#rifles museum

[sictransitgloriamvndi]

Allegorie der Vergänglichkeit (1634) - Antonio de Pereda y Salgado

[intheshadowofwar]

21 June 2023

You’re In The Army Now

London 21 June 2023

It was an early start today - I was out the door just after 7.30, catching the Victoria Line to Oxford Circus and the Bakerloo to Paddington. It was already very busy, but there was a laurel at the end of my journey to make braving rush hour a little bearable. It look me a little questioning of staff before I knew whether or not my journey was in vain - it wasn’t - and then I proceeded to sit on Platform One for an hour because I’d massively overestimated how early the train would enter the station. And what locomotive, pray tell, would I go to all this trouble for?

If you know your trains, you could probably make an educated guess.

Built a century ago this year, No. 4472 - ahem, 60103 Flying Scotsman needs absolutely no introduction. Today she is the Kardashian of locomotives - she is famous for being famous. Unlike the Kardashians, that fame is well earned - namesake of the famed Flying Scotsman express, first non-stop run from London to Edinburgh in 1928, first (sort of) authenticated 100mph by a steam locomotive in 1934, one of the first privately preserved steam locomotives. She toured the United States (even though we don’t like to talk about how that one nearly ended) and Australia, making the longest non-stop run by a steam locomotive ever between Parkes and Broken Hill. To her detractors, she’s the ‘flying moneypit,’ bankrupting every owner since 1963. To her fans, she’s the most famous steam locomotive in the world, Sir Nigel Gresley’s masterpiece. And at long, long last, I have seen her in steam.

Basically, do you know how monarchists get really excited about seeing the King? This is my version of that.

After her departure at 9.40, I headed on the Circle Line to Sloane Square, walking through Chelsea and past the famed hospital there to the National Army Museum. The NAM is basically the cooler, hipper IWM, in my opinion. It perhaps benefits from a narrow subject matter; specifically Britain, and specifically the British Army. Without becoming too complicated, it does a much better job at contextualising its exhibits than the IWM, without shying away from the controversies and horrors of war. Do you think, for example, that the Australian War Memorial would stock a book about the massacre of Surafend, in the way the NAM stocks one on the British organised mass slaughter of Amritsar?

When I talk about museums, as you probably know by now, I like to mention an exhibit that struck me, and the exhibit in question at the NAM was more recent than you might expect. While I could discuss the saw that amputated the Earl of Uxbridge’s leg again - the fact that it still exists makes me very happy - I’ll instead mention a ruined L85 rifle from the Middle East, which was recovered from a vehicle destroyed by an IED - none of the passengers survived. Jay Winter has said that if one shows a weapon in a museum, they ought to show what it does. Here, in this ruined weapon, we see both at once. We don’t need to see the blood and bones of the soldiers; from this broken rifle, we can fill in the gaps as to the horrific power of explosives ourselves.

Also, the NAM cafe does a mean scrambled eggs.

After the Army Museum, I headed back to the tube and caught the Circle Line again to St. James’ Park, where I walked to the Guards Museum. This is a small museum that people don’t really know about, and that surprises me as it’s literally right across the road from Buckingham Palace - it’s in Wellington Barracks, where the guards march from during the Changing of the Guard.

The Guards Museum is a very old-school and classic museum; a British Army regimental museum in the same old style that I love so very, very much. The museum is both wide in scope and intimate in subject matter - this isn’t the story of the army or the wars it fought, but the part played by the five regiments of the Foot Guards - the Grenadiers, the Coldstream, the Scots Guard, the Irish Guard and the Welsh Guard. For the majority of the British Army’s history, there were only the first three - oddly, the ‘1st’ (Grenadier) Foot Guards are actually the youngest, but as they were Charles II’s personal guard, they got to be senior after the Restoration in 1660.

There were a lot of very interesting things in this museum, but I’m going to highlight something very boring instead. There’s a shako worn by a soldier of the Coldstream Guards in the late 1820s - it’s called a bell-top shako. Guards shakos from this period are very rare, because they were introduced in 1829 and dropped in 1831, when all of the Guards regiments adopted the bearskin cap of the Grenadiers. In fact, this shako was so rare that I didn’t actually know it existed - I’d assumed that the bearskins were adopted soon after Waterloo, but it seems the Coldstream and Scots Guards kept the shakoes of the regular infantry for just a little bit longer. This is a completely, utterly useless factoid, but I find it absolutely fascinating.

Across from the Guards Museum is the Guards Chapel, and to the uninitiated it looks strangely modern. Surely regiments as old as the Guards ought to have a similarly old chapel, right? Well, they did - until the morning of 18th June 1944, when it suffered a direct hit from a German V-1 flying bomb in the middle of a morning service. 121 were killed, and over 140 injured. The new chapel is not only a memorial to the men of the Household Division (the Foot Guards and the Household Cavalry), but to those killed in the bombing. I was initially the only visitor, and by the time I left only a small group of Americans - who I will say were very respectful - had joined me there. Dozens of regimental colours from throughout the Guards histories hang from the walls. I almost felt like an intruder in another family’s mausoleum.

I’m not religious, but for some reason I was moved to light a candle.

I walked from there, back past Buckingham Palace and down Lower Grovesnor Place, to a small memorial on the side of an intersection near Victoria. This is a curious little monument - it’s explicitly a memorial to the Great War, yet the Tommy on top is joined by a pair of riflemen from the Napoleonic and Crimean Wars respectively. This is the memorial to the Rifle Brigade, the progeny of the famed 95th Rifles of Wellington’s time (although a number of Rifle Brigade battalions could trace their heritage to the 60th Rifles as well.) After the Second World War, it was adapted to commemorate the riflemen lost in that conflict.

I visit a lot of memorials because I think they are interesting, or because I simply find them in the wild. I hunted down this one because it was important to me personally. This isn’t because I think the 95th were cool or because I watch a lot of Sharpe, or because green is my favourite colour and riflemen wore green uniforms. My nan had two uncles, one who fought in the First World War and one who fought in the Second. Both were riflemen - the first of the ‘Hackney Rifles’ and the second of the 7th Rifle Brigade. The first was wounded at Third Ypres, although I’m not certain how severely. The second still lies to this day in Florence, lost in the attacks on the Gothic Line in September 1944. It’s silly, and probably vulgar, but I’ve always seen the Rifle Brigade as ‘ours.’ I probably confused a lot of London commuters by pointing at a random monument in the middle of the city, repeating over again - ‘that’s us. That’s us.’

Yet it is us. The memory agents, the people who lived through the First World War, are all dead. The people who lived through the Second will still follow. It is now up to us to interpret their memory, their experiences, their histories and their stories. We have a responsibility to them.

Like it or not, this is us.

I then wrecked this profound emotional moment by having a big fanboy moment over a Routemaster bus, and then I walked back to the hotel. After a brief rest, I reunited with my mum and stepdad, who had been very kindly invited by my professor to join the group at the garden party of the Britain-Australia Society at the Royal Over-Seas League’s London HQ. It was all very sophisticated, with a lot of the great and good - and Joe Hockey - present, but I think it just didn’t quite gel with me. We stayed for a socially acceptable amount of time, then went back to Victoria Station and grabbed some McDonalds before parting.

We will reunite in Paris, but there’s a long road ahead to get there…

[logosbot-tm]

Man I fkn love old cars

[dapurinthos]

me: i am going to make problems for maul on purpose by attempting to speed-run his emancipation from sidious post-yinchorri invasion of the jedi temple but pre-naboo.

My eyes flick up, and then back down. “Sorry,” I say automatically, course-correcting to a path where I won’t bump into anyone else on the way to the ‘fresher. “I didn’t see you there.” I go to step around him and freeze, my brain catching up to what I actually saw in that millisecond. The man in the hallway wears black, enough to be shrouded like a corpse in it. His hands are encased in black gloves, and the hood sits on his head in a way that reveals the hidden vestigial horns beneath. Black tattoos paint his face in sharp shapes and lines, following the natural variations in his skin pigmentation. Zabrak, a voice in my mind says helpfully. Dathomiri Zabrak. A very specific Dathomiri Zabrak. My breath freezes in my throat as I look up and up and up. It’s not that Currently-Still-Darth Maul is especially tall—he’s about the same height as Kenobi—but he has a tall presence. A tall, dark presence. The air practically roils around him, seething with the heat and edge of his hate. The thickness of it should have been palpable from kilometres off. Why no one else has sensed it, I don’t know. I glance back over my shoulder at the main part of House of Leaves but I can’t feel anyone coming to investigate what could be causing this sudden surge of darkness. Maul stares down at me with a suppressed rage that puts the hair on the back of my neck up, eyes more golden than the sickly yellow of the Sith. There are red rings around his irises bleeding into the yellow and the white sclerae. For one of the very few of times in my life, I manage to hold eye contact, mesmerized by how his eyes glow beneath his hood. Even though the glow panels buzz and whine overhead with their cold and sharp light, everything is shadows. “Oh, motherkriffer,” I squeak, after I remember to breathe. This is how I’m going to die: Darth Maul, in the Monument Plaza boba tea shop, probably using some sort of twisted Sith weaponry that will make my death look like an accident so it doesn’t call down the attention a lightsaber wound would. Can’t have shit on Coruscant.

[muffinlance]

I appreciate the lovely science museum volunteer who saw my four-year-old and started carefully explaining basic magnetic properties

I appreciate EVEN MORE that when firstborn went "oh, like a maglev train" and "that's an electromagnet!", said lovely volunteer totally code-switched, and we quickly ended up at

"Want to see a gaussian rifle?"

Oh boy did firstborn EVER

[hesperocyon-lesbian]

Dan Olson’s new video has me thinking about how under-discussed the historical and ongoing links are between western paleontological field work and imperialism.

Even setting aside some of the international looting, such as German paleontologists looting Egypt and USAmerican paleontologists looting Mongolia, the boom in North American paleontology in the second half of the 19th century is inseparable from manifest destiny. Fossil hunters would travel west armed with rifles specifically to shoot at natives.

Fossils are a natural resource like any other, and while you can argue all you want about studying them for the scientific knowledge of all mankind, it’s telling which museums they’re always shipped back to

[wannaeatramyeon]

DG x Reader: Manager and their Idol

8.5k. G/N. Soft, colleagues to lover (guess I love this trope). Masterlists

You had imagined life as a K-Pop idol manager to be much more glamorous.

You pity your young naive self. The one that envisaged schmoozing with stars and rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers, and instead set you on this horrid, lacklustre path.

What you didn't expect was the amount of time playing driver. Carting that stupid pink haired brat around. Waiting on him hand and foot during shoots and interviews, and being at his beck and call.

You have saved his ass more times than you can recall, ran through scripts with him, practised his stupid dances and moves alongside, protected him from unhinged fans and reporters and scavengers.

And yet you can count on one hand the amount of times he has thanked you.

Actually no, it didn't require any hands because he has thanked you exactly zero times for all your early mornings and late nights and for going above and beyond your duty.

Out of desperation, you had asked your boss if you could manage someone else and the request was declined.

"DG has taken a liking to you," she said, tone impressed as if that was something you should be proud of.

"Great," your smile comes out as more of a grimace.

And goddamn, this agency was so stupidly prestigious and the benefits and perks here really are second to none. Just why did Diego fucking Kang have to be their top idol.

.

.

The first time you crossed the threshold into his building, greeting the reception security guard and entering his penthouse keycode like you had been let in on the world's greatest secret, you had tiptoed around like a child in a museum. After all, this was DG's residence. The DG!

You had ooh-ed and aah-ed at every little thing. 

Taking delight in seeing his interior design of choice, the type of candy that he snacks on, the shampoo and conditioner he uses, the way he organises his desk. This is the chair DG sits on to eat. This is the sofa DG lounges on to watch TV. This is the bed he sleeps in, the bath he uses, the toilet he-

Any wide eyed innocence and awe evaporated after your first week working together.

Today, you stab in the entry code and let the door shut with a bang. 

You set his now cold coffee order on the kitchen counter and rifle with practised fingers through his unopened mail to see if there is anything you should draw his immediate attention to. You pick up his discarded clothes from the floor (and for fuck's sake, this suit jacket was on loan) and make your way to his bedroom where tufts of pink hair peeks out from under the cover.

"Good morning," you announce, locating the remote to open the blinds and letting in some sunlight.

Bedsheets rustle behind you.

"Good morning Diego," you repeat and give one warning, "I hope you're decent." With that, you throw the covers back to find the scantily dressed idol glaring up at you.

You remember the days when this sight would have made you weak at the knees. Seeing him half naked, in the flesh, freshly woken up with bedhead and half lidded eyes. It's what most of Korea dreams of, including yourself once upon a time.

Now all you feel is extreme irritation.

"Good morning," you say for the third time, plastering on a saccharine smile that you know DG sees clearly through because it is insincere as hell to anyone with half a brain cell. You let the fakeness shine through anyway.

For a split second, DG frowns as his eyes drop to your lips and then he pretends everything is good. Smiling back prettily, sharp canines on show and stretching. Lifting his arms overhead, showing a good stretch of pecs and abs and the line of muscle in a V pointing like an arrow straight down to his-

You roll your eyes.

"You're late." You throw the covers back over him and stride back towards the door. "We should have left half an hour ago." You leave out the part where you had been waiting downstairs in the car and after an hour of no show and no anything, you stomped your way up to his home.

DG, sensing your mood, adds oil to the fire with a smirk, "Why didn't you wake me then?"

If that idiot bothered to look at his phone, he would see a number of missed calls and unread messages from you.

Whatever.

"Hurry up."

.

.

DG has come across many people like yourself over the years. All cute and bright eyed, way too soft.

He never gave you any special treatment, for better or worse, and assumed that you would eventually burn out or give up and move on to something more worthwhile.

Unfortunately, in a rare turn of events, he had miscalculated.

Of course most people would be starstruck, it's only natural. But he mistook your sincerity and kind smile for ignorance and missed your sharp, observing gaze, and astute mind.

He's impressed, and he really can't remember the last time he was impressed.

In a matter of days of working together, you had managed to cut through the bullshit and within the month got him more compliant and docile than anyone else ever has.

Which should be a huge fucking problem, and raising red flags all over DG's mind.

...Except-

What's really troubling him right now, as he sulks in the passenger seat and you in the driver's, is that you have developed some sort of resistance to his charms.

Maybe a part of him does actually miss the you who he formed the first impression of. Who looked at him in wonder, with the same admiration that everyone else did.

Now that he knows you, he hates that he had thought that initial admiration was insignificant and worthless.

.

.

DG has a stash of candy in the car.

Or more accurately, you keep a stash of candy next to him to a) Shut him up and b) Keep him tolerable.

If DG wasn't so aloof, the fact that he has an incurable sweet tooth (and probably cavities to prove it) would have made headlines as a cute K-Pop fact and likely garnered sponsorship and advertising deals with all sorts of confectionary brands.

You had only found out during your adventures as his manager, rifling through his kitchen drawers trying to find his goddamn phone that he misplaced and you stumbled upon his stash of candy.

It really was a disgusting amount, something you'd expect a gaggle of grade schoolers at Halloween to hoard, not Diego goddamn Kang.

