#sound isolation clips ceiling

[hoursofreading]

I BOUGHT A SWEET TEA at a downtown lunch spot and reviewed the notes for my talk. Before I arrived at the conference, I had decided to discuss bias in algorithms. The essence of my argument was this: In 2019, shortly after I finished graduate school, I worked for a company that made a real estate chatbot called Brenda. Brenda answered questions about apartment listings and booked prospective tenants for tours. My job was to supervise Brenda’s conversations as an “operator,” and if she went off script, which she often did, I took over until she regained her bearings. Over thousands of conversations with strangers, I began to suspect that Brenda’s diction — and the very fact of her texting interface — was most palatable to the young, affluent, and white. I feared this had real effects on which people booked tours, and which people were so put off by the experience of speaking to Brenda they looked for housing elsewhere. Was this not redlining by algorithm? The peculiar mental burden of the job was that I was made to live in parallel but opposite realities. On the one hand, our Slack channels were filled with messages from developers claiming righteous intentions. Brenda was making the rental process accessible, democratic, quick as a text. And yet every night I watched how this bot, with her blameless, chirpy affect, was an instrument of isolation, a digital bully that landlords used to create distance between themselves and their tenants. Though she hadn’t crossed my mind for some time, I remembered Ella, a woman who messaged Brenda so often I came to recognize her on my shifts. Ella spoke only Spanish. Brenda did not, and neither did most of the chatbot operators, so we corresponded with Ella by copying and pasting Spanish phrases from a Google Doc we had compiled on our own time. Ella was a tenant at one of Brenda’s properties. Ella’s messages were urgent and anguished. She spoke of violencia and God. Her situation was unclear. She sent video clips of her walls and ceilings, which came through as still images without sound. We were fairly certain Ella was trying to report domestic violence in the apartment next door. We told Ella that if she or someone else was in danger she should call 911. Ella did not call 911; it was possible she was afraid to engage the police. We told Ella to call building management, but the management’s only phone number rerouted to Brenda, the chatbot who handled rental inquiries. Ella, I should note, was not the woman’s name. She offered us her real name several times, which we manually added to her file. But Brenda, ever keen, kept spotting the feminine singular pronoun ella — a more suitable name by Brenda’s logic, more like the names she had seen before — and entering it into the name field, obliterating whatever had been there. “Como te llamas?” we would ask. “¡Ya te dije!” she would say. The woman’s true name was finally lost.

An Age of Hyperabundance | Issue 47 | n+1 | Laura Preston

[blackjackkent]

Ask meme prompt fill for @theajaheira from this ask meme: Even More Popular Text Posts Ask Meme Hector/Karlach - "concept: it’s 3 am. candle lit room. a record is spinning. you’re kissing me. we have no worries in the world. we’re warm and content." I had a couple different ideas for this, but this one stemmed from the realization that the prompt, completely by coincidence, already had exactly 25 words. XD (Also before anyone says it, yes, I know Sending can't actually be cast as a ritual spell but, crucially, I don't care. XD )

-----

Learning the spell Sending, Hector has come to realize, is something of a mixed blessing.

There are a lot of bright sides, of course. It’s been the culmination of extended, careful work on his part to maintain a connection to Selune in spite of his self-imposed exile in Avernus; the first day that he was able to communicate a message to Karlach when she wasn't in the room felt like moonlight breaking through ever-thickening clouds. And there’s no question that it makes all of them - him, Karlach, and Wyll - much safer, as it gives them another line of communication during the frenetic battles with the devils and demons they fight every day.

The downside, primarily, is that Hector is the only one who can trigger a message without assistance; Wyll and Karlach can only respond. The other downside is more subtle and far more selfish. With Sending in their back pocket, splitting up becomes a more viable strategy, and he and Karlach both feel it keenly when they aren’t able to keep a direct eye on each other.

But that, unfortunately, is how he comes to be here, curled up in a cave all by himself near the outer wall of the fortress of one of Zariel's top lieutenants. Strategically, the idea is sound - position themselves at three separate vantages, get as much rest as they can, and then strike simultaneously from different angles in the very early morning. Intellectually, Hector knows it's the best chance of success. 

However, that doesn't change the fact that this is the loneliest he's felt in a long time. Once, in his old life, such isolation came naturally to him, but no more. It's desperately hard to sleep alone in this bleak little hole, knowing that Karlach is similarly alone out in that dangerous wasteland and far out of his direct reach. 

He rolls onto his back for the twentieth time and states at the rocky ceiling with a sigh. Then, feeling somewhat pathetic, he drifts his eyes half-closed and focuses inward, prodding cautiously at the filaments of the Weave with the magic Selune has granted him. 

Are you still awake, love? he sends cautiously. 

She responds almost instantly, which tells him she too is feeling the strain of the night's isolation. Her magically transmitted voice resonates inside his head, vibrates at the base of his skull and through his teeth, and she answers in clipped sentences due to the spell's word limit, as he taught her. 

Yeah. Brain's buzzing. Can't turn it off. Need to sleep. This fucking sucks. I miss you. Taters. A brief pause, and then - rapidly before the spell can die out, filling the last few words: I love you so much. Keep sending. Please?

He smiles, relaxing a little and fully closing his eyes. If he holds very still, he can almost imagine she's there whispering in his ear, that he'd only have to turn his head to see her lying next to him. 

Taters, he sends. I miss you too. Only a few more hours. Then we fight, and then we can go home. And then I'm all yours. 

He half-expects her to take this as an invitation to tease him with images of what she plans to do to him when they're reunited. But she takes a gentler tack instead. Home. Yeah. Funny that Raphael's old shithole is “home” now. The safe place. A slight pause. You think we'll ever have a real home, Hec? Together? 

The gentle, weary pathos in her mental tone makes his heart turn over in his chest. I know we will, he sends fiercely. Those blueprints are the key, I'm sure of it. And we're finding Zariel's weak points. Pretty soon we'll-- He breaks off, counting rapidly on his fingers. Shit. Next message. 

Standing by, Karlach responds with a flicker of humor while the spell resets.

Pretty soon we'll finish her for good. I swear it, he completes earnestly. And with those blueprints, we'll fix your heart. And then we'll go. Away from here. Anywhere you want. 

Anywhere? she answers. Again that dash of amusement. That's a big promise, Hec. Gonna take me to Mount Celestia if I ask? 

A pause. He summons the spell again - and it takes a little more effort this time around the sudden surge of emotion clogging his thoughts. Anywhere, he repeats earnestly. But it should be the Gate, really. Your city. Near that park, maybe. A dash of green. No more brimstone stink. Clean air and--

The spell cuts him off mid-sentence, but Karlach picks it up in her answer, almost at once. --and the river. Yeah. My city. He can feel her emotion rising in answer to his, an odd thickness in the mental ‘voice’. You and me in my city. Little place near the river, maybe. Somewhere we can hear and see everything… 

A long pause. He's drifted into utter stillness now, all his attention focused inwards. It's a strangely meditative state, and it simultaneously comforts him and makes him wish for her touch with an ache that is physically painful. 

Picture it: it’s 3 AM, he sends, his mental voice low now, as he might murmur against her ear. Candle lit room. Music's playing somewhere. You’re kissing me. We have no worries in the world. We’re warm and content… 

There's a long pause before she responds. Well. We've got the ‘warm’ part already. It's a weak attempt at a joke; he can hear the weight of tears in her voice even though it's not spoken aloud. His own eyes feel damp under their closed lids. Promise me. Promise me we'll get there one day. Somewhere soft and safe. Somewhere far away from here.

I promise. He can picture exactly how he'd touch her if she were here - a gentle brush of his fingertips over her lips, along her cheek and back through her hair. Soothing. Reassuring. I promise. We'll get through this, and we'll be free one day. I love you. I love you, and I promise. I promise. 

I love you, she answers. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. Taters. 

[learnhowtocreatemusic]

Innovative Soundproofing Methods for a Drum Room: How to Reduce Noise and Improve Acoustics

Drum rooms can be one of the most challenging spaces to soundproof. Drums are loud, and their vibrations can easily travel through walls, floors, and ceilings, making it difficult to contain the noise. Whether you’re a professional drummer or a hobbyist, finding effective ways to soundproof your drum room is essential—not only to keep your neighbors happy but also to improve the acoustics of the room for better recordings and practice sessions.

In this blog post, we’ll explore some innovative soundproofing methods that can help reduce noise while enhancing the overall acoustic quality of your drum room.

1. **Use Mass-Loaded Vinyl (MLV)**

Mass-loaded vinyl (MLV) is a flexible, heavy material that is highly effective at blocking sound. It can be applied to walls, floors, and ceilings to create an additional barrier against noise transmission. MLV works by adding mass to the surfaces of your room, which helps prevent sound waves from passing through.

- **Application**: MLV can be installed between layers of drywall, under flooring, or even hung as a soundproof curtain around the room.

- **Benefits**: It’s particularly useful for low-frequency sounds like the booming of a bass drum, which are harder to block.

**Pro Tip**: When using MLV, make sure to seal any gaps or seams to prevent sound leakage.

2. **Build a Room-Within-a-Room (Floating Room)**

The concept of a room-within-a-room is one of the most effective soundproofing techniques. This involves building a second layer of walls, ceiling, and floor inside your existing drum room, creating an air gap that helps isolate sound.

- **How It Works**: The air gap between the two layers acts as a sound buffer, preventing vibrations from traveling through the building structure. This method is especially useful for reducing low-frequency sounds that easily travel through solid surfaces.

- **Construction**: You can use resilient channels, sound isolation clips, and double layers of drywall to create the inner structure, with the outer room acting as a barrier.

**Pro Tip**: Use dense materials like **Green Glue** between drywall layers for added soundproofing. Green Glue is a noise-dampening compound that absorbs sound energy.

3. **Install Acoustic Panels**

While soundproofing focuses on blocking sound from escaping, improving the acoustics of your drum room is equally important. Acoustic panels are an excellent solution for reducing echoes and controlling room reflections, which can make your drumming sound clearer and more balanced.

- **Types of Acoustic Panels**: Choose **foam panels**, **fabric-covered fiberglass panels**, or **DIY acoustic panels** made from sound-absorbing materials.

- **Placement**: Position acoustic panels strategically on the walls, particularly in areas where sound reflects the most, such as directly behind and in front of the drum kit.

**Pro Tip**: Combine acoustic panels with bass traps in the corners of the room to absorb low-end frequencies, which can often build up in smaller spaces.

4. **Use Drum Shields**

Drum shields, also known as drum screens or drum cages, are clear acrylic barriers that can be placed around the drum kit to reduce the spread of sound. While they don't completely eliminate noise, drum shields can help control the volume and direction of the sound within the room.

- **Benefits**: Drum shields are particularly useful in shared studio spaces where drums need to be isolated from other instruments. They also help control the amount of sound that reaches microphones during recordings, leading to cleaner recordings.

- **Combined Approach**: Drum shields are most effective when used in combination with other soundproofing methods like acoustic panels and soundproof curtains.

**Pro Tip**: Add sound-absorbing panels around the drum shield to further enhance noise reduction and prevent sound from reflecting back into the room.

5. **Install Soundproof Doors and Windows**

Doors and windows are common weak points in any soundproofing setup. Regular doors and windows allow sound to escape easily, so upgrading to soundproof alternatives is crucial for reducing drum noise.

- **Solid-Core Doors**: Replace hollow-core doors with **solid-core doors**, which are much denser and better at blocking sound.

- **Soundproof Windows**: If possible, install **double- or triple-pane windows** to block outside noise. For an added layer of soundproofing, use **soundproof curtains** or **acoustic blankets** over the windows.

**Pro Tip**: Use weatherstripping around the door and window frames to seal any gaps where sound might leak out.

6. **Soundproof Flooring with Isolation Pads**

Drums create significant impact noise, especially through the floor. Using drum risers or isolation pads can help reduce the amount of sound and vibration that travels through the floor and into neighboring rooms.

- **Drum Risers**: A drum riser lifts the drum kit off the floor and absorbs some of the impact noise. You can build a DIY drum riser using plywood and soundproofing materials like foam and carpet.

- **Isolation Pads**: Place **rubber isolation pads** or **anti-vibration mats** under the drums and cymbal stands to reduce vibrations that would otherwise be transmitted through the floor.

**Pro Tip**: Combine isolation pads with heavy rugs or carpet underneath the drum kit to further reduce noise.

7. **Seal Gaps and Cracks**

Even the smallest gaps in your drum room can allow sound to escape, so it’s important to seal any cracks or openings around windows, doors, and walls.

- **Acoustic Sealant**: Use **acoustic caulk** or sealant to fill in gaps around doorframes, windowsills, and corners.

- **Weatherstripping**: Apply weatherstripping around doors and windows to prevent sound leakage. This is a quick and inexpensive way to improve soundproofing without extensive renovations.

**Pro Tip**: Pay special attention to any electrical outlets, light switches, and ventilation grilles, as these are often overlooked areas where sound can escape.

8. **Decoupling with Resilient Channels**

Decoupling involves separating two structures to prevent sound from transferring between them. **Resilient channels** are metal strips installed between drywall and the studs or ceiling joists. These channels create a flexible barrier that prevents sound vibrations from traveling through the walls and ceiling.

- **How It Works**: Resilient channels effectively “float” the drywall, minimizing contact with the structure of the room and reducing sound transmission.

- **Where to Use**: Install resilient channels on both walls and ceilings for the best results.

**Pro Tip**: Use resilient channels in combination with **double layers of drywall** and **Green Glue** for maximum soundproofing.

Conclusion

Soundproofing a drum room requires a combination of methods to reduce noise transmission and improve room acoustics.

[akinco1]

The Value of Soundproofing and Sound Insulation Professionals

In our fast-paced and noisy world, finding moments of peace and tranquility has become increasingly challenging. Fortunately, there are professionals who Soundproof Specialist and sound insulation, offering valuable services to combat noise pollution and create serene environments. In this article, we will explore the importance of these specialists and how their expertise can transform spaces, ensuring tranquility and an improved quality of life.

The Role of Soundproofing Specialists:

Soundproofing specialists are highly skilled professionals trained in minimizing and blocking unwanted noise. They possess extensive knowledge of sound transmission and have the expertise to identify the primary sources of noise in any given space. Whether it’s a residential property, commercial establishment, or public facility, soundproofing specialists understand the unique requirements of each environment.

These experts employ a variety of techniques to effectively reduce noise transmission. They may recommend the installation of specialized soundproof windows and doors, designed specifically to block external noise. Additionally, they may suggest the use of soundproofing materials such as acoustic insulation, mass-loaded vinyl, and resilient channels to dampen sound vibrations and prevent noise leakage between rooms.

The Expertise of Sound Insulation Specialists:

Sound insulation specialists focus on creating acoustic barriers within buildings to minimize sound transfer between spaces. They possess a deep understanding of building materials, construction techniques, and the science of sound. Sound insulation specialists work closely with architects, engineers, and contractors to ensure effective soundproofing during the construction or renovation process.

These professionals carefully analyze the structure and layout of a building to identify potential noise pathways. They employ a range of soundproofing solutions, including the installation of acoustic batts or blankets within walls, the use of resilient sound isolation clips to decouple ceiling structures, and the application of acoustic sealants to seal gaps and cracks.

The Benefits of Engaging Soundproofing and Sound Insulation Specialists:

Noise Reduction: Engaging soundproofing and sound insulation specialists can significantly reduce noise pollution in residential, commercial, and public spaces. By utilizing their expertise and implementing soundproofing techniques, these professionals create quieter environments, allowing for improved concentration, productivity, and overall well-being.

Enhanced Privacy: Soundproofing and sound insulation specialists ensure privacy by minimizing sound leakage between rooms or areas. This is particularly important in office spaces, conference rooms, healthcare facilities, and residential buildings, where confidentiality and tranquility are of utmost importance.

Improved Sound Quality: Soundproofing and sound insulation measures can enhance sound quality within a space. By minimizing echoes, reverberation, and external noise interference, these professionals create optimal acoustic environments for music studios, theaters, auditoriums, and other performance venues.

Customized Solutions: Soundproofing and sound insulation specialists provide tailored solutions to meet the specific needs of each project. They take into account factors such as the type of noise, building structure, and aesthetic requirements to develop customized soundproofing strategies that ensure maximum effectiveness and client satisfaction.

In conclusion, in a world where noise pollution is pervasive, specialists in soundproofing and sound insulation specialists play a crucial role in creating surroundings that are tranquil and harmonious. Their proficiency with soundproofing methods and materials enables them to offer specialized solutions that improve sound management, privacy, and general well-being in a variety of contexts.

[vibrasonicsblog]

REGUPOL SonusClip - Product Spotlight

Danielle Macey of Vibra-Sonic Control shows off the REGUPOL SonusClip. These isolation clips make improving the acoustic performance of walls and ceilings simple and effective.

[grippingbeskar]

salt, ice and fire | frank castle

chapter one - a glimpse of the sun

[series masterlist]

frank castle x fem!reader

word count: 3.7k

warnings: graphic description of injuries, mentions of blood, allusion to torture/minor sa themes in the future (doesn’t actually happen)/unwanted advances, body checking, mention of seeing bones/starvation, mention of mental illness/panic attacks in future chapters, canon typical violence

a/n: this is a long time coming guys wow. i hope you guys enjoy this series, i cannot wait to get it all out there! let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gunshots woke you from sleep.

