#the old red bus station

[centralbeatz]

Back into the fray with another tough hitting exclusive session with a debut set from Melsyma this February at the Old Red Bus Station! With distinctive and original tracks on the likes of RAM, Sofa Sound Bristol and Symmetry Recordings, Melysma has a bright year ahead with shed loads of new Drum & Bass smashers in the pipeline - we know you’re gonna love this one. 

Support comes from T3stament who’s been mad unstoppable at present, tearing up decks across at pretty much every party across Leeds lately, as well as Delta from local crew ‘Olympus’ who have a reputation for seriously fresh and technical tune selections. Our resident collective of Skye, Myras & LD50 keep the vibe pulsing all night with LD adding hype on the mic.

All this for only £4+BF - we’ve got a mammoth party line up, all you’ve got to do is just get down and jump into the vibe!

[davescumbag]

another dj - david james barton

[bomber-grl]

Hiro x Drop dead gorgeous!reader

Pairing(s): Hiro Hamada x Gn!Reader

To say you’re good looking would be a severe understatement and everyone knew it

Even hiro had to admit that when he first saw you he had to take a moment to collect himself

Which only got worse when you got introduced to him and became part of the group

And of course, you eventually started dating

Hiro never said it out loud but DAMN

Seriously, you’re really good looking and even if he tries to act non chalant it was getting more and more difficult to ignore

He was always reminded of it too

You’d be walking to the bus station or maybe just walking back to the lucky cat cafe

But either way people would always be staring and those who were bold enough actually approached you to compliment you

Hiro was used to it, I mean he knew and everyone knew so it wasn’t some elaborate secret

But he did get jealous occasionally

Even if he tries shrugging it off more for your convenience

You’re obviously with hiro because you absolutely adore him and unfortunately you’ve been oblivious to his jealousy

That is, until you both are standing by waiting for honey lemon and the rest of the group while at SFAI

You’d just been chilling and goofing off like usual when a presumably student approaches you two

They completely ignore hiros presence and aim for you

They immediately ask for you to be their muse for their paintings and the other asks if you’d do the same but for their photographs

Eventually the group arrives and they (especially gogo) shoos them away and the rest of the evening continues

But it isn’t until you’re walking back to the lucky cat cafe after getting off a bus that some rando was near by and approached

Same old same old

But it was different, the person asked if you’d like to join their company and who knows what really

In the end they handed you a card for a modeling company and when you turned to a very confused hiro and explained how this was one of many cards you have in your drawer back home he was flabbergasted

I mean not only did you catch everyone’s attention and made hiro feel excluded by that but also making him feel insecure

Yea, actually shocking

You could tell hiro wasn’t in the best mood once you got back to his room and when you ask he just explodes

Not at you- just in general

He goes off on how he feels and his cheeks flush and angry red when he begins to explain his jealousy in a non direct way

He knew you’d tease him but when you hugged and reassured him instead he already felt better

Enough of the more angst hcs let’s move into the sweet ones

Best believe hiro was TEASED when you two first got together by the group

I mean it was so obvious how he couldn’t even look you in the eye at first because of how good looking you were

It was all just so funny and knowing you like him back made it even more so

Hiro is a menace and we all know how he often is sassy and just participates in gremlin activities

Butttt luckily for you you can use your looks and hiros weak spot for them to your advantage

He loves to tease you

All.the.time.

So when you’re finally able to you do it to the best of your abilities and go all out

He gets absolutely k.o’d

Which he 100% deserves

Honestly most times he’s just unapologetically down bad while simultaneously trying to avoid having you see his red ass face

He’s such a cutie patootie

He’d seriously be upset when some other guy approaches you with the idea of dating you

Doesn’t blame you for it tho

[freezingmcxn]

hey.. how you doing.. can you maybe make a lil thingy about toby like you did with the eyeless jack thing I'm just really focused on Toby right know idk why but like write it however you want I just want to see your writing on how you rhing he looks and acts take your time you dont even have to do it I love you I love you i love you I love you I love you I love you I lovw you

TOBY ROGERS APPEARANCE (AU)

AHH YES I CAN my motivation is so bad but these always make me really happy and are easy to write so OFC ILY!!

Toby’s hair is a pale, sun-bleached brown, almost blonde, falling to his neck and curling around his ears.

Naturally curly, his hair has become dry and unkempt from bathing in river water and using cheap soap. His curls puff out, lacking any defined shape.

Occasionally, in a fit of frustration, he shaves it all off or trims it, often in a dingy ass gas station bathroom, depending on how much he despises it at the time.

Standing around 5’7” (5’8” in boots), Toby’s constant slouching makes him look as if he might topple over at any moment.

His most noticeable feature is the gash on his mouth, though it’s not as large as one might think.

The wound is just big enough to expose his upper teeth, which are rotted and decayed. Despite its size, the injury reeks of infection, with pus occasionally oozing from the diseased tissue.

Toby often picks at it, making the wound larger over time.

Originally, it was a small bite he inflicted on himself, but his constant fiddling turned it into the gaping wound it is now.

He no longer bites at it, disgusted by the taste of his own decaying flesh. He usually covers it with a large plaster—often supplied by Jack or just lets the air hit it, depending on his mood really.

Toby has a small gold hoop earring in his left ear, a relic from a day when he and Lyra decided to pierce it with a needle. He didn’t feel the pain but kept the earring all these years, occasionally fiddling with it as a reminder of her.

His trusty hatchets dangle from a hardware belt around his waist, always clattering when he moves, a sound he makes sure to emphasise because he knows it irritates people.

The hatchets are mismatched, one is large with a dark oak handle, carved with doodles, while the other is smaller, with a plastic handle, but much sharper—often the one he uses for the first hit.

Both handles are wrapped in duct tape, one of his go-to solutions for everything.

Toby’s skin is sallow, marked by long exposure to the sun. Freckles and moles speckle his body.

His hands are scarred and battered, with half of his left pinky finger missing, and his right hand covered in self-inflicted bite marks. His palms are calloused, his nails ragged—some bruised black, others completely gone.

His teeth are a mess—sharp, chipped, and broken, with gaps where some have been knocked out from fights or lost to decay.

Toby doesn’t bother brushing his teeth, as he often forgets or simply doesn’t care. Eating people doesn’t help either, wrecking his teeth further.

He typically wears the same tattered hoodie for as long as he can stand it, only washing it at a laundromat when absolutely necessary (when it’s bloody and stinky).

He also has an old Joy Division t-shirt layered over a white long-sleeve, both full of holes, though Toby doesn’t mind, he wears it on warmer days.

He’s been wearing the same pair of jeans for five years, patching them up whenever needed—he’s surprisingly good at sewing thanks to Lyra.

On his feet are either old Timberland boots, once his father’s, now worn with a hole in the sole, or a beat-up pair of red Converse, duct-taped at the top.

He alternates between them.

Toby owns a fleece jacket, fingerless gloves, and two beanies—one grey and one black.

The black one is torn and faded, but he likes the way it adds to his look.

He carries everything in a worn blue Jansport backpack he once stole from a kid at a bus stop, where he rams all his clothes and supplies.

I think that’s enough 😭😭 I rambled I’m sorry, I didn’t want to say too much because I fear he won’t be as interesting but yeah! Hope you like him :)

[spooky-luvur]

Eyeless Jack x m!Reader

(Summary:a strange man you meet at the store wants more from you than you ever could have guessed)

cw: language, mentions of mild gore

“Ah, shit.”

The keys slip from your hand and clang loudly against the concrete ground, making you wince. Hopefully nobody heard that and swiveled their heads to stare at you as if asking ‘why did you make noise? now we all have to notice you.’

You lower your head to hide your face, quickly snatching the keys and fumbling to stick them in the lock. This apartment building was old- and so were most of the residents. No one complained about the loose windows or the broken air conditioning because maybe they hardly even noticed it. Or maybe they just didn’t care. But rent was cheap, and the only thing you really had to worry about was your left-door neighbor Miss Zhao and her (illegal) cats. You didn’t tell the landlord, and she didn’t play her flute at two in the morning. Speaking of her,

“Such a sweet man. Your wife?”

The older woman smiles at you holding the door open for her as if you didn’t do it every time this happened.

“Still no wife Miss Zhao. Are you interested?” You tease her back, making her laugh as she passes.

“Maybe if I was younger!”

She tells you about her newest kitten as you both make your way up to the second floor. You have to help her past the slippery steps, mentally cursing your landlord once again. You’d call him a cheap bastard, but you know karma would probably bite you in the ass and break your arm or something. Curse you for believing in stuff like that.

“Ah, actually-“

The woman grabs your hand before she opens the door to her apartment, slipping a few bucks in it.

“Get me a pack from the station? I’ll let you pet the kitten.”

“Ha,” you pocket the cash. “Sure thing Miss Zhao. Think I wouldn’t pay for it myself, though?”

She shakes her head as she unlocks the door. “I know you would, that’s the problem. Now- the red ones, please.”

There’s a woman arguing with the cashier as you enter, pressing her fingers against the plastic barrier angrily. The man behind the counter looks like he’d rather be under a bus than here right now. The scene causes you to make a beeline for the back of the store, keen on scouring the snacks till they’re done.

“Hmm. Sweet or sour?”

As you turn to look down the other side of the candy isle, you suddenly realize you’re not alone. There’s a man just off to the side in front of the freezers, tall and dressed in dark clothes. His hands are in the pockets of his jacket casually. You flush in embarrassment, realizing he must have heard you say your stupid thing.

Thankfully the man doesn’t turn his head to look at you. You try to convince yourself he actually hadn’t heard you, and allow yourself to relax and look back at the snacks. You peek back at him when you hear the freezer door being pulled open and see him grabbing a box of frozen waffles. He pauses before grabbing a second box. And then a third.

“Fan of eggos?”

You don’t have time to slap yourself in the face and sprint right out of the store before the tall man turns his body to you. You know he’s looking at you crazy under the sunglasses he’s wearing. He’s also wearing one of those cloth masks famous people wear in public. Covering his entire face? Hood pulled up? This guy was either a celeb or about to rob the store. You suddenly feel less weird.

He tilts his head down at the boxes in his arms.

“Guess so.”

Then he leaves you in the aisle and heads toward the front of the store. Part of you wants to stay here, curl up on the floor and cry- but another part wants to follow the man to see if he actually is about to rob the store. With a jolt of fear, you hurry your way to the cash register and stand in line for a moment before the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you realize the covered man has just stepped up right behind you. There’s a girl in front of you buying some chips and you mentally yell for her to hurry up at the back of her head.

Once she leaves, you realize you hadn’t picked up any snacks and simply ask the cashier for a pack of red cigarettes.

“Smoker, huh?”

The man’s voice makes you jump and you hear him let out a quiet snort at it.

“Ah, no- they’re for a friend.”

You don’t know why he’s talking to you and you don’t know why you’re talking to him- maybe he feels like he needs to because you said something to him earlier? You scream at yourself in your head but you cross your arms and slightly face the man in a way where it won’t look like you’re ignoring him if he says something else, but you won’t look stupid if he doesn’t.

“Drink alcohol?”

You purse your lips and eye the man strangely. That isn’t normally something someone brings up in small talk, but maybe you’ve said worse. You simply shake your head and the man tilts his head the same way he had earlier.

“No poison in you, then?”

Poison. That’s how he chooses to phrase it. It’s a completely normal thing to call it you suppose, but the fact that this weird dude is talking to you like this just sits with you wrong.

“No…no poison.”

He nods, and then you receive the pack, pay, and make your way to the door. Before you push them open though you can’t help but look over your shoulder at the man and the cashier. Maybe he’s going to pull out a gun and ask for cash, or maybe he’s going to reach through the hole and the glass and-

But he simply pulls out some cash and pays for the waffles as normally as anyone else would.

Yeah. Definitely a celebrity.

“Her name is Penny.”

“Because she’s orange?”

“Smart one aren’t you?”

The kitten paws at your hair and you scratch her chin. She purrs loudly in your arms as Miss Zhao smiles at the scene, sipping her tea.

“I wish I had balls like you, Miss Zhao.”

“Ai!” She lightly whacks you in the back of the head. “Watch your mouth around the cats, boy.”

You laugh and are about to apologize when your phone rings in your pocket, making both you and Penny jump. You groan internally before pulling it out to look at the screen.

“Dang. I gotta go, I have to edit a few reports.” You stand with the kitten and are about to place her back in the woman’s lap before she holds up a hand to stop you.

“Take her for the night, she seems to like you.”

The kitty meows and you look down at her, unsure.

“Really? I don’t-“

“Just put her out in the hall if she needs to go potty, I’ll keep my door open.”

“Alright. Sure, then. I could use the company.”

The cat has no problem lounging on your feet at you sit at your desk. Every once in a while she’ll meow and you’ll reach down to pat her head, but you accept the fact that she’s fairly calm for such a young kitten.

“Ugh…wrong date? You’ve worked there for three years…” Shaking your head as you correct the error, Penny paws at your legs. “What? You just had a snack, kitty.” She meows loudly and you sigh in defeat, scooping her up and standing.

“Alright I get it. Potty break- I could use one too.”

You open your door and set her down in the hall, peeking out to make sure Miss Zhaos was open as she said she would have it. Sure enough, it is- so you turn and make your way to the bathroom as the back of your apartment.

Your bathroom shares a wall with Miss Zhaos bedroom so it isn’t strange to here her television playing her shows, or to hear one of her cats knock something over- followed by cursing in chinese. In fact these things are so normal that it becomes strange when you don’t hear them, knowing the woman should be in her apartment at the time. She naps around noon and doesn’t sleep until a few hours from now so her apartment being totally silent has you scrubbing your hands a bit quicker.

“Miss Zhao?” You peer into her open doorway and lightly knock on the frame. No one answers aside from a couple meows of her cats, so assume she simply is sitting somewhere further inside- absorbed in a book or something. Satisfied with that conclusion, you turn to make your way back to your own room. Well you would have done that, if you hadn’t seen something that made you pause in your tracks.

Penny meows happily as the man from the gas station rubs her head. His gloved hand scratches her chin before he turns to face you.

