#i started frankenstein its not enough

[applejee]

i gotta read more books. i gotta. i gotta. i need VARIETY <- ignoring all the books i already have i need to read

[cloudbends]

OH I AM INCONSOLABLE. DEVASTATED.

[snekdood]

one reason i hate the english language is that we borrow so many words from other languages and it just pisses me off. its why spelling isnt always intuitive. idk any french fucking words or how french ppl spell shit and quite frankly i dont think I should have to. can we make up a new word instead with different, more intuitive-to-us spelling

[theglamorousferal]

Just found out about the Enough Stuff Non-Profit in Illinois and it got me thinking about Crime Alley and about if there was a place like that, they’d work hard to keep it going.

Now I’m imagining Danny, ghost king with its coffers, things at relative peace, but not having to actively work. He’d want to still be able to give back I think even if it’s not actively fighting. What if Danny started an Enough Stuff shop. Everything there is free. Everything is donated. It runs on donations. (The first few months it runs on his savings; ghost money translates thankfully).

Danny lives in the apartment above the store and the store has two floors. Sam moves in next door and runs an apothecary and plant store. She ends up running a vegan bakery and coffee shop too. If you perform or write a poem, you get a free coffee and scone. If she has the chance, she’ll teach you about basic herbal remedies and also some basic first aid because while honey is an antibiotic, it doesn’t do shit for something needing stitches. Jazz moves in and opens a free pediatric clinic. Tucker can be found running the business side of the non-profits and pushing Sam to “just get an EMT certification already, you’re more than qualified, and you know you want to.” Val travels a lot, she’s an Olympic martial artist, but when she settles someplace to train it’s usually with the trio in their Frankenstein apartment made up of the top two floors of three connected buildings. Between Danny finding he enjoyed training from his years as a hero and Sam wanting to always be in top form there’s a gym there she can train in and Danny’s usually free. She helps with whoever needs it when she has free time so she doesn’t feel like a mooch for living there only part-time. She ends up saving some kid from a thug and deciding to train him up. This leads to the kid bringing more kids to learn from her. She ends up buying a building on the block and renovating it to be a gym and training facility for her and it gets added to the list of non-profits Tucker is running. (He only leaves his corner office, he insisted, during working hours for lunch or meetings and the occasional lunch meeting).

Tim losing his mind trying to find anything about them. Him constantly hitting firewalls of binary, Egyptian hieroglyphics, Esperanto and some other language he could only describe as auditory Zalgo text. Tim desperately wanting to investigate in person but he promised Jason he’d stay out of it until he asked.

Jason coming back from a long mission with the Outlaws seeing the “cute little trust fund kid’s experiment” not only flourishing, but growing. He goes to research them only to find they’re mostly squeaky clean. There’s some stuff about disturbance of the peace and minor property damage when a teenager, but that doesn’t mean anything for someone setting up in Crime Alley. He watches them for a while, listened to what his guys said about them and the general opinion. He decides they’re above board, but he’d still watch them.

Then he got shot. More accurately, a shot grazed just under his armpit where there was a gap in his armor. He ended up stumbling out of an alleyway and directly into the pathway of one red headed doctor.

Kinda want to add more Amity Parker’s at some point. Debating having Paulina run a fashion house in the fashion district because she couldn’t convince her dad to let her move to a place known as Crime Alley, and just spend a bunch of time at Danny’s shop and maybe drop off ‘fits she made there. Star and Wes running a local radio station. Dash becoming a mechanic (after freaking out about not making it in football). Kwan opens a vet clinic. Eventually the Amity Parker’s own a full two blocks of housing and businesses.

[annlyticalarchive]

CHAPTER TEN: A Week of Normal

”You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone”

Mark Grayson X Kryptonian/Clark Kent! Reader

Prologue|Chapter Nine|Chapter Ten (Here)| Chapter Eleven

w/c: 4.8k

a/n: the buildup of calm before the storm. but hey, Murphy’s Law needs to show up sometime

“Mark.”

“Mm.”

“Mark.”

“Mhm?”

“I need my arm. I need to type.”

You and Mark were in your apartment, sprawled on the couch. Jimmy had left to grab lunch with Lois, both of them shooting you catty, knowing grins on the way out. You’d decided to stay behind, determined to get some actual work done.

Which would’ve been easier if Mark weren’t half on top of you, one arm wrapped around your waist and pinning your dominant arm to your side like he was trying to merge into your ribcage.

“The four of us agreed to get work done,” you reminded him, craning your neck to glare at the crown of his head.

“We are getting work done,” he mumbled, flipping another page in the book he'd been slowly parsing through for the past hour. “You’re thinking about writing. That counts.”

“No it doesn’t. I need my hand.”

“No you don’t. Just type with one.” He smirked and tightened his grip slightly. “You’re Superwoman. You can type fast enough with one.”

You gave an exasperated sigh, then wriggled your arm free despite his indignant whine. He shifted to lay more across your torso instead, clearly sulking, but still made no move to leave the couch.

“What’re you writing about?” he asked after a beat, finally looking up at you. His lashes were thick and his eyes soft. Not quite puppy dog eyes, more like a concerned hamster or a sad hedgehog.

You tried to keep your face neutral. It only half worked.

“Political corruption,” you said as you returned your fingers to the keys. “Lois is covering those Frankenstein rumors.”

“Frankenstein?” He blinked. “Like the monster?”

“I guess?” You shrugged, still half confused by Lois’s explanation. “Apparently there are families not getting the remains of soldiers back. Just nothing. It’s only started happening recently. People are saying the government’s been collecting them. Experimenting.”

Mark frowned, setting the book down on your knees and sitting up straighter. “That sounds really messed up. You think it’s real?”

“I don’t know. Lois thinks there’s something there. She’s deep-diving into it. She’s already three FOIA requests in and managed to get a source to call her back.”

“That’s basically confirmation,” he muttered.

“Not exactly,” you said, clicking a few tabs closed. “But it’s smoke. Where there’s smoke—”

“—There’s a conspiracy,” he finished with a small smile.

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Pretty much.”

He tilted his head, leaning against the couch cushion to get a better look at your screen. “And what about your piece?”

“Local rot,” you said. “Fake charities funneling campaign money. Politicians pocketing money from state construction companies. Big-city grime that never gets a 

spotlight. But if I put one on it...”

“Someone’ll care.”

You nodded. “Hopefully.”

Mark nodded along, then glanced down at his book, one of his dad’s ‘sci-fi’ books. He’d been trying to make sense of them lately. Every few pages, he looked more and more conflicted.

“I keep reading these and trying to figure out what’s real,” he said. “He makes himself look like a hero, but sometimes there’s these slips.”

You paused your typing. “What kind of slips?”

He flipped to a dog-eared page and held it up. “This one, he talks about grieving a comrade. But he doesn’t describe them, not as a person. Just their usefulness.”

You stared at the page, then back at him. “He didn’t think of people as people.”

“Not even other Viltrumites, sometimes…” Mark said.

The room went quiet for a long moment. You closed your laptop slightly, giving him more of your attention.

Mark leaned back into you again. His head found its way to your shoulder, and you let it rest there, your hand brushing lightly through his hair.

“You know,” he murmured, “I hope they weren’t like yours.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your people. The planet. I hope they weren’t like my dad’s.”

You were quiet for a second, then smiled a little for him. “It’s gone. Whatever it was, whoever they were… they don’t define me.”

“Still. I hope they were better.”

You nudged his temple gently with your own.

Mark’s shoulders relaxed against you, and for a while, the only sound was the soft ticking of your apartment clock and the hum of traffic far below.

“…Still think you need a mask when you’re out, though,” he added suddenly.

You snorted.

“Lenses for the wind,” he offered, voice teasing.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Never,” he said with a grin, tilting his head up to look at you again. “I’m going to win this one, eventually.”

You hummed noncommittally and leaned over to press your forehead, then your lips against the top of his head.

Mark jolted then froze like a man struck by a lightning, just for a second, before he visibly melted into you.

You didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the afternoon. Even when Jimmy and Lois burst through the door with armfuls of takeout.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Tag!”

Oliver chimed as he slapped Mark square on the back and took off running again. Mark groaned dramatically, slowing to a stop and watching his little brother dart across the yard like a greased-up lightning bolt.

“You’re bad at this!” Oliver yelled over his shoulder, clearly delighted with himself.

You stood by the back door, two plastic water bottles in hand. The afternoon sun was high and bright, the kind of sticky summer heat that clung to everything and made even the grass feel like it was sweating.

Miss Debbie was out, Mark hadn’t said much about it, just that she had errands and he was on Oliver duty. He’d asked if you’d come help, claiming he needed “extra hands,” but judging by the way he kept smiling whenever you handed him something or sat close, you were pretty sure this was less about supervision and more about spending time with you.

Not that you were complaining.

Currently, they were on round fifty-seven of a game that was somewhere between tag and capture the flag but involved absolutely no flags and wildly inconsistent rules. You weren’t sure how it was scored. If it even could be scored.

You could see Mark slowing down, not from lack of enthusiasm, but from sheer heat. He looked about one more lap around the yard away from face-planting into the lawn.

“Isn’t there a game where I can just lay down on the floor?” he groaned as he jogged over to you and reaching for the water bottle you held out.

“Mark Grayson, ladies and gentlemen,” you teased, “Protector of Earth, defeated by a seven-year-old.”

Mark uncapped the bottle, but before drinking he pressed it to his forehead with a relieved sigh, as if this plastic cylinder of lukewarm water had saved his life. You handed the second bottle to Oliver, who barely took a sip before shouting like he’d had an epiphany, “Hospital!”

Mark blinked at you like you might have the answer. You just shrugged and echoed cheerfully, “Hospital, Mark.”

“Okay, I don’t know what that means, but it sounds like a trap,” he muttered.

Oliver was already rushing away, motioning dramatically. “You have to come with me! You’re hurt, you broke your leg!”

“I—what?” Mark blinked down at him. “When?”

“Ten seconds ago! When I tagged you!” Oliver gestured wildly to the grass, where a stick now lay, apparently marking the site of the imaginary injury. “You fell and then you broke your leg and now you need surgery!”

“I didn’t fall, you didn’t make me fall!”

“That’s not my job!” Oliver insisted. “I’m the doctor, not gravity!”

You snorted into your bottle, and Mark sent you a flat look over his shoulder.

“Oh, come on,” you said, “go get fixed, mister.”

“I don’t know why I brought with you,” he mumbled as Oliver grabbed his hand and started tugging him toward the plastic patio chairs, one of which had now been converted into an imaginary hospital bed.

“Because you like me,” you called sweetly.

“Unfortunately.”

You grinned and sat down in the grass, watching Oliver poke and prod at Mark’s leg with a plastic ruler he’d ran inside and pulled from his school supplies, as well as an armful of other ‘supplies’.

“This might hurt a lot,” Oliver warned seriously.

Mark visibly braced himself, as if he was expecting Oliver to just start hitting him with the ruler. “Awesome.”

“Wait,” Oliver said, squinting at the ‘injury’. “There’s a bug in there.”

“A bug?” Mark echoed.

“Yeah. It’s why your leg broke.”

You bit your lip to stop from laughing.

“Oh, okay, so now I’ve got bug bones,” Mark muttered.

“I’m afraid it’s common for heroes with goggles.” You piped in, unhelpfully. “Bugs get confused and think you’re one of their own.”

Oliver gave him a proud pat on the knee. “Don’t worry. We’ll fix your leg.”

He proceeded to slap a random assortment of cartoon Band-Aids onto Mark’s pants, then held up a juice box like a serum.

“Drink this. It’s my special formula.”

Mark took the juice box with solemn acceptance. “I’m healed.”

“Good.” Oliver turned toward you. “He has to rest for six hours.”

“Oh no,” you said, pretending to be shocked. “He’ll have to stay inside in the AC and eat snacks.”

“The horror,” Mark added flatly.

Oliver turned back to him. “But you still have to play again later. Because I’m winning.”

“I don’t even know how you score this game!” Mark cried, waving his hands in frustration.

Oliver pointed a finger squarely at his own chest. “I make the rules. Big brothers can’t win.”

You burst into laughter.

