#the six boroughs

[johnbrace]

Planning Appeal (DAY 6 (EVE)) Wirral Council refusals of 7 planning appl...

[allthecanadianpolitics]

A Montreal borough and Muslim leader are pushing back against the head of the Parti Québécois (PQ) after he accused a local library of promoting a "religious invasion" by posting a photo of a young girl wearing a hijab for a story time event. The photo in question was used in a Facebook post for an event the Mercier Library held on Oct. 13 called Les P'tits Coeurs Contes, or Little Hearts Tales in English. The promotional poster includes a stock photo of three children, including one girl wearing the religious head scarf in class. In a post on X, formerly Twitter, PQ leader Paul St-Pierre Plamondon said: "Is it normal for a library in my riding to feel the need to advertise a religious sign with a photo of a veiled little girl aged between three and six? Do you really think that this little girl is making a free and informed choice, with full knowledge of the facts, to be subjected to a religious symbol?"

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Tagging: @newsfromstolenland

[rapeculturerealities]

Two Women Died on an Alaska Mayor’s Property. No One Has Ever Been Charged. — ProPublica

Kirk and Norton, both Inupiaq, had each dated sons of the former borough mayor, and the sons had previously been convicted of beating each of them. One of the sons had admitted to strangling Kirk twice before. Another pleaded guilty to kicking Norton in the stomach when she was six months pregnant.

No one has ever been charged with a crime in connection to the deaths.

In a state where women are 2.5 times more likely than the national average to be killed by a man and Alaska Native women are especially at risk, elected leaders here have repeatedly pledged action. The Department of Justice declared a rural law enforcement emergency in Alaska following a 2019 report by the Anchorage Daily News and ProPublica on glaring lapses in local policing. Two years later, the governor created a state council on Missing and Murdered Indigenous Persons, and in 2022, new investigators were hired to solve cases like Norton’s.

Unexplained holes in the investigations into the deaths of Kirk and Norton call into question this commitment, a review by the Anchorage Daily News and ProPublica found. More than that, the events leading up to the women’s deaths illustrate how police, prosecutors and judges here have regularly given pass after pass to people accused of domestic violence and strangulation.

[minefield-of-a-ninja]

*image of Jensen Ackles is used with permission of the photographer Mandi Lea Photogtaphy.

Summary: After a significant career shift and subsequent break-up, Brandy Miller moves to Wayne County, Pennsylvania, to be closer to family. She invests in a small, sight-unseen condo in a “quiet, charming neighborhood with views of the Poconos and neighbors you can count on.” One particular neighbor seems to have a unique interpretation of what that means.

Characters: Brandy Miller x Soldier Boy, Serge Bernard, Kimiko Miyashiro (mentioned), Maggie Shaw, Annie January, Hughie Campbell, MM (mentioned), John James Davis (AKA Homelander but just as SB’s 21yo son), Butcher (mentioned)

Warnings/tags in this chapter: 18+ ONLY, sexual tension, sexual objectification, rough and degrading sex dream, alcohol, Soldier Boy is a terrible father, explicit sexual content

Words in this chapter: 3,500

Author’s notes: Soldier Boy will be referred to by many names in this fic. The full name I’ve given him is Benjamin James Davis III.

Thank you to @brrose-apothecary @stusbunker and @talltalesandbedtimestories for pre-reads and green lights!

This fills my #Inconsiderate Neighbor square for @jacklesversebingo

CHAPTER ONE

The last five years have been wild. A global pandemic impacted our life choices and decisions more than any other event in the previous 50 years. Career shifts, resettling in vastly different communities, honest declarations of who we are as people and who we love — these things I’ve witnessed first-hand.

I was an executive for a nationally renowned advertising agency. My partner of six years was a successful stock trader. About three weeks into our second lockdown, I realized I couldn’t stand the guy. I went through every reason why I’d have stayed for so long if he was so horrible. I wondered if he hated me too. Then one day, he told me.

“Brandy, I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t hate me; he just didn’t love me. He wasn’t horrible; he just wasn’t for me. 

Working remotely gave me a similarly renewed perspective on my career choice. I worked 12 hours a day from my home office overlooking Central Park, drank a bottle of wine to go to sleep, then got up the next morning to do it all over again. Meanwhile, everyone in America was tightening their purse strings on ad spend.

Now, I’m in the Honesdale borough of Wayne County, Pennsylvania, working as a freelance document review specialist. I’m single, own my two-bedroom condo outright, and spend Sundays with my sister Amber and her two teenagers over in Damascus. 

These changes introduced me to a set of concepts that I had previously denied. I thought I was happy, successful, content. 

But I’m told that a constant desire for more hinders contentment. Comparison is the thief of joy, as they say. A sense of entitlement will always bite you in the ass. A lack of gratitude prevents you from appreciating what you already have and fosters a need for something beyond.

As it happens, I have a prospective client meeting in Scranton this afternoon, and my brand-new Jeep won’t start. I guess they don’t make them like they used to. 

“Brandy, mon amie, where are you?” my friend Serge answers my call with worry in his voice.

“My truck won’t start,” I whine.

Last month, I complained to Serge and his partner-in-all-things Kimiko that government work was beginning to bore me. I like new things, which is a bummer, considering desire hinders contentment. Kimiko offered to introduce me to her brother, who works with one of the largest healthcare companies in the country. 

“Oh, cher...” Serge laments in sympathy.

“I know, I know. And this fucking podunk town’s got like two cabs and one Lyft serving the entire county.”

I roll my neck and eyes in frustration, and in my periphery, I glimpse a man inside a single garage stall working on a motorcycle. I’ve never seen him before, but judging by the military-themed tattoos, evident dexterity with the tools he’s wielding, and his proportions, he’s the ‘asshole military contractor’ my next-door neighbor, Maggie, told me about when I moved in. 

Serge frets in Frenglish on the other end of the line before returning to the point. “On se’n occupe. We will handle it.”

I watch my newly discovered neighbor deftly flex and twist and wonder if he’s as adept with other motor vehicles. “Please tell Kimiko I’m sorry and understand if this opportunity’s off the table now.”

My words are meant for Serge, but the man not 10 yards away sends me a subtle, knowing look. There’s an enduring facet of competence and perception in every flick of his eyes and wrist, every shrug of his thick, broad shoulders, and the taunting slant of his jaw. He knows I’m watching him and knows I’m in a bind. 

He pities me.

I tell Serge that I’ll let him know how things go with the car before ending the call then tentatively head toward my neighbor’s garage stall.

“Hey there, I’m Brandy.” I thumb over my shoulder, indicating the general area of my condo. “Are you BJ?”

He smirks at his greasy wrench before answering, “BJ, Soldier Boy, Captain,” then pauses as he drags his eyes from his task to pin me in place. “Take your pick, sweetheart.”

He looks me down and up, slow and heavy, licking his lips. His demeanor would be comical at best and frightening at worst if I weren’t so stunned by the sheer audacity. As he unfolds from a squat, his muscles shift and grind under his sweat-slicked skin. He wipes his filthy hands on a filthier rag and saunters toward me. I have never in my life been so blatantly objectified right to my face.

“Need a ride?” he asks, meeting my eyes again. The rounded toes of his grungy work boots tap the points of my Jimmy Choos.

“I-” I attempt to speak but don’t know what to say. I should be outraged. I should tell him he can’t just look at people like that. He can’t just invade my space.

He tilts his head, and his eyes drop to my chest. “You're all flushed, Brandy. Feeling okay?” He drops his rag to the concrete before ghosting a finger along my collarbone.

Air returns to my lungs and the flush in my chest rises up my throat to my face. I smack his hand away and take a step back. “What the fuck?! Do you always harass and assault women half your size, or is it just me?”

Centuries of gaslighting threaten to drown me from one single look. And then he speaks. “My bad. Didn’t know you were a prude.”

He raises his hands in feigned surrender before returning to his bike.

“I’m a prude because I don’t like being evaluated like a pig going to slaughter?”

He rolls his eyes and sighs. “Listen—no harm, no foul, alright? I thought you were game; you’re not, no big deal.”

“Man, I came over here as a neighbor to introduce myself. You clearly heard part of my call and know my car isn’t starting. I thought, since you’re in here working on a motorcycle, you might also know something about cars.”

He nods. “Got it. Is that where we’re at right now? You want me to take a look at your car?”

“Jesus- what?! Are you for real?”

“No? Okay, then.” He turns his back, and I stare at him for a moment.

Thoughts swirl through my mind. Where is your spine, Brandy? Show him what you’re made of. This isn’t over until you say it is.

A slave to my guts and ego, I’m determined to re-engage. “Yes.” 

He slowly faces me again, eyebrows raised and head tilted in question. “Yes?”

“Yes. I’d appreciate it if you’d take a look at my Jeep.”

His expression shifts—softens, some might say, but his eyes remain hard and cold. “‘Course. What kinda neighbor would I be if I didn’t?”

He strides toward my two-car stall across from his, and I follow with no other excuse than my competitive spirit and morbid fascination with opposition. 

“You pay extra for two stalls?” he asks, glancing at the gym area I’ve set up beside my Jeep before rounding its hood.

From what I’ve gathered in this brief and bracing interaction, Captain BJ Benjamin Soldier Boy isn’t a small-talk kind of person, but I’m not sure yet why he’s asking a simple question like that. I decide to answer as simply.

“Yeah.”

He nods and gestures to the driver’s seat. “Pop the hood.”

I watch through my windshield and the slant of space between the hood and my dash as he quickly pokes and prods at things I know nothing about. Less than two minutes later, he drops the hood shut and walks around to the open driver’s side door.  

“Try it now.” He’s rubbing his hands together and his brow is slightly furrowed like he wishes he hadn’t tossed that rag aside in his garage.

I turn the key in the ignition, and it starts with no issue. 

My morning started with limited knowledge of this man and the inner workings of my Jeep. I had a single goal in mind to expand my client portfolio. I did not grow my business, I have not learned anything new about my vehicle, and my introduction to my neighbor has provided me with very little satisfaction. 

“Coupla loose terminals. It happens with new cars. Gotta break ‘em in.”

I flick my eyes to meet his. He holds my gaze, licks his bottom lip back between his teeth, then backs away before strolling away. 

+

“He’s the fucking poster boy for misogyny.”

Maggie nods as she tops off my glass of wine. “Yeah, calling him an asshole is an insult to assholes, honestly.”

“I felt like I was transported back to the 1950s or something. He’s a caricature of misogyny.”

“The embodiment,” Maggie replies, settling back into her sofa and sipping her wine.

“Does he think that works on women? Like, are there women in his sphere who respond favorably to his behavior? He can’t be rewarded by it. Maybe he’s conducting a social experiment.”

Maggie laughs. “You’re giving him way too much credit.”

“Then why?”

Maggie stares at me for a beat. “The question is, why do you care?”

I’ve thought of nothing else since he left me in my garage yesterday morning. I felt defeated by him. Used, somehow. Inconsequential in the end.

“I hate how he made me feel.”

Maggie remains silent and intent. She’s a great listener, and she never judges.

“I had a dream about him last night.”

She nods. “And how did that make you feel?”

I shake my head and draw a deep breath. It made me feel hot and wild. I was angry and hungry for him. Or for redemption, revenge, or victory. 

“It makes no sense. We interacted for like 10 minutes and I haven’t seen him since. That’s why I care. I can’t get him out of my head. I keep thinking of what I should’ve said or done instead of standing there like a deer in headlights.”

“Don’t let your pride rule you with him. He has no morals, no decency. You won’t win.” 

“You think I’m trying to win something.” 

She’s right. Maggie and I are a lot alike, but she’s smarter and more cautious than I am. Somewhere along the line, she learned a lesson I have yet to let sink in. She learned to resist a challenge and walk away. 

“Aren’t you?”

I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Let’s change the subject,” Maggie suggests. “Did you get that meeting rescheduled, or is it dead?”

I fill her in on my chat with Kimiko. Kimiko’s brother Kenji was gracious enough to reschedule for next week, and I decided it best to go up the night before and spend the night with her and Serge in case I have any other car problems. 

Maggie opens a second bottle of wine and we proceed with our binge of Dead To Me on Netflix. 

+

I’m face down on my weight bench, straddling the padded seat with his fist in my hair and his cock hammering me from behind. He’s saying things to me, violent, hateful words, calling me names.

My wrists are bound, I’m blindfolded, and I am so wet. So wet from his rough hands, the way he slaps my ass and hips and pulls my hair. His voice is deep and rich, and it dominates the atmosphere and my mind. 

He’s had me so many times already, and he wants more. He wants to devour me. He can’t get enough of me.

And I never want him to stop. He treats me like a whore, tells me I’m his whore, and I can’t stop soaking his cock and slicking up the bench. 

“You fucking love my cock.”

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck me.”

I wake up in a sweat after a third night dreaming of him. I feel fractured and unlike myself. I’ve never wanted the kinds of things I’m dreaming about him. I’ve never wanted a man to degrade me or tie me up. 

And this man is a pig of a man. 

But I can’t get him out of my head.

I’m aching and breathless. My sheets are soaked from sweat and my pussy. I reach into my nightstand for my vibrator to soothe the twitching between my legs and rid him from my mind. I think about all the things that usually get me off, but he just keeps coming back around with big, rough hands and dirty words, and teeth that score my tender flesh.

I come silently, arching into my mattress, imagining his hands around my wrists and his cock driving into me hard.

+

When I told the newlyweds who live across the hall from my nemesis that I’d never been to our neighborhood bar, they invited me to join them for burgers and beers. 

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but Butcher’s is an institution. I literally grew up in this bar,” Annie tells me as her husband Hughie distributes sticky menus and napkin roll-ups. 

“I’ll get a pitcher,” Hughie says and heads to the bar.

“I like it. Thanks for bringing me.”

I glance around the space, taking in old pictures and carved sentiments in the wooden beams. It still smells faintly of cigarette smoke after decades of No Smoking laws have been enforced. It reminds me of my favorite New York dive bar.

“Well, I’m glad. I’m sure it can’t be easy to transplant to a place like Honesdale where everybody knows everybody.”

“You know, it hasn’t been too bad. Between you two and Maggie, I’m meeting all the neighbors and learning the ropes like a real local.”

I don’t mention the man who’s rapidly infiltrated every dark corner of my brain since we’re having such a nice time. I don’t want to spoil it, but you don’t always get what you want.

“Ugh, BJ,” Annie gripes, reaching for a menu even though she surely has it memorized. “He is so gross.”

I hazard a glance in the direction of her glare to see the bane of my existence waltzing toward the bar. 

“He better not fuck with Hughie,” Annie says, narrowing her eyes as he brushes shoulders with her groom. 

Hughie gracefully ignores the man’s obvious intention to needle him, gathers three chilled pint glasses and our pitcher, and rounds the crowd away from Captain Creep to return to the table.

“Who’s the kid?” I ask, finally noticing a quiet young man with BJ at the bar.

“That’s his son John. That kid’s been through the wringer with BJ and his mom. I don’t know why he still comes around; he clearly cannot stand the man any more than us.”

John’s smaller than his dad. He’s almost delicate-looking with a thick swath of blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He doesn’t have the swagger of the man next to him, and he seems to wish he were anywhere but here.