They were incessant; rattling off a clip every second, paired with bodies slumping onto the floor. You rolled over in the make shift bed, switching to put your right arm under your head, keeping your face off the cool metal that laid beneath instead of a mattress. Gunshots were normal in this place, but the amount of noises and shouts that went with them was making you antsy. Whatever was happening above you, it wasn’t the normal operations.

The chaos above your cell was growing louder, even with your elbow pressed tighter to the side of your head. The shots weren’t so much as being fired as they were let off. Automatic, probably an assault rifle. No time between reloads meant no taking aim, no care for who would get caught in the crossfire, just constant shots hitting as many bodies as possible. Usually, the base you were currently being stored in was full of gunshots, so that wasn’t what you were focusing on. You know there was executions, gangs like your captors did them all the time, but the automatic fire spraying the floors above you was out of the ordinary.

You didn’t give a shit - all those men could drop dead in the next second and you wouldn’t so much as shed a fucking tear, but someone needed to feed you. Or at the very least, let you out.

“Down here, Colonel.” A voice calls from the top of the stairs. You have no idea how far away they are, never seeing the outside of the four walls you’ve been shut into for the past three years hasn’t allowed for a whole lot of exploring, but he sounds closer than the gunshots. He also sounds ordered - footsteps in time with his partners, heavy boots beating down the concrete staircase. Heading down.

Down to you.

You were the only living thing down here; it’s been that way since you arrived. Sitting up, the chains around your wrists and ankles chatter on the ground, dragging and clicking as you get up and move to the back corner. You don’t recognise the voices, which is both good and bad.

Good, because maybe those assholes above you finally got what was coming to them, and a rival gang or the FBI or some shit had torn them apart. 

Bad, because new people meant new problems, and you were in no position to fight your way out of here. 

People were not good. Few as you had seen over the past three years, every single one wanted a piece of you. Whether it was to pull you apart, test you and cut you open, or to just watch you work, every single person that has come down those stairs had wanted something from you.

You know what you are, what you could offer people in this industry. You were lethal, and they wanted to glimpse the potential of new technology, to witness the dawn of a new age.

You looked at the bones protruding from your hands.

Some weapon you were anymore.

“Get me eyes on Castle. I need a clear exit after acquisition. And tell Bobby we are moving.” Another voice broke the quiet of your isolation. They were on the floor now, boots marching in time, coming down to the end of the hallway. 

You lifted your head that had dropped onto your knees, managing to squint your eyes in an attempt to see your visitors. You blink a couple times, the dehydration wracking your body so thoroughly even your eyes were dry. You see no faces - they weren’t close enough yet, just a dim orange light hanging from the ceiling, illuminating the long corridor that leads to the front of your cell, along with eight figures dressed in uniform. Camouflage uniforms.

Your heart, cold and hard as it is, lurches in your chest.

Were they army? Were they here for you? Fuck, could you dare to imagine? What if they were here to help-

“This is it?” A man steps forward, his nose turned upwards, and just by the tone of his voice, by the way he addresses you, all the hope dies as quickly as it came. “It’s... Christ, it’s half dead.”

Your head managed to hold itself upright despite the screaming in your muscles to crumple to the floor. You could see the bruises that never healed peppering your arms and legs, your eyes following his down your body. The dried blood you never bothered to wash off. You supposed you were half dead. With a few more weeks like this one, you would be dead.

The idea didn’t seem so scary anymore, but you couldn’t. Not just yet. Not when you knew what you were protecting. 

“They’ve been keeping it down here for years. With Castle and the FBI getting closer, though... No one’s been down in weeks. I’m surprised it’s still here.” The man, who is clearly the superior here, squats down in front of your cell. There was a time when men wouldn’t dare cross the faded yellow line in front of your door, but that was also a time when you could manage to keep yourself upright without the aid of the wall behind you.

The door swings open with little resistance, keys clanking to the ground, and the men step inside. 

The chains around your wrist cut into your skin as you strike forward, and just as fast as you moved they haul you back, slamming you into the concrete. You wouldn’t lay down and let them kill you. You wouldn’t let them circle around you like a zoo animal, not while you could still fight. The man seemed happy you had some fight left, a small smile appearing on his face as he stalked around to your right.

“It’s still under there, somewhere. We can fix it, in due time.” He takes another step forward.

“Sir, we aren’t supposed to...” He flicks his hand in a signal to cut off the uniform at the door. Reluctantly, the soldier bends down and hands the keys to his superior, and quickly steps back outside.

“Those look painful.” He remarks mockingly, squatting down again, in front of you this time. Just out of reach of the chains if you lept forward. He wasn’t afraid of you, but he also wasn’t stupid, it seemed. A shame. You had a sudden urge to know what his flesh felt like under your fingernails.

He lifts his head, looking down at the scars around your ankles. You couldn’t remember how many times they had healed over, only to be torn through again. 

“I can take them off, if you’d like.” You squint. Assessing. There’s always a catch with a guy like this. His military uniform is stacked full of medallions, tinkling together every time he shifted closer. You don’t move, don’t react as he pulls out a key.

“I know why you’re down here. I’d like to offer you something, if you can help me.” The gun shots still ring out upstairs, the sounds of men screaming echoing down the hall. “I’ll get right to it. I have some targets I need acquired. If you complete the job, I’ll give you exactly what you want. What these guys have been hanging in front of you for years.”

You suck in a breath - the most human thing you have done in what feels like years. The one thing you want, the reason you haven’t torn apart every single person that came down here. The reason you sit here, letting this man inch closer and closer, his bloody hand almost ghosting your wrist. The idea of him touching you makes you want to vomit, but you don’t move.

If he has what you want, you will endure. Endure him - men like him always gave in eventually. 

“That’s right. I have your brother.” The last of the water your body had retained spills out in a single tear that falls down your cheek. 

“The Gnuccis have my brother.”

“Not anymore.” A sick smile spreads across his features. His hand clamps down on your forearm, hard. He watches you for a reaction. You give him no such satisfaction. “Aquire the targets, and I’ll give him to you.”

“You expect me to believe someone like you-“ You look him up and down, just like he did to you. “-took on the most famous crime family in America. And pulled it off.” He smacks you across the face, blood flowing down your chin as the scars there reopen.

“I will give you back to them and kill the boy, if that’s what I please. Let them tear you apart a little more. Or maybe I’ll do it myself. I have a feeling I would like to hear you scream.” His hand slides a little higher on your forearm, and everything in you screams to run. To get as far away from the man as possible. The chains that tug on your ankles remind you that you can’t.

And that he holds the key.

He smiles, staring at you with cold eyes, waiting for your answer, or maybe for you to beg him not to hurt your brother. You would - if that’s what it would take, but you have no clue if this man is telling the truth. Your face hasn’t changed, and the man stands, going to head towards the door.

Everything starts to get very real, very fast, and you feel your body start to shake.

“Wait.” You croak out. You hadn’t heard your own voice in weeks, and it came out strangled and dry. He turned back around. The gunfire upstairs was still loud, and you knew in a few weeks, if you were left down here you would die alone, and no one would be left to fight for your brother. You shoved your pride, and your better judgement down, and answered. “I need time. I’m not - strong, like before.”

“You will have it.” He steps back into the room. “Food. Maybe even a room with a real bed.” The insinuation makes you nearly gag, and his hand was now grabbing your elbow. 

“How do I-” you have to cough, throat dry as you tried to make sense of the situation. “How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“You do as I say, you’ll get your proof eventually. Six months of service. Then you get what you are so desperate for.” He nearly laughs, and motions for you to bring your wrists forward so he can unlock them. “But I’ll let you in on a little secret. You don’t have much of a choice.” You hated that he was right. No one else was coming for you. You had nothing but this. You let him undo the cuffs.

You don’t get to enjoy the feeling of freedom for long, because one is replaced with another as he locks a thick, heavy, black cuff on your left arm. You only had a second of freedom before you were locked in again.

At least this one allowed you to move your arms. 

He left the right wrist free of cover, and unlocked your ankles, dropping the chains to the floor. You examined the new cuff, a green, blinking light intermittently flashing, so bright it made you squint. The man stands, throwing the keys back to the soldier at the door.

“If you go anywhere I dont tell you, it goes off. You do something I don’t like, it goes off. You look at me wrong, it goes off.” Goes off. In your head, you don’t think that would be the worst thing in the world. At least it would be fast.

You use both arms and push yourself onto your feet, but the movement is too fast for your weak body, and the man has to grab your arm to keep you from falling over. “Fucking hell. Joey, Sam - get it out of here.”

The two soldiers at the door grab you under each arm, and they move so fast your feet drag along the concrete. A faint beeping from your wrist draws your attention, and your head turns just as you pass the bottom of the stairs.

A door opens ahead of you, and all the sudden movements mixed with the bright lights of outside make you drift off into unconsciousness, but not before you catch a glimpse of a black vest and a man underneath it, a gun in each hand, and a white skull painted on his chest. 

You see his face, only just, with the light from the open door. It’s covered in blood, but you see it. You don’t know who it is, or why he’s shooting at the men carrying you out, but all you know is that someone else came. Maybe not for you, but they came.

They take you out through the open door, and you pass out before you can see the sky.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

[two months later]

“Where should I put this next?” Frank slides the sharp tip of the knife past the mans jawline and down his neck, watching as he draws just enough blood to make him sweat. It drips down onto his chest, and he watches the man’s eyes widen as he panics.

“Man, I already told you! Th-they don’t tell us anything about that stuff!” He takes the knife off his neck, and lets the guy have a moment of relief before he slams it down into his thigh, all the way to the hilt. “Fuck!”

“You think I’m dumb, huh? Your boss has an armed assassin killin’ dozens of men all around New York, and you expect me to believe you boys know nothin’ about it?” He twists the knife to the right. He can feel the blood seeping out of the wound, and the man swears again, breathing ragged.

“Fuck - okay! I-I hardly know - God, I’ll tell you, okay! Just stop, please just st-st-” Blood was rushing out of his leg now, and Frank knew he only had a few more minutes before he bled out in the chair. He let go, swinging a leg over the chair opposite his captive; waiting for the answer to his question. “They don’t have a name for it. The Colonel sets it a target, and in 12 hours it brings back the head as proof. I don’t - I don’t know where they got it, or what it - is.”

“The head?” Frank Castle leans forward.

“That’s all that’s left. He got a call about some kind of weapon, and he…” The captives head - Sam, he thinks his name is, falls forward, and Frank shoves his chair out from under him and gets back up, using one hand to grab Sam’s jaw and force him to open his eyes. They nearly roll back in his head.

“Why is the Colonel using this thing to take hits? Isn’t that what you are for?” 

“We aren’t hitmen. The Colonel wants our hands clean, better for the organisation. Nothing leads back to us - to him.” Sam spits up blood, and Frank shakes his head in his hand.

“Focus.” For a second, the mans eyes open, and Frank knows what he’s thinking. He knows the look in his eyes - of a man who realises survival is no longer an option. “What is it?”

“Dunno.” He slurs, and Frank twists the knife out of his leg. He hardly flinches, and he knows he’s on borrowed time.

“Is it a machine? One of those super soldiers?” The man smiles, almost laughing in between gasps for air.

“Nothin’ that sweet.” His head lulls to the side, and Frank feels his pulse come to a stop under his hand. Shoving the dead body away, Frank grabs the rest of his shit and starts to head out of the garage he’d been stuck in for the past hour with that piece of shit.

The list of people that Sam guy had fucked up in the past few months was long enough to rival Frank’s, so he felt nothing as he closed the shutter door to he garage, leaving his body bloody and bruised.

Frank starts the van when he finally reaches it around the corner, resisting the urge to drive it straight down to where he knew this ‘Colonel’ had last been. The FBI were still crawling the scene, and Madani told him to stay clear until she could be sure what it was.

In truth, the FBI had no fucking clue. Whatever this thing was, it was fast, strong and lethal. In the past two months - ever since Frank had shot up the Gnucci crime families main operation building out in Washington - this killing machine had been attributed to over 2 dozen murders.

Not just any murders either. The crime scenes were intense, and nearly all the victims had been high profile criminals or corrupt officials. Frank hadn’t bothered to learn the names of the scumbags, but when Madani had called him in after the first hit, he took personal interest.

This ‘Colonel’, whoever he was, was using a fake title, one he shed no blood and made no sacrifices for, and recruiting any shit-for-brains asshole who walks off the street to form some kind of militia style army. These guys had been on Franks radar for a while, the growing organisation pissing him off in its blatant disrespect for real troops who actually put their life on the line to defend their country, not use a title and fake uniforms to commit petty crime and scare people into listening to them.

Then he saw them at the Gnucci base, and Madani had called him days later.

The Gnucci family was one of the biggest crime families in America, and if these guys were linked to them in any way, it could only be bad news. When Madani called, she let him know that the Colonel’s group, going by some dumb ass name like ‘New America’ had started to get a little traction, and their leader was surprising highly trained.

It had been that very day that they had successfully used the chaos Frank created above them, shooting up whoever he could catch with a bullet, to sneak out a highly valuable asset from the Gnucci basement. When he’d caught a glimpse of what they were sneaking out, he’d almost thought it was a girl, but that was impossible. They were talking about an asset - some kind of machine or something.

Frank drives west, and the sun starts to set as he heads toward what passes as his home these days. Life after Billy Russo, after sending Amy out to Florida was surprisingly… calm. Sure, he had just spent the day torturing a man in an abandoned car garage, but that was what constituted calm for Frank Castle. It had seemed like everything was settling, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling of being… alone.

He had a place in New York, a small apartment just above that diner he likes. He had a steady income, his phone never ceasing with calls from Madani now that she had worked her way up into the CIA, and every so often he chased his own leads. Call it penance - giving back to the city that has given him a second chance. That’s what he was doing now. Having a killer this efficient running around on the streets was bad enough, let alone if they were being controlled by a group as manipulative and warped as ‘New America’.

The stories he’d heard of their initiations, the way they spoke about people in their little online forums Frank had had the pleasure of scrolling through - it was almost therapeutic to be chasing these guys down and ripping them apart, and that wasn’t even starting on the kinds of things Madani had told him they’d been up to.

Frank pulls up to his place, a crappy looking apartment building just on the edge of the city. It’s probably a little worse than he could afford, but the idea of living somewhere nice, somewhere he would have to get comfortable, buy a new couch and all that shit. He doesn’t think he has it in him. So, he takes the stairs because the elevator doesn’t work, and jams the key into the lock.

Immediately, he knows somethings wrong. The key doesn’t turn the lock over, which means it was already unlocked. He never left his place unlocked.

Gripping the hand gun strapped to his belt, he waits a few seconds outside the door. His position is given away, whoever’s on the other side could be waiting, already aiming when he steps inside. He tries to listen but doesn’t hear any breathing.

He knows if someone walks around inside, he would be able to hear the creak of the shitty floorboards, and he might even be able to gage a location depending on where they step. He hears nothing, and slides the gun out of his holster, clicking off the safety.

In one motion he kicks the door open, gun trained straight, and takes cover behind the small island in the kitchen. He expects the shot to go off, maybe in warning, or a late reaction, but nothing does. He doesn’t hear…. anything. Taking a chance, he glances behind his shoulder, only an inch of his face exposed. He sees it.

Her.

“Frank Castle?” A voice calls from the opposite side of the apartment. It’s small, so when he turns around, still half behind cover, he can see the shitty excuse for a living room, and can also see, plain as day, the woman sitting on his couch.

“Who the fuck are you?” He watches as she gets up, the thick black cuff on her wrist flashing a green light.

“Are you-“ She looks down at the watch. “Frank Castle?” He stands, gun still trained on her in front of his face as she takes two steps forward. She couldn’t be older than mid twenties, and as she walks through the doorway leading to the front room, she doesn’t seem the least bit concerned that he’s got his gun aimed on her. “Are you?”

“Who’s askin’?” Her shoulders slump down slightly, and she sighs like he’s asking her about the weather.

“I’m taking that as a yes.” He watches her eyes as they squint in focus. She presses a button on her cuff, and it beeps twice. She takes a step forward. “The Colonel sends his regards.”

It’s the last thing he hears before she rips the gun away from his hand with almost inhuman speed, and he can hear the shatter of his right forearm as she crushes it with ease in just one hand.

[next chapter]

[peachy-panic]

Kneel.

Surprise, another Jaime-in-training drabble for the masses.

Warnings: Handler Smith, BBU/BBU-adjacent, stress positions, restraints, creepy/intimate whumper, (accidental) hanging reference, choking

A hook has been attached to the back of his collar, a chain pulled taut between the anchor point on the ceiling and where Jaime kneels in the center of his cell.

Well, not quite kneeling.

While the hook forces him upright with the constant threat of strangulation, another restraint keeps him from standing. Or, for that matter, even stretching up into a ninety-degree angle on his knees to alleviate the strain in his thighs, which hold his body weight in the half-elevated stance. His hands are cuffed behind his back with the same unbreakable metal that he wears permanently around his neck, and there’s another chain securing them to a bolt in the floor between his ankles.

No way to settle into the kneel. No way to rise out of it.

For hours—god, it had to have been hours by now—Jaime has been forced to maintain his position. His quads scream out from the exertion of balancing his weight in the awkward angle. Sweat runs in thick rivulets down his back, his face, his arms. The slow trickle is its own torture; a faint buzz of sensation that only grows more unbearable because he can do nothing to wipe it away.

All because of a single mistake. An isolated moment of defiance bred from days of complete and utter soul-destroying obedience. He had been doing so well. Handler Smith had even given him small bites of his lunch nearly every day this week for his compliance.

