it would be fun. And then, like, two months ago, I started thinking about how I didn't actually want to leave Hawkins, but I also don't want to keep living the same life in Hawkins, if that makes sense."

Two months? Two months? The timeline rolls around in your mind. He's been thinking about this for two months and he didn't tell you?

Steve is still talking, apparantly not noticing your distress. "And we talked about looking for a place so I realized that maybe a trip wasn't a good use of our money even though I know we both work hard and are doing fine. And then I was on a drive the weekend you went to visit your family, remember?"

You nod. You'd gone home for a weekend and missed him terribly the entire time. Steve taps your ankle and you realize he wants you to reply. His eyes are wide like he's scared and he runs a hand through his hair. What is he scared of? "Yeah," you say hollowly. "I called you every night."

"You did," he says. "The first night you left I went for a drive all around the county, basically. Just to get out of town but not go too far. To do anything other than mope at my place after we hung up. And that's when I found it."

You aren't following. He leans forward and taps your cheek with his knuckle. "The most perfect damn place in the world."

"Don't tell me you bought a piece of land, Steve," you say. It doesn't seem like a thing he'd do and wouldn't make sense if he's just going to leave.

Your boyfriend just smiles at you. "No," he says. "I didn't buy it. Well, not really."

"Not really?" you say, incredulous. What the fuck is going on?

"I'm almost done explaining, I swear, honey." He runs a hand through his damp hair again. "It's maybe half an hour out of Hawkins proper. It's a real nice little farmhouse with lots of open space around it and I saw it and it felt like I'd been struck by lightning, or something."

The pieces start to fall into place but you don't dare hope. "Dramatic," you say.

"Hey, don't make fun of me!" Your joke seems to encourage him. "It looked like no one lived there so I figured out what the address was and turns out that weird guy Murray owns it."

Murray? Who you say yesterday at the farmer's market and who listened to you tell him about your dream property? That he, apparently, happens to own?

"He's not that weird," you mumble.

"He is weird but I don't give a shit because he doesn't use it and after talked to me he agreed to rent it to us for barely anything if I fixed it up a little first. So that's what I've been doing."

Steve looks at you, eyes wide and waiting. You blink a few times and try to take it all in.

"So let me get this right," you say. "When you haven't been working at Sara's or spending time with me, you've been fixing up a house that you're going to rent from Murray? And you told me none of this? For two months?"

Steve frowns. "When you say it like that I sound like the bad guy. Also, we're going to rent it." He seems to realize you haven't agreed to anything by the way his face falls and okay, maybe you're being a little unfair. Yes, he lied, a little bit, but it wasn't anything harmful. You just got in your head about it.

"I just don't get why you didn't tell me," you say, feeling small. "I was starting to think that you didn't..."

"Didn't what?" Steve reaches for you and you let him take your hands this time.

"Didn't actually want to live together. Didn't want to go on a trip. I don't know." You sigh.

Steve looks genuinely upset at that you've thought this. "Honey," he says, voice rough. "All I want is to live with you. This house is for us. Now that I'm saying it out loud I'm realizing I probably should have told you that at the start."

A whole house. You've imagined your first place together to be a dinky apartment on the edge of town. But a house? It's a dream come true. You bring Steve's palm to your cheek and lean into it.

"I thought we were good at communicating," you say softly.

"Apparantly not," he says wryly. "I'm sorry for not telling you. I just...wanted to make it nice and official first, I guess." His thumb strokes your cheek. "But you should have told me how you were feeling a long time ago."

"Yeah," you agree. "I'm sorry. Would have saved me some heartache and you some hard work. I could have helped!"

"You still can," he says, eyes lighting up. "It's not quite done. I still need to paint the outside."

You scoot forward so you're almost in his lap. "Where did you learn to fix up a house, Steve?"

"Hopper," he says. He fiddles with the strap of your bathing suit. "He's been helping. So I really was doing Hopper stuff, kind of?" He licks his lips. Another nervous tell. "So, what do you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"About the house. I know it's a lot and we're still kind of young but renting means we can change our minds and --"

You put your head in your hands. "Steve," you say, voice thick. "I'm still getting over the fact that I thought you didn't want to move win with me and finding out that instead you've found us a house."

His hands circle your wrists. "Only to rent!" he says a little desperately. "I mean, you might not even like it!" You allow him to pull your palms away. Your nose starts to sting.

"I will," you say.

"Oh no," Steve says. "You look like you're going to cry." He pulls you fully into his arms and flops onto his back on the blanket, taking you with him. You land on his chest with an oof.

"I've been really scared," you say into his bare chest. "That you were going to leave and I don't know if I can follow you because I love it here even though I love you, too."

"I know," he says. "But I think this is perfect. It's close but not the place we've been. It's ours until we want something different. And I don't think I want to leave because I want to be wherever you are."

"It's so grown up." You sniffle and he rubs your back.

"I know," he sighs. You can feel his heartbeat under your cheek. "What the fuck."

"What the fuck," you echo and laugh wetly. "Is the yard big enough for a dog?"

"Sure is," he says. "Do you want to drive by when we head home?"

"I do." He hums.

You sit in silence for a few breaths. "Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, but please tell me things next time, okay?" He looks down at you through long lashes.

"Deal," he says. "I love you back, but please tell me how you're feeling, okay?"

"Deal." You roll off of him and sit up. "Can we go see our house now?"

He grins toothily. "Hell yes we can," he says. "Well, it's not ours yet. Seriously, we have to work that out with Murray. I think we need a lawyer to draw something up? I don't really know how all that works --"

You kiss him in the middle of his sentence. "We'll figure it out."

"You're right," he says. He kisses you again. "We will."

thank you for reading <3 reblog, send feedback, masterlist here!

[bigtreefest]

Chapter 7: Have a Cow

From: You Catch More Bees With Honey Series

Pairing: Mob! Bucky x Farmer! Reader

Summary: You and Bucky are finding your stride until a surprise shows up on the porch

Word count: 2,750

Content/warnings: Light mob themes, farming, kissing, lap sitting, fluffy fluff

Author’s Note: It’s been a minute! Hopefully this kickstarts me to get a couple more chapters out soon. Please enjoy, be sure to drop any feedback, I love hearing from you!!

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

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You sighed as you walked into one of your barns tucked toward the back of the property, recently transformed into what looked almost looked like a city loft apartment to accommodate for Bucky’s workers on the farm. You were carrying produce crates and one of Bucky’s henchmen, Peter, came to take them from your hands.