The stories on the news of houses and apartments being broken into by a man in a blue mask always made you turn your tv to a different channel. You’d rather watch a kids show or something than hearing about people being killed. Maybe that’s why you haven’t turned tail to run to the lobby yet, or maybe it was the weapon strapped to his thigh.

“Cute cat. Yours?”

You startle as the man speaks. Same voice, very similar clothes. It has to be the same guy. It is, of course- but part of you absolutely refuses to acknowledge it. You shake your head. “No. Neighbors.”

Again, why were you talking to him? If you tried anything else, would he just hold up his gun and shoot you in the chest, or maybe the face? A closed-casket funereal is not something you want to think about.

He nods. “Met her. Nice lady.”

A glance over at the open doorway makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You look back over at the man who’s simply standing there casually.

“Yeah?” You say. “Where is she?”

A subtle (or what you thought was subtle) step back toward your door makes the man tilt his head. The gesture is so similar to what you saw earlier that it makes your stomach lurch and your feet cement themselves to the floor.

“Asleep,” he takes a step forward as if he was about to start a normal conversation with you and not hurt you very badly, “like I thought you would be. So, that makes things a bit more complicated.”

“Sorry about that.” You can’t help but snark. This guy really thinks he’s all that? You’re not as tall as him- not as lean, but maybe you’re faster. Maybe you can get to the fire escape before he-

Before you can finish the thought he’s lunging forward and that’s the moment your feet break through the rock weighing you down and promptly sprint in the opposite direction. Both yours and the man’s pounding footsteps on the carpet sound throughout the hall of the complex. You now it’s stupid to hope that someone would open their door and save you from whatever this monster wanted to do to you. No one in here sticks their nose in anyone’s business- not even those who need help.

A hand grabs your hair and yanks your head back, making you shriek and grab at his wrists.

“Let me go you fucking psycho! Someone’s already called the cops and they’ll bust your ass-“

A kick to your bum and you’re collapsing to the floor with an embarrassing yelp. The air is knocked out of you but you don’t have time to get it back before the masked man is on you and painfully digging a knee into your sternum.

“Didn’t think you would run.”

The bastard doesn’t even sound out of breath despite his sudden cardio. He takes your hands that are currently batting at him pathetically and grips them tight with one of his, reaching into his pocket with the other. You recoil in disgust as the tar substance flowing from the eyes of his mask drip onto your face, slipping across your nose and lips. You groan and twist your head in an attempt to wipe it off on your shoulder before your chin is tightly gripped and you’re forced to face him.

“Don’t move,” he tells you as you finally see what’s in his hand. “Nothing is gonna hurt.” He brings the smelly cloth closer to your face and with a sudden surge of adrenaline, you take advantage of the fact that he’s using only one hand to hold your wrists to twist them out of his grip and hit him in the throat. It’s petty and a bit of embarrassing if you stopped to think about it, but it has him sputtering and backing off enough for you to get to your feet and run back to your room.

You breathe heavily as you back away from the door after bolting it shut. Running your hands through your hair, you hurry over to your kitchen to grab the biggest knife you own. Unfortunately it isn’t very big, and you curse yourself for not being too into meats. That’s when you suddenly remember the bag under your bed you keep in case anything like this would have happened.

‘I have a bat in my room I have a bat in my room I have a bat in my-‘

You want to scream and cry as you turn the corner and see him waiting in the hallway for you.

“You fucking stalker, what the hell do you want?!” There are frustrated tears in your eyes and you wipe them away roughly. No way you were about to cry in front of this guy. But you were going to die. You were going to die for no fucking reason. Because a random dude saw you in the store and wants to fulfill his sick fantasies.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” is all he says. The reply makes you scoff.

“Yeah, because I’m going to believe that?! You killed an old woman!” Your heart aches for poor Miss Zhao and her cats. No one else knows they’re there- if you die, who will take care of them?

“I didn’t kill her.” He pulls the cloth out again and you want to just fall to the floor and give up. What were you supposed to do?

“I promise, I didn’t hurt her. I’m not going to hurt you either,” he repeats, taking steps forward. You know you should be terrified- trembling and light on your feet- but you just stand in place as the man reaches you and places a hand on the back of your neck.

“Just need you asleep.” He murmurs, bringing the soaked cloth up to your mouth.

Your eyes look up to meet his- or, whatever’s in place of them. They’re hollow and continuously spilling the strange gloop that stains his jacket. It’s awful, horrible, terrible-

You close your eyes as they grow heavy, feeling his hands tighten against you. Your body sags against his as you get weaker and if he isn’t going to kill you then you can only hope he catches you if you fall.

If death is this cold, part of you wishes you’ll end up in Hell. But then your leg twitches and hits against something solid and you realizes you aren’t dead at all.

You crack your eyes open and it takes a moment for your vision to clear enough for you to see you’re in your bathroom. The smooth ceramic of your bathtub is under you, but you’re more distracted by the dark figure hunched over your body prodding at something on your stomach.

“Still won’t leave me alone?” You grumble. The man’s mask tilts up and your breath catches at the still chilling sight.

“I’m making sure you’ll live. Which you will.”

Finally, your mind clears and you shiver as the cold of the ice bath you’re in sets. “What did you do?” You think you have the right to ask him that, at least. He pulls his hand out of the water and shakes it off.

“I took your right kidney-“

”Jesus.” Your head thunks against the lip of the tub and it swirls with pain for a moment. “The fucks wrong with you?”

His shoulders shake in silent laughter and you swat at him. Asshole. “You wouldn’t want me to explain it to you.” He has the balls to say.

“You’re crazy. I needed that thing.” Your speech slurs as you grow more exhausted, slouching further into the tub. At least there’s ice in it. You think you’d rather die than have your dick out in front of this guy.

“No you didn’t,” he says, but you simply wave a hand at him and accept the fact that your life is in his hands for now. As you slip back into unconsciousness you pray that he knows what to do with it.

[cloudyeventss]

I thought I try my hand at writing a little story about being 141's assistant. I'm not sure where I'm taking this or even if I should continue. Let me knoww but be sweet. This is literally my first attempt at writing anything

Warnings~ cussing, slightly anxious ? Idk

Y/n pov

He's staring right at me. Slouching slightly to his left, strands of blue dyed hair peeking out underneath his hat. He clearly hasn't been sleeping, I can see the dark circles under his eyes. I don't think I’ve seen him blink once. This is too much. Too fucking much I'm starting to fidget with the belt of my purse, shifting back n forth trying to ease my nerves. I'm overwhelmed and overestimated. This bus smells worse than a gas station bathroom, it doesn't help it’s hotter than the damn desert in here, my sweater is starting to itch and the constant sound of the buses bell going off is enough to make my head explode. GOD why did my car have to break down today? sweat is beading my forehead I feel nauseous. GOD DOES THIS MAN EVER BLINK?!? *ding* fuck finally my stop. I've never been more relieved in my life to leave somewhere... stepping outside I feel like I can breathe again not by much though, last night, laying in bed i got a call from my father's friend Laswell telling me to meet her at a Cafe not too far from my home. Usually, I wouldn't be so nervous to see her, being Laswell and my father worked together for the past 10 years. She’s been around quite a few times but this time She spoke about a potential job opportunity as an assistant overseas. I'm not even sure I heard her right, i was a bottle deep into Apothic red wine. Nothing special but drink enough it’ll knock you on your ass. I've been anxious ever since. After finishing my associates degree in mind and body psychology, I wasn't sure I wanted to continue with school. Maybe I just need a break, but I also need a job. I take one final deep breath to attempt to calm my nerves as I wipe my sweaty palms down my jeans. Okay now’s the time to be confident y/n don't freak out .....

There she is sitting with her back against the wall right in between both exits like always. I'd say she's paranoid but with the work she does it's more justifiable. Laswell stands to greet me "Y/n , it's great to see you!" She moves to sit, and I follow. " it's good to see you too Kate, it's been awhile" . Lunch goes by smoothly; it always was easy falling into conversation with her. A red headed waitress with long legs and black trim glasses drops us our check before walking off to tend to her other tables. My eyes follow her as she passes, she's one of those girls who are effortlessly beautiful. Laswell gains my attention again " so your father tells me you are looking for work"

" I am"

"I could use someone I trust"

"Tell me more"

.....

It'd been two weeks since I met with Laswell, and I accepted the job offer. She explained it mainly consist of filing paperwork and doing whatever task ask of me, running errands, and so on. Kate didn't really give me any details of who I'd work for, just that it was four men she trusted with her life and assured me I'd be in good hands. Today's the day I get on a plane and uproot my whole life. I spent every bit of yesterday taking care of last-minute arrangements. I sold my piece of shit Honda to some high school kid . I almost felt bad for taking his money, but I told him of its issues. In a way I'ma miss Johnny. I named my car after a porn star, Johnny Sins. Ha. It still makes me chuckle . My honda wasn't much, but it always got me where I needed to be hints the name. After taking care of my car I went to see my father. He graciously agreed to look after my apartment for me while I was gone. We spent the rest of the evening watching old westerns on TV and saying our goodbyes.

.....

It's only four hours into the flight, and I'm already regretting my decision. I've spent most of the time in the bathroom emptying my stomach while avoiding angry knocks on the door. The taste of bile in my mouth makes me a little less caring about the people outside. Deciding I can't spend the rest of the flight in the bathroom, I pick myself off the floor and do my best to rinse my mouth. Flying has never sat right with me. I like my feet on the ground instead of tempting God. Regardless, I have to tough it out, its not like I can get them to land now. I walk out the restroom, mumbling hushed, apologizes, and take my seat. Just six more hours.. you got this y/n.

[fruitgoat]

Mapping/Routing the CTA

I'm still blaming @copperbadge for all of this.

As I am taking this trip in my mind, I have chosen to ignore a lot of the challenges the physical world brings.  Like road construction, neighborhood block parties, day of the week, trains that only stop there once a day in the opposite direction, buses that only run a few hours a day, the actual passage of time, etc.  This trip should not be attempted in the Real World – every route and stop apparently still exists, but you might need to wait hours if not days for the correct bus/train.  For the Extra Bonus Points of LOLs and Nostalgia I have included sections of the Metra (Milwaukee Districts North and West and South Shore Electric), Big Bus Tours, and the Water Taxi.

Again, do NOT try this route in Real Time.  Yet.  My ADHD brain may or may not get back to you in a few days on how long it would actually take just so we can all laugh at the idea of getting lost and being forced to sneak around and spend the night in a mattress store at the Golf Mill Shopping Center or whatever.  (Actually, that’s a hell of a meetcute.  I… I might need to go write something now….)

Starting at Linden.

Ride Purple Line to Howard.  Transfer to Yellow Line.

Ride Yellow Line to Dempster-Skokie. (Resist the muscle memory to catch the bus all the way to Deerfield. I really hated that commute.)

Bus to Morton Grove Metra.

Ride (MN) Metra to Mayfair.

Walk to Blue Line (Montrose).  Ride Blue Line to O’Hare.

Stretch legs and bathroom break.  Refill water bottle.  Refuel if needed.

Ride Blue Line back to Harlem. Bus to Fullerton.

Walk around my old neighborhood.  (I think the walk to Caputo’s is worth it, but maybe don’t buy any fresh squid if you’re getting back on the train.)

Ride (MW) Metra from Mont Clare to Grand/Cicero.

Bus to Blue Line (Montrose).  Ride Blue Line to Forest Park.

Bus to Green Line (Harlem/Lake).  Ride Green Line to Cottage Grove.  (I’m stopping along the way to visit family, get something to eat, and maybe nap while charging my electronics.)

Bus to Green Line (Ashland/63rd).  Ride Green Line to Garfield.

Walk to Red Line (Garfield).  Ride Red Line to Dan Ryan.  Hang Around Like An Idiot.  Ride Red Line to Lake.

Transfer to Pink Line.  Ride Pink Line to Cermak/54th, then back to Cicero.

Bus to Midway.  (Unhydrate.  Rehydrate.)  Ride Orange Line to Halsted.  Walk to River.  Or I think there’s a bus that’s just not showing up at the moment.

Water Taxi to West Loop.

Walk to Willis Tower.  (Bonus point for each instance of calling it Sears Tower.) Tour Bus to Museum Campus.

Metra Electric back to Millennium Park Station.

Walk to Washington/Wabash.  Ride Brown Line to Kimball.

Ride Brown Line back to State/Lake.  (Stop at Fullerton if it’s morning.  Walk to Orange and order the pancake flight and watch them fresh squeeze your citrus juice.  Walk to Molly’s if you like cupcakes.  Double Extra Bonus points if you pointedly reminisce about the Meatloaf Bakery when you pass where it was.  Crash a wedding at my old apartment building if you’re really bored. I really miss my neighborhood at the moment.)

Transfer to Red Line.  Ride Red Line to Howard.  (I’m going to stop at Granville for the Memories.  This was my first address in Chicago – even if I technically wasn’t supposed to receive mail because I wasn’t on the lease.)

[mariacallous]

Content warning: This article includes scenes of physical and sexual harassment and assault.

The trouble in Antarctica started in Boston. It was August 1999, and Stanford geologist Jane Willenbring was then a 22-year-old self-described “country bumpkin.” She had just arrived to start her master’s in earth science at Boston University. As an undergrad with an oboe scholarship at North Dakota State University, she’d studied beetle fossils found in Antarctica and learned how, millions of years ago, the now frozen continent once pooled with freshwater lakes. “That’s not so different from the conditions we might expect in the future,” she says. She wanted to explore this critical science. “It seemed really important for future global climate change,” she says.

Of all the geologists, few were more renowned than the one Willenbring had gone to Boston to study under: 37-year-old David Marchant. Marchant, a scruffy professor at BU, was a rock star of rock study. He was part of a research group that rewrote Antarctic history by discovering evidence of volcanic ash, which showed that Antarctica had been stable for millions of years and was not as prone to cycles of warming and cooling as many thought. To honor his achievements, the US Board on Geographic Names approved the naming of a glacier southwest of McMurdo Station, the main research base on Antarctica, after him.

Willenbring says Marchant had insisted on picking her up at the airport, an offer she thought was nice but strange. It got stranger when he started making her feel bad for his gesture, which she hadn’t asked for. “I’m missing a Red Sox game,” she recalls him chiding her. “You really should have picked a better time to fly.” He asked whether she had a boyfriend, how often she saw him, and whether she knew anyone in Boston or would be alone. In a few months, she’d be heading with him on a research trip to Antarctica and the region with his big chunk of namesake ice. “It was almost like a pickup line,” she recalls, “‘I have a glacier.’”