And then you also found out if he's not quiet and haughty in the car, making the atmosphere awkward, he likes to comment on your driving.

Who even sits in the passenger seat next to their 'chauffeur' anyway? He complains about you braking too suddenly and not accelerating fast enough. How you drive like an 80 year old with cataracts, and you're too slow when the light changes to green.

The turn in your relationship happened when you snapped at him to shut the fuck up after losing the final shred of your sanity on a three hour drive.

DG, to your dismay, didn’t miraculously lose his hearing and turns to you as you silently berate yourself for voicing the quiet thoughts out loud.

Although, you're in the deep end now. You're gonna get fired anyway, so if he says anything else you might as well give him a flick on the forehead or a pinch or maybe a punch to the face-

Instead, he laughs.

It's nothing like the laugh you have heard on TV and in interviews. The rehearsed and manicured 'haha' or cool chuckle that suits his shiny persona. It's kinda goofy and a lot endearing.

What's even more endearing is the way he does actually shut the fuck up for the rest of the journey. You like him a lot more after that.

So. You digress.

The candy is a way to keep the sweet toothed maniac quiet. Even if it doesn't work, at least it's harder to make out what insults he's slinging with a lollipop rattling around his mouth.

However, he has never ever shared any with you. Any of the candy that you stock, and pay for.

(That you technically claim back on company expenses, but you're trying to be self righteous here.)

Ever.

In all the months of working with him, he gobbles away happily even if your stomach is growling and you refuse to take any yourself out of principle.

Until-

"Here."

"Huh?"

Taking advantage of your response and open mouth, DG leans into your personal space and feeds you some chewy strawberry something or another (which coincidentally are his least favourite), fingers lingering on your lips for a fraction of a second.

Three things happen in quick succession.

The burst of sugar hits your tongue.

You nearly choke.

You narrowly avoid swerving.

"Careful now," DG grins when you get the car and yourself under control, and glance at him with a scowl.

Good. That proves you're not completely immune to his charms.

.

.

That bastard has now taken it upon himself to feed you candy at every opportunity.

You wonder if he's doing some sort of Pavlov experiment. The sweetness trying to erase any sourness you feel towards him.

It sort of works, and you consider biting his fingers off one of these days.

You hear the crinkling of wrappers, one for him that he pops into his mouth, and one for you that he gives without asking.

You angle your head towards him, and his fingers graze your lips every time.

Neither of you comment on the change but the intimacy drives you a little crazy.

.

.

And DG too.

Because intimacy works both ways and damnit his little gesture to keep the pretty blush on your face has backfired.

The only form of intimacy he knows comes from discreet hookups and low key links. Not someone who is around day in, day out. Or anyone that goes deeper than one night stands and booty calls.

You're there, you're always there. Of course you are, you're his manager.

But today, he feels under the microscope with you standing a couple metres away and keen eyes watching the camera monitor.

It's a no nothing day. Standard schedule where he shoots a fragrance commercial and he exits a pool all wet and sultry, white t-shirt clinging to his muscled body.

Then another scene where he writhes around slightly on a sunbed and eye-fucks the camera.

How it sells a fragrance, he never knows. The mystery of showbiz.

"Cut! More powder!" The director shouts out, the crew springing into action and DG knows exactly why.

He feels strangely embarrassed and flustered, which has manifested into his cheeks being flushed, and god he can't even remember the last time he has been like this.

It’s out of character and he needs to get his head together.

As the make up artist hurriedly dabs on some foundation, you make your way over to him.

"Are you sick?" you ask, concerned and reaching out to feel his forehead with the back of your hand.

"I'm fine," He says, turning away from your attentiveness and staring at a point in the distance.

.

.

With most people, if DG wants them out of sight, they stay out of sight.

But as his manager, and a very competent one at that, it’s harder to get you to leave.

Not that DG wants you to either, don’t get him wrong. 

The only constants he has around him are people who want something from him. And yes, he knows you’re only in his company because you work with him. However, he really can’t doubt the concern he always sees in your eyes. The compassion and empathy even when he makes you want to scream and tear your hair out.

His standoffish demeanour is not new to anyone. It’s part of his appeal to be quite honest. 

Yet he feels bad over the next couple weeks as he turns it up to eleven and tries to create some distance. He registers the hurt on your face as he is extra short with his answers and behaviour.

.

.

Pandering to overinflated celebrity egos and the insane Korean work ethic often leads to after hour shoots and dinner delayed until past midnight.

Honestly, this wreaks havoc on your sleep schedule and your skin.

"Here." You retrieve DG's takeout from the paper bag.

A double portion of delicious fried chicken with a side of kimchi and pickles. It's a change of pace from what most idols order, yet he doesn't give two shits about calories or sodium intake and to add insult to injury, somehow manages to keep his trim figure.

You lament your soggy salad sitting at the bottom. As if it’s not sad enough right now - once you arrive home, the lettuce will be wilting and room temperature and you will eat it in your dimly lit apartment with nothing to keep you company except the sound of the TV.

DG notices you turning to leave his penthouse, and his mouth moves before his brain can.

"Aren't you staying?"

"What?" You double take at the question.

DG's company is usually worse than your lonely meal for one. 

He’s annoying and you frequently want to slap him, but how he has been with you lately has been troubling and you actually feel a sense of relief at his offer.

(You had wondered if you might have been getting sacked up until this moment.)

Nevertheless, in all your time working alongside, you have never had a proper meal one on one together. Nothing more than you driving with one hand and the other hastily shoving a burger into your mouth as he looks on in disgust.

You would have dwelled on this more, wondering what's changed, what’s happened, but then-

"I'll share." DG nudges the box towards you, and the delicious scent of deep fried, battered goodness wafts along with it it

All your misgivings and your salad is forgotten.

.

.

Almost.

No, you were wrong.

Eating with DG, without any distractions such as traffic to navigate or other boisterous colleagues around, is unnerving. Disarming.

His haughtiness remains, but how haughty can someone be when munching on a drumstick.

All frostiness from the past weeks melts away as you both eat your way through his chicken.

He’s talking more tonight than you have heard in a while.

You find him funny, and really quite bitchy. Which you did know all along except it's much funnier now his slanderous comments aren't directed at you.

And has he always looked at you with such a piercing gaze? So intensely focused on what you have to say. Even if you're just complaining about your boss, blurring your lines of professionalism, he gives you his full attention.

You really can't remember the last time you have been in each other's company like this. 

You loathe to admit that even with what an asshole he is, DG's shine hasn’t dulled enough for you that you don't understand the appeal.

.

.

Leaning forward, DG whispers into your ear.

To anyone else, it looks like an over-affectionate idol with their manager. If they could hear his words, "I'm going to kill you," they would think otherwise.

Ok, so this one is your fault.

The good times have to come to an end and maybe you should have been more careful with his pride and joy - some ridiculously overpriced and over-specced vehicle.

Taking advantage of the clear blue Seoul skies, the pink haired menace was the one who drove you today in his fancy imported sports car, but the speed limits and the rest of the traffic was not on his side.

Already running late, even for him, he parked somewhere convenient and illegal then passed you the keys, leaving you stranded on the sidewalk, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish, as he strode off to meet his music producer and choreographer and left you to park his baby elsewhere.

Why he entrusted you with it, you're not sure.

You would have done it anyway though, because when else are you going to have an opportunity to drive a supercar, if your boss didn't call at that moment. Questioning your expenses and DG's schedule and confusing you about the fitting at a fashion house and hair styling appointment that you knew like the back of your hand but when someone is so confidently incorrect, you start to doubt yourself.

By the time you got off the phone after pacing up and down the street and checking and double checking DG's timetable, you finally make your way back to the car-

And see it in the middle of being compounded.

You had begged and pleaded with the two men who were having none of it and you left, tail between your legs, to beg and plead with the other man who you knew would also have none of it.

Damn, you hate it when you prove yourself right in these instances.

You know DG won't really kill you, but he will likely make your life hell for the next couple weeks.

.

.

A normal person being pissed off at you would probably result in the silent treatment until tempers cool down.

DG does the opposite. Sort of.

He takes pleasure in making things as awkward for you as possible, until you're squirming in your seat trying to stay professional, thinking about your job and your rent and your bills; or torn between wanting the ground to swallow you up.

Around other people, your boss, your colleagues, his colleagues, he sidles up to you all smiles and soft looks. Slips purposely into banmal, and then oopsy, pretends that he didn't mean to be so informal with you around others.

Gossip soon stirs about your and DG's close relationship, if there's something else going on. Only you can see the mischief in his eyes and the malice in his smile and you think about yanking him by the ear and demanding to know what he is playing at.

Alone, he denies any sort of miscreant behaviour. Barely listening to you complaining and snapping at him. Ending with him outright ignoring you and you fume even harder.

This time, you're not sure the punishment even fits the crime. 

Any guilt soon dissipates when his car is returned in perfect condition within a couple days but his performance lasts for weeks.

.

.

Teasing you has always been fun for DG - when your cheeks dust angrily with pink and your eyes burn with fire.

The equivalent of a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails in the school yard.

.

.

Meetings with HNH Group usually do not involve you. If it does, at most you are waiting in the car.

Luckily, there are also an assortment of cafes and restaurants within a stone's throw and it gives you some time to debrief and catch a breather from following DG's hectic schedule.

The downside is you're never sure if a two hour meeting will be condensed to fifteen minutes or if a quick catch up with Charles Choi and other Executives turns into an all nighter.

There's been days where you have ordered a meal, then had to abandon it with a sigh and a longing look as you spot DG striding out of the building looking pissed off that you're not already there, or stayed in the vehicle with the engine running and your stomach rumbling as short appointments overshoot.

Maybe this is another consequence from DG being petty and irate with you for getting his car towed - you're left snoozing at the steering wheel of your runaround, the idol standard-issue luxury minivan, waiting for his return.

It's far too late in the evening for anywhere to be open, only the fluorescent lights of convenience stores and glare of the HNH logo illuminates the streets.

DG opens the sliding door, climbs into the back and slams it hard enough to jerk you awake and rattle the entire van.

He’s sitting by himself in the back, which is odd enough in itself.

As you blink away the dregs of sleep, in the rearview mirror, you notice the stiffness in his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw. His eyes stare vacantly out the window. DG is clearly upset about something, enough to crack through his aloof veneer.

"Are you ok?" You don't get a response, not even a passing glance.

Obviously something has gone wrong with the HNH Group meeting and the stress has manifested.

You wrack your brains thinking of something that might cheer up this asshole and you think of the only thing that improves your mood when you're on the verge of a breakdown.

(Usually due to the aforementioned asshole in your current presence). 

"Tteokbokki and beer?" You offer. It’s past your bedtime but a sulky DG for the rest of the week will also ruin your week too.

DG briefly looks at you before going back to staring at the window. It’s not a no.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night. 

At your favourite late night hole-in-the-wall, you eat far more tteokbokki than DG. On second thoughts, you don’t remember him eating any at all. You’re talking and downing beers to fill the silence, trying to perk up this silly celebrity. Loose lipped and spilling far more details than you would if you were sober, with him seated opposite and sipping on a soda. 

As the night ticks along, he thaws and a small smile settles on his face watching you gesticulate and ramble about your life.

You don’t get home until past 4am that night-

With DG driving, piggybacking you up to your apartment, and tucking you into bed.

.

.

DG can’t stop thinking of the weight of you on his back, arms slung over his shoulders, legs at his waist and his hands gripping your thighs.

You slurring drunkenly into his ear as he climbs the stairs in your building. It’s mostly nonsense. He can’t make out your words but remembers your breath tickling his skin.

And when he wraps your duvet around you, the brief moment of lucidity in your eyes as you look at him, softer than you ever have, you tell him, “Thanks Diego.”

Diego.

.

.

Nothing changes between the two of you after this. Not really.

You still find him an enormous thorn in your side. Incredibly stuck up and haughty and you continue to want to throttle him on a weekly basis but you are immensely grateful for him not leaving you a passed out heap on the sidewalk.

You’re in the middle of chastising him once again, dragging him out of bed as he is running late and being an absolute dick about it. Taking it easy as if he has all the time in the world. 

Well of course he does. He’s not the one that will be getting an earful from your boss or on the receiving end of the production crew’s complaints, as if trying to manhandle and cart this manchild around is easy.

“Diego Kang, I swear to fucking god-”

"James." He says, interrupting you as he picks out and pulls an eye-wateringly expensive jumper over his head.

"What?"

"Call me James when it's just us.” He checks out his outfit in the mirror, seemingly satisfied with it, before moving onto his hair. “James Lee. That's my real name."

DG, or James Lee, keeps his eyes on his reflection. Inspecting his non-existent roots, styling his fringe to make it fall just so and applying a liberal amount of hair product.

Nonchalant and casual even as he offers something desperately personal about himself.

"James," you say, trying out the sound for yourself. A name that seems at odds with his loud K-Pop shell but you imagine a time before the fame and the celebrity and the pink hair and it somehow fits.

"James," you repeat, and receive a small smile in return. Then it drops as you add, “If you don’t get your ass in the car in the next five minutes I will kill you.”

.

.

“James,” you think to yourself before you drift off to sleep that night. 

How peculiar.

“James, James, James.”

.

.

Celebrities these days are multi-hyphenates.

DG is an Idol-CEO-Actor, or at least trying to add the last one onto his resume. On looks alone, he would have already gotten his foot through the door. Add on his reputation and popularity, he is drowning in offers.

What you personally dislike more with K-dramas scenes though, is how long things take. How much it revolves around other actors and their managers whereas DG being in the studio or filming a music video is pretty much all him.

This K-drama is supposed to be the next big thing. 

With the biggest names attached, including DG who is making a cameo. The cameo that was also scheduled to be filmed five hours ago but you have both just been lurking in his dressing room since.

Along with some measly snacks and refreshments, which the crew has been kind enough to provide. 

However, the snacks are all but gone (thanks to you) and the refreshments are dwindling and there is no end in sight.

DG, or James, as you have started to call him in your head, is on his phone. He’s always on his phone. Scrolling through news articles, responding to important emails and messages.

There’s only so much news or celebrity gossip you can take. You have exhausted your own social media feeds and you have spent far too much money on your gacha games and the guilt has set in.

You twiddle your thumbs on the sofa next to him as he takes no notice of your presence and you decide to rest your eyes. 

Why not anyway? DG doesn’t need anything right now, work won’t be interrupting you, and there’s nothing for you to do. Just for a minute or five. Until someone from the production team knocks on the door and announces that it’s time for his scene.

DG side-eyes you when he notices your breath start to slow and deepen. Falling asleep on the job, really?

Then you let out a snore before smacking your lips together a couple times and he holds back a snort. He reasons that he should let you have some time to rest. After all, you’re the one that drives him around, his life is in your hands everyday and tiredness kills.

He’s on his phone for a few more minutes, reading through more emails on PTJ Entertainment and out of the corner of his eye he notices you drooping.

Body slowly slumping to slouch over him, until your head makes contact with his shoulder and you’re snoozing happily on your newfound pillow.

It’s equal parts inappropriate and cute.