And now, because Jaime couldn’t resist a knee-jerk reaction of fear last night when Handler Smith had backed him into a corner and told him to get on his knees, all his progress—or what passes for it in this place—is lost. He had refused to kneel, just once, and now he isn’t given a choice.

You’ll learn not to make that mistake again, he promised Jaime before leaving him like this.

Several times over the course of the punishment, Jaime’s legs have given out from under him, muscles collapsing in momentary defeat, and he has tried to endure the subsequent constriction around his neck, the loss of air, as best he can. But it hurts, and the metal of his collar is unforgiving against the tender skin of his throat, and he always finds himself forcing himself back up after only a few seconds. There’s not really a choice. There is no relief in this game. Not until he is released.

When a faint beep outside his door signals an impending entry, Jaime’s head snaps up, ready to beg, to barter, to apologize and grovel for forgiveness. And it’s… god, for once it’s a fucking relief to see Handler Smith walk through the door.

“Don’t speak,” he says before Jaime can get any words out. He snaps his mouth shut, the words dying in his throat. “I’m not ready to hear your apology yet. Not until I know you mean it.”

I do mean it, Jaime’s head screams back at him, and he’s distantly horrified to realize it’s almost true. The sound leaves his body as an involuntary whimper.

His breathing is a mess of hitching gasps and hisses between clenched teeth as Handler Smith circles him like a shark in water. Every time he rounds behind him, out of Jaime’s line of sight, the already-trembling muscles in his back knot up in awful anticipation.

Minutes pass. It’s an eternity. Smith settles back against the wall directly in front of him, legs crossed at the ankle and arms folded over his chest. And for a long time, he is content to stand there and watch Jaime suffer. His eyes are wide and pleading from his personal hell in the center of the floor, and they’re met with an amused indifference.

At one point, his hand slips down to the pocket where Jaime knows he keeps the remote to his shock clip, and it takes everything in him to bite down on the urgent please that lodges in his throat.

In the end, he doesn’t activate the shock collar on him. Instead, after entire lifetimes seem to have stretched out between them, Smith pushes off the wall and ambles toward him. Jaime is shaking so hard, his mind half-gone from the pain and the exertion and the constant, constant misery, but he still finds it in him to be terrified of whatever comes next.

Tears are making their way down his cheeks, mingling with the sheen of sweat, but he doesn’t realize until the pad of Handler Smith’s thumb swipes across their path. “Are you sorry for earlier?” he asks.

Is this another trap? He doesn’t know if he is allowed to answer. He was told not to speak, but he knows it’s against the rules here to ignore a direct question. Jaime nods, a bit more frantically than he intends to.

Handler Smith smiles. The thumb on his cheek drags slowly downward until it presses down on his lower lip. Jaime doesn’t have it in him to so much as hesitate at the silent command. He relents instantly, mouth falling open to allow his thumb entrance. He doesn’t dare pull his eyes away.

“Tell me,” he says, applying light pressure to the flat of his tongue. “I want to hear you.”

“Please. Please, I’m sorry, sir.” The words come rushing out of him like a dam has broken, garbled and misshapen around the intrusion in his mouth. Jaime doesn’t have the bandwidth to feel the intended humiliation. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hmm.” A thoughtful glimmer lights up in his handler’s eyes before he pushes his thumb further, triggering Jaime’s gag reflex. “Next time I tell you to kneel for me, I suspect there won’t be any hesitation.”

His reply comes out as a choked whine around his thumb, but he nods as much as he can manage, and finally Smith retracts his hand.

“I told you when you got here that I would make sure you learned your fucking place. Can you tell me where that is?”

Jaime doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care about the loss of dignity, the humiliation, the exchange of power he’s offering up in his words. He just needs out of this. He won’t last another minute. His legs will give out for good and he’ll end up hanging himself from the ceiling. “On my knees,” he whispers. A few more tears slide down his cheeks as he closes his eyes. “Sir.”

“Don’t fucking forget it.”

A wave of panic takes hold as the collar suddenly yanks tight against his throat, cutting off his air. His wrists burn and chafe against the cuffs as he tries to rise with the sudden upward pull of the chain. His eyes snap open, but he only has a second to process the sight of Handler Smith’s grasp on the hook before the tension releases and Jaime collapses down—fully, blessedly—onto his haunches. The clasp at his wrists is released a moment later, and he sprawls helplessly to the floor.

***

TAG LIST: @whumpervescence @shiningstarofwinter @distinctlywhumpthing @whumptywhumpdump @nicolepascaline @anotherbluntpencil @hold-him-down @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @batfacedliar-yetagain @thecyrulik @pumpkin-spice-whump @melancholy-in-the-morning @also-finder-of-rings @insaneinthepaingame @skyhawkwolf @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @mylifeisonthebookshelf @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-world @inpainandsuffering

[hmspogue]

Outer Banks season 2 Official Trailer shot-by-shot rundown

A comprehensive post where I scream about analyze the entire trailer frame by frame for clues, theories, and plot. Just my own opinions and general tin foil-hatting

These are screenshots from Netflix’s trailer for Outer Banks season 2. I do not claim or own any of these.

note: this post is tagged as a long post if you wish to avoid having to scroll until your thumbs break.

“My old man used to tell me, ‘it’s best to never say you’ve hit rock bottom’.”

(Putting all of these shots together since they’re scenes we already know but-) Holy shit, okay let’s just....start off like this I guess, damn.

“'Trust me’, he said...”

Kiara looking back and forth between the boys like this really just feeds the headcanon I have that her form of grief this season is going to be her trying to hold it together for their sakes (and eventually just snapping).

JJ just looks fucking furious someone give these kids a hug? I already know this scene is going to ruin me.

“You can always go...”

JJ back working at the hotel. He looks literally so angry again in this scene I could see him self destructing at work and losing his job? (Please do not be isolating yourself you beautiful son of a bitch even though I know you’re going to).

Pope in the Twinkie (costuming wise they all are in warmer looking clothes for some of the shots, so just confirming it’s a little bit into the school year when this all takes place).

“Lower”

Big John was real big into pep talks, I see. (seriously can you imagine Big John having this conversation with like 8 year old John B after he fucking dropped his ice cream cone or some shit I shouldn’t be laughing).

I’m just-

These poor kids, I wanna know how the police all the way down in the Bahama’s knew about them?

Their calves....

“RUN!”

Are going to be so fucking jacked by the end of this season I stg.

Fuck you.

“The gold from the Royal Merchant....it’s here.”

For a while, I had thought that maybe they didn’t even make it to the Bahama’s at the front of the season and ended there (because everyone had been filming in there). But I guess they’re going to be making two trips.

If I were a bird from this POV I’d shit right on that house no questions asked.

oooooh ho hokay. Just so we’re clear. Ward Cameron not only get away with murder and about two dozen other felonies, but-

“Half a billion.”

HE STILL FINDS THE GOLD IN THE CRAIN HOUSE AND GETS TO KEEP IT?

Not the polo with the snap back, I just know this man has a playlist called Sad Boi Hours that is just Juice WRLD’s top 5 songs on Spotify and he tells his friends they wouldn’t know the underground artists he listens to.

Sh, you have lost screaming privileges. Go inside and take a nap maybe.

“John B, we are fugitives in a foreign country.”

So, previously, I was talking about how I was confused how they would still be trying to find him is everyone thought he was dead, but here the wanted poster clearly says “presumed lost at sea”. I think that will be interesting to see how the Pogues all interpret that. 

Especially because they already had a memorial for John B and everything, I wonder if there will be any part of the Pogues holding out hope that they both could still be out there OUCH.

I’m going to circle back to this, but it looks like John B and Sarah are going to get separated for a little while in this man hunt, I could see my idiot himbo son trying to sacrifice himself so Sarah can get away but in reality just....stranding her.

“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid?”

Oh, sweetie....

“Well, Sarah Cameron, I do stupid things all the time without realizing it.”

The volume of his self awareness is astronomical. sir, that is your whole character summed up in your own words.

GOD, IT’S ME AGAIN. PLEASE LET THEM LEAN INTO COMPLETE HIMBO JOHN B THIS SEASON I’LL DO ANYTHING-

nyyooooOOOOOOOOOOOOM-

“Hold on!”

The complete abject terror I would feel having John Booker Routledge driving get-away and then saying the words “Hold on” while reaching fro the gear shift? The english language fails me. 

Sarah, bestie, I’m so sorry.

I just wanna know-

what the plan or objective was in this situation. What was the reason for being this dramatic.

Rest in piss, bozo <3

“Ward’s still out there...”

Okay, same conversation they were having as before. I wonder what makes them decide they need to get back to the OBX for this tho.

“I can clear my name. This can all be over in one shot.”

It looks like Topper watching this but way more concerningly, correct me if I’m wrong but this 100% looks like....John B gets caught. And the DEATH PENALTY?! He did have a mug shot for the fliers in s1 and the one above but he was never brought in? Plus he just looks super dirty and dishevled in this one so I-

Jail break anyone?

I also still want to know if they’re going to go with a Topper redemption arc this season. like, does he know more than he should just from being around Rafe and his big fat mouth? Is he going to help out the Pogues even if it’s just for Sarah?

This shot just suddenly made me really sad. The thought of this all started because Big John left one last thing for his son to find, his literal life’s work. And when it all started, it was just a fun adventure John B and his best friends were going on together and having fun with. Then it all got dragged to absolute shit and turned into what it did, including the remaining 3 Pogues thinking that this treasure hunt took their two best friends away from them. And it’s nothing like Big John intended it to be.

Why my eyes wet?

Now we’re edging into what I was talking about earlier with John B and Sarah getting separated.

“If you think there is anything I wouldn’t do...”

Once again, John B is no where to be found. Also, just in case y’all didn’t already know or forgot Ward is an actual psychopath.

I believe this one of the new character, played by Jontavious Johnson (Stubbs). Based on the voice over it lowkey sounds like they’re implying Ward maybe hired Stubbs and Cleo to find and bring Sarah back. My theory would be I bet they do go to retrieve her, but she somehow convinces them that it would be more beneficial for them in the end to be on the Pogue’s side instead.

Miss Girl you gotta be keeping your head on a SWIVEL. Especially when you’re a FUGITIVE of the LAW-

“...you haven’t been paying attention.”

My guy, who are you clarifying this for?

It’s what you deserve for monologuing.

in all seriousness, the idea of them coming to face to face with Ward in Nassau after thinking they finally escaped him is genuinely terrifying.

“SARAH!”

It kind of looks like they’re either hiding their faces or covering their noses? I don’t know maybe it was from some tactic to get away from Ward.

What did I literally jsut say about yelling privileges, you unhinged mother fucker?

“I’m calling the shots now. I’m driving.”

The following progression of scenes made me actually snort-

“I can’t drive stick.”

PLEASE THE FINGER GUNS LAUNCHED ME INTO ORBIT I LOVE THEM, YOUR HONOR.

Alright, so now it looks like we’re in Charleston. This is the same scene with Heyward’s truck that got leaked from BTS (read: JJ and Kie shoulder touch).

One of the main things that stuck out to me in the following scenes which, you will see, is it lowkey looks like Pope is kind of heading up this part of the operation, or even going in alone? The following clips are just very Pope focused. 

I don’t know what it means, it’s just an observation.

“John B was not the only one that Ward double-crossed.”

LIMBRY-

Bro, we have been hearing about this woman for literal months and I just have....so many questions? 

Who the hell is she? How is she connected to Ward? Why is she in South Carolina instead of the OBX? How do the Pogues even learn about her and how to track her down? How is she meant to “help” them? GAH I JUST WANNA KNOOOW. I already know I don’t trust her though and no I will not be offering up supporting evidence.

Sir, that is my son please unhand him.

“I think you know what I want.”

.......no? But feel....free to explain yourself?

The print on the paper is the same one that’s on the ceiling tiles in the following scene. Obviously, with a key on it that most likely goes to the place a few shots from now.

Hell yeah, son, let’s get SLEUTHING.

“The treasure belongs to the Pogues.”

DAMN STRAIGHT.

Bestie’s I’m not going to lie, I stared at this frame for a solid 10 minuets and I have no idea what it says on there I’m sorry. Someone in the comments is welcome to enlighten us.

“We gotta find it first.”

I can’t tell if that’s just dirt or if he hurt his head? But he look GOOD right now for one thing. For another, same outfit as the one in the Twinkie from the beginning of the trailer.

Look at her. LooK AT HER! LOOK! AT! HER! I MISSED HER SO MUCH even in that damn smiley face top that continues to haunt my waking hours she is in it so much and it stresses me out for literally no good reason I’m sorry-

I could literally cry right now and I think that speaks volumes to how little we actually see him genuinely happy. Have I mentioned how much I love that red hat?

Also, probably not that important, but this is not from the same scene as the shots of Pope and Kiara were. This is from the next one-

“Woogity-woogity?”

“Give me some woogity, baby!”

Yeah, this pushed me over the fucking edge, the way that they’re actually happy and laughing? The fact that they kept woogity-woogity and made it A Thing? Yes.

I am, however, going to be intentionally ignoring what appears to be the very intentional stagingof having such an obvious space between where Kiara and Pope are sitting adn where JJ sits, even including the level they’re sitting on because I don’t have the emotional capacity to face those implications right now. Thank you for your time.

Yes yeeeeEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!!!!

GIVE ME ALL OF THE SCENES OF THEM ACTUALLY GETTING TO BE TEENAGERS AND JUST BREATHE AND LAUGH AND HAVE A GOOD TIME AND NOT BE RUNNING FOR THEIR FUCKING LIVES!!!!!!!!!!!

before Rafe comes in and literally starts shooting because they can’t breathe for more than 7 seconds but we’ll....get to that.

They refer to Sarah as a Pogue this season or I burn Netflix to the ground. Your move, Jonas.

50 bucks says John B is driving the Twinkie again for the first time since being back.

I deadass think the Pogues JUST got Sarah and John B back and they’re just having the time of their life. Kie was in her smiley face outfit when Pope was in this one a few clips ago, and I still hold to the belief that that one still they released of JJ and Kie hopping over a fence is the Pogue reunion so-

Ward? I have no idea what he’s looking at behind the wall paper and I’ll be so honest I don’t care my eyes are only seeing Pogue content right now.

“This is a map of the whole island.”

This fit, when will John B learn how to operate buttons, stay tuned for season 5. Also my previous theory of this being their reunion outfits and stuff because Pope is in the back in the same jacket as before.

The plot thickens and so has JJ’s hair, Rudy drop the shampoo brand.

Please, dear God, tell me they’re back in the sex church. For @jiaaraa sake.

Kiara, your Madison is showing.

Okay, I really did try but all I can make out is Something to the tomb begin something something.

You’re welcome.

I am no expert but I do not believe boats operate on land.

John B looks like he is in the same outfit here that is in his mug shot we saw on the TV screen so I have a sneaking suspicion this is where he gets caught. 

“John B is back-”

Once again with the damn sexual tension that’s always between Barry and Rafe in every scene they do are we about to kiss right now?

“-it’s him or me.”

First of all, no.

Second of all, I’m just....so very confused about this time line this season. It kind of looks like Ward and Rafe follow and find Sarah and John B in Nassau (unless those scenes by the truck were actually back in the OBX). So did they....go to Nassau, then just come right back when they did? I’m just confused.

Put that thing back where it came from or so help me.

Literally when will you stop at this point I am begging you. 

This looks like the same scene the Pogues were, ya know, literally just having a good time at so fuck me, I guess.

Yeah, no, it’s going to be a no from me, I’m just going to pretend like I’m not seeing this and moving on.

I have simply no idea what is going on here or who that is on the bike but maybe JJ? Maybe Luke even? I think that’s JJ’s bike. 

The sewer scene. The SEWER SCENE-

For months sicne that tiktok leaked this damn scene has been genuinely all I could think about. So (obviously) it seems like they’re sending Kie down into the sewer to go do seomthing and things go horribly, horribly wrong. 

If you haven’t seen the tiktok, essentially all it was was JJ and Pope screaming and trying to lift up the man hole cover while Kie is begging for them to hurry from inside. I’m cheating a little bit as this isn’t a shot from the trailer but this picture was posted and it’s from the same scene.

I’ll just....leave this here. Back to the trailer shots.

Nice. Also, same shirt as mugshot.

Hey, um, what? 

Kiara’s car, she’s driving, I can’t tell who’s in the back seat or the front.

Holy God what is going on and how can I as an audience member put a stop to it?

So, same scene as we will see and was in the teaser but, for some reason, they’re all jumping off of a giant ass boat into the little life raft where it looks like JJ gets hurt later but don’t you worry we’re getting to that.

JJ AND KIARA WITH THE POGUE HANDSHAKE JJ AND KIARA WITH THE POGUE HANDSHAKE THEY BOTH LOOK SO DAMN GOOD AND THEIR LITTLE SMILES SPARE ME-

Cleo 🥵

I’m so excited to see her arc and what it brings this season you guys have no idea.

Please for the love of God be about to get Ward Cameron’s ass like he deserves literally punt him into jail right from Tanny Hill.

Sarah at My Druther’s with what looks like a bloody bandage on her side? Same outfit she’s wearing when they’re running from the police on the beach and she has the bandage there too so. Interesting. 

Topper hugging who I’m pretty sure is Sarah, being a general douche because he’s clearly looking at John B like 😏 

Clips like these serve to remind me just how many of my worldly posessions I would gladly give up to be able to punch Topper Thorton in the throat one time. 