“MM, my man, it’s my boy’s 21st birthday! Get him a whiskey and a round for the house on me.”

“Hey.” Hughie settles the pint glasses on the table before filling each one, serving Annie and me first, then sitting down to pour his own. “John’s 21st. This oughtta be an interesting night.”

Annie tells me stories about babysitting John when he was a kid. He was sweet and gentle, quiet but curious, and his dad taunted him for it.

“He called his 6-year-old son a pussy.” She shakes her head. “Who does that?”

John slides into a barstool and idly sips his whiskey. A few of the older patrons wish him Happy Birthday, and MM makes a point to keep his water glass and popcorn bowl full while John’s dad struts around, flirting with every woman and slapping the backs of every man. 

It’s odd to see people react to him positively. Men, no matter their age, appear to admire him, and every woman he smiles at blushes and giggles. 

“They don’t know him like we do,” Hughie says. “Should we order? Butcher’s in the back tonight.”

I decide on the ”Terror,” a half-pound beef burger with taleggio, prosciutto, and peperoncini, medium-well. Annie recommends the cheesy house fries with special sauce as a shared dish, and within 20 minutes, we have our food and a second pitcher.

A soft buzz from light American beer warms and loosens me up. In this state, I’m less critical of my thoughts about the man who’s starred in my most desperate and debased dreams this past week. 

He looks good. He’s agile and powerful, which is a spectacular combination. People laugh at his jokes. They gravitate toward him. They think he’s charming and handsome, and from the background of Annie’s stories, I learn that he’s a war hero. 

It’s nice to feel something other than the overwhelming angst and shame I’ve felt all week. He affects people; it’s okay. I’m not an outlier. I just have to ride this out.

We finish our food, and I excuse myself to the restroom. There’s a vanilla candle burning on a table beside a well-loved armchair, a basket with single-size toiletries, pads and tampons, condoms, hand soap, and lotion. Definite homey vibe.

As I step through the door into the hallway, I’m jolted from my chill by a deep voice.

“Look at you all caszh and relaxed.” 

He’s propped between the men’s and women’s, so close I brush his arm when I whirl around to connect the voice with a face.

“Jesus, you scared me.”

“Hmm.” He pushes off the wall and turns into me, backing me against the closed door.

“There’s that flush,” he murmurs. He does that thing with his finger again that made me smack his hand away earlier this week. This time, I let him.

“Is it because I scared you,” he pauses and catches my eye. “Or something else?”

I close my eyes and let my head fall back to the door, feeling the heat and buzz of a potentially malicious yet certainly pleasurable outcome. He slides a knee between my thighs and skims a heavy hand over my hip, nuzzling against my throat with a low chuckle.

My breath catches in my chest under the hand he has pressed there, holding me in place, keeping me where he wants me. Ire swirls and rises from my gut, and I grip his t-shirt in my fists to yank him into the restroom.

“There she is.” He stumbles backward with a grin as I throw the lock.

“Shut up.” I push him to sit in the chair before climbing astride him and diving in.

His lips are plush and demanding, his beard is soft, and his mouth is superheated and whiskey-wet. He’s hard and hot everywhere I touch as I tug at the button and zipper of his jeans. His hands roam over denim and my cotton t-shirt. He nips at my lips and toys with the button of my jeans.

“Fuck,” I growl, pushing out of his lap to get my pants down.

Before I know it, he’s spun me around, and he’s shimmying my jeans and underwear over my hips and down my thighs. He slumps into the chair and fits a condom over his length, then juts his hips forward to give me a place to rest. One long arm wraps my middle, and he slips two fingers over my wet slit. The wide pads of his fingertips swirl around my clit, and I brace my hands on the arms of the chair. Then he’s teasing me with his hard cock, rutting underneath, making me squirm. 

When he finally pushes inside, I shout and groan from the stretch and insane rhythm he’s keeping on my clit. I go off—ride him, pumping my thighs and elbows, using his arm around my middle for leverage. 

In less than a minute, I’m coming. One second later, he’s on his feet with me on my knees in the chair. He forces me to bend and hold onto the back, grips my bare hips, and pushes inside me again. He’s muttering, grunting, and, god, he’s hitting that spot with every thrust. 

“Come on, Brandy,” he gasps. “Lemme feel that tight little cunt come again. Make me come.”

I reach down between my legs and press over my mound, relishing his measured thrusts. I’m booze and fuck drunk, and my ears are ringing. His hands tighten on my hips, and we both come, swearing and howling.

Chapter Two coming soon...

What did you think? Reblog to share if you liked it! And let me know your thoughts. xox

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[thesunpersists]

The Yellow Line

“Is this my punishment for being annoying, Katniss? ‘Cause I actually don't mind pillow fights with gorgeous half-naked women.” He grabs her wrists and pulls her closer. “I won't let it go because I want us to have this all the time. We won’t need to worry about the last bus, the weather, or someone hearing us... It'll be just you and me."

-

Two households, both alike in lack of privacy. Will Katniss and Peeta manage to get away and have a place of their own? Maybe somewhere on the yellow line?

Set six months after Katniss with a K and Codename: B³.

Read on ao3!

This is for  @browneyeddevil who left a lovely comment on Codename: B³ and requested I write something about the last part of the story, which goes:

“One of these days,” she thinks to herself, “you will spend the night in his bed in the twelfth borough. Then your displacement will not be zero.”

This got me thinking just how quickly that distance between their houses would become a source of annoyance and I wrote this short piece about how they would come to live together. Thank you, @browneyeddevil for the inspiration and the encouraging comments! ❤️

[gwynzynoodles]

Hey to my fellow New York or tristate area PJO fans, did anyone also wonder why Sally just didn’t move to the other boroughs? Like they were canonically poor and Manhattan is EXPENSIVE, for the apartment they had in the show or movie (we don’t talk about the movie) they could get a home in the other boroughs with two extra rooms for the same price. If you’re using the explanation of “oh Percy was kicked out of six schools” I know people who have done things similar to Percy and they still got into schools. He’ll be fine.

(Please tell me if there’s a canon explanation as to why and I just forgot, was it because of Grover? Well it can’t cause what about before Grover???)

[bullet-prooflove]

"It’s time to say the things he truly feels" with Scola? I'm scared but we'll have to face it one day or another

Tagging: @kmc1989 @trublu2u @burningpeachpuppy @district447 @stelacole

Companion piece to:

Little Changes - Stuart notices when you start to make little changes.

The Last Time - You and Stuart face a problem regarding your wish to start a family.

Fresh - You decide you need to start fresh.

Seduction (NSFW) - You decide to seduce Stuart.

Jack - Stuart discovers that he fathered a child with Nina.

Stuart’s marriage ends not with a shouting match or raised voices but with a simple declaration.

“I can’t do this.”

The words roll off your lips as you stare down at a picture of your husband’s son, the one he didn’t father with you. You don’t understand in that moment how fate can be so cruel, how it can take away your ability to have children and then give him one of his own.

“I have to.” Stuart tells you, his voice raising just a little. “Sasha, he’s my son. I can’t just leave him out there to fend for himself.”

“I know.” You say as you push the photograph back towards him. “I don’t expect you to.”

He understands then in that moment that it’s over. You can’t cope with this upheaval in your life, not after everything you’ve already been through.

“I’ll pack a bag.” You say despondently as you raise to your feet. “I’ll have my stuff out by the time you come back from L.A with Jack.”

He understands what you’re giving him in that moment, a fresh start with his son. A life with just the two of them. He doesn’t follow you out the room or try to stop you. He doesn’t see the point. You buried your dreams of having a family, for you there is no going back.

You don’t say goodbye when you walk about the door, you simply leave, closing it softly behind you.

You stay true to your word, when he gets back from L.A with Jack, there isn’t a trace of you in the house. It’s as if you never existed. The only difference is the room you had planned to use as a nursery. You’d repainted it after you discovered you couldn’t have children, planned to use it as a home office. Instead there’s now a child’s bed in it, along with furnishings, some clothes, toys and books. It’s your final gift to him he realises. The thing he was worried about the most was Jack not having his own room for the first few weeks but you’ve already taken care of that.

He tries to call you that night when he gets Jack squared away but your phone goes straight to voicemail.

It’s  a week later that he decides to call you at work, you aren’t picking up the phone, you’re not answering his texts. He’s worried about what this has done to you, that you’ll be drowning your sorrows in some shitty bar in a different borough.

“I’m sorry Stuart.” He’s told when he gets through to your supervisor. “They offered her a assignment in Europe over the next year, she left for Budapest this morning.”

He doesn’t hear from you at all after that, not until the divorce papers turn up in the mail six months later, already etched with your signature.

You want to be free of the burden of it all, he thinks.

He signs them and sends them back to your lawyer the next day.

His life changes as it does when you have a child. He makes the move to White Collar, a safer job with regular hours so he can spend his evenings with Jack. He’s loving, attentive, a good father. His son becomes his entire world and there isn’t much space for anything else.

It’s two years later that he lays eyes on you for the first time. He’s attending a law enforcement conference in the exhibition centre, when you step out onto the stage to cover a talk for a speaker whose taken ill. For a moment he’s stunned, he doesn’t know what to do, but then the session starts and it’s impossible for him to leave without causing a fuss so he sits back to watch instead.  

You’re captivating. Engaging, funny, dynamic, everything he remembers and more. This is what it’s like, he recalls, to get swept away in you. You make it so God damn easy. He heads to the bar when the talks over because he needs something to take the edge off and that’s where finds you, sitting alone, sipping from a wineglass, your gaze focused on the TV fixed into the wall.

“Sasha.” He says softly as you tilt your head towards him and those eyes, they have Stuart falling in love all over again. “Will you let me buy you a drink?”

Stuart? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

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[alphynix]

Crystal Palace Field Trip Part 1: Walking With Victorian Monsters

The Crystal Palace Dinosaurs take their name from the original Crystal Palace, a glass-paned exhibition building originally constructed for a World's Fair in Hyde Park in 1851.

In 1854 the structure was relocated 14km (~9 miles) south to the newly-created Crystal Palace Park, and a collection of over 30 life-sized statues of prehistoric animals were commissioned to accompany the reopening – creating a sort of Victorian dinosaur theme park – sculpted by Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins with consultation from paleontologist Sir Richard Owen.

The Palace building itself burned down completely in 1936, and today only the ruins of its terraces remain in the northeast of the park grounds.

The Crystal Palace building then and now Left image circa 1854 (public domain) Right image circa 2011 by Mark Ahsmann (CC BY-SA 3.0)

Six sphinx statues based on the Great Sphinx of Tanis also survive up among the Palace ruins, flanking some of the terrace staircases. They fell into serious disrepair during the latter half of the 20th century, but in 2017 they all finally got some much-needed preservation work, repairing them and restoring their original Victorian red paint jobs.

———

…But let's get to what we're really here for. Dinosaurs! (…And assorted other prehistoric beasties!)

The "Dinosaur Court" down in the south end of the park still remains to this day, displayed across several islands in a man-made lake. Over the decades they've been through multiple cycles of neglect and renovation, and are currently cared for by the London Borough of Bromley (Crystal Palace Park Trust are due to take over custodial duties in September 2023), with promotion and fundraising assistance from organizations like Historic England and the Friends of the Crystal Palace Dinosaurs charity.

Just about 170 years old now, the Crystal Palace Dinosaurs represent fifteen different types of fossil creatures known to 1850s Victorian science, with only three actual dinosaur species featured. Although often derided for being outdated and very inaccurate by modern standards, they were actually incredibly good efforts at the time, especially taking into account that the field of paleontology was still in its very early days.

They also just have a lot of charm, with toothy grins and surprisingly dynamic poses.

Unfortunately on the day I visited in early August 2023 most of the statues were heavily obscured by plant growth, both on their islands and on the sides of the paths they can usually be viewed from. Since I'd seen images from about a month ago showing things being less overgrown, this was probably just some unlucky timing on my part coinciding with some explosive summer foliage growth.

The first island on the trail features a few Permian and Triassic animals which were only known from fragmentary remains in the 1850s. These "labyrinthodonts" were recognized as having similarities to both amphibians and reptiles, and so were depicted with boxy toothy jaws, warty skin, stumpy tails, and long frog-like back legs.

Today we'd call these particular animals temnospondyl amphibians, specifically Mastodonsaurus, and we know they were actually shaped more like giant salamanders with longer flatter crocodilian-like jaws, smaller legs, and long paddle-like tails.

———

Somewhere in the foliage beyond this specific "labyrinthodont" there was also supposed to be a pair of dicynodonts, but I couldn't see much of them at all and didn't manage to get a remotely visible photograph.

Crystal Palace Dicynodon when much less overgrown Left photo by London looks (CC BY 2.0) Right photo by Loz Pycock (CC BY SA 2.0)

These Dicynodon are depicted as looking like sabre-toothed turtles complete with shells. That was fairly speculative even for the time, but considering only their weird turtle-beaked-and-walrus-tusked skulls were known it was probably the best guess Hawkins and Owen had. Today we know these animals were actually synapsids related to modern mammals, but Victorian understanding considered them to be a type of reptile.

Modern reconstructions of dicynodonts have a slightly different face shape, along with squat pig-like bodies and semi-sprawling limbs. They may have had fur, but currently the only known actual skin impressions from the genus Lystrosaurus show leathery bumpy hairless skin.

———

Next time: the Jurassic and Cretaceous sculptures!

[coneyislandbabey]

going to california. -> e. roundtree

WARNINGS: some swearing, alcohol, sappy shit, use of my own personal headcanon that eddie's full name is edwin.

SYNOPSIS: you move to Los Angeles, and are surprised to run into an old childhood friend. word count: 3,351

The heat was different in Los Angeles. Not like New York City, where you’d spent the last few years of your life; all humid, thick walls of wet air that cloy inside your lungs and make you hot from the inside out, relentless, merciless warmth even in the dead of night, even with the windows open laying naked on the bed. No, here the air was thin and dry, the egg-yolk sun warming but not ruthlessly so. You stepped out of the car, joints creaking, and swallowed up a great lungful of that thin bright air, felt the clean glare of the sun bouncing off the hot car and onto your face. New. Everything you’d been hoping for already. 

After graduating from your Pittsburgh high school a semester early, you had booked it onto a train to Manhattan about five seconds after your diploma was in your hands, getting a job in the mailroom of a newspaper and crashing on your cousin’s couch, sleeping only a few hours a night and spending every other waking moment writing or wandering the five boroughs sniffing out experiences to write about. Writing was your lifeblood, and it had been practically since you’d first learned how to hold a pen. You never knew exactly what you wanted to do with your life– where you wanted to go, what you wanted to see, where you wanted to end up– you only knew that you’d be writing the whole way through. And that’s what you did for those few years in New York. You wrote feverishly, a woman possessed. Your cousin complained daily of the little green desk lamp you kept on at all hours of the night, sitting in your sleep shirt with your notebook propped on the arm of the couch, fingers bruised from the ever-present pressure of pen against skin. 