Ugh, DG is 99% sure you’re drooling on him and the wardrobe department isn’t going to be happy when he returns the outfit.

Either way, that’s not going to be his problem. He adjusts minutely, makes it just a touch more comfortable for you and continues to scroll.

.

.

You wake up to a wetness by your mouth, and to your horror, DG smirking down at you.

.

.

Despite none of this being your fault, you apologise to everyone about having to reschedule DG’s music video shoot due to the previous day’s K-drama delays.

To your relief, the music video goes swimmingly and without a hitch, and the production is wrapped up on time. 

You’ll happily bet that his new song will go straight to No.1. If not, then at least the sensual music video will guarantee DG remains top of mind for weeks. 

You’re updating your boss and even she seems to be pleased.

"This is just work." DG interrupts as you're mid call.

You look up at him, brows furrowed.

Holding your hand to your phone to mute the speaker, you whisper, "I know."

"Good," and he walks away leaving you as confused as ever.

It's not the first time you have seen him shoot an MV, which thank the heavens is so much more efficient than bloody k-dramas, and also not the first time that there's been scenes that emulate an intimate moment. Lips nearly brushing together. Hands roaming bodies under fake rain.

Even if DG notices that you're watching the scene, eyes glazed over and bored, he still felt the urge to explain to you that there's nothing between you and the leading lady in the video.

Once out of sight of everyone, he facepalms himself for his ridiculousness.

.

.

You’re right, and you absolutely love it when you’re right.

The song goes straight to No.1 and holds that position for weeks, fending off competition from boy bands and girl groups and other solo artists. Apparently it’s going to be the song of the summer.

The music video also breaks records for being the most watched within 24 hours.

DG only reviews it once for post-production checks and finds it just fine.

There’s something he can’t quite put his finger on that seems off with it.

He wonders what it would look like if it was you starring opposite him.

.

.

“Where on earth is he?” You grit your teeth and grip harder onto the umbrella that is threatening to be swept away by the wind.

And another thing with being DG’s manager: it’s fine if he’s late but not if it’s you.

(Although to be fair, this instance of him being late is likely due to this particular music producer he’s meeting with enjoying the sound of his own voice.)

You were running late exactly one time in the past, during the first couple days of managing him, when the skies opened and drenched the earth. 

Heavens forbid DG’s perfect, beautiful, flawless hair is ruined by the rain. 

It’s not like he looked like a drowned rat. The paparazzi caught him in a wet t-shirt, fabric clinging to his abs and his pink hair slicked back stylishly. Even the goddamn raindrops were running fashionably down his high cheekbones and dripping off his pout.

For the next week, the tabloids and internet forums went wild with how hot he looked. 

(Who knows, maybe that was the inspiration for his fragrance commercial.)

Nevertheless, DG was displeased and it made its way back to your boss how displeased he was.

Ever since, you have been the unfortunate soul waiting in all manners of weather for him. Rain storms, blistering sun, freezing snow.

Today, it’s your favourite. Rain. You shiver against the elements trying to take shelter under the building entrance canopy, the wind whipping the downpour every which way and you’re getting soaked regardless of how you angle your umbrella.

“Hurry up, DG.”

You check the time over and over. He would be early to his next appointment if he exited the building now. 

…On time.

…On time if the traffic was in your favour.

…Late, but not terribly so.

…Fashionably late.

… Late enough to piss everyone off in the room.

Shit. Just as you begin to fret, wondering if something has happened to him-

Clicks and flashes from cameras alert you to his royal highness finally making an appearance, ready to exit the studio and making his way over to the car.

He materialises by your side, and you mutter a familiar phrase to him. 

“You’re late.” 

It’s a mantra you’re tired of repeating, but he relishes if the amused grin is any indication.

Without a word, he takes off his trench coat and drapes it around your shoulders. His right hand covers yours over the umbrella handle, left wrapping around your waist as he guides you through the throng of reporters and fans.

“What are you doing?” You hiss under your breath. 

You can imagine the optics now from the papers and your boss. It looks… Well. Not terrible but not the best.

“You’re soaked,” is all DG provides, accompanied with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. 

He opens the driver’s door for you before he climbs into the passenger’s side.

.

.

Thank goodness for your gift of the gab.

He’s being a gentleman, you tell everyone that would listen. Isn’t this what Korea wants? An idol with manners and who looks after everyone? Is empathetic and caring?

Think how well it would resonate with the female demographic, who wants a boyfriend like this! The older boomer demographic, who thinks none of the young ‘uns have any manners anymore!

Your boss isn’t convinced until the advertising offers for umbrella companies roll in.

.

.

Truth be told, DG doesn’t know what possessed him to do that. Especially in front of cameras.

Though, it’s not like he could just let you get even more drenched could he? You’re standing there, looking pitiful and he was just going to let you hold the umbrella over him when he should be the one taking care of you-

Hold on.

DG frowns at himself.

Damn.

.

.

James Lee has never looked after anyone besides himself. You need to look after yourself if you are to survive this dog eat dog world. To make it atop the Pre-Generation, the First Generation and now the Second.

He had unfathomably high expectations of himself (that he managed to achieve) and low expectations for relationships (that hadn’t been proven wrong yet).

People have flitted in and out of the chapters of his life, no-one staying around for long. Definitely no-one staying around long enough to know him, for him to grow comfortable with. 

Perhaps it has been the forced closeness that has caused him to let his guard down. Cabin fever, in a sense.

But James Lee, Diego Kang, has himself also been around long enough to know there’s more to you and he wants more of you.

.

.

Finding reasons to spend time together isn’t difficult. Actually, finding reasons to spend time apart would be much harder.

You both get on with your jobs and your duties, even as the closeness grows day by day.

And every time when you’re alone and you call him James, his heart grows fonder.

.

.

Out of all the seats available in his apartment, James lounges next to you, long legs draping over yours.

It's another night in together.

These seem to be happening with increasing frequency. DG at least used to keep up appearances, networking with his fellow celebrities.

Parties where you used to look at him with distaste as starlets surrounded him, award shows that he couldn't care less about as you hung around in the background.

Now he prefers to stay in with you, using work as a thin excuse. Studying lyrics that he has already memorised, going over dances that are long ingrained in him.

"You're not going to her party?" You ask, you were sure this fan-favourite and DG were an item or had history. At the very least, the who's who of the industry always attended her gatherings.

"No," his eyes continue roving over the lines.

Then when you thought the conversation was done, he looks over the top of his paper, eyes sparkling with playfulness, "I prefer being here with you."

Oh. Your breath catches in your throat.

You think you might never breathe normally again.

.

.

No, that’s a lie. Any opportunities for rose-tinted glasses has long passed by. You both know each other too well for that.

You breathe perfectly fine. Actually, this morning you are taking deep breaths to try and centre yourself. 

It’s not working. 

“You’re always fucking late,” you snap, giving in to your anger.

Sometimes you think it is your fault for not watching over DG 24/7. That instead of going back home, you should just live with him so you can shake him awake when he is supposed to get up instead of when he wants to.

And does it hurt him to look the least bit contrite at making your life a misery? 

Why does he have to look so smug with a lollipop stick hanging out his mouth? Seriously, between all the rushing around this morning, when did he find time to look for goddamn candy?

“For fuck’s sake, James.” You’re speed walking towards his front door, looking at the Maps app on your phone and miss his smile at you snarling his name. 

You’re already running behind and every route to the recording studio is red due to roadworks or an accident or just plain ol’ congestion. “Shit!”

Your finger jabs at the elevator button multiple times.

“It’s not going to get there any quicker if you do that,” DG speaks lowly into your ear and you get the urge to pinch him.

Instead of prodding some more at the button, you turn around and prod him in the chest.

“You’re going to get me fired one of these days,” You growl. “It’s fine for you, Diego goddamn Kang, the star who is pretty much untouchable. I’m not. I’m replaceable. There’s a million people who would take my job-”

DG snatches your hand, holds it still. “You’re not replaceable.” Then adds with an infuriating grin, “So what if we’re late.”

The minivan is skipped, and his answer to your problem is his other pride and joy. A motorbike that looks far too aggressive and a complete death trap.

“I’m not getting on that,” you say as DG hands you leathers that materialised from god-knows-where and a spare helmet.

“Fine,” he says, shrugging and throwing a leg over. “I don’t think your boss will be happy.”

“Fuck!”

.

.

If this was any other situation, you would be acutely aware of yourself pressed up against DG’s back. Your arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

Except all you can focus on is that you’re going to fucking die. You think you might be screaming.

“Stop screaming!” His disembodied voice calls out. Oh. Turns out you are.

For some reason, DG had thought the helmets with built in speakers and mic would be better for communication. Fun, even. Frankly, you’re just giving him a headache.

(Not to mention the fact that he bought a spare helmet at all. And leathers that he thought would be exactly your size.

He had never rode with anyone before and you certainly had never expressed any interest. Yet he passed by a motorcycle store when he had rare time to spare, and visited on a whim.

If he dwelled on this anymore, DG is sure his headache would turn into a full blown migraine.)

Later that night, when the ringing in his ears finally subside, he will still think about the way you held him.

.

.

When public opinion is on your side, then that’s fantastic. Amazing. You tend to get away with all sorts of things.

When it’s not, the truth can become muddied and there’s mental gymnastics from all sides painting you as the villain.

Fortunately, public opinion generally works in DG’s favour, especially in the case of his stalker who got sentenced for more jail time than if she was harassing a normal person, but not long enough to account for all the distress she has caused.

Such is the criminal justice system.

Her date of release looms large and near. DG, despite his talent and fighting prowess, realises certain traumas can’t be erased.

He grows on edge. Skittish. Snaps at any and everything. It’s noted by journalists. Other managers gives you questioning looks

You don’t miss his change in demeanour. To you, the reason behind it is obvious. 

You’ve heard about this case, everyone has. It dominated headlines for almost a month: the crazy sasaeng fan who believed herself to be DG’s girlfriend before moving onto another poor soul and was finally arrested.

As he spirals, nothing you do or say to him manages to get more than a nod or a frown. You try to offer that she had fixated on someone else before she was arrested, hoping that was a small consolation to him. And though he managed a weak smile, the black cloud still hangs over him.

In the end, you pack your bags and arrive at DG’s one evening. Instead of letting yourself in like you usually would, you ring the buzzer, smile into the door camera and tell him “It’s me!”

The door swings open to reveal DG looking perplexed (and worse for wear). Head tilting, curious and inquisitive when he sees your suitcase and carrier bags full of snacks.

“I’m staying for a while.”

“According to who?”

You barge past him anyway with a grin.

.

.

The date of his stalker’s release arrives and passes without drama.

You miss your home comforts but it makes you happy to see DG’s mood genuinely improve as the days go on.

The luxurious oversized mattress, fancy spa shower, and jacuzzi bathtub also helps to make your stay a bit more bearable.

Not to mention each morning DG actually cooks breakfast for you. Turns out he’s not bad at all at playing a househusband, and it’s also maddening how he manages to get up each day before you when he hasn’t got any place to be.

“Thanks James,” you say, when he presents you with a home cooked meal and his smile grows a bit more each day.

.

.

Peace doesn’t last.

Blurry photos of you both leaving and entering DG’s apartment at all hours of the day and night make the front page of certain news sites.

Headlines scream with leading questions. 

“Relationship beyond Manager and Idol?”

“How a Manager seduced their Idol.” 

“Who is this mystery person that has tamed DG?”

Why anyone deemed it newsworthy is beyond you. You’ve been to his apartment a million times. 

Yes, you suppose the closeness of DG and yourself in the photos can look a little suspect. 

In this particular one, it looks like you have your hand caressing his chest when in actual fact you were shoving him away for a dismissive comment he made.

And the other photo, of his hand on your wrist, was actually him dragging you away when he spotted a herd of fans in the distance.

More pictures unveil themselves.

A snapshot of you driving and DG feeding you candy.

You and DG, whispering intimately in your ear as his supercar is being towed away in the background.

You red faced and drunk as DG piggybacks you outside your building.

His jacket wrapped around you, hand on your waist and angling the umbrella over you.

Him smiling down at you (ok, you admit that you didn’t realise how soft that looks to other people.)

Finally an exceptionally pixelated image of you both on his bike, that could be anyone really.

Unfortunately, your opinion is in the minority as the articles are inundated with comments and furious, tearful fans shrieking that their idol is betraying them. 

Simply unhinged.

.

.

The speculation grows. You’re damned if you do deny anything, damned if you don’t. Your talent agency puts out an official statement.

To your ire, the statement is ‘no comment’ rather than anything more definitive. You glare at James when you find out, suspecting he has something to do with this.

He gives you a shrug, and a familiar look of mischief.

To his credit, he doesn’t leave you completely to fend for yourself. You stay off social media for your sanity, and when the paparazzi hounds you, he's the one with his arm around you, cutting a path through the crowd and shielding you.

It adds fuel to the fire. Does nothing to help your case. 

Still, you can’t help feeling safe and secure with his hand guiding you - holding onto your waist, round your shoulder, or simply - 

Your hand in his.

.

.

Outside of the conference room, where DG is wrapping up a press release for his newest album and nothing else, a reporter slinks out and approaches you.

You’re used to being on the other side of the conversation. Part of the staff, herding DG through camera flashes and questions being thrown at him though there was always some sort of camaraderie. Both parties just trying to do their job with deadlines and targets to hit.

This time you just feel a weariness as you see this person making a beeline towards you.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” They say, holding out their hand for a shake which you take with reluctance.

“Hi.”

A voice recorder is thrusted into your face, and you automatically take a step back. “Hope you don’t mind, but I just have a couple questions for you.”

“Um...”

“There’s been lots of sightings of you and DG together-”

You open your mouth to argue-

“Can you confirm your relationship with him?”

A vacant smile settles onto your face. It’s a practised expression where you follow all the cues to be polite and professional even as internally you wish to be anywhere but here. “I’m his manager.”

“Are you two together? Romantically?”

“I’m his manager.” You repeat through gritted teeth, and you’re surprised to hear your voice calm and collected.

“Is that a no? Or-”

“What even is this question?” You scoff, ignoring the way your cheeks heat, and refusing to partake in this circus a moment longer. “This is over.”

You manage to at least catch them looking apologetic, before you stride off into a corner to take a deep breath.

.

.

DG, much more adept and experienced at fending off questions, had finished the conference early and caught the entire exchange, watching you both with a bemused look.

Walking towards you with quiet, measured footsteps, his hand settles onto your lower back as he murmurs your name.

He bites back a laugh at your small, startled jolt.

DG tilts his head to signal ‘this way’. You give him a look but follow him regardless. Trailing behind, moving far away from other prying eyes. 

Up a flight of stairs, through multiple fire doors, turning left then right then another right then maybe a left. It doesn’t matter. You’re hopefully lost and decide to just put your faith in this wretched idol.

He finally seems to find what he’s looking for as he reaches an empty corridor; stopping mid-step and you collide into his back.

“Ack!” You exclaim, hitting the solid wall of muscle.

He lets out a huff of laughter and whirls around to face you, noting how cute your look of surprise is.

How strange though, that this is his current position. But is it really unexpected that the person that has been by his side for months has finally worked their way into his heart and has somehow learned to read him when no-one else could?