Ever since Bucky’s construction crew has been working in the mines, most of the food that you would normally be selling at the farmer’s market has been going to them. That makes it easy for you, though. A few of them have even been around the fields helping out to pick it themselves, too, giving you a little more time to sort through documents, contracts, and future plans, without having to stay up late like your normally would to fit in all the work.

All the men had been a great help, and exceptionally respectful, which surprised you. Sure, you expected them to be formal and well-behaved, but their actions seemed almost rehearsed, like they had been told exactly what to do. Peter, probably the one kid who you had taken a liking to, was the only one who would really hold conversations with you, though. You assumed part of it was due to his status in Bucky’s organization. He was young, but extremely smart, earning him a spot of minor authority. Although every time he opened his mouth, you were never quite sure what would come out. It could either be something honest and profound, or a weird nervous babble. Sweet kid, though, so no harm done. He was like the best parts of Jake and Curtis at that age.

As you handed the crate over, you looked around at the high ceilings, now lined with bulb lights and the cool tones that decorated the previously wood-heavy space. “I’ve always wanted a barndiminium, just never had an excuse to make it.”

Peter added your box to the stack in what appeared to be a makeshift kitchenette. No way they had time to hook up appliances and water lines already, right? “I know our men seem pretty gruff, but if there’s one thing they like, it’s comfort and luxury where they lay their heads.”

You laughed and nodded your head. Just like their boss, although he didn’t seem to complain as much anymore, laying on sheets that were probably about as old as him.

Peter continued shifting crates around, unloading certain items likely for whatever meal they had planned next once the next round of workers got off their shift. “And of course, boss wouldn’t want anything less than the best when it comes to you. Says this’ll increase the property value. And it’s all yours to enjoy as you please when we’re gone.”

Ah, there it was. The kinda thing Bucky wouldn’t say to your face, but Peter’s lips let slip like it was nothing. Like it was obvious. You tried to change the subject, unsure if you could confront those types of feelings to Peter when you hadn’t even built up the courage to discuss them with Bucky yet. You knew Bucky cared about quality, and had a little understanding of the extent he was willing to go for you. But you didn’t even want to think about a time when Bucky could be gone.

“Don’t you need permits for this stuff?”

He winked. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Plus, I’m sure the higher ups worked their smooth talking magic and their connections. They’re amazing with things like that.”

You hummed in agreement. You had seen and heard first-hand how effortlessly Bucky could have something done for him. The world was at his fingertips. Surely that rule stood true for most people around him.

“Don’t I know, Peter. But I’m sure you’ve got your own charms. Some of your own connections that Buck doesn’t.”

He gave you a sheepish smile and shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess, sort of. But I’m not sure how much they’d really put me in charge of that stuff. Sometimes I just freeze up when I have to tell them things instead of them telling me what to do…I just get so flustered around Mr. Barnes.”

You nodded and put a hand on his shoulder. “Well, I’d say they trust you a lot for you to be in control of as much as you are right now. They definitely see through your nervousness. You’re doing a great job and I really appreciate you discretion and assistance around here.”

He gave you a soft smile. “Oh..wow, thanks.”

You nodded and turned on the newly laid floor, ready to head back to the house to continue your paperwork.

The mid-morning sun was at your back as you made your way inside towards the office. You were almost never inside at this time of day, so it was a wonderful pocket of time to be productive. You were greeted by Bucky sitting in your chair, shuffling though papers while he was on a phone call. He drew his gaze from the fan of parchment in front of him, smiling when he saw your face.

“Yeah, just keep an eye on her and increase security all around. Overlap shifts and monitor cameras 24/7. Thanks, Steve. Bye.”

You smiled as Bucky set the phone down. You had never heard him thank anyone before. As you took another step closer, though, you saw which papers he was looking through. Your own smile fell to see the contract from Cole for the hundredth time. Why was Bucky able to be so happy when this attempt at a forceful ‘offer’ was in front of him?

“C’mere, Honey.” Bucky gestured for you to come sit with him on your chair, but instead, you opted to take a seat opposite him, in front of your desk. There was work to be done and you couldn’t let yourself get distracted, even if he seemed oddly at ease.

You watched as his previously carefree gaze scrunched in on itself, eyebrows furrowed in confusion and lips in a slight pout. As you plopped down in the old cushion, you crossed your arms and legs.

“Bucket, I’m doing this for the good of both of us. Talk business with me first, then we can discuss…accessory ventures.”

You nodded in gesture to the papers, hoping he’d explain why this all needed to be looked over again. Was it not enough that it was constantly running through your mind? You had the power to just say ‘no,’ as long as Cole didn’t keep pushing or have anything over your head, but things were never that easy, so what was really going on?

“Honey, come on. We’ve got a little time to be close. This way we don’t have to flip papers back and forth to read them.” His voice had softened from his phone call, nearly reaching a whine.

“James…” oh, you weren’t messing around. You were taking this seriously. “I can read upside down. It’s fine. Just talk me through what’s going through your head.”

He sighed and his chin met his chest in defeat. “Ever since Curtis messaged me that Cole tried to get into the bar and Lloyd had been with him, I just want to be extra cautious, which is why I’m going through these. Again. I’ve already sent them to my lawyer in the city, so he’ll confirm for me.”

You nodded and stood up, finally walking over to him. “So is this what you’re really worried about? What’s not in the contracts, but real-life threats?”

You walked around your desk, hips swerving to miss the corners as you finally stood in front of Bucky. He swiveled the chair so you stood between his legs and threw his forehead against your stomach. You held him close and stroked his hair before he moved to look up at you, resting his chin on your sternum and wrapping his arms around your waist. “Yeah. I’m worried about you. And what’ll come when I have to leave. And just how involved Lloyd may be. I know I already told you about him, but I don’t think words can describe how much he truly doesn’t subscribe to caring for the well-being of others when they stand in his way. I know this is all that Cole has sent so far, but if Lloyd has anything to say about it, this won’t be the last push, but it’ll certainly be the nicest.”

You nodded down to him before gesturing for him to sit up so you could straddle his lap in the oversized leather chair. You held the sides of his face before leaning your forehead against his. You did your best to speak in a firm, yet placating tone.

“Jamie. I promise, I’m going to be fine. I was fine before you and I can take care of myself when you’re gone.”

He closed his eyes and sighed again. “I know, I know. But I just made the command to keep Peter here with you. He’s an extra precaution. You’ll barely notice him, and I’m sure having the help will be nice.”