But it’s what happened in the glacier’s shadow that led Willenbring to take on Marchant and become the first to expose the horrors faced by women at the bottom of the world. A report released in August 2022 by the National Science Foundation, the main agency funding Antarctic research, found that 59 percent of women at McMurdo and other field stations run by the US Antarctic Program said they’d experienced sexual harassment or assault. A central employer, Leidos, holds a $2.3 billion government contract to manage the workplaces on the ice. One woman alleged that a supervisor had slammed her head into a metal cabinet and then attacked her sexually. Britt Barquist, a former fuel foreman at McMurdo, says she had been forced to work alongside a supervisor who had sexually harassed her. “What was really traumatic was telling people, ‘I’m afraid of this person,’” she says, “and nobody cared.”

With a congressional investigation underway, Willenbring is sharing her full story for the first time with the hope of inspiring others to come forward and claim the justice they’ve long deserved. But even now, decades after she first got into Marchant’s car, she can’t help asking herself how, and why, the nightmare happened in the first place. “You never hear a women-in-science panel where people are talking about stuff like I do,” she says, “because they’re smart enough to fucking run.”

[tellmeallaboutit]

knock knock (Raphael x F!Player)Chapter 10, In Which You Get A Warning (Received Loud and Clear)

AO3

"…Our sincerest apologies for the unexpected delay…” 

“….We kindly request that you approach the office for guidance and help if you are lost and unsure where to go…” 

"…The next station is..."

“….regarding any missed connections…" 

"...Terminal station. We urge all passengers to disembark before it’s too late…" 

****

If someone asked you how you got home, you couldn't really say. Half the time you slept on the train, half the time you waited in some dingy station for your missed connection, and half the time (can you still count?) you tried not to look at your phone, not to look at the billboards, not to look at the faces of the people next to you - God knows you don't want to see any more infernal creatures or Twin Peaks cameos. 

Raul called you ten more times and then stopped, about two hours ago, and his silence was even more frightening than his insistence.

Although you often dreamed of your hometown, you never really enjoyed returning to it. The journey itself was a painful ordeal - a train, then a bus, followed by a twenty-minute walk. Besides, you always felt...

Somehow lost in time and space there. The world moved on to the information age, but the town never did. A good two thirds of the population still went to St Martin's Church (the main and only attraction within a thirty kilometre radius) and the other third were Protestants. 

Your mother's house was in the shitty part of town that was becoming a little more decent with gentrification, but it was still a pain to get there without a driving licence (you'd promised to get one since you were eighteen and never got around to it). 

Then you saw it; the house you grew up in, the jaundice-yellow bricks, the Catholic cross above the door, the inscription 20+C+M+B+24 scattered across its facade, two rose beds, the old school garden gnome and, in the narrow driveway…

A red Lamborghini. Further down the road, two armoured jeeps (much too large for the driveway, and thus rudely obstructing the narrow cobbled street).

How did he...

How did he know who your mother was? Where she lived?

You must call the police. 

No, you don't. Don't be absurd.

Take a breath.

What the hell are the police going to do?

Wait. Yes, of course Raul knows where she lives. You made a transfer. A large transfer from Raul's account to Franziska Berger's. Your mother has an account at the local savings bank. It should have been easy from there.

How did he know you would go to her?!

He knows you have nowhere else to go.

And if he didn’t, Raphael for sure did.

No, not your mum. Not your mum. That's just a dirty fucking game, that's against the rules. Not. Your. Mum. 

She did nothing at all.

“Ms Berger!" a voice thundered, and you had to swallow down the fear that begged you to bolt back down the street.

Yurgir was sprawled across the steps, his hulking mass barricading your path to the front porch and door. He gave you a little greeting wave. He obviously could not enter the house: not because of the inscription on the door, but because he could not physically fit through the doorway. 

You thought of nothing better than to wave back. "You took your sweet time getting here, Ms Berger!" Yurgir said, chomping down on one of those apple puffs that your mum always baked when you were due for a visit. 

There were pastry flakes all around him already.

Jens was there too. He flicked a lazy salute in your direction, his tail mirroring his hand. You stared at him. The only thing scarier than a cambion with a pistol strapped to his belt was a cambion with a pistol strapped to his belt who had also spent five years in Syria and was munching on your mum’s apple puff.

Your poor mum must have been petrified to see these creatures at her door.

"My train was late," you forced yourself to say. "I missed my connection because of it, and then the other one was late too."

You had no idea why you apologised for being late for an appointment you never fucking made.

Yurgir scoffed and shook his head with a grunt. "The world has gone to hell in a handbasket, Ms Berger. In my day the trains..."

Jens cut Yurgir off before he could continue with his nostalgic tangents. "You could have called us from the station, Ms Berger. We tried to reach you. Repeatedly. Something with your phone?"

He scratched the bridge of his nose with his claw, and you noticed that he was obviously married. There are some very brave women in this world.

You, on the other hand, were not.

"Out of charge", you said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably. “Don't worry. I like trains”.

"I'm sorry I missed you back at your place, Mrs Berger. I could have taken you to your mother's right away," Jens said, tail swishing, his yellow-red eyes never leaving you. "Won't happen again, I assure you."

You felt a desperate urge to take your mum's puff away from Jens, because he certainly didn't deserve it. 

"Is Raul inside?" Your voice wavered slightly at the mention of his name. "With my mum? Is she... is she OK?"

Please.

Jens flashed a grin while Yurgir looked at you with what might have been sympathy or pity - it was hard to tell.

"Ms Berger," he said in what must have been his gentlest voice, "I've been on Mr. D'Avergni's payroll since I got out of the slammer, and let me tell ya - despite all the bullshit people say about him, he's a good guy. One of the few left in this screwed up world."

You wondered if by 'good', he meant by maximum security prison standards because that's where you assumed Yurgir had done time. 

Hopefully Nessa had no real-life equivalent because zoophilia is definitely where you draw the line.

You hoped you could still draw them.  

"No matter what tiffs you two have had, he ain't the type to lay a hand on your mother or you," Yurgir said. "Trust me, I seen plenty of dames come and go in his life, but none of them had him wrapped around their finger like you do."

Jens let out a small scoff; either didn't appreciate the message or disagreed with it.

"I'm flattered," was all you could muster. 

You noticed that your neighbour from the house on the left was staring at the scene from her kitchen window. Miss Braun, was it? Newly widowed and bored out of her mind. Oh, she was having a hell of a day already. 

"You should be," Yurgir agreed heartily, glad to have imparted some wisdom to you. "There's a whole line of gals like you dying for his attention."

"Can I go see my mum, please?" you asked, hating how your voice sounded so childish. 

But there was no way around it - literally - with Yurgir blocking the way. He sighed and shifted slightly to the side, leaving just enough space for you to squeeze through (you fought back the dark urge to reach out and touch his horns). As you passed by, you caught Jens' reflection in the glass door; he was twirling a clawed finger around his temple and mouthing "cuckoo" at Yurgir.

It bothered you less than it should have.

***

The kitchen was pure chaos, thanks to your mother, who had become a one-woman cooking show. She was taking something out of the oven and shoving something else into it at the same time, all while making sure Raul’s cup of coffee was filled to the brim. 

Raul was sitting on the same kitchen table where you used to eat your cereal before school. His coffee was served in your mother's special guest cup (the finest porcelain with little angels on it, usually secured to collect dust in the cabinet), an array of apple puffs on a large plate, accompanied by fresh milk and an apple saucer. An absurdly large bouquet of pink tulips and carnations (must be his gift, your mother would have never bought something so over the top) formed the centrepiece.

"Anya!" Your mother exclaimed as soon as she spotted you and wrapped you in a tight hug. "Anya! Finally! My goodness, could you please charge your phone once in your life? Raul tried to call you God knows how many times! Christ!"

You were momentarily stunned, trying to decipher how you'd become the villain here.

"I'm sorry, Mom," you apologised. "And good morning, Raul. I didn't… I didn’t think to see you here."

He gave you a tight-lipped smile. He looked immaculate, for he must have slept three hours at most; decked out in a beige cashmere turtleneck and navy slacks, his chestnut hair slicked back. He looked perfectly human; more human than he ever did.

"Good morning, piccola," Raul said after taking a bite. "I certainly didn't expect to find myself here either. Not that I am complaining - Mrs Berger, as God is my witness - I've never had better apple puffs, and I've been to the best patisseries in the world."

"Franziska," your mother twittered, pushing a plate with two more puffs towards him. "These are Anya's favourite. I make them every time she finally decides to grace me with her presence. Just apples, sugar, dough, and cinnamon... Simple and budget-friendly. We had to be frugal when she was little..."

You had to be frugal when you grew up as well. 

"Well, that's all behind us now, Mrs. Berger," Raul said. "You have my word." 

Your mother blushed and muttered something along the lines of "oh, oh, don't be absurd, we're not in need of anything."

What a fucking nightmare. At least she didn't seem scared even though she damn well should be.

"Had I known you were visiting, Raul," your mother prattled on, "I would have prepared something special. And cleaned up, good Lord, the mess you had to see in here!"

You could eat off your mother's floor. She grabbed a brush and began furiously scrubbing away nonexistent dust from the floor.

"No need for that, Franziska," Raul interjected. "It's pristine here. Had I known I'd have to meet you today, I would've been more formal rather than barging in uninvited. How terribly impolite of me."

Your mom giggled again; you wouldn't be surprised if she asked him to call her Franzi next. She even seemed younger in Raul's presence. They were the same age, the two of them. They could have been your mum and dad.

You shuddered at the thought. 

“You truly have a house of God here, Franziska”, Raul mused, staring at the altar at the wall; Crucifix, Pieta statue, the rosary book, the prayer candles (lit, for your sake, it must be). Not really helping, mum.

"Oh, I'm afraid He was always the only man in this house," your mother quipped. "The only one to protect us."

Raul chuckled in response. "Not anymore. Funny enough, Anya told me she wasn't religious."

He could have as well put a hit mark on your forehead.

“Anya, I worried myself sick because of you!”, your mother flared up.”Raul said that you stormed out in the middle of the night for no reason! Do you know what could have happened to you? Do you even watch the news? There are so many dangerous people out there nowadays!”

Raul remained silent, taking a bite from his apple puff pastry while his eyes stayed locked onto you.

“A lot of dangerous people out there”, you admitted.

"I assumed there wasn't any particular reason," Raul murmured as he stared you down, “I wasn’t given an opportunity to clarify, unfortunately. And if there was some valid reason behind it all, I wanted to offer my sincere apologies and rectify the situation.”

That was not what his last text message sounded like.

Your mum shot you a look that screamed "Isn't he just wonderful?" before hurrying off to fetch another batch of apple puffs from the oven. It seemed like she was cooking enough food to feed Raul's entire crew, judging by the size of that stew pot.

“Could we have a moment in private, Anya?”, Raul asked, and you felt a cold chill creep up your spine. You took an instinctive step back and remembered that Yurgir and Jens were outside. “If you allow, Franziska. I don’t want to overstep”.

She was not even looking at the two of you, she was adding salt and vinegar to the pot.

“Of course! I’ll go check with the boys and leave you two to talk things through”, your mum smiled. “Anya, darling, I tidied up your room. It’s all guest-ready!”.

Outside, "the boys" were smoking and laughing about something. You remember a “no boys allowed” rule for your room, and for the first time in your life, you wouldn’t have minded it. 

“Anya, remember: adults talk to each other, they do not slam doors and run away.”, your mum whispered as she brushed past you. “And for God’s sake, did you comb your hair today at all? Why are you wearing mismatched socks? Anya.”

“Socks?! Who the hell even…”

“Tut, Anya, don’t be rude to your mother”, Raul (or was it Raphael? Please, let it be Raphael. Tut was such a Raphael thing to say) chided, gently pushing you towards the stairs. Your room was located upstairs, and you couldn't help but wonder if your mother had given him a tour of the house. “Lead me to your room. I’m very eager to hear all about your late-night adventures."

Oh, fuck.

you don’t work for Interpol you don’t work for them you have no idea about anything you did fucking nothing

You quickly climbed up, feeling him follow you every step. He didn't utter a word until you swung open the door to your room.

It was far from being guest-ready; hell, even you weren't ready for it. 

Albert Wesker glared down from his poster above your bed, sunglasses and all; Mr. Bubbles lay sprawled on faded pink sheets - where on earth did your mother find those? Books on the shelves, one worse than another: The Mortal Instruments, A Court of Thorns and Roses, The Hunger Games. Oh, thank God, Kafka’s Metamorphosis (your A-Levels literature exam demanded his presence). A photo of you in Alice: Madness returns cosplay (looking back now, it wasn't the greatest quality cosplay). JoJo poster (JOJO POSTER?! Why did your mom even let you hang that up?). Oh yes, your mum tried to mitigate the horrors in the room with the cross on the wall.

You closed your eyes shut. 

Guest-fucking-ready. Fucking disgrace. Raul might as well kill you now, so you don’t have to live with this memory.

"How… charming," Raul's gaze raked over every mortifying detail with a predatory interest. "Who's the tough guy on the wall? Should I be worried?"

If Albert Wesker was to ever make an appearance, you vowed to swallow a bullet right then and there.

"No," you choked out. "Not the one you should worry about."

 Raul walked towards the bed (took him two steps), picking up Mr. Bubbles and giving him a twirl. 

You fought to keep your breathing steady, and you were losing the fight. The room felt claustrophobic, like a bargain bin flower scented death trap.

You did not work for Interpol. You did nothing for Interpol. You just went home for a little break. That’s your whole story. Repeat: you did not work for Interpol…

You desperately wanted to call out for Raphael - some form of help or protection - but you couldn’t bring yourself to call Raul by Raphael's name.

"Raul, please," your voice barely audible, "Don't harm my mum. I swear on my life I'm not with Interpol. This is all just a..."

"...Coincidence. Right. One coincidence after another”. Raul interrupted curtly as he gently placed Mr Bubbles back onto the bed. "Anya, take a seat."