If he really thinks about it, yes actually, it is unexpected. No-one else has managed to grow close to him before. As James Lee, as Diego Kang. Birds of a feather or opposites attract or everything in between, no-one has got him like you do. 

There’s still so much more to tell and show you but… First things first.

Fidgeting, you shift your weight from one foot to another, growing self-conscious waiting for DG to talk, only to find him staring intently at your face. Impatient, you give in and speak first.

“What is it?”

“...”

“Diego-”

“James.” He cuts in abruptly, “It’s just us right now. Please.”

You blink in shock at the please and correct yourself at his insistence, lowering your voice so it doesn’t echo down the empty hallway. “James, are you ok?”

“Better than ever,” he says, a smirk now pulling at his lips.

You register his change in mood and narrow your eyes, wondering where this is going. “Why are we here?”

“When the reporter asked if we were together, you said you’re my manager.”

“I am your manager.”

“But you are interested in me.”

It’s not a question. DG, no James, says it like a fact and there’s no doubt in your mind or his. You open your mouth to argue, then close it again. Open it once more-

What.

You feel some cogs in your brain misfiring and all you can manage is a feeble, “Huh?”

“You told them you’re my manager, but didn’t say no to being with me.”

“...”

“So. What do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Us.”

“You like me. Tell me that I’m wrong.”

You take a step back. “...”

Another step. “...”

“Tell me you don’t want this.”

And your back hits the wall with an oomph.

DG slaps his hand on the wall beside your head, bends at the waist and leans his weight forward until he’s eye level with you. “Tell me and I promise I’ll stop.”

“...”

You’re cornered and he searches your face for a response.“Y/N?”

“...”

Fuck. Fuck!

How on earth are you supposed to respond when he looks at you like this. When his face is millimetres from yours and his breath is on your skin and his dark eyes pierces into your soul, pupils blown deliciously wide.

With his stupid pink hair and his fringe flopping, framing his face and his high cheekbones.

The stupid canines of his poking out that gives him so much character and is so hot it hurts when he flashes it accompanied with an arched brow and an arrogant smile.

His stupid pout and his stupid lips, that you know is constantly moisturised with a fancy overpriced lip balm to make it look kissable for the cameras.

And Jesus Christ, you hate to admit it but they do. They 100% do because somewhere in the back of your brain you always knew they look kissable but it has been often clouded by just simply how annoying and bratty you found him.

Except right now you don’t find him annoying or bratty at all.

Even as he’s confessing his feelings with complete confidence, no unease, no anxiety or doubts, because he always had a way of worming under your skin and he knows exactly how to push your buttons.

Damn it all.

“Kiss me,” you tell James, and he isn’t surprised at all by your reaction, face lighting up at your confirmation.

He shifts. 

Hand coming up to cup your cheek. He rubs his thumb twice over your skin, savouring you any way he can before tilting your face towards his. His lips at first brushes against your forehead. Leaves a trail down your nose, peppers both cheeks and then your chin. 

He draws back once, takes in your sweet face and gives you a smile so soft it makes your heart hurt.

Then finally, after wanting this for so long, presses his lips against yours.

Diego Kang, James Lee, tastes like candy and sugar.

[octuscle]

Exchange student: Athens (GA)

Benjamin was not particularly happy that he had come to Georgia as an exchange student. Athens... He had wanted something in New England. Or at least in California. But he hadn't been able to choose. Athens had taken him.

The introductory week had been a disappointment. His fellow students were almost exclusively from the neighborhood, the boys were interested in football and hunting rifles, the girls in boys. It was all so clichéd that it was hard to express. But there was actually a very good grand piano in the assembly hall and Benjamin had been given permission to use it for his daily exercises after a short audition. He had not yet met his roommate. He wasn't due to return to university until a week later because of some family business. Benjamin was hoping for someone who was also interested in classical music and expressionism. Or at least someone who was also studying literature, art history or something similar.

It was the night from Saturday to Sunday when the door opened with a huge crash at around 02:00. Someone threw a duffel bag onto the bed and turned on the light. Benjamin blinked startled at the sudden light. He couldn't see anything against the light. But it smelled of sweat and a few other things he couldn't identify. The shadow took off his shirt, threw it on the floor and sat down on the other bed. Benjamin's eyes adjusted to the light and he began to recognize something.

"Well howdy, you must be Ben. I'm Hunter, no lie, that's my name, partner. Shoo, it ain't even 2 o'clock yet. What in tarnation are ya doin' in bed?" Benjamin was disgusted. He would have to share the room with a redneck. He turned around and mumbled, “Nice to meet you. If you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to sleep.” Hunter just said, “Well, that’s on you if ya overlook somethin’, darlin’,” rummaged in his duffel bag and disappeared again. It must have been around 04:00 when he returned. Now it also smelled of booze. Benjamin pretended to be asleep, even though Hunter was making a lot of noise. After he had finished clearing out his things, Benjamin heard him burp loudly a few more times. And soon he was snoring.

When Benjamin's alarm clock rang at 07:00, Hunter was still snoring. He was lying naked on the comforter. Benjamin had to admit with envy that he was well trained. His butt was firm. His upper body was deeply tanned and Hunter was pale below the waist. A guy who worked out in the fresh air. Benjamin's cock got hard. He quickly grabbed his scrubs and headed for the washrooms. He wanted to be at the Georgia Museum of Art early. When he returned to his room, freshly showered, Hunter was lying awake on his bed. Jerking off his morning wood. “Well, howdy there, early riser! Ain't that somethin'! You fixin' to hit the pavement for a run?” Benjamin turned around, embarrassed. Because he didn't want to disturb Hunter while he was wanking. And because his own cock was leaking precum into his boxer shorts. “No thanks, I wanted to go to the museum.” “Real neat, we got one 'round these parts? Been here a whole year and didn’t even know. Might just tag along next time, if y'know what I mean.” “That would be nice,” Benjamin replied as he hurriedly got dressed and left the room. He had to go to the washrooms again before he went to the museum. He really needed to wank. He thought about Hunter.

He wasn't really focused in the museum. At the beginning, he made sketches of the halls and the works of art on display. He was actually surprised by the quality. There were top-class works here. But when he caught himself doodling a stag in his notebook the third time, he decided that he would probably be better off getting some fresh air. He took his rucksack out of his locker and left the museum. The fresh air did him good. Benjamin walked along Campus Road. He passed the Georgia Museum of Natural History. It was still early. He went inside.

Natural history wasn't really his hobby. But Benjamin was fascinated by the dioramas of the local animal world. He enthusiastically made sketches of the deer. Why the hell had he already made them at the art museum? And why were the deer he was drawing now often hunted prey? He probably just couldn't get Hunter out of his head. He was getting a hard-on again. Benjamin made his way back to the dormitory. Hunter and he hadn't got off to a good start. But now he would like to put that right.

"Down at th’ park wit’ the boys, tossin’ sum balls ‘round. Y’all come on by if ya wanna join!" The note was on Ben's pillow. There was a lot else lying around the room. It was as if a bomb had gone off. Hunter was obviously not the tidiest of people. There was a camouflage T-shirt on the floor. Benjamin pressed it to his face. It smelled of sweat and masculinity. He couldn't help it. He had to jerk off again. This time it came with unexpected force. Shit, on the floor, on the bed, his cum was everywhere. He took one of his dirty towels from the laundry basket and tried to clean it up as best he could. And then he made his way to the park. He had to watch Hunter play football with his buddies.

Benjamin had to search a bit to find Hunter and his friends. But it was worth it. A gang of young rednecks in the prime of their youth, on their way to becoming real men. Their muscles were glistening with sweat, their mullets sticking wet to their heads. “Yo, Ben!” Hunter shouted when he saw Benjamin. Benjamin was amazed that Hunter had recognized him. Hunter ran up to him and did a fist bump, which Benjamin returned somewhat awkwardly. “Hey there, what in tarnation are ya doin’ just standin’ ‘round like a bump on a log? Get yourself changed and hit that field!” Benjamin said that he had nothing to change into. “Floyd, you knucklehead! You got your gym gear?” Hunter yelled across the pitch. He, who was presumably Floyd, yelled back “Sure thing!”. Hunter went to a bag and threw it to Benjamin. “Here ya go, this oughta fit ya, Big fella!” Benjamin was a little embarrassed to just change in the open field. But there was no turning back now. The last time he had played football was five years ago. And he had been bad. Really bad. Now he was standing on a field in sweaty, oversized clothes belonging to a guy he didn't know called Floyd and had to play football with a guy he hardly knew, but had already wanked off on twice today. The ball flew towards him. Benjamin caught it with a leap. “To me!” roared Hunter. And with a powerful and precise pass, the ball flew to Hunter. “Bloody hell!” thought Benjamin.

The sun was about to set. The boys were lying on the grass, drinking some kind of isotonic thirst quencher. They had all taken off their shirts. Hunter's head was on Benjamin's stomach. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, buddy! You best be chowin' down more and hittin' them weights less. That belly of yours ain’t got no softness to cuddle up to!” “In your dreams!” replied Benjamin, tousling Hunter's wet hair. Damn, he was well on his way to becoming a jock... Benjamin and Hunter spent the evening together, when the sun went down, they went to the movies and then out for a burger. Benjamin had never spent a Sunday like this before. It felt wrong. But it felt so good!

The next morning, Hunter's alarm clock rang at 05:30. “Dude, running and gym!” he said as he shook Benjamin awake. Benjamin had done more sport yesterday than he had ever done in his life. But without argument, he put on Floyd's dirty and sweaty clothes and the two of them set off. Benjamin actually had his first lecture at 08:30. English poetry of the 19th century. But he couldn't leave Hunter to bench press on his own. And so it was 09:00 when he arrived in the lecture hall. In his sweaty gym clothes. Without his homework. His professor asked him to join her after the lecture to explain to him clearly that this was not the performance she expected. And that he would stink. Benjamin raised his arm and took a deep breath from his armpit. “You're damn right,” he said, nodding appreciatively. His cell phone vibrated. “Fucc dude, 4got my laptop.  Bring it by, bruh. Warnell school of 4estry and natural resources” Benjamin knew where that was. Behind the natural history museum. Next lecture wasn't for another hour. Benjamin sprinted home, grabbed the computer from Hunter's desk and ran into the department. “I'm at the entrance, bro,” he wrote. ‘Cum 2 the library,’ Hunter replied. Benjamin followed the signs. Floyd was waiting outside the library. “Hey y'all, thanks a million! You’re a real lifesaver for Hunter and me. And I gotta say, them clothes are lookin' sharp. And that mullet? Pure gold!” Benjamin blushed and said that he would do the washing today and Floyd would bring the clothes back clean tomorrow. Floyd laughed and said that they had only been on for a week, a bit early to wash them. Benjamin joined in the laughter and headed off to his next lecture. Bloody hell, what had Floyd said. Mullet? What mullet? He ran his fingers through his hair sweaty from running. It was sticking to the back of his neck. Benjamin searched for a window pane to look at his reflection. Shit, he had a similar hairstyle to the boys.

Tuesday morning was Hunter and Ben's first lecture, “Ecosystems and Habitat management” in Professor Castleberry's Wildlife Ecology and Management class. They both got quite a telling off for missing the first lecture the previous week. Hunter's excuse was that he couldn't leave his parents' hunting lodge because of the storm. The story of how the bridge had been washed away sounded super realistic. Ben had to bite his tongue not to laugh out loud. He knew that Hunter simply hadn't wanted to leave without killing the big stag. Ben's excuse was less original. The fact that he was wrongly enrolled in art history and literature led to great laughter in the lecture hall. A guy with “corn-fed Midwestern boy” literally tattooed on his forehead couldn't be in a worse place than in a lecture on 19th century English poetry. Luckily, the two best buddies were given two adjacent seats. They hadn't showered after the gym today either. Very few of their fellow students wanted to sit next to them. But it was their lucky day anyway. Although the registration deadline had actually already passed, they both still got a place on the excursion to the “Population biology and ecology” field trip at the weekend. They could hardly wait for Friday. Finally a chance to get some fresh air and hopefully a good piece of game. Their hunting rifles were already threatening to rust.

A few of his fellow students knew that his real name was Ben. But everyone here called him Buck. Hunter and Buck. It just went together. The two of them studied together, pumped iron together, played football together. They hunted together. And yes, they also fucked together. But only without eye contact. Otherwise it would be totally homo!

Pics by @ki-kink

[good-chimes]

The problem with Cub is that he starts projects very slowly and sensibly, like someone just getting into the car to pick up some groceries, just going to construct this museum building, very cool, very normal, just start the engine and slowly navigate down this road. And then he takes a turn that is a bit weird but you don’t notice it because his voice is SO soothing (why are we going down this road? it’s the way to the store man don’t worry about it), and it seems normal that he has, e.g. floored the entire place with lodestones. And then he takes another few turns, and each one makes sense by ITSELF, but you have this gathering feeling that something is terribly wrong, you don’t recognise the scenery and Cub is rifling through other Hermits’ shulker boxes to tick off things on his list, and now there’s definitely a few police cars involved and is that Decked Out? and where ARE you, this was just supposed to be a trip to the GROCERY STORE, and just as you decide to ask the question you realise you have been sitting in an eighteen-wheeler juggernaut all this time and Cub has just run over a police car and is about to ramp the whole thing off a cliff.

It can take a long time for Cub to get to his endgame but BOY is it Somewhere.

The problem with Joe is he’s been at his endgame the whole time.

[that-house]

December 3rd, 2031 – Sixty degrees, clear skies, and a nice southeasterly breeze. It was a beautiful day to lay siege to Dallas. It was a good thing the weather was nice, because everything else about the operation looked rough. Marian couldn’t wait.

Dallas was a classic Texan fortress-city, two rings of forty foot tall concrete walls with a killing field in between, bristling with anti-aircraft cannon. The ground-facing defenses were a little less thorough, but a few machine guns would make quick work of any infantry charge and Dallas had more than a few machine guns.

“We aren’t being paid enough,” Suzy griped. She was crouching in the shade, alternatingly blowing a bubble of gum and taking swigs out of a bottle whose contents were hidden by a paper bag.

“We’re mercenaries. Get used to it.” Marian hoisted her gun onto her shoulder. “Besides, they don’t exactly expect us to succeed.”

“Oh, are we leading a suicide charge? I wasn’t paying attention to the Duke.” Suzy was never paying attention, but the benefits of having her around outweighed the drawbacks. Most days, at least.

“Pretty much.”

“Did the guys we’re with know this was a suicide charge?”

Marion looked around at the Jeep the Duke of Austin had hastily assigned the duo to. The soldiers suddenly all looked a bit green around the gills. “I’m guessing not. Chin up, boys! Auntie Marian won’t let any harm come to you.”

One of the men, a lieutenant, managed to find his voice. “Why are we here?”

“The Duke hopes that we’ll die loud enough that Dallas won’t notice his bombers taking out the emplaced guns. Doesn’t strike me as very sound tactics, but hey, he’s got manpower to make up for what he lacks in brains.”

Silence in the back of the Jeep.