It worked out for you, though. All those sleepless nights, accepting strangers’ invitations to parties in Brooklyn or Alphabet City or even the Rockaways, dropping acid in people’s basements or getting drunk on the subway, even rising in the ranks of your job at the paper until you were a real and true reporter: after a year and a half, you had a half-presentable essay collection and a publisher who wanted  to make your wildest dreams come true. And that was that; your essay collection was published a little over six months later, and every week it climbed higher on the best seller’s list. In the wake of your immediate success, your publisher wanted to start working on a second publication, another collection of essays or short stories or a novel, whatever you wanted, they just wanted your name on another book in their arsenal. You readily agreed, of course– this was the only thing you’d ever wanted to do. But you walked out of that meeting, and onto the streets of Manhattan, and all you felt was suffocation where there used to be inspiration. 

It wasn’t a surprise to anyone in the city who knew you, and therefore knew your more impulsive tendencies, when you told them you’d bought a shitty old car for a hundred bucks and were planning to roadtrip your way to L.A. You hadn’t been behind the wheel of a car since before you’d moved to New York, but you’d seen the old thing with the ‘for sale’ sign tucked into the dash and you knew you had to have it. Already the inspiration was pouring in; a novelized account of your roadtrip across the country and ensuing introduction into Los Angeles society. The idea consumed your brain until there was room for nothing else, until you turned right around on the sidewalk and bought the car then and there. You spent the next 24 hours on a goodbye tour, visiting everyone you had come to love in those last few years, and then your meager belongings were all shoved into the backseat of your new acquisition and you were sitting in the driver’s seat, hoping to god you still remembered which pedal was the gas and which was the brakes. 

You made it to the opposite coast after two weeks of seedy motels, eating roadside burgers with strangers, and climbing up to the roof of the car every night to lay out and see the stars the way you never could living in the city. And here you were, a week into your new Los Angeles life, having just spent most of your book earnings on buying a tiny, dilapidated house in Laurel Canyon with huge windows and the perfect little overgrown backyard for you to sit and write in. You felt it in your bones already, that this was where life would start to become important for you. 

***

You had met Brandi the day you moved in. She and a few friends lived in the house across the street, and being the only one home at the time, she came over to help you move your stuff in when she noticed you unloading the car in the morning. She had a golden California tan and big blonde hair, and the kindest smile you’d ever seen. She was your best friend five minutes after meeting her. 

“You have to come by tonight,” she said by way of greeting as she let herself in the front door. It was late afternoon, and you were stretched out across the couch on your stomach, editing something you’d written in your notebook on the road trip here. Old habits die hard. She worked as a cocktail waitress at The Troubadour, and in the few weeks you’d been living in Laurel Canyon, she’d tried to get you to go nearly every time she had a shift, to no avail. 

“I don’t know, Brand–” you started, flipping your hair over your shoulder shifting to face her. 

“No, man. Enough of this writing bubble thing you got going on. You’re coming out tonight,” she said sternly. You couldn’t help the laugh you let out– Brandi was spot on. Every time she asked you to go out, you told her you weren’t interested because you were trying to double down and polish up the road trip writing you’d done on the way here. “How are you supposed to– how did you say it? ‘Be inducted into Los Angeles Society’ if you never go out and see Los Angeles society?”

“Okay, fair point,” you responded, sitting up. “I’ll go tonight, alright? You got me.” 

Brandi grinned, clapping her hands together in delight. “Okay, Yaz and Lynn will walk over and get you and you’ll all drive in together, alright? And I’ll see you there.” 

“Sounds good,” you nodded. 

“That was a lot easier than I thought it would be. I’ll see you later!” With that, Brandi disappeared down the front steps just as fast as she’d arrived. You sighed, closing your notebook and falling back onto the couch. After your few weeks of relative seclusion, you were more than ready to get back out into the world and have some fun, and yet, there was something uneasy growing in your chest. Actually going out in the city, that meant really starting this new part of your life, and well, honestly, that was a little terrifying. Better to rip the band-aid off now instead of rotting inside the house any longer. 

***

A few hours later, you were dressed in a pair of bell bottoms and a sheer orange tie-front top with big bell sleeves, your makeup and hair more done and put together than they’d been in months. You observed yourself in the mirror one last time, before lighting a cigarette and loping down the stairs to where Brandi’s two roommates were waiting, equally glammed up, for you. You sat in the backseat of Yaz’s car on the way over, window all the way down and your chin resting on the sill. You were used to city sights, you knew your neighborhood and so many others in New York intimately, but L.A. was different, and so thrilling. 

The Troubadour was different from the clubs you’d frequented in New York, but it still held some level of familiarity, and you were hit with an unexpected pang of nostalgia when you walked in with the girls. You grabbed Yaz and Lynn’s hands and pulled them farther in, toward the stage where an upbeat band was in the middle of a song, and immediately began dancing, trying to shake off the more complicated feelings of being here in this new place. When the song ended, you whistled loudly for the band, who were packing themselves up and off stage, making way for the next one. 

“Our next band is one we know and love here, give it up for The Six!” a silky-voiced man announced into the microphone before vacating the stage. In his place, a band made up of four guys and one blonde woman took the stage, setting up their instruments and getting ready. You cheered with everyone else in the crowd, though you weren’t familiar with them the way the locals clearly were. Within a few seconds, the guitars had struck up, and the front man was at the microphone, lashing out the first lyrics of a song. 

And you realized. No, you didn’t know them the way the locals did, but you knew them. The boys, at least. You recognized Graham Dunne first, that cherubic face and big baby blues the exact same as you’d last seen him in high school. Warren Rojas was behind him on the drums, unmistakable mop of curly black hair dancing as if it had a mind of its own on top of his bobbing head. The front-man, you guessed, was Graham’s brother Billy, just familiar enough to place the face despite never knowing the older boy back home. And, sure enough, there was Eddie Roundtree on bass. The last time you’d seen him, he was just a lanky kid with a guitar that he still gripped awkwardly in his too-big hands. (‘Not ‘too big”, you remember him telling you back then. ‘The rest of me just hasn’t caught up yet.”) He’d grown his hair out, you noted. Grown broader in the shoulders, too. His hands were no longer comically large, compared to the rest of him. He had such an easy command of the bass he was playing, so relaxed on the stage, like he belonged and he knew it. It was kind of hard for you to reconcile this version of him with the juvenile one you used to know. 

And they were good, too. You could see the way a group like them could become something great, something once in a lifetime. They weren’t there yet, but you could vividly see just how it could happen for them. Eddie Roundtree and the Dunne boys and Warren Rojas, all in Los Angeles at the same time as you, all of you so far from home. You couldn’t help the startled laugh that bubbled up and out of you. Lynn turned a questioning look on you, but you didn’t have time to turn and start explaining yourself before Eddie���s eyes swept your way, probably drawn by the laughter. Those brown eyes settled on your own, lazily, for a few seconds, before widening ever so slightly. His hands slowed, but never faltered, on the strings for just a second. Something zinged through your chest when you realized that he recognized you, too, even after all these years. 

You watched Eddie for the entirety of his band’s set. You couldn’t help it– his fingers dancing across the strings of his guitar were mesmerizing, and besides, you couldn’t get over the fact that this was the same boy from your childhood, that all of them were boys who’d slept through your shared classes, who had walked to your house after school to drop off your homework when you were home sick, who you commiserated with about running the mile in high school gym class. 

Brandi found you during the last song, pulling you into a hug and squealing about how happy she was that you actually came. Reluctantly, you tore your eyes from the stage and gave your best friend your full attention, allowing her to drag you back to the bar so she could buy you a drink. By the time you had a drink in hand, The Six’s set was over and a new band was coming on, so you stayed back by the bar even after Brandi had to leave you alone to go do her job. 

“I knew it was you, bluebird.” You whirled around at the nickname, coming face to face with Eddie. He was a few inches taller than you remembered, smiling down at you with a curious mix of surprise and something else swirling in his brown eyes. 

“I haven’t heard that nickname in years,” you laughed. “Hi, Edwin.” 

He groaned. “Nobody calls me that, woman.” 

“I always have,” you pointed out, arching an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, that’s true. What are you doing in L.A?” 

“Writing, mostly,” you shrugged. “I’ve got one book out and now the publisher wants another. You know how it is.” 

Eddie’s grin grew wider, if possible. “Glad to hear you’re still writing. I remember you back in high school, always carrying that notebook around that you’d never let anyone look at.”

You laughed, recalling the notebook yourself. You had treated that thing like it was your baby. “Yeah, well if you’re curious about my writing, you could buy my book and see.”

“First thing on my agenda tomorrow is to go out and get a copy,” he said easily, and you snorted. 

“Good, you better like it. And what about you guys? When did you get here?”

“Few months ago. We’ve been playing gigs at a few regular spots while we put together an album.”

“I want a copy of that record as soon as it comes out!”

“You’ll be the first one to get one outside of the band,” Eddie grinned. “Where are you staying?”

“I bought a place in Laurel Canyon a few weeks ago. It’s tiny, but still a hell of a lot bigger than the living room I was sleeping in in New York,” you laughed. 

“That’s where we are, too,” Eddie said, jerking his head in the direction of backstage. “And, New York? What have you been up to since high school?”

“Many things, Edwin, many things,” you grinned. 

Eddie stayed quiet, all soft smile and soft eyes aimed in your direction. You felt something long dormant start to shift in your chest. 

“I’m really glad to see you, bluebird,” he said after a moment, voice quieter than before. A sentiment just for the two of you to hear. 

You nudged his shoulder affectionately with your own. “Me too, Roundtree.”

“What do you say about us getting together some night soon? You can fill me in on this whole New York story,” Eddie suggested. 

“Only if you tell me how you all wound up here, doing this,” you responded. 

“Deal,” Eddie said, sticking out his hand to shake. You took it; his palm was warm and calloused beneath your own. 

***

“It was not like that!” you insisted through your laughter. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Roundtree.” 

Three nights later, and you and Eddie were sitting on your living room floor, bottle of scotch between you, very much on your way to being drunk and well into reminiscing about your shared high school days. He had shown up at your door a few hours earlier with a smile on his face, and the scotch and a copy of your book in his hands. You laughed so hard at the fact that he’d actually gone out and bought a copy of the book that you almost forgot to ask him how the hell he knew where you lived. Sheepishly, he told you that he’d seen you talking with Brandi and asked her after you left that first night. 

“I promise, birdy, Jimmy McKenna was gone for you for years. You drove the poor kid crazy because he would try to flirt with you all the time and you just never picked up on it,” Eddie explained through his own laughter. You sorted quickly through memories of the boy Eddie was talking about, and as what he said slowly clicked into place, you only began to laugh harder. 

“Oh, god,” you said, throwing an arm over your eyes. “I have always been such an idiot.”

“Not an idiot, just oblivious,” Eddie countered. “You were too wrapped up in your writing to notice anyone around you.”

“Not true! I noticed you,” you said defensively. 

Eddie’s eyebrows raised slightly, a split second look of surprise washing over his features before they settled back into that soft smile he always seemed to be wearing around you. He took another swig of whisky, humming. “Lucky me, then.”

You scoffed, trying to cover the way your heart stuttered with another drink of whiskey. “You were one of the only people I liked hanging out with back then, Ed. I liked stopping to watch you and Graham and Warren mess around with your instruments in the garage whenever I walked by. When I took off to the city, I really did miss you.” 

“Well, if it means anything, I missed you, too. We all did,” Eddie said. His voice was softer now, more serious, matching your own. “Nobody knew where you went, you were just gone when we got back from winter break.” 

“I just had to get outta there, you know?” you sighed. “I worked my ass off so I could graduate early. I had all these visions of the life I wanted to live, and it was so big. I was so focused on getting there that I didn’t even realize there would be anything to miss until it was all gone.”

“Yeah, I get what you mean. Don’t tell the guys this, but even now I sometimes miss Pittsburgh,” he admitted. 

“Me too,” you nodded. “I just keep collecting places to miss. Pittsburgh first, and now New York, too. I felt so suffocated there by the end, too, and now? Some nights I can’t even sleep because I’m not back on that awful couch in my cousin’s apartment, listening to the Manhattan traffic.” 

“Guess that’s life, right? You just keep collecting things to miss,” Eddie said. At some point, he had shuffled closer to you, both of you sitting with your backs leaning against the bottom of the couch. You leaned your head on his shoulder. “I’m really happy I don’t have to miss you anymore, bluebird.”

You looked up, and there were those eyes, big and brown and full of affection, so close. Looking right at you, right through you, like he could see all your guts and bones and thoughts and desires all at once. Riding the tide of whiskey-fueled courage and extreme affection you were feeling for the man sitting next to you, you reached out, palm against his cheek, and pulled his face to yours. The kiss was slow and languid, noses nudging softly against skin, Eddie’s mouth gentle against your own. His hand moved to rest on your hip, a warm and comforting pressure against your skin. 

When he pulled away, your breath catched at the sight of the silly little smirk gracing his face. “You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted to do that the entire time I’ve known you.”

“Oh fuck off Eddie, don’t tell me you had a crush on me in high school too and that’s just another thing I was too oblivious to realize,” you said, lightly shoving his shoulder. 

“Okay, I won’t tell you if you kiss me again,” he said, grinning.  Rolling your eyes, you grabbed his collar and pulled his face back to yours. You could feel his smile against your lips, which only made you want to hold him closer, to make up for all the years you’d gone without him in your life. 

[camsthisky]

okay, 24 with any of the brothers, leo , and draxum please? your writing style is great! but no pressure <3

24. "Help them! Please!"

ao3

Leo is not Baron Draxum’s biggest fan. In fact, if Draxum was involved in any normal situation, Leo would make sure he was at least an entire borough away from the yokai who’d dropped him off of a roof. Preferably an entire city away, if possible.

As it is, this is not a normal situation.

Leo has Mikey cradled in one arm, his other wrapped around Donnie, only keeping his twin standing by his grip on the lip of the battleshell. He’s so beyond stressed right now that when Draxum answers his frantic kicks to the front door, Leo can’t help but blurt out, ���Help them. Please.”

To his credit, Draxum is only taken aback for a second—a second far too long in Leo’s opinion, but he knows he probably wouldn’t begrudge anyone else that second of bafflement, and he forces his habitual aggression to the side in favor of focusing on the reason for showing up on the guy’s doorstep.

Mikey’s breath is labored where he curls himself under Leo’s chin, arms slack around Leo’s neck. Donnie is dazed, hardly holding himself up. Leo doesn’t have a free hand and none of their gear is working and it’s all Leo can do not to panic as Draxum recovers from his second-too-long bout of shock and ushers Leo into the apartment. 

Leo drags Donnie over to the couch, lightly pushing his twin onto the couch, where he slumps over onto his side with a groan. Leo’s never been more grateful to hear his brother make a noise. He promises after this he’ll never try to run away from Donatello on a hyperfixation lecture warpath. At least for the next month, or two.

“What happened?” Draxum demands, crouching down next to the couch by Donnie’s head.

Leo grits his teeth, carefully setting his youngest brother onto the orange bean bag chair in the corner of the room, proof that Mikey will always be the kindest of them by miles. The way Mikey’s weight sinks into the bag keeps him sitting somewhat upright. Easier on his shell than laying flat. Not very supportive. It’ll have to do.

“Something—I don’t know—triggered Mikey?” Leo says, undwinding tape to wrap his fingers around his baby brother’s wrist. The scars on his arms are faint now, and Leo avoids them with practiced ease. It’s been over six months since they’d even really been a problem he’d needed to work around.