You pulled away to smile and roll your eyes. “Bucky, he’s a kid. What’s he gonna do that I can’t? Plus, you know I like him. The last thing I would want is him putting himself in harm’s way for my sake.”

Bucky shook his head. “No, you know how capable he is. If I can see it, I know you sensed it from a mile away. He stays at least until it all blows over. Everyone is willing to do what is necessary to protect you. It’s what they signed on for.”

You knew that Bucky wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so instead, you simply kissed his temple and wrapped your arms around him, nestling against his neck. “Okay, fine. But he’s gonna become the buffest farmer you’ve ever seen when he comes back to you. I’m burning all his little suits. You’ll only ever see him in strictly flannel.”

Bucky let out a light chuckle as he rubbed your back, sitting in the chair and enjoying the moment with you before you mumbled against his neck in question.

“So you wanna tell me what Jake was really doing here? And what you did to make him into the same guy he used to be?”

Bucky hummed in thought at your question. He wasn’t quite sure if honesty was the best way to go here. Sure, you knew that everyone who knew about the mines had to come into town, but why have Jake help? And why didn’t Bucky hate him as much as you’d anticipated?

Bucky clicked his tongue before deciding on the diplomatic answer. “I just reminded him of his place and how valuable you are. Not much more than that. He’s smart if you direct the way he needs to think. I mean, he’s half the reason you’re in this mess, but he could help us get out if we do it right.”

“Yeah, okay Mr. Politician. Whatever you say. Just make sure you restock my duct tape. I’ve been running low lately and I’m not sure how that happened.” Bucky froze as you laughed at the reaction. Dang, he should’ve told the truth. You wouldn’t have asked if you didn’t already know, you were just giving him the opportunity to let you in. Noted.

The rest of the week on the farm was fairly easy as you and Bucky worked in tandem, sporadically getting updates on the mine reinforcements and spells of assistance from his men.

But otherwise, you got along well. Bucky was truly learning the farm chores and operations, catching on quicker than you had anticipated. He only ran the tractor into one ditch and his boots hadn’t gotten stuck in mud at all. Now you were helping, or at least trying to help, him reach mastery in what you thought he would’ve caught onto easily: barking orders.

The two of you were out in the pasture, as you finally taught him how to use your sheep and cattle dogs. Sure, they were practically self-sufficient, but sneaky little things sometimes with their own agendas. Bucky, in an attempt to boast about all the independent work he had done the previous week, revealed himself for the actual issues he had experienced with them, obviously not unbeknownst to you.

After a long day of running around and nearly a week since hearing anything from Cole, you and Bucky were spent, walking back up to your house to have a nice night in, just sitting on the porch and enjoying the peace. As you got closer, though, you could hardly make out a small brown blob waiting there next to one of the posts. Was it a package? You hadn’t ordered any new equipment lately….and then it moved.

You threw an arm out in front of Bucky, both of you stopping stark in your tracks.

“Wait. Hold on. You see that?”

Bucky grabbed your arm close to his chest when you stopped, leaning over it and squinting until it became clear. What was that doing on your porch?

The two of you cautiously kept walking towards it, finally deciphering what you were looking at: a brown, fluffy, baby… highland cow?

You could hear it moo more and more the closer you got, eventually seeing it tied to one of the porch posts with a rope and a ribbon around its neck: both Turner’s blue.

You walked up to the calf cautiously, holding out a hand and cooing at it to ease its evidently nervous state.

“Shhh, shhhh, hey there little thing. What are you doing up here?” Sure, you owned a plethora of livestock, but none of these. This was, for lack of a better term, a house cow. Something Decks had begged you to get for years, but you never had the need or the time for.

You pet the tuft of hair on top of its head as you squatted down, grabbing the piece of card stock attached to the ribbon before looking up over your shoulder at Bucky. You could already see the anger rising in his eyes and seeping through the rest of his demeanor, fists clenched and body rigid as he nodded for you to read.

“Peach, take a taste of what success could be. Here, have a cow. -Cole. P.S. all in good faith”

Oh, Bucky was gonna have a cow, alright. You rolled your eyes at another ridiculous note. This was very evidently not a dairy cow from his stock, so you weren’t sure why Cole was trying to pull one over on you by claiming it was. And he didn’t even leave it with any feed or water for who knows how long it had been there up until this point. The main question was: why didn’t Bucky’s men intercept? You guessed they were probably under specific instructions not to, as to keep a low profile.

When you looked back up at him, Bucky was already on the phone. Even before you had gotten to the porch, he had sent a message to Peter to check the cams and make sure no one had lingered on the property after the delivery. This new development instantly put him on high alert.

He held the phone to his ear now, though, as it rang only twice before you heard someone on the other side pick up. “Hey Barber, I know you’re busy with that other stuff I sent you, but what do you know about corporate gifting policies?”

Meanwhile, you had untied the poor baby from the post and scooped it up, carrying it inside and to the kitchen while Bucky slumped into the couch. You gave the calf—at least it was a girl capable of producing milk and not a boy-which you definitely would’ve roasted Cole for—some water before taking her over to the couch and setting her down next to Bucky. You ran your knuckles against his temple in a soothing stroke before petting through his hair and giving him a kiss on his hairline. When you pulled away, thumb moving to stroke his cheek, you mouthed ‘it’ll be okay,’ only seeing his jaw unclench slightly at the reassurance. You moved to sit on the couch on the other side of the calf and criss-crossed your legs, petting her and listening to Bucky’s lawyer walking him through corporate gifting laws, now on speaker.

Next >

Bonus A/N: highland cows are so cute. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been sent a video of one getting a little spa day🥰

Series Taglist: @scuzmunkie @openup-yourmind @vicmc624 @hawkeyes-queen @blackhawkfanatic @morgthemagpie @buckybarnessimpp @calwitch

[mdhwrites]

How Terrible of a Parent is Odalia?

TL:DR: If we ignore narrative bias, Odalia is at best a little bit of a helicopter parent and nothing else. Her being a bad person actually doesn't translate to her being a bad parent and we actually have very little evidence that she is actually even that controlling.

So I want to start with saying that this isn't about whether Odalia is or isn't a good person. She is not. The show is cartoonishly evil with her... But in weird ways for their goals. Her most evil acts actually have little to nothing to do with parenting. Letting the rest of the Isles die for the ascension of her family? Technically not the worst parenting move in the world from a purely literal perspective of trying to provide the best future for your kid. Trying to murder Luz? Well, she is the protege of the most wanted criminal in the entire Isles. I can't imagine why Odalia might not want her child associating with her. Weird concept, I know.