“I can explain, I swear to God…”

"Sit down, I said," he ordered again; his tone brooked no argument.

Your body betrayed you, responding instinctively to Raphael's commanding voice, like Pavlov’s dog to a bell. With no sofa available, you perched on the edge of your bed with Raul looming above you with his arms crossed.

"Anya. Stop looking at me like I'm about to dice you and your mother up for a stew."

His words, his tone, his clenched jaw did nothing to alleviate your terror; the very opposite, they did their best to freak the shit out of you.

Before you could gather some response, he continued: “What have I done to deserve this fear from you, Anya? Have I ever given you a reason?”

You flinched as you rubbed at the red bruises on your neck, hidden under a thick scarf. Was he bloody serious? He’d given you more than a couple of reasons. 

“Ah,” he sighed. “I see. Last night. Even if I may have… if things may have gotten a bit too intense, it was you who begged for me to do anything I wanted. So don't hit me with this 'MeToo’ crap now. Did you or did you not say those exact words, Anya? I don’t need a stop word, I want you to fuck me?”.

"I...I did," you said slowly. "I guess? But…”

"You guess." He parroted back. “Ever thought about owning up to your actions?”

You cowered even further into the wall.

"Did you?” Your voice turned hoarse. “Your text yesterday: 'You owe me an explanation and it better be damn good.' Then you wonder why I'm terrified of you? For all I know, you get off on me fearing you. Because I am no fucking match for you, or your money, or your power. And you know that. And you like that."

He damn sure liked that, leering all over you terrified in the corner like that. 

Raul fell silent, his expression unreadable for a moment before he finally spoke up.

"The text had its reasons," he said. "I could not understand why you... ran off from my place when we were getting along so well. Then I discovered who was coming over to yours. Then you ignored me. Repeatedly”.

He walked over to the window, running a hand through his hair. He paused for a moment before speaking again.

"I felt betrayed, Anya," he confessed, the words obviously costing him. “Believe me, it takes a lot to wound me. But you managed.”

“I don’t work for Interpol, I told you”, you repeated. “I told them to fuck off”.

Raul stared at the back garden for a while.

"I know," he said quietly. "We would be having a very different conversation otherwise. A very different one indeed."

You breathed out for what felt like the first time since you entered the house. 

“I have an insider in HQ”, Raul said. “I was informed that you told them – in very plain and harsh terms - you would never conspire against me”.

“I wouldn’t”, you breathed out. “I wouldn’t, of course I wouldn’t, not ever, what did you think?”.

Raul's expression softened slightly as he turned to face you once again.

“And why is that?”, he asked. “Because you fear me? Or because you actually have feelings for me?”

Now, Anya, focus: don’t say anything stupid and don’t do anything unhinged.

“Can’t it be a little of both?” you suggested.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Raul's lips before disappearing just as quickly.

“And why do you fear me more than Interpol?” he mused as he walked back towards you. “I am a corporate lawyer for all you know”.

"I'm not stupid, Raul."

"Indeed, you're not," he replied. "You're astonishingly well-informed.”

“Interpol wouldn't send a commando of armed men to my mother's house."

"For my protection, not to intimidate you," Raul laughed off the accusation. “Unless you seriously think I need a full-blown commando team to subdue you. On that note… Mind if I join you?”

Without waiting for your permission, he plopped down next to you on your bed, the pale pink sheets crinkling under his weight. His knee brushed against yours in what seemed like a casual accident.

“Gattina,” he prodded gently, laying his hand on your knee and giving it a light squeeze. “Enlighten me. What did you do to that Interpol team? They were left disarrayed, or so I heard. How did you manage that?”

Do not say anything unhinged, Anya.

“I don’t know”, you said. “I honestly don’t know. They just… ran”.

Raul looked at you, and his hand reached out to gently cup your cheek. His breath smelled like sugar mint and cinnamon and applesauce, with just a hint of tobacco somewhere in the background.

“Come on, love”, Raul said softly. “A little honesty. Do you really not know what happened there?”

“I don’t fully understand what happened there, let’s put it this way”.

“Let me help you”, Raul said. “I might have an idea”.

“Yeah?”, you asked, thoroughly relieved that he had cooked some wild theory himself.

“You have… a talent, Anya”, he said. “An uncanny ability to sway people; it's like you have them under your spell. First with Konstantin, now with the squad, and before that... with me. I didn’t find you in my bed, and I felt like… I felt like my world was going to end. I cancelled all my meetings, I took a day off work – I… truly do not know how to describe that to you”.

Then he kissed you, his lips pressing against yours, softly first, more insistently when you yielded and opened your mouth for his tongue, and you didn't resist because, well, it seemed like a really stupid idea, and you didn't want him to get angry again, and it wasn't a bad kiss at all.

“I mean it when I say that I love you”, he whispered in your ear, now lying almost completely on top of you. "And for once in my life," he added quietly, "I think I truly mean it."

Maybe Raphael had taken over him now. 

Maybe these were Raphael's words spoken through Raul.

Either way, it was the nicest he or Raphael had ever been to you, and you wanted it to stay that way while you tried to figure out... what to do next. 

“What I know is that there is something very, very special in you”, Raul whispered against your lips. “One of a kind.”.

Special. One of a kind.

There was never anything special about the teenage girl sleeping in this bed. At least you didn’t see that, and never believed anyone ever would. 

Yet the devil did think you are special enough.

“And I do think you feel something for me, too”, Raul went on, his fingers caressing your cheek. “Despite you having this idea of me as some scary, scary guy, some kind of evil demon… I assure you, I am not. Now tell me, honestly now, why did you run away from me last night?”.

You wondered who Raul was and how he was without Raphael’s influence. Was he as charismatic and soft-spoken as he appears now? Would you have liked him even a little bit if it wasn’t Raphael eyes looking at you now? 

And would he have even given you a second glance?

Probably not.

Should you…?

“Raul”, you said. “There is no way I can give you any answer to this question without sounding completely crazy, so I won’t even bother”.

“Well, no offence, Anya, but that’s how you….” His words were abruptly cut short. 

His face contorted as if an invisible hand had ripped his skull from his head, a sudden pain seizing him, and he rolled away from you. His expression changed to something far less human.

"Don't breathe another word to him, mouse," he whispered, his voice a whole octave lower now.

"What?" you gasped. “Raphael?”

"Not another word to the human," Raul snapped through clenched teeth, mad jealousy in his voice, his hand flying to his forehead as if to physically stop the pain. “This… bloody… house”.

Raul shook off Raphael's intrusion with a vehemence that was palpable, a fierce determination in his eyes.

"Merda... Merda," Raul grunted. "Just... just give me a moment. It's... damn." 

You watched as he staggered away from you and towards the bathroom off your room. The sound of rushing water filled the silence he left behind.

You heard the rustle of something being hastily retrieved, followed by a hard swallow echoing through the quiet room - clearly forced and without any liquid aid. Curiosity got the better of you and you looked out just in time to see him hunched over the basin.

"It's all right," came Raul's strained voice. "Just... just give it a minute or two. It'll be better soon enough." 

Your hand reached out instinctively, tracing the curve of his luxurious cashmere turtleneck.

"Thank you, darling." He paused for a moment: "What did you want to tell me? I am inclined to believe it no matter how crazy it might be."

Your brain scrambled like a rat in a maze to find a way out of this conversation that wouldn't upset either of them, but came up empty-handed.

"When did your headache start?" you finally managed to say, trying to buy yourself some time to think. "When you met me?"

"What?", Raul frowned. "No. Nothing to do with you. It started long before that. I already told you; when my father died. What did you want to tell me, Anya?"

His nose was bleeding; he put out a handkerchief to wipe it. 

"How did he die?"

"Why?", Raul's demeanor shifted abruptly into something icy. Your question had thrown him off balance. "What an odd thing to ask about.”

Was it really? Considering Raul's age, perhaps. 

"He died as no Catholic should," he finally said, his teeth gnawing at his lower lip. "Especially one as devout as he was. He hanged himself. Why are you asking all this?"

You swallowed and took a step back.

"What in God’s name is going on?" His voice wavered between anger and confusion.

His question remained unanswered. A distant sound interrupted him, something like a bag of bowling balls tumbling down the stairs. Then, a woman's soft cry.

Raul gave you a quick, surprised look.

You ran down the stairs first, overtaking him in your haste.

Not your mother, please not your mother, please not her...

The front door was wide open and there she was - your mother - crumpled at the bottom of the stairs, just below the front porch, her leg swelling rapidly around the ankle, little cubes of cheese and grapes scattered around. Jens got to her before you and was already inspecting her, his claws hovering over the ankle. 

Nausea struck you.

"Mum," you gasped as you dropped to your knees beside her. "Mum, what happened? Does it hurt? Jens, what the fuck have you done to her?"

"Excuse me?" Jens snapped back.

"No, Anya, I... I'm sorry," she whimpered between sobs. "I was bringing the boys some cheese snacks and then I just... saw something... I think... I lost my balance."

"What did you see, Franziska?" Raul's voice cut through her sobs like a scalpel. "Some damn… some damn bizarre timing."

Jens looked up from his examination and shot Raul a puzzled look.

"Nothing," she replied with an attempt at a laugh that came out more as a wheeze. "Sometimes I get dizzy spells... low blood sugar... this new juice diet isn't helping... Oh God, I'm so sorry, it's all just..."

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Raul's knuckles blanch as he clenched his fist, though his face remained a mask of concern.

"It looks like a sprain, not a fracture." Jens murmured under his breath. "No need to get worked up”.

Raul exhaled heavily next to you, as if he had been holding his breath all the time.

"Let the professionals have a look," Raul offered, kneeling beside your mother. "May I help you up, Franziska? Don't worry Jens, I got this. She's light."

"No...don't..." you managed to whisper. "Don't...touch her..."

"What?" Raul asked, brows furrowed in confusion. "Anya, trust me, I can handle this."

"Oh no, Raul," your mother protested weakly as he picked her up in his arms. "I don't want to bother you, it's so embarrassing..."

Something inside you snapped at her words. "Mum! For God's sake! They came into your house uninvited! They..."

"Anya!" She shot back with an unexpected ferocity, considering she was still sobbing a few moments ago. "Watch your language! And show some respect for people who are trying to help!"

"The nearest hospital is the university clinic," Jens said.

"God save us from public health care," Raul scoffed. "There's a decent one closer to where I live. Anya, for God's sake, breathe, your mother will be fine, I'll make sure of that. Anya? Sweetheart, breathe. Accidents happen. Not the end of the world. Anya!”

****

The doctor said it was OK.

Well, not right away. 

The doctor greeted you like you were bloody royalty, ran all the tests with zero waiting time, put your mum in a room that looked like a luxury hotel and then said it's OK. 

Just a small strain, promised she'd be back on her feet in a couple of days.

That was some fantasy world healthcare.

Raul played the concerned partner the first hour, then asked them to charge all the expenses to his account and disappeared into some quiet corner. 

You tried your damnedest not to think about what had happened. 

(he hurt your mother is what happened)

You just sat there, staring at your mum who was eating some diet yoghurt. 

"Raul's a godsend, Anya," your mother said from her plush hospital bed, looking way more content than she should be. "I think he really loves you. He couldn't stop asking about you.”

You had already tried asking her about what she had seen that startled her, only to hear “nothing” and “don’t you worry”. Talking to her was like banging your head against a stone wall. Most conversations with her felt that way.

"We hardly know each other, Mum”, you answered. “Don't you think it's all… strange? That somebody like Raul is so crazy about me? Me?".

"It is quite strange," your mum agreed with a nod. "But they say reality is often stranger than fiction. Some people win lotteries; well, it seems like you've won yours."

“Thanks mum”, you snickered. “You always made me feel desired”.

“Ah, don’t get all snippy. I just wish... I wish so much for you to have a different life. A nice, beautiful life. So you'd go to nice places, live in nice places, not have to live from paycheck to paycheck. Something I never had, but maybe you will".

"Mum, you are fifty. Don't talk about yourself as if you were dead".

"Nothing will happen to you when you're fifty," she said with a small chuckle. "Except maybe spraining your ankle, ha."

You both were silent for some moments.

"Why did you rush to see me anyway? You are pregnant and you are afraid to tell him, is that it? Raul would love that. He really wants to have children with you, he told me so".

"I am not pregnant”. 

She looked disappointed.

“Then what?”

Should you even try to tell her?

“Well, I found out… Let’s say… What if Raul was not a very good person... like... (what’s the word?) politically?"

That was not the word, but the right words would have scared her too much.

"What?" your mother asked in disbelief. “Whatever that means nowadays? Anya, am I a good person in your eyes? Because I remember…”

You cut her off before she could dive into that deep dark hole again.

"I am not discussing abortion rights with you ever again, mum," You took a deep breath. “Once was well enough”.

“Your generation is so indoctrinated it's horrifying," she grumbled. "A good man, who wants family and children, who works hard and goes to church, is now seen as the devil himself. Does whom Raul votes for really outweigh his love for you?"

"It's not about who he votes for," you countered, "it's about what he stands for."

Your mother sighed.

"What do YOU stand for then Anya? You tout yourself as a - God forgive me - socialist but expect Raul to foot the bill for a private clinic. And don't think I don't know that's his money you've been sending me. I’m not as gullible as you believe".

No? Who racked up a credit card debt to go to Nadine?!

"No," you snapped back, "I mean yes, I took his money, but it's not like he's hurting for it."

Your mother gave her one of her long "think about what you just said" looks, and you regretted ever starting this conversation.

"Are you sure, sweetie, that you are in a position to judge who is good and who is bad?"

“Well, you’ve been doing it your entire life”.

“Anya…” your mum started.

You stood up.

"I wish you to get better soon, Mum," you said. “I wish for you to heal and get better and also start listening to me for once in your life”.

"I already feel much better," your mother replied. "And as for you, show some gratitude to Raul for once in your life. The poor man chased after you to another city just to confess his love. Your father never even bothered to call… once. Lord help me!"

Lord didn’t help you, you thought as you looked at her leg. 

Hanged his crosses all over the house and he still didn’t give a fuck.

**

Raul was talking with somebody on the phone in the hospital parking lot in Italian, loudly and passionately, perhaps too much so; the glow from his cigarette danced in the darkness. Jens and co were lurking nearby, too, eyeing your every step. 