“Triggered?” Draxum asks, sounding more baffled by the second. Leo’s irritation rises a degree. “Michelangelo did this?”

“Yes? No?” Leo hedges. “I don’t know. I wasn’t exactly right at the center of it, otherwise I’d probably be down for the count, too.”

“Did you see anything?”

“A flash of light. I felt something weird, like static electricity, maybe? Donnie yelled and I ran over in time to watch them both pass out.”

Draxum’s brow furrows. He’s inspecting Donnie, who seems awake enough to realize that Draxum is in front of him. Leo’s purple-banded brother bares his teeth and growls, “If you touch me, I will throw you off the roof.”

“Relax, Don-tron,” Leo says, trying his hardest to inject at least a bit of levity in his voice, even though he knows he fails immensely, too distracted by the way Mikey still isn’t waking up. But it’s the only way Donnie won’t try to fight Draxum, and as much as Leo hates it, Draxum is a genius when it comes to mysticism and the like. They need him.

He also tries to pretend that Donnie’s grudge against Draxum for dropping Leo doesn’t make his heart warm. Not a great time to be sappy, but it’s a stark reminder that no matter what, Don’ll always be on Team Leo against anybody who tries to hurt him.

Still, now isn’t really the time.

Mikey’s pulse is racing underneath Leo’s fingers, but despite his third check in fifteen minutes—once the moment he’d gotten to both Donnie and Leo, barely saving Donnie from spilling to the ground and regrettably missing his baby brother by inches; once halfway to Draxum’s when Donnie woke up dazed and confused and Mikey didn’t—there doesn’t seem to be anything physically wrong with him. Mikey, for all intents and purposes, should have a clean bill of health.

“How’d we end up here?” Don grumbles, even as he hesitantly lets Draxum check him over, probably taking Leo’s failed attempt at lightening the mood as a cue to cooperate. “Thought we were getting pizza.”

“That was before Mikey decided he was gonna throw a mystic rave, invite only. Congrats on being the only one to make the guest list, Don.”

“You’ll be fine,” Draxum says, interrupting Donnie before he can snap back at Leo. 

(So Leo is stressed. Humor is how he copes. Riling up Donnie is a good distraction from the fear Leo is desperately trying to sidestep at the moment. Sue him.)

“You’re not a doctor,” Donnie tells Draxum matter-of-factly.

“I’m the leading expert in the mystic arts,” Draxum tells him, frowning in a put out way that has Leo wanting to snicker. He would if his baby brother’s pulse wasn’t still pounding away under his skin like his heart is trying to escape his body. “I think I would know if you were affected by your brother’s backlash. The symptoms are temporary. Just a minor shock.”

“Hate to see what a major shock would be,” Leo says under his breath, and then louder, “If Donnie’s fine, can you get over here and help me?”

Draxum stands and crosses over to the bean bag chair. From the corner of his eye, Leo sees Donnie gingerly sit up, tapping at his bracer. Tough luck on that one, bro. Mikey’s rave had wiped out all of their tech and then some.

Draxum settles on Mikey’s other side. He draws a symbol in the air, hands glowing dimly with power as he lays a hand on Mikey’s head. Leo keeps his grip on Mikey’s wrist and watches. 

The next minute is one of the longest in Leo’s whole damn life. Leo counts Mikey’s heartbeats, and Donnie finally moves over to sit next to him when he hits eighty-three. 

The glow fades from Draxum’s hands, and Leo leans forward. 

Draxum runs a hand over his face and sighs. Leo’s practically nonexistent patience snaps.

“Well?!” he demands, only relenting at the soft nudge Donnie sends his way. Donnie’s probably still orienting himself, and still he’s reigning Leo in. So much for Team Leo. Although, both Leo and Donnie have come to an understanding that when it comes to teams, Mikey’s takes precedence over any of theirs.

Mikey will never have to go without his big brothers’ support. Perks of being the babiest brother.

Draxum sighs. “I’m not exactly sure what he was trying to do, but it looks like he’s just exhausted himself. He’s running on empty and most likely strained his body, but it seems like nothing rest can’t fix.”

Leo sags forward, burying his face in the bean bag, a muffled, “Oh thank the pizza supreme in the sky,” making its way out his mouth involuntarily. 

All of the adrenaline leaves Leo in a rush, and after a few quiet moments of regathering the broken pieces of his facade, he shifts just enough that he can see Draxum. 

“Thanks,” he says, quietly, not quite ready to start putting the mask back up. “For, ya know, being here.”

Draxum nods, looking as awkward as Leo feels. “We’re not on the best of terms, but I would never turn you away if you’re in need of help.”

“I know,” Leo says, both grateful and resentful of how true the statement rings. “That’s why I came.”

[elexuscal]

The species assignments for my Temeraire daemon AU!

[Image ID: a 2x 3 gride with green edges. It lists the names of six characters, with their daemon's names and species, and a photograph of those species next to them. They are as follows:

John Granby - Winail - Black-backed woodpecker Tenzing Tharkay - Japatyu - Bearded Vulture Jane Roland - Archibald - European Badger Catherine Harcourt - Phenel - Mason Bee Matthew Berkley - Jux - Common Toad Augustine Little - Borough - European Grey Squirrel. /end ID]

Full list of the image sources below the cut!

Black-backed woodpecker by USFWS Pacific Southwest Region Bearded Vulture by fveronesi1 European Badger by caroline legg Mason Bee by Julie Common Toad by Anne Burgess European Grey Squirrel by Brian Forsythe

Thank you to the photographers!

[disturbingstar]

The Conjuring universe

The Conjuring (2013)

In 1970, paranormal investigators and demonologists Lorraine and Ed Warren are summoned to the home of Carolyn and Roger Perron. The Perrons and their five daughters have recently moved into a secluded farmhouse, where a supernatural presence has made itself known. Though the manifestations are relatively benign at first, events soon escalate in horrifying fashion, especially after the Warrens discover the house's macabre history.

The Conjuring 2 (2016)

In 1977, paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren come out of a self-imposed sabbatical to travel to Enfield, a borough in north London. There, they meet Peggy Hodgson, an overwhelmed single mother of four who tells the couple that something evil is in her home. Ed and Lorraine believe her story when the youngest daughter starts to show signs of demonic possession. As the Warrens try to help the besieged girl, they become the next targets of the malicious spirit.

The Conjuring: The Devil Made Me Do It (2021)

Paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren take on one of the most sensational cases of their careers after a cop stumbles upon a dazed and bloodied young man walking down the road. Accused of murder, the suspect claims demonic possession as his defense, forcing the Warrens into a supernatural inquiry unlike anything they've ever seen before.

Annabelle (2014)

John Form thinks he's found the perfect gift for his expectant wife, Mia: a vintage doll in a beautiful white dress. However, the couple's delight doesn't last long: One terrible night, devil worshippers invade their home and launch a violent attack against the couple. When the cultists try to summon a demon, they smear a bloody rune on the nursery wall and drip blood on Mia's doll, thereby turning the former object of beauty into a conduit for ultimate evil.

Annabelle: Creation (2017)

Former toy maker Sam Mullins and his wife, Esther, are happy to welcome a nun and six orphaned girls into their California farmhouse. Years earlier, the couple's 7-year-old daughter Annabelle died in a tragic car accident. Terror soon strikes when one child sneaks into a forbidden room and finds a seemingly innocent doll that appears to have a life of its own.

Annabelle comes home (2019)

Determined to keep Annabelle from wreaking more havoc, paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren lock the possessed doll in the artifacts room in their house. But when the doll awakens the room's evil spirits, it soon becomes an unholy night of terror for the couple's 10-year-old daughter, her friends and their young baby sitter.

The Nun (2018)

When a young nun at a cloistered abbey in Romania takes her own life, a priest with a haunted past and a novitiate on the threshold of her final vows are sent by the Vatican to investigate. Together, they uncover the order's unholy secret. Risking not only their lives but their faith and their very souls, they confront a malevolent force in the form of a demonic nun.

The Nun 2 (2023)

In 1956 France, a priest is murdered, and it seems an evil is spreading. Sister Irene once again comes face to face with a demonic force

The Curse of La Llorona (2019)

In 1970s Los Angeles, the legendary ghost La Llorona is stalking the night -- and the children. Ignoring the eerie warning of a troubled mother, a social worker and her own kids are drawn into a frightening supernatural realm. Their only hope of surviving La Llorona's deadly wrath is a disillusioned priest who practices mysticism to keep evil at bay.

[blueiscoool]

35 Bottles From the 18th Century Filled with Cherries Found at George Washington’s Mount Vernon

The story of a six-year-old George Washington chopping down a cherry tree may be a myth, but archeologists excavating Mount Vernon, the home of the United States’ first president, made the very real discovery of 35 glass bottles filled with cherries and berries.

The bottles were found in five storage pits in the mansion’s cellar, with 29 of them intact and containing “perfectly preserved cherries and berries, likely gooseberries or currants,” according to a news release from George Washington’s Mount Vernon on Thursday.

Crews unearthed the 18th-century bottles during the ongoing $40 million revitalization project launched last year at Mount Vernon, Virginia.

The bottles were extracted from the pits and refrigerated, and are expected to undergo scientific analysis, the release states.

The slowly drying bottles, “composed of materials and foodstuffs that are likely 250 years old,” will be sent from Mount Vernon’s archaeology lab to an off-site location for conservation, according to the release.

The latest discovery comes after the recent find of two intact European-manufactured glass bottles, also from the 18th century, filled with liquid, cherries and pits in the same cellar, according to the organization.

“Now we know those bottles were just the beginning of this blockbuster discovery,” Mount Vernon President and CEO Doug Bradburn said in a statement.

Bradburn referred to the discoveries as “an unprecedented find,” adding that “nothing of this scale and significance has ever been excavated in North America.”

“The bottles and contents are a testament to the knowledge and skill of the enslaved people who managed the food preparations from tree to table,” said Jason Boroughs, Mount Vernon principal archaeologist.

The bottles may have been forgotten when Washington left Mount Vernon to take command of the Continental Army, according to Bradburn.

“These artifacts likely haven’t seen the light of day since before the American Revolution,” he said. “It’s so appropriate that these bottles have been unearthed shortly before the 250th anniversary of the United States.”

Bradburn added that the organization’s team is hopeful the cherry pits may be viable for future germination.

Mount Vernon partnered with the US Department of Agriculture’s Agricultural Research Service to analyze the bottles’ contents.

In the early stages of analysis, researchers identified 54 cherry pits and 23 stems, suggesting the bottles were likely full of cherries at one point, according to the release.

“The cherries likely are of a tart variety, which has a more acidic composition that may have aided in preservation,” the release states.

The cherries are likely candidates for DNA extraction, which could help researchers compare them against a database to identify their exact species, according to the release.

By Ashley R. Williams.

[reasonsforhope]

Across New York City, delivery drivers are a ubiquitous sight: congregating outside big restaurant chains waiting to collect orders, zooming through the city streets with orders in tow. “The most chaotic time for deliveries is easily during lunch time,” says Elijah Williams, who delivers food for both Uber and DoorDash. “I’ve had up to four orders at one time.” 

Mayor Eric Adams recently announced a major change that will deeply impact busy workers like Williams: app-based delivery workers will be paid $17.96 an hour starting July 12th — and nearly $20 an hour by 2025 — marking the nation’s first minimum pay for such workers.

“Our delivery workers have consistently delivered for us — now, we are delivering for them,” he said. “They should not be delivering food to your household, if they can’t put food on the plate in their household.”

The Background

Mayor Adams made the announcement at City Hall, surrounded by delivery workers as well as members of the nonprofit organizations, Workers Justice Project (WJP) and Los Deliveristas Unidos.

Ligia Guallpa, executive director of WJP, expressed her excitement and gratitude.

“This first of its kind minimum pay rate will uplift working and immigrant families,” said [Ligia Guallpa of Workers Justice Project (WJP)] alongside Gustavo Ajche of Los Deliveristas Unidos. “[It will] ensure that workers who keep New Yorkers fed, are able to keep also their families fed too.”

WJP was founded in 2010, and coordinates numerous worker-led programs, including Los Deliveristas Unidos, that aim to improve conditions for low-wage immigrant workers across the five boroughs.

The Details

The current minimum wage in New York is $15 an hour. On average, service workers are paid $7.09 an hour, excluding tips. The new wage is in keeping with a law passed by the City Council in 2021, which requires the Department of Consumer and Worker Protection to set a standard minimum rate for delivery workers.

App-based delivery workers are classified as “independent contractors,” which means they’re not entitled to the standard minimum wage that applies to salaried employees’ pay. Instead, delivery workers who work for the big food delivery services, like Uber Eats and Relay, are entitled to just $2.13 an hour before tips — a so-called “tipped sub-minimum wage.”

Research has shown that getting rid of tipped sub-minimum wages benefits not just the workers getting the raise, but the economy as a whole. A 2021 analysis found that states without a tipped sub-minimum wage saw 29 percent growth in their leisure and hospitality sectors, compared to just six percent in states that used the federal tipped sub-minimum wage of $2.13.

...For many of the workers who face hostile roads and unpredictable weather conditions to get New Yorkers their ordered goods, this is a life-changing development.

“This is my full-time job. I get up every day and do this,” says delivery driver Justin Martinez outside the Chick-Fil-A in Washington Heights. 

Martinez, 30, is originally from the Dominican Republic. His commitment to completing deliveries, he explains, is fueled by his love for his family.

“This is my way to contribute. I go out, 9, 10 hours a day, do deliveries, and then I can come home,” he says. Martinez first started driving for Uber in 2019 before transitioning to delivering food for Uber Eats and other apps in 2021. He’s excited for the pay wage increase: “Maybe now, I only [have to] go out for 6 hours.”

-via Reasons to Be Cheerful, June 30, 2023

[sarahowritesostucky]

Art: @hopelessartgeek

📖 "Medically Necessitated" Ch 3

Rated: Explicit Pairing: Bucky x Steve Tags: a/b/o, age gap, past rape, rape recovery, trauma recovery, pregnancy, medical trauma, hurt/comfort, mentions of CSA, religious fundamentalism, first time, gender dysphoria, male omegas are intersex (peen & vagine) Summary: After a medical emergency brings him into the ER, Bucky escapes the religious cult he's been raised in. It's up to Steve, nurse practitioner and omega sex & repro specialist, to see him through a medically supervised heat.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter! Story masterlist

3. Bucky

Steve unexpectedly switches from being Bucky's attending physician, to his dedicated heat Support.

It’s funny: the stereotype of alphas is that they’re always these domineering, bossy, even selfish people who walk all over other designations to get whatever they want. But Steve’s whole life pretty much revolves around doing for omegas. Meeting their needs.

There’s his volunteer work at the shelter and at ASHDOM, there are the single omega neighbors in his building who all know he’s a pushover and who come to him first whenever they need furniture moved or can’t get out to the store because they’re in heat. And there’s his job, which usually sees him working a bare minimum of sixty hours a week, often many more.

He does nothing but cater to omegas.

Of course, he’s paid well for it. Nursing is a chronically underfilled field to begin with, and omega specialized healthcare is even worse. Especially when it comes to staffing alpha practitioners. Steve knows for a fact that his salary is several grand higher than any of his his beta coworkers doing the same job, simply because of the additional therapeutic value that his designation can offer.