Marian continued, mostly to fuck with them. “And don’t think the tanks’ll be any help. See those big fancy guns up on the wall? Those are lonestar guns. You boys seen lonestar guns?”

“Yeah.”

“So you get the idea. But hey, cheer up! It’s not every day you get to storm the best-defended city in the state!”

The man slowly came to a revelation a long time coming. “You’re insane,” he said.

“Insane was my father’s name. Please, call me Marian Typhoon.”

Suzy cackled. “That was terrible.”

The soldiers looked between the two women, now realizing they were both mad. “How are you two so calm?”

Marian didn’t answer for a moment, looking out at the slowly-approaching walls of Dallas. The lonestar guns’ targeting algorithms would start flagging the vehicles soon. “Suzy, how far out are we?”

“About a mile and a half.” Suzy busied herself checking over her rifle.

“Now, boys, I’m gonna explain two concepts very quickly, so you’d best pay attention. The KL-90 fully automatic sniper rifle, sometimes called “Le Papillon,” was something of a failure, because for some reason those glorious Frenchmen decided to make it fire 1200 rounds per minute, giving it a tendency to dump the entire mag into one poor fucker. Only six were ever made, and nowadays they’re just museum pieces. In 2026, the American military plunged into the deep end of bioweaponry and concocted a little something known as the ‘vampire virus,’ which proved pretty damn lethal in 99.99% of cases. The 0.01% that survived were problematic enough that the program shut down, and all information about it was expunged from the record.”

Marion patted Suzy affectionately on the head. “Now you might be wondering how those two disparate pieces of information might happen to overlap, and if you boys just sit pretty for a moment I reckon you’ll be able to connect the dots. Suzy?”

The last surviving vampire, Suzy Nines, slotted the magazine into her KL-90 fully automatic sniper rifle, and squinted out at the Dallas walls. She squeezed the trigger, the barrel swinging into a wild blur of motion as the sound of gunfire filled the air. “Machine gunners down. Reloading.”

Marian patted the hapless lieutenant on the shoulder. “Come along, boys. Auntie Marian’s got a city to take.”

[gabessquishytum]

Hob is a superlative thief.

He sometimes breaks into museums or other high security places just because he can (breaking into the Geneva Freeport was very cool ~ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Geneva_Freeport ~ he didn’t even steal anything!)

Anyway he heard through his favorite unsavory circles, that Roderick Burgess had acquired some awesome priceless "magical" thing a little while ago. Well Hob is nothing if not curious.

Besides, Roderick Burgess is an actively horrible person, stealing from him would be a distinct pleasure. Hob hadn't even decided he was going to steal whatever the thing was, but he was going to take a look,,,,,and if it was less magical and more "kill the world" then he would grab it and drop it off with the most trust worthy government type he knew. And Hob honestly expects it's a kill the world thing, since you know magic is not real.

Hob was NOT expecting a person, person-shaped thing, pissed elder god thing, enclosed in glass and iron. How a douchebag like Roderick Burgess was able to trap and contain an elemental force of the universe Hob did not care to find out, but he knew he couldn't leave it in Burgess's "care."

Should Hob be finding seething man-shaped thing beautiful; stealing things tends to get Hob hot, sure, but he doesn't think it's ever been quite like this. Hob hopes he gets out of this mostly still sane.

OOO this is a super fun idea!!! I just think it would be really fun if Hob is just doing crime for fun and because he finds it kinda... hot. He's absolutely not freeing Dream for altruistic reasons, no way... he's just got a reputation to maintain when it comes to thievery!

Dream is less than thrilled to see yet another human coming up to his cage, but this time... its different. There's a small tool which cuts a small circular hole in the glass and lets the air come rushing in. Hob also smudges the binding circle (in fact, he upends a bottle of water to wash away the paint completely). And with that, Dream can use the rushing return of his powers to explode out of the glass orb.

He's obviously glad to be out, but he realises immediately that his tools have been stolen and dispersed. Which is when Hob pipes up again, and offers his assistance in recovering them. Who better to track down stolen goods, than a thief? By the time Dream reluctantly accompanies Hob back to his car, leaving the mansion and its occupants behind in eternal sleep, Hob has already tracked down the bag of sand via ebay.

Dream is still skeptical, but when Hob accompanies him to hell and somehow manages to pinch the helm from right under the demon's nose... he starts to think that it might be worth keeping this annoying human around for a while longer. Even Matthew is impressed. Especially when they all make it out of hell in one piece, and nobody even has to play the oldest game.

The ruby is obviously problematic and Dream almost forbids Hob from coming with him at all. But Hob is adamant that he always finishes up his jobs. He heads to the diner with Dream, just about resists the urge to go crazy and rob everyone in the place. In the end Dream doesn't need his help, but it's kind of nice to be just hanging out anyway. Obviously there could be nicer circumstances for a date, but Hob is kind of feeling some kinda way about this particular elemental force...

And Dream is obviously struggling with the events of his imprisonment, but having Hob around is a nice distraction. Even if he keeps finding Hob’s hand rifling through his coat pocket ("how BIG is that pocket?! I got my whole arm inside!" "It contains a multitude of unknown universes. Keep your fingers to yourself.")

Hob settles for holding Dream’s hand instead. Which is even better, actually.

[orionremastered]

Hello!

I recently read your shifter!reader and i wonder if you could do something like the wolf walkers movie? Please? Like reader shifting in to a big wolf when they're sleeping and theyr body is there but theyr soul become a physical wolf

Masterlist

idk why but i can't tag anyone rn? tf? anyhoo no taglist

Rare

Rare. That's the word they described you with; your name synonymous with it. By being a dire wolf shifter, you are part of the small group within the already small amount of shifters in the world; the shifters that could turn into extinct creatures.

Rare. Like your favourite painting. An art nerd you shall forever stay, especially with your recently obtained degree in Art History, gazing upon the intricate colours and strokes, perfectly placed and perfectly designed. It tells a story that you can only hear if you strain your ears.

Rare. There's only one of that painting and it's being displayed, the original copy, in Gotham. Most thieves ignore the paintings in Gotham because these museums usually have alarms that don't call the cops, but something worse. You've just chosen to watch over it because you're broke and can't afford a ticket to the gallery it's important to you and should stay safe.

Rare. Thieves thinking that it'd be funny to try and steal it while a wolf whose head reaches their chests stalks the art exhibit. You sense them far before they notice you, and decide to politely alert them so with a snarl. Their heads whip around and all six of them pull out rifles, beginning to fire.

Rare. The chances of you still being in one piece as you duck behind a stone sculpture, snarling as they damage the statue. Then screams as some of the gunfire lessens. You charge out, teeth bared to defend the masterpieces all around you. Taking one down is easy when his back is turned, and you take down the last one just as fast.

Rare. The chances of three shifters, two well-known 'friends' that often work together as vigilantes Golden and Wraith, and then you. A dire wolf shifter and larger than both. They stare at each other and then back at you.

Rare. That's what a mental link between shifters is, and it's even more strange for them to include a new shifter into their link so quickly.

Wraith: Who are you?

You: I could ask the same.

Golden: You're a dire wolf shifter? Aren't those rare?

You: They are rare.

One of the windows slowly opens as two figures enter the exhibit, sighing at the thieves at your feet (paws?). Then they see you and exchange a glance of disbelief.

"What's this? A dire wolf shifter?" Nightwing asks, patting Golden on the head. You're aware that the two vigilante shifters have a good reputation with the human-form vigilantes, especially the youngest, Robin, who stands beside Nightwing. According to Wraith, he's an animal lover.

"They're quite rare," Robin muses, slowly scratching behind your ear to test the waters.

Rare. That's what you are, and now that's who you are.

[whosscruffylooking]

ᖭི༏ᖫྀ The Beginning of Us- Chapter 5 ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

Joel Miller x Fem! Reader warnings: mentions of blood, severe injuries, and death. word count: 2.4k Series Masterlist

au! august 2023

The four of you creep into the museum, the air thick with decay and the sharp scent of old rot. You grip your gun tightly within your hands. The dim light from the setting sun barely penetrates the grime-covered windows, casting long, haunting shadows. The coast seems clear at first, but that deceptive calm shatters as you spot the grotesque remains of a man splayed beneath the staircase, his body overtaken by fungal growths.

Ellie’s breath hitches, her voice breaking through the stillness. “I’ve been attacked by an infected. It wasn’t… anything like that.”

Joel raises a hand sharply, silencing her with a warning glare. “From this point forward, we are silent.” 

You ascend the creaking staircase, every step feeling like a test of fate. Tendrils snake along the floor and walls, their sickly, veined textures a chilling reminder of what’s at stake. The remnants of what were once people lie scattered, blending into the overgrown exhibits. You keep step with Joel, his presence both grounding and unbearably heavy.

Behind you, a sudden groan of wood splintering sends your heart into your throat. The doorway collapses in a cloud ofdust and debris, sealing your exit. Without hesitation, you grab Ellie’s arm and yank her forward as Tess scrambles through behind you.

Then, the piercing screech of a clicker splits the air, freezing the blood in your veins. You meet Joel’s gaze, and in that brief moment, the silent rush of panic between you both is undeniable. Grabbing Ellie, you pull her behind an old display case as Joel ducks in beside you. His shoulder brushes against yours, and you feel the pressure radiating off him.

Ellie clings to your hand, her eyes wide with fear. You mouth silently, “They can’t see, but they can hear.” She nods, her breaths shallow.

A clicker lurches into view, its erratic, jerking movements unnatural and horrifying. Joel’s flashlight catches the grotesque growths on its face, and your pulse quickens as its head twitches violently toward the faintest sounds. No matter how many times you’ve faced these things, the terror never diminishes.

It begins to circle the display case, its guttural clicks reverberating through the room. Ellie lets out a tiny gasp, and the creature screeches, lunging toward your hiding spot. Joel fires, the deafening crack of the shot shattering the tense silence. “Run!” you hiss, grabbing Ellie’s hand and bolting toward another room.

Another clicker appears, its grotesque figure illuminated by the flickering light. You shove Ellie toward Tess as you spin around, firing at the creature. The bullets slow it but don’t stop it. Just as you reload, hands grab you, yanking you back against a wall.

For a split second, you think it’s over, but the touch is familiar—Joel. His hands press against your waist as he pulls you close, shielding you. His revolver is empty, his fingers fumbling as he reaches for more ammo. You quietly pass him a handful of bullets, your hands brushing, trembling.

A sound pulls your attention, and you glance around the corner only to find the clicker mere inches away. Time slows as it turns its head toward you, its jagged teeth exposed in a snarl. Your heart feels like it might stop altogether. Joel tears you back just as it lunges, and you grab a can of food from your bag, throwing it across the room. The noise distracts it, giving you both precious seconds.

Ellie is crouched nearby, her small figure shaking but determined. Joel rushes toward her, but in the chaos, his boot crunches down on a shard of glass. The sound is deafening in the silence. The clicker snaps its head toward him and Ellie, screeching as it leaps.

You don’t think—you just act. You slam the butt of your rifle into the creature’s neck, forcing it to turn its rage on you. It snarls, hissing, and you bolt, leading it away. Every step feels like a countdown, the guttural clicks growing closer. Spinning around, you aim and fire, the recoil jerking against your shoulder. The clicker collapses, its body convulsing as blood pools beneath it.

Joel sprints toward you, his hands frantically searching your arms and sides for bites. “Are you hurt?” he demands, his voice raw and jagged.

“I’m fine,” you manage, but your voice cracks. You grab his arm, doing the same to him, your hands shaking. He’s fine. Relief battles with the lingering adrenaline in your veins.

Another screech cuts through the air. Before you can react, Tess appears, her axe swinging with brutal precision. The clicker stumbles, and Joel finishes it with a shot to the head. The deafening silence that follows is almost worse than the chaos.

You lean against the wall, your breaths uneven, the rifle slipping from your grip. Joel stands before you, his chest heaving as his eyes lock onto yours. You see fear there—fear for you, fear of losing more than he already has.

“You okay?” You force yourself to look away from Joel and focus on Ellie, your voice strained.

“Well, I didn’t shit my pants, so there’s that,” she quips, her attempt at humor shaky. Then, with a shrug, she pulls up the sleeve of her jacket, revealing a fresh bite just above her old scar. The sight makes your stomach drop.

“I mean, if it was gonna happen to one of us…” she trails off, trying to joke, but her voice falters.

You stare at the wound. Joel steps closer, his face stiffening as his eyes dart from Ellie’s arm to your reaction. You glance at him briefly before turning back to Ellie, swallowing the fear rising in your throat.

But before either of you can speak, Tess snaps, “We need to move. Now.”

You nod, pushing the terror and the unspoken emotions aside as the four of you press on, the weight of survival heavy on all of your shoulders.

Emerging onto the museum roof, the fresh air feels like a cruel contrast to the suffocating fear you’ve just escaped. You take in the view—a sharp reminder of everything you’ve been through and the impossible journey still ahead.

“We’ve gotta cross that thing?” Ellie asks, pointing at a precarious wooden plank spanning the gap between the museum and the next building.

“Yeah, I know it looks scary,” Joel says, his tone clipped, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“That was scary,” Ellie mutters, glancing back toward the museum. “This is wood.”

Despite her words, there’s a flicker of hesitation as she approaches the plank. She surprises you by reaching for your hand, gripping it tightly as if anchoring herself to something real. You look down at her and offer a small nod before stepping onto the plank together, leaving Joel and Tess behind.

You don’t look back, but you can feel Joel’s gaze remaining on you as you cross.

Joel crouches beside Tess, attempting to wrap her ankle, his hands steady but his expression distant. He avoids looking her in the eye, his mind clearly on more than the task at hand.

“There’s probably more ahead,” he says, breaking the silence.

Tess watches him, her expression shifting to something more vulnerable, more weary. “So, we’ll deal with it then. I’ve got it,” she says, snatching the bandage from his hands and finishing the job herself. Her movements are quick, almost defensive, as though she’s fending off the concern in his eyes.

Joel doesn’t relent. “What about the kid?” he asks, his voice brittle. “Maybe the first bite didn’t take, but what about the second?”

Tess exhales sharply, her patience fraying. “Why don’t you just take the good news for once, huh? Can you do that?” Her voice matter-of-fact, laced with frustration. “Maybe—just maybe—we’ve finally caught a break. This kid could be a miracle. And you…”

She waits, her tone easing, though the words cut just as deep. “Y/N. She’s right there, Joel. The ghost you’ve been carrying around for 20 years? She’s here, flesh and blood, right in front of you. But all you can do is keep living in denial. Just go watch the kid.”

Joel flinches, the accusation hitting harder than any wound he’s taken in years. “Y/N—she’s with Ellie,” he mutters, barely managing to get your name out.

Tess shakes her head, her annoyance boiling over. “You can’t even say her name like you mean it. What are you gonna do, Joel? Go another 20 years living like this? Letting the bitterness swallow you whole?” She exhales, her composure cracking. “I can’t. Not anymore. Just… go.”

Joel wavers, but he doesn’t argue. Without another word, he rises and heads toward you and Ellie, leaving Tess behind with her grief and resolve.

On the other side of the plank, Ellie keeps her hand in yours. She looks up at you with something between awe and relief, as though you’re the only thing leveling her out right now.