Not that you were thinking of escaping from the hospital now. Where?

What for?

The moment he saw you, Raul gave you a warm smile and stubbed out his cigarette under his polished leather shoe. He opened the passenger door for you. As soon as both of you settled into leather seats, just before he reached out to rev up the engine, all your pent-up tears came crashing down.

"Don't you cry,” Raul cupped your cheek and wiped the tear away with thumb. “Your mother just twisted her ankle. Think about all the things much worse that could have happened to her and they did not. Malignant tumor or a fatal accident. It's just a… warning, if you may. Do not take what you have for granted. Those who love you and hold you dear are hard to come by.”

Your sobs died down in your chest.

"Warning received loud and clear", you said staring into his eyes, trying to figure out who the hell you were talking to.

"Is that so?”, he asked. “What is it you wanted to tell me back then in your room? You had a look on your face like you were about to tell me something very important".

You tensed against the cold leather of the passenger seat.

“That I was stupid, and overwhelmed by our feelings,”, you said, carefully choosing every word. “That I am sorry that I ran away, and that I love you. Very much. And I remember what I promised to you”. 

To serve you.

He absentmindedly licked your tear from his thumb.

“I don’t think that’s all you wanted to tell me back there”, he said. “But I think that’s all I want to hear for now”.

Your gaze shifted to the noticeable bulge straining against his pants and you let out a sharp breath. You couldn’t help but wonder what exactly about your tear-swollen face gets him going so much. 

Well, you had a hunch.

"My bad," he said, catching your wandering gaze. "I understand you're not exactly in the mood. But you...you do something to me. Make me feel like a bloody teenager".

You were not in that mood indeed. 

You were in the mood for a little payback, though.

"Oh no, I am”, you said quietly. “In fact, I am very much in the mood, Raul”.

“Are you?”, he asked, his lips still against his own thumb.

His readiness to believe your lie was almost funny. You haven't slept well in three days, you've been running from him through trains to another city, your mother has sprained her leg, but of course you're down to suck his dick anywhere, anytime.

“Sure I am. Right here?”, you asked.

“Christ no”, Raul said. “See that van over there? Journalists. They get a flash of us, they'll spin it as me kidnapping and raping you at first opportunity. They’ll probably write I broke your mother’s leg too. Bastards."

"Home then? We are like an hour away".

His gaze raked over your legs, lingering just a bit too long. 

The engine roared to life beneath you.

“Two. And it’s a damn long time, if you ask me”.

The highway was barely lit, a maw of darkness that seemed to stretch on forever. It reminded you of that film... That's it, “The Lost Highway”. Kilometres and kilometres of the same road flashing by. You didn’t know what to say, Raul didn’t say anything either.

He began to decelerate; a P-Sign whizzed past in a blur. He veered off at the first opportunity and pushed deeper into the underbelly of some industrial wasteland, some grey-bricked, desolate looking factory. You surveyed your surroundings - one solitary lamppost standing guard over you and not much else.

You’ve seen more romantic spots, that’s for sure.

“The factory belongs to Avernus”, he said matter-of-factly. “We wouldn’t be bothered here”.

“Avernus? Do debtors toil for eternity here?” you joked.

“Ha ha”, Raul said. "I have an even better metaphor for the class struggle for you, little miss Marx."

Raul reclined his seat all the way back, pulling your body towards his with one hand wrapped around your nape. He kissed you deeply, but didn't linger much before guiding your head down towards his lap. He had already undone his pants and freed his cock from his boxers.

"Hold up, not like that," you interjected. He huffed out an irritated sigh.

You straddled over to sit between his spread legs, the steering wheel pressing into your neck as you held his cock in your grasp.

You wanted to be able to look him in the eyes.

“The way you look up at me as if I’ve given you the sweetest treat...fuck, it turns me on,", He gripped your head as you kissed the tip. “You love to suck my cock, don’t you?”

You grinned at his porn talk. 

"Mmmmhmm," you purred in response, never breaking eye contact as you gave his shaft an appreciative lick, your hand pumping him in slow and steady movements. "I love your cock, Raul. No one else can compare."

You made a very indulgent emphasis on the name as you stared into his eyes. 

Bite.

His hips jerked up, trying to pull you deeper, but you kept control.

“No one else”, you repeated with an edge, peppering his shaft with kisses.

Come on. Bite.

“Mouse”, he warned. 

There it is. There he is. You missed him.

At least a little bit.

His grip around your neck tightened as he tried to guide you further down onto him but once again, you resisted.

"I prefer piccola," you corrected, trailing your tongue along the pulsing vein of his length. "It sounds so lovely with your Italian accent." 

You spat on him, rubbing your saliva all over, as you savored the war between man and devil to fuck your mouth. Raul was stubborn, and oh boy, did he want you as badly as Raphael did.

Saliva poured out of your mouth and you let it drip on his silky slacks. You reveled in the ruin you were causing - fuck them both indeed - before feigning a deeper dive only to pull back for another lick.

The devil seemed to be winning.

"Mouse," Raphael managed to grunt through clenched teeth. "This is all very... temporary... trust me."

Ignoring his words, you wriggled out of his grasp to set the pace yourself, stroking him slowly and deliberately instead of actually sucking his dick.

"Temporarily?" You pouted as you looked up at him through fluttering eyelashes, running your hand along his cock. "I was hoping for a happily ever after, Raul."

Whatever retort he had ready was swallowed by a guttural moan; Raul's hips thrust forward in desperate need, but none of them were going to get off into your mouth today. 

"Stop playing around and suck me properly."

"Nope," was your curt reply (Raphael must have hated the “nope” instead of “no”). Before his hand could yank your hair and compel you, you recoiled against the wheel; slipped out of your jeans, practically peeled them off, and climbed on top of him.

You took him in, panties moved to the side, all in one embrace, cock in yielding, slick pussy, your cleavage thrust into his face. He tugged your shirt down (you heard a rip) to bare your breasts and took one of your nipples into his mouth.

"Fuck yes," Raul groaned as you rocked back and forth. “Faster”.

It was actually harder to go faster; this was some fucked-up car design that didn't offer much room for anything. Besides, you liked it exactly the way you moved, rubbing and grinding against him instead of bouncing on top of him.

So, you disregarded his request. Or at least tried to.

He gripped your thighs with a vice-like hold, halting your movements but thrusting his hips upwards to fuck you deeper.

"Say my name," Raphael said, his fingers digging into your hips, and if you let your imagination run wild (there was no way to tame it anymore) you could feel the scratch of the claws. 

"Raul," you said, smiling.

Raphael's hand went to your throat. Your taunt spurred him on, urging him to move harder and faster, to prove who was the superior one.

"Say MY name, mortal." 

"Ra..ra..." you played with the first syllabus, grinding against him. "Raul".

You saw it coming but didn't shy away. 

His retaliation was swift and brutal, his palm colliding with your cheek. There was such hatred in his eyes, such raw jealousy, flecks of gold and green. It left you soaking wet. 

"Raul," you said, returning the slap to his pampered, moisturised, perfectly groomed face, hoping to leave your mark on it.

He looked startled for a split second, as if he never thought you would dare to hit back. He grimaced, bared his teeth in rage and grabbed you by the hair.

You let out a shriek as he dragged you off and flipped you onto your stomach. Raul's head hit the roof of the car in the struggle. He spat out a curse about needing to get a jeep before trying to position himself behind you - only to repeat the fiasco. He gave up then and flung open the passenger door.

"Let's go for a walk, shall we?"

Cool spring air trickled over your skin as he pulled you to the front of the car for a very, very short walk - then pushed you up against the bonnet and bent you over like a rag doll. Your legs were spread wide as you found yourself staring at your own reflection in the reflective surface of the front mirror.

"GOD!" you cried out as he thrust into you again, that it robbed you of balance. Your sneakers and mismatched socks kicked helplessly in mid-air while you're wriggled on your stomach against the slick surface.

You hoped he did not have a dash cam to record this. 

You hoped his security did not have a live stream.

Your face was now pressed against the red chrome, your knees scraping the metal as he fucked you from behind, his elbow pressing down on your throat.

"Such...a...disobedient...little...mouse," he gave your ass a resounding slap. 

You laughed and doubled down, repeating Raul's name as Raphael rammed into you harder every time it left your lips, his claws digging into your bottom. Your own nails clawed at the pristine surface of the Lamborghini, imagining the bill Raul would have to pay to have it repaired and thoroughly enjoying the vision. 

His words punctuated every time his body drove yours into the cool metal: "He... Will... Be... Dead... Soon. Just… Us."

The words sent a jolt of pleasure through you. Raphael was jealous; so, so jealous. 

You were so close and yet so far; Raphael was holding you back. 

He won't let you come until you say his name.

His grip on your hair tightened, pulling your head back to meet his thrusts, while his other hand twisted your arm behind your back until it was on the verge of breaking, until you growled in pain and tried to shake him off, but humped against him instead. 

"Tell me what I want to hear."

He (they?) loved you viciously, but nobody ever loved you that much, viciously or not, so viciously is what you'll take then.

"Ra...", you began. And then it hit, a brutal, gut-wrenching orgasm that engulfed you as you finally chose to say the right syllables. "Pha... Oh FUCK... El..."

The last word was choked out of you and for an instant, everything went black.

"Never run away again," Raul whispered as his fangs bit down your neck, hard. "Never... never even think about it... never. Do you understand?"

There is nowhere to run anyway.

You nodded, eagerly, basking in the dark pit of your orgasm. 

As low as he could drag you down, so high he could lift you up; heaven high; everything-you-ever-wanted high.

Once you have experienced it, you will always want to feel it again.

"Do you understand?" he asked again, and you could tell he was getting there too. "Try it again and you are..."

He (who?) didn't say "dead". 

He (who?) never said "dead". 

He (who?) just moaned.

Then he came hard and fast, shuddering as he did so; you could not stop grinding back against his orgasm, riding the wave of power over him - over her - which was even better than an orgasm in more ways than one. 

He withdrew and for the first time, you felt the cold raindrops on your heated skin. He adjusted his pants and silently opened the passenger door for you.

Once in the car, you looked at Raul's face; his nose was bleeding. He was stretched out in the driver's seat, his clothes soiled with blood, saliva and semen. His hand was pressed against his face as he panted heavily.

You smiled.

You loved to see him so wrecked. 

"Cazzo," Raul gasped, trying to catch his breath. "Cazzo. This is really… fucked up. I'm sorry, I don’t know why I struck you. The things I said, I didn't…".

"You don't have to explain anything," you cut off any excuses he might make next. "It's fine. I am good. I liked it. A lot. I came, in fact".

You sprawled out on the seat like a content cat. Raul shot you a side-eye.

“Sometimes I have a feeling it’s me who should be scared of you”, Raul quipped. 

“Maybe”, you said. 

Raul gave you his own reflection in the mirror a weary look, small drops of blood still trickling down his nose.

"Damn, I've got another round of negotiations tomorrow," he said, rubbing his bruised cheek. "And a TV interview. I can imagine the headlines."

You felt as if your soul had been drained; Raul looked the same.

"Mh-m-m," you agreed, not giving much of a fuck. "Nothing a little concealer can't hide."

You watched his semen drip down the dark leather and wondered if you should wipe it off, and if yes, with what. Do you have a napkin? Actually, where is your backpack? 

He handed you over a napkin.

"Don't bother too much," Raul sighed as you got down to work, "there are people whose job it is to clean up, and that's definitely not you or me."

You wiped harder.

"By the way, what's that big deal of yours?" you asked.

"Why? I thought my business bored you”.

“I want to spill it to Interpol”, you whispered. 

Raul threw his head back and chuckled.

"They are already in the loop. And if you're really curious about my business, why don't you come along?” He ruffled his already dishevelled hair. “I am flying to Davos in a couple of days to finalise some... loose ends."

You felt a bitter taste in your throat.

"What do you need me there for?"

What do you think Raphael really gave you warlock powers for? To throw people under the bus? Hardly.

"To keep me company, my little mouse," he replied with a wink. "And maybe help me sway those who aren’t exactly thrilled about my plans – given your knack for persuasion."

A test of loyalty, then.

"There are people that even someone like you needs to convince?”

"I am not the biggest fish in this very big bowl, Anya".

"Not yet".

“Not yet”, he echoed.

"I don't want to be dragged into politics," you said. “I don’t care for it”.

"No? Sweetheart, you are the worst communist I’ve ever met,” Raul chuckled. “No need to be dragged into anything. All I need is for you to stand by me and lend me your support. In return, I’ll spoil you rotten. Sound fair?” 

You gave Raul a glance, one that seemed to say "I don't think Raphael will keep you around much longer after he gets what he wants."

"What is it you want, Raul? What is it that you don't have? You have everything”.

His expression was one of confusion—as if you were speaking an alien language.

"The thing about the things you don't have," he mused as his hand rested on your knee. "You never realise how important they are until they're yours. And once they are, you start to wonder just what else could be missing".

You watched the raindrops hit the car window.

"Do you ever think that sometimes we want too much?"

"Never," he flicked his lighter and a cigarette came to life between his lips. "If anything, I think we wish for too little."

Next Chapter, In Which You Get Spoilt Rotten

or (lemme decide soon)

Next Chapter, In Which Your Father Hanged Himself 

The last one is a flashback chapter from Raul’s POV to get a bit insight into the whole Raul / Raphael situation. 

[starcheols]

the 1 — choi seungcheol

⭑ it is said that no one ever forgets their first love, nor their first heartbreak. truer words have never been spoken as you leave the glamourous cities of europe to return to your small hometown, for the first time in seven years.

don't you think it would have been sweet, if it could have been me pairing :: smalltown!seungcheol x fashion designer!reader (gender neutral) genre :: nostalgia, gentle angst

warnings :: nothing major! just heartbreak i guess? mentions a glass of wine and a kiss. word count :: 1.4k

author's note :: i've never written a fan-fiction before so i'm marking this monumentous occasion with a slightly mediocre piece of writing that was floating around in my head for a week :)

links :: masterlist / ask to be added to the taglist!