I think this is Cleo jumping off the boat with Pope after John B and Sarah. 

Absolutely busting a lung at Pope’s form in this one.

John B and Sarah waiting in the life raft, still Cleo and Pope coming after them. The obvious next question is where are JJ and Kiara. The scene I’m sure you all have been waiting for is coming up and clearly takes place in the life raft as well.

So, I really think JJ and Kie get left for last, something horrible happens as they’re trying to jump (my head instantly goes to JJ maybe like pushing Kie out of the way and getting hit on the head instead or even just some accident). 

And, oh my GOD a scene of him falling off the boat after it happens and Kiara diving in after him immediately, having to desperatly try to stop him from sinkingand get to the life raft holy shit-

Girl CATCH HIM?????

Because why wouldn’t this be Rafe’s fault. Part of me wonders if this isn’t related to JJ being hurt.

I am going to try and unpack this as calmly as possible because behind my computer screen I am vibrating at a frequency that could shatter glass but respectfully.

WHAT IN THE FUCK IS TIAUEWFHLAILA

Okay, so scene wise, JJ’s hit his head somehow (probably while he was jumping with Kiara) it looks like and now they’re back on the raft. 

In my opinion, this is either:

A) JJ is in really, really bad condition after getting hurt in the jump and they’re not sure he’s going to make it. So this is a “Please stay with me, stay awake, please don’t die” hug OR

B) They very narrowly just avoided a deadly situation (my first thought is JJ hits his head while jumping, passes out in the water, maybe almost drowns but Kie and the others get him onto the life raft in time) and this is more of a “Oh my God, you’re okay, you’re safe now, we’re okay” hug. 

I honestly lean more to the second one based on the little bit of Sarah’s face we saw in the background. To me, it almost looked like she was smiling thru tears, which, fits way more with the second option than the first. 

Anyways. Moving on before I burst a lung again.

(also, before anyone comes at me, no, I’m not happy JJ is hurt, obviously.  

(Once again, arrest outfits). You can still see the bandage but it looks like Sarah’s limping now too so...good Lord give the girl a break maybe?

Everything in this trailer just went to shit so fast I think I have whip lash, can we go back to the Pogues hanging out and being happy now pkease I liked those scenes.

“I get it. You guys are scared.”

“No.”

She’s cute but, uh, hello sewer scene outfits. Seems like them planning to do whatever the hell they were going to do in the sewers but the boys are starting to get cold feet as maybe they should but hind sight is 20/20 I suppose.

“It’s kind of cute.”

“I’m not scared.”

“You should’ve just led with that.”

I will never be able to express how much I adore Pogue banter and general dumbassery and I have a feeling this season will not be lacking in either department

I high key don’t think these two are actually going to be there for this scene to go down but I’ll let it slide this time because-

They do be kinda cute.

It both feels like I’ve been waiting for this damn show for 3 years and also like I just watched season 1 last month explain that to me. 

Either way holy shit. I missed this dumb show and these dumb kids so much it physcially hurts and WE GET THEM BACK IN T-MINUS 16 DAYS.

Also. Where The Hell Is Wheezie Cameron And When Will She Have The Rights She Deserves.

[mabyn-mabyn]

Like/Unlike (And Like Again) | Jinkook Fic

Title: Like/Unlike (And Like Again)

Pairing: Jungkook/Seokjin

Word Count: 18,822

Rating: M

Status: Complete

Tags: Instagram Famous AU, Introverts, Social Media, Meet Cute, Singers, Humor, Awkwardness, Romance

Summary:

Jungkook: if i like someone's post on insta and then unlike it really really fast will they still get a notification Jimin: OOH what did you DO tell us Jungkook: i was looking at this post from one of my fans and i accidentally liked it Tae: WAIT was it a dude and on a scale of 1-10 how hot was he Jungkook: you haven't answered my question??? Jimin: oh he'll definitely see your notif, kook ;)

Jungkook, Instagram-famous singer, doesn't date fans. Then he accidentally likes an old post by user Kim Seokjin. Panic ensues.

People who hate social media don't become Instagram famous.

"You wanna hear a new song, huh?" Jungkook asks, tucking a strand of dyed-purple hair behind one ear.

In his tiny studio apartment, he's both alone and not alone. Can't be alone, not with 56,000 people watching him. The number is dizzying, but the live broadcasts have gotten easier since he's learned how to pay less attention to the viewer count and more attention to the musical connection he's built with his audience.

Sure, before becoming Instagram famous, he spent 90% of his free time online, as any solid introvert might. He'd mostly been a wallflower though, lurking on other people's posts, watching their vids, laughing at their jokes.

But when he breaks out his guitar and starts to sing, a transformation comes over him. Suddenly he wants to be in the limelight.

Well, not exactly be the star, but just...share his music with other people. That magic. It's hard to define, but it's one of the few moments in which he stops feeling like an isolated atom adrift in the universe and more like he's a small part of a cosmic body breathing and existing as one.

"Let's see...I've been trying something out this week, but I'm stuck on the chorus. Tell me what you think."

He's sitting cross-legged on his narrow twin bed, the mattress sunken in the middle from years of use, with his favorite mood lamp casting colorful patterns over the ceiling. In his lap sits the same acoustic guitar he's been playing since he was twelve when his mother had finally, finally surrendered to his desire to switch from piano to guitar.

Sure, he could afford more with the money rolling in from his account sponsors, but he knows viral popularity can be short lived, so he shores up all the cash for an uncertain future and a shaky dream.

He does what he does for the love of it.

He closes his eyes and strums out a few variations on what he's been working on, a melodic ballad with a folksy vibe. The words are nonsense, but that's okay for now, it will come.

For a brief moment, the magic happens, and the guitar becomes a part of his body, and his voice blends together with the sound of the instrument. He ascends into that timeless space for a while before, just as suddenly, it drops away.

He opens his eyes, the room comes back into focus, and, clearing his throat, he scooches forward to read the comments.

Voice of an angel!

call me

What do you mean stuck on the chorus?? this one's going to the grammys!

jungkoookksdff you sexy af!!!

album WHEN

Jungkook grins happily. They like it.

Back then, his first, hesitant post—a 30-second clip of him singing a cappella in a shaky voice—turned into two, then three, and it wasn't long before he got addicted. Maybe he didn't have a lot of viewers at first, but he was finally "putting himself out there," the way Jimin and Taehyung always told him he should. Easy for them to say—there had already established huge follower counts as models.

But it turned out that he liked that feeling, the possibility that every time he posted, someone new would listen, would be inspired by him, would connect with him.

With each post, his popularity grew in dribs and drabs, and then all at once. And when the explosion happened, and the comments flooded in, and the hearts all blazed red, he found himself urged to do more, post selcas, share little notes, and offer stories to his followers. He isn't sure he's good at it, but his follower count, now reaching up to almost 950,000, says otherwise.

Jimin and Taehyung now joke that he's left them in the dust. His followers are drawn to his shyness, Hoseok always says, whose work as a choreographer in the idol industry has given him insight into what drives fan attachment. According to him, Jungkook is authentically awkward in a way that the slick influencers of YouTube and Twitter and Instagram can never quite mimic.

Jungkook leans closer to his phone as he scans through the questions that are coming in.

"Hmm...My tattoo covers my chest on one side and, well, much more," he answers one of the questions with a giggle.

It feels like hanging out with a bunch of friends who all really like him. It's hard to not be flattered. He's learned how to scroll past both the hate and the thirst comments.

The majority of his fans are actually quite sweet, posting heart emojis or complimenting his singing or asking him innocent questions. He loves it all. He's even, according to Jimin, sort of figured out how to flirt with his viewers.

"You what?" he asks in disbelief. "You want to see? I don't think so. I'd have to take off my shirt. Really?? Oh my god. You're all shameless. Okay, maybe just a little..."

He shifts around on the bed until his back is facing the camera. Thankfully, since the room is fairly dark, it's less embarrassing than it could be. Besides, it's not like he doesn't post thirst traps every other day, selcas of him wearing low-cut tanks showing off his collarbones or half-unbuttoned shirts hinting at the outline of his pecs. Taehyung's great at composition.

But taking off his clothes live while interacting with fans, no time lapse between what he's doing and the moment they see him, no editing the photographs or selecting the most appropriate one, feels more intimate and more scary.

He unbuttons the shirt just enough so that he can push it down his shoulder, giving the camera a look at the part of his tattoo that he's never revealed. It's an intricate floral pattern in a circular arrangement that brings out the shape of his muscles. He knows it's pretty.

Now his fans know, too. He thrills a little at the idea that they might find it attractive.

He turns his chin over his shoulder to peek at the camera. "You like it?"

He giggles again and tugs his shirt back up, then quickly redoes the buttons.

When he settles back into position and returns to his phone, the screen is overrun with comments. They're coming in so fast that he can barely make out what they say.

Hot as hell, Jungkook-ssi!

ooh, what is it? are they flowers?

that must've hurt!

You're so beautiful, please marry me

"Okay, one more song?" Jungkook asks, picking his guitar back up. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "How about something older, since we just heard something new?"

Song requests stream in. "Okay, yeah, we can do City Streets."

He takes a deep breath before launching into one of the first songs that earned him a real following. For this song, he neglects the guitar as he belts out each verse in full voice.

Although he's sung it hundreds of times by now, he still connects with the passion of the song. It's not exactly that shimmery, excited feeling he had when he first performed it, but rather a matured ache layered with the experience of all its previous performances and everything that followed.

"That's a wrap!" Jungkook waves at the camera and offers his brightest smile. "I'll be posting another clip tomorrow, so look out for that! And if you don't already, please give me a follow! It keeps me going. All right, everyone, borahae!"

He puts on his signature outro track. He always waits a few minutes at the end of his lives before logging off. There's something bittersweet, both sad and energizing, about the array of goodbye messages his listeners leave him before they depart.

You improve every day, Jungkook-ssi

the image of your muscled back is gonna haunt my dreams tonight istg

TAKE MY MONEY!!!

aw, this song is such a fave ::pleading eyes emoji::

One reply comes in that's so long it fills the entire screen. Jungkook can barely scan it before it floats away.

Something about life being shades of grey, with each day indistinguishable from the other, but Jungkook's art—yes, the commenter had called him an artist—being the one dash of color that got them through.

Jungkook has to remind himself not to frown too much in concentration as he reads. Jimin always said it would give him wrinkles.

He catches sight of the commenter's name before it disappears from the screen—Kim Seokjin.

Okay, Kim Seokjin-ssi. Let's see who you are, Jungkook thinks to himself as he closes down his live.

He stretches his arms over his head and bends his torso to one side, then the other. He's cramped after sitting for so long and holding his body rigid. He shifts back to the head of the bed so he can recline against the soft pillows, and curls around his phone.

He scrolls through his recent posts one at a time until he catches a comment that user Kim Seokjin left a week ago on a selca he'd taken in front of the recording studio. Jungkook is standing outside on the sun-drenched sidewalk wearing a fitted black t-shirt, and yeah, it's a bit of a thirst trap, but his fans love those.

so very pretty, jungkook-ssi

Jungkook finds himself blushing. The comment isn't that different from the usual kind of thing he gets, but something about the approving tone of it in combination with the long, emotional missive Kim Seokjin had just blasted into his live stands out to him.

Curiosity piqued, he clicks on Kim Seokjin's username, and a barrage of selcas featuring a very, very handsome man floods the screen.

"Wow," Jungkook can't help but murmur out loud. Having as many followers as he does, he's seen his fair share of good-looking men. They're eager to pack his DMs with their best selcas or send him offers of, ahem, financial support. But Kim Seokjin is of a different class entirely. He clicks on one of the photos to enlarge it. Creamy skin fills the screen. "Wow."

The man's black hair is slicked back from a broad forehead, his full red lips are parted sinfully, face tipped back. But what most captures Jungkook's attention are his eyes, narrowed slightly, enhanced with smoky eyeshadow, and gazing directly at the camera as if captured in a moment of seduction.

A flannel shirt is stretched across broad shoulders, and it's unbuttoned enough to reveal a well-used blue t-shirt. The striking thing is that the man isn't even trying to be hot. It's not a thirst trap. He's not even alone. He's sitting in a cafe with a couple of friends who are chatting, relaxed, and seem blissfully unaware of the camera. Only Seokjin seems to know they're being photographed.

The camera clearly loves his face. And honestly, how is this guy not a household name? He's easily better looking than most of the actors Jungkook lusts over.

He jumps back to Seokjin's profile. 59 followers. So definitely not a star. He's just some guy. His bio reads part-time human, full-time sloth. overthinking never brought anyone peace. An idiosyncratic sentiment, but not technically untrue. Despite the flippant line, the man is clearly someone who overthought the point to begin with.

So: a reluctant philosopher. Age? Not given. Older than him by a few years, but possibly shy of 30. Married? Children?

Jungkook clicks back to the photos and scrolls through. Doesn't seem like it. The only other people who appear are the two men from the cafe, sometimes together, sometimes just one. They're attractive in their own way, he supposes, but they're normal people.

They make Seokjin seem like he might be a real person, too, and not some account that stole the photos of a model to establish a fake identity. The friends are tagged in a few of the photos, Kim Namjoon and Min Yoongi, and the Kim Namjoon one is always obscenely, expensively well-dressed. Interspersed with the sporadic selcas are snapshots of floral arrangements spotted on city streets and scenery from vacations.

He keeps scrolling down until he comes across one post that looks different from the others. Professionally shot, Seokjin's lovely frame is draped in a bold, printed silk shirt matched with trousers so soft Jungkook can practically feel the wool between his fingers. In the hands of someone who is clearly a professional photographer, Seokjin's striking looks blossom.

The stats on the image read 56k likes. Okay, wow. Seokjin's account may be obscure, but this post clearly enthralled people. The tagline reads, Changed up my day job today. Like it? The thirsty comments that follow reveal that yes, people liked it.

Seokjin could be a model. Part of Jungkook wonders why he isn't, but he also gets it. He loves sharing his music, and he needs an audience to do that, but the attention, the scrutiny, the need to perform aren't for him. Maybe this Seokjin feels the same.

He scrolls back up the posts and decides he prefers Seokjin's casual, everyday pics instead. In them, Seokjin appears relaxed and happy, like a regular person who was accidentally born with the face of a god and hasn't quite figured it out.

Jungkook lets his finger graze over one of the pics in which Seokjin is laughing, sprawled out on a sofa and covering his body with his arms as if protecting himself. Is the person behind the camera tickling him? It must be heady to make someone like Seokjin smile so big. Jungkook finds himself strangely jealous. He gets a little lost staring into Seokjin's beautiful eyes, and when he finally shakes off the spell, that's when he notices.

The little heart below Seokjin's post is filled in red.

Wait. Did he do that? Did he like Seokjin's photo? Jungkook? When?

He looks at his traitorous finger in horror. He must have clicked it accidentally when he was tracing the outlines of Seokjin's face. Hold on.

Tracing the outlines of Seokjin's face? Who does that? The little heart glares red at him ominously.

Then an even worse thought occurs to him: Seokjin will see his like. He'll see his like and know that Jungkook was scrolling deep deep through Seokjin's page. This isn't even one of the latest posts, it's way, way down there. Seokjin will know that Jungkook has been scoping him for—how long has it been? He glances at the clock. An hour. Ugh. He's never interacted with one of his fan's pages before.

That would be weird. This is weird.

In a desperate attempt to undo the mistake, he unclicks the heart. The red drains from it immediately, leaving an empty shape outlined in black. Jungkook breathes a sigh of relief.

Erased.

But.

Will Seokjin get a notification anyway?

He will, won't he? Jungkook gets so many notifications he doesn't even see them anymore, the first few usernames appearing in his feed followed by a "+ 500 more." But Seokjin with his 59 followers? He'll see every one of them.

Jungkook peeks at how many people have liked this post. Two. Okay, yeah, Seokjin will definitely see his notification. Fuck. Seokjin's going to think he's creeping on him. (He might be creeping on him?)

Jungkook if i like someone's post on insta and then unlike it really really fast will they still get a notif

Tae what did you do kook-ah

Jungkook i can hear the judgment in that question and im offended

Jimin OOH what did you DO tell us

Jungkook no it's embarrassing, just answer

Tae YES TELL US

Jungkook god it's not a big deal, but i was looking at this post from one of my fans and i accidentally liked it, and i dont want them to think, idk!! whatever they might think

Jimin relax kook you're not wonho or sth. it's not like gonna be in dispatch that you randomly liked some dude's post

Tae WAIT was it a dude ::eyes emoji:: and on a scale of 1-10 how hot was he

Jimin yeah was he hot is that why you were insta-stalking him

Jungkook i was NOT stalking him! See!!! this is exactly what i DONT want him to think you're proving my worries are valid

Jimin SO HE WAS A 10

Tae oooh link us link us link us we wanna see

Jungkook NO. and you haven't even answered my question??? WILL HE GET A NOTIF OR NOT?? this is why i shouldve texted hobi hyung

Jimin oh he'll definitely see your notif, kook-ah ;)

Read the rest on AO3

[lanawinters-ily]

‘Her truth was found at last’

Lana’s work-life balance is toxic, but is their a deeper reason rooted in her past? What happens when her habits go too far?

Pairing: Lana Winters x Reader

Word count: 3200

Warnings: illness (mentions of nausea) but not specifically graphic

Lana Winters was a stern, formidable boss. She was insatiable as it seemed. She was also your girlfriend, not that it really seemed obvious the moment you entered the building. Lana had two personalities towards you, split down the middle; polar opposites forming a ying-yang girlfriend-boss which frankly confused the hell out of you. 