“You did good back there,” you soothe her. 

“Thanks,” Ellie murmurs, managing a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Joel’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade. “Is it everything you hoped for?” He steps beside you, and instinctively, you move to Ellie’s other side, the distance between you and Joel a chasm that can’t be crossed.

Ellie shrugs. “Jury’s still out. But, man, you can’t deny that view.” She gestures to the ruined skyline ahead, her attempt at lightness ringing hollow.

Tess joins you, her steps uneven. “C’mon,” she says. “We don’t have much daylight left.”

»»————————-««

The rendezvous point is a ghost town. The truck is abandoned, and dread sinks like a stone in your stomach. Tess hangs back with Ellie while you and Joel fan out to investigate.

You crouch beside the truck, your eyes catching the sickening sight of bodies beneath it. Raising a hand, you signal Joel, who comes to your side.

You spot a trail of blood leading up the steps of the capitol building and swallow hard. “They went inside.”

Tess grabs Ellie’s arm abruptly, pushing her toward the building.

“Wait—Tess!” Joel shouts, chasing after her. “What are you doing?”

Inside, the scene is worse. The air is thick with the stench of death, Firefly bodies strewn across the room like broken marionettes. Tess moves with a desperation that chills you, rifling through the carnage for something—anything. A radio, a map, some shred of hope.

“Who killed them? FEDRA?” Ellie whispers.

You tap one of the bodies with your boot, your voice hollow. “No. One of them got bit. The healthy ones turned on the sick. Everyone lost.”

Joel’s voice slices through the chaos, sharp and accusing. “Tess, what are you doing?”

“Where did Marlene say she was taking you, Ellie?” Tess grabs her shoulders, her eyes wild.

Ellie stammers, “I—I don’t know! She just said west!”

“Tess, stop!” Joel demands, his voice rising.

“Joel, can you just help me?” she pleads, her tone breaking.

Joel’s face hardens. “No. Tess, it’s over. We’re going home.”

“This is not my home!” Tess snaps, her voice cracking as the words spill out. Joel stares at her, stunned.

She exhales, her shoulders slumping. “Our luck had to run out sometime.”

The realization hits you like a blow. You press your fingers to your mouth, and your voice is feeble. “Tess… you’ve been bit.”

Joel’s head jerks toward her, disbelief etched on his face. “No. Show me.”

Tess hesitates before pulling back her shirt to reveal the jagged bite on her neck. “Oops,” she says bitterly, raw terror in her voice

“Take your bandage off,” she tells Ellie.

Ellie does as she’s told, exposing her uninfected skin.

“Look, Joel,” Tess says, her voice unsteady but resolute. “This is real. She’s real. I need you to get her there. Both of you.”

Joel shakes his head, backing away. “No. No, Tess, I can’t—”

“Joel!” she interrupts, her voice breaking. “I never asked you for anything. Never once. Not to feel the same way I felt about you. But I am begging you now—take her. Keep her alive. Set this right.”

You feel your heart shatter as Tess’s words hang in the air. She’s loved him all this time, and he’s never let himself love her back. The weight of what Joel has lost—what he’s still losing—tears at you.

“Tess, don’t,” Joel pants.

Tess shakes her head, tears flowing down her face. “There’s no time, Joel. Please. Say yes.”

Joel is paralyzed in place. 

Tess turns to you, her eyes desperate. “Please, Y/N. Promise me.”

Your throat tightens, and you nod, your voice breaking. “I’ll do it, Tess.”

She smiles weakly, tears mixing with the blood on her face. “Thank you. Keep him in line, okay? Don’t let him drown in his own bitterness. Save him. Save them.”

The sound of a body screeching cuts through the moment. Without hesitation, Joel shoots it, and you watch in horror as the fungal tendrils snake across the ground, connecting to the hive mind.

“Joel,” you hiss, snapping him from his daze.

He runs to the front door, his face ashen. “They’re coming. All of them. We’ve got maybe a minute.”

Tess doesn’t hesitate, grabbing gasoline cans and dumping them across the room. “I’ll hold them off,” she says firmly.

She steps toward Joel one last time. “Save who you can save,” she whispers. “Open your heart again, Joel. Please.”

Joel’s face crumples, terror and heartbreak flash across his features, but he says nothing.

Tess looks at you, her eyes steady now. “Take them out of here. Now.”

You grab Ellie and Joel’s hands, dragging them toward the exit.

“No!” Ellie screams, thrashing in your grasp. “We can’t leave her! I’m not leaving her!”

“Ellie, we have to!” you cry, your voice breaking. Joel takes over, hauling Ellie out of the building as she fights against him.

An explosion shakes the ground beneath your feet. You throw yourself over Ellie, shielding her from the blast, the heat searing your back.

When you rise, Joel is standing motionless, his gun half-raised, staring at the burning capitol. The screams of the infected echo through the air, swallowed by the roaring flames.

You place your hand on Joel’s gun and gently lower it. He looks at you, his face blank, his eyes hollow, before turning away without a word.

You pull Ellie into a hug, her small hands clutching at your shirt.

“Let’s go,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you guide her forward. Behind you, the inferno rages, taking Tess—and a piece of all of you—with it.

»»————————-««

Taglist: @si1versamurai

[early2000smovieimagines]

Meeting and Dating Edward Dalton

(Not my gif)(Requested by anonymous)

(human s/o)

- There’s a stretch of land outside of town that hasn’t been touched in ages. It's the discarded remains of a once busy urban neighborhood. A place that's been torn apart and left in shambles after a series of events that you weren’t around to witness. There’s a layer of dust on everything you haven’t bothered moving, like a poorly kept museum of all things mundane. It's the evidence of hundreds of peoples lives that you really don’t have the heart to rifle through; not unless absolutely necessary.

- You don’t know its story, but you’ve come to call it home. It’s the safest place you’ve found in a considerably long time: a lot of sun and not a lot of shade. You have a running hypothesis that someone, somewhere decided that turning the area into something more sustainable; particularly for the new world order of night-dwelling monsters, simply wasn't worth the effort. It's a decision that's left even it's darkest spaces uninhabited; the only signs of life being the occasional passing car.

- Though you're not as jumpy as you used to be; lured into a false sense of security by the continual absence of dangerous company, you still find yourself feeling like a deer in the middle of an empty forest. You freeze at every little sound, watch for any hint of danger, bolt at any suspicion of company.

- You wonder if Edward makes the same connection when the two of you meet for the first time. You wonder if he feels like the opposite: feels like a prowling wolf when he stands in the shadows, watching the sun glint off of your hair from his place in the absence of it. You wonder how many deer's have seen the same glowing pin pricks in the middle of the darkness surrounding them. You wonder how many of them knew that the flickering lights meant death.

- A part of you doesn’t believe it when you see the amber shine of his eyes, maybe because you really don’t want to believe it: don’t want to believe that you’re going to have to leave, to find another home after all of this time. Your stomach drops and you hope that there’s some explainable reason as to why you’re seeing those two little lights: like when you envision a body out of random clothes and furniture in the darkness of your bedroom.

- But there’s no explanation, none besides the obvious, and you’re forced to stand frozen in place as you wait for them to make a move, knowing that the two of you are equally trapped, one in the sunlight and the other in the shade.

“You’re human.” He says in surprise, glowing eyes moving as he tilts his head in the darkness, trying to look at you closer without risking a potential burn from the sun which separates you. You stagger further away, further into the heat of the light behind you, and he assures you that it’s okay, that he’s not going to hurt you. You don’t believe him.

“What are you doing here?” You question, eyes flickering around the room for a potential weapon. You’re safe for the time being, but that won’t last forever.

“I used to work around here when I was younger. The grocery store down the road, I stocked the shelves in high school,” He starts to explain, pausing to look for a sign of recognition in your eyes. You keep your expression guarded and he continues. “I remembered it the other day. I wanted to see what happened to it, that’s all.”

“In the daytime?”

“The only time I have off.” He replies lightheartedly. You don’t offer a smile.

“Listen, I didn’t mean to come here and scare you. I didn’t think I was gonna find anyone. Everyone thinks this place is abandoned.” He tries reassuring you.

“That’s kind of the point.” You reply curtly.

“Yeah, but….” His words trails off.

“But?” You prod warily.

“Well, they’re tearing it down,” He answers. “Everyone’s been talking about it, it’s part of why I came down here. They’re gonna salvage what they can and build around it. Block out the sun.”

“You’re not, you’re not gonna be safe here for very much longer. I’m actually surprised that no one’s found you yet. With all of the planning that’s been going on, there’s had to have been dozens of people coming down here and scoping everything out. How long have you been here?” He questions, though you can't bring yourself to answer him, still trying to process what he's just revealed to you.

- You'd seen it coming of course, anyone with half a brain would have seen it coming. But that was when you'd first discovered the area: when you were still hiding away from every shadow and tensing at every sudden noise. If it was going to happen, then it would have happened already: you'd told yourself. And over time, you'd actually begun to believe it. You'd convinced yourself that the rest of the world had forgotten about the deserted town, the same way they'd forgotten about you....

- The thought of dozens of vampires stumbling through the place you'd begun to call your home made you sick. The thought of them crawling through the streets and the corridors of different buildings, of their fingerprints dusting over your own on all of the same railings and door handles, of them just barely missing you....

"You should come with me." The man interrupts your inner breakdown. The idea is almost enough to make you laugh but instead, you simply look at him like he's crazy.

"I-I know you have no reason to trust me, but there's gonna be a lot more vampires coming down here. I mean, maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon. And there's nothing left around here, everything's been torn down, it's ...taken over. ...I have a spare bedroom at my place-" He rambles, urging you to listen to him, to agree to come home with him.

"Do you really expect me to take you up on that offer?" You interrupt, asking the question incredulously. He flounders for something to say, very obviously knowing that you wouldn't agree yet still hoping that you would.

"No," He finally comes up with. "But you should."

"Why?"

"Because I'm not like them."

- His efforts in convincing you to leave with him are about as successful as one could imagine. You adamantly refuse, blatantly dodging his questions and attempts to wrangle information out of you: information about what you'll do and where you'll go once the rest of his kind start to invade. He ultimately leaves you alone, though not before giving you his home address. And in the days that follow, you're forced to admit that Edward was telling the truth.

- Vampires do start to invade, and though none of them ever come as close as he did, you know that you're running out of time. You have to make your escape and you have to make it fast, make it before anyone else can discover that you're there. So with little other choice, you find yourself sneaking into your supposed allies quiet little suburb....

- He answers the door with a hint of confusion, probably because there's no one on the other side of it, at least no one that he can see. You're hiding a little ways away, your mind telling you not to reveal yourself until you're sure that he's alone; not to mention whether or not you're sure that you've arrived at the right house. He looks awestruck when you finally emerge, stilling at the sight of you before he quickly ushers you inside, looking around to ensure that no ones watching as you hesitantly step past him and through his front door.

- You're sure that your discomfort is obvious, and though he tries to hide it, Edward seems equally as uncomfortable in your presence as you are in his. It feels as though he didn't think he'd get this far, and now that he has, he's unsure of what to do next. He settles for showing you around, jumping from thing to thing as you slowly trail after him, watching as he demonstrates how to turn on the shower, and the coffee maker, and the security system, and so on.

"I uh, I drink pigs blood." He explains when the two of you reach his kitchen. He awkwardly glances from you to the bottles stacked in his fridge, seemingly hemming and hawing over how much of the shelves he should show you, worrying that he'll make you even more wary of your newfound predicament. "All animal product ...so you uh, you don't have to worry."

- He tells you to let him know if there's anything you need or will be needing in the future while he shows you to your room. He flicks the lights on and continues his tour. The room is neater than the rest of the house, lacking the stacked books and boxes of documents that seem to reside along the molding of every other wall in the house. It's simple and barren, almost sterile looking; especially in comparison to the very lived-in apartments that you'd grown used to residing in ever since humans went into hiding.

- It's surprisingly easy to get used to living with Edward. When you'd first arrived, you'd spent a week or so walking on eggshells; feeling like a nervous cat being taken home from the shelter. But it's hard to be afraid of a man who seems equally as afraid of you. It's also hard to be afraid of a man who rambles awkwardly about period products, and whether or not it's okay that he got chunky peanut butter instead of smooth because that's "all they had at the store". Not to mention, a man who's hit his head; and limbs, multiple times after being startled by your sudden arrival.

- Edward grows on you. And, judging from his recently longstanding lack of injuries, you've seemed to grow on him as well.

- You grow on him so much, in fact, that it starts to make him nervous. There’s a feeling that bubbles in his chest whenever you smile at him. It surfaces when you let him touch you, let him feel your pulse lingering beneath his fingers when he puts a hand on your shoulder or clasps your necklace. It claws at him when you stop to fix his hair in the evening before he leaves for work, or when you hand him the papers he forgot at the table. He realizes, with a feeling akin to realizing that you're at the edge of a cliff, that he's begun to fall in love with you. And thus, his inner conflict begins....

- Edward finds it far too easy to forget you're not together. His mind wanders when he's away from you, when his skin still tingles from the feeling of your touch. When you leave the room and the warmth of your body still lingers on whatever you'd been laying on. When you borrow his coat and give it back to him heated and laced with perfume. When he returns home and finds you waiting for him, his unpleasant thoughts interrupted by the sight of your face. For a few blissful moments, he allows himself to pretend that you're his: that you love him back and that you never plan on leaving, that you're not by his side purely out of personal convenience.

- He finds himself wanting to indulge you because in doing so, he indulges himself. He takes pleasure in making you happy, in knowing that he's, in some way, responsible for making you feel that way. It feels so ...domestic being able to take care of you, a bit like he's your husband. It's a fantasy that's broken when you happen to come across another human during one of your carefully planned outings.

- He watches you stare at each other from his place in the shadows. Watches you hurriedly introduce yourselves, shock, excitement, and relief flooding across both of your features. It's a sobering sight, a quick and harsh reminder that he has no “power over you”. That, no matter how much effort he puts into making you happy or how desperately he wants you to care about him, there's still nothing tying you to him. He wonders if he’d even be a thought in your head if that stranger asked you to go with them. 

- He weighs his options before he slowly steps out into the open. The sound of his footsteps drawing the attention away from you and onto him. He watches the panic rise, watches the stranger make a move to run, grabbing your arm and attempting to pull you with them; to pull you away from him. The sight makes his stomach churn, a feeling that's only partially relieved when you plant your feet and refuse to move.

- There's a hint of betrayal that crosses their features when you try to explain the situation. When the realization dawns on them; when it becomes obvious that the two of you are together, they drop your arm as though they've been burned. They don't listen as you try to reason with them, they merely back away and hurriedly leave.

"Lets go." You tell him when they're finally gone, your voice and expression giving him nothing to work with when trying to gauge how you're feeling. He apologizes for scaring them away while the two of you drive home in silence. 'It's probably for the best': you tell him and he swallows at the sound of it, wondering what you mean.

- Edward is selfless when it comes to you, but he finds himself wanting to be selfish. He wants to beg you to consider him: to consider how perfect things could be if you just gave him a chance. He knows he could make you happy: could make you want to stay forever.