The old bus station, with its peeling red paint and rugged masts, greeted you like an old friend as you took a step off the weathered vehicle, with its tires sagging next to the cracked curb. It seemed that autumn’s breath was whispering in the air, carrying a chill that nipped at you, prompting you to tug your cashmere coat tighter around yourself.

As you stood there, under the canopy of the station, the rhythmic plod of the primordial-era bus faded into the distance, and a familiar nostalgia settled over you like the autumn mist.

Your hometown had remained frozen in time, a canvas of memories painted against the backdrop of quaint architecture and cobblestone streets that echoed under the sharp clack of your heeled boots. 

As you rounded the corner of the bus station, the remainder of the small town, with its quaint buildings and centrepiece fountain, unfolded before you like a familiar tapestry of memories. 

And there, standing beneath the flickering street lights of the early morning, a broad-shouldered man stood with his back turned, the sun’s first tentative rays finding a home in his honey-blonde hair. And for that fleeting moment, you could have sworn you felt time suspend, the world tilting its axis beneath you, for it had been so long.

But then, reality asserted itself, like a gentle hand grounding you in the here and now. The features, upon closer inspection, were not those you had once known. The stranger's eyes, the curve of his jaw, all different from the one etched into the canvas of your memories.

You certainly could not resist the wave of relief that washed over you, and that sneaking adrenaline that had coiled within your chest slowly released its grip, leaving the heartache to dissipate along the morning dew beneath the frail sunlight.

Seven years since you had left this town, teary-eyed and clutching your suitcase, chasing dreams that led you across the world, to the capitals of Europe to pursue your degree and future. 

Milan, where you honed your craft, your fingers becoming extensions of your artistic vision. Paris, where the world of haute couture embraced you, and your name adorned the lips of those who appreciated the elegance of your designs. The bustle of fashion weeks, the allure of glamorous shows — it was a life you had dreamed of, a life you had made your own.

Yet, amidst the glittering lights of success, the echoes of that tearful departure still reverberated, often coming back to you after a stranger’s kiss or a glass of red perched on your dining table, up in the penthouses of Paris.

You remembered that fateful day, seven years ago to the date today, when the bus station had rather been a stage for a heartbreaking farewell. Seungcheol, your best friend with golden hair and big eyes that once held a world of shared secrets, stood before you.

Back then, you were just eighteen, brimming with dreams and aspirations. You had poured your heart out to Seungcheol, confessing a love that had blossomed within the cocoon of friendship. But his response, or rather the lack thereof, had cast a shadow over the farewell, dragging you over the edge to embarrassed silence and quiet tears. His eyes, ringed with long lashes that you longed to once press a soft kiss to, reflected not reciprocation, but a profound sadness and pity.

The bus had become your vessel of escape, your tears mingling with the rumble of the engine, as the vehicle pulled away from the same curb that you stepped out on today. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air — Choi Seungcheol, the person you had thought of when you tossed pennies into the fountain’s pool and the person you loved the most in the entire world, (and really, what was the world of one who had just turned eighteen?), did not share the same sentiments at all.

The bench under the gnarled oak tree offered a momentary respite, and you took a seat, your coat enveloping you like a cocoon against the autumn chill. As you waited for your parents, who had vowed to meet you for breakfast, you watched the leaves dance in the breeze, a kaleidoscope of reds and golds that mirrored the hues of memories embedded in this town.

The quiet peace of the surroundings enveloped you, and you closed your eyes, allowing the crisp air to wash over you. The distant hum of the town, the gentle rustling of leaves, and the distant echo of a church bell created a symphony that resonated with a serene melancholy. The town hadn't changed much, and neither had the comforting embrace of its quiet corners.

A voice, a familiar voice, and one that you knew only all too well, cut through the tranquil ambiance. Your eyes snapped open, and the world seemed to shift on its axis again. There, standing before you, was Seungcheol —no longer the silent boy you tearfully left behind but a man, his honey-blonde hair still curling around his ears. His gaze met yours, and the years seemed to melt away in that moment, and how you hated the leap of your heart and the shake of your hands.

And it seemed your traitorous heart, a tempest of conflicting emotions, of love and grief, ran cold and hot simultaneously. Seven years had sculpted the features of the boy who you had loved from your childhood into a refined allure, the lines of boyhood replaced by the contours of a man who had weathered time with grace.

"Hey," he greeted you, a warmth in his eyes that could have deceived you into forgetting silent tears, and his pitying gaze years ago. "I heard you were back in town. It's been forever!"

Your brightest smile, a mask that you could credit from having being forged from your years of navigating the high celebrity ends of the world, adorned your own face, as you accepted his open arms, pulling yourself into the scent of him.

The old familiarity threatened to unravel the carefully constructed walls around your heart. How was it that he seemed genuinely excited to see you, to reconnect after all these years.

Seungcheol's infectious laughter filled the air, a melody that echoed through the town square, and one that you would have spent summers listening to on repeat, your arms intertwined. "I can't believe it, you know? I always knew you had that amazing potential, but seeing your name everywhere, in magazines and tabloids, isn’t that so cool? You've made it so big!"

The genuine admiration in his eyes was both heartwarming and disconcerting, for you. You could only nod, expressing gratitude for his kind words while trying to suppress the turbulent emotions churning beneath the surface. The town's quiet corners, once a sanctuary, now felt like a stage, each word and glance an act in the intricate dance of reunion.

And you won't believe who's behind me," Seungcheol continued, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "My wife's a huge fan of your work. She practically dragged me here to meet you."

As your eyes shifted to the figure approaching behind him, your breath caught. A woman, stunning with dark red hair, walked with two small children by her side. The bitterness, like a dormant ember, flickered within you, threatening to consume the facade of happiness you had meticulously crafted.

"Hey, look who's here!" Seungcheol called out to his wife, his voice brimming with excitement.

She turned, and for a moment, your eyes locked. A fleeting connection passed between you, a recognition of shared spaces in a world divided by time and choices. Her smile was warm, genuine, and you tried to match it with your own, though it felt brittle, a fragile façade that hid the tempest within.

Seungcheol introduced you, praising your work with an enthusiasm that only friends from the past could muster. The children, curious and full of innocent wonder, regarded you with wide eyes. As the conversation flowed, you couldn't help but wonder what could have been if, in that moment seven years ago, the trajectory of your lives had diverged in a different direction.

Seungcheol had moved on, creating a family, a chosen one. The pang of longing lingered, but you swallowed it down, resisting the temptation to wonder about alternate realities.

But we were something don't you think so? Roaring twenties, tossing pennies in the pool. And if my wishes came true, it would have been you.

[davescumbag]

a club - david james barton

[darling-i-read-it]

Workplace Gossip

Jim Hopper x fem!younger!reader (reader is 25!) 

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: age gap relationship (legal ofc!!), jim being insecure in that, innuendos, billy flirting with the reader, mentions of his daughter and her cancer

Author’s Note: hello again!!! if you recognize this one, you probably red Hugs way back when. this is the revamped version as an attempt to return to the stranger things roots before i hit the old billy and steve ones!! lemme know what you guys think <;3

The original request; by anon, Hi! Loved your Hopper imagine! Can you do another one with him with the reader and him having a bit of an age gap? I don’t own these characters. They belong to the author/director 

(not my gif)

You were rushing. You could feel the cold nipping at your sides, freezing the mobility in your hands but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You breathed through your mouth as you walked down the sidewalk. If you started to run you could get to your job interview in five minutes. You looked down at your wrist watch and cursed under your breath. Running in heels wasn’t your best idea but showing up late wasn’t exactly the best way to start a job. 

When you looked back up it was too late. You ran directly into a large man, causing an intake of breath from yourself and ‘shit’ from him.

“I’m so sorry!” you exclaimed. You caught sight of the badge on his chest and the hat on his head. Police. 

You couldn’t be detained for not paying attention, that was ridiculous. Right? 

“Where are you going so fast at 7 in the morning?” he asked, annoyance in his voice. 

“I have a job interview.” You bit your tongue. At the station. There was an opening for a secretary job. “I’m sorry again, I’m already running late.” He let you move aside and rush down the street, now running in heels that were too tall for you. He mumbled something about being morning people and kept walking. 

- 

“I am so sorry, I got off on the bus at the wrong stop. I’m still figuring out Hawkins, I just moved here last week,” you explained, out of breath, perspiration beating down your forehead. So much for the business casual blouse you had sweat through. 

“It’s no worries honey,” a woman at the front said with a dismissive look. “You were the only one coming. As long as you’re not a criminal, you’re a shoo in.” You let out a breath of relief. 

“I’m not a criminal,” you promised. You handed her your resume, sitting down at the desk across from her. “I’m just out of college, 25. I’ve had jobs before during school but I’m looking for something more long term since moving here,” you explained. 

“Why did you move here?” she questioned. It sounded more like curiosity than an interview question. 

“It’s a small town, I’ve always wanted to live in a small town. Also, I wanted some independence. I’ve only ever really lived in dorms and such.” You fixed your hair eagerly. 

“You picked quite the place.” 

“So I’ve heard.”

“People who land in Hawkins never leave it. I should know, I was born and raised,” she muttered. She was shuffling through some papers like this wasn't a big deal to her. You cleared your throat.

“I’ve always just wanted to be part of a community,” you explained. “I like the small town community. I want to get to know the people. Grow my communication skills,” you suggested, even though it was only half true. You liked that no one ever left Hawkins. It left plenty of jobs for people like yourself, fresh out of college. 

The front door opened. You both turned and you saw a face you recognized. He was holding a small box of half a dozen donuts.

“Meet your new secretary Chief,” Flo said, standing up from her desk. “She gets started tomorrow.” She grabbed the box out of his hands, walking through the doorway to where all the officers desks were. You stood up as well, trying to put on a smile. He looked down at you, sizing you up it seemed. 

“You weren’t too late.” 

“No sir.” 

“Don’t bother with the sir crap,” he said, a gentleness to his voice. A casualness you admired. “Jim. Or Hopper.” 

“Jim Hopper.” 

“Yeah.” You extended a hand. 

“Y/N Y/L/N. It’s a pleasure to work with you,” you said, brightly smiling now. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you around town,” he said, starting to walk through the doorway. You followed him, unsure if you were supposed to but also unsure how you could continue the conversation otherwise. 

“I just moved here last week.”

“Picked a hell of a place,” he grumbled. You laughed gently. 

“I’ve heard.” He started to pour himself a cup of coffee. He gestured the pot to you but you shook your head. You were still high on adrenaline from rushing here. “How is crime here?”

“Riveting,” he deadpanned. “You’ll do fine.” His voice was so soothing. You nodded, believing him deeply. 

“Promise?” 

He smiled slyly, leaning against the table. He took a sip of his black coffee. You looked at him through your lashes, knowing you were going to get into trouble with this one. If he looked at you like that everyday you would never want to leave Hawkins at all. 

“I promise.” 

-

Technically speaking, Flo never intended on counting down the days until Chief Hopper asked you out but then on day seven she realized she was. She watched as you came into the room and he adjusted himself in his seat, his eyes floated towards you with a gentle care, and your smile widened. You were good at the logistics. You were good at the job. That made everything else easier. 

You got the paperwork done that you needed to and sometimes, you got the paperwork he needed done as well. Powell suggested putting up a countdown to make it more obvious but everyone shut up about it. 

“Don’t you think she should go with someone closer to her age?” Callahan asked, leaning back in his chair. Flo gave him a hard look as she walked through the room. You and Jim were in his office, powering through paperwork. 

“Who, like you?” Powell questioned. 

“She’s cute!” he argued back. Powell, actually doing work, rolled his eyes. 

“Her frontal lobe is fully developed,” Flo argued. “She can make her own decisions. I, for one, would like to see the Chief happy since Diane.” 

“Only ancient people remember Diane.” Callahan was trying to balance a pencil on his nose. It fell. He made it look like he hadn’t been doing it to start with. “You think she likes him?”

“I think she loves him.”

“It’s been literally a week. She could not love anyone, let alone Jim Hopper, in that time.” 

“What about Jim Hopper?” You turned the corner, holding a small stack of papers. 

“He needs to do his own work. You’re babying the old man,” Callahan said, pointing his pencil at you. 

“He’s not that old,” you suggested.

“She’s right,” Hopper responded. “Watch your mouth Phil.” Callahan put his hands up in defeat and turned back to his desk. You put the things onto your desk to be finalized. You were coming to enjoy the steady, familiar pace of this new life. “I’m grabbing lunch.” He grabbed the keys to the cruiser. He paused, momentarily. No one else would’ve been able to catch it. You were watching him for his words, accepting them before they even came. “You comin?” he asked. You tried to hide the flush on your face as you glanced upwards, like you were attempting to make sure your schedule was full. 

“Only if you’re paying.” 

“Student debt that much of a bitch?” You grabbed your coat and put it on. 

“I just like guys to pay on dates.” You walked past him, trying to suppress a smile. His eyes went wide as they floated to those around him. 

“You two take the day,” Flo said, pleasantly, like she had orchestrated this whole thing. 

“Literally go, Chief. Before I do,” Powell said. He had a small smile on his face too. He nodded, grabbing the door knob. 

“I’m gone.” -

By week three it was like you had only known this life. It was like it had been pre-made for you. Your body fit the mold of a life that had been waiting patiently for your arrival. Work, dates, drive-ins, socializing. Apparently Hopper knew everybody in this town and with a little work, you got him to introduce you to people. 

Never as the girlfriend. 

Just as the new secretary. 

You both tried to allow that to happen quietly. People would get used to seeing you two together eventually. There was no need to rush anything that didn’t have an exact label yet. You were just two people who happened to know each other. Intimately. 

You were eating french fries across from him at work, flipping through some papers. He narrowed his eyes at you. You tried to act like you didn’t notice. He wanted to tell you something. You glanced up at him, chewing slowly. 

“Yes Jim?”

“I have a daughter,” he said. 

“El. Yeah, I know.” You hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting her yet but you had heard lots about her. He was silent for a moment. 

“Sara. Her name was Sara,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “She died of cancer when she was 7. Everyone here knows.” He cleared his throat, sucking in air. “I thought it was unfair, if you didn’t know.” You knew he got divorced, Flo had told you that much. But you had no idea he had a daughter before El. 