He’s a federally licensed heat partner, is certified in trauma and crisis intervention, and he’s one of the only alpha nurse practitioners providing omega reproductive healthcare in the borough. It makes his days long and his caseloads heavy, but that’s okay because it’s more than a job to him, it’s a moral imperative, something that’s been drilled into him since he was six years old and play-dominating all the other kids in his kindergarten class: you must take care of those who are weaker than you.

Steve’s been working on the OOBGYN ward around trauma patients for more than five years now. He knows the protocols, he knows how to keep himself under control and keep his patients safe. So it’s not exactly the shining pinnacle of his career when he has to page his subordinates—the nurses he trained for Chrissakes—to come and help him the fuck out with a patient he’s mishandled.

Steve would’ve highly preferred it be Hope (she’d give him less crap about it), but it’s Sharon who shows up first at the door. She comes into the room, no nonsense, holding a 1cc syringe at the ready. She’s unseen by Bucky, who’s still keening and purring where he’s got his teeth buried in Steve’s shoulder. Steve gives her a terse nod, and Sharon brusquely walks over and shoots the sedative up Bucky’s nose before the omega even knows what’s happening.

Ninety seconds later, he’s out like a light. “Midazolam,” Sharon says.

Steve nods. That buys them at least thirty minutes to get everything set up right. Bucky’s mouth has detached from his skin, and Steve carefully lowers his limp form back down onto the bed. There’s blood smeared on his lips and chin—Steve’s blood. Steve swallows hard and ignores the answering pulse of blood in his dick. He’s all keyed up, body thrumming, primed to fuck or fight.

Sharon’s a professional, so she doesn’t look at his crotch, but she does wrinkle her nose and give him an unimpressed look. “What the hell, Rogers?”

Steve avoids answering, embarrassed. “Come on. Help me transfer him. Clock’s ticking now.” He climbs off the bed and Sharon undoes Bucky’s IV. They bring up the bed’s side rails and unlock the wheels, then begin the slow process of pushing him out of the room and down to one of the on-ward heat suites. “Don’t lecture me,” Steve warns, not in the mood to have his rookie mistakes pointed out. There are plenty of them.

He forgot blockers. He intoned. He scented. Fuck, did he posture? He probably postured. He certainly got too close, let the omega get his fucking mouth on him. Christ. Steve shakes his head at himself. He’d let his soft spot for Bucky put him in a vulnerable position, and now a traumatized patient has latched onto him right at the onset of the first heat he’s had in years.

Those are not the things the hospital pays Steve thousand of dollars extra for.

Well … actually they are, but they weren’t supposed to be in Bucky’s case. Steve is his attending. He’s not supposed to take on the role of alpha support, too. It’s not allowed.

“Who should I be paging?” Sharon asks as they wheel the bed down the hall and around a corner.

“Get Banner,” Steve grunts, not happy with it. He doesn’t want to give up the case to another doctor. All his instincts are screaming at him to keep Bucky as his, to keep the control and authority he has over the omega’s medical care. But he’ll get in big trouble if he doesn’t sign this off to another physician before they seal themselves up in a heat suite.

“Is he on call tonight?”

“Yeah.” Banner is a good doctor, a beta, and a great human being. Steve trusts him more than almost anyone to do what’s right for Bucky as his attending. “Give him my case notes and Bucky’s treatment plan,” he tells Sharon as they arrive at a heavy door with a small, shuttered window. “And get a hold of Sam if he’s around. Tell him I have questions. Tell him the kid latched onto me.”

Sharon raises an eyebrow. “You mean … your neck?”

“No, not my neck,” Steve snaps meanly. “I mean physiologically.”

Sharon shoots him a peeved look from her side of Bucky’s bed, but she doesn’t say anything. She knows that Steve’s not mad at her.

He’s furious with himself for letting it happen. It’s embarrassing. Steve’s supposed to be experienced. The second that Bucky started posturing and losing language complexity and calling Steve ‘Alpha’ over and over like that, the second he’d started keening like that, Steve should’ve put distance between them. He should’ve been well out of the room by the time the kid began scenting and slicking, not still sitting right on the damn bed, letting him do it all over his scrub pants.

They wheel into the suite and Steve looks from Bucky’s lax body over to the suite’s low bed. It’s just an institutional grade mattress on a box platform, large and durable and easy to clean. It’s sterile and standard, just like the rest of the room. Nobody’s brought up any nesting materials yet.

If Steve had done his job right, Bucky probably wouldn’t have hit heat until tomorrow. The hospital staff would have already received the requisition forms and prepared the suite especially for Bucky’s stay. Instead, it’s empty and stripped bare, sterilized from the last omega who used it.

There’s a fridge stocked with water and calorie dense snacks, a four piece handicap-accessible bathroom with a walk-in tub. There’s the large platform bed, and there’s a breeding bench over in the corner. Steve glowers at Sharon when he sees it. “Why is that in here?” he snaps. “Jesus, Sharon, get it out.” He glances at Bucky, irrationally afraid of the kid waking up and seeing it.

“The last patient booked into the room was Ace,” Sharon says, unamused. “You sure you want it out?” She nods at Bucky’s prone body. “He’s dynamic dysphoric. You might need it. I can fill out a req for the seeding machine if you—”

“No,” Steve bites out, trying hard to remain professional and not yell at his head nurse. “No. I’m not doing that to him.”

Steve knows what Sharon’s thinking: light sedation and heavy restraint, complete mechanization of Bucky’s heat. It’s what a lot of doctors would do, once they got a look at Bucky’s case file and issues. Just to get the whole process over with in less time, with less effort.

But Steve can’t stand the thought of forcing Bucky through his treatment like that. It would terrify and humiliate him. Steve would rather work through every step with Bucky than force him onto that bench. “Get it out of here,” he orders.

Sharon doesn’t argue, just removes the bench and herself from the room. When she returns, Steve is staring at the naked vinyl mattress with distaste. There’s nothing soft or safe or warm here. He doesn’t want Bucky to wake up to that. “Stay with him,” he tells Sharon. “I’m gonna run down to supply and get room prep.”

He leaves her there with strict instructions not to touch Bucky. Now that the kid’s latched onto Steve as his heat partner, he won’t take well to physical contact with anyone else. “Fucking stupid, Rogers,” Steve berates himself again as he takes the elevator down to the supply room.

He grabs a pushcart and loads it up with an assortment of blankets that the hospital offers. He throws in a bunch of squishy pillows too, then heads over to grab a presenting form from the selection of different mounting pillows. He chooses one in a forgiving foam material. It has detachable cuffs in front, which after a moment’s hesitation he decides to bring along, just in case. He grabs a soft microfiber cover for the form so that it’ll feel warm and comforting against Bucky’s body. Steve doesn’t want to leave a single hard fucking edge in the entire heat suite, if he can help it.

He does spare the sex toys a glance, but it feels wrong to select anything now. If Bucky needs it later Steve can talk to him about it, have one of the nurses req whatever items Bucky wants.

He moves fast, anxious to get back to the suite and make sure that he's right there by Bucky's side when he wakes. He stops at the pharmacy and swipes his ID badge against the dispensary that stores samples of all the heat technicians’ scents. He scans his fingerprint when it prompts him, then types into the keypad that he wants to withdraw two vials. The machine whirs and delivers the manufactured amounts of Steve’s own pheromones. Steve swipes them up out of the slot without any patience and starts shoving the cart back towards the elevators.

Sharon raises her eyebrows at the heaping amount of supplies that Steve rolls in with. “O-kay,” she says, and heads for the door. “I’ll fill Hope in. Banner’s on his way. He said maybe twenty minutes. Sam’ll be on morning shift and I left him a message that he should come by.”

“Good.”

“Steve?” She turns and looks back at him once she’s out in the hall. “This is also part of your job. Don’t beat yourself up too hard, kay?”

It’s on the nicer end of the spectrum of things Sharon would say, and Steve forces his face into a grateful sort of wince. “Thanks, Share.” He shuts the door behind her and flicks the switch on the wall that locks the door and lights up the red occupied light outside of the suite. He presses the intercom button. “Check.”

“Check,” Sharon confirms from her side. “I requisitioned you guys’ meals for the next seventy-two hours. Banner will call in once he’s here. … Hope’s paging me. Good luck.”

“Bye.” Steve releases the button and turns back around. He looks at Bucky, who’s still unconscious on the hospital bed. Steve walks over and chews his lip, regretful that they’d had to use a sedative. He knows the boy probably won’t be appreciative of that when he wakes.

Steve is aware that he’s got dried blood on him. He can feel it, tacky and starting to crust, pulling uncomfortably whenever he turns his head. He grabs the first aid kit from the room’s small supply cabinet and takes it into the bathroom. The mirror over the sink shows it all, and Steve winces at the mess. It looks worse than it is, probably.

He wets a gauze with antiseptic and bites the bullet and slaps it onto the spot where the skin is broken. He clenches his teeth and hisses at the sting, cursing quietly. A few, careful wipes and it’s mostly cleaned off and he’s able to see the individual teeth marks. Steve’s lips quirk despite himself. Kid had gotten him good.

It’s close to his glands, and Steve wonders if Bucky was consciously aiming for it. Probably not. Steve knows the boy was probably raised to try to force himself into sexually desiring omegas and betas only, probably females, and never alphas. Guiltily, Steve feels a little bit of a thrill at the idea of getting to be Bucky’s first sexual encounter with an alpha. He’ll be the first partner Bucky’s ever had to help satisfy his needs in a natural way.

He doesn’t count the people who assaulted Bucky. Even if they were alpha (and he has reasons to believe they were), they don’t count. They’re dirt, less than nothing to Steve. He’s going to make sure he wipes them out of existence from Bucky’s mind. He’ll make them less than nothing for the omega too, given enough time to take care of him the way he deserves.

Sighing, he gives his bloodied neck a few more careful wipes. It’s not bleeding anymore and he doesn't bandage it. He needs to leave that part of himself open and available to Bucky. If it’s something the omega wants, then Steve isn’t going to keep it from him. Steve’s been bonded a few times over the years, usually in sessions with his neediest patients. Detoxing off the high when he discharges them from care is never fun, but he knows how to get himself through it. If Bucky wants that connection with him, he’ll be more than happy to allow it.

Steve just wants to make him feel safe and good.

He puts the first aid kit away and starts making up the bed. He puts sheets on it, then roughly dumps all the blankets out into a kind of spread out pile. Still open for rearrangement, though. He doesn’t know if Bucky will want to nest it himself when he comes to. He lays all the various pillows out around the perimeter of the mattress. The mounting pillow gets set up by the head of the bed, out of the way. Steve doesn’t want to do anything that Bucky might interpret as demanding or coercive. Not right off the bat, at least. This is all going to go according to what Bucky wants and needs, not Steve.

Sharon buzzes through the intercom, announcing that she’s leaving bath towels outside the door. Steve retrieves them and sticks them in the bathroom for later. He checks the fridge, which is indeed stocked with water bottles, high-sugar fruit juice and cups of peaches packed in syrup, little portions of cheese and two ounce packets of almond butter—all good things for an omega to nibble on through a cycle. He pulls out the almond butters and sets them on the counter to warm up. He roots through the supply cabinet until he finds a box of the little spray caps that fit to the pheromone vials. He opens one, pops the cap on, then goes about spritzing it on various places on the bed. He doesn’t go too nuts, not wanting to overwhelm the omega when he—

“Steve?”

Steve whips around so fast, he almost trips over his own clogs. He sees Bucky, pushing up to sitting in the hospital bed and looking confused. “What happen’d?” he asks groggily, rubbing his face.

Steve sticks the vials in the fridge and hurries over to Bucky’s side. “Hey,” he says soothingly. “You got a little frantic back there, buddy. The nurse gave you something to calm down so we could get this room ready for you.”

Bucky seems to become more aware of his surroundings, and that he’s no longer in his hospital room. He looks past Steve, all around the heat suite. Then his attention fixes on the large bed. Steve sees his nostrils flare and his pupils shrink to pinpoints. He begins to shake his head a little. “No,” he whispers. “Please. Steve, please don’t make me.” He whimpers and his hands fly to his stomach, a cramp clearly passing through him. “Oh man,” he whines, distressed.

Steve had expected this. He’d wanted to have Bucky on the larger bed by the time he woke up, all snuggled and safe in a cocoon of soft things. He reaches out and touches the bed instead of Bucky, fingers stroking the boxy weave of the hospital blanket that covers Bucky’s leg only inches away. “It’s going to be just fine,” he tells him. “We’re in a private suite. It’s like your own little hotel room, see? You’ve got everything you need right here.” He points out different things. “There’s snacks in the fridge and the tv’s got all the streaming apps you could want.” He smiles. “Hell, the bathtub has jets.”

Bucky’s eyes do flick over to the bathroom’s open door, if only for a moment. But he’s quickly back to whimpering and wrapping his arms around himself. “No,” he says, staring at his knees instead of Steve. “S’wrong.” He shakes his head and mumbles quiet words to himself: gross, pathetic, unnatural. Horrible, wrong words that break Steve’s heart.

Steve feels that familiar flash of anger zip through him at the reminder of how horribly Bucky’s been treated his whole life. But that’s not productive, so he squashes the anger down and instead tries to think calming, soothing alpha thoughts. He long ago learned in his training that when helping an omega through their heat, an alpha’s thoughts influence their physiology, and their physiology influences their actions. Everything Steve does in this room now has to be geared towards helping Bucky feel safe and taken care of. Everything.

“Hey,” he says, sitting down on the very edge of the bed. Bucky seems hyper aware of his proximity but he doesn’t tense up or try to move away at all, which is a good sign. Steve lets his hand drift closer over the blanket, towards Bucky’s knee. “When you met with the counselor, with Clint? Did you guys talk about it? About being male omegas, your cycles?”

Bucky’s face looks pained and he still won’t look at Steve, but he nods smally. “Yeah.”

“I’d bet money that Clint didn’t use any of those words you just said, when he talked about it. Do you think those things about Clint?” This, at least, seems to get through to the kid. He peeks up at Steve, and Steve gives him a gentle smile. “I’m friends with him, ya know. He’s a cool guy. I actually think you two would get along.”

Bucky shrugs, unwilling to engage. He’s pouting still and Steve wants so badly to pull him in against his body and surround him with the pressure and reassurance of a hug, but he knows he has to do this on Bucky’s timetable. The omega is calmed out of the frenzy he was having when Sharon sedated him, but a cc of Midazolam up the nose tends to do that.

“I’m alpha,” Steve says gently. “So of course I can’t know what it’s like to go through a heat, not personally. But I’ve helped a lot of people through theirs. They’ve told me all kinds of things. Some sort of dislike it. Most enjoy it to some extent. But nobody has ever told me it’s wrong or unnatural.”

It’s a lie. Steve has had one or two other patients who felt the way that Bucky feels, dysphoric patients who were traumatized by abusers in similar ways, but Steve also knows that that’s not what Bucky needs to hear right now.

“Hey,” he says, finally sliding his hand far enough over the blanket that his fingertips brush Bucky’s lax ones on the bed. Bucky’s eyes fly up to him. “I know you can’t just change your viewpoint overnight. I get it. But it’s important that you understand that nobody else shares those negative thoughts about your body or about heats. I’m certainly not thinking them.” He tilts his head forward and asks, “What did Clint say about it, when you guys talked?”