- But he can't bring himself to pressure you. So instead, he settles for something smaller. Settles for biting his tongue when he finds himself thinking you'd be better off somewhere else. Settles or hesitating to respond when you mention other humans. Settles for halfheartedly advising against it whenever you ask to go searching for something or someone or somewhere. To deny you is one thing, to procrastinate and refuse to instigate is another. Isn't it?

"Maybe we should start looking for more people downtown," You suggest one night. The words make his throat feel tight and though he has a million questions racing through his mind, he remains silent and waits for you to speak again. When you do, it's with a joking tone. "I'm sure you'd like to get me out of your hair at ...some point."

"I like having you here." He says after a heavy swallow. It sucks all of the lightheartedness out of the room: far too earnest and full of restrained emotion. The moment of silence which follows feels tense, almost suffocating. He interrupts it with an almost melancholic goodnight, leaving you to overthink things all on your own for the rest of the "night".

- The house feels different after that, different in a way you can't quite place. It reminds you of when you first arrived at Edwards home, when he was always either too quiet or too talkative: watching you silently or rambling nervously in an attempt to fill the silence.

- The night he cooks you dinner is a night where he's chosen to be silent. He seems hyper focused on the meal he's preparing: deep in thought as though there's something on his mind other than the task at hand. When he cracks open an expensive bottle of wine, you teasingly ask if you're celebrating something, trying to lighten the tense mood that's seemed to permeate the air as soon as he'd gotten home from work. He gives you a tight-lipped smile and an unconvincing chuckle in response, pouring you a glass with a hand that trembles ever so slightly.

"The time I've spent with you these past few months has meant a lot to me," You've finished half of your plate by the time he's gathered the nerve to finally reveal what's been eating away at him. "And that day when we met the other human, it proved to me how much you have come to mean to me. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want us to stay together. I don't care where: whether it's here or somewhere else. I just want to be with you."

- Your throat feels tight by the time he's finished, choked with emotion as your heart hammers in your chest. His eyes meet yours over the table, shining like candlelight while you give him a shaky smile, trying to collect yourself and all of the nerves that are going haywire at his makeshift confession.

"I don't want to pressure you-" He starts when you struggle to respond.

"-You're not." You hurriedly insist, watching the way he slowly begins to smile after reading the expression on your face.

- You share your first kiss not long after. You hear him come into the room before you see him, feel his hands on your body before you can turn to look. His touch is featherlight as it glides across your skin, lingering gently on your shoulders before he slowly turns you around, stepping just that bit closer before he softly connects your lips. The feel of them is icy, a sharp contrast to the warmth of your own. He exhales harshly as he takes it in, his body shuddering pleasantly at the unfamiliar sensation. His kisses grow needier when you don't pull away, pulling every thought out of your head and making you forget what you'd been doing just moments before.

- You think you'd be okay with forgetting everything as long as he kept kissing you like that....

- Public displays of affection are sort of nonapplicable in your relationship. Since you're human and humans are considered enemies of the state, no one can know that you exist, and even if they did, they cannot know that the two of you are together. Even if you're in front of other humans, it's not wise for you to let them know that the two of you are dating: not knowing how much they'll trust you if they knew, or what kind of danger you could get into it because of it. You are; or the two of you are, for all intents and purposes, a secret.

- Edward marvels at your humanity: the feel of your heartbeat, the heat of your skin. It's been ten years since he was human and he's nearly forgotten the feeling of it, making it hard for him to keep his hands to himself. Oftentimes, his affection is innocent: caressing you and trailing his fingers down your arms and spine, watching your body shiver and react. Even before the two of you were together, he'd struggle to contain himself: wanting so badly to touch you yet knowing it wasn't his place; his hands shaking with needy anticipation every time you were close to him.

- Him pressing his lips to your forehead before connecting his own forehead to the exact same spot, holding you close to him as he savors the moment and the feel of you locked in his arms.

- You probably have a scar from when the two of you first met, and he sometimes likes to press kisses to it or smooth his fingers across the harsh line; absentmindedly trailing a soft caress against the marred skin and reminiscing about your relationship.

- His kisses have a tendency to be chaste yet they still manage to linger. There's a lasting neediness behind his affection, even when the action itself is nothing of the sort. Although, sometimes he loses himself in the moment before having to force himself to pull away, struggling to stay in control as his desires and his impulses take hold of him. You're an addiction he has to grow used to; for your sake and for his own.

- Cuddling up on the couch together.

- He has a habit of falling asleep on the couch so you usually have to poke him awake and urge him into bed with you. You also have to keep a somewhat nocturnal schedule yourself if you want to be able to cuddle with him. He's a busy man so most of the time you spend with each other is spent in bed, having him wrap himself around you from behind and murmur quietly in your ear.

- He usually just calls you by your given name or a casual nickname. He's not a sappy person; especially when it comes to terms of endearment, so the farthest he'll go is calling you sweetheart or affectionately referring to you as his heating pad or something of the sort. That being said: he has shocked you by earnestly calling you "his sun", making you want to cry with how sweet and genuine it sounded falling from his lips.

- Earnest little compliments spoken out of nowhere. You'll be doing nothing special and he'll just randomly interrupt you with a "you're so beautiful"; sometimes before you even realize he was there and/or watching you. The way he says it makes it seem as though it was something he just had to tell you, the level of sincerity in it making your heart skip a beat.

- He can honestly stare at you for ages. You've sort of become like an exotic beauty: the normal colored eyes, squared teeth, skin with more pigment than ashy paleness, etc.

- You also find yourself staring: safely indulging in the foreign beauty of something you're meant to fear. He gets a bit shy under your gaze which only ever seems to make him even more handsome.

- He's the perfect sketching partner to have if you happen to be an artist because he generally stays pretty still regardless of what he's doing; making it relatively easy to doodle away while he's lost in thought or busy with his own work.

- Parallel play. He likes being able to do his work and/or read while you occupy yourself in the same space as him.

- Having him read to you. Your boyfriend has the voice of an angel, and he kind of loves it whenever you curl up next to him and ask him to read aloud, brushing off his attempts to tell you that it's boring science stuff and that you wouldn't be interested in it. You tell him that it's "even better" and that he can bore you to sleep as you nuzzle into him, smiling to yourself as he readjusts himself and starts to speak.

- Him giving you massages. They're kind of just excuses for him to touch you for prolonged periods of time, but that's neither here nor there.

- Dancing around to the radio with him.

- Having dinner together. I feel like he'd enjoy cooking for you and though he's initially embarrassed by the idea of eating in front of you, he slowly starts to get used to it.

- Since normal food is kind of hard to come by, he probably sets up a home garden for vegetables and other edible things; not telling you about the specifics until things start actually growing so that he doesn't get your hopes up. The smile on your face when you realize what he's been doing all [this] time makes all of the trouble and the hard work worth while.

- Getting little lectures on all of his plants. Sitting patiently and listening to him explain all of the different conditions and strains of orchids that there are, and how if they get too much water they get root rot and this and that. He probably gets you potted pants more than flowers because it looks less suspicious for a single man in his "30s" to bring home a succulent rather than an entire bouquet.

- Getting brough home little treats: pastries, chocolates, etc. He always double checks to make sure they don't contain any blood, yet there has been a few incidents that you're forced to laugh off in an attempt to make him feel better and end his mortification.

- Edward is the chief hematologist of a major corporation: the man has mad money and he likes to spoil you however he can. He takes note of all of the things you like and talk about so that he can go out and get them for you.; since you're sort of incapable of leaving the house and buying them for yourself.

- He undoubtedly gets you new clothes to wear once the two of you start living together; or goes on a run with you to help you grab your old belongings, but nothing compares to when you first joined him at his home and had to wear his clothes because you didn't have any of your own. It's seared into his memory and it's very erotic for him. Like, he might have to jump you if you wear his clothes after the fact because now you're his and he can finally act on those impulses; instead of repressing them like he was forced to do before then.

- Personalized jewelry.

- Getting asked by him if he looks okay since he cant see himself in any mirrors or other reflection's. He always stays still and cherishes your little touches as you adjust things for him: smiling at you softly as you brush his hair back or do his tie for him.

- Remembering to lock up his house for him. He's notorious for forgetting to do so and getting his place consistently broken into, but he tries to be better about it now that he has you: not being able to afford the risk of someone walking in and finding you.

- You may or may not have a habit of biting him and he may or may not find it really amusing. I mean it's obviously pretty ironic given the situation, but he also likes how not scared of him you are and the teasing playfulness behind the action. It also might turn him on a little but he's not prepared to delve into those confusing feelings right now so lets not talk about it.

- He thinks it's kind of cute when you try to celebrate his birthday with him: smiling at you fondly as you peck him on the cheek and make jokes about him "looking great for his age". He probably calls you his gift whenever you make comments about not really being able to get him one, pulling you in and kissing you on the temple after blowing out his candles.

- He tries to dissuade you from smoking and drinking, wanting you to be as healthy as possible for as long as possible. He'd probably try to cut back on his own smoking as well, muttering shyly about secondhand smoke whenever you ask him about it.

- There's something so ...human about the way you tell jokes: so much so that he can't help but smile and laugh along with you; even though he's a little rusty when it comes to indulging in comedy. You have to grow used to his sense of humor as well: learn to love the dry delivery of his somewhat stunted attempts at being funny. You might not always realize he's trying to joke with you, but you get better with it over time.

- Edward genuinely can't remember what it's like to be human so he occasionally asks you little open ended questions in your more quieter moments together: questioning how your mind or body works, asking about your fears and emotions, etc. In return, you ask him to tell you about vampirism: listening intently to his words, noticing how they always seem to take a sour turn....

- Edward really yearns to be human so he'd probably try to avoid changing you for as long as possible, perhaps even outright refusing to let you go through with it if you expressed interest. It's an emotional thing for him, something he holds back and represses, yet something you can still see affecting him all of the time: the want to be you even when he's so successful and safe being him. It hurts to see, to feel it in his touches and hear it in his voice: the remorse and the envy and the agony that he tries so hard to conceal. There's a lingering melancholy that resides in some of the moments between the two of you: in the way that he comments on little things or tells you that you should do something; noticing right away that it's a sort of attempt to live vicariously through you.

- Speaking of, he enjoys watching you do things that he can't: basking in the sun, eating real food, drinking plain water, etc. There's a hint of sadness there, but you still indulge him, smiling at and kissing him before going through with it.

- Bringing things out of the sunlight to show to him.

- Secret meeting places and hideouts.

- The two of you mostly go out during the day, cruising in his car and making stops in shaded areas. It keeps the two of you safe from everyone's prying eyes and it's nice to get some fresh air after being stuck in the house all night.

- He always tries to refuse your blood: even when you insist that he drinks it because it's safer than the alternative of him going around without getting his fill; and because he's literally risking his own life when fighting to keep you safe. He still hesitates; even as you make jokes about it being humanely sourced, only following through when you tell him that it'll make you more comfortable. He gets used to it but he never gets entitled, and the puppy dog lovey eyes that he gives you whenever you give him a drink makes any pain that might come from it worthwhile. Frankie bitingly calls you his "bloodbag" when he first notices what must be going on, and it truly enrages Edward every time.

- Comforting him after his fights with Frankie.

- You probably have a couple tense moments with his brother; if he even knows you exist at all. There'd be times where he'd show up at the house unannounced and you'd sit in silence, his eyes trained on you in a somewhat predatory fashion. You'd stay stock still until Edward returned home and sorted things out, feeling the tension between the two of you boil and your stomach tie up in knots, not knowing if he'll turn you just because. He tries to be nice but regardless of his temperament and how much you may or may not arguably like him, you still struggle to fully trust him; especially since Edward doesn't seem to as well.

- Honestly though, there's probably even more tension between the two of them now because Frankie would want Edward to finally understand why he did what he did, viewing your predicament as similar to his own. Someone you love is capable of dying and leaving you all alone, don't you get it Edward? It would piss Frankie off to see him still be so conflicted: to see that he still couldn't understand, that he refused to understand. He hates to hear him say that he's not going to change you: that he didn't want to be turned so why would he force it on you? It's like pouring salt in the wound.

- Hiding away when company comes or somebody threatens to stumble across you, sometimes pressed against one another so tightly that he can hear/feel your heart beating a mile a minute. He sets up a certain place in his house where you're meant to go whenever you think someone's coming over, ensuring that no one finds you and keeping you out of harms way.

- Doing your best to protect him from the sun.

- Reassuring him and trying to help him let go of some of his guilt after he comes home from work. He goes into the office everyday and sees the tortured faces of his test subjects right before coming home and seeing your bright and cheery loveliness. It just makes his work even harder: to think that they were once like you and that you could, at some point, be just like them....

- He probably keeps your picture or a note you've written him in his wallet/on his person at all times. Yet the feeling of it seems to burn against his skin whenever he's feeling guilty: a reminder of what he's involved in; a question of how he can love you yet do that to them....

- Considering the fact that you can't really leave his house, there's not a lot of instances where Edward has the chance to be jealous over you. There might be a few fleeting moments of him getting a little annoyed with his younger brother for asking to touch you or things of the like, but it's anyone's guess as to whether that has to do with actual jealousy or just plain protectiveness. That being said: most of Edwards jealousy is retroactive. You'll mention, or maybe even introduce him to, one of your ex's and though he'll try to be normal about it, he'll find himself gritting his teeth and acting a bit passive aggressive. It's those "oh really" and "I bet he is" sort of statements that give him away.

- Edward protects you with his mind rather than his fists. He protects you by putting himself on the line for you, by keeping you out of harms way, by convincing his brother that he's going to change you when you're closer in age, etc. He's incredibly protective but due to his intelligence and careful planning, you don't get to witness the effects of it all too often.

- The two of you don't argue often, but sometimes you manage to tick him off the same way his younger brother does. He wants to be seen as the man of the house: to be respected and thought of as being in charge. When you don't listen to him or undermine him in some way, you hit a bit of a nerve. He might raise his voice if he gets really annoyed, but most of the time, he just acts a bit mockingly: smirking, and scoffing, and looking away/rolling his eyes. Occasionally, he acts impulsively and regrets it after the fact: immediately feeling bad whenever you get upset and walk away, wanting to say something to you but not knowing what.

- Silent treatments and tense houses are commonplace after arguments. Edward stews in silence when he's angry, he keeps his words short and he grits his teeth. You're dating a man with sass so expect to encounter it. If he misses you enough, he'll cut the standoff short. And, even though he's still annoyed, he'll push past it and try to talk things out.

"Sit down," He'll borderline command, wincing slightly at the way it comes out. " ...please? Lets talk."

- Edward tells you that he loves you a lot; especially during difficult times when he wants to reiterate how much you mean to him. He wants you to know that, even though he's going through some stressful things that might have him acting out of character, he still cares for you very deeply.

- Edward wants to find a way to become human for you. He views vampirism as unsustainable, unfulfilling, sometimes even dangerous. He's not happy being what he is and he wont be happy turning you into one either. Not to mention the fact that he wants a family with you....

[ceo-of-sloppy-women]

No grave can hold my body down; I'll crawl home to her

Chapter 11

trigger warning: this chapter heavily mentions a zombie/infected kid from Reader's past.