“Oh,” you whispered. You racked your brain in an attempt to figure out how to salvage this situation. How did he want you to react? How should you react? “I’m sorry.” It felt inappropriate to be looking at paperwork so you put it down. “Thank you for telling me.” He nodded once, picking it up from you and then stealing one of your fries. 

“I have pictures of her at the house. I wanted you to know before you meet El.”

-

Eleven was wary but got used to you quickly. She liked that you acted a lot like Steve in some ways, even though you were eight years older than him. She liked that Max liked you. She liked that Mike liked you. 

She liked that Jim liked you. 

By week ten the cabin had become your second home. You laid on the couch while El watched a show. Jim had to work late tonight and you weren’t needed so you were always open to hanging out with her when you could. 

The light television buzzing was comforting. You flipped through a magazine, feeling the night begin to cause your eyes to droop. El was happily eating some eggos, whipped cream to top it off. You suggested throwing some chocolate chips on top of it too. 

“How’re you and Mike?” you asked, looking at the couple on TV. She had a dreamy look in her eyes. After hearing bits and pieces about how Jim came to have her, you were happy to see it. She deserved an easy life. 

“Good,” she said, shrugging. “How are you and Hopper?” You smiled a bit.

“We’re good.” 

“Good.” She pointed a finger at you. “The door stays open three inches.”

“El!” you teased, hitting her with the magazine. She erupted into giggles, whipped cream covering her smile. “You don’t even listen to that rule. There are like three rooms in this place!”

“More than one!” she argued, shrugging. You rolled your eyes. Headlights lit up the room. You had some of the blinds open but the sun had long set. It caused both you and El to wince. 

“You’re glad he’s home little lady,” you said, pointing the rolled up magazine at her. You both laughed as you got off the couch. You peaked out the window, out of habit, and saw a car you didn’t recognize. You squinted, unable to see more than the outline in the dark. A man got out of the car, shutting the door behind him. 

He walked in front of his headlights. You could see the outline of a mullet. He knocked on the door. Hopper, ever prepared, always left a baseball bat beside the door. You grabbed it nonchalantly, leaving it out of the eyesight of your guest. 

El had turned around. Hopper wouldn’t have knocked. 

Leaning against the door was the infamous Billy Hargrove. You had heard enough about him to be able to recognize him, not to mention you had seen him once or twice with Max. Jim’s words came back to you. 

“He has more parking tickets than the rest of the town combined.” 

“You’re being dramatic Jim.”

“Never get in that boy's car.”

“You jealous Jim?” 

He had rolled his eyes then but you could see what he was talking about now. There wasn’t a scratch on the car but there was a bruise on his face. 

“Hello. You are not who I was expecting to open the door.” El was hidden behind the couch, blocking his gaze from her. “Where’s the Chief?”

“Working,” you said, too meak for your liking. “Can I help you Billy?” He chewed on the toothpick between his teeth. He had a charming smile. You imagined lots of girls were the victims of that smile.

“I’m looking for my sister, Maxine. She around?” 

“Nope,” you said quickly. “I haven’t seen Max since this afternoon. She was at the arcade with El and everyone.” 

“You play taxi driver too?” he questioned, playing a bleeding heart. 

“When Jim can’t.” His eyes went wide but you suspected it was fake. 

“Wait, you aren’t El’s cousin from out of town or something? You’re sleeping with Hopper?” You flushed, immediately unable to stammer out a reasoning that benefited the situation. You hadn’t actually had an interaction like this. 

“Max isn’t here Billy,” you finally offered. 

He took the toothpick out of his mouth. 

“Well you know where I live if you ever want a good time,” he suggested. He tossed it aside. Littering. How attractive. He was starting to back away when you heard the sound of another car approaching. At the sight of someone else Jim stepped on the gas, pulling in at breakneck speed. He knew that car, even by the outline. “I never caught your name.”

“Y/N,” you said. 

“Thanks for the help Y/N.” He winked at you as he turned around. Jim hopped out of the car, shutting it aggressively. 

“What are you doing here Hargrove?” 

“Just looking for Max,” he said, hands in the air. “Your girl was mighty helpful.” Billy got into his car before anyone could punch him and backed out, rivaling Jim’s breakneck speed. 

“That fucking kid,” he grumbled as he walked in. You put your hand on his back, following him in. You kicked the front door shut behind you. “What’d he want?” 

“He just asked if Max was here.” You made the executive decision not to go further into that. “I said she wasn’t.” He took off his jacket. There was an aggression there you weren’t used to. He walked to the kitchen to get some food and probably a beer. 

“Thanks for watching her.”

“I can watch myself,” El said, looking up at him. There was a slight tinge in her voice that made you think she was telling the truth. 

“I know you can. But it makes me feel better if she’s here too.” 

“I don’t mind.” You followed him to the kitchen. He offered you a beer but you declined. “How was the rest of your day?”

“Good. Better now,” he muttered, kissing you on the forehead. You smiled, wrapping your arms around him. He embraced you, eyes lingering on the door. 

You didn’t think it ever really affected him. The age difference seemed like something you were used to from day one. But you knew Billy had affected him. The Hargrove boy was everything a young girl could want. He was bad as in bad boy. 

He didn’t say anything about it the rest of the night. 

-

You didn’t see Billy again for a couple more weeks. He became nothing more than a mindless thought in the back of your mind. You weren’t even that pre concerned with him the next day, though you could tell Jim seemed to be. You wanted to bring it up but felt like bringing it up would only make it worse. You waited until El was at Max’s, deciding that doing it alone would be the best route. 

He strayed near the phone in case El needed him.

“Callahan said he would finish that,” Jim was saying.

“When has he finished anything? Since I have moved here I have seen him get out of the chair two times. Maybe three!” You were eating pizza, the boxes strewn across the coffee table. The TV was on but neither of you were watching it. You laid on his back, rested comfortable between his legs. 

“That’s why we hired a new secretary.”

“I’m not an officer?” He laughed again. You turned around to him, giggling. “Could you imagine me with a gun? Jim, give me your gun, let’s see how that goes.” Your laughter melded, his arm resting around your chest.

“Absolutely not.”

“Exactly. Exactly.” 

You rested back down, snuggling into your spot. 

“Flo said she’d figure it out so you could have a day off without being called in. But I’m sure Harrington will lose a fight or something and we’ll both be called in.”

“Damn job.”

“Damn job is right!” You grabbed his hands, messing with his knuckles. “Let’s turn on the radio.”

“Oh God.” You stood up. 

“I’m done with my pizza, I wanna dance.”

“No you don’t.” 

“Yes I do. Try to keep up old man.” It just slipped out but you regretted saying it immediately. He didn’t show an outward reaction at first but he stood, eyebrows raised. 

“I seem to be able to keep up with you pretty well.” You tried to ignore the sly smile on his face. 

“Damn straight. Dance with me Hop.”

You offered your hand to him as you fumbled around the radio. He walked past you, turning it on. You scrambled away to turn off the TV when there was a knock on the door.

Both of you turned, surprised, caught off guard. 

“You expecting someone?” you asked.

“No. You?” 

“No sir.” 

You approached the door because you were closer. He stepped in front of you, opening it up. Max was on the other side, laughing bubbling from her lips. El was standing there too. 

“How did you get here?” he asked immediately. You saw Billy’s car before you saw Billy. You put your hand on Jim’s chest, pushing him back as gently as you could. It was like he could only see Billy at that moment, eyes red. 

“You’re back Y/N,” Billy called, leaning against his car door. He rested his hand on the top of the vehicle. 

“What the hell?” Hopper roared. He walked past the girls. 

“Inside. Quickly,” you hissed to them. They listened wordlessly. 

“You think it’s okay to drive my daughter around in that car? If I looked up the license of that car I would see so many tickets I could wallpaper my house!” 

“You haven’t taken me up on my offer,” he said, directly to you. “Shame.”

Billy wasn’t helping his case. Not in the slightest. 

“Hargrove get in your fucking car and go the fuck home,” you snarled. Billy watched your face and then finally paid Hopper a thought. 

“Offer stands.” He got in his car before Hopper could beat the shit out of him. Part of you wanted to see it. When his car was gone there was a heavy silence. 

“Fucking Hargrove,” he grumbled. You were both still standing out in the cold. You shivered. “Fucking Hargrove. He could’ve killed her.” He looked back at you. You were still watching where his car was. “Hey.” Your eyes snapped to him.

“Yeah. Fuck him.”

“What’s that?” 

“What’s what?” 

“The look on your face.”

“I don’t have a look.” His face fell a bit. He put a hand over his mouth, rubbing his beard in annoyance. 

“Do you like-”

“No.” You nipped that in the bud. This was the conversation you had been dying to have. 

“He’s closer to you-”

“No,” you said again. “Don’t say it. Don’t even dignify that thought with the words.” His face eased. “I love you.” 

His eyes went wide again. The words hung in the air like they were being let out to dry. You felt confident in them. Even your nerves wouldn’t let you take back such a true statement. 

“I don’t care about all of that. I never have.” He looked like he was searching for something. You opened your mouth to tell him he didn’t have to say it back but he was already speaking. 

“I love you too,” he breathed. The words came easy once he had said them. 

“Good.”

“Good,” he repeated back to you. You walked up to him, throwing your arms around him. He hugged you tightly. 

“Plus,” you muttered, “he’s not my type.” He chuckled into your hair. He wanted to kiss you. He never wanted to stop kissing you. He found, for a moment, a wordless moment, he had wished Billy would’ve taken El and Max back so he could have the house just for the two of you. He swept the thought away as quickly as it had come. But having you in his arms was too intoxicating. 

“I wanna listen to the radio,” you whispered. The laughter from him came louder now. 

“Alright. Alright c’mon.” You repressed claps. He had his hand on the small of your back as he led you back inside. 

-

“She said she loves him. I can feel it in the air,” Callahan muttered. He was chewing on a donut. His eyes were small. He was concentrating. 

“Entirely possible they fucked in the car,” Powell countered. 

“Calvin!” Flo exclaimed.

“That could be what you’re feeling. All I’m saying!”

“He said it back,” Callahan mused, his voice far away. 

“Now you’re stretching,” Powell promised. “Chief in love? Not in this lifetime.”

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The public transport is alive.

Gotta be real, the first thing I thought of was the cat bus from Totoro :)) Y'know, this fella:

But knowing you, you meant horror, so one slice of that coming right up!

Let me tell you: Do. Not. Take. The. Last. Train. I'm deathly serious here. Wait- No, stop! Don't walk away! It's almost midnight, don't get on the red line! Please, you have to believe me. Take a cab home tonight. Or better yet: Walk! Stretch your legs. 

Oi! You just walked away. Why would you do that? I know you think I'm high on drugs or something, but I swear I'm telling you the truth!

…And you're walking away. Damn it. You're not even gonna ask me what happened to make me say that? No? Alright, I guess I'll just talk to the wall, then.

So, it all started on a dark and stormy night. I was visiting my sister, see? She lives two towns over, and she'd just gotten a promotion. She's a manager now, believe it or not. My little old Susie, the district manager of all the Walmarts ‘round here! 

So we broke out the celebratory Jack Daniel's and had a good tipple. Well, it was more of a glugging session, really. I was righty wasted by the time she'd sent me back to the station.

It was emptier than our bottle of whiskey, even though the last train had yet to pull in. I smoked a couple while I was waiting, and thanked God that the night wasn't too cold. It was misty though, enough so that I couldn't make out the outline of my puke on the train tracks.

When the train finally arrived, it was midnight. My ride home was a rusty old thing, screeching to a halt like the screams of a thousand damned souls. That description was more accurate than I'd liked.

I stumbled abroad and onto the seat, eyes half closed. It sure did feel softer than usual, plush and squishy and… warm?

The realisation only hit me as the doors closed. My drink-addled reflexes did nothing to save me from being trapped in a warm-blooded train. In fact, they confirmed my suspicions, when I slipped and fell onto fleshy floor, outstretched fingers just short of the door.

I lay there, in a stupor, as the train rumbled to life beneath me. A heart warmer than my wife's bosom pulsated in thump-thuds, shaking me to the core. I gotta be real honest with y'all. If I hadn't been drunk outta my wits at the time, I probably would have died. I would have panicked and screamed and been eaten by the things that lurked in that train.

As it was, I lay on the ground for the two-hour long trip home, dimly aware of slavering monsters dripping their bloodlust onto my hair, of slimes crawling over my semi-conscious body, of abominations with too many eyes. The floor was red like a heart, and I admired the bulging blood vessels beneath it, content to not consider what it all meant. The walls of the train grew tighter all the while, convulsing around me like intestines, dripping juices down my clothes, soaking me in acid death. At every stop, a million motherly mouths announced the station. Now, I haven't gone to church since Maud left me, but that's the sorta thing that makes a man wear a cross ‘round everywhere.

Not that I needed to, in the end. God— or something close enough to it, anyway— sent me an angel. An angel with a gas mask, reeking of ammonia and motor oil, a woman with eyes like a thousand grinding gears in a grand factory and wings of the sort of oil that made fish float to the surface in droves. She stepped onto that train, and I felt it wither away. 

She was a congested highway, the bloat of eating too much fast food. When she picked me up, I felt grimy and polluted. Her sigh was like a mass layoff by a cruel multinational corporation. The angel of nature's death saved me, and I thanked her for it.

When I awoke, it was with an earsplitting headache, lying on the bench at the park closest to my house. My clothes were soiled with slime and oil and worse things besides, but I was alive, and that was all that mattered.

I- What do you mean, ‘are you sure it wasn't a bad dream'? Are you doubting me? I'll have you know, Mr Wall, that I, Pablo O'Hara, am no liar! Why, I used to be respected, back in my day. 

In fact, Mr Wall, I'll tell you the story. So, it all started on a dark and stormy night…

This, too, is taglist worthy:

@coffeeangelinabox, @dorky-pals, @calliecwrites, @kaylinalexanderbooks, @shukei-jiwa

@thewingedbaron, @pluppsauthor, @cowboybrunch, @wylloblr, @possiblyeldritch @ramwritblr, @urnumber1star, @tragedycoded, @bigwipscholar, @ratedn

@vampirelover890, @possiblylisle, @illarian-rambling, @the-ellia-west

@finicky-felix, @evilgabe29, @glitched-dawn, @rivenantiqnerd, @dragonhoardesfandoms

@drchenquill, @everythingismadeofchaos, @owldwagitoutofyou, @dimitrakies, @beloveddawn-blog

@riveriafalll, @the-golden-comet, @rascaronii, @trippingpossum, @real-fragments

@xenascribbles, @unrepentantcheeseaddict, @the-inkwell-variable

(Anyone else who wants to get added can tell me in the comments, pm me, or send me an ask about it!)