And that's actually something to keep in mind with what is seen as her biggest crimes: Kicking out Willow and getting Gus, Willow and Luz expelled. If we shift perspective a little... Odalia is just right. They are bad influences who are negatively impacting her daughter's ability to learn and better herself. Why would she want Amity to continue spending time with them?

Yes, this includes tiny Willow. The ONE thing we see of the two of them as friends is them SKIPPING CLASS and hiding from the instructor, only for Willow to fail, get them attacked by animals and then in trouble. I'm sorry but that doesn't sound like a good thing to me. Even just trolling around the market and pranking some people in your own free time is better, which is the worst thing we ever see Boscha do in this sort of regard. Sure, Boscha is a bully but not to an extreme level (King makes a fucking point of how tame she is) and doesn't get in the way of things like school or work for either herself or Amity. For what Odalia cares about, which is Amity improving herself to have a better shot at a good future, which is not a bad thing to want for your daughter, it's what Camila wants by sending Luz to Summer Camp, why would she condemn Boscha instead of the one playing Hookie?

Then we get the fact that Dana literally had a list of crimes stated out for why Luz was a menace since joining Hexside. If we shift the perspective to be that seeing the photo made Odalia go "Well, there's one bad influence, her grades are slipping and I did hear that something happened during Grom... I'm gonna look into this," rather than "I MUST CRUSH THESE PEOPLE WHO MAKE MY DAUGHTER SMILE!" then her actions seem pretty justifiable. I mean, before Luz even joined the school, her and Gus were skipping class and causing massive property damage. She was cheating on Willow's assignment and breaking in. The Grom one is bullshit but Luz is genuinely a menace. Not a Spider-Man, J. Jonah menace but genuinely causing problems and damage. And again: In active connection with the most wanted, WILD WITCH, in the ISLES. With that, Odalia almost looks like the only sane person here.

Now mind you, main character bias, the fact that we know Eda is barely a criminal, etc. like that but Odalia doesn't have any of that. By the rules of her society, you know like Camila had to act from Luz threatening to vandalize her school with fireworks and assaulting her principal with a wild snake, she has every right to think Luz is bad. To think Luz is the worst possible person for her daughter to spend time with. Sure, she smiles... Now... But what about when life catches up? Breaking the rules is fun after all but there are consequences, at least if you're not Luz.

But what about her general parenting style? She places crushingly harsh restrictions on Amity after all! Well... No?

Here are her demands: I want you to keep your grades up but if you help me, I will let you dropping to being a B student slide with no further punishments.

Please wear this necklace so I can talk to you when I need to, much like texting a cellphone would do.

Please aim for an Ivy League school because I believe you are good enough for that and I will give you the support to reach that height.

I would like your hair to be green.

I mean... These all sound... good? Now yes, pushed to the extreme they can be bad. If there is no leeway, like if Odalia forced Amity to spend every second studying, threatened to disown her if she didn't get into the EC and demanded 100s on every test then yeah, she'd genuinely be abusive but she's not. Amity appears to have PLENTY of free time where she is entirely unmonitored and allowed to do as she pleases. This isn't even just post Escaping Expulsion. She spends time just hanging out with Boscha after all. She's able to run out into the woods to angst about Grom coming up. She goes to the Knee to train but that's without any supervision besides the twins who are known troublemakers (pin that in the back of your head btw). Even the necklace isn't like full control over her. It never overrides her body or mind. It's literally just sending messages. That's nothing, especially for a fantasy mom? Oh my god could that necklace be way fucking worse. When forcing her to dye her hair green, but not entirely so Amity must have some amount of say as to the styling of it or else her front half star wouldn't be allowed to exist, is the worst thing she's actually doing with evidence to back it... That's pretty fucking tame. It's like telling your kid "No, you're not allowed to have giant chains on your pants because they make you look like a thug." Oh and on the disown element? Amity literally tries to sabotage her mother's company and attack her and Odalia's reaction is just to go "Yep, that Luz girl sure is a menace, with a literal bounty, but you're still my daughter." That is the patience of a god damned saint right there.

And hey, what about the twins? They're Odalia's kids too. They don't fear Odalia though. She is neither of theirs greatest fear. In fact, they'd rather be with her than alone, because being alone is at least Edric's greatest fear. If she's as monstrous as the fandom likes to say, that should not be the case. Also, they do skip classes like Willow made Amity. We know this because Amity literally states it in her diary with frustration that no one does anything about it. That implies she tried getting people to do it. So why didn't Odalia crack down on them? Do they do things for as deals to get away with their freedom like Amity helping with the Abomaton show? I mean, same episode we meet them, they show up because Odalia told them to bring Amity her lunch because she forgot about it. Odalia cares enough that she'll see her daughter forgot her food, doesn't have to ask Amity where she is but instead keeps enough of an ear on her daughter's life to know where she is, which avoids some amount of claims of neglect, and sends Edric and Emira to the library. This could be read as not wanting to bother with it but just as easily it could be "Sweet, an excuse to force my trouble making twins to go to the library where they might actually study for once if Amity forces them to." It could also be that because she runs everything about Blight Industries besides R&D, she was just too busy, which is not the greatest sin in the world despite what kid's movies will tell you.

So... Why is Odalia labeled the worst parent ever? Why is she made out to be as abusive as Belos, who will literally kill Hunter if he's displeased enough, when there's so little evidence for it? Because I wouldn't bother with this sort of blog if not for the claims the fandom likes to make. The exact same claims that led to my first ever TOH blog that was about the contradictions in how people talked about Odalia post S1 and literally every piece of evidence we had. Is she flawless? God no. But this is a show that criticizes Camila for being too oppressive as a parent.

MAYBE it's a little misguided on what parenting actually is and you should question how it portrays its parents. See you next tale.

======+++++======

Oh, small additional edit to expand briefly on Clouds on the Horizon: Her kids literally attempt terrorism and her response is to ground them. Just. Ground them. With one person keeping an eye on them. Sure a trained guard but they just tried to commit TERRORISM.

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[suguwu]

feeling a way so here have the first 1k of the aventurine fic i am scared to keep writing but refuse to abandon

You used to think the moon was real.