Bucky is reluctant to tell him, but eventually he murmurs, “He said it’s intense, but it’s just our bodies’ way of feeling good. … He said it’s better when you’ve got somebody with you to help.” His cheeks are getting flushed, probably a combination of embarrassment and the effects of his heat. “He said he’s married to his husband and they love each other. That makes him like his heats.”

Steve nods. “Yeah, Phil. He’s a sweet guy. He’s actually one of the hospital administrators. We all go out for drinks together sometimes.” He’s trying to normalize everything, trying to make Bucky see that being omega and having heats is just another part of life that people go through, either on their own or through someone they know. “I have to say, I’ve always been a little bit jealous of the week of heat leave you guys get every month. It seems pretty awesome.”

Bucky looks at him like the words ‘heat’ and ‘awesome’ being used together don’t compute. His face flushes darker, and this time it’s almost certainly from embarrassment. “It’s gross,” he mumbles, looking away from Steve with a little scowl. He pulls his hand away from Steve’s on the bed and tucks his legs up under the blanket, hugging his arms around them. “Being like that, needing sex and having no control over yourself,” he says, spitting the words out like they’re bad, contemptable things. “Like an animal. S’pathetic.”

Steve sighs. Bucky’s got a long road of therapy ahead of him, that much is obvious. “It’s okay for you to think that, Honey, but you gotta know I’m gonna keep telling you how wrong you are.” Bucky looks back up at him at his assertive tone, and Steve nods. “I’m alpha, so I think omegas are lovely. And I’ve always thought it’s amazing what your bodies can do. It’s primal, sure. It’s powerful. Beautiful.”

Bucky pfts air between his teeth, disagreeing.

Steve lets his hand cover one of Bucky’s where he’s gripping his knees. “Especially to somebody like me. Seeing an omega in heat is a beautiful, natural thing. And every time I get to be with someone, when they let me help them feel good, it’s just the best thing.” There’s reverence in his voice instead of lust, and he can see the emotions passing over Bucky’s face as he takes that in. The disbelief starts to morph into a sort of cautious acceptance. Or at least that’s what Steve hopes it is. “I’m sorry you had people telling you otherwise for so long,” he says. He dares to curl his fingers over Bucky’s hand, and something loosens in his chest as the omega lets him. “Now you’re in the real world, though. Now you get to see how much everybody thinks you’re normal. Just another part of life. A great part of it, in fact.” He gives Bucky’s hand a squeeze. “So, will you let me spend your heat with you, Omega?”

Bucky’s irises flare and his lips part. Steve would be willing to bet the kid has never been called ‘omega’ with anything other than vitriol. And now Steve has said it like a title of honor. Bucky swallows thickly. “... Okay,” he says, voice barely there. Afraid maybe, but trusting. He’s trusting Steve, and that makes something golden and warm flare deep in Steve’s chest. “If it’s you,” Bucky adds meekly. “Only you.”

Steve smiles sadly. He’s not sure if Bucky fully remembers everything that’d happened in his hospital room earlier. “Yeah, Honey,” he reassures him. “I’m gonna stay with you the whole time. Just you and me.” He squeezes their fingers together. “It’s gonna be nice. I promise.”

Bucky blushes and squirms and won’t meet his eyes again, but he’s clearly pleased. He turns to look back over at the large, low bed. “Can I …” he starts, hesitant. “Can I go over there?”

“Of course, Sweetheart. It’s yours.” Steve pats the back of his hand comfortingly and then pulls away, getting up to go over and root around the fridge and make himself seem unobtrusive. “Why don’t you nest around a little bit? Make the blankets how you like.”

Behind him, Bucky is silent. Then Steve hears him get off the hospital bed, followed by the soft rustle of him climbing onto the suite’s bed. “... I don’t know how to nest,” comes quietly from behind.

Oh god. Steve lets his eyes slip shut for the barest second, at that heartbreakingly vulnerable admission. Once again, he’s struck by the intense urge to squeeze Bucky up in his arms, tight and secure and possessive forever. Focus, Rogers. He inhales deeply and fixes his face back to a cheerful neutral. He turns. Bucky is sitting in the very middle of the bed, legs folded under himself, looking like a lost little duckling in a sea of blankets. “Sure you do,” Steve says encouragingly. “It’s whatever makes you feel good. Whatever feels right.” He gestures to the various blankets and pillows. “Just start moving ‘em around. You’ll find what works.” He watches hopefully as Bucky bites his lip and considers his advice. He tentatively reaches for one of the pillows and switches it with another, fluffing it. Steve’s chest warms. “That’s it,” he encourages. “See? You know what to do.”

Bucky’s cheeks get more flushed and he tucks his lips in at the praise. There’s more confidence to him as he starts to pick up different pillows and move them, stuffing the edges of blankets around in various places.

“Rogers,”

Steve whips around towards the door at the sound of the intercom. He glances back at Bucky, who has tensed up at the interruption. “Keep working on it,” he urges kindly. “I have to step out for a second and talk with your new attending. I’ll be right back to see what you’ve done.” Bucky whines low in his throat, displeased at hearing that his heat partner is leaving him. But he obeys and goes back to arranging the blankets, and Steve is so proud of him. “Good boy,” he praises, then goes to step out into the hallway.

“Doctor,” he says respectfully once he’s out in the hallway with Banner. “Thanks for coming in. I’m sorry about this.”

Bruce smiles benevolently, if somewhat sleepily. “Happy to help. I gave his chart a look and read through your notes. It sounds like you made the right call to switch to his support.”

Steve shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah.” He knows that Banner could very well scold him over his mistakes, but instead he’s just letting it be. It’s a relief. “He just woke up from the sedatives a few minutes ago. I’m talking him through some nesting now, getting him settled in.”

Banner nods and brings his clipboard up to look at it as they talk. He scans Bucky’s chart, flipping between the pages. “Acute symptoms started about forty minutes ago?”

“Yeah.”

“What symptoms did you observe?”

Steve feels his neck get hot, and he brings a hand up to rub at it. “Um, well he slicked all over my pants.”

Bruce’s gaze falls assessingly to the large wet patch on Steve’s right thigh. He nods and writes on the clipboard. “Anything else?”

“Aggression, impulsive sexual touching, scenting, verbal regression, posturing,”

“The whole nine yards,” Bruce murmurs, nodding and finishing up with his writing. He looks back up at Steve. “Nothing to cause concern though?”

Steve shakes his head. “No. He rated his pain for me earlier. Just seems to be experiencing a typical level of cramping.”

“That’s good. Given the state of his infection days ago, I’dve been worried of something more severe.”

“That’s really cleared up,” Steve says. “A lot of the inflammation we saw there was actually his body rejecting the hormonal implants. Once we removed his suppressant and IUD, things really calmed down.”

Bruce nods, still flipping through the pages. “Okay. Still make sure to palpate his stomach. And conduct an internal before things get too wild in there.”

Steve fights back a wince. “Doc, he’s a very recent rape victim. I don’t think he’ll tolerate the speculum.”

“Then don’t use one,” Bruce says plainly. “If he can’t accept your fingers and you need a script written for benzos, we can do that.”

Steve tenses at the reminder that he’s no longer Bucky’s attending. He’s not the one who gets to make the decisions for Bucky’s care anymore. “Okay,” he agrees, anxious to get back into the suite and back to Bucky. “Not yet. But I’ll let you know.”

Bruce agrees and they part ways, and when Steve has locked himself back into the room, he turns and is met with the sight of Bucky working away at what’s quickly becoming a textbook nest. Steve beams. “Hey! look at you.”

Bucky spares him a glance, but then he huffs and he’s back to working away at getting the blankets just how he needs them. He’s like a cat: focused, satisfied and then frustrated and then satisfied again as he tries to get everything just right. It’s adorable. “They smell like you,” he mumbles, not looking up from where he’s working away. He means the blankets.

“Oh. Yeah. Yeah I scented them. Is that okay?” Steve waits for Bucky’s approval. When he gets a quick, silent nod, he’s satisfied. “This looks real good, omega” he approves, watching Bucky nitpick the final little details of the nest. Steve doesn’t miss how the mounting pillow hasn’t been moved from its spot at the far end of the bed. He bites his lip, thrilled that Bucky hasn’t rejected it. He could’ve tossed it from the nest entirely, but instead he’s kept it. Steve’s under no illusions that the kid doesn’t recognize the item for exactly what it is. When Bucky stops nesting and starts squirming, Steve holds his breath and asks, “Omega?” He waits for Bucky to look him in the eyes. “Can I come into your den with you?”

Bucky’s eyes go a little fuzzy at the request, dazed and pleased at being pursued by an alpha when he’s ripe like this. “Alpha,” he says plaintively, in lieu of an answer.

Steve hums and steps forward. “So good,” he praises. “Bucky, can I take my clothes off?”

“I …” Bucky’s eyes flick over him nervously. They land on the wet patch on his scrub pants and hold there. “Oh,” he breathes, face going slack.

“Yeah,” Steve touches the spot where Bucky had slicked all over him. “You remember that?” he asks. “Rubbing your bottom on me?” Bucky emits a high keening sound, distressed, but Steve shushes him and tuts. “No, baby. It was so amazing. You made me really happy when you did that.”

Bucky’s eyes flick up nervously. He looks like he can’t believe it. “I did?” he asks.

“Of course. It’s what your body’s supposed to do. It means you're healthy and aroused. That’s completely normal.” Bucky frowns a little, clearly still having intrusive thoughts about his nature. He whines and shakes his head, displeased, and Steve hurries to take a step closer to the low mattress. “Hey. Look at me, Honey. Please?”

Bucky squirms in place, rocking his hips in little unconscious movements. He looks up at him, and there’s awareness in his eyes. Awareness and fear. Steve can see how Bucky is perfectly aware of how differently he’s acting now, because of his heat. And it’s scaring him. “Steve,” he says, voice trembling. “Please. … I don’t think I can do this.”

“I’m right here, Buck. It’s okay. This is safe, remember?”

His lips tremble and a single tear falls down his cheek. “What’re you gonna do?”

Steve tries to give him the most reassuring look he knows how. “I’m gonna undress,” he says gently. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to have sex with you. We’re just gonna have some skin contact to start. Is that okay?” He waits for Bucky’s unsure nod before he pulls his scrub top over his head and tosses it aside. He’s wearing a white tee shirt underneath and he quickly removes that as well. Then Bucky’s inhale sounds, sharp and audible, his lips parting as he sees Steve’s body bared to him for the first time. Steve hums, pleased at the reaction, and pushes his chest out. He lets Bucky look his fill. The way the omega is sitting there, breathing open-mouthed and rocking faintly in place as his need builds, makes Steve’s balls feel heavy and full. He toes off his clogs and socks, then hooks his thumbs in the elastic waistband of his scrub pants. “You can undress too, if it’s what feels good,” he tells him. “I only want you to do what feels good for you.” Bucky just sits there and stares as Steve's scrub pants fall and his cock is revealed, half hard and obvious underneath his briefs. He rubs himself once from over the fabric, watching how Bucky's eyes track the movement. "Gonna take these off," he warns, not wanting anything he does to feel like a surprise to the omega. When he straightens back up from taking off his briefs, his cock hangs thickly between his legs.

And Bucky's eyes are riveted. “Oh,” he breathes quietly, all modesty and shame momentarily forgotten as he stares at Steve’s alpha body. “Steve,” he whispers.

Steve smiles, feeling incredibly tender towards the young omega. Bucky won’t be the first virgin he’s ever supported, but he might be the most vulnerable. Steve puts one knee up on the mattress, carefully cataloging Bucky’s reactions with every move he makes. He lowers his hands down into the mess of blankets, brings his other knee up, crawls forward slowly. “I’m coming into your nest with you, omega,” he says softly. “Your den. Where you decide what happens, right?”

“... right,” Bucky breathes, distracted.

Steve’s lips curl. “Can you undress for me now?” Bucky makes a small, hurt sound in his throat, but he listens and pulls off his hospital gown. Steve’s dick jumps against his thigh as he finally gets to see the boy’s naked body. “Oh, Sweetheart.”

Steve saw him that night in the ER, of course, but he’d been bloodied and bruised, wracked with seizures and burning up from infection. Steve hadn’t been able to look at him as anything other than an emergency that night. Bucky had been a body, broken and hurt and needing to be repaired, and Steve had done his job. Now, it’s amazing how much of a difference there is. Bucky is clean and healed and Steve can really look at him.

He has a natural tan to his skin. He's toned, with long, lithe limbs and muscles that are still partially hidden by a layer of baby fat. His chest and arms are strong, especially for an omega, but his hips round out nicely like they should, and his thighs are thick and welcoming. His belly is slightly distended, swollen from his heat. Everything about him makes Steve’s mouth water and his pulse thrum hard in his veins, pleased.

Bucky’s body is that of a fully-matured omega male, already having prepared itself for pregnancy and childbirth despite the years he was forced to take suppressants. Steve breathes a sigh of relief to see it. “Bucky,” he says honestly, wanting him to hear the arousal in his voice this time. “You’re so beautiful. Look at you.” He reaches out as if he’ll touch, but he doesn’t. “You’re perfect.”

Bucky flushes deeply at the praise and at being so closely scrutinized. There’s still a tension in him that’s unnatural, a wariness that serves to remind Steve that the omega was violated barely more than a week ago. Steve knees up closer to him and mirrors his position, sitting back on his heels, maintaining that small distance that reminds Bucky that this is his choice. He reaches out and puts a hand on Bucky’s hip, sliding it up his side.

Bucky flinches, and then he keens in distress when he sees the hurt that flashes on Steve’s face. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking ashamed. “Alpha,”

“Hey, no.” Steve tuts and curls his fingers in at the soft give of Bucky’s waist. “No, baby. Don’t apologize for this. You got hurt, and it’s scary. You don’t have to hide any of that from me. I want to know how you’re really feeling.” He reaches with his other hand and cups Bucky’s neck. He feels around and pushes in when he finds the glands there, hot and tight and swollen beneath the skin. The scent of fresh slick hits the air when he pinches down on it, and Bucky whines loudly. “Shhh sh sh,” Steve hushes. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Bucky whimpers and trembles, but calms down quickly with Steve’s hand massaging at his glands so pointedly. His eyes slip shut for the briefest of seconds, showing his trust in Steve, and something very close to a moan leaves his lips. It’s quiet, barely there, but Steve hears it. “Steve,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “Oh …”

“What do you want to do, Honey?” Steve asks. “You want to get on your back? Why don’t you do that and feel those soft blankets against your body, huh?” He encourages Bucky to lie back and is incredibly relieved when the omega goes without a fuss. “Good boy,” he coos. “That’s just right. Yeah, isn’t that nice? Did such a good job on making this nest, Omega,” he praises. He sits back and crosses his legs and gives Bucky a moment to settle in. “There you go. Mmhm. Bet that feels real good on your skin, doesn’t it? Don’t worry now. I’m not going to touch you for a little bit. Just want you to get comfy in your nest. You gonna do that for me, Sweetheart?”