As Mark groaned and sunk back into the lawn chair, you stood and walked over, brushing your fingers through his hair as you leaned down to press a quick kiss to his forehead. He looked up at you, and even through his mock suffering, you could see the spark in his eyes.

“Alright, inside you two, I’ll even turn some juice boxes into icicles to cool off.” You offered as you stood straight and walked inside.

Oliver yelling as he sprints after you, “Icicles!”

Mark simply let out a tired huff of laughter as he pushes off the deck chair and follows the two of you back inside.

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Thanks for coming,” you said, slinging your arm out. The disk of metal scrap went soaring across the open field like a shot, and not even a second later, a white blur launched after it, your new dog tearing through the air like a comet. “It means a lot to us.”

“Of course,” Mark replied, standing comfortably at your side. He chuckled as Krypto skidded to a halt, proudly returning with the flattened piece of scrap hanging from his jaws. “You’ve had dinner with me and Mom tons of times. It’s about time I met yours.”

“I know,” you said, brushing your hair back as Krypto dropped the disk and immediately sat down, tail wagging. “But we both lived in the city. Smallville’s a good bit away. So, thanks.”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at you with that half-lidded fondness that made your stomach flip. Then he turned and whipped the disk back into the sky. Krypto yipped and bolted after it again, leaping over a fence post eagerly.

“You nervous?” he asked gently, his eyes still on the dog but his voice focused entirely on you.

You took a breath. “A little. I mean, they’ve met you before. Just not like this.”

“Like my shirt’s tucked in?”

You snorted. “No, like— like my boyfriend.”

Mark blinked once, then turned fully toward you, a smile breaking across his face. “I mean, I’ve been calling you my girlfriend for a while now.”

“I know.” You nudged his shoulder. “But it’s still different when it’s Pa asking you questions about your intentions while busting out his old shotgun.”

Mark paled slightly. “Wait. He’s not actually going to—“

“No, God no,” you laughed, “but you believed me for a second.”

“I did. I really did.”

Before you could keep teasing him, the sound of screen door hinges creaked behind you.

“Dinner’s ready!” your Ma called from 

the porch, waving a towel in one hand.

Krypto was already sprinting back with the disk when she spotted him. And she smiled and waved at him too. Ma and Pa had been taking care of him since Jimmy told you that the apartment was not pet-friendly, much to your despair.

“He’s housebroken, right?” You asked lightly.

“We’re still figuring that part out,” She admitted.

Mark leaned in. “That’s a no.”

“Shut up,” you hissed, trying not to laugh as you followed Krypto and Mark back up to the porch.

Inside, the house smelled like warm bread, roasted vegetables, and something sweet baking in the oven. You’d never realized how deeply comforting the scent of home could be until you’d been away long enough to miss it. It wrapped around you like a blanket the second you stepped in.

Your Pa was setting plates down on the table when you entered. He looked up, nodded once at Mark.

“Evenin’,” he said simply, but you could hear the difference in how he normally greeting Mark. This one was harsher in a way.

“Thanks for having me,” Mark said, standing straighter.

“Thanks for giving us a heads up so we make enough food this time,” Pa replied without missing a beat. Then he cracked a small grin.

Mark flushed. You nearly choked on your own laugh.

“Pa,” you muttered.

He shrugged. “Just saying.”

Dinner was lively. Krypto sat obediently near the kitchen door, occasionally thumping his tail on the floor when food was passed around. Mark, bless him, did his best to eat slow and act like he hadn’t been struggling to even stay in college. Your Ma asked him about school, what he had planned to do. Pa asked about your work.

The normalcy of it all made your chest ache.

At one point, you looked up and found your mother watching you. Her eyes softened when you met them.

You smiled shyly and took another bite of cornbread.

After dinner, while Ma packed up leftovers and Pa headed out to check the well pump, you and Mark stepped out to the porch again. The sun was dipping low, the sky turning the same soft pink and gold you remembered from childhood.

Krypto was curled near the porch swing, belly exposed to the cooling air, twitching slightly in his sleep like he was chasing something in a dream.

Mark leaned against the railing, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket.

“They love you,” you said after a beat, your voice soft.

“You think so?”

“I know so. Ma gave you second helpings without even asking, and Pa didn’t re-interrogate you.”

“He did ask if I knew how to fix a tractor.”

You shrugged. “That’s practically a welcome into the family. Next time you come over he’ll let you help him with the fencing.”

Mark smiled faintly, his eyes scanning the horizon. “I can see why you are the way you are. Not just your folks. It’s quiet out here. It’s nice.”

You leaned into his side, your arms brushing, the wood creaking under your combined weight. “It was a good place to grow up. It still is.”

He was quiet for a moment. The cicadas buzzed lazily in the distance, and the last bit of sunlight painted everything gold. Krypto huffed again and rolled over, tail flicking.

“You miss it?” Mark asked finally.

You didn’t answer at first. The question settled somewhere heavy in your chest.

“All the time,” you admitted. “I miss Smallville, the farm, my parents… The city just doesn’t have what we have here. The air smells different. You can see the stars and the horizon. People wave when they drive by.”

Mark reached out and took your hand, gently threading his fingers through yours.

“Really?” he asked, tone soft, but incredibly teasing.

You glanced down at your hands before smiling up at him. “That, and the city couldn’t put together a good fairground even if they tried. Funnel cake, rigged games, pie-eating contests, a barely put together ferris wheel, they don’t get it.”

“Well,” he said, raising a brow, “you’ll just need to take me to the next one, won’t you?”

“You bet I’m taking you. The city has nothing on a Smallville fair weekend. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen the lights of them at night.”

Mark let out a low, amused laugh and shook his head. He pushed off the railing, stretching slightly as he started down the porch steps. “You ready to head out?”

You hesitated, rubbing the back of your neck with a sheepish smile. “Actually… I’m staying the night. My folks still get worried if I’m flying after dark. Some habits die hard.”

Mark turned halfway back toward you, a slow grin spreading across his face. His eyes sparkled with something that gave you butterflies, and also made you want to flick him right in the forehead.

“So,” he said, dragging out the syllable, “if I wanted to stay the night too…”

You crossed your arms, giving him a flat look. “You’d be on the couch. Or in the barn.”

“Barn, huh?” He tapped his chin like he was weighing the options. “Hayloft’s not bad. Pretty private. Romantic.”

You snorted. “I promise you, it’s not.”

“It could be. If you’re there,” he said smoothly, stepping back onto the porch and wrapping an arm around your waist.

You rolled your eyes but didn’t pull away. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m charming.”

“You’re trying to be charming.”

“Is it working?” He winked.

You opened your mouth to argue but he leaned in, brushing his lips just barely against your temple. The softest touch. Not quite a kiss, but enough to stall your breath and freeze the words on your tongue.

Suddenly, every sense went haywire. You could feel the warmth of his skin, hear the soft rustle of cornfields beyond the fence line and, unfortunately, your super hearing decided to kick in just in time to register your parents’ conversation inside the house. Something about dessert. Your mom’s asking if there’s still whipped cream in the fridge.

Not exactly the best romantic ambiance.

You exhaled against his shoulder, forehead resting there as you smiled despite yourself. “Maybe not here. Not with my parents twenty-five feet away.”

Mark’s breath caught just slightly, then he gave a quiet laugh, warm against your hair. “Got it. No seduction in radius of parents.”

“You say that like you’re disappointed.”

“Oh, I’m very disappointed,” he admitted easily, eyes sparkling. “But I get it. See how healthy and well-adjusted I am?”

You leaned back enough to look at him fully, your hands sliding down to rest at his hips.

“Come on,” you said, looping your fingers through his belt loops and tugging him gently back toward the porch door. “You’ve earned some pie before you leave for the night.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

“Okay, give me the sheet,” Mark said, holding out his hand expectantly.

You groaned and flopped dramatically over the back of the couch, but still handed it over. “You’re not even subtle about enjoying this.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replied, cheerfully ignoring the noise you made as he took the cheat sheet. “I’m just being a supportive boyfriend. Helping you study. Being helpful.”

You shot him a glare as he turned slightly, hunched over the notebook like a goblin crafting riddles. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. Just a goblin with excellent bone structure. And muscles. And way too soft looking hair.

You’d always been good at languages when they were living, breathing things, things you could hear, mimic, practice in class or on the street. But this wasn’t like that. It wasn’t Latin, it wasn’t French. It wasn’t even fucking Klingon.

It was dead. And not just dead, completely extinct.

The alphabet was beautiful and maddening, full of glyphs and curves that your brain still tried to match to Earth sounds, even though it wasn’t made for someone who was raised on the Latin alphabet. And without anyone who actually spoke it, or knew the cadence, or pronunciation, or even grammar rules, you were working with a cipher and a prayer.

So you’d been going slow. Memorizing letters. Trying to figure out context. And having Mark write random, simple sentences for you to translate to keep your brain flexible.

But this one?

You stared at the paper, squinting like maybe that would help. “Mark, what is that?”

“Hmm?”

You pointed at the sentence. “Mark. This is anything but simple. What am I reading?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said innocently, holding the notebook just out of reach. “Just gotta read it out loud. Maybe it’ll make more sense that way.”

You gave him a flat look. “Mark.”

He wiggled the notebook encouragingly. “Go on. Out loud. You got it.”

You sighed, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

You sounded it out carefully. Translating the alphabet to English then speaking it aloud. It took effort, but you managed to string the sentence together from the strange alphabet.

And then you blinked.

“…Did you seriously write ‘Your boyfriend is incredibly handsome and you should kiss him immediately’ in my dead language?”

Mark grinned over the top of the notebook, smug and pleased with himself. “Took me like fifteen minutes to figure out how to spell that in your alphabet.”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it one-handed, still smug. “Didn’t say no, though.”

“I said this was a study session.”

“Hey, emotional support is part of the learning process,” he said, scooting closer on the couch. “What if I’m the reward system? You get through a whole page of translations, you get a kiss.”

“Mark,” you groaned, trying and failing to push his face away. He was entirely too close and entirely too pleased with himself.

“I’m just trying to make this educational,” he whispered.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stalling.”

You huffed, but your lips twitched into a reluctant smile. Because, of course, he was right. He usually was when it came to reading you.

You settled back onto the couch with your notes, and he shifted to sit beside you instead of hovering. One leg tucked under him, the other stretched out, knee brushing against yours.

“Alright,” you muttered, flipping to the next practice page. “But no more complicated sentences, please?”

“No promises.”

You side-eyed him, and he held up a hand in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. Only mildly interesting ones.”

“Mark.”

“Educationally suggestive.”

“You’re gonna get smacked.”

“Worth it.”

You ended up getting through two more pages of translation before your head started to ache. The characters swam slightly on the page and your brain refused to connect any more dots, especially as you hit another cluster of runes that seemed like they should mean ‘apple’ but instead translated to ‘water’.

“Okay,” you exhaled, rubbing your eyes, “that’s enough. I can feel my frontal lobe melting.”

Mark closed the notebook for you and tugged it out of your hands, placing it gently on the coffee table. “Then I’m invoking boyfriend privileges.”

You raised a brow. “Which are?”

“This.” He pulled you gently into his side, arm snug around your shoulders as you curled into him without complaint.

The apartment was quiet for a long moment. The hum of the AC. The low rumble of city life outside. The sound of your breathing slowly matching his.

“…Thank you,” you said softly, eyes still closed.

Mark tilted his head slightly. “For what?”

“For making the impossible feel possible.”

He smiled. Kissed the top of your head.

“I told you,” he murmured. “I’m very helpful.”

𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒

You took a deep breath in.

Then out.

The breath fogged in front of your face, curling in the cold air like smoke. You didn't bother to shiver. You weren’t too used to this place yet, and honestly, you weren’t even sure if you could feel the cold.

The Fortress was still and quiet, eerily so, despite the crystals humming faintly around you. A chorus of resonance that never quite settled into silence.

You stood alone in the center of the chamber, surrounded by glowing pillars of alien architecture. The crystals from Krypto’s pod, your own, and the translation crystal were all in their places. The light was dim but shifting, casting long reflections on the crystal floor like ripples on water.

It had been a week.