It hangs bright in the sky, a lonely mirror, painting the world silver with its soft touch. Tonight, it’s close enough that you can see the craters on the surface, artfully shaded to mimic the moon it replaced. 

You suppose you should be grateful that they kept the IPC logo on the other side. 

The moon is artificial, but the wolves still sing to it, their howls a funeral dirge. They rise like smoke, fading out as they reach the velveteen sky. They echo each night, until you think you have known no other lullaby. 

Tonight is no different; the baying drifts in through your open window, carried by the breeze. It accompanies you as you get ready, a low, melancholy wail that makes the hairs on the back of your neck prickle. 

It cuts off when you step out into the dusk. Eyes flash in the underbrush, cut gems in the moonlight. You still. Take in a soft, steady breath. The eyes shift, aglow like burning stars, and then they’re gone.

You take your hand off your gun.

You linger by the door for a few minutes. When the howl pierces the sky once more, it’s distant, an echo of what it was. You hop off the step and head for your hovercar. It chirps as you draw near, its door sliding open for you, and you slip into it.  

The casino is a ways off, centered in the heart of the closest city, but you can see it as soon as you lift into the air. It’s elegantly lit, almost as silver as the moon. As the night grows teeth, the sky darkening to pitch, those lights will go out, leaving only the faint periwinkle glow of the night-blooming flowers that cascade over the casino’s facade. On their own, each luxurious blossom is a winking firefly; together, they illuminate the night. 

Their creamy petals are just starting to unfurl when you pull up to the valet. You wander to the half-hidden edge of the entrance, reaching out and pinching off a bloom. It releases a puff of honeyed scent that will linger on your skin, but you hardly mind. 

You twist off the stem before pressing the bottom of the flower to your lips. The nectar that you suck out is achingly sweet, like a healing bruise. Your eyes flutter shut.

“You have expensive taste.” 

You don’t jolt, but it’s a near thing. You open your eyes slowly, peering out from under your lashes to take in the interloper. The man tilts his head, his expression open in a way that makes you think of the plastic flowers in the cheap markets—an echo of the real thing. 

“Do I?” you ask. 

“You do, friend,” he says. “These flowers are something of a rarity.”

You hum, meeting his vivid eyes as you pluck another, the petals’ glow starting to die out as soon as you break it off the stem. “Then someone shouldn’t have put them within reach.” 

He laughs, a delighted chime, eyes crinkling. It’s a pretty noise, but there’s a hint of teeth to it, bone clicking against bone. “Most people don’t touch what isn’t theirs.” 

You pause. “You’re IPC,” you say. 

His eyes gleam. “Now what gave me away?” 

“Just a guess,” you lie.

His smile coils on his lips, a snake ready to strike. “Oh?” he asks. “It was a good one.”

“A lucky one. Maybe I should hit the slots tonight.”

“Maybe you should.”

You twirl the blossom in your hands; the fading radiance of the petals leaves the briefest trail of light, a comet’s flaring tail. His gaze drops to it.

“They really are expensive, you know,” he says, glancing back up at you. “And technically, they’re IPC property.” 

You meet his vivid gaze as you put the silken blossom to your lips and nip off the bottom of the bud. The nectar starts to drip onto your tongue, a thick syrup. You suck it out and then let the flower flutter to the ground. Against the shadowed concrete, it looks like a puddle of faint, silvery moonlight. 

He smiles. “But what’s a few flowers between friends?”

“I’d rather pay for them.” 

He winces playfully, splaying a hand over his chest. “You wound me.” 

You snort. “Hardly fatal,” you say. “Your pride can take the hit.”

His laugh is a bell of a sound, a mocking chime. It sets your teeth on edge.

“You’re funny,” he says, eyes gleaming. It doesn’t sound like a compliment.

You smile anyway. “Thanks.”

He opens his mouth, but in the space between breaths, his phone goes off. He checks it and hums, glancing back at you with a charming smile. “That’s my cue,” he says, already turning to go. “Thanks for the chat. It was nice.” 

“Was it?” 

He laughs again, the sound sharp-edged; it carries to you even as he walks away. He raises his hand in a lazy wave. “See you around,” he calls, not looking back. He disappears into the casino. 

“Aeons, I hope not,” you mutter. 

You glance down at the flower you’d dropped, its petals delicate against the concrete. Its glow is gone now; it’s just another bloom. You lean down and pick it up. Some of the petals tear, their bruises too deep to mend. You sigh, running your tongue over your teeth. 

Nectar still lingers sweet on your tongue, as it does every time you visit the casino. It lasts the night, no matter what you drink, a ghost of the long-drowned meadows. You touch a petal lightly; it’s silken against your skin. You let it drop back to the ground with a sigh.

You glance up at the moon. It stares down at you, an indifferent eye.

In the distance, the casino door opens; sound spills out from it, cutting through the night. It pulls you away from the moon’s apathetic gaze. There’s golden light slanting onto the concrete from the open door, a pooling yolk. It beckons to you warmly. It’s illusory, but you go to it every time, drawn in like a moth to flame.

Tonight is no different; you head towards the door.

You never notice the flower tearing beneath your heel. 

—

The casino is as loud as ever. 

The slot machines sing, a siren’s unending call. You can hear them even at the entrance, their chirping carrying over the low murmur of people talking. The roulette wheel purrs; the dice clatter like bones. The noise settles over you like a cloak, warm and familiar.

You slink further into the casino, making your way towards the atrium, its stained glass wall sparkling even from a distance. The plants inside cast smudged shadows, their edges smearing like watercolors behind the thick cloud of condensation that lingers on the panes.

For a moment, you’re tempted, but you turn at the last minute, walking along the edge of the atrium’s wall before slipping up to the cashier’s cage. 

“Oh,” Sima says, pausing in the middle of counting chips. “You’re here.”

“Were you expecting me?”

“Yes, actually.”

You frown. “Because?”

She slides a bright orange chip across the counter to you. “A guest said you were coming. Bought that for you.” 

“Who—” you pause, running your tongue over your teeth. The nectar still lingers, lush and sweet.  “Nevermind. Keep it.”

She laughs, loud and bright. “He said you’d say that.” 

You suck in a soft breath, gritting your teeth. “Of course he did.”

She nudges the chip closer. “He insisted,” she says.

[reality-detective]

Decoding Trump's speech yesterday, and though I only saw snippets, associating the below became academic. You have to remember, he always tells us, in his way, in order to not violate National Security.

He is warning us that we will have 1 really, really rough hour… then it will end immediately.