Bucky nods, scent calming more and more as he realizes that Steve isn’t lying, that he’s really not going to fall on top of him and force anything on him. His eyes open and flick over Steve’s face uncertainly. “What do I have to do?” he asks, emotionally vulnerable now but still with a degree of lucidity in his voice. It lets Steve know that he’s still dealing with his patient: a trauma victim. Bucky isn’t lost to his heat just yet.

Steve starts up a low, comforting rumble in his chest and keeps his hands on the tops of his own thighs. “Nothing you don’t want to,” he reassures him. “We’re here for you, Bucky. To make you feel good, and safe, and pleasured. I’m not going to do anything to you if it doesn’t make you feel all of those things, okay?”

Bucky almost looks like he’s going to cry at hearing Steve’s kind promises. He looks like a child who’s afraid to trust, who’s had promises that they’ve believed in yanked away before, many times. “Are you sure?” he asks, fearful.

Steve smiles sadly and grips his own thighs to keep himself from reaching out. “So sure,” he says. “Let’s just sit here together for a minute, okay?” He looks up at the ceiling and speaks to the StarkPhone assistant, “Hey Jarvis: play ‘sexual healing’ playlist.”

“Playing ‘sexual healing’ playlist.”

Steve looks back down to Bucky just in time to catch him wincing at the stupid name of the playlist. They share a chuckle over it, and then the music that Steve uses for people like Bucky starts to fill the room. There’s not actually any Marvin Gaye on it. Far from that, the instrumental music is somewhere between ethereal and sensual. It’s enticing, soothing, and Steve has always found it to be a good fit for patients who need help relaxing into their heats. “How’s that?” he asks Bucky, smiling down at him.

“Nice,” he says, inhaling slowly and letting his eyes slip closed as he relaxes, and exhales.

Something deep in Steve’s chest unspools at that huge sign of trust. This is good. This is going really well. “Okay,” he murmurs. More quietly than last time, he says, “Jarvis: dim lights to thirty percent, soft orange glow. Adjust room temperature to patient’s basal body temp, minus twenty degrees.”

This time Jarvis follows the commands without replying. The room becomes warm and glowing and comforting, like the inside of a womb. Steve sits still and allows Bucky to take time to relax fully. The omega’s scent is improving, softening and ripening into a healthy tone. Steve’s body responds to it, but he ignores his own reactions and watches Bucky intently. In the low light, his body gleams beautifully. The faint sheen of perspiration that coats his skin makes him look delectable. Steve wants to taste him so badly.

“I’m gonna get something,” he says quietly, not wanting to disturb Bucky from how he’s relaxing. “Not going anywhere, just a second.” Bucky makes a vague noise of assent, eyes staying closed. It makes Steve smile fondly.

He goes to the supply cabinet and gets a bottle of unscented oil. There’s a pin valve on the bottom of the container that he locks onto one of the pheromone vials. He squeezes in some of his pheromones then pops the vial back off, giving the oil bottle a good shake to properly emulsify everything. Having Steve’s alpha scent rubbed all over his skin will help relax Bucky, and it’ll help calm some of his body’s inflammatory heat reactions down.

Steve climbs back into the nest and sits next to Bucky’s prone body. He lets his eyes rake over the rise and fall of his chest and the smooth planes of his belly. He stares at what’s visible lower down; a small thatch of dark pubic hair just above his penis, everything else naturally bare and smooth. Steve can’t see his actual sex from here, but he can see the shine of slick that’s leaked out of it, smeared onto his inner thighs and gleaming in the room’s low light. It’s enticing to say the least.

Steve knows he’s not supposed to judge his patients’ bodies, but there’s no denying that Bucky is ideally attractive, right down to what’s between his legs. His little cocklet is short and soft. It’s fattened up thick but not erect. That’s to be expected. It’s rare that Steve sees a male omega who is able to get fully hard. Their bodies don’t produce the right hormones for it, especially during their heats. Bucky’s uncircumcised, the head of his little dick fat and flush beneath the foreskin. Steve knew all of this already, but somehow it all still feels novel. He’s looking at him differently now. Not as a doctor but as his alpha support, as someone who’s going to make love to his body, if Bucky wants it.

When he looks back up to his face, Bucky’s eyes are open and he’s watching him with an inscrutable expression. “Are you okay?” Steve asks.

Bucky nods silently. “I …” his eyes flash down to his dick and then away. “Um…” He squirms and presses his thighs together, ashamed. “It’s not, um, I’m not …”

“No,” Steve says firmly. “Bucky, no. You’re so perfect, Honey. You literally look like the classical sculptures of male omegas.” Bucky seems to be slightly reassured by this, which Steve knows is a minor miracle. He can imagine the sorts of things Bucky’s been insulted with over the years, all the ways his so-called family has told him his omega body is wrong. “Can I touch you a little, Sweetheart? Are you gonna let me touch this gorgeous body?”

Bucky shivers, eyes wide. He seems stunned that Steve likes the way he looks. “Okay,” he whispers.

“Good boy,” Steve praises. He squeezes out some of the oil and rubs it between his hands. It’s a dry massage oil, designed for omegas who’re in heat, their skin overly sensitive to stimulation. Steve reaches out slowly, telegraphing his intentions. He lets his hand sink down to rest on the top of Bucky’s thigh. He feels the omega shiver from the touch. He squeezes, digging slow and deep into the muscle, then releases the pressure and rubs firmly up and down, over and over. “Is this okay?” he asks. “Me massaging you?” It’s one of the most common techniques he uses for trauma victims, and Bucky seems to be responding to it favorably, if the lazy, pleasured look on his face is anything to go by. “Mm? Good?”

Bucky nods, staring at him through heavy lidded eyes. “Yeah,” he croaks. “It’s nice.” Between his legs, his little cocklet is just barely peeking out, a thin bead of moisture pearling at the slit . Steve notices with a slight smile, but of course he says nothing.

He brings up his other hand to deepen the massage. “That’s good,” he praises. “That’s what we want.” He keeps up the massage, doing one thigh and then the other, then moving down to his shins. Bucky makes a painfully erotic sound once Steve has pulled his foot into his lap and is digging fingers into his arch. Steve hums, continuing on.

Eventually Bucky seems calm enough that Steve sets his feet aside and encourages him to spread his legs so that Steve can move to sit between them. Bucky seems to know what’s coming, keeping his eyes pointedly closed as Steve eases his hands back up his legs, over his knees, and then up to the tension in his inner thighs. “Shh,” Steve soothes, rubbing back and forth. “Relax, honey. I’m just gonna examine you. Eyes and hands only, I promise. Take deep breaths.”

Bucky tries to listen, it’s obvious. But his breath still hitches when Steve brings both hands to his lower stomach and begins palpating the area. He peeks down at Steve, “What’re you doing?”

“Just checking,” Steve murmurs, focused on what he’s feeling underneath his fingers. “It’s normal for your uterus to swell during heat, but I don’t want to feel any hard spots.” He hears Bucky grunt in embarrassment, probably at being reminded of his own anatomy. “Shh, you’re okay. Everything seems fine.”

“... Steve?” Steve looks up and sees Bucky’s pinched expression. “Um, remember when you said I might not be able to have children?”

His heart squeezes at the obvious vulnerability in Bucky’s voice, how brave he’s being by asking. “We were worried about that, before,” Steve admits. “But your body’s been responding well to the treatment.” He notches his thumbs in at Bucky’s hipbones and strokes him softly there. “We still have to get your cycles regulated, but I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t be able to carry a pregnancy just fine one day.”

Bucky’s cheeks flush and he looks a little overwhelmed at the words. “... one day,” he repeats meekly, and Steve smiles gently at him.

“Yeah Honey, one day. Not today. Not until you’re ready.” This seems to ease Bucky's fears, and his scent sweetens into something even richer than before. He smells like he feels safe, and that makes Steve preen in satisfaction. He’s making his omega feel safe. He rumbles low in his chest and watches how Bucky reacts to the sound. He slides his hands down to Bucky’s knees and encourages him to bed his legs up. “Can I see the rest of you?” he asks.

Bucky trembles and tenses, but he nods, shifting the tilt of his hips as he draws his knees up for him.

“Good boy,” Steve praises, knowing how hard it must be for Bucky to reveal this part of himself to anyone, let alone Steve. “That’s so good, Bucky. Thank you.” He strokes Bucky’s calves, soothing him. “Close your eyes if you need to. I want you relaxed for this.”

Bucky whimpers but he does let his eyes slip closed. He’s trying. He’s being so brave and strong and it melts Steve’s heart. Steve takes a moment to get some more of the massage oil on his hands. He leans over Bucky and smears the oil on either side of his neck, right over the glands, giving him his scent. He puts some just below his nostrils as well and Bucky moans softly. Steve sits back. He looks down.

Bucky is pink and healthy looking, swollen from the heat and soaked with a healthy amount of slick. Steve pushes gently on his shins to get him to bend his legs more. This tilts his pelvis up and exposes him to Steve’s view.

Bucky looks like any young male omega should. He lacks a clitoris because his body developed that part of his anatomy into a penis when he was in utero. His sex is fairly similar to a female's, with pronounced outer lips where he would’ve formed his testicles, if he hadn’t developed ovaries instead. Steve’s breath catches a little when he sees the boy's muscles clench, a thick gush of slick seeping out of his cunt. Jesus wept. Bucky whimpers and squirms, but Steve hushes him, telling him that he’s good, he’s fine, his body’s doing what it’s supposed to. “I’m going to touch you, okay?” he says softly, giving Bucky the chance to refuse. “I’m going to put my fingers inside to feel you.”

While it’s clear that this is very upsetting and hard for Bucky, he still seeks comfort in Steve, trying to be good for him. “Alpha,” he breathes, eyes clenched shut and face screwed up. He reaches down, searching for Steve’s hand.

Steve gives him his left one and squeezes their fingers together. “Right here, Honey. It’s just you and me, in private, taking care of each other. Nothing bad, right?”

Bucky nods tightly. “Y-yeah. Right.”

Steve smiles up at him, pained but so, so proud of how well he’s doing. “C’mere,” he coaxes, scooting up in the sheets and pulling on Bucky until he has the boy’s hips up in his lap. “There you go. That’s so good, Omega. You know just what to do. So smart.” Bucky responds to the nonsensical praise, his whines losing some of their stress and instead becoming more seeking, questioning things. Steve makes it his mission to soothe those sounds with his own. “I’m going to touch you now, Buck. Two fingers. It shouldn’t hurt, but if it feels uncomfortable at all, you tell me right away and I’ll stop.” He waits for Bucky’s nod before continuing, then traces the edges of his folds, gathering slick on his fingertips. Everything externally looks good, and the little Steve can see of his delicate entrance looks normal, if a bit heat swollen. The remains of his recently-torn hymen are still there, healed but jagged edges of soft tissue that evil, vile rapists created. Steve grits his teeth and forces his thoughts away from that, not wanting to think about what they took from Bucky, not wanting Bucky to become upset from an unpleasant shift in his scent.

Any physical trauma to the vaginal tissues will have healed in an omega his age by now, Steve knows, but that’s just the physical. Physical wounds always heal the fastest, and hurt the least. There are other, deeper hurts that Steve needs to help him with.

“Okay,” he whispers, setting his fingers to Bucky’s entrance. “A little pressure, no pain. Remember what you do if there’s pain?”

Bucky’s face pinches where he’s lying with his eyes firmly closed. “Tell you,” he murmurs, and Steve praises him with a deep rumble of approval.

“That’s right. Good boy. Okay now, deep breath.” He waits for Bucky’s chest to rise in an inhale before he applies pressure, and slips into his body.

Bucky’s lips part and he gasps, but it’s just reflex. He lets his breath out and sighs, making a little sound in his throat like he’s surprised that it actually didn’t hurt. “Oh,” he says.

Steve hums, pleased. “Nothing bad,” he repeats. He crooks his fingers, feeling with purpose along the omega’s walls. It’s tight inside, incredibly hot and tight like a virgin omega’s cunt should be. Steve keeps his arousal to himself as best he can, though he knows his scent will give some of it away. At least Bucky is keeping his eyes closed to relax, so Steve doesn’t have to worry about the boy seeing the undoubtedly devastated expressions of arousal that flash across his own face.

He’s alpha, and even though he’s undergone extensive training, there’s no helping certain things. Steve’s cock is hard and it’s not going down any time soon. He swallows thickly, focusing on the exam he needs to be conducting. Carefully, watching Bucky’s body and face for any flinches, he strokes and feels along his internal walls. Nothing abnormal stands out to him, though when he uses a different technique to feel closer to the entrance, he does notice the enlarged slick glands that he’d known were there.

They’re much better than they’d been on that night in the ER, at least. No longer raging with infection, able to be touched without causing extreme pain. Steve feels and identifies the structures, impacted from years and years of illegal suppressant use. Carefully, he eases into using more pressure, rubbing firmly.

Bucky groans and presses his hips down. “Oh god,” he complains, brow scrunching a little. “What is that?”

“Pain?” Steve asks, but Bucky shakes his head.

“Sore. Oh. Like a bruise.”

Steve hums knowingly. “You have four glands here, two on either side. They’re how your body gets wet, but right now they’re probably impacted.” Bucky makes a hurt little sound in his throat and asks what that means. Steve explains it to him. “There was a lot of old infection in them and that all needs depressed now that your body’s producing slick again. I’m gonna massage them to try and get the bad stuff out, okay?”

Bucky’s chewing his lip, making it red and swollen and very tempting for Steve to just crawl back up his body and kiss the abused flesh. “... okay.”

Steve decides to do the anterior two first, as they feel harder. “Here we go,” he murmurs. “If it hurts more than slightly pressing on a bruise, tell me. Don’t ignore pain. I’ll stop if we need to.”

Bucky nods tightly, expression strained. But he whispers, “I trust you, Alpha,” and Steve’s heart swells two sizes bigger in his chest.

A few minutes of firm, focused touching on the glands is all it takes to have them releasing. Liquid gushes over the back of Steve’s hand as the pressure gives and Bucky moans in relief. The smell of old, stale infection hits the air, sour for a moment before it dissipates. Steve uses his free hand to rub soothingly over Bucky’s lower belly. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.” Against the sheets, Bucky nods his head blearily. Steve turns his hand and finds the posterior glands, and works those until they release as well. The amount of slick is incredible, and Steve knows that it must feel so much better for the omega now that all that poison is out of him. There’s immediately more room inside his channel, the glands back to being soft and spongy like they should be. Steve gives them a few more gentle strokes to be sure that all that backed up slick is out. “Good,” he rumbles low in his chest, proud of how well Bucky handled that. “That’s just lovely, Honey. Good job.”

Bucky peeks his eyes open, looking down to where Steve still has his fingers buried inside his body. His entire face is flushed and he’s breathing open-mouthed. “S-steve,” he slurs, searching Steve’s eyes out with his own. He’s a little wild, a little needy, and Steve responds, removing his fingers from the drenched clutch of his cunt and coming up to lay over his body instead. He puts his face close, giving Bucky eye contact and reassurance and an open invitation to scent him. “I’m here, Buck. I’m right here with you. What do you need?”

Bucky grunts with discomfort and hides himself against Steve’s neck, which of course Steve allows, turning his head to the side to give him better access to his glands. He cups Bucky’s head with his clean hand, encouraging him with deep, soothing sounds. “That’s good, that’s just right, Honey. Do what feels good. Whatever you need.”