A week of going to work. Of patrols. Of dinners with Jimmy, of coffee and lunches with Mark, a weekend of flying Krypto over farmland in the early hours before the rest of world stirred. You’d clung to that like a security blanket.

But now? Now you were ready to face it.

To face him.

You crossed the threshold into the central chamber and activated the recording again.

The crystal glowed, brighter this time, as if it recognized you more completely. It flickered to life with a low hum and a beam of light, then he appeared.

The man who looked a little too much like you.

Your biological father.

He began speaking in Kryptonian, and the translation crystal hanging at your neck pulsed, syncing with the language. Words scrolled at the edge of your vision, projected through a soft blue light that hovered just above your gaze.

“To my daughter, Kala-El—”

Your breath caught again, but you didn’t interrupt the message. You don’t think you could speak to it, if you tried. Not with the thick lump in your throat.

“If you are seeing this, then I am gone. Krypton is gone. Our home, our people… everything we knew.”

The message continued. His voice was even, measured. A scientist through and through. He explained what had happened: the environmental collapse, the many warnings unheeded by Krypton’s leadership, the urgency of saving what could be saved.

You listened. You watched. You read.

“We had no choice but to send you away. There was no time. The calculations showed a slim but possible chance of survival in an inhabitable galaxy many systems away. We built the vessel for you. We hoped it would be enough.”

He paused, his projection, at least. The image flickered like it was buffering pain, or maybe something heavier that couldn’t be fully translated.

“Your mother and I... we stayed behind. Someone had to make sure the launch succeeded. Someone had to give you a future.”

Your fingers curled tightly into your sleeves.

“Kala, if you are anything like your mother… you will be strong. Not just in body, but in heart. She is the bravest person I ever knew.”

There was a long pause. The hologram looked away, briefly, toward some unseen horizon. A flicker of emotion passed across his face, not rehearsed, not programmed. It was the first moment he didn’t seem like a memory.

He seemed like your father.

“You may feel alone, but you are not. Not only physically, as we’ve been sure to send escape ships ahead of yours in preparation and for your protection. Krypto has always been protective of you. But, Kala, you are our legacy. Our hope. You carry the strength of our world in your bones, and the kindness of our house in your heart.”

You wiped your cheek with the back of your hand. You hadn’t realized the tears had come.

The hologram raised its hand, and with it, a floating crystal detached from the surrounding wall. It hovered toward you slowly, its facets glinting like a star in motion. You reached out, fingers brushing over it, and suddenly images flooded your vision.

Not words. Not captions.

Memories.

A woman smiling, dark-haired and fierce-eyed, your mother. The view from Krypton’s towers, golden cities sprawling into pale violet skies. The feel of hands holding you, small and safe. A lullaby in a language you slowly began to understand but felt strongly in your bones.

The crystal pulsed once and dimmed, returning to its dormant state. The image of your father began to fade too, his final words, in the language you suddenly understood, echoing in the stillness.

“You are more than Kryptonian. You are yours. Whatever path you choose, I hope it brings you peace, my daughter.”

Then silence.

You let it settle. Let the quiet become part of you. It wasn’t a clean resolution. It wasn’t closure in the way people always made it sound. But it was the truth.

It was history.

You sat down slowly, cross-legged on the floor, the crystal still cradled in your hands.

Kala-El.

The name sat heavy and strange on your tongue, like it didn’t quite belong to you yet.

But no matter how you felt about it, it was yours.

T A G L I S T:

@mightymeick , @dandelion-delusion

[awearywritersworld]

i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend

sukuna x reader summary: you persuade sukuna to play go fish. the two of you have a small disagreement (he really can't stay mad at you). he confides in you about his past as a sorcerer. w/c: 3.4k tags/warnings: the teeniest bit of angst. mostly fluff. banter. cursing. aged up!yuuji. slight yuuji x reader. not canon compliant. fem!reader. no use of y/n. no manga spoilers. a/n: the first section could be read as a brief(ish) stand alone. and for context, the world's shortest frankenstein synopsis: victor frankenstein brings a creature to life using dead body parts and thrusts him into a world he doesn't understand, then promptly abandons him and wishes him dead. alone and regarded as repulsive by every human he comes across, the creature begs frankenstein to create a wife for him too. when frankenstein refuses, the creature is further driven to hatred and violence. series masterlist // masterlist

"we should play a card game!" you exclaim as if you've just had the world's greatest idea.

"i'll pass."

sukuna sounds listless, like it's quite possibly the worst proposition he's ever heard.

"why's that? scared i'll beat you?"

"i'm opposed to mind numbing boredom, more like."

"you really need to expand your horizons," you suggest, making your way over to where you keep your playing cards. "all you do is read and brood."

"it's gotten me this far."

you don't respond, too busy rifling through your bookshelf. just as you spot your cards, a book catches your eye and you pull it from its place.

making your way back over to him, you drop it in his lap. "since you found jane eyre so insufferable, here's one you might actually like."

he surveys the cover, which reads: frankenstein or the modern prometheus

you take a seat across from him at the kotatsu table and shuffle the deck, while sukuna flips through the pages with new found intrigue.

"what's it about?"

"the dangers of playing god. should be right up your alley."

"your subtly never ceases to amaze."

"i'm just kidding." you laugh. "there's a lot more to it than that— revenge, loneliness, personal responsibility..."

he turns the book over. "it's written by a woman?"

you raise your eyebrows at him. "what, you don't think women have enough depth to write about those kinds of topics?"

"no, it was just an observation," he says off handedly. "you are evidence enough to the contrary."

he doesn't say it as a compliment, more so as a statement of fact. you hope your astonishment isn't written all over your face.

clearing your throat, you begin dealing while explaining the rules to him.

he takes up his cards and seems to understand the game after only a turn or two, but you're narrowing your eyes at him soon thereafter.

"go fish," he says for the fourth time in a row.

your gaze shifts down to his hands. there's just no way. "show me your cards."

"wouldn't that defeat the purpose of this stupid game?"

"not if you're cheating, now let me see."

"no."

you reach across the table, hoping to snatch them from his grasp, but he just holds them out of your reach.

swiftly rising to your feet, you launch yourself at him in a sad attempt to catch him off guard.

with only one arm extended, he easily fends off your attack. "do you actually think you have a chance here?"

you sink to your knees in defeat and sit with your legs folded beneath you. "not really, but i have to know if you'd stoop this low."

"that so? had you believed me to be above cheating?"

you gasp. "so you admit it?"

"i told you i didn't want to play," he deadpans.

"that doesn't mean you had to cheat! now we have to start over!"

he carelessly tosses the cards onto the table. "i don't think so."

"please?" you lean forward, jutting out your bottom lip.

he just stares at you with an air of disinterest.

sukuna can be so haughty sometimes, and frankly, it drives you a little crazy. you'd give anything to wipe that look from his face— to prove that he doesn't find this as miserable as he lets on.

leaning forward even further, your hands meet with the carpet to support your shifting weight. now he's watching intently as your face approaches his, your eyes flicking down to his lips.

unbeknownst to you, sukuna's breath catches in his throat once he sees your gaze shift, though his mind struggles to catch up. it happens so fast that he hardly registers the quick peck you place on his lips (though maybe it's not the speed of the occurrence, so much as his shock).

"please?" you repeat.

he looks off to the side and stays silent, though his demeanor is indicative of some heated internal debate.

sukuna can't let you win, not that easily. you'd be under the impression that you actually have power over him! and for what? some measly kiss?

no, he simply will not allow that. "i already told you—"

grabbing him by the chin, you cut off his words with another kiss, but this time it lasts a few beats longer. your lips don't move against his, they just linger there in a way that that makes him question whether all of the oxygen has vanished from the room.

when you pull away, you're looking at him expectantly with the same pout still playing on your lips.

"fine!" he barks, grumbling something afterwards that sounds a lot like "evil little minx."

"human earthworm two is definitely still the best."

you're walking home with yuuji after a late night showing of the newest movie in the series.

"no way," you contend. "this one was even better."

he gawks at you. "in no world is the seventh film in an anthology the best! you're crazy—"

sukuna's mouth appears, always eager for a chance to undermine his vessel. "she's right, brat."

yuuji can't believe his ears. "what?! you haven't even seen it!"

"i don't know," you interject slyly. "i'm willing to look past that. it really seems like he knows what he's talking about."

"you mean the guy who's existence predates cinema?" yuuji asks, his eyebrows furrowing as a thought occurs to him. "what'd you do all day anyway? watch plays?"

"..among other things, yes." sukuna answers.

"if you look at it logically," you reason, "we probably wouldn't have movies without theater, so we should definitely consider him an expert in this case."

"oh please, baby. when the topic is ancient civilization or being a homicidal maniac, i'll be sure to solicit his opinion then."

"i resent that," sukuna declares, his conviction forcing a giggle from your lips.

"why?" you question. "was it the part where he called you old as shit, or the part where he called you a murderous lunatic?"

yuuji brings a hand to his mouth to stifle a snort, but you're freely laughing now.

sukuna scoffs indignantly and bites back a comment about how partial you seem to be toward said lunatic. "and to think i defended your opinion."

his response has you clutching at your sides and struggling to see through teary eyes.

but perhaps karma is real, because not a moment later, you step off the curb in a way that sends a sharp sensation through your leg.

you gasp in pain and brace yourself for the impact of falling to the concrete, but it never comes. instead, you're left with fingers clamped tightly around your wrist and a strange sense of deja vu.

you turn your head just before the dark lines fade from yuuji's arm completely.

"tch, watch where you're going idiot," sukuna scolds, his mouth disappearing as soon as he finishes speaking.

"are you okay?" yuuji asks worriedly.

"absolutely," you claim, but when you try to put weight on your left foot, you let out a hiss.

yuuji's hands find your waist, hoping to keep you steady. before you know it, he's crouching in front of you with his back turned and beckoning you to wrap your arms around his neck.

once you do, he hooks his arms under your thighs and easily stands up. "this okay? you comfy?"

"yeah. i can't believe i just did that." you hide your face in the space where his neck meets his shoulder. "thanks, yu."

when you get home, yuuji sets you up on the couch with icepacks, heating pads, three different drinks, two different books, and the tv remote.

he still asks if you have everything you need several times, then kisses you sweetly before heading to bed.

around thirty minutes later, sukuna's leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.

"hey," you greet. your eyes never leave the tv, as you're privy to the slight tension between the both of you.

he skips the evening's pleasantries. "i could heal it, you know."

you finally turn to face him. "really?"

"of course." he rolls his eyes. "some of us can actually use reverse cursed technique."

"and you've just let me hobble around the past hour anyway?"

he shrugs. "you pissed me off."

you blink at him a few times, rubbing at your temples. "well what about now?"

"i don't know," he begins, making his way over to you. he towers over where you're seated on the couch, so you have to crane your neck to look up at him. "just doesn't really seem like something a homicidal maniac would do, but maybe if he were to receive an apology..."

you cover your face with your hands and groan. "i didn't say that. this is really something you should take up with yuuji—"

"i don't make a habit of conversing with the brat, so if that's the way you're going to be..." he turns on his heel and starts for the bedroom, but you grab onto his sleeve just before he's out of reach.

"wait. please don't go."

just like that, your words have his resolve crumbling and any of his lingering irritation ebbs away. he urges himself to stay strong though, especially after the go fish debacle.

when he doesn't speak, you let out a breath.

"i'm sorry, sukuna." he can tell right away that you're being entirely sincere. "i would never purposefully hurt your feelings. i only meant to tease you, but i can see how i was being mean."

are those... are those tears swimming in your eyes? are you in that much pain, or did he just make you feel that badly? in any case, he endeavors to remedy it immediately.

moving around the couch until he's in front of you, sukuna kneels between your legs. he grabs your left foot gingerly, situating it on his thigh before hovering his hand over top of it.

he sighs. "i don't care if you tease me and you weren't being.. mean." the words sounds so juvenile to him.

you weren't necessarily wrong either, goes unsaid.

well, he'd like to consider himself a little more sophisticated than 'maniac' would imply, but that's beside the point.

"then why are you upset with me?"

his jaw flexes as he tries to find the right words. "i would prefer you do that when it's just.. us."