He spoke of a glass wall. 40th Wall Street across from the stock exchange. 40 = DJT and he is going to battle or “ cross” the stock exchange. He referenced a “ pharmacy” on his property at that address. And people walking in and taking whatever they want. (rigged and fraudulent stock market).

Gematria for “ pharmacy”

583- The demographic shift

85- silver

Get Ready

Storm

Blackout

Then he said “ we’re gonna have to close” several times

Black swan event inbound

He then said “ If you had 1 real rough, nasty day, really rough….. then spoke of $950 and calculators:

Coming: we will have a really tough day, but it’s all calculated

Gematria for 950-

Trust the plan.

Full control

Q

He concluded this com with “ in a rough hour and I mean real rough. It will end immediately (x3).

It takes a lot of time to decode what Trump talks about and there are several resources that have to be used. He tells us almost every time he speaks, tweets or sends messages out to "We the people," even when he misspells words, it was done on purpose and it took me years to figure it all out and make sense of it. But this is what I get from his last one. There's more to it, it's what is unsaid. 🤔

[importantstudentbusinessspy-blog]

In Space - 2.0

Masterlist

Previous chapter

Pairing: Inquisitor Cal Kestis x (f)reader

Tags: slight NSFW, use of the force, first liss, kissing, fluff, fear, violence, hurt, comfort, feelings,

Cal went on about his daily responsibilities, which consisted of training, carrying out tasks for the empire, more training, tracking persons of interest, sitting silent in classified meetings where people discussed him like a resource to be allocated or used, and lastly, more training.

He found at times his hands itched for the tools he found laid on the floor near workers occupied with fixes and jobs.

On occasion, his commander would assign him to spy on the crew, both soldiers and staff alike, and report back to him in case there was a "cause for concern" by which he meant thoughts of rebellion.

The soldiers were easy enough - they were either bred or raised to obey orders, so there was very little questioning coming from them. But the crew, especially those who joined against their will, often resented their overlords. However, they were smart enough to know they were outnumbered, and their chance of success against a whole warship command - not to mention a force weirlding inquisitor - were slim.

Some were bothersome still. You, for example. The young mechanic girl who'd picked up a dangerous fascination with his sabers. Further force empathy revealed that you had even started conducting experiments of your own during your limited breaks. Shoving your rations down and running off to with scraps you stashed away (also forbidden, each and every gear on the warship was the Empire’s property) and put together some toys, and test them out.

Cal found himself feeling conflicted when he'd search your thoughts. One side of him wanted to grab you and shake you for attempting to replicate powerful tech you knew nothing about - something that would certainly be considered an act of stupidity. Another part wanted to turn you over to his commander and have you face the torterous consequences for treason. But there was a third, quiet side of him, the side that loved working with his hands, to build and create, that itched to hint you in the right direction.

It wasn't a flint that sparked that activated the lightsaber like you thought, it was a magnetic stabilizer. And the power wasn't derived from combined Gasses with oxygen- the saber itself wasn't a sword on fire.

It was kind of... endearing in an alarming way, how cluekess yet curious you were. A faint, dangerous voice whispered to him in ways he didn’t like. He noticed things about you that had nothing to do with duty. The way the fabric of your uniform clung to your figure when you bent over an engine, the slope of your neck when you tilted your head to focus, the faint sheen of sweat glistening on your skin after hours of work. It wasn’t just curiosity that pulled his attention toward you. It was something far more dangerous.

Cal was currently on a mission. His pod had left with a small crew, you among them. He’d made it so, insisting on keeping you within close range. Whether it was duty or something far more unsettling, he couldn’t say.

While he and his commander went off to secure the main deal, the engineers were instructed to scour the bustling market for spare parts and machinery.

The streets were narrow and chaotic, brimming with stalls and vendors while children shouted deals and pitches on behalf of their parents, while salesmen gestured with polished tools and intricate pieces of machinery.

Cal didn’t need to focus on you to know your thoughts; they hummed in the back of his mind. You were debating if the offered screwdrivers were worth the price, weighing it in your hands and trying not to look to interested, lest you have to haggle for it.

He shifted, and his focus to the deal. The offer was as routine as it was effective.

"We can offer you protection," Cal’s commander said smoothly to the ruling house’s representative.

"From who?" asked the old man his voice cautious.

"From him." The commander tilted his head toward Cal.

On cue, the Inquisitor raised his hand. Blasters were torn from the guards’ grips, levitating in the air, their barrels slowly turning toward their owners. The guards froze, their fear palpable in the tense silence.

The representative swallowed hard, his ornate robes trembling as he nodded quickly, sealing the agreement. The Empire’s stranglehold on the galaxy tightened further.

The deal was completed in record time.

Later, as the crew celebrated their success at a local bar, Cal was approached by one of the generals.

"Here, son. A littke way of showing the empire's grattitude. Take your pick," the man said, gesturing toward a group of women gathered nearby. Each one was clearly chosen to appeal to the Empire’s elite. They were beautiful, barely clothed, and eager.

Cal barely glanced at them. "I want the mechanic. EM-3415," he said finally, his voice cold and deliberate. "From the west paddock."

The general raised an eyebrow but shrugged. "Alright. Like I said, whoever you want."

You were heading back to the bunk when two troopers intercepted you.

"Come with us," one of them said curtly.

"Where are we going?" you asked, but neither responded. They simply turned and began walking.

Unease twisted in your gut as you followed them through the warship’s labyrinthine halls. They led you to the wing reserved for high-ranking officials and military elites.

When they stopped at a door, they opened it without explanation and shoved you inside. The room was unlike anything you’d ever seen, a stark contrast to the drab quarters you were used to. The large bed was adorned with dark silk sheets, and a wide window revealed the vastness of space beyond, stars glittering like scattered diamonds.

You took a hesitant step forward, your boots sinking into the plush carpet. It was opulent, yes, but the silence felt heavy, as though the walls themselves were holding their breath.

Your eyes roamed the room, catching on a chair draped with dark robes. Then you heard the sound of running water.

Your pulse quickened as you backed away from the nearby door. The water stopped, and the quiet footsteps that followed sent a shiver down your spine.

The door opened, and Inquisitor Kestis stepped out.

Steam curled around his frame as he walked toward you, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist. His bare chest, defined and glistening with droplets of water, rose and fell with each steady breath. The sharp, dangerous lines of his face were softened only slightly by the damp strands of red hair clinging to his forehead.