Chapter 12

With her wound healed, Sevika turned a deaf ear to any reasonable argument that the muscle was still healing and she should continue to rest. She paces around the house, with three days still left on her leave, knowing that Vander would tan her hide if she got caught tending her bees – which, in her opinion, was a perfectly reasonable activity for her to do now that she’s healed. Not wanting to see her pace the house all afternoon – having been dismissed early by Singed, who was too tired to open the clinic today – you hoist one of the boxes of bottles in the kitchen onto your hip.

“How about we take these to Jayce, then? It’ll get you out of the house, at least,” you suggest, gesturing to the other boxes. You had added a few of your own that you’d collected over the years, yet the staggering amount of Sevika’s bottles still vastly outnumbered your own. Her recent injury didn’t help matters.

Sevika squints at you, pressing her lips together. Fear trickles down your spine as you will yourself not to shrink under her scrutiny. For a moment, you truly fear she’s about to defend her bottle collection, or worse, argue that she should be able to go back to work if she’s able to take bottles down. Then she picks up two of the boxes effortlessly and grunts out a “Fine.”

You breathe a shaky sigh of relief and follow her out the door.

She walks considerably slower than usual – which only reinforces your point that she can’t go back to work yet, but you don’t dare bring that up right now. She looked ready to bite your head off earlier. So, instead, the two of you walk in uncomfortable silence across town to Jayce’s forge. You have yet to be in this part of Zaun, having mostly kept to the main street, Singed’s office, and Sevika’s house. The forge isn’t far off from your usual route, as it’s a small town; however, as you round the corner you feel as if you’re transported back in time to the 1800s. There’s a literal saloon with a sign made of big bold letters, a general store, a sheriff’s office, a gunsmith (you kick yourself for not realizing there might be a gunsmith in town – you should bring your rifle around one of these days, it could use some TLC), and, of course, the “blacksmith,” Jayce’s forge. All of the buildings are new, constructed in a way reminiscent of the 1800s – with porches and walkways running across the sides of buildings, and dirt roads for horses. These walkways and rounds are found throughout Zaun, but this is the first time your brain has drawn the dots together to really register this information.

 You stop for a moment, staring out across the new, yet old, town, memories of visiting living history museums crash into you. You had gone several times as a child, recalling the experiences with fondness, until a cold chill runs down your spine and you are reminded of your most recent encounter with one. After the world ended. It had been a cold winter – your supplies were dwindling, and you needed shelter as a blizzard was coming down around you. When buildings faded into view on the horizon, you had rushed to them, hiding away in an old movie theatre. Up until then, you had tried to avoid any areas that might have been heavily populated when Shimmer started running rampant, lest you encounter infected or scavengers. Yet, you hadn’t even thought twice as you set out to find the warmest spot in the building. It was quiet for hours, leaving you undisturbed in one of the booths, wrapped in your coat and sleeping bag. You had even managed to eat a cold can of beans (not your finest moment)! Until you heard it – a scratching and scrambling coming from the hallway. Lulled into complacency from the quiet building, you had gone to investigate the noise, only to come across a goner in the shape of a child gorging on a long dead carcass. You had gasped involuntarily, completely new to the apocalypse, and it had whipped around, snarling at you. Stumbling backwards, you raced to gather your belongings as it advanced toward you, hunger in its eyes. Out of sheer panic, you continued to back up until your shins hit the edge of the booth, and the theatre groaned. There wasn’t a moment to react as the booth crumbled, sending you flying into the seats below. The fall gave you a broken arm, which you didn’t notice until you’d fled the theatre, but the goner followed you anyway and you could hear more on the way. You had run from that theatre faster than your tired legs could carry you, eventually hiding out in the sheriff’s office until the blizzard broke. Knowing your odds better, you were able to scavenge various materials from the buildings and turned the fort into a homebase while your arm healed, until a group of raiders forced you to abandon it.

In all that time, you never did go back to the theatre – too afraid to face what you had found there. Sometimes, when you close your eyes, you still see her little yellow sundress covered in bloody handprints.

A hand lands on your shoulder, and you yelp, jumping almost high enough to hit your head on the sign above you.

“Hey, you good? I’ve been trying to get your attention for five fuckin’ minutes now.” Sevika questions, fixing you with a look of equal parts frustration and concern.

“Yeah – sorry, I just… the architecture brought back some bad memories. I’m fine,” you attempt to shrug it off, starting to walk down the street.

“You want to talk about it?” Sevika presses, trudging after you.

“Ask me later,” you fluff her off, trying to throw the whole interaction under the bed.

Thankfully, Sevika takes the hint and drops it.

The walk to Jayce’s forge is silent – apart from the usual noise of Zaun. You can feel tension in the air; despite Sevika’s willingness to drop the topic, she still eyed you with concern. It made your stomach twist – you should be the one worrying about her and her leg that she insisted was ready the moment the scabs peeled away! Yet, she’s watching you like you’re one of her bee hives that she doesn’t know will make it through the winter or not. By the time you arrive at Jayce’s you have had entirely too much of her pity and slam the crate on the counter harder than intended. Jayce, who had been sitting on a bench and taking a water break, jumps at the sudden sound, his head whipping over to you.

“Oh! Hey, you too, it’s about time you brought me all of those bottles. I was starting to think you’d forgotten,” Jayce says, getting up with a grin that only twinges slightly at his aching back.

“Got busy,” Sevika grunts, setting her crate on the counter gently.

“I bet! I heard from Ekko that you two brought back a kid while out on patrols. So, I figured you were too busy with the little one running around underfoot to come see me,” Jayce rambles, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen.

“The kid’s Jinx’s problem,” Sevika grunts, an unamused look on her face.

“Oh, sorry, I just thought –“ Jayce starts, blinking at the two of you owlishly.

“Don’t worry about it. Isha and Jinx have been over quite a few times, but we’re more of… aunts. She’s gotten very attached to Jinx, it’s quite adorable,” you jump in, stopping Sevika from responding with another monotone, grumpy answer.

Jayce smiles and nods, his head bobbing with enthusiasm. “Good to know – I’ll have to let Mel know, she’s got a supply box ready for Isha’s new caretaker. It took her a few weeks to get it organized; she even put in a rush order with Grayson for some toys.”

A bubbly, sentimental smile quivers its way onto your lips at Jayce’s words. Zaun’s community never fails to surprise you in all the best ways. The warm, solid weight of Sevika’s hand settles on your waist, pulling your sides flush. She leans her weight slightly onto your side, her leg clearly giving her trouble – but the slow stroke of her thumb on your ribs makes your heart flip in your chest. Sevika may be using you for support, yet the gentle way she holds onto you is far past utilitarian. 

“Good. That kid needs all the support she can get. Now, the bottles?” Sevika prompts him, nodding her head to the crates.

“Alright,” Jayce chuckles, clicking the pen. “What do you want me to do with the bottles? I can make something decorative or recycle them. Your choice.”

“Something pretty. This one doesn’t have much other than survival gear,” Sevika says, making you blush.

“You don’t have to –“

Sevika tilts her head and levels you with an eye roll that could stop earthquakes. There’s an edge of pain in her eyes, another sign of her injury flaring up. Privately, you wonder if she gets pains in her arm as well… it might account partially for her short temper and grumpy attitude. Possibly also the drinking. Though, you definitely shouldn’t be trying to diagnose your friend when you have only a few week’s worth of mediocre medical training from Singed’s clinic. Instead, you stare at the counter and resolve to take her home after this, even if you have to make up some bullshit excuse to get her there.

“Right… anything in particular?” Jayce asks, eyeing the two of you with a raised eyebrow.

“You’re the artist. Surprise me,” Sevika shrugs, as if it suddenly doesn’t matter to her. You open your mouth to argue that she is also an artist, as she crochets, but clamp your mouth shut, deciding not to argue with her. You did not need to embarrass yourself further in front of Jayce and make this trip take longer with a compliment she could easily turn into a petty argument.

Jayce merely nods his head and jots down a note, before ripping off the paper and sticking it amongst the bottles. “You won’t regret putting your trust in me. I am great at surprises! I’ll get this to you when it’s finished – apparently, a couple of the people we found in Piltover recently have started running a postal service. They have been delivering my orders with a surprising amount of accuracy and care.”

“Well, we patiently await your next masterpiece,” you say, smiling brightly in an attempt to seem composed while you rush this conversation along. “Sevika and I have a few more errands to run, so we will leave you to your work.”

“Thank you for stopping by. Have a good day, both of you,” Jayce chirps before retreating into the forge proper.

You turn to Sevika, who is taking heavy, slow breaths in through her nose and out through her clenched teeth. Gently, you squeeze her side, providing her something other to focus on, rather than the pain. Your mind recounts the location of your last joint, primed and ready for smoking. Just enough to take the edge off Sevika’s pain so she wasn’t two seconds away from outright trembling in your arms. “You know, I’m kind of tired – it’s been a long week, and I am dying to just stretch out on the porch for a cat nap in the sun.”

Sevika turns her gaze to you, blinking her eyes at an almost glacial pace. The air tastes of exhaustion and pain as she slumps a little more against you. For a moment, you worry she’s about to grumble that you’re only making excuses to get her to go home. Or, worse, that she’d try and find a way to stay out longer while she is clearly in pain.

“Yeah. Let’s go home.”  

Quietly breathing a sigh of relief, you nod your head and guide her back the way you had come. “How does a joint and some lazy pizza sound? I think we’ve got some pitas lying about from a couple days ago, and we definitely have everything else left over from when we made pizza subs.”

“Sounds good, sweet thing,” Sevika mumbles, limping despite herself.

You smile gently, too worried about her to let the nickname go to your head. Instead, you guide her down the streets, taking the shortest path with practiced perfection after having to be self-sufficient for the past few weeks. She’s leaning so hard against your side that you’re practically carrying her – you can’t find it in yourself to complain despite her weighing far more than your carrying capacity.

Finally reaching home, you help her to the back porch and get her to promise to stay put. She barely puts up a fight, waving you off to go do what you need to do. Stepping inside for a moment, you grab a blanket, the promised joint and a half-eaten bag of homemade chips you’d bought last week. Dinner can wait until later. Sevika is exactly where you left her, eyes screwed shut in pain and leaning back against the swinging bench, nails dug into her leg. You sit on her right side, turned toward her with one leg tucked under the other, throwing the blanket over the two of you. She blindly gropes until she can pull the blanket closer to herself. A dull ache fills your chest as you watch her, wishing you could do more to help her. For now, you do what you can, lighting the joint and taking two puffs before passing it over to her. She takes a shaky drag, having to remove her hand from her leg.

Refusing to allow yourself to hesitate, you place your hands over her leg where you knew the bite had been. Her eyes flicker open, watching you but not protesting. You take it as a sign to continue, slowly kneading your fingers into her thigh. She sighs softly, leaning back so hard her head knocks against the metal bar of the porch swing. Instead of passing the joint back, she places it between your lips and tells you to inhale. You obey, letting the smoke curl out from between your lips when she pulls it away. Every few moments, she repeats the action rather than passing the joint back to you properly, and you continue to massage her thigh, helping her as best you can. Her eyes linger on your lips with each inhale, and you cling to each contented sigh that escapes hers, prompted by your ministrations.

Sevika puts the joint out on the metal frame of the porch swing and flicks it into the ashtray sitting precariously on the porch railing. For a brief moment, you wish she’d put it out on you and flush in embarrassment at your own thoughts. Sevika barely notices, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and rearranging the two of you far more effectively than should have been possible. The blanket is tossed over your legs as she lays out on the porch swing, having pulled you down to lay on her chest, your legs resting between hers. Your face flushes harder as your head lands between her breasts. With her hand between your shoulder blades, you are effectively pinned down, right where she wants you. Hesitantly, you wrap your arms around her torso; hands splayed on the small sliver of her back that isn’t pressed into the cushion of the porch swing. You will take what you can get, like a starved dog given scraps from the table – hungrily and eagerly, lapping up them far too quickly until there’s nothing left but the bitter taste of the floor.

“So… what made you freeze earlier?” Sevika asks tentatively after an eternity has passed.

With a heavy sigh, you finally explain to her the bitter memory that had stuck to your consciousness like glue until Sevika had pried you away. “A couple years ago, I got caught in a blizzard and took shelter in the first building I found…”

She listens intently, rubbing circles into your back as one of your hands snakes up to rub her shoulder. She stiffens for a moment when you do so yet makes no move to bat it away. The tension in her shoulder slowly subsides as you continue, digging your thumb into the meat of her shoulder to ease away the knots that have coiled there. Sevika melts further into the porch swing with each flex of your hand, her head leaning forward and tucking into the crook of your shoulder.

Once you finish, she has no words to say that could justifiably pass as comforting. Instead, she pulls you closer and wraps her arm around your shoulders. You hadn’t even noticed you had started crying until she starts to shoosh you gently – with no intention to force you to stop crying, only to comfort you. An eternity passes you by as you cry into Sevika’s shirt, feeling utterly pathetic and entirely validated as she murmurs gentle words of kindness into your skin. You struggle to calm down, the sorrow bubbling up in your throat as you cling to her. Each sob slowly lowers your mind down to a simmer until you’re snuffling softly against her shirt. She passes you a handkerchief so you can blow your nose and rakes her fingers through your hair.

“Feel better?” she asks, rocking the swing with a gentle push against the wall.

“No… yes,” you mumble, trying to clear your nose. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have –“

A large, calloused hand covers your mouth as Sevika sighs, shaking her head at you: “No. Don’t go apologizing to me for that. You don’t ever have to apologize for being human. Especially not to me.”

“Okay,” you whisper against her hand, letting your hot breath lick against her palm. She pulls it away, tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, sugar plum,” Sevika yawns, stretching out a little on the porch swing before shuffling back into a comfortable position. “Let’s have dinner later; I don’t feel like gettin’ up right now. And you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Her hand rests firmly between your shoulder blades as if you’d dare to try. Instead, you deflate against her, making sure not to rest your head in the damp spot on her shirt. Unfortunately, that means your face is right next to her breast – though Sevika doesn’t seem to mind. She hums contently, going back to stroking her hand through your hair when she’s sure you’re not going to get up.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble contently, smiling against the soft flesh of her breast unintentionally pressed against your face.

“Fifteen,” Sevika argues.

“Ten,” you argue back.

“Fine.”

The two of you accidentally fall asleep as the porch swing rocks back and forth. When you awake, night has started to overtake the sky, and you’re starving. You glance up to see Sevika’s face cast in the warm glow of the setting sun. She’s still fast asleep, the most peaceful you have ever seen her. There’s a soft smile on her lips and her hand is tangled in your hair, and for a moment, you want nothing more than to be able to lean forward so you can slowly kiss her awake. But this isn’t about what you want. This is about survival and friendship, and all that you cannot have yet give to others freely. So, you extract yourself from her hold, flinching at the tiny whimper that escapes her, and escape to the kitchen.

By the time the pita pizzas are almost done, Sevika stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Neither of you brings it up. That night, you sleep in your own bed, cold and alone, wanting to give Sevika her space before you fuck up the one good thing you have in this world.