"oh." realization dawns on you, as does another heap of guilt. you know he despises being trapped in yuuji's body, and you completely failed to consider how ganging up on him might make him feel. "i'm... fuck. i'm really sorry, sukuna—"

"stop apologizing," he urges you in a low voice. it's partly because what he just said makes him feel pathetic, but more than that, it's because the look of self reproach you're wearing is akin to a thousand needles in his chest. "it's fine."

he can't believe you're sitting there with so much remorse over a man like him because you... what? wounded his pride?

he probably deserves it anyway.

why should you give a shit when he's done things a thousand times worse, a million different times?

oh, right. because you care about him.

you can't see the cursed energy at play, but you can tell it's working as your pain begins to dissipate.

once he's finished, he carefully moves your foot to the floor and looks up at you. it's not unlike the way a person might gaze at one of the wonders of the world, like they're lucky to be there in the first place.

with the intensity of his gaze, it feels like he can see right into your head— read your every thought and pick apart every emotion. has anyone ever looked at you like that before? you're having a hard time remembering. you're having a hard time thinking of anything at all, really.

so it goes without saying that you don't think about it when you lean forward and kiss him.

it's not at all like when you were trying to convince him to play cards. no, this isn't light hearted or frivolous.

and it's not like the other two kisses you've shared either. it isn't heated or desperate, nor does it leave you gasping for air.

it's tender. it's so fucking tender, in fact, that sukuna wonders whether he's going to crumble beneath your touch.

he grips the area just above your knees, as if needing something to tether himself to before he withers away completely.

his lips move with yours in a way that's slow and careful.

your hands are on either side of his face, ghosting over his skin as a testament to your hesitance— like you're not certain if this is something he would want.

he wonders how in the world you could ever second guess yourself.

when you pull back, you examine his face for a moment before a small, shy smile tugs at your lips and you murmur, "thanks 'kuna."

he just peers at you wordlessly and it makes you nervous, so you attempt to fill the silence. "it feels so much better. a-and i'm sorry again abo—"

his hand finds the back of your neck, pulling your lips against his for a moment longer. "don't mention it, angel."

ever since you gave sukuna your copy of frankenstein, he's spent a decent portion of your nights together reading, his brows drawn together in concentration.

upon finishing, he stares at the page after taking in the final line: "he was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance."

he's deathly quiet and wearing some unreadable expression. his eyes seem far off.

you leave him be for a little while, as it's clear he's lost in thought, but eventually you grow a bit concerned. it's been nearly half an hour since he last moved.

"sukuna?"

he turns to you. "why did you think i would enjoy this particular book?"

you consider his question carefully, his mood evoking your own seriousness. "it's... elegant and tragic. i suppose i appreciate the moral grayness of it. why do you ask?"

"no reason."

"did you enjoy it?"

"yes."

"why?"

he ignores your question. "frankenstein— do you like his character?"

you can't help but feel like you're answering some sort of riddle. "i think he's foolish and arrogant, but i guess i pity him to some degree."

"and the creature?"

"i'm much more sympathetic toward him. he's very... complex and certainly less culpable for the events of the novel than his creator."

you're surprised when he laughs. "of course you would think that way."

and with that, he's flipping through the pages of the novel. you move to sit beside him and once he finds what he's looking for near the middle, he begins reading:

"remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my height is superior to thine, my joints more supple. but i will not be tempted to set myself in opposition to thee. i am thy creature, and i will be even mild and docile to my natural lord and king if thou wilt also perform thy part, the which thou owest me. oh, frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. remember that i am thy creature; i ought to be thy adam, but i am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. everywhere i see bliss, from which i alone am irrevocably excluded. i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. make me happy, and i shall again be virtuous.”

his voice is strangely even, almost bordering on robotic. you're struck with the notion that he's attempting (with rare difficulty) to mask his emotions.

you regard him quizzically and wait for him to speak. the last thing you expect to hear tumbles from his lips.

"you know they called me the disgraced one?" you nod. "do you know why?"

"i know the story that sorcerers have passed down."

he hums. leaning back into the couch, he looks fixedly at the ceiling before continuing. "i was just a boy when i was orphaned and no one knew anything about my heritage, including me. jujutsu society took me in and raised me as a sorcerer."

"and you didn't care for it?"

"oh, quite the opposite. i reveled in it. my strength was unprecedented, that much was clear from the start. i surpassed my teachers with ease, and eventually, i took to training alone— reading primitive texts and honing skills that they couldn't teach me."

your hand finds his thigh, hoping to offer him some consolation before beckoning him to continue. "then what happened?"

"the men who had been my teachers, who had been the only.. family i'd ever known.. they scorned me. deemed me reckless and dangerous to jujutsu society. plotted my demise."

your voice is small when you ask, "were they right?"

he wants to hate the question— wants to hate you for asking it— but he knows that it's warranted.

"no. i admit i was forward thinking and a bit.. unorthodox, but i wasn't..."

"what they thought you were?" you offer gently.

he nods. "not until they made me that way— not until they abandoned me and backed me into a corner like some animal."

you struggle to find the right thing to say, if any such thing even exists. you're amazed that he's confiding in you, and while it makes your heart swell, you really don't want to fuck it up.

he looks back down at the book, his eyes scanning the paragraph before repeating, "i was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend."

he says it as if he's coming to terms with the circumstances of his life for the very first time.

"the creature was remorseful at the end of the novel," you recall somewhat bravely. "are you?"

sukuna thinks for a great deal of time before replying. you wait patiently for him.

"no," he answers decidedly.

looking over at you for the first time since he began his story, he's relieved to find your face is free of rebuke. instead, there's a warm willingness to understand him. a sadness because of the way he was alienated.

he's curious whether anyone would be able to read the sentiment on your face, or if he just knows you better than most.

is that a privilege he's worthy of? he doubts it.

"you didn't deserve what they did to you," you whisper, reaching up to rake your fingers through his hair, nails grazing his scalp before your palm rests against his temple.

his head leans almost imperceptibly into your hand, and any regret or unease he may have felt at relaying his past to you disappears. watching a single tear slip down your cheek, he wipes it away with the pad of his thumb.

he means to say "don't cry. not for me," but the words die in his throat.

for once, your tears are for him rather than because of him and it's utterly riveting. the fact that someone like you would cry on his behalf seems to contradict every horrible thing he's ever been told about himself.

he could sit here and bask in the feeling forever— he's always known himself to be selfish after all. and you know it too, don't you?

his eyes flicker between each of yours, studying your face. "do you want to know why i don't regret the things i've done?"

you tilt your head to the side. "why?"

"because even if it's made me into a monster..."

for a moment, he contemplates not saying anything more. he considers forcing himself to pull away from your touch, even if it's the only comfort he's been given his entire life. he might still be able to salvage whatever tiny, laughable pieces remain of his pride—

"all of my actions have led me to you."

your eyes soften before you're wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing your body to his. he returns the gesture after a few seconds pass.

you know he's awful. you know he's cruel. you know that what he's been through doesn't excuse his actions. but still— you want so desperately to take away his pain. to make up for all the things in his past. to wipe the blood from his hands.

as you embrace such an incredibly complicated man (one who is infamous for unrivaled wickedness, yet has his face buried in your hair), you ponder the creature's plea: "make me happy, and i shall again be virtuous."

a/n 2: if you're still w me, thanks for reading!! i'm not sure how i feel abt this part, so feedback is both welcome and appreciated!! also, how do we like sukuna using angel?? in my head he picked it up from the "my good angel" line in jane eyre, so i hope it doesn't seem too unnatural. alsoooo, highly recommend frankenstein. it's one of my favorite books!! mary shelley popped off and literally created the entire genre of science fiction at 21! anyway, thanks for all the love yall, it means the world<3

taglist: @96jnie @ay0nha @sad-darksoul @bbysatoruuu @luciiferian @risuola @lirasmoon @disaster-rose @archivist-ghoul606 @creative1writings @sloppyzengarden @omismicrowave @cecesharktales @tanyeonn @hiqhkey @ruixrei @yellowsubiesdance @thefallofruins @anything-and-everything-here69 @emzalot @thepup356 @browneyedgirl22 @lantsovheiress // users in bold could not be tagged. if i forgot to tag anyone, my apologies!! just give me a heads up.

[burningcheese-merchant]

A Thought About Shadow Milk Cookie

I actually meant to make this post months ago, but I sort of let it fall to the wayside for the sake of other things. Now Blue Gatorade Cookie is coming out tomorrow and I'm like "ahhh shit I'm late" lol. Consider this a sequel/accompanying piece to the Burning Spice Cookie post

Shadow Milk always gave me a bit of the impression of being a Victor Frankenstein type. If you haven't read the book (please do, it's fantastic), then this quote sums up both the character, the story, and my perception of Shadow Milk pretty well:

"Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature will allow."

Knowledge is power. Knowledge is freedom. Equally so, perhaps even MORE so, knowledge is fun. It's fun to learn new things. And with all of this in mind, Shadow Milk did his best to pursue the knowledge he so championed, and share it with the world, whatever it was. You give a man a fish and he eats for a day; you teach a man to fish and he eats for a lifetime. So Shadow Milk made it his mission to teach all men to fish. To teach them to read, to cook, to sew. To teach them magic, to teach them science, to teach them whatever filled the gap between. Perhaps he even went so far as to become a close associate of a certain academy, if not outright being its founder (Blueberry Yogurt Academy theorists, where you at lol). Anything to achieve the ultimate goal of inspiring others to learn and thrive as he does.

But as I said, knowledge is fun. There doesn't necessarily need to be a reason for it. Maybe Shadow Milk never actually needed one; even if there was no one left to teach, he could always teach himself, for he was always his own greatest student. And so whenever he had time, he read every book he could get his hands on. Practiced every spell. Sang every song, recited every poem, memorized every bit of meaningless trivia. Anything and everything to feed his endless hunger for more knowledge. Because it was... fun. It was freeing, to have those little burdens of doubt lifted from his shoulders, however inconsequential they actually were. And - however much he was able to admit it, to himself or to others - it made him feel powerful.

Until he started learning things no one else had before. That no one else could. That no one else should.

Maybe he learned how to peek into people's minds, and saw exactly how vapid, selfish, stupid and cruel so many of us really are beneath the façades we wear. Maybe he uncovered secrets that accidentally tore apart families, scandals that threw governments into chaos, acts of betrayal that may have started wars. Maybe one day, he learned the ultimate truth of the world; who and what cookies were really supposed to be, and what their makers really thought of them. (Not too far off from White Lily, really.)

In his desperation for solutions as well as some semblance of self-comfort, Shadow Milk just kept on learning. Kept searching for answers. Kept acquiring more and more knowledge. Because it was all he ever knew how to do. It was all he believed himself to be good for. But it was never enough. Not only did he never truly find the answers he sought - whether it be because they never existed in the first place, or because whatever he found only made him ask even more questions than before - but he just kept going down more and more rabbit holes. And he couldn't stop himself-

No. That's not true. Of course he could. He just didn't want to. Because knowledge is power, and deep down inside, he was always power-hungry. And besides that, he was just so curious. Morbid curiosity can be a terrible sin. Perhaps a small part of him, one he never wanted to give credence to, relished in being smarter than everyone else. And maybe that same part of him was also hubristic enough to believe he could learn whatever he wanted to, whenever he wanted to, just because he could.

Perhaps Shadow Milk tried to sound the alarm, so to speak. Share those great and terrible truths he uncovered with the world. But nobody listened, no matter how much they believed in and respected him otherwise. Because the truth is stranger than fiction, more often than not, and there's only so much strangeness people can tolerate. Knowing this - knowing how foolish people can really be, how quick they are to shun the truth to protect their own feelings - he looked for another answer, like he always does. Shadow Milk always had a fondness for theatrics; he wasn't just a scholar, he was a poet, a playwright, an artist. And thus, it was with these talents and loves of his that he tried to teach people what he knew. He wrote stageplays that became famous. Fantasy novels that became bestsellers. Poems and essays that were read aloud in classrooms. Everything he could throw at the wall with as much panache as possible. Because that's who he is, and that's what people are more likely to listen to. People like bread and circuses, so he gave them a whole bakery and performed every circus act himself.