[starlightkun]

the soulmate factory ➥ teaser [sungchan]

➥ teaser word count: 1.3k | full fic: 28.9k ➥ warnings: none for the teaser! ➥ genre: angst heavy at the beginning then fluff, science fantasy au, soulmate au (red string), speculative fiction, star crossed lovers, a little mystery-ish, artist sungchan ➥ estimated release: wednesday, february 14, 2024 6:00 p.m. eastern time

Swiping your badge at the access panel, the door clicked to unlock, and you pushed it open. There were a couple of other matchmakers already in there, who didn’t offer you a single glance or any indication that they were even aware of your presence. Sitting at your station, you were face-to-face with a quaintly archaic-looking computer. Compared to the newest monitors at every desk in the main bullpen, which could display images in a resolution so crisp it was hard to tell the difference between that and real life, the small, square glass and pixelated text that was in front of you seemed so out of place. But this was the system.

Pressing the Enter button on your keyboard, your screen came to life, already giving you your first match.

N!#83LPd5D4ZR$PYQ^KLT6WnY##4GYVm74v^f@96#q#hheeRYgLLf3Ft9KQw

‘Matchmaker’ was a misnomer, really. You didn’t set people up to be soulmates whatsoever. The computer gave you the results, all you did was read them. Take the seemingly random string of letters, numbers, and characters, and parse out the meaning. Your training consisted of watching other matchmakers work, then trying your hand at doing some on your own, being told that you were wrong or right, with no explanation as to why either way—until you stopped getting them wrong. And whenever it would be your turn to train a matchmaker, that would be exactly how you’d train them. Because there was no way to tell them what exactly you were seeing, or how to do it. They just had to do.

The longest part was looking up the profile numbers in the program, selecting them, and sending off the match results. As soon as you submitted that one, your next match came up.

jkD%NVSC3%JCacN%vWS5#k!Z4GqGW#ZfMyqGUfc@wQT5L5vK2uWU5N*5Lg&6

Your body moved as if by itself, in understanding with the machine, the program. The matchmakers often talked about entering a sort of trance when working, becoming one mind with the computer, completely unaware of their surroundings, time, or bodily needs. Only the next match.

That’s why all of your screens had to be simultaneously forced into a shut-off at lunchtime, or else none of you would take a lunch break, then again at the end of the workday.

Blinking a few times to readjust from the hours spent interfacing with the program, you looked around you at the other matchmakers slowly getting up from their seats as well. With a sigh, you stood up and shuffled out after them. Jaemin was still at his desk when you got back to yours, fervently clacking away at his keyboard.

You grabbed your coffee mug, went to wash it out in the breakroom and set it up to dry, then returned to your desk. Swallowing in an attempt to wet your dry throat, you asked him, “So how was your thrilling day of data synthesis?”

“Not over yet,” he groaned, scrolling down in his spreadsheet. “Hey, wait up a minute, would you?”

Checking the time on your watch, you nodded. “My bus doesn’t come for another twenty-five. They let us out early again.”

“Yeah, I heard the Director on the phone to somebody a while ago. He sounded pissed. Apparently, there’s some concerns over the Factory’s energy usage. They must be cutting you guys a few minutes early every day to try to help since you still use old hardware, right?”

“Mm,” you hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah, could be.”

“You’d think we’d be the one agency that wouldn’t be hit with budget cuts,” he scoffed, clicking a few things before his monitor displayed the login screen again. He spun around in his chair, giving you a wide smile. “Alright, ready?”

“Sure.” You grabbed your backpack from your seat.

Jaemin and you headed down the stairs, awash in pinks and oranges from the sunset streaming in from outside.

“So, I already know what the answer is going to be, but I have to be able to say that I asked, alright?” Your coworker began, making you scrunch up your face in confusion.

“Huh?”

“My sister wanted me to ask if you’ve done hers yet? Na Minhee?”

You sighed, “Jaemin, you know I don’t know any of that—”

“I know—”

“—it’s all just… stuff. And you’ve compiled profiles, those are completely anonymous.”

“I know, I know,” he reassured you. “I just needed to be able to tell her that I asked, and that’s what you said. She wouldn’t take my word for it.”

“She’d know if hers has already been done, anyway.” You held up your hand, wiggling your pinky finger. “Why ask you?”

“Because she’s impatient.”

“Well, I can’t help her.” You shrugged. “It’ll happen when it happens.”

“I’ll tell her that. Thanks!”

“Yeah, no problem, dude.”

“When does your bus come?”

You checked the time again. “Fifteen minutes or so.”

“You want me to wait with you?” He offered, looking around the empty bus stop. “Kind of dark.”

“I’m alright, thanks. Go break your sister’s heart, champ.” You gave him a mock punch on the shoulder.

“Right.” Your coworker shook his head. “See you tomorrow, Y/N.”

“See you tomorrow, Jaemin.”

On your own again, you took your phone and headphones out, popping one earbud in your ear as you went to choose your playlist. As you scrolled, tapped, and swiped through your phone to try to pick the perfect song, some fuzz fell from your jumpsuit onto your right pinky finger, and you absentmindedly shook it off as your focus stayed on your music library. But it was stubborn, and the red fleck didn’t budge. You wiped the digit on your pants, eyes on where you had finally gotten the perfect choice, the song starting up as you lifted your now-clean hand back up.

Except it was still there. You looked at your hand for the first time, really looked at it, and felt your stomach drop. A thin, bright red string, the same color as your jumpsuit, was tied around your right pinky finger, just above the juncture where the finger met your hand. The string hung off in the air, becoming transparent and disappearing altogether less than a finger’s length away. You turned your hand over, palm to back to palm to back, and the string moved with it, the end fluttering with each of your movements. Stupidly, you tried to grab it, as if to pull it off, but when you took hold of the silken thread and gave it a yank, it didn’t budge. For a split second, amputation came to mind, but you quickly pushed those thoughts away. There were stories of people losing fingers or entire limbs and their strings reappearing on the other hand, or in new places altogether if they had no hands at all.

You looked around for any of your coworkers. Nobody else except the two people on either end of the string could see it, but you still didn’t want anybody to be observing your behavior, and then have to try to explain said behavior right now. It was easy to explain why you were doing what you were doing—you just got a red string; but not how—you weren’t supposed to get one. Ever.

The area around you was empty, the majority of your coworkers driving, taking the subway, or not having left work yet. You looked over your shoulder, at the pink marble building looming in the distance.

The squeal of brakes and hiss of compressed air as the doors of a bus were flung open made you turn around. Rushing up the steps onto the bus, you then plopped into your usual seat, keeping your backpack on your lap and instinctively tucking your right hand between the bag and your body to keep the string hidden. You didn’t know who could possibly be your soulmate now, you had to be vigilant.

➥ masterlist

[piizunn]

september 30th, 2023

People who are not First Nations, Métis, or Inuit will never know the sickening feeling of finding out the playground you used to go to is the site of a former residential school, a school still in use by the town of Fort Smith, NWT.

fig. 1. Joseph Burr Tyrrell Elementary School in Fort Smith. Sarah Pruys/Cabin Radio.

First, I’d like to make clear that to my knowledge none of my my immediate family members are residential school survivors, I share community and space with many people who are and I personally attended the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and I will only be speaking on my own experiences. I descend from 7 historic Métis Otipemisiwak families by the names of Berthelet, Caron, St. Germain, Larivière, Dazé, Dubois, and Boudreau, who come from the historic Red River Settlement and Batoche. I come from Amiskwaciywâskahikan, Treaty 6 and I now make my home in Mohkinstsis on Treaty 7 land. I introduce myself in this traditional way of the Métis Otipemisiwak to contextualize my knowledge and experiences, honour my family, and situate myself on this land and in this conversation.

Today is Orange Shirt Day, a day that honours Phyllis Webstad, member of Stswecem’c Xgat’tem First Nation (Canoe Creek Indian Band), and survivor of the Residential School system. Her story is what has inspired this national day of honour and action. Beyond wearing orange I would like non-Indigenous settlers to really consider the history around them and the experiences of survivors and those who lost their lives. I would like you to physically step up for us, be there for us when we are being beaten down, sit with Elders and listen to their stories, learn about their joy as well their pain.

I attended Grandin School, an elementary school in Amiskwaciywâskahikan (Edmonton, Alberta) before it was renamed to Holy Child. For anyone outside of the area I will describe it; the school is over one hundred years old in a historic neighbourhood. Near the school is an LRT station underground and on one side of the platform was a large mural depicting Bishop Grandin, a nun holding a native child, an Indigenous family at camp, and a residential school. Based on the fact that Bishop Grandin spent time working in Saint-Boniface of the Red River Settlement, Fort Chipewyan in what is now Alberta, and Île-à-la-Crosse in what is now Saskatchewan, it can be assumed that the family is either First Nations or Métis, however it must not be forgotten that the Inuit of the north also suffered these institutions.

A quote from Bishop Vital Grandin haunts me to this day, more now than ever.

“We instil in them a pronounced distaste for the native life so that they will be humiliated when reminded of their origin. When they graduate from our institutions, the children have lost everything Native except their blood.”

- Bishop Vital Grandin, 1875

Fig. 2. “A mural depicting Bishop Grandin at an Indian Residential School is located at the Grandin LRT Station in Edmonton.” Image courtesy of Jake Cardinal and Alberta Native News.

I remember teachers taking us to the Is platform to sse the murals but it was not a critical conversation they were very much pro church and viewed residential schools from a sinister paternalistic perspective.

The mural was eventually covered up but the narrative in grandin elementary was that they were "helping native families. I remember inside the school by the main stairwell there was a portrait of Old Grandin and it was literally so scary to me hated walking past it so much I would sprint up the stairs whenever I walked past him alone.

I attended the seventh and final Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s national event in March of 2014, at the end of one of the days I was there I took the train to see my old elementary school, to see the mural and to really consider what I had been taught in school versus what my community and family has taught me. Again, none of my direct family are residential school survivors but many Métis are and this history is often hidden. Prayers up and tobacco down for every single survivors, living and in spirit form.

Fig. 3. The mural depicting Bishop Vital-Justin Grandin at an Edmonton LRT Station was covered in orange Tuesday, June 8, 2021. Kirby Bourne, Global News

First Nations, Métis, and Inuit have been talking about their family members who did not come home and the abuse they experienced. This is not new information, and you have to sit and listen no matter how uncomfortable you are because nothing is more uncomfortable than colonial violence. When news came out about the children of Kamloops in 2021 it was devastating how many people I knew personally that were completely ignorant of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and the history of residential schools. What happened in these institutions are absolute atrocities many people would rather not face even the knowledge of what happened to these children, both alive and passed on. Like the survivors, the perpetrators of these horrors live on and have never been held accountable.

Continue to honour your community, stand up and show up for First Nations, Métis, and Inuit. Learn about the history of settler-colonial occupation of this land and how you yourself are directly benefitting from this ongoing genocide. Residential school survivors and the children who never came home are in your community; they are the kind kokum down the hall as well as the middle aged man living on the street, their children young adults, teenagers, kids, babies, they still carry these experiences and memory down to the atoms that make up each of their cells.

works cited

Bourne, Kirby. ‘Mural at old Grandin LRT Station to be removed this fall,’ September 23rd, 2021, Global News.

Cardinal, Jake. ‘Edmonton Paints Over The Grandin Mural’, Alberta Native News, June 10th, 2021.

Grandin, Vital-Justin. On the goal of residential schools, 1875.

Pruys, Sarah. ‘MLA calls for new Fort Smith schools, citing residential school legacy’. Cabin Radio, March 5th, 2023.

Webstad, Phyllis Jack. Phyllis’ Story In Her Own Words, OrangeShirtDay.Org

[razorsadness]

Tuesday June 21, 1938 (Yosemite)

Dies Irae: Wakened at 5:30—dragged weary bones erect, dressed, closed baggage, was ready shortly before six, and we were off again "on the dot"—at six oclock. So out of Klamath, the lakes red, and a thread of silver river in the desert, and immediately

the desert, sage brush, and bare, naked, hills, giant-molded, craterous, cupreous, glaciated blasted—a demonic heath with reaches of great pine, and volcanic glaciation, cupreous, fiendish, desert, blasted—the ruins of old settlers homesteads, ghost towns and the bleak little facades of long forgotten postoffices lit bawdily by blazing rising sun and the winding mainstreet, the deserted station of the incessant railway—all dominated now by the glittering snow—pale masses of

Mount Shasta—pine lands, canyons, sweeps and rises, the naked crateric hills and the volcanic

lava masses and then Mount Shasta omnipresent—Mount Shasta all the time—always Mt. Shasta—and at last the town named Weed (with a divine felicity)—and breakfast at Weed at 7:45—and the morning bus from Portland and the tired people tumbling out and in for breakfast

and away from Weed and towering Shasta at 8:15—and up and climbing and at length into the passes of the lovely timbered Siskiyous and now down into canyon of the Sacramento in among the lovely timbered Siskiyous and all through the morning down and down and down the canyon, and the road snaking, snaking always with a thousand little punctual gashes, and the freight trains and the engines turned backward with the cabs in front

down below along the lovely Sacramento snaking snaking snaking—and at last into the town of Redding and the timber fading, hills fading, cupreous lavic masses fading—and almost at once the mighty valley of the Sacramento—as broad as a continent—and all through the morning through the great floor of that great plain

like valley—the vast fields thick with straw grass lighter

than Swedes hair—and infinitely far and unapproachable the towns down the mountain on both sides—and great herds of fat brown steers in straw light fields—a dry land, with a strange hot heady fragrance and fertility—and at last no mountains at all but the great sun-bright, heat-hazed, straw-light plain and the straight marvel of the road on which the car rushes

—Thomas Wolfe, from A Western Journal