At work, she radiated an aura of sophistication which presented itself in a slightly haughty & stony manner. Of course, she was a female in the writing industry - male-dominated & extremely demanding, so she had to appear untouchable. A concrete surface unable to be dented with even the heaviest of peer critics hammers. 

But what you didn’t understand was how this had to be applied to you at all times. Even when you both ate together in the middle of a work day, alone in her office, she was still relatively silent, occasionally delivering clipped responses to your docile questions. You didn’t ever respond, half in fear of triggering some sort of breakdown from Lana, & half in denial that this emotionless woman was the same person you had woken up with in the morning. 

Lana at home was not Lana Winters, the world-renowned author. She was just plain Lana, your Lana, & she was just perfect. Really, you could not think of a flaw in home Lana if your life depended on it. As soon as you entered your doorway, she would be taking your coat & placing gentle kisses along your hair as always. Lana was just the most caring, thoughtful, sweet girlfriend & you felt absolutely giddy with dizzying love for her. 

She was the oxygen to your lungs, practical & essential - if she left you simply would not breathe.

Perhaps this was why your mind had long since rejected the notion of confronting Lana of her toxic workplace persona. Well, clearly your body had a different idea on this day.

 - - - - -

You woke that fateful morning to the sound of rain attacking the roof, aggressive punches littering the roof above your ceiling, little shards picking your head. 

Oh, you were sick. The realisation washed over you as a wave of chills overcame your shivering body despite the overwhelming heat of Lana, the blankets & your own increasing body temperature. The concept of illness was making you quite nauseous, as if your body had decided you didn’t feel unwell enough. 

As you sat silently debating your state, the shrill alarm rang through the room. Lana sprang out of bed like she had been laying on hot coals (not too unrealistic from how hot your skin felt at that point) & slammed the alarm to stop it. 

Ah, so it was one of those days.

If Lana was extremely stressed or was coming up to a deadline, her stormy work mood would also greet you before work, & maybe even into the evening. There was nothing you could do, or dared to try to do, to abate her stress. You both tended to isolate from each other - you in fear, her in an oblivious whirlwind of anxiety. 

This continued throughout this morning, Lana rushing to each corner of the house in a composed, frigid manner whilst you staggered through each task as your illness presented more inconvenient symptoms. But Lana had no idea, even though you looked positively zombie-like, & she even drove off without you as she did on some of her worst days.

“Shit.” you muttered as you realised Lana had gone off in the only car, as yours was being repaired at the mechanics that week. You disliked public transport on a normal day, but the idea of dragging yourself through the long route whilst feeling like death warmed up, was enough to make you practically collapse on the spot.

 - - - - -

You hadn't thought it possible to feel any worse than you had that morning, but clearly you passed your own morbid expectations as you walked into the office. The 30-minute bus ride had been horrendous, your aching frame feeling each bump in the road, whilst your over-wired senses felt everything to the maximum. At one point you heaved with such intense nausea that you physically doubled over in your seat, just because the person sitting near you smelt a little too much like their breakfast.

You were determined to make it through the day to get everything done, so you could see your precious Lana in the evening, a treasure chest in your sinking ship of stress. But today had felt like too much, the treasure was out of reach, hiding stubbornly to push you away & you simply did not have the strength to swim. 

Sinking down into your desk chair felt like a warm bed after a laborious day, the sides hugging your sagging body & allowing you to finally relax your tensed muscles. The memory of how you had made it up to the 3rd floor in which you worked had escaped you in your feverish haze - did you take the stairs, or the lift?

Ouch. Well, it seemed that the fresh bruises on your limbs answered that inquiry.

As if to snap you out of your pondering, a heavy pile of papers was thrown onto the desk in front of you, making a dull thud. Right, work. The idea of skimming through monotonous sentences for hours seemed as realistic as you climbing Mount Everest at this point. The words were already blurring into each other, forming a big clump of muddled meanings, impossible to decipher, let alone to edit for the writers in the building. You were certainly not going to be of getting much done today.

 - - - - -

Truth be told, it had been a couple of hours, or 20 minutes, you could no longer tell, & you had done absolutely nothing. The letters on the paper were now dancing for you, as if they could sense your boredom & despair, mesmerising like a professional ballet. English had long since disappeared from this mess of symbols, so it was safe to say that you had not progressed through anything at all.

Unfortunately for you, the workers of this company were fairly independent; each person left to their own devices when given their work for the day, no schedule except to complete what is given. This meant that there was no one to converse with, no one to check up on you, which you certainly needed that day. From one look at you, someone would notice something was wrong & send you home immediately, but no one was here, & it was not like Lana could pay attention to you whilst she was trapped in her writing hurricane.

So, you sat facing the wall, invisible swirls of colour entertaining the dreary white paint, thinking silently. You couldn't recount what was occupying your head really, it all just seemed to be a haze of semi-consciousness, desire to work but lacking the energy or will to move an inch.

It was urgency that interrupted this pleasant cloud-like dream state of denial; you needed the toilet, & this could certainly not be left aside. So, you pushed yourself upright on trembling legs & began the lengthy stagger to the bathroom just a few metres away. You couldn't stay upright for long, crashing & bashing into practically every wall you encountered on your mission, feeling utterly drunk as if you had just had too many glasses of wine with Lana on a Friday night.

Usually, the thought of Lana would make you beam with joy & gratefulness at the universe for presenting you with such an unexpected gift in your life. But now, as you fell into a bathroom stall, you couldn't help but wonder how you got here. You had been too scared to approach her that morning, your own girlfriend, about feeling unwell. Furthermore, she hadn't even noticed in the slightest that anything was abnormal, leading you to consider whether she really cared about you at all.

Did this mean she prioritised work over you? The idea confused you beyond belief, of course you knew Lana's passion was writing, but you had also hoped that she would uphold this same fervour with you, but now she wouldn't even look at you or express any semblance of confession of emotion. How did you get here?

The overwhelming doubts were making your head spin faster, the waltzers starting to pick up speed as you stood up again. You dragged your body towards the sink & rested all your weight there as you tried to clear your churning mind a little. Your knees were starting to give up, & your head felt so heavy that you could barely hold it up, like you had just exited the fastest, dizzying rollercoaster. 

"Y/n?" you heard a voice, piercing through your pounding brain as you choked on a pained sob. 

"Sweetheart, are you alright?"

The voice was familiar but you haven't the energy to decipher it by then, as you were struggling to complete the simplest of bodily functions whilst your body felt as if it was shutting down. The mumbles got louder as they approached you, buzzing in your ears as unwanted hands fumbled gently at your face to feel the temperature, & rapidly moving away as if scorched. Familiarity certainly intrigued you but all you wanted was Lana. 

Lana, Lana, Lana. Your home, your safe place. But where is your home to be when it burns down in anguish?

Delirium overcame you as you launched away from the voice & wobbled back out of the room, denying succumbing to any sort of illness without Lana taking care of you. As you finally navigated some sort of chair through the blinded maze of desks, you fell into it, head slamming against the wall on your way down. At the crash, more voices joined the first; a symphony of concern as they smothered you with worry. 

"Wow Y/n, you look like you've just come off the set of the Walking Dead," a male voice joked, but was quickly shushed by the familiar voice in the bathroom as something cold was placed on your head. 

"Lie down sweetheart, that's it," she praised as comforting hands guided you to the floor, tapping your arms to ground you. "Now you stay awake for me, just until the ambulance gets here."

The idea of simply staying awake seemed next to impossible now, as your vision flickered in & out of focus, muffles of light flashing every few seconds. You were swimming through sand with heavy limbs dragging you under the surface, filling your lungs with grit. The woman shouted for someone to alert Ms Winters, & then she was here.

Lana was there, & your last memory was those soulful brown eyes worrying over your face as you drifted into a state of serenity.

 - - - - -

At first, all Lana heard was commotion. She rolled her eyes at the disturbance & then carried on with her writing, the deadline being her only priority. But then as the noises got closer, the realisation of how strange it was hit her. The office was usually dead silent, save for the efficient typing noises of the writers & the occasional shuffling of papers of the editors.

Before Lana had the chance to get up to investigate herself, one of her co-workers burst through the door in a frantic manner, quickly pushing her out of the room towards the main desk areas. Lana was completely startled by the insistence of the man & the way he had no issue hurrying her away from her work, but this was all forgotten as soon as she saw a worried crowd forming a disjointed circle. What’s more, as soon as the muttering mob spotted Lana, they parted like the Red Sea & ushered off as quickly as Lana had arrived. 

And then she saw you. The invisible tether between your souls urgently pulled her closer as she fell to her knees by your faltering head. She didn’t even notice the man next to her conversing with the paramedics on the phone, or the woman fussing to make you more comfortable. 

Lana just looked into your eyes & she knew. 

She could see the pain beyond your illness, far deeper & more hidden away. She could see the neglect, the heartache, the exhaustion of second-guessing what emotions the day would bring. Her brown irises traced the dullness that overcame your bright eyes as you slipped away. 

“No no no no,” she whispered pleadingly “Stay with me, stay, stay honey please. Stay awake for me.” 

But as the last trace of colour vanished from beneath your heavy eyelids, Lana realised that perhaps you didn’t believe her anymore. Maybe you felt as if you had nothing to hold on to, your kindness & compassion being met with a temperamental love. 

She stroked your cheek as if to force all of her held-back affection under your skin, but it was too little, too late. You had already left on the train to dreamland.

At least there was unconditional love there. 

 - - - - -

Lana was sat a few hours later at your bedside, trying to unravel the tangled wool of what events had led her to this point. 

To be honest, Lana’s deeper mind didn’t really believe in love. To her, emotion was a fraud & people in her life just cruel actors giving her what her heart desires, then to rip it away in merciless betrayal. 

Life had not been kind to the lesbian journalist, even before Briarcliff; kicked out by her parents for how she was born to love, & repeatedly beaten down by men half as talented as her simply because of her gender. Briarcliff was her chance, her big breakthrough story, but even that had deceived her in an unexpected trap, making her suffer deeply for her reward.

But him, well she couldn’t even say his name without shivers of regret & horror. Lana had taken to just calling him Bloodyface in her writing, as referring to him through his serial killer persona was much less terrifying than the man she had encountered in that basement. Lana considered herself to always be one step ahead of everyone, but Bloodyface knew the shortcuts & had skipped ahead, dragging her last shred of hope to his grave. Her blinded trust made her feel stupid, sure, but most of all it made her feel vulnerable; a lone woman in a big, scary world.

As she sat caressing your hand & monitoring your breathing, she realised what had unknowingly held her back from you for all this time. Her brain was preparing for the ultimate betrayal, the true love that would burst into inconsolable flames of passion, unable to be controlled. So, she had been reserved, only showing a positive side, as if to project a desirable image in which you could never leave to find someone less flawed. But really, this protectiveness had only pushed you away more, appearing cold rather than exposed; hurting you as well as herself. 

She sobbed, clutching any expanse of your body as she could grab in desperation, terrified that you would jump up any minute & run out of the door. Lana knew this was protective irrationality taking over, as the doctor had explained that you would be sedated for a little bit as your temperature went down to prevent any seizure activity. A bad case of the flu was the diagnosis, not too serious now that it was being handled, but it should have been prevented from this extremity in the first place. The doctor was quite shocked that you had managed to get up out of bed, let alone make it to work in one piece. 

Lana cried harder remembering how she had blocked you out to defend herself, only ending up harming the only person who loved & cared for her. Her love had become a sea wall, unable to differentiate your waves of emotion as she cowered behind. 

She should have noticed; she should have reciprocated your love without fear. But really, there is a fine line between true emotion & the lies of a manipulator. Lana hadn’t had much experience of the former, so how was she to know?

She scanned your gentle face in attempt to read the purpose of your soul, the purpose of your love towards her. And all she could see was truth. There was a naivety & an honesty that was foreign to her in your young features, the product of a start in life without the mistrust she had known. Lana realised that all she had to do was look, & her truth was found at last.

“Bumblebee?” a mumble was heard, irrelevant to a typical ear, but sheer heaven to Lana. Your beautiful, bright eyes were back; blurred & squinting, but looking right at her.

“Oh honey,” Lana wailed & launched into your awaiting arms. She was only more certain of her newfound trust in you now that all the memories were flooding back. From since you had first met, Lana had called you honey affectionately, & to tease her back you had started to call her your bumblebee, & she had really understood the true meaning of this now. You were her person, & she would never stop coming back to you, like a bee’s lifelong devotion to honey. 

Once her emotions had subsided & you were a little more lucid, she took your hand & peered carefully into your eyes. “I’m so sorry for everything Y/n, I-” but you silenced her with a soothing finger to the lips & a slight shake of your head. 

“My love, I know everything I need to just from looking into your face. You were so scared, weren’t you? I can see the weight that’s lifted from you, & it’s ok Lana. You’ve been through so much angel, & I’m happy I’m here for you now, to show you what real trust & love is like.”

Lana sat in awe, basking in the rays of your beaming affection & felt completely understood & seen, as if she had been x-rayed for emotions. You understood that she was not perfect, & you loved her just as she was. Lana realised that this was the key she had been seeking to unlock the true love stored in her heart. You were hers, & she was yours.

“My honey” she muttered, snuggling close to your heated body & kissing all over your aching head.

“My little bumblebee.” you replied, feeling fully content as you floated into a serene sleep.

Lana looked down at her tired partner as if you were the sun, pure perfection in her newly-cleared eyes. Despite how pale & sickly you still looked, you were the same beautiful star in her universe, the very centre of her existence.  

Her truth was found at last.

Taglist: @ka-s @ninaahs @stayeviildarling @babypocahontas @lilypadscoven @winters-witch-bitch @basicasshole @bottom4delia @forevercountess @violentwavesofem0tion @sporadicsupercorpquotesmonger @liberosisaspire @mellowalieneggsknight @supremeinlilac @thecasualgeek1 @lucykilljoy

[alltheworldsinmyhead]

sugar, we’re going down swinging

Or, Inej comes back to her old perch in Kaz's office, only to find it already occupied. (ao3)

"She was somewhere to the right of him, moving without a sound. He’d heard other members of the gang say she moved like a cat, but he suspected cats would sit attentively at her feet to learn her methods." - Leigh Bardugo, Six of Crows

The first thing Inej sees upon climbing Kaz’s window at the Slat is a pair of round, brown eyes peeking at her curiously through the glass.

Inej does not consider herself easy to spook but the sight very nearly makes her slip on a frost-covered roof.  She gracelessly falls inside the room rather than climbs in and the cat’s eyes follow her move from the – is that a pillow?

It is, in fact, a velvet pillow, on a windowsill that used to be Inej’s perch. And on this pillow lays a small, sleek black-and-white cat, just like all of the ones that always seem to sneak around Fifth Harbor in their own little gangs, running their own little jobs like miniature Barrel rats. The only difference is that this cat looks clearly well taken care of, with its shiny fur and intact ears, although it seems to be missing one of its front paws.

The cast continues to stare at Inej. Inej continues to stare at the cat. They both stay frozen for a good few minutes until Kaz’s irritated voice fills the room:

“Are you going to close the window, Inej? You are letting the cold in.”

Inej blinks. The cat, apparently satisfied with his victory in the staring contest, gracefully twists on the pillow and begins cleaning his striped tail with utmost precision, not paying Inej any more mind.

She closes the window with a slightly-louder-than-necessary creak.

“Ah, I see that you have replaced me already. You got yourself a cat.”

“Please, do not be ridiculous.”

Kaz is, predictably, hunched over some thick pile of papers on the desk, and there is some kind of forceful casualness in his posture that it looks more and more staged the longer she surveys it. If Inej did not know him as well as she does, she would’ve surely missed the slight pink tint of the skin of his cheekbones.

She can feel her mouth involuntarily curve into a grin.

“So, you did not get a cat?”

“I said nothing of this sort.”  Kaz crosses something off on one of the parchments; the cuff of his shirt stains black with ink. “I told some newbies to catch a few cats from the streets and bring them here. Apparently, rodents tend to swarm in the only properly isolated and headed place in the Barrel. Hence, the cats.”

Inej steals a glance at the cat on the pillow. It has finished the toiletries and apparently starts to doze off with his little hand rested on his single paw. It is so adorable that Inej feels herself melt a little; she loves cats, had a few as a kid, has one on the Wraith now. They are practical pets to have effective, and intelligent, and shameless. Just like crows.  

A thought crosses her mind.

“Did you have a cat on the farm, Kaz? In Lij?” she asks quietly, cautiously; she makes a point not to ask about his past too often, scared not to spook him. But he always answers when she asks directly, especially after she comes back to him from the sea, and he does so now, even if it’s a clipped and somehow cold reply.

“It was a farm, Inej, Of course we had a cat.” Another aggressive scratch of the quill against parchment. “As I was saying, rodent control.”

Inej slowly kneels on the ground, extending her open palm towards the cat. She doesn’t want to disturb it, but its velvety ears are simply irresistible – they twitch under her gentle touch and the cat does not even open its eyes. It seems completely at ease on this windowsill, as if it knew nothing bad can happen while it's here with Kaz.

“What’s its name?”

Inej waits for Kaz to tell her the cat does not have a name.

Instead, she hears a heavy sigh.

When she turns towards him, she has to bite on her lip to stop the laughter bubbling in her chest.