But it was never enough. Those threads of truth he so carefully wove into the tapestries of his work; no one felt them. Those easter eggs he hid; no one found them. Nobody ever saw what he saw, whether he snuck it into the picture or plastered it right in the center. And so Shadow Milk came to realize that no one ever actually wanted to know the truth, no one ever actually wanted to learn anything, no one ever actually valued knowledge. All people cared about was what they could personally gain from it and nothing more. No higher purpose of any kind. Just what conveniences and inconveniences them.

And what's the point in helping people like that? How do you teach the unteachable?

Shadow Milk likely became bitter (or sour, because lol milk). Maybe he slowly began turning truths against people. Hoarding people's secrets and spilling them randomly, just out of spite (and discreetly, because he wasn't looking to be caught, and nobody was smart enough to catch him anyway). Making puppets and plays depicting people at their absolute worst, and watching them all smile and clap because they fell for it. They fell for his jokes. For his ruse. They didn't notice he was mocking them without a shred of irony or remorse. The only art Shadow Milk became interested in after he succumbed to despair was telling cruel jokes at others' expense and painting pictures for all the Dorian Grays of the world so they can keep lying and pretending they're good and that they're worth something. Because lies are all people really want to hear, right? Because it makes them feel better about their miserable lives?

I'm sure Shadow Milk tried to turn back, even if only once, for just a minute. He's smart, he's wise, he knew what the end of that road looked like. Maybe he sat up all night just arguing with himself about it. About the nature of his work. The meaning of the knowledge he acquired. The meaning of knowledge itself. What was he doing this for, really? What has he EVER done this for? Was it really for others, or for himself? What if he gained all the knowledge in the universe, then what? What would he do after that? What if he did manage to convince people, what then? What if they panic? Turn on each other? Turn on him? Were they really better off not knowing?

Was he just slowly talking himself through that door until it was closed and locked? Did he do so knowingly? Did he delay the inevitable for... for what? Did he even know that?

All the knowledge in the world didn't save Shadow Milk from falling to darkness, nor did it save anyone from the chaos he chose to wreak afterwards. Maybe knowledge never saved anyone from anything. What is knowledge, anyway? What is truth? What is deceit? The more you know, the more you realize you don't know anything at all. Maybe truth and deceit are one and the same. Maybe reality is only what you perceive it to be. Maybe life is a joke. Maybe people should just have fun. Lie all you want. Tell truths just to drive wedges and shatter hopes and dreams. It doesn't matter. It's all the same. There's no way out.

TL;DR: Knowledge is power, but power corrupts. Perhaps not all truths are worth knowing, after all. Be careful with what you learn, and what you know. And be careful not to believe yourself to be smart enough to dictate what truth and lies and knowledge are to others, for no one truly is. That kind of hubris will only lead to disaster.

(I'm sorry if some of this sounds weird or doesn't make full sense. I wanted to get my thoughts out before the update to see if it turns out that anything I say has official merit lol)

[rollinouttahere-writes]

Yandere Frankenstein's Creature Zoro x blind baker reader

The amount of yearning in my heart while writing this was unreal. Oh, to be a humble baker in a cozy cottage with a misunderstood monster husband. I will probably come back to this to add more later.

Blind Faith

Frankenstein's Creature Zoro x Blind GN Reader

6k words

Summary: Life as a lone baker is difficult, but you luck out one morning when a stranger offers to do some work for you in exchange for food. Set in 1820's America.

Warnings: yandere if you squint but Zoro is subtle so it largely flies under the radar from reader's perspective, mentions of serious illness and death common to the era

Like many mornings, the sensation of sunlight filtering in through the windows and warming your face was what stirred you from your sleep. For a moment, you bask in the warmth of it while nestling deeper into your quilts as the crisp autumn air nips at your nose. You take a deep breath, then force yourself to rise from your bed. If you were going to get anything accomplished today, you needed to get up and get the fire going in the beehive oven outside now.

Before even attempting to get yourself readied for the day, you trudge outside to start the fire. Wind blows through your hair and whips at your clothes. It’s got some force behind it, but not to the point of being a hindrance. The path to the oven has long since been memorized, and your hand instinctively reaches for where the handle to the iron door is and pulls it open. You stick your hand in, and you’re happy to find that the embers are still warm. With any luck, you’ll be able to rekindle the fire and save yourself at least one hassle this morning. 

You hurry back to the cottage and feel around for the tools you’ll need. Your fingers brush over the bellow and poker and latch onto them. You exit your home, stopping briefly at the porch to grab an armful of firewood. Much to your chagrin, you’re reminded of how low your firewood supply has gotten when you’re forced to crouch all the way down to even feel any. You need to chop some more, but you’ll worry about that later.

Once you’re back at the oven, you push in one log, then stir the coals and embers with your poker, listening closely as they crackle gently. You drop the poker and switch to using the bellow to feed the embers the precious air that they crave. They pop and crackle louder, and you can feel more heat coming out of the oven. Then, finally, you can smell the wood burning. You load the rest of the logs into the oven one by one, prodding the coals and wood to encourage the fire to spread until a strong wave of heat is emitting from the opening. Satisfied that the fire will be able to keep itself going on its own now, you close the door and head back inside.

A similar process is repeated indoors with your fireplace, and after you have both fires taken care of, you finally focus on getting yourself ready for the day. While you fasten on your clothing, you go through a mental list of tasks that need to be done. While you wait for the oven to warm, you’ll have to get the bread dough prepared now so that it’s properly risen by the time it’s hot enough. Before that, you need to fetch some water from the nearby stream. Then you’ll tend to the chickens and cows outside. At some point today you’ll need to find the time to chop firewood, but you have no idea where exactly such time is hiding. So much to do, so little time, and absolutely no help.

You’re startled from your thoughts by a loud, firm knocking at your door. It gives you pause. The townsfolk knew that you wouldn’t have anything ready for them so early. When everything was done, you would load it into a cart to sell it in the town square, so you had no idea why someone would be here now, or frankly, at all.

Another series of knocks rings out from the front door, this time pushing you into action. You go to the door, a short trip given the small size of your cottage, wondering who could be here and for what purpose. You pull open the door, ready to greet them, only for whoever is outside to grab the handle and close the door again. For a moment, you’re stunned into silence from the unusual action. Before you can ask what on earth they hope to accomplish by shutting your own door in your face, your visitor speaks through the door.

“Don’t come out. Just listen to me.” The voice is deep and masculine. Based on how high up his voice is coming from, you can tell that this man must be awfully tall.

The request is odd, but you choose to indulge him. “Very well… Might I ask what you’re here for? I just awoke, I don’t have anything baked yet.”

“I saw you outside just now. I can see that you’re low on firewood, and I was hoping you might be willing to trade me food in turn for me chopping wood for you.”

His offer comes as a relief to you. What a perfect occurrence this was! Now you wouldn’t be fighting to make the time to do this task yourself. While you didn’t have the money to pay someone for such work, you could easily spare some food for this stranger.

“It doesn’t have to be much, I’ll take table scraps. Anything. Please consider my offer.” The man’s tone took on a hint of desperation this time around, making you feel a twinge of guilt in your heart for causing him unnecessary stress.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t just give you scraps. I’ll make sure you have a proper meal and then some if you would do that for me.” You’re quick to assure him, not wanting him to think that you would be so unappreciative of his generous offer.

A sigh of relief comes through the door, followed by a dull thud from the top of the door, “Thank you, I promise you that I’ll cut as much firewood as you could possibly need. I just have one more request to make.”

“What would that be?”

The once desperate and wary manner of speech is gone, and has become much more stern, “You need to stay inside until I’m done, and you can’t look out the windows either.” 

For a moment, you’re left speechless by his request, but you quickly find your voice, “I apologize, but I simply can’t abide by that. I have duties today that require for me to be outside. I-”

He cuts you off, now sounding frantic, “I’ll do those for you, too. Just tell me what to do.” 

“Why are you so insistent on this? I can assure you that I won’t get in your way.” As much as you want to accept his help, his behavior was rapidly becoming ridiculous. 

“You can’t look at me. I won’t do this for you if you see me.”

Again, you pause. Then you laugh. “Well, if that’s all you’re concerned of, then you can rest your heart.” You chuckle again and take his silence as your cue to keep talking, “You must not be from around here.”

“I… I’m not. I don’t understand what that has to do with anything.”

Rather than using your words, you take advantage of his guard being down to wrench the door open. You can hear him stumble and catch himself on the doorway. The wood of the porch and door creak loudly under his weight, and you can hear his breathing stop as he freezes in place. You face where you believe his face to be, hoping that you’re “looking” at him.

“It does have something to do with this conversation. If all that you’re fretting over is being seen, then you have nothing to fear from me. I am quite blind, as you -and only you- can see.”

You stand in the doorway, giving him a chance to take in what you said. You can tell that he’s very close to you now, likely hanging over you. Not only can you feel his body heat radiating off of him, but your senses are flooded by his scent. Overwhelmingly, he smelled like musk and sweat, as if he had just finished a long, laborious day of work. Alongside that, his smell reminded you of the woods. Earthy, but also carrying the distinct smell of moss. Under all that was a much shaper, less natural scent. It stung your nose and tickled the back of your throat like a potent alcohol, but stronger. 

After a few seconds of silence between you two, you can feel the rush of air in front of your face, presumably from him waving his hand in front of it. A few more seconds passed, and you heard him quietly mumble, “You can’t see me…” It’s said as a statement rather than a question, but you nod in confirmation anyway.

Wood creaks again, and suddenly his voice is closer, now coming from above your head, “And it’s just you here?”

“That is correct. I’m not quite sure what it is you’re trying to hide by not being seen, but I can promise you that your secret is safe with me.” You make an effort to keep your voice jovial, not wanting to give this anxious man any reason to be doubtful or wary of you. You hold out your hand in front of you, “Now then, do we have a deal? Firewood for food?”

There is a moment of silence, then a surprisingly large hand encases yours. It’s rough and calloused, and you’re certain that you can feel scar tissue on it. His voice is quiet, “Yes, we have a deal.” He shakes your hand, and you find it to be a remarkably gentle handshake given his apparent size. It feels like he could easily shake your entire self with one hand if he so pleased, but he doesn’t. He releases you, and you can hear the doorframe groan as he pushes himself off of it, “I’ll get started on it now.”

“Wait,” Your hand blindly juts out to grab onto him, this time landing on his wrist. Your fingers ghost over what feels like even more scar tissue, and you briefly wonder if that is what he was so worried about being seen. You can’t be sure, but you figure it’s best not to call attention to it, so you continue, “I would like to know the name of the man helping me.”

“You… want to know my name?” The way he says it makes it seem like this is the first time he’s ever been asked for his name. You nod, gently encouraging him to share it. He pauses for reasons unknown to you, then speaks again, “Zoro… you can call me that.”

“Very well. Thank you, Zoro. Your help couldn’t have come at a better time. The ax is in the shed over where the chickens are. I need to go fetch some water now, but I’ll be around after that if you require any help.” With that said, you grab the pails by the door and slip past him to go to the stream.

The path to the stream has long since been memorized. As a child, you would tag along with whichever member of your family was sent to gather water that day. You even had your own much smaller pail to bring with back then so that you could participate. There were plenty of days where you would come back with an almost -and sometimes fully- empty bucket because you shook it about too much while walking, or because you tripped over an object you couldn’t see coming. Fortunately, you’ve gotten much better at keeping steady and catching yourself when you stumble over the years.

Insects and birds chatter and sing around you as you go deeper into the forested area behind your family’s home, and before long, you can hear the bubbling rush of water coming from the stream. You close in on it, taking smaller, more cautious steps to ensure you don’t walk past the bank and into the water. Once the ground becomes more soft and unsteady, you know that you’re close enough and hold out a pail while bending down, allowing the water to flow into it. You set the first one on the bank next to you, then fill the next. As soon as they’re both filled, you pick up one in each hand and begin the walk back home. The buckets are heavy now, but at least you don’t have far to go.