Bucky keens, embarrassed but clearly loving the reassurance Steve’s giving him. He latches onto Steve, mouth on his glands and legs around his waist. He humps up against him and sucks needily on his glands. “Mmph, mm…”

Steve can’t help the guttural moan that escapes him at such contact. It feels so good. “Okay, Sweetheart, okay,” he pants, eyes squeezed shut as his dick throbs and blurts out precum against Bucky’s stomach. “Yeah, okay.” He loses control for a few seconds as his hips press down on Bucky’s soft body, but he reigns it in after a few thrusts.

Bucky complains with a noise, humping up for more as he mouths over Steve's neck. His teeth scrape and then catch, and then he bites down on Steve’s glands. Hard.

Steve grunts loudly at the flare of pain. The skin breaks and his scent wafts into the air, strong and different from before as Bucky’s saliva gets mixed into the wound. He hears Bucky’s muffled sound of enjoyment as his mouth fills with the taste, eagerly suckling for more. “... oh, fuck,” Steve moans. He digs his fingers in against Bucky’s shoulders and pants, trying to hold on, to stay calm.

He knew this might happen. Patients with needs as complex as Bucky’s are prone to biting. They naturally seek out the connection and pleasure of a bond, instincts overriding their minds as they seek the comfort they so desperately need. Bucky chirps happily at the burst of pheromones that he’s gotten, rubbing his face back and forth in the blood. “Alpha, Alpha,” he breathes, clinging onto him and humping up, getting his slick all over Steve.

Steve practices his breathing to try and stay calm. He pets Bucky’s shoulders and his hair, taking deep, grounding breaths. He’s careful not to pull away, not to deny Bucky access to any part of him. The pain from the bite is gone and the euphoria is setting in, making his skin tingle, his balls throb. He can feel his knot becoming erect. Bucky is rubbing his cunt along the length of his cock, and even with his training and his certifications and his long-practiced self control, even Steve has limits.

“Hang on, Honey. Hang on now,” he says, voice low with forced calm. He shifts on his arms over Bucky so that he can get a hand at the back of the omega’s neck. He squeezes. Bucky instantly goes limp, mouth releasing from Steve’s skin with a moan as he goes slack against the blankets. Steve pants for a moment, just calming himself down. “Okay,” he says, eyes closed. “Okay baby. Just ... just gimme a minute ..."

He's been bonded to seven people in his life. It never gets easier.

The euphoria is wonderful, all-consuming, an intense physical pleasure that’s different from pure sex and is very emotional—like doing narcotics and molly at the same time. It makes it very hard not to lose his control and simply fuck into the nearest available orifice. Which right now is Bucky’s soaking wet cunt. Grunting, he forces himself to pull back. He rolls off of Bucky and gets off the bed.

Bucky’s keening protest is near-instantaneous. “Alpha!”

Steve rumbles loudly to calm him down. “Stop. Omega. Be still.” Bucky whimpers but listens, and Steve sits down on the edge of the bed. He reaches out and grabs Bucky’s hand, giving him a comforting squeeze. “Talk to me,” he coaxes, waiting for Bucky to calm down enough to communicate. “How you doing, Sweetheart?”

Bucky looks pleadingly up at him, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes. “S-steve, I’m—I need…”

Steve’s heart clenches in sympathy. It’s not easy for an assault victim to say that they need to be fucked, especially when they have as much shame and dysphoria surrounding their gender as Bucky does. “Hey,” he says lowly, leaning over and sliding his hand up Bucky’s chest. “It’s okay to ask for what you need. What do you need, Baby? Tell me.” Bucky trembles and shakes his head, upset, so Steve cups the front of his throat and presses slightly, just enough to be dominating. “Tell me now, Omega,” he says, using his Voice to make it easier for him. “Tell Alpha what you need to feel right.”

Bucky moans and thrusts his hips up uselessly. He looks to Steve, relief in his eyes. “Alpha,” he croaks. “You, please. Want you.”

“Want me how?” Steve presses, not in his Voice but still domineering. He lets his fingers dig into Bucky’s glands, sees Bucky’s blood-stained lips part in a sigh of pleasure. “You have choices,” Steve says. He’s regained some of his control now, is more clear headed as he tells him, “We don’t have to have sex if it’s not what you want. You can use my hands, or my mouth. There are toys. I can have the hospital staff bring—”

“No!” Bucky whines loudly and squirms against the hold on his neck. Both of his hands fly up and grasp at Steve’s wrist. “No, no, Alpha, please. I need… I–I n-need it.”

Steve frowns, debating whether he should push and make him say it. After a moment of watching Bucky struggle and plead uselessly, he decides that no, he’s not going to force him to voice what it is he wants so badly. They both know what it is, and the last thing Steve wants is for Bucky to feel any sort of shame right now.

Only pleasure. That’s what he’d promised.

So, taking a deep breath, Steve gives himself over to his role a little more. He’s got Bucky’s consent, or as much of it he’s able to, given the state he’s in, and now he needs to be what Bucky needs him to be. He needs to be his Alpha. “Stay still,” he orders firmly, giving a little jostle to Bucky’s neck where he’s holding him. “I’m gonna get something. Don’t move until I come back.”

Bucky whines in complaint the entire time that it takes Steve to pad over to the fridge and back, but when Steve returns, he still hasn’t moved. Steve rumbles approval in his chest for Bucky to hear. “Good boy,” he praises, sitting down on the bed and helping Bucky to prop himself up, too. “Here. Drink.” He guides the water bottle to Bucky’s lips, helping him even when the omega brings his own hands up to hold it. Steve doesn’t trust the poor thing not to spill it all over himself. Steve gulps down what Bucky doesn’t finish, tossing the bottle off to the side somewhere. His eyes stay on Bucky, trailing up and down his naked body. “You’re so beautiful, Buck,” he murmurs, reaching up to trace the side of his cheek, his temple.

It’s true. Bucky’s whole body is flushed and tense. He’s sweaty, trembling with his need for touch and stimulation. When Steve cups the front of his throat again, the omega’s eyes slip shut and stay shut. He purrs. Steve rumbles in response and uses the moment that Bucky has his eyes closed, relaxed, to stare selfishly at his body.

His little cock is thickened, a perfect, fat little nub that’s almost thicker than it is long, chubbed up and leaking little droplets. But that’s nothing compared to the mess that’s coming from his cunt. He’s soaking wet down there, a combination of shiny clear slick coating his thighs and the sheets, and thicker arousal creaming right at his entrance.

Steve growls as he’s slammed with the hot urge to stick his face down there, tongue deep inside his cunt and swallow everything the omega has to give. He looks away for a second to get himself under control. When he looks back, Bucky’s eyes are fixed on him. “Omega,” Steve grits, forced control darkening his tone. “I want to try something. Something to make you feel good. But I need you to tell me if you want it.” He watches Bucky carefully, watches his mouth and his eyes, feels the thrum of his pulse underneath his hand. He scents the air to gauge his reaction as he says, “I want to put my mouth on you. I want to eat you out. I want to make you cum that way.”

Every sign that Bucky could possibly give him that he wants it, he does. He jerks in Steve’s hold and keens, hands grappling all over Steve’s hand at his throat, up his wrist and his forearm. “Yes!” he gasps, crying a little bit in shame. Steve scents the smokey tint of it in his scent, polluting what should be nothing but pleasure and acceptance. Bucky is ashamed that he wants an alpha to touch him this way. “Sweetheart,” Steve coos, thumbing away one of the tears. But he leaves it at that. More tears follow. Steve knows he can’t expect miracles today. Bucky can cry about it if he needs. He can squirm and flush and cry while Steve pleasures him with his mouth, so long as he comes.

That’s what therapy’s for.

Steve pushes him back to lie flat on the bed. He bends over and kisses him, keeping it shallow and gentle even when Bucky gets a little bit desperate and tries to get more. Steve tuts and pushes him back into the blankets. “Be still, ‘mega,” he commands gently. “Alpha’s gonna make it better, you’ll see.” He pulls some of the soft things in from the edges of the nest, rucking them up close around Bucky’s head and shoulders, making a tight little barrier where he can feel held, safe and snug. “Okay,” he says, satisfied by how Bucky goes a little lax in the cradle of the blankets. “Yeah, there we go.”

“Alpha,” Bucky says softly, looking lost. He’s completely dependent at this point, so incredibly vulnerable that it makes Steve's cock ache.

“Sweet boy,” he murmurs. “It’s gonna be okay. Alpha’s gonna make you feel good now, okay?” He waits for Bucky to give him a slow little nod. He pecks one more kiss to his bitten-red lips, then starts trailing down his body, one kiss at a time. He’s sorely tempted to waste some time sucking at the omega’s chest. His little pink nipples are so perky and flushed, and Steve just knows he could get his breast buds to swell up so beautifully if he only paid them some attention.

But Bucky hasn’t consented to that, and Steve hasn’t asked, and he has to be very careful of treating Bucky’s body in only the ways he gives consent for and can tolerate. Bucky’s been through so much pain and he’s been forced into things no omega should ever be forced into. His experience now has to be positive. It has to.

Steve sinks down between his legs and stares at his wet cunt. He’s pulsing with arousal, his entrance contracting rhythmically, pushing out more of that cream. Steve releases a guttural moan at the intense smell of it. “Fuck,” he breathes. There’s no amount of training that could help him resist this.

He covers Bucky’s cunt with his mouth, lapping across his slit. The taste of his arousal is sharp and amazing, made even more so by the fresh effects of the bite to Steve’s bonding gland. He groans against his mound and holds him down roughly at the hips when Bucky jerks wildly.

He’s crying out, sobbing wordlessly and thrashing up against Steve’s mouth. “A—Alpha!” he gasps, sounding like he’s protesting as much as he is begging. “Oh, oh, oh!”

Steve tongues into his hole furiously, over and over again, fucking him with the muscle. He can feel Bucky fluttering around him, his body trying so hard to clamp down onto something. Steve hears the growing displeasure and desperation in the boy’s keening cries, so he reaches to push his little cocklet down flat and starts thumbing rapidly back and forth under the head.

Bucky screams and starts to come.

As soon as Steve realizes what’s happening, he moves his mouth up and takes his cock in his mouth, replacing his tongue with fingers in Bucky’s cunt. It throbs and pulses around them, milking him, drawing out the orgasm. Bucky’s hips grind up against Steve’s face and hands, and Steve can only work him through it, listening to his desperate sobs and wishing he could be kissing his face, too, whispering encouragements into his mouth as he falls apart so sweetly.

“That’s it,” he says when he’s finally let Bucky’s cocklet slip from his mouth. He’s speaking against the swell of his belly, still rocking fingers inside him as the boy twitches through the waning pleasure of his climax. “That’s it, Omega. Take it, take it. Just feel it.”

Bucky’s sobbing quietly and shaking from his core as Steve finishes guiding him through it. “S-steeve,” he keens, upset and needing reassurance. He pulls at Steve’s shoulders, urging him back up his body. Steve goes obediently, eager to calm him down now.

“Shh sh sh,” he soothes, kissing all over his face and then down to his neck. He sucks his glands on one side, pinches with his fingers on the other. “Good, you’re so good Omega. That was perfect. Alpha’s so proud of you.”

The scent of Bucky’s shame is stronger now than it was before, but it eases up the longer Steve goes on, reassuring him with touches and words and chest-deep rumbles that he’s done exactly what he’s supposed to, that he was good to take his pleasure that way and that his Alpha is so, so happy with him now.

“So good,” he kisses into his skin, scraping his teeth over the swollen glands but restraining himself from anything more. “So good for me, Bucky.” He comes up to lie over him and look down at his face. He’s beet red and tear stained, and he’s never looked more beautiful to Steve. Steve smiles softly as they both calm down, and he thumbs at his wet cheeks. “Did that feel so good, Sweetheart?”

Bucky’s lips tremble and he nods and cries a little bit more. “Yeah.”

Steve coos. He kisses him, calming him down. When Bucky’s scent is almost free from that shame and embarrassment, he pulls back and smiles down at him. “Do you have any idea how perfect you are like this?” he asks softly. “Any idea how much I want you right now?”

Beneath his body, Bucky shudders. He looks wonderingly up at Steve and whispers, “No.”

Steve hums, then lets the sound develop into a mature rumble deep in his chest. He gets off of Bucky, pulling back and getting up on his knees, sitting back on his heels. He watches Bucky, keenly aware of how the omega’s attention drops right to the proud jut of his cock between his thighs.

Taking a deep breath and trying his very best to wipe any trace of an opinion out of his voice, Steve asks, “What do you want now, Omega?”

Art: @hopelessartgeek

A.N. This ended in a stupid spot because it was getting too long. More to come!

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[stephensmithuk]

The Valley of Fear: The Solution

CW torture.

East Ham is an area 8 1/2 miles east of Charing Cross. It dates back the 11th century when the Manor of Ham was divided into West Ham, East Ham and Little Ilford, now known as Manor Park. While having became pretty developed since the railway had arrived in 1859, it was left in Essex after the 1889 creation of the London County Council, becoming a borough of its own. In 1965, it joined London, merging with West Ham to become Newham. Its railway station is served by the District and Hammersmith & City lines of London Underground, with disused mainline platforms still in situ; there is a c2c train depot to the east.

A casement is an older form of window:

Not sure how you'd tell a boot was American just from the toes though.

"Peine forte et dure" is from Law French, an archaic version of French used in English courts for some centuries and where a number of legal terms still used (like "tort") come from.

The term means "hard and forceful punishment" and refers to a method used when someone refused to pled guilty or innocent to a crime. Basically, they would be tied down spreadeagled nearly naked, a board placed on their chest and then weights placed on that. Their diet would alternate between bread only and water only on a daily basis until they either agreed to plea or died. An incentive not to plea was that if you died here, your property would not be forfeit to the Crown, but would be if you were found guilty of a capital crime. It was not unheard for bystanders to sit on someone to put them out of their misery.

The last use was in 1741 and the penalty abolished in 1772; refusal to plead would be taken as "guilty" until 1827 when it was changed to be deemed as a "not guilty" plea. Giles Corey was one man who pressed to death at the 1692 Salem witch trials for refusing to plead on a witchcraft charge; the story goes that he asked for "more weight" when asked multiple times during the three-day-long process. His wife, Martha Corey, was convicted and hanged.

It is entirely possible for someone to have a mixture of British and American in their accent, sometimes switching mid-speech. For example, Enola Holmes herself, Millie Bobby Brown, will use different accents depending on her environment.

However, the "Mid-Atlantic accent" is best known for its use by some actors in classic Hollywood.

It is unclear what accent that James Douglas would have.

There isn't any real records of the smoking rates in late Victorian Britain, but I am sure that these were rather high. Douglas is clearly an addict since he asks to light up straight away.

The jack-in-a-box was a widely known toy by this point.

Caribou is the American term for Rangifer tarandus, a group of up to six species known in European as reindeer. The UK no longer has a native population, but there is a domesticated batch in the Cairngorns in Scotland.

While Douglas has a clear case for self-defence, I am pretty sure he could be charged with perverting the cause of justice or something like that for the corpse shenangians.