Kaz tilted back on his chair and is fixing his stare resolutely on the ceiling; the flush on his cheeks is undeniable now, just like the scowl on his face. Anyone else would think the scowl is directed at her, but Inej knows that Kaz is annoyed with himself and no one else.

“… it’s a she.”

If Inej was slowly approaching the cat, she positively slides towards Kaz. Smoothly as a shadow, she walks around the desk, brushing her fingertips on the wood, until she stops right beside Kaz’s chair. He’s still not looking at her. She’s afraid her cheeks will burst if she continues to grin so wide.

She hops onto the desk, right beside the papers Kaz was so tremendously occupied with earlier, and crosses her legs.

He has a fucking cat sleeping on a fluffy pillow in his office.

“Kaz. Darling. What is her name?”

His Adam’s apple bobs up. For all these times he stripped teased in front of her, Inej has never quite wanted to eat him whole the way she does now.

“ … Marzipan.”

If the Dregs two stories below heard something that sounded suspiciously alike to a deep-bellied bellow of laughter coming from Dirtyhands office late at night right after the Wraith docked in the Fifth Harbour – well, no one would believe them if they talked about it anyway.

Just like no one would believe their own eyes if they saw Wraith and Dirtyhands later that night; cramped on their respective sides of the bed, smiling in the darkness,  while a small cat, vibrating with purrs, sleeps curled between them until dawn.

[creepling]

pineapple express (irl!quackity x gn!reader)

request: just a quick side note - love your writing! if you’re comfortable with it and it doesn’t cross any boundaries could you do a getting high with quackity for a gn! reader? tyty. (anon)

a/n: I DO NOT SUPPORT THE USE OF DRUGS OK. i just thought this was a very fun ask. do not take drugs underage and if you do take drugs, please do so responsibly. don’t end up being a f*ck-up like me lmao. also i’m sorry this is so short, i have been so busy with uni work and i am doing this while i have a night off. hopefully sometime after 4th may i will be writing for frequently.

pairing: irl!quackity x gn!reader (platonic)

summary: the reader has been having a stressful week and alex has the perfect remedy to make them loosen up. and of course, how could the reader deny spending time with their smoking buddy? (inspired by this hilarious clip of paul rudd and jason segel high during an interview.)

tw: use of drugs (cannabis), intoxication, cursing. 

Thank God, it was finally the weekend. I finished all my duties for Friday and I could finally anticipate personal time to myself. I expected to just drive home and become vegitated from exhaustion and stress up until the next week, until I received a text.

Alex: I got some stuff today, smoke buddy. Wanna come over and hang out?

A smile immediately came to my face. I texted back in approvement and prepered myself for arrival; quickly heading back home to change into fresh clothes and fix myself up. I brought my rolling kit in case Alex was on short supply and made my way to my best friend’s house.

“Hola Amigo!” Alex swung the door open the minute I rang the doorbell; his voice exaggerated and welcoming. I engulfed him in my usual hug as my way of entering his apartment. Routinely, I dropped my backpack into the living room and idly chucked my jacket over the couch. I could already inspect the event that was coming; Alex had a ton of shit. Normally Alex counted on me to roll the perfect joint, but when I became too high to do so, he always had emergency cone joints and even a fuck-off bong for special occasions.

“So are we cranking up the hot water and smoking in the bathroom or in here?” I asked for reasurrence, gesturing around the living room.

“Nah, it’s just me and you today. Even the neighbours are out of town.” Alex said, taking a B-turn to his usual spot of the couch. “Have you rolled anything yet?”

“Sorry, didn’t have time. Pretty hectic day.” I apologised, sinking next to him on the couch and running a hand stressfully through my hair. “I’ll quickly do one now. Want your own?”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You’re a busy-bee.” Alex said understandingly. “Oh and- Yes please.”

I soon got to work, taking my papers and grinder out of my pocket. Alex insisted in dealing with the grinder, putting the buds into the container and got to twisting. At this point, we were a couple of stoners. We never expected to be smoking buddies until I realised that out of all my mutual friends, Alex was the only person that had the same tolerance as me. I could never vibe with anxious high people, since they made me anxious myself. I had fun when I smoked; I giggled profusely and the most aburd theories would pour out of my mouth. Sure, I also got the munchies, but not as bad as Alex. One time Alex ate six packets of hot-flaming cheetos to the point his mouth was on fire. He was so high and flustered from the spice he throught he was breathing out fire. However, that experience does not beat the time I thought his cat was floating in mid air. In conclusion, me and Alex had the funniest experiences when under the influence.

After a few intricate minutes of rolling, I succeedingly rolled two joints. Alex liked his thick at the beginning but thin at the end, and I preferred a medium gurth all throughout. Alex admired my creation, muttering a ‘wow’ and praised my efforts, then took a lighter out of his pocket.

We said our cheers and began to blaze up. Leaning my head back on the couch, I stared at the ceiling as I took slow draws, engulfing the smoke deep into my lungs before deeply exhaling. Alex at this point began to play a playlist (that we specifically created for being stoned) and took his first inhale. He always coughed at the first inhale before slowly easing into his usual rhythm. When my joint was halfway, I began to feel my body outlining with a buzzing sensation. My teeth felt isolated from my gums and the ends of my limbs felt invisible. Our combined exhaled smoke began to intermingle, everytime I took a breath it entered back into my lungs. The sound of Alex’s chuckles flowed into my fuzzy ears and as if almost contagious, I became to chuckle as well.

“That’s some strong stuff.” I commented, my eyes beaming at the ceiling before my eyelids began to grow heavy. Alex hummed in agreement, taking the last straw of his joint before smothering the brown-stained tip into his ashtray. The ashtray was one of those clay creations that had the eyes and mouth on them. I gave him it as a gift for his birthday. 

An hour went by and at this point, Alex and I powered through another joint. We mobilised ourselves onto the floor as we lay on large pillows and blankets; a nook that Alex made up before my arrival. We laughed at the most mundane shit and lay on our backs, our heads closely together as we stared at the ceiling.

“Have you ever had a best friend?” Alex asked in a stoned haze.

“I mean . . . you’re kinda my best friend.” I admitted, a sentence that would probably not leave my mouth if I was sober due to hesitation.

“Really? That is so sweet.” Alex said, his tone of voice so idle it was borderline adorable.

“Am I your best friend?” I asked, my eyes glancing over to him anticipating a response.

“You know this, (Y/N). I have had the same best friend since I was twelve years old . . . and he is imaginary.”

“Oh my fucking God . . . Not Pablo.” I cringed, squeezing my bloodshot eyes closed. The amount of times Alex has talked about his childhood imaginary friend while high is annoyingly been multiple times. At this point, I don’t know if he was joking or being serious. Or just completely and utterly stoned.

“He’s fucking amazing, (Y/N)! I’m not fucking kidding!” Alex exclaimed, looking at me in shock but also trying to hold back a laugh.

“Oh yeah sorry . . . I didn’t mean to offend Pablo.” I said sarcastically, “Pablo who visits you in your dreams!” 

Alex howled at my words and laughed from his chest, clenching his ribs from the pain. A laugh also escaped my throat harshly and I coughed from the suddenness, slamming my hand into a pillow as I was paralyzed from the hilariousity.

“Oh my God . . . I’m literally sweating” Alex mustered out in between wheezes. He was bent double on the floor, still clenching at his ribs. The sight of him made me chuckle even when my laughter became to calm down.

“Then take off your hat, silly!” I said, noticing the beams of sweat that formed on his temple. 

“You jerk! I can’t take off my hat.” Alex exclaimed, his fingers clenching onto the hem of his beanie as if he thought I was going to yank it off him. “It’s a mental compulsion!”

“A mental compulsion?” I emphasised in confusion, his random reasoning retracting me back into a fit of laughter. “Why’s that? Will Pablo come and kill us all if you take it off? Is that why you have been wearing one for all these years?”

Alex at this point laughed so hard at my joke, I was convinced he stopped breathing. When his body allowed him to exhale, he let out the loudest cackle I have ever heard come out his mouth. It even beats the ones he makes on streams. His sudden burst of laughter made we want to make him laugh even more.

“Don’t take off the magic hat, Alex! Otherwise Pablo will come visit you!” I mocked a spooky voice as I sat up from the floor and began to tickle Alex into submission. Alex squirmed, his red eyes now pouring with positive tears. His belly laughs continued as I physically taunted him in a joking manner.

“I’m sorry Pablo, I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me!” Alex jokingly pleaded, his voice becoming so high-pitched that his vocal chords let out a squeak. I flopped back onto the pillows in laughter as we were squirming like idiots for several minutes. Once our jester behaviour came to a close, our laughters died out and we lay exhausted on the floor. The music from the speakers now dominated the sound in the room. Alex breathed heavily next to me trying to catch his breath. It was moments like this were I felt the least anxious, were I could just let go and not worry about the world. It felt absolutely bliss. 

TAGLIST ! / @momo-has-a-gun @diggorysmalfoy @quack42069 @obsidiyan​ (join my taglist!) 

[xenospacebabe]

Broken Wings pt. 3

Summary: After breaking one of his wings, Hawks breaks into an animal clinic for some help. Little does he know that the doctor there would occupy his mind this much

TW: Mentions of animal death.

Another busy week that seemed to endlessly drag on was coming to a close. There was a spike in Parvovirus cases in the last few days that had you hospitalizing as well as euthanizing beloved pets. You loved your job, but sometimes it really took a lot out of you. There were times where you lost more patients than you saved and it left you wondering if you were even good at what you do. However, there were the times where miracle patients made an unprecedented recovery. Those were the moments that kept you coming back.

The stress mounted on your shoulders, though. You had three dogs in isolation that were struggling to survive, so much so that you did your best to not promise anything to their owners. For now, they were resting in the silence of your closed clinic. You leaned back in your chair and let your head hang until you stared blankly at the ceiling. The muscles in your lower back burned and ached from standing and kneeling all day. Did you eat lunch today? Did you ever use the bathroom?

“Y’know I was really hoping you’d text me back this week, Doc.”

“WAH!” The sound of Keigo’s voice breaking through the fragile silence sent you backwards in your chair with a frightened shriek. But before you could hit the floor, you were looking up into Keigo’s eyes as he had rushed over to catch you. His good wing caught your chair while his hand cradled the back of your head.

“Woah easy there. I knew you’d fall for me but I didn’t think you’d do it literally.”

“Keigo! Oh shit, you scared me!” The winged hero looked so smug as he held you there. You were incredibly aware of just how close his face was to yours and you felt your stomach flip as a result. That stupid grin cracked on his lips, a wild eyebrow arching confidently.

“P-please help me up.” The shakiness in your voice was louder than you’d like it to be. But he brought you upright, nonetheless, in a smooth motion before sitting on your desk. “Thank you...”

“Hey it’s what heroes do, am I right? So-...” He reached forward with a gloved hand to fidget with the ends of your ponytail between his fingers. “What’s up? You seem more stressed than usual.”

Than usual? How would he know how stressed you are on a daily basis? You’d only seen each other twice, three times including today. What you didn’t know was that Keigo had a lot of time to fill while he allowed his wing to recover. Most of it was spent catching up on paperwork he had neglected back at headquarters. The rest of the time? He was watching you from afar. This strange instinct to keep an eye on you was out of character for him, he never paid this much attention to anyone who wasn’t a target for a mission.

But you...

Choosing to ignore that last statement, you let out a weary sigh. The tension in your shoulders relaxed and they slumped. Keigo observed you, choosing to stay quiet until you responded.

“It’s just...been a rough week. This business-...I don’t always get to save everyone and it was just a little more than I could handle this week.”

Something about that struck a chord in the depths of his heart. He knew about that reality all too well. Sometimes not everyone made it out alive, regardless of how hard he tried. And remarkably, you understood that. There wasn’t much he could say that would make you feel any better other than just a hum in his throat.

“Mmh...I get it. That’s a really heavy burden to carry.” The hand that played with your hair slipped out of its glove and rested on your shoulder to give it a reassuring squeeze. You felt your anxiety dissolve a little when he smiled at you.

“Anyway...that’s why I didn’t text you. I just didn’t have the moment to spare. I haven’t really left the clinic for more than a couple hours each day.” You let out an exhausted yawn behind your hand. Keigo noticed the way your nose scrunched up when you did so, and the cute squeak your throat made.

“Mmh my goodness, sorry. How’s the wing?” Back on track. He admired your tenacity and dedication to your work. Arms slipped out of his jacket followed by his uniform shirt. The redness returned to your features and you chewed your bottom lip nervously before regaining focus. It shouldn’t be this hard to look at a shirtless man. You’re an adult, get over yourself! But then again...you reminded yourself that there were no men like Keigo.

“Not too bad. The pain killers have helped but I didn’t wanna take them too long.” The splinted wing lifted and tried to flex. There was a tightness in the limb that was driving him crazy. And boy was it itchy. You noticed and began to remove the tape and gauze so you could feel the bone with your fingers.

To your surprise, Keigo didn’t flinch. In fact, you didn’t feel much of the break anymore. That was odd. One hand gently grasped the far side of his wing and slowly flexed it open. Once more, no pain response. You let go and told him to open and close it, which he did with a little strain but after a few tries it opened and closed in a smooth motion.

“How the-...this was a completely transverse fracture two weeks ago.” You muttered to yourself, truly confused but intrigued. Without thinking, you snagged Keigo by the wrist and yanked him into the radiology suite for immediate xrays.

“Woah hey! What?! What’s wrong?”

“On the table. Flex the wing. Hold still.” You were in like a trance, transfixed on getting answers. He did as you instructed without his usual teasing banter, the less he said the quicker you’d speak to him. You said nothing throughout the process, even after the images printed and were clipped to the lightbox.

“How?!” You gasped with your eyes trained on the image of Keigo’s healed wing. There wasn’t even the typical crease that came with the fusion of broken bones after they healed. You felt stupefied just gawking at his xrays.

“What?!” He practically shrieked, you were making him nervous by not explaining as quick as you usually did.

“It’s healed. I don’t-...did you know you could heal this quickly?” Keigo had the audacity to look embarrassed, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly with a dumb smile on his handsome face.

“Ah yeah, I guess I did. But I dunno, I just figured I needed an excuse to keep seeing you.” Once again you found yourself in close proximity to the winged hero, too close, in fact. Being this close made it suddenly dawn on you that now he didn’t need to come back anymore. He was healed and had no reason to sneak into your cute little clinic after hours.

Keigo could see the realization on your face, your expressions were incredibly loud in spite of you not having said a single word. You’d only seen each other twice before today but even he could tell there was something there.

“Hey, why don’t you take a short break and come on a test flight with me, there’s something I wanna show you.”

“What now? Keigo I-..” His back was already retreating back to your office to put his shirt and coat back on. When he returned, he held your hoodie out that was on the back of your office door. You looked at the clock, your overnight tech would be here soon to look after the hospitalized patients. Maybe you could afford to slip out for just a little while.

“Come on. You won’t let me pay you with money, so let me thank you my way.”

There really was no arguing with Keigo, he was too headstrong. So you reached for your hoodie, only for him to yank it back. Instead, he held it open for you to slide your arms into. You were trying so hard not to swoon.

“Alright...let’s go.”

A/N: I’m really glad you guys are liking this drabble. I’m thinking of making it into a fanfiction of sorts, maybe. With some conflict and maybe a lil romance. Let me know what you think! I love feedback!

[ddarker-dreams]

New Oath. Yan Dabi x Reader [COMM]

warnings: isolation, food mention, unhealthy relationships, implied not sfw, not sfw dialogue and beginning of stockholm syndrome.   word count: 3k.

It feels easier to live a life without regrets.

To know that every opportunity that presents itself had been taken, is a justification that you maintain to keep your sanity intact. This life that you’ve been forced to live -- one that has clipped your wings -- denying all forms of freedom. Every aspect of the day revolves around survival, nothing else. You’ve tried different methods of overcoming with varying results. The most prominent being escape, or working towards one. 

No person was meant to be secluded in an environment like this. Not even taking into account that lack of socialization that’d be enough to drive anyone mad, but the one person you get to speak to is a pain in his own right. Speaking to a brick wall is more inviting a concept than holding a conversation with Dabi. At least a brick wall remains quiet, not trying to provoke you for a reaction. You don’t know how much longer you can maintain your cool around him.

Looking from the decaying state of the ceiling to the walls around you, which are in even worse condition. This apartment building is definitely violating some building codes. Cheap paint peels off the wall from the slightest humidity, the ceiling fan creaks with every pained turn, and the lone light bulb in the room has been prone to flicker. While you aren’t sure what Dabi’s salary might be, you infer it must be enough to live in a place better than this. A semi abandoned apartment complex with dogs barking at unholy hours of the morning, and sirens going off just as often. If you were to guess on why he chose such a seedy residence, it’s because of the advantages it brings. Any screams for help will go ignored here, as they’re commonplace. 

You’ve had lots of time to reflect. It feels like the world is against you, nothing ever going according to plan. The hours spent revising and considering every variable were for naught in the end. It felt like for each step forward, Dabi would be another two paces ahead. You had considered the fire escape, only to find the bars singed. The windows were a no go, having been fastened so tightly a tool set is necessary to undo the screws. He thought of everything when he decided to hold you captive. This might be enough to drive anyone to the brinks of despair, but not you. You continue preparing, looking for an opening, and acting accordingly. 

You don’t want to lose to someone like him.