By the time you’re out of the woods, you can hear the familiar sound of wood splitting as an ax cuts through it. It’s quite nice to only be listening to such an act rather than doing it yourself for once. You’ve been alone for a few years now ever since your father passed from consumption. Your mother had died years prior after letting herself waste away when your youngest sibling suffered a fatal bout of scarlet fever. Your remaining siblings had filtered out one by one, searching for better opportunities elsewhere. While you missed them terribly, you couldn’t bring yourself to resent them for leaving. Life as a humble baker was a meager existence. Your father would often go to the city for long periods of time to work industrial jobs just to make ends meet while your mother baked for the town.

Your brothers and sisters tried to convince you to join them, no doubt fretting over how you would handle life on your own considering your condition, but you’re nothing if not resilient. Your parents taught you well how to survive on your own, and the local townsfolk are kind enough to help you with the odd task that does absolutely require sight.

From the sound of it, Zoro is doing just fine on his own, so you leave him be and go inside your home. The pails of water are left by the front door, and you go into the kitchen area to gather everything you’ll need to make bread. The oven outside still needs a couple of hours to reach the proper temperature, but the house is cold this time of year, so the dough will need extra time to rise. 

Using a small bowl, you scoop out what feels like the appropriate amount of water for your task, then set it in the hot embers in the fireplace to warm up so the yeast will be able to thrive in it. While the water warms, you slip back outside to toss some more logs into the oven. You crouch down to grab the few remaining logs that should still be there from this morning, but you’re surprised to find the pile noticeably higher than you remembered it being. Had you missed some, or had Zoro really made this much progress in such a short time? You feel around a bit more, and sure enough, the log store is half full.

Well then. He’s certainly earning his meal. You’ll have to get started on his food as soon as the bread dough is taken care of at the rate he’s going. 

Realizing that you’re working against the clock, you make quick work of hauling an armful of logs to the oven and pushing them inside. Once you’re back indoors, you mix together the flour and salt for the bread, then check the temperature of the water. Finding it suitable, you mix in sugar and yeast and leave it to activate. While it’s doing that, you make your way down to the cellar to grab some vegetables and meat. The cold air of the cellar chills you, prompting you to pull your clothes around you tighter. You use your apron to hold the vegetables you’ll need, then open the cask you had recently stored some brined meat in. 

While you don’t know what Zoro’s tastes are when it comes to food, you assume he can’t be picky if he was begging for scraps. You think he’ll appreciate a hearty venison pie after working so hard.

You exit the cellar, and you’re about to go back inside when you hear your chickens milling about and clucking. You curse internally and rush into the house to drop the ingredients on the table. The surprise of Zoro’s arrival completely threw you off your usual schedule and your duties to the farm animals slipped your mind. You feel around for the bucket containing yesterday’s scraps, then make haste to the chicken coop. While the chickens primarily forage for their own food by eating the weeds and insects on the property, you know that they enjoy the scraps.

The chickens crowd around you as soon as they see the bucket, clucking excitedly and pecking at your shoes and clothes in what you’re going to assume is an expression of affection rather than impatience. You turn over the bucket and scatter its contents as best you can, instantly making the birds disperse so they can get their fill. While they’re happily eating, you open the panels on the coop to gather any eggs laid since you last checked and place them in the now empty bucket. There weren’t that many eggs today, but you have plenty in the home already, so it’s hardly a problem.

Once the chickens are tended to, you go over to the barn housing your cattle. They’re largely fed by grazing in the pasture, only being supplemented with hay during the winter. All that you need to do pressingly is let them out into the pasture. You’ll have to come out and milk the lactating cows later because they most certainly won’t let you do that until after they’ve had a chance to graze.

Climbing over the fence is an easy task for you after years of repetition. The bucket is left on the other side, and you find your way to the barn doors and unlatch them, allowing them to swing open. The cattle waste no time and exit the barn, lowing quietly as they walk past you with little acknowledgment. At least until you feel something bump against your stomach with some force. Enough to make you sway, but not so much as to lose your footing. You chuckle and reach down to pet the excitable calf.

“Good morning. Is this your way of telling me that I took too long?” You scratch the calf’s head as it moos and bumps against you repeatedly. You only had three calves this spring, but this one by far was the most friendly. She always stops to try and get you to play with her before catching up with her mother after.

She nudges you a few more times before running off to either find her mother or try to get the other calves to play. You leave the pasture and walk along the fence until you can find the bucket, then finally head back to your cottage to resume your baking. The shortest path back takes you past the stump where you usually cut firewood, and you can clearly hear Zoro continuing to plug away at the task.

As you draw near, you call out to your helper, “Is everything going well out here?”

The consistent chopping ceases. His breathing is labored, and he takes a moment to catch his breath before answering, “Yes, everything is fine.”

“That’s lovely. I really appreciate what you’re doing for me. It’s hard to make time to do this myself.” You continue walking until you’re roughly in front of him. “I hope you like venison, I’m making a pie for you.”

You can hear his hands tighten around the wooden handle of the ax. “You… You’re making a pie? For me?”

His surprise confuses you. “Of course. That was our deal, was it not? You’re chopping my firewood, and I’m making you a meal.”

Zoro falls silent as he seemingly takes the time to mull over your words, then vocalizes why he was surprised, “I didn’t think you were going to make me something. I had expected to be given raw ingredients at best.”

“What kind of baker do you take me for?” Your hands settle on your hips and you huff indignantly. “I’m already making food as it is, why wouldn’t I take the time to make something for you?”

Grass crunches under his feet as he shifts between them, “I don’t have an answer for that. Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

The genuine confusion and remorse in his voice gives you pause and tugs at your heart. Just what has he been through to be so cynical towards people? You sigh and shift the bucket of eggs to your other hand, “Don’t apologize, I’m not truly upset.” You reach out and wave your hand around until it finds purchase on his arm, “I’m going to provide you a hot meal in exchange for your help. Not ingredients, nor table scraps, a meal. It will take some time for everything to be ready, but you’re welcome to come inside once you’re done out here until it’s finished, then we can eat.”

“We? You want to eat… together?” 

“Yes? I don’t see why not. Unless you have somewhere you need to be, in which case I’m more than willing to let you take it with you so long as you bring the dishes back.” You hadn’t even considered that he may have other commitments to tend to.

For once, his answer comes quickly. His voice is almost bashful, “No! I mean, no. I have nowhere else to be. I want to eat here if you’ll let me.”

“Of course I will. I wouldn’t have offered if I didn't really want to. I look forward to you joining me for dinner.”

Zoro says something else just above a whisper, though you can’t quite decipher it. He clears his throat, then speaks at a more audible level, “Yes. I look forward to it as well.” You can hear the scrape of wood being placed on the stump to cut it and take that as your sign to leave him be, and the chopping of wood resumes shortly thereafter. 

It’ll take a few hours for all of the food to be prepared, so you get started right away. The bread dough is mixed together and set on the mantle of the fireplace to rise. After that, you prepare some pie and tart crusts, then focus on prepping the various fillings for them. Most of the fillings were fruit based, but then you also had to prepare the venison pie separately. 

A three-legged spider pan is set by the fire with some lard in it to warm up, and you fill a pot with water and potatoes and hang it over the fire with the pot crane. While waiting for the pan to warm and the water to boil, you clean and chop everything you need for the filling. Onions, parsnips, carrots, mushroom, and venison are all mixed together and seasoned in a bowl, then poured into the now sizzling pan with some beef stock. As it all cooks, your mouth waters from the onslaught of delicious smells within your house.

After a few minutes of searing the vegetables and meat, you remove the pan from the fire and scrape its contents back into the bowl. The filling is then poured into an empty pie tin and covered with the remaining crust. You carry it back to the fireplace and set your dutch oven over some hot coals before placing the pie inside. The lid is put in place and covered with additional coals and embers, and you leave it be to bake. Normally, you would use the beehive oven outside to bake your pies, but you chose to use the dutch oven today since the other one will likely be too full when everything else is set inside.

Once everything that you planned to sell was prepared, you begin carrying it out to the oven. The loaves of bread went in first, followed by the pies, and then the small tarts. Fire licks at your hands as you push everything in with your peel, but your skin has long since grown accustomed to such heat. You finish loading the oven and close the hatch.

You take a moment to listen to your surroundings and find that you can’t hear Zoro chopping wood anymore, so he’s likely finished by now. Dinner should be completed soon, so that works out well. You go over to where the log store is and stick your hands in to see how much wood he cut only to find it overflowing. Not only is it filled to the brim, you can feel logs placed on top of as well as around it. You had heard him coming and going to the log store while you were inside, but you hadn’t realized just how much it had added up until now. You’re beginning to question if one meal truly suffices for this much work. Perhaps you’ll let him take an additional fruit pie as well.

It’s unclear where exactly he is presently, but you’re sure he’ll make himself known sooner rather than later. In the meantime, you return to your kitchen to put the finishing touches on the meal. The pot containing the potatoes is drained and you set to work mashing them with some butter, salt, and pepper.

Heavy footsteps approach the cottage, stalling momentarily before climbing up the stairs. There’s a knock on the door, much softer now than it was this morning.

“Just let yourself in!” You call out over your shoulder.

There is some hesitation from Zoro, then the door is pushed open and he steps inside. The door falls shut behind him, and he remains close to it, not yet venturing into the small home. He’s an awfully sheepish man, you’ve noticed.

“Go ahead and sit at the table, dinner is almost ready.” The potatoes feel consistently mashed by now, so you switch out the masher for a serving spoon and walk over to the table to set it down.

Floorboards groan under each step he takes as he accepts your invitation to sit down. The legs of the chair scrape across the floor as he pulls it out, then sits down. You fetch some plates, mugs, and silverware to set the table with. Zoro remains silent as you get everything in place, so you decide to make an effort to converse with him, “Thank you for taking care of the firewood for me. I ought to be set for a while now.”

“It was nothing…” Zoro’s voice is quiet and somewhat tense.

“Oh, hush. You did a great deal of work for me, take credit for it.” You reach out to pat his shoulder reassuringly. Unfortunately, you failed to take his seemingly staggering height into account. Your fingers brushed against his chest, missing his shoulder by a wide margin. It would be polite to readjust and move your hand, but you’re struck by something. “You’re not wearing a shirt. Aren’t you cold?” Winter may not be upon you yet, but the autumn air was already quite chilly.

Zoro shifts in his seat, prompting you to pull your hand back. His fingers drum against the table as he answers your question, “Don’t have one.”

“You don’t have a single shirt? Oh, that won’t do at all, you’ll catch your death out there. One moment.” You excuse yourself to the other side of the cottage. Your home is one single large room. The kitchen that doubles as a living area is on the side closest to the door, while a couple of beds are pressed up against the wall on the other side. When the house was still full, your parents slept in one while you and all your siblings piled into the other. Now it was just you sleeping in your siblings’ shared bed while your parents’ bed was left empty.

Your father’s old clothes were stored under his bed. You crouch down and feel around until you can feel the basket they’re stored in. It’s pulled out, and you rummage through the clothes until your fingers skim over the coarse wool of your father’s shirt. You pull it out and run your hands over the article to confirm that it is indeed the one you were looking for. Nostalgic memories of clutching your father’s clothes while he carried you to and fro as a child flooded your mind, though you’re quick to dismiss them. Your guest is cold and you would hate to keep him waiting.

The basket is kicked back under the bed as you return to Zoro’s side and present him with the shirt. “Here, try this on. My father wasn’t quite as sturdy as you, but I’m hopeful that it will suit you.”

His hands brush yours as he takes it from you. The fabric rustles quietly as he pulls it on. After a moment, you hear him murmur to himself, “It’s warm…”

“So it fits? I’m relieved to hear that. You’re welcome to keep it.”

“You are okay with that?” There is an element of surprise to his voice.

“I am. I’m sure my father would have wanted his old clothes to find further use. It is yours to keep.” You place your hand on his shoulder, successfully this time, and squeeze it gently. The fabric of the shirt is taut on his frame, but you assume it must fit at least somewhat comfortably if he wants to keep it.

You release his shoulder and go over to the fireplace. The venison pie should be ready by now, and you don’t want to make him go hungry any longer than necessary. You use a hook to pull the lid off the dutch oven, then pull the pie out after covering your hands with rags. The pie is placed at the approximate center of the table. “I’ll get us something to drink, and then we can eat.”