It was like something out of the smuggled romance novels you and your bunkmate whispered about in the dead of night. Only this wasn’t a fantasy. This was real. And far more terrifying.

His eyes locked onto yours, piercing and unrelenting.

"I-Inquisitor," you stammered, snapping into a stiff salute. "Glory to the Empire. I didn’t mean to intrude - I was brought here."

"I know," he said nonchalantly, his voice low and calm with authority. A bead of water rolled down his temple and disappeared into the taut muscle of his shoulder. "I requested it."

Your eyes widened as the realization set in. You swallowed nervously, your mind scrambling for a response, but the words caught in your throat as he raised his hand slowly, and you felt your feet rise above the ground. You gasped, the feeling of floating entirely foreign but simultaneously fascinating. The force pulled you towards him in quick time. In a breath, you were standing in front of you. The warmth omitted from his body enveloped you, and you felt your face grow hot.

"I've never..." You rushed to say, but he did not look surprised. Of course he already knew. Those jedi mind tricks were awesome but damn creepy. You tried to clear your mind. But what he said next surprised you for some reason.

"Neither have I." His tone was guarded despite the vulnerability in the confession. Your brow rose. He was so intimidating, yet so... intriguing, how was it possible he has never been intimate.

His arms circled your waist, and your breathing grew shallow.

"That wasn't the reason i wanted you here." He confessed then. "Not now, anyway."

You couldn't look him in the eyes, especially knowing he could sense your thoughts. You wished you could read his to understand what he'd implied.

"I only wanted your company." He answered the question on your mind.

You released a breath, feeling a sense of relief, but also some confusion. Mostly at the possible reason why he thought you were worth his time. What would your company bring him.

"The life of an inquisitor can be lonely." Cal explained. "I remember what it was like to be... around someone who understands."

"What could I possibly understand about you?" You wondered out loud.

"I'm not sure yet," he furrowed his brow. "I just find myself drawn to you. To your thoughts." He hand rose to brush a loose lock of your hair.

You became extremely aware of the grease covering your skin from a full day's work, especially at seeing his cleanliness.

"When was the last time you showered?" He asked, definitely reading your mind.

You didn't perceive the question as an insult. "Yesterday evening. I was on my way to the communal bath when the troopers ordered me here."

He nodded, then took a step back into the steamed bathroom. Clean tiles, folded towels, and organized soaps made you almost hate him out of envy.

He chuckled behind you, and you'd assumed he'd read your mind again. You looked at the mirror, seeing the two of you. The greasy mechanic girl and the inquisitor of the imperium standing at command behind her. He stood a head above you, golden red irises challenging you in the mirrors reflection. You gave another hard swallow as your hand rose to the zipper of your uniform and slowly pulled it down.

Cal watched, unblinking as the skin of your breasts was revealed. Did he like what he was seeing? You wondered. You pull the uniform off of your shoulders and let it drop to the floor at your feet before kicking off your boots.

You stepped into the shower, the dirt from the bottom of your feet seeped out on the tile. Your hand reached and turned the handle, and a spray of water rained down on your heard, you inhaled and exhaled, closing your eyes against the comforting feeling.

You felt the warmth of his skin surrounded you as his hands came to hold your hips. One of them rose up your body until he reached your chin, then he lifted it, turning you to face him. His breath brushed your lips and you turned to face him fully.

He brought his lips down to yours then, giving you your first kiss. You didn't know what you were doing at first, but you know what movements felt better than others, and soon you began to move your lips against his. Your hands rose to his nape and your lifted yourself onto your tiptoes to get better access. The two of you stayed entwined in each other's arms, kissing for what felt like hours.

After your shower, exhaustion took you and Cal dried you, lifted, and carried you to his bed. Wrapped up in the warm silk sheets, you wondered when you were ever going to be this clean again.

"Do you feel like youre betraying them?" You asked, as your eyelids grew more and more heavy. "The jedi."

He narrowed his gaze at you, prompting you to speak further, clarify.

"I heard about them." You continued nervously. "They preached peace, didn’t they?"

Cal looked off for a moment, then spoke quietly, "Peace is a concept of cowards, I stopped fighting the inevitable."

"How?" You asked, voice small.

"I embraced it."

"Thats..." You began, unable to imagine what he meant in your tired state.

"It's not so bad." He dismissed, his fingers lazily brushing your arm.

"I don't believe you." You said with a small voice.

This close, you had a clear view of his features. Faint freckles peppered across his nose and cheeks, red stubble covering the sharp edges of hus chin and across his jawline. You could tell he was clenching his teeth by the way his cheeks hollowed. He was in a state of perpetual inner conflict with himself. But for a minute you thought youd caught a rare shade of green peaking out behind the bloodshot gold rings of his irises. An indication of the boy he once was, buried alive by the hardened man standing in front of you now.

"The jedi are gone." He finally said, just as you gave yourself over to sleep.

[littlemisssquiggles]

The Missed Potential of WISH

It’s funny.

Last year, I really wanted to watch the new Wish animated film from Disney.

While everyone else were hating on the art and animation style, I actually kind of liked it and was genuinely looking forward to possibly viewing it on the big screen.

Then the reviews came in. Needless to say, I didn’t watch Wish.

I remember a time when people used to complain about Disney making “too many love stories”. Then Disney stopped making love stories leading to films like Moana, Coco, Encanto and even Turning Red, which weren't bad.

Following the failure of Wish, the biggest complaint I’ve heard for that film is that “it probably would’ve been more successful if it were a love story”.

The last romance Disney had we’re the protagonist was a “black girl” was Tiana from The Princess and the Frog which was technically their last 2D animated feature film.

And don’t get me wrong, til this day, The Princess and the Frog still tracks. Second to Tangled, I still very much love TPATF and it's one of Disney's classics that definitely have the rewatchability.

That being said, Wish is the first Disney film I've seen where the missed potential of what its story was originally supposed to be (herego a love story between a human girl and shape-shifting star boy) versus what we actually got is more popular.

Aww Disney, what were you thinking?! How could you think a film where the main character, who is a PoC, the first "black girl" (well technically I think Asha is meant to be mixed) female lead/love interest that you've had since Tiana in The Princess and the Frog in 14 YEARS where she is actually human for all of the movie and gets to share a love story with a handsome "star boy" who can literally make all of her dreams come and think that that's NOT gonna make you money!

I haven't even watched Wish yet I've seen more artwork and fan-made animatics of Asha and Star Boy than anything from the actual film.