Dabi is human, and humans are fallible. One day, in the near future, he might make a mistake. Forget to lock one of the many latches on the door, or ignore a hole in the wall that could soon crumble to sweet freedom. You tell yourself this, not sure if you even fully believe it anymore. You long to have that hope. The hope that this nightmare may yet come to a favorable ending, that you could pry your life back from his vice like grip. Even if it meant breaking your own moral code, resorting to the lowest of tactics… what he had done to you is far worse. This is the drive that drove you to strategize for weeks on end.

Just to fail, like all the times before.

Your lift your arms, grimacing at the sensation of cold metal around your wrists. The punishment for your latest transgressions against Dabi. Everything had been going so well -- too well, now that you’ve had time to think on it -- only to blow up on your face. Weeks of batting your eyelashes at him, playing the role of a perfect, enamored partner went down the drain in a flash. You click your tongue, recalling with disdain how smug he had looked. That’s what got to you the most. Getting underneath your skin and festering with all your other negative feelings for him. 

He knew what you were planning, for god knows how long, and just wanted to see how much you could pull off. Treating it like a mere game. Dabi let you taste coveted freedom, observing from the shadows with intrigue. When your feet had hit the ground, everything felt right with the world once again. You had been held prisoner to the four walls of Dabi’s apartment for what must’ve been months, each day more miserable than the last. You remember the fresh air that swelled into your lungs. The rush of adrenaline that had every nerve on high alert. How your eyes had stung, and threatened to spill over with tears of joy. Nothing could compare to the high from that moment.

It wasn’t a lovely area. At the time, you had still been situated in an alleyway; surrounded by animal carcasses and unsavory items. None of that had mattered at the time. All that mattered is that you could run, far away from his condescending words and threatening presence. You could finally run back to the life that was stolen from you. A supposed light at the end of the tunnel. Nothing in life is that easy, you think in the present. Nothing that involves Dabi is that easy.

There had been a feeling in you gut that eyes were following your every movement. A premonition that came true, and horror in the flesh made his appearance. He had clapped, and expressed how impressed he was with your valiant plan. Dabi cooed at how adorable the sight was, that he had watched you scramble to get everything done in secret. He complimented you on the tact necessary to pull it off. Then his demeanor changed, to something far too sinister to be human. Maybe it was betrayal, or offense at the audacity displayed in going behind his back. Whatever it was that clouded his eyes, you pray you never have to see it again.

Which leads you to the present. 

What you wouldn’t give for some pain killers, even over the counter would do. Anything to dull this pain in your back from sleeping on a spring mattress for days on end. Even this was a luxury that you had to earn through demeaning acts. When Dabi first threw you in this grimy room, the concrete floor was all that you had to sleep on. Through some coquettish speech and unbuckling of pants, you had earned this mattress on which you currently sits. You never thought you’d be missing the dingy, shared bedroom with Dabi until it was taken from you and replaced with something worse. There’s no way of knowing for certain how much longer this punishment will last. From the lack of windows in this room, you can’t even know the time that has passed since the punishment began. It can’t be more than a few days, you thinks. How much longer will you be held here…?

Eyelashes flutter shut, figuring that sleep is a solid way to pass the time. There’s nothing to do until Dabi decides to make an appearance. Gauging from how hungry you’re feeling, it’s been around five or six hours since he last showed up, bringing food with him. Your attempt at sleep is interrupted at the distinct sound of footsteps approaching. So your guess was on the mark. You listens carefully, no detail to be overlooked. There’s a click from unlocking. Then four more after it. So he’s placed that many locks on the door? Seeing as you’re not even able to move an inch with these restraints, you find the precautions excessive. Not even a master escape artist could get out of this. It’s nice to know he thinks you so resourceful.

Faint light shines in your room as the door screeches open, revealing your captor. In his scarred hands is a bag of takeout. He offers a nod of the head in acknowledgement to you, shutting the door behind him. It’s impossible for you to ignore the quickening of your pulse in his presence. You collect yourself to the best of your ability, face remaining composed. Will he make another lascivious offer in exchange for more comforts? The fear of the unknown is like a shadow in the night, creeping over and devouring you. There’s no telling what Dabi might do or say. It’s a constant guessing game. You square your shoulders, making a point of looking Dabi in the eye. Maintaining eye contact is a sign of strength.

“What? No thank you for your knight in shining armor?” Dabi inquires, tilting his head. His voice holds a playful lilt that almost makes you roll your eyes. He’s enjoying every second of this. 

“That’s not the role I’d associate with you.” You respond with a dismissive shrug. The two of you always banter like this, seeing who will crack first under the immense pressure. You have found yourself getting used to these encounters. At first, you didn’t find it wise to possibly earn the wrath of your captor with snark, but those feelings have since changed. Now that you’re more familiar with Dabi, the words flow from your tongue with ease. He never makes a point of stopping the behavior. There’s a tension in the air whenever you’re in a room together, that Dabi always instigates. You’re only returning his own energy.

“I was thinking,” he starts with a sharp inhale, taking a seat in front of you on the ground. “You seemed so willing to do what I asked last time. Why not always keep that attitude up, sugar?” 

You raise an eyebrow at the implication of his words. “That depends on you. What’s in it for me?” 

“Oh, I dunno. Maybe getting out of this shithole? Not that you seemed to like my other place much better,” he motions to the derelict room around you to emphasize his point. “Still beats this dump. How ‘bout it?” 

It’s like you predicted. After Dabi got a better taste of you, he can’t help but want to come back for more. You can’t deny the thrill that comes with hooking up with him. There’s a semblance of control, knowing that you can hold something over him. He could theoretically take whatever he desires, yet prefers you give yourself to him willingly, for whatever convoluted reason. It’s difficult to deny the satisfaction from your previous rendezvous. One of the first things Dabi explained to you was that life would be so much easier for the both of you with your compliance. Resentment and pride were roadblocks to this initially. Now you’ve grown weary of all the games and hiding. The sparks of resistance have been methodically snuffed out, and all you want now is a little solace. 

Your reply comes as a surprisingly fast response to you both. “Sounds like a deal. After I eat though.” 

Dabi wasn’t expecting you to be this easy, not after the stunts you’ve pulled. His eyes search, scrutinizing your schooled expression for something hidden beneath the surface. You’re met with distrust, despite him being the one who made the suggestion in the first place. Having sex on an empty stomach doesn’t sound like the best idea. If that’s what it takes to get out of this room, then you’ll  do it. You’ve been waiting for the offer. It doesn’t make you as sick to your stomach as you thought it would, knowing the prize that’ll await after it’s all said and done. Life is a game of adapting, and you’re playing by those rules. The rules that Dabi himself established.

You break the silence yourself, hunger making you impatient. “You did offer me this food, right?” 

“You’re a sharp one, princess. I picked it out for you myself. Hope you like Chinese.” 

He reaches into the bag, shuffling around for the takeout containers. The scent of fried noodles, rice, and chicken fills the air, which piques your attention. It’s by all means a simple meal, and you couldn’t be happier. When you’re as hungry as you are, it might as well be a gourmet buffet. Dabi himself admitted to not being the best chef, so most of your meals have consisted of this quality. Or, on the occasion, he’d let you cook. Partaking in one of your hobbies is a nice distraction that he makes you work for. He’s always such a pain in the ass...

Dabi fiddles with the key ring in his pocket. Looking you in the eye, he gives a sly smile. “You wouldn’t do anything stupid, would you?” 

You look down at your restraints, a result of doing just that. “Me? I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

“Mm. Let’s hope so. Would hate for you to make me think up yet another punishment.” 

You don’t want to give him the fearful reaction he’s longing for, opting on maintaining your current visage. Lips pursing together, eyes indifferent, and nose upturned to him. Dabi works through the various locks, the shackles falling to the ground as he unlocks each one. He suddenly takes on a more apathetic air. You know better than to take this at a surface level, feeling him observing your every movement. Anything that could be mistaken as a sign of resistance. You decide to act as natural as possible, to mitigate the suspicion. Really, what does he think you’re going to do? Stab him with the plastic fork this meal comes with? A few months ago, you may have given that a shot, but things feel different now. All you’re interested in is regaining your strength. The first step to that is getting rid of this gnawing hunger. 

There are indents in your wrist from where the shackles were. You stretch the sore muscles, and proceed to go for the food.

“Thanks for the food.” You offers a closed mouth smile, using your now freed hands to open up the boxes. You waste no time indulging in the meal. The grin that you’ve grown accustomed to seeing on Dabi’s face is no longer in sight, replaced by thinly veiled distrust. This conversation is oddly normal. A stark contrast to the extreme circumstance, at least enough to perturb him. What makes him on edge or not is none of your concern. You’re complying, as he’s demanded numerous times. Shouldn’t he be over the moon, if anything? To finally get what he wanted, after months of poking and prodding, a subservient version of yourself. Dabi’s the one who molded you into this shape of his own design.

He props up his chin on his knee, watching you devour the meal. “I wasn’t expecting this room to be what did ya in.” 

You swallow a bite of orange chicken, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand. You don’t want to entertain Dabi in conversation right now. It takes too much brainpower to keep up with him, Dabi always trying to get you to trip over your words. Ignoring him isn’t one of the cards at your disposal, so you give what you hope to be a satisfactory response.

“If it’s of any comfort, it wasn’t just the room.” 

Dabi hums, keen on gaining more information. “Would you be so sweet as to fill me in?” 

“It’s nothing that interesting. I had lots of time to think, or reflect to be more exact. You said it best. What was it again… something among the lines of, the day I decide to be a ‘good girl’, life will be easier,” you reach for a box of rice next, Dabi handing it to you when it’s too far away. “So, this is me doing that. A novel idea, I know.” 

He can’t help but agree with the statement. “You said it best.” 

Dabi’s budding curiosity must’ve been sated by your word, as he now lets you eat in relative peace. The gears in both your minds are turning. Trying to predict what the other may or may not do. It’s a tedious dance, you having a lot more to lose than him. This is what makes it an uneven match up, Dabi capable of exercising far more power over you, even without putting it on display. You’ve seen enough little details to be wary of him. How the news stories in the morning speak of victims burnt to ash, the occasional spots of blood on his jackets, and suspicious material from his shoes. Whenever you’ve worked up the courage to inquire on the origins of it, he’d offer an unsettling smile and ask if you really want to know. 

Ignorance is bliss. Months of isolation, suffering, and cruelty have left you in a state of latching onto any consolation available. It’s a bittersweet idea that your tormentor is what doubles as an essential distraction. When you’re in a heated embrace with him, bodies sweaty and head in disarray, the rest of the world melts away. As if it never existed in the first place. You can forget about your own loneliness, the tears that would normally stain your cheeks that time of night, and the burning resentment for the one on top. Every touch erases a pain, even if it’s for a moment. Giving into the desires of the flesh has never felt so good. 

“Looks like you’re almost done, babe.” Dabi comments with a wolf-like grin. He crawls towards you, uncaring of the lousy conditions of the room. His hand grasps your cheek, massaging the skin, and moving down to your lips. The coarse pad of his thumb rubs circles into your bottom lip, looking down at you through lidded eyes. If you’re going to let him take what he wants, he couldn’t be happier. The possible ramifications will be considered later. For the time being, he wants to feel you underneath him, months of pent up lust finally gaining an outlet. 

“You shouldn’t be the impatient one,” you can’t help but remark, shivering underneath his touch. “I’m the one who has been locked in a room for days.” 

“You’ve got it all wrong. I've just missed you oh so dearly,” Dabi coos into your ear. His lips part to place open mouth kisses over your bare neck, hands starting to feel you up. “From how you’re responding, it looks like you’ve missed me too. How precious.” 

“Keep dreaming, Dabi.” 

“I don’t have to anymore, now that I can fuck you as much as I want.” 

[ka-writes]

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Notes- Did I decide I was gonna write a fic at 2:00 AM? Yes yes I did... anyways I don’t have an archive account yet but I wanted to get it out there.... um here is chapter one of my space AU, because I absolutely fell in love with the AU.

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Inspired by:

Humans are Space Velociraptors

By:FreshRoses_InMyGarden_NeedTheRain

Some kids come from storks, others come from crashed spaceships

By: mmmajora

Home Again, Home Again

By: teeth_eater

All works can be found on Ao3

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Ohh also challenge if you wanna do it, fill in the Title! And another one... if you were an alien what question would you ask a human other than basic questions, like name and age.

Also suggestions are always appreciated! And if you wanna support my main blog it is kadoodle.. also I have no updating schedule so I will when I want to.

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Warnings: Cussing, mentions of tight spaces and characters being trapped, mentions of corpses, and needles.

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“Humans are [Insert text here]”

Chapter 1: Idiots kidnap the wrong kid..

Honestly, life hasn't been bad. His needs were met, most of the time, and he had a.. place to sleep…

Yeah no life wasn’t great.

Tommy was easily, barely, avoiding Social Services. Sleeping on benches and occasionally grass. He got whatever wasn’t wanted and had an official bag for the first time. He had some spare clothes, and no money. The authorities stopped looking for him after a while and the only main challenge was getting essentials.

No one would miss him. No one would look for him. Therefore he was the perfect target among many others. The only thing setting him apart was his sheer ability to survive, not a want, like many of the others, it was a fact he would survive. Not that his captors knew that of course.

Alternative: Tommy gets kidnapped by aliens and sbi rescues him.

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He woke up in a cage.

Not a cell or a room, a fucking cage.

There were a few others in various cages around the room. All of which were either dead or close to it. Most of the ones still alive had been there for months, possibly years. No one knew of course.

The smell of rotting bodies stenched the place with a coppery coating. The room wasn’t large but not quite small. It was dull grey with layers of grime settling on the floor and cages. The room was long and skinny, lined with cages against either wall in a zig zag format. The only light was coming from the small door window, which happened to be positioned right in front of Tommy. It glowed a faint yellow and was blurry, not allowing Tommy to see into the hall.

Shadows would occasionally pass by the window. None ever stopped at it. Causing the ever growing hunger to grow more. Once one had stopped at the door, not for more than a second, before it screeched. It was inhuman and sounded like a hurt hawk from one of those nature documentaries. Tommy shoved his hands onto his ears and waited for it to stop. The thing chuckled, not like a human, but something close to it.

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Tommy waited for what seemed like hours before something happened. The door opened, sliding into the ceiling. A weird looking creature stepped in. It looked like it had a porcelain mask over its face with a painted smiley face. There were no ears or hair, instead just more porcelain, which formed a spear which sat on shadows. The thing was wearing a lime green hoodie and black leather pants that seemingly faded into the creature's legs. The knees bent inwards causing it to look awfully awkward as it crouched near Tommy’s cage. The hands were long and lanky with no real palm. The creature also had a tail that looked close to how Tommy pictured a devil's tail to look. This was the first time in ages Tommy was glad to be behind bars.

The thing pointed at itself and said,

“Dream.”

In the most heavily accented English Tommy had ever heard. That didn’t matter as much of the fact that the seemingly painted smile moved with the words.

“Come.”

The creature unlocked the cage and half dragged Tommy out of the cage into what Tommy presumed to be the lab. He noticed a window. The only thing for miles was stars. He was in space. He had been kidnapped by Aliens. Fuck.

——————

Humans were a heavily avoided species. The things were what kids would expect to come out of their closet. They were feared, and for good reason.

The first ship to find Earth was ecstatic. Finding another intelligent species in what would’ve been deemed as a planetary desert was a scientific breakthrough. Causing the entirety of the media to go insane for a couple of years.. That was until the first ship ventured onto the planet. It was immediately shot down. The entire crew was killed and the entirety of the ship was destroyed in a matter of minutes. The ISF (Intergalactic Safety Force) deemed it as a no flight zone and claimed to punish anyone in the desert. Even so poachers smuggled humans and within days had their ship crashed.

The only ones allowed to take humans were scientists, who were specialized in taking care of difficult species. They were allowed to test on said species and do whatever they wanted, in the name of science of course. Most people didn’t care how they treated them and were really only interested in what could kill them.

Which is where Wilbur came in. He was a toxicologist, a scientist studying poisons, he also dealt with various potions and other chemical mixes. This knowledge is what gained his entry to the Dream Team Ship.

He had been testing on around nine different humans for the past six months on the celestial calendar. This time Dream, his boss and the captain, brought in a juvenile human. He was skinny and lanky. Clearly had been starving before being taken. He felt bad before shaking off his pity.

“V74 and V83. Make sure he can communicate beforehand.” Dream promptly stated before leaving the kid in the room.

Wilbur tried not to think about his terrified face, before he clipped on the translator. Usually it is worn on the back of the head, since humans brains are vastly different than most species, it is clipped to the left side of the head.

The translator looks like a simple device when in reality it took dozens of celestial years to perfect it. It’s a small silver disk that ingrains into the part of the brain that controls communicating. After the body gets used to the device it can translate any language into one you understand instantly.

It took a couple more years for the translator to incorporate the estimated 7,000 languages spoken on Earth. For a planet that has been isolated it has a more complex and diverse set of cultures and languages, than Pellucidian has had in centuries. To say Wilbur was jealous, wouldn’t be far from the truth. Not that he studied cultures for a living. It was something that always interested him.

He put the device on the kid’s head and grimaced at the pain that was on the kid’s face. He quickly dried up the blood and mixed a solution that would ease the pain. It was clear and tasted like water, which is the only way they got humans to take the pain reduction.

The kid relaxed for a spilt second before tending at the unfamiliar setting.

“Where am I?” He snapped, causing Wilbur to jump back a bit, before collecting himself and standing up.

“The Dream Team craft’s labatory.” The kid’s face flashed with panic for a split second, “You have two testings scheduled for today. It will go quickly.”