The plot of land your family owns is rife with apple trees, so you’re never lacking in apple cider. You grab one of the bottles of alcohol from the cupboard, as well as something to cut the pie with, then return to the table. You feel for the mugs, then pour a generous serving into each. The plates are loaded with food next, with Zoro’s portion being particularly large after how hard he worked today. You set his plate in front of him, then sit down across from him with your own.

In the time it took you to sit down, he had already begun to eat. The speed with which his utensils scrape against his plate indicates to you that he was absolutely ravenous, as well as seemingly unbothered by how hot the food may still be. You eat your meal at a slower pace, enjoying the savory pie and potatoes. Making conversation now feels like it would be a wasted effort. Zoro is clearly not going to want to entertain one while he’s eating like a starved man.

As the scrapes and sound of chewing slow, then eventually stop, you speak up, “Was it to your liking?” The question is asked half in jest. Partially because he ate it in what felt like seconds, but mostly because you’re fairly certain that he hardly had a chance to taste any of it.

“That was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

The genuinity of the statement strikes your heart and warms it. A smile tugs at your lips. This was far from your first compliment on your food given your profession, but the sheer conviction and reverence in his voice made it feel different. You swallow your food, then respond, “I’m glad. You’re welcome to seconds if you’re still hungry.”

Much to your relief, he forgoes questioning you for once and simply helps himself to more. You can hear him resume eating again, though at a significantly less frantic pace. After a moment, Zoro clears his throat, “I wanted to ask something of you.”

“Yes? Is there something you need?” It’s relieving that he’s finally starting to be more forthcoming after getting some food in him.

“I… I don’t have anywhere to stay. I was wondering if you would allow me to sleep in the shed. I’ll work for it. I can do whatever you need me to do. I’ll cut as much firewood as you could ever need, I’ll hunt for you, do chores for you, anything.”

“The shed? Surely you noticed the hole in the roof.” You can’t see, but even you can feel the elements coming through where the roof caved in at.

“I won’t complain. Please… Please consider it. I swear on my life that I won’t burden you. I’ll stay out of your way.”

All that you can do is balk at his request. To be so desperate and destitute that you would plead and beg just to sleep in a dilapidated shed is a level of poverty that even your poor family hadn’t known. “I can’t in good conscience let you sleep in the shed.”

His protest comes immediately, laced with pain and desperation, “Please-”

“There is an empty bed in the home. If you’re willing to bunk with a stranger, I would allow you to stay here.”

The room falls silent, and then his voice shakes as he speaks again, “You’ll let me stay in your home? In a bed?” From the way he utters the words, you almost wonder if he’s never been permitted to sleep in a bed before. Your mind whirls with questions as to how such circumstances could occur, but you quickly realize that this moment isn’t suitable for such pondering. Zoro needs an answer, and it would be cruel, in your opinion, to make him wait for it.

“I recognize that it is unusual to offer this to a stranger, but you’ve been mild mannered thus far. That, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t struggling to maintain everything around here on my own ever since my siblings left. Your help would be deeply appreciated if this arrangement is truly what you want.” You’re certain that your siblings would have a conniption if they were aware of the deal you’re making right now, but they aren’t here. The only interaction you have with them anymore is when you get one of your customers to read aloud the letters they send you. It’s unlikely that they’ll ever even know of him.

Both of your hands are abruptly encased in two much larger hands. Zoro clutches your hands like a lifeline, “That is what I want. I’ll be in your debt if you allow it.”

“There’s no need for such dramatic language. It’s hardly a debt if you’re working for your stay.” You gently squeeze his hand back.

“You don’t understand what exactly you’re doing for me… it means more than you know.”

“Then I suppose we have a deal, don’t we?”

Zoro lets out a shuddering breath as his grasp on your hands loosens, “Thank you. You won’t regret this.” He relinquishes your hands fully, and his chair creaks as he settles back into it.

Dinner resumes in a comfortable silence. This is certainly an interesting change in your life, but you have faith in this person. Zoro seems like an earnest man who has faced more than his share of strife, but you think that he’ll fit in well around here. He’s definitely most skittish about being seen, but you’re hopeful that as time goes by and he becomes more comfortable that you’ll be able to introduce him to the locals. You think the socialization would do him some good.

But, that will come at a later date. The excursion you’ll make into town after dinner to sell today’s goods will have to be a solo trip, but that’s fine. You’ve done such a task more times than you can count. The only difference today is that you’ll have someone to come home to. For now, you choose to focus on your new company and feel thankful for the positive change that you’re confident he will bring to it.

[emmafrostdefender]

a fine line between god and animal | logan howlett x fem reader

chapter 1 - biting the apple | masterlist | read the prologue first

two new mutants arrive at the mansion.

i am churning this thing out and i have a very specific direction that i'm going to take it. the story does not really follow the canon plot because that would be boringgg. trust me, i know where this bus is heading. i hope you stay along for the ride! figuratively and literally! wink wink

warnings: cursing, religion, religious trauma, fighting, canon typical violence, 5.5k words

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“Before you all leave, I want to give you food for thought. One of the heaviest themes of Frankenstein revolves around the idea of nature versus nurture. Is the creature inherently evil, or was his treatment by society what turned him into a monster?” You pose the question to your students as class comes to a close.

The similarities to your own existence is not lost on you. You hope the metaphor clicks in their minds as it did yours when you first read the classic novel. Charles made it assigned reading when he taught comparative literature at the school. When you were old enough, you took the job. And you were inspired by some of his lessons, of course.

“We will be discussing this theme next week, so those of you that haven’t done your reading…” You don’t finish your sentence, but make a face that communicates all they need to know.

Your students leave the classroom and you slump against your desk. Despite your outside calm, inside your thoughts are racing. 

Scott and Ororo aren’t back yet and you feel as if you could break something. Or a million somethings. 

The reasonable part of you knows that if something bad happened, Charles would know and tell you immediately. But the unreasonable part of you wants to drain your energy source to find them. To sneak your mind around the globe until you pick up on their footsteps crunching the ground or their signature heartbeats sending pulses into the air.

Before you can stop yourself, your feet are carrying you to the door that leads to the underground base of the X-Men. You’re going stir crazy.

Earlier in the day, before classes started, you assisted Jean in refining her powers. She wasn’t able to move a car with her mind, but she managed to start the engine without a key in the ignition. To you, that seemed more impressive. To the professor, it was exactly what he didn’t want. He wanted her to control her powers.

That word again. Control.

His reactions to Jean’s issues made you all the more wary to reveal your own struggles. With the recent revelation of Magneto’s scheme to abduct you, hesitancy bubbled up in your chest at adding anything more to Charles’ metaphorical plate. You would just be a burden.

Exiting the elevator, you enter the completely metal hallway, something of a labyrinth to newcomers. Your shoes echo against the metal and you look from left to right. No one else graces your path as you walk to the training room. There is another one upstairs that the students use when training with Scott, but you personally prefer this one. Far away from onlookers.

Your abilities don’t necessarily lend themselves to you having any physical prowess, but you managed to get trained up quite well in your years at the mansion. “The metaphysical is very much so connected to the physical. The health of your powers could very well depend on the health of your body,” Charles told you long ago. 

With nothing to do but wait, you change into the clothes from your locker and wrap your knuckles with tape. The large room is empty and you approach a punching bag. You begin. 

The rhythm you find is steady and fast. Hit after hit, blow after blow. The bag swings on its chain, bouncing back and forth between your hands. You punch and punch and punch, feeling anger build in your system. In your mind's eye, you see the bloody heart that was stolen from your chest. You see the chains holding you down. You see your mother’s face, staring at you in disgust. You see vines. Thousands of vines, each reaching to wrap themselves around your body, your arms, your legs, your neck. They rip the cross from your necklace, leaving a stinging brand there. You see your father’s lifeless form. 

And you feel your skull starting to split open when a voice says your name.

You nearly scream at the intrusion and your head flies around. “Holy shit, Jean! I could’ve killed you!”

“Yeah, I can see that,” she says with hesitancy. She’s looking at you like you’re a wounded animal about to lash out. Her eyes flit to the punching bag over your shoulder.

You look at it and gape at your handiwork. The bag ripped at the seams and sand spilled from the tears onto the ground. 

“Imagining Scott’s head?” She jokes, but it sounds strained. You hardly hear it.

You still stare at the punching bag, not quite sure what to make of this. You losing control was as infrequent as pigs flying, so…never.

A soft hand touches your shoulder. “Are you okay?” Jean asks so caringly.

You rip your gaze from the bag and look at her. You change your expression from one of near tears to one of slight amusement. “Must’ve gotten a little too enthusiastic.”

She analyzes you quickly, so quick you might’ve missed it if you didn’t know her so well. “I wanted to let you know that the jet is on its way back. They were able to locate the mutants.” You feel something in your chest relax. “Not in record time, though.”

You smirk. “Of course not. They didn’t have me.”

“Can you come help me prep the bay for when they get here?”

You nod. “Just let me change and I’ll meet you there.”

She turns to walk away and you watch her leave. Your gaze drops to your hands, where the tape did nothing to prevent the bruises forming around your knuckles. Looking at the clock hanging above the entrance, you realize two hours have passed. It’s nearly ten o’clock. 

As you enter the locker room, you swear you can still feel burning skin where your cross lays. 

You enter the loading dock of the jet in your regular attire and are greeted by Jean and the professor. They seem to be in deep discussion when you arrive, but snap their heads up the second they sense you coming. You can tell they were talking about you. 

You plaster a smile on your face and say sarcastically, “Looks like they managed to find them without me, after all.”

“They would’ve been here an hour after they left if you were with them, I’m sure,” Jean says with a playful roll of her eyes.

“Obviously.”

You shift your attention to Charles, who has begun using a computer to track the jet’s movements. Jean starts working the switchboard. You ask, “How many mutants did they pick up?”

His gaze does not move from the computer. “Two. A young girl and an older man. They were on separate paths until they met and started traveling together.” 

Your eyebrows furrow. “What made you think to bring them here?”

Charles has always been slightly particular when choosing the people to bring to his school. And even more hesitant to bring fully grown adults. At your question, his eyes shift to yours. “Why did I bring you to this school?”

You blink.

“To offer you protection. To offer you safety from a world that hurt you repeatedly. And to help you understand your abilities and use them for good. Not just to teach you Latin and calculus,” he adds with a smile. 

You nod, but still have a lingering question. “But why--”

He cuts you off, “Why am I bringing an adult man to our mansion as well?” He pauses. “Because he is extremely powerful. That kind of power can either be used toward the greater good, or harnessed for evil.”

By Erik.

“I see,” you say, hand mindlessly playing with your necklace.

Charles returns to the computer and says to you and Jean, “Get ready, they are nearly here.”

You are usually a part of the retrieval missions, making you less used to assisting with arrivals. However, you bring out two stretchers from the medical room and place them neatly by the door after getting a call from the jet. “They were in a rough fight with one of the members of the Brotherhood and the man is out cold. We think he has regenerative abilities so he isn’t badly injured, but the girl was with him when they got into a car accident. She’ll need attention. She’s jarred, but not unresponsive,” Ororo says.

Another of your jobs on the team is designated medic. You have innate knowledge of the human body and medical herbs because of your powers. It was never something you questioned when you were younger. If you scratched your arm or busted your lip open, you would skip into the woods and find something natural to heal yourself. Still, you begged Charles not to assign you to teaching biology. You despised the subject.

The ceiling of the hangar opens to reveal a velvety night sky. You feel the jet before you see it, the push it has on the trees around the mansion tingle your fingertips. The trees' movements stir your power source in your stomach, a warm, buttery feeling. The sleek aircraft lowers gently into the bay, your hair being pushed over your shoulders by the air movement. You feel relief at the sight of your friends returning from the mission; they exit the jet and you smile. Your grin droops at the sight of their expressions.

“We need you to look over these two, stat,” Scott says with urgency. 

You hurriedly bring the stretchers to the jet’s ramp and enter the main compartment with Scott and Ororo. Inside, they point you to a young girl, maybe sixteen years old, with brown hair and a soft face sitting in one of the seats. The two of them work to remove the man who sits slouched over in one of the front seats. The way they grunt, you’d think he weighs a ton.