At this point, Disney should just take all of the original ideas they left on the chopping block for Wish and revise them into a future title which is an actual love story they could market from.

Or…as an audience, we can just wait for one of their competitors, like Dreamworks to smell the blood in the water like the sharks they are and capitalize on Disney’s latest flop by taking the ideas they didn’t use and coming up with something that could potentially usurp the popularity of Wish’s failure.

In the case of Dreamworks, they don’t even need to make a new star boy since, technically, they already have potential “star boy” they can use.

Remember Rise of the Guardians?

Hahaaaaa OF COURSE you do, since it gave us the original immortal boy internet heart throb (also ironically voiced by Chris Pine who played King Magnifico in Wish) ---Jack Frost.

I find it hilarious that another reason why folks are hating on Wish so much is because Disney could've given us another potential immortal boy heart throb "Star Boy" to finally usurp the chokehold that Jack Frost has had on our generation of weebs and artists for the past 12 years since RoTG first dropped.

We could've had it all.

But as I mentioned Rise of the Guardians, did you know that there is character in the original series it was based off of called Nightlight?

While technically not a “star boy”, Nightlight is the closest thing to one in an already established universe from a Dreamworks property and since this squiggle meister never misses a beat to push for continuation of Rise of Guardians, hear me out:

Imagine a Rise of the Guardian prequel-sequel about the character Nightlight and make it a love story.

(Because apparently there's a girl that Nightlight grows close to in his story called Katherine. It's just a friendship but needless to say, there is potential there).

I know it’s been 12 years since Rise of Guardians first dropped and I know I've be hollering for a sequel since 2012.

But c'mon, if there was ever a time for Dreamworks to capitalize on an RoTG sequel, it's now.

As Wish has proven, the internet is hungry for another handsome immortal boy with magical powers.

Dreamworks set the ball rolling with Jack Frost.

If Dreamworks were to revisit RoTG again, take Nightlight's story. Take his design and give him the "Jack Frost" treatment and make it a love story on top of that.

I'm not saying it will happen. Not even saying it could happen.

But if somehow thought becomes reality and something like this does actually happen, whoever does it will be rolling in dough.

This is just a longwinded way of me to say that somebody needs to bank on the concept of a star falling in love with a human and do it now since as the internet has shown, it's what the people want and what Wish failed to give.

~LMS (2024)

[lick-me-lennon22]

Paul McCartney X Insomniac!Reader - Dream Weaver 🌠

(requested by anon!! John version will be posted soon 💞 enjoy, dearies)

☆☆☆

Paul sat in his cozy study surrounded by stacks of books, a dim desk lamp casting a warm glow on his delicate features. The night was still, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze from beyond the room's large stained glass windows. He sighed, glancing at the clock ticking away the hours. It was well past midnight, and it was par for the course for Paul to stay up this late. After all, he'd slept in until nearly noon - as usual.

For you, however, it was a different story. You'd spent last night tossing and turning, desperately trying to soothe yourself to sleep. Your eyes burned with exhaustion, a testament to the restless energy that consumed you. The following day you had trouble staying alert, despite the fact that you'd been wide-eyed and wired just hours ago. You willed yourself to push through your work and studies, groggy and uncoordinated in your movements. You were sure Paul had noticed your decline.

And notice he had. Paul couldn't help but imagine of you, lying awake in bed, struggling in your battle against insomnia. This wasn't new for you, simply another bout of sleeplessness, but it had been particularly brutal as of late.

With a determined sigh, Paul closed his book and made his way to the kitchen. He began to brew a fresh pot of chamomile tea, recalling its calming properties. He listened closely to the soft hum of boiling water, a comforting presence in the quiet of the night. As he waited for the tea to steep, he rummaged through the cupboards in search of a small jar of honey he'd purchased from the farmer's market only days before.

Armed with the tea and honey, Paul shuffled quietly to your shared bedroom and pushed the door open with his shoulder, the stiff wood creaking as he stepped inside. He is welcomed by the sight of you staring up at the ceiling above, your brows furrowed in frustration. You turn to look at Paul, your gaze softening as you smile weakly at him. He walks to the bed and takes a seat beside you, setting the mug and and jar down on the nightstand.

"Struggling to sleep yet again?" he asks gently, stroking your hair. You nodded, a faint frown marring your features.

"It's been tough lately."

Paul nods in understanding.

"I thought you may want a little something to help calm the nerves," he says, stirring a spoonful of honey into the steaming mug of tea and offering it to you.

You smiled gratefully and accepted, closing your eyes and sipping the fragrant brew. "Thank you, Paul. You didn't have to do that."

He shrugged sheepishly, crossing one ankle over the other as the two of you sat in comfortable silence. After a few moments you settled back under the covers, the warmth of the tea seeping into your bones. Paul began to hum a lullaby, a soft and soothing melody that wrapped around you like a cocoon and momentarily eased your stress.

You continued like this for a while, eventually closing your eyes. But inevitably your mind began to wander, your worries returning with more tenacity than before and gripping your mind with the same dreadful anxiety. You shifted positions a few times, grappling for solace in Paul's melodious voice. But finally you sat up, overwhelmed, and placed your head in your hands with defeat.

Paul halted his song abruptly and turned to your hunched-over form, a somber look on his face. "Not doing the trick?"

You sighed and shook your head wordlessly. Paul placed a sympathetic hand on your shoulder and started to brainstorm. After a few moments, his face lit up with playful inspiration.

"How about I tell you a story?"

At first you were taken aback by the suggestion, finding it a tad childish. But, realizing it may be just the thing to occupy your spiraling mind, you nodded and laid back to cozy up once again.

And so, Paul began to spin a tale, weaving a tapestry of adventure and wonder that transported you far from the confines of your bedroom. His voice sweet as the honeyed tea he'd brought you, a soothing balm for your restless soul, each word a brushstroke painting a vivid picture in your mind.

As he spoke, you felt the weight of the world lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of enchantment and awe. When Paul reached the end of his story, you found yourself smiling, the edges of sleep beckoning you with gentle hands.

"Thank you, Paul," you murmured, your voice hoarse with exhaustion and barely above a whisper.

Paul smiled back, his eyes sparkling with warmth.

"Anytime, love. Sweet dreams."

At last you drifted off to sleep, cradled in the comfort and magic of a fantastical realm. You felt a sense of peace wash over you, knowing that with Paul by your side, even the darkest nights held a glimmer of hope.