“Will it be painful?” The kid asked. As standard for testing, Wilbur ignored the question and measured the substances. He quickly cleaned the puncture spot before giving him the needle.

The kid winced in pain. Wilbur swiftly led him to the testing chair. It had restraints that moved with the patient's body, which prevented bruising while keeping them in place. Wilbur clicked them on and sat at the desk located to the left of the kid.

“What did you inject into me?” The kid asked clearly trying to fight off the anesthetic.

“A dosage of Lidocaine, which is an anesthetic for your species. It’s only to numb pain that may come with the solutions we will be using today.” The kid’s face flashed with a deeper panic than before, causing Wilbur to tense. “We won’t start yet, since we have a list of questions to go through before we begin.” Wilbur lied. He hated testing people, especially kids. Dream of course didn’t care, like the rest of the Dreamon species. It made him sick. That was when he made a split second decision. Hoping he could get a distress signal out, without alerting the other crew members. He was gonna get the kid off the ship, at the next stop of course. Which was in three celestial hours.

The kid scoffed, clearly not believing the lie. He paused a moment thinking over his options before he smirked,“Fine. Ask me what you want bitch-boy!” Wilbur gasped, clearly not anticipating the insult.

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Chapter 1 End

1406 words

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End notes: Why the hell does google docs make it so hard to copy and paste??

Also I had to do some intense googling for this... I hope you enjoyed!

(Also also this is my first ever fanfic... please give feedback and reblog!!)

Minor mistakes are forgiven... don’t expect me to be perfect... I am dyslexic.

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Tommy: ....

Wilbur: ....

*intense starring*

Wilbur POV: I am kidnapping it.

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Chapter 2:

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.), Part XXVII (A Tale’s End)

I would have walked away from this story (forever) a very long time ago if it weren’t for the constant and unwavering support of @notevenjokingfic and @balfeheughlywed. They have held my hand through this – through my tantrums, through my protestations that I didn’t know what I was doing, and through the times I begrudgingly admitted that I actually like the end of product. This story is dedicated to them and to their friendship. This has been a ride, and writing it has been an endurance contest. My gratitude to everyone who has read this, liked it, reblogged it, favorited it, or sent me a message. This is the end. I hope you enjoy. xx.

Part I: The Crown Equerry | Part II: An Accidental Queen | Part III: Just Claire | Part IV: Foal | Part V: A Deal | Part VI: Vibrations | Part VII: Magnolias | Part VIII: Schoolmates | Part IX: A Queen’s Speech | Part X: Rare | Part XI: Watched | Part XII: A Day’s Anticipation | Part XIII: The Location | Part XV: Motorcycle | Part XV: Cabin | Part XVI: Market | Part XVII: Stables | Part XVIII: Alarms | Part XIX: Visitor | Part XX: Cuffed | Part XXI: A Woman’s Speech | Part XXII: The Harlot Queen | Part XXIII: Rarer | Part XXIV: Balmoral & London | Part XXV: The Ring | Part XXVI: Baile na Coille

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XXVII: A Tale’s End

Claire’s limbs were leaden, and yet she rose from the bed.

Fraser’s sleepy noises (ones she teased sounded Scottish) were missing, and his long, even breaths had risen from bed with him.

In the absence of his noises, it was quiet, too quiet.

The scent of him (sage and clove) was like a mislaid memory (an empty space where it had been tucked against her nape), and the duvet was cool when she flopped one arm over into the bedding.

She already knew that Jamie was gone.

She rose and slipped into her dressing gown before making her way down the hall. Her feed had carried her down the halls on many nights, her arms clutching their colicky bairn and tracing a path that she had hoped (usually in vain) would soothe her.

She did not bother to flick on a single light switch.

In London, the underbelly of their home was always in motion. The clamor of it all made her mind whir, her eyes rebel in the night to focus on the ceiling, and her fingers clutch to insomnia.

At Balmoral, the quiet was like another layer of skin, and the stillness went to the center of her bones.

Scotland.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their one-week honeymoon before setting off on a tour of the Commonwealth’s various holdings.

It had been in Fraser’s cabin that they spent their one-week honeymoon, her body feeling like the crescendo of a symphony under his hands and lips. Idly tracing the conch-shaped curve of his bared hip bone, Claire wondered aloud whether the walls of the cabin would keep their secrets. Turning his new wife gently onto her back (“my Queen” – a breathless, almost-whimper on his lips) and rising over her, Fraser had touched her belly and kissed the space between the clotheslines of her clavicles. Breathlessly, he asked her to commit that when they spoke, it would only be truth.

There was room for secrets, but no lies.

She had agreed, just as breathlessly, and he held her hand as he kissed down her body, glancing up her sternum before closing his mouth over her.

It was here that Claire had demanded they spend their first months as a family of three.

On the same bed from which she had just risen, she had given birth to an heir.

It had been the last thing on her mind.

They had been married for six months.

With Jamie’s hand crushed in hers, and his sister mopping sweat from her forehead (a bond she quietly conceded once reminded her of her own sister), their baby came into the world.

With a final push, an immense feeling of relief flooded her. She felt light, like her body was no longer being twisted in opposite directions by a molten-hot vice, as though the weight of an entire kingdom was not bearing down on her pelvis.

The relief was short lived.

Claire’s arms quaked under the effort of pulling herself fully upright. She breathed for a moment, trying to keep her inhalations even.

The part of her that was relieved was rapidly giving way to a gnawing panic.

Brows furrowing as the umbilical cord was clipped, her eyes darted from Jamie to the doctor who had attended the birth and back again.

“One final push,” the midwife who had been there throughout her labor said, stepping in as the doctor turned away.

“Ye did it,” her husband breathed, only tearing his eyes from his wife’s face to look at the silent bundle in the midwife’s hands.

“No…” Claire breathed, the weight that had been bearing down on her lower half suddenly in her chest, expanding and contracting, wheedling its way into the space between her bones and her organs. “No.”

“A nighean–” Jamie started, but she shook her head.

“Tell me it’s okay. That the baby...”

He said nothing, his hand closing over the cap of her shoulder as he craned his neck.

His breaths were short, dry, shallow.

Her voice was imploring as she snapped, “Jamie. I can’t… if the baby is… tell me that-”

And then the wailing came.

A desperate, fevered, cold yowl that sounded almost inhuman. It would not stop, and she prayed that it never would as long as it meant that their baby (mysterious, puckered, purple, blood-covered) would suck in breath after life-sustaining breath.

“The bairn…” Jamie started, immediately fading away as his voice cut.

“She’s just fine, mam,” Jenny laughed, gently moving a soft cloth over the birth-slicked baby. Claire had nodded, still feeling the nagging tug of uncertainty in her belly until she saw the bundle move from Jenny’s arms to Jamie’s.

She lowered herself back to the pillows stacked behind her back, sighing and thanking God.

Julianna Alexandra Elizabeth Faith, the heir apparent and tiniest member of the royal House of Beauchamp, was perfect – ten fingers, ten toes, button nose, cap of jet-black hair, earlobes with skin as soft as velvet, and the smallest bow of a mouth.

She barely heard the words that followed.

Blood.

The commands.

Back up.

The pleas.

She has to be okay. Ye dinna ken, she’s everything.

Their perfect daughter had torn her spectacularly, and just twenty minutes after giving birth in their bedroom, Claire was transported to the hospital, where she went into surgery for hours and stayed for six nights.

It was behind her now, left in some small hospital retrofit to make way for a postpartum queen. What remained was Balmoral – the place where she could ensconce herself in the history of her lineage as she wrote the history of her own family.

She could live here in Scotland.

As a wife.

As a mother.

As a woman, above all else.

Try as she did, she never felt that way in London.

The easiness of this place. The way that it felt like home, even though her accent was a reminder that it had not always been her home.

On this night, a little over six months after the birth of Julianna, she heard Jamie before she saw him.

His voice was low, a mix of Gaelic and English. All of his words blurred together.

As carefully as possible, she toed the door open another inch and leaned against the doorframe.

“She’s a braw one, yer mam.” He was shirtless, but shrouded in a plaid on the chaise at the center of the sitting room just outside their suite. Flames popped and crackled in the hearth, small bursts of sparks spiraling up and up as the fattest log broke in two. “Ye should’ve seen her, laborin’ wi’ ye. She’s a fearsome thing, ye ken. Ye didna make it easy on her, refusin’ to come out… she was so set on meetin’ ye.”

Claire mopped away the stinging in her eyes with the hem of her robe.

“I didna ken if I could love something as much as I love ye, mo chridhe, but seein’ ye, it’s as if a piece of my own heart, my brain, and my wame lives outside me. I felt it the moment yer mam told me that ye were in her belly. Above all, I kent I must protect ye both, and I will. Until the day I no longer draw breath.”

Claire’s own breath was coming ragged now, listening to him. She had not expected to feel so different in the aftermath of the easy pregnancy and long labor.

To feel as though her emotions were like a balloon on the end of a long string, floating high above her head at all times. As though the slightest breeze could shift them, change her entire existence.

“And someday, when ye’re no’ a bairn, we’ll share wi’ ye how ye surprised us, a leannan.”

Julianna let out the quietest coo that made Claire’s thighs and fingertips tremble. She wanted to take her baby in her arms, to have her close, to take comfort from the fact that her soft limbs were still warm, that her heavy head was held firmly in place by an increasingly-strong neck.

Out of hand, the doctor had dismissed the ebbs and flows of these moods as baby blues. Jamie, in turn, dismissed the doctor with no slight amount of outrage, demanding that someone with “the sense the good lord gave a turnip” help his wife.

That the fog was not imagined. The sense of isolation she felt, even when surrounded by people, was not a matter of someone just being around for her more. The feeling of disconnection from their baby was not a function of being Queen.

Sticking a finger into the doctor’s paunch, Jamie had hissed that the Queen (“my fucking wife”) would not be so dismissed, that if he refused to help, they would find someone who could, who would.

Jamie was a hands-on father, and she was grateful for it. Even with all of the help her status (their shared status) could bring, he made himself present. He rose with her in the night, brought her warm compresses when she shed tears over engorged breasts and cracking nipples. He changed diapers with little more protest than a wrinkled nose at the spectacular streaks of shit that would somehow paint themselves up their daughter’s spine. And he did what he could in the darker days just to be near, even if it meant holding Claire’s hand in the dark and wiping away her seemingly sourceless tears.

But the fog had started to lift, the haze in Claire’s eyes becoming less impenetrable.

Just weeks earlier, she said she was ready to ride again.

And they did.

They picnicked at night, after dark when the baby nurse had assured them she was quite alright.

He plucked roses from the garden to tuck behind her ears.

They stole kisses with her back gently pressed against trees or with his on a picnic blanket, her rounded hips cupped by his hands as she tentatively reintroduced the friction of her body to his.

And one evening a few nights later, when he had looked away for only a minute before turning back, his wife was slipping free of her blouse, her curls wild and her smile wide as she unclasped her bra.

That night, with the sounds of summer as the backdrop and the late-night-Scottish-dusk just descending into dark, they made love in the stables, their bodies joining for the first time in months. He took his time, asked her again and again if she was sure, if she was ready. When she winced, he stopped. She shook her head, then nodded with a sigh as he began to move inside of her with an almost-exquisite tenderness. They were cautious with each other, circumspect, as though either might be broken by a hurried touch or indelicate mouths. Utterly besotted by one another’s bodies and the way intimacy felt familiar, comfortable, and lived in.

At the scene in front of her, just days after their reconnection, Claire swallowed hard, silently begging her eyes to dry out. She had shed enough tears in the last six months to last a lifetime.

“Ye wanted to be in our wedding, so ye nested yerself early in yer mam’s belly, ye fierce wee thing. We’ll show ye the pictures. The day I married yer mam is the happiest day of my life... second only to the day that I met her…” At that, Julianna let out the lowest little whimper of a cry, and Jamie tut-tutted for a moment, then continued, “Her fat arse was leanin’ over the gate in the stable, and I couldna stop smiling.”

“Hey,” Claire breathed in feigned exasperation, stepping fully into the room. “My arse was not that fat, and I quite enjoyed our wedding day. Also, I’ll thank you not to teach the heir to the throne such things.”

“I kent ye were there,” Jamie said as he looked over, humming. “I have a hunter’s senses for yer presence, a nighean.”

Claire pursed her lips, rolling her eyes as she strode the rest of the way across the sitting room. Carefully, she took the bundle from his arms. “I think this wee girl’s nighttime garbling, and our resultant insomnia, are enough to dull even the most astute tracker’s senses.”

Jamie lifted the edge of his plaid, allowing Claire to slip in beneath its warm folds. She centered herself between his legs, leaning against his bare chest as she carefully slipped one bare breast through the neckline of her robe. Jamie’s hand rested loosely on her waist, his fingers flexing for just a moment as Julianna’s lips parted then closed around Claire’s nipple. Claire stiffened for a moment, then relaxed backwards into his chest. Julianna left one soft palm to rest just above Claire’s heart.

Closing her eyes, one hand cupped behind Julianna’s head and one on the baby’s soft bum, Claire whispered, “Tell me about the wedding. What would you tell her?”

“Our wedding?”

Claire opened her eyes and craned her head back just enough that he could see her roll her eyes. “Whose wedding do you think I want to hear about?”

“Jenny’s maybe?” he posited, eyes crinkling at the corners as her shoulders bounced with hardly-contained laughter.

The baby’s mouth slipped free and an impressive stream of milk sprayed her cheeks. Jamie and Claire’s laughter was cut short by the soft, threatened grumble of their bairn. It was a precursor to a cry from the suddenly quite-crabby Julianna. With the baby gently mopped up, and returned to her middle-of-the-night suckling, Jamie began to recount the wedding day. By then, Julianna had one eye half-closed, the other lazily roving around in an utterly useless attempt to focus on something as she fed.

“I didna expect ye to look the way ye did. I kent ye’d be beautiful, of course, but I thought somehow ye’d be someone else’s bride, ye ken? That ye’d be dolled up for a ceremony. A queen prepared for a royal wedding – no’ for our wedding – but there ye were. Ye were as bonnie as I’d ever seen ye… as bonnie as I thought I’d ever see ye. At least until I saw ye like this… wi’ our bairn at yer breast, and Christ, I dinna ken what I did to have such a rare woman love me.”

She felt warmth flood her cheeks, the tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes. Bloody Scot. “You looked pretty handsome yourself in that uniform that I knew you did not want to wear.”

A long hum came from him, the vibration beginning low in his chest and making her own body vibrate.

The wedding was not the ordinary royal nuptials in ways that went even further than the fact that she was carrying the heir to the throne.

The dress she wore was light, modern, and cut just right to conceal their secret. Together, they had carefully wrapped it in tissue and tucked it away at his cabin. So it wouldn’t end up in some stuffy museum with a bland placard, she explained as she rose on tiptoes to push it to the back of a closet.

They married in candlelight, with a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the gardens at Balmoral in her hand.

She wore Jamie’s ring, and for some reason she was not at all surprised when her hand did not tremble as he slid it over her knuckle and let his fingers linger on the band for a moment. Her own voice was low as she slipped a band of gold down his finger, whispering the words back to him that he had said to her.

I give you this ring, James Fraser, as a sign of our marriage and mutual trust, our love and our promise to care for one another over all others.

The papers could scoff all they wanted, muse over what a slap in the face it was to the Commonwealth she headed. To give away power, a piece of her divine right.

Nevertheless, she gave herself to him, just as he gave himself to her. She had done it long before that moment, long before the promise concluded.

This day. All of the days we have remaining.

Julianna grunted, released, and whimpered the start of a gut-wrenching, milky cry before latching on again with only the slightest encouragement. This time, both of her eyes closed and her hand fell to a tiny, balled fist above her brows.

“She has a tooth coming in,” Jamie whispered, his hand slipping up Claire’s arm and coming to rest on her shoulder.

“Trust me,” Claire murmured. “I can feel the bloody thing.”

Claire allowed her eyes to close, her attention somehow equally split between her husband’s even breathing and the gentle suckling at her breast. She felt Jamie tuck her hair behind her ear and kiss her temple.

“Ye’re a braw queen, mo nighean donn, but ye’re more than that. Sae much more.”

She wet her lips and turned her head, slowly shifting the now-sleeping bundle in her arms. “Is this what you thought it would be, Fraser?” There was no tentativeness in her voice – it was as though she already knew the answer, but just wanted to hear him say it. “Your life here... with me?”

Humming, his hand skimmed down her upper arm, cupped her elbow, and then found its way to her fingers. His palm covered her hand, and his fingers brushed the narrow expanse of their baby’s lower back.

“Ye helped me come back to life, Sassenach. All that time after the war, I was dead. I didn’t ken it then, but I loved ye then. Before I met ye.”

Running a finger along Julianna’s cheek and tucking her breast back into her robe, Claire whispered, “I loved you both before I met you. You brought me to life, Fraser. I always will love you.”

Fraser shifted, his stubbled cheek against hers as he wound an arm around his queen’s waist and drew her closer.

“So long as my body lives, and yours—we are one flesh,” he whispered. The magnolias at Balmoral smelled like zested citrus and honey. The scent was in the air along with the smoke from the fire Jamie started. Julianna cooed quietly and nestled her face against Claire’s breast, her lips having gone slack. “And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. Claire—I swear by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you.”

Claire closed her eyes, the feeling of his rising and falling chest against her back and that of their baby on her own chest.

This was her beginning.

The End