The girl’s hands are wrapped tightly around the straps keeping her to the chair. When you approach, she jumps and stares at you with terrified eyes. “Hi, honey,” you say calmly. You introduce yourself. “I’m going to be taking care of you, okay? I just need you to undo these straps.”

She shakes her head tightly. “I can’t.”

“You can’t or you won’t?” You ask. 

She thinks between the two options and asks, “Am I safe?”

Your heart breaks. Upset coils in your stomach at the thought of all the people who have hurt this little girl. “Yes. You’re safe here.”

She seems to think this over and makes her decision. Her hands shakily unlatch themselves from the straps and move to unbuckle herself. You reach to help her, but she flinches. “Don’t touch me, please,” she says with desperation.

Your hands retract immediately.

“I just, it’s my…” she struggles with the words. “I hurt people when they touch me.”

You nod in understanding. That must have been a terrifying revelation for her. “That’s okay. We’ll get you all sorted out here. You are okay.”

She seems to relax a bit. You look over your shoulder and see your two friends lugging the man down the ramp and rolling him onto the stretcher. If this were any other scenario, you would laugh at Scott for struggling so much. 

You turn back to the girl and say, “And what’s your name?”

“Marie-- I mean, Rogue.” The way she says it makes you think she is still trying out the name for size.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Rogue.” You look her over and ask, “Are you able to walk or do you need help?”

She has undone the straps and sits a bit more forward in her chair. “I think I can stand.”

Rogue puts weight on her leg as she moves to stand up, but winces at the feeling and immediately sits back down. 

“Can I touch your clothes or is that also a problem?”

“You can. It’s just my skin.”

You sling her arm over your shoulder, careful not to touch any exposed skin, and help her out of the chair. “Just put your weight on me, hon’.”

She does as you say and leans against you completely. When you have exited the jet, you help her sit on the stretcher. The others have left, presumably to attend to the man. Charles is the only one left and he moves his wheelchair over to greet the young girl. “What is this place?” she asks after his introduction.

“It’s a place for people like you. And me. And her.” He points to you and you feel yourself smile. “It’s somewhere safe.”

Your gloved hand moves carefully over Rogue’s legs, feeling for any fractured bones or torn skin invisible to the eye.

She’s been relatively quiet for the duration of her examination, but she asks, “So, what can you do?”

You look up at her and grin. “I can do a lot of things.” You stand and walk to the shelves of potted plants on the wall to your right. You hold up one of the more pathetic looking plants and say, “See how this one is all wilted?”

Rogue nods. 

You pull your glove off with your teeth. “Watch this.”

Once your hand rests delicately against the plant’s stem, its wilting flowers perk up. A lush green color returns to its body, becoming perfectly healthy again. You look over at her and her mouth is gaping at the sight. “But why do you keep all the plants here if they’ll die without you?”

You put the plant back in its place and slip your glove back on. As you make your way back to the examination table, you say, “That’s exactly why. The professor used it as a tool to help me understand my importance here. To help me distinguish between the big parts of my powers and the smaller, more delicate parts.” You shrug as you grab some medical tape meant to alleviate and correct sprains. “I also like having company when I’m down here.”

“Company?” she asks when you kneel before her again to start wrapping her ankle.

“They talk to me,” you say, slightly mischievously.

Her mouth gapes again. “So, that’s your mutation? Talking to plants?”

“It’s a lot deeper than that. The Earth and I are like two sides of the same coin. Through our connection, I can track people if they are grounded. I can grow and heal things, but also kill them. I can create beauty, but also take it away. And I’m recently starting to realize I’m much more connected to humans than I thought.”

She considers this as you finish wrapping her ankle. 

You laugh a little. “Most of those are Professor X’s words, not mine.”

Charles arrives after a few minutes of comfortable silence, asking Rogue to come with him. You give her a small smile and tell her, “Make sure to drink those herbs with water once every day. It’ll help the pain.”

She gives you a tentative smile back. 

Before she leaves, you squeeze her gloved hand. “You’re gonna do great.”

Once the two of them are gone, you decide it's time to check on Jean and the man. She took him to the laboratory where digital scans of mutants’ brains and bodies could be completed. You walk down the hall and enter the door to the left, seeing Jean in her white lab coat. She is analyzing what looks to be brain waves on the monitor in front of her. “Oh, good,” she says when she turns to see you. “I wanted you to take a look at him. See if there’s anything I’m missing.”

You approach the table where he lays and take your first real look at him.

He is shirtless to allow the nodes and wires access to his chest. You scan over his body, seeing no obvious outer injuries. His face is calm in his induced state of comatose, but etched with what seems like a permanent line between his eyebrows. You have the urge to smooth it with your thumb.

“His name is Logan Howlett. He has extremely impressive regenerative abilities.”

Your eyes continue to study the ridges of his face. “Is that his mutation?” The thought of Charles saying he is a very powerful mutant crosses your mind. 

“That’s part of it. Once he wakes up, we'll give him a chance to tell us more. And then we’ll do a full body scan; Charles thinks there’s something else to him. He’s not wrong. Logan’s brain activity is far different from anyone I’ve ever seen,” she says in slight awe.

You continue to gaze at him. There is something else to him. Something you can’t quite place.

“Could you check his vitals for me? I didn’t notice anything strange, but I want to be sure,” Jean asks.

Hesitancy fills your body. For some reason, you don’t want to touch him. Some sort of dread pits in your stomach. Something will happen. 

Despite your body’s strange resistance, you nod curtly. You approach the table and lean over him. His scent fills your nose. It’s woodsy and smokey, all mixed with something metal that twinges your nostrils. You close your eyes and inhale, pressing your hand to his chest. In a second, you’ve been pulled to him, a vice grip around your wrist. Jean yells and starts pulling at your shoulders. Your body goes alive and you twist your arm around and headbutt him, causing him to loosen his grip on you. However, the moment your skull collides with his, you nearly pass out from the impact. It feels like he’s made of metal. 

“Oh, my God,” you groan, collapsing to the floor. Your head is throbbing.

Before you or Jean can react, he’s jumped off the table. It looks like he’s grabbed six knives and placed them between his fingers. “Where the hell am I?” he shouts.

Jean holds up her hands, but you’re still recovering on the floor, holding your forehead in your hands. Jesus, fuck. You hope He will excuse your language.

“You’re at Xavier’s School for Mutants in New York. We aren’t going to hurt you,” Jean says calmly. “Well, not anymore.” Her eyes flick down to you and you make a face.

“It wasn’t my fault he fucking attacked me,” you say with narrowed eyes. You glance at him, annoyance replacing the pain that had swept across your forehead. “What’s with the claws?” you ask, now realizing that what you thought were knives were actually thin metal spikes protruding from between his knuckles.

He stares at you, chest heaving. Then back at Jean. Fury clouds his eyesight, but you know there’s fear in there, too. 

“Look, we’re not going to hurt you. You’re safe here,” Jean says again. “I just need you to calm down and we can talk.”

The throbbing has eased and you make your way to stand. 

Something like a sarcastic grin falls on his lips. “Oh, sure, we can talk.” 

You position yourself, readying for a fight. “Get Scott,” you say to Jean quietly. 

“You sure?” she whispers back.

“Yeah, I’ve got this.”

She looks between the two of you for a moment, then runs out of the room. You hear her shoes echo in the hallway. 

“You really want to do this, bub?” he asks in a voice so quiet, you nearly miss it.

You watch him carefully. You know that you’ll never beat him, but you can keep him occupied until reinforcements arrive. “Do you really want to do this?” you respond with a grin.

Something lights in his eyes, something thrilling that makes your heart pound. He pounces, jumping over the table, his claws aiming for your throat. You dodge the attack, rolling to the side. You are back on your feet in an instant, crouching low to the ground. “Got anything else in you, big boy?” you tease, grin spreading wider at his fuming expression.

He yells, running at you with a speed you wouldn’t think him capable of. He shoves you to the ground with retracted claws and you grunt at the impact, but kick his legs out from under him, causing him to fall to the floor as you crawl away. He yanks your leg, making you stumble once more. You kick with all your might, but he won’t let go. Thinking you might be the stupidest person alive, you let him drag you so you’re pinned beneath him. “Sexy,” you say with a wink.

You can feel his steady heartbeat this close. "You're annoying," he hisses. You see his eyes drop to the cross around your neck and take that as your opportunity to kick him in the groin. He grunts and his hold around you weakens. You shove him off of you and stand to make a move for the door. You don’t think he’ll kill you, but you don’t want to take that chance.

Before you reach the door, an arm wraps around your waist and pulls you harshly against a solid body. You hadn’t noticed before, but he’s tall. Very tall. “Where do you think you’re going?” he whispers in your ear.

It sends a thrill down your spine.

“Are you always this friendly?” you whisper back, hand coming up to touch his arm. Your fingers hardly wrap around his forearm.

In the blink of an eye, he has detached himself from you, falling to the floor. Your fingers tingle from the use of your power, slowing his heart rate enough that he would go unconscious, but not enough to kill him. With his regenerative abilities, though, you assume he’ll be back on his feet in about five minutes. You hardly ever use that ability, finding it invasive. With this man, however, you think your actions are justified.

You nudge his leg with your foot when Jean and Scott come running in. “Holy shit, you took him out yourself?” Scott asks incredulously. 

“I just slowed his heart rate so that he wouldn’t break all the bones in my body. I appreciate your faith in me, though, Scott,” you say, wiping your brow.

He approaches the man on the floor, coming to stand beside you. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. He nearly broke my skull, though.”

Scott raises a brow. 

“How are we going to get him adjusted if he won’t speak to us without starting a fight?” Jean asks as she starts to fix the state of the room.

“I think our best bet is to leave him alone,” you say.

Scott looks at you. His visor blocks his eyes, but you can tell they are looking at you as if you are crazy. “Leave him alone? He’ll wreak havoc trying to find a way out.”

You shrug. “I think there’s someone who might be able to convince him to stay.”

“Better than getting a face full of claws,” Jean says, glancing at his limp body.

Exhaustion washes over you when you take the elevator back upstairs. It’s three in the morning and the events of the day are finally hitting you square in the chest.

You slump against the metal railing of the elevator, relishing in the silence. Jean and Scott stayed with Logan to put him in a state of deep sleep so that he wouldn’t go stalking around the mansion at night. You could imagine how some poor child would react to running into such a large and imposing man in the middle of the night. It would be terrifying.

You run your fingers through your hair and pinch the bridge of your nose. His smell lingers around you, crowding your space. 

What a prick.

Fighting you like that when all you wanted to do was help him? What was he going to do? Kill you?

A part of you wants to believe that he wouldn’t do that, but another part of you understands that he would’ve done anything to get out of here.

Logan.

You test the name out on your tongue. You wonder if he has another name, too. Something all of his enemies know by heart.

Deciding that that was enough thinking for the night, you shut your brain off and exit the elevator. You make your way to your bedroom and collapse on your bed, sleep hitting you like a bus.

You wake, body aching and head throbbing. Although you managed to escape the fight with no outer wounds, your body protests as you remove yourself from your bed. Thank God it’s Saturday.

Thankfully, your mind allowed you a break from the night terrors that plagued you so frequently, instead replacing them with dreams of walking through a forest. As you walked farther into the dank, the trees began to die, but you woke before anything else could happen. 

You get ready for the day and make your way downstairs. In the kitchen, you see Ororo sitting at the counter with a mug of coffee in her hands. Before you can voice your question, she says, “There’s some in the pot.”

You grin and pour the coffee into your bright pink mug along with the creamer that sits by the pot. Scott calls the shade an affront to the color pink. “So…” you start.

“He isn’t awake yet. Charles thinks he’ll be up in an hour or so.”

Relief slumps your shoulders and you take a seat across from her, moving the coffee around in your mug before you take a sip. “He is crazy strong, Ororo,” you scoff. “It felt like his skeleton was made of metal. And his claws…” You shake your head.

“Charles thinks he’ll be useful to us.”

“I know. I just hope he calms down a bit.” 

Ororo gives you a sheepish smile. “You have to admit, he is handsome, though.”

You laugh. “That’s the impression he gave you?”

She shrugs. “I might have a different one if I had to fight him.”

You contemplate her statement. You suppose he was handsome, but it didn’t startle you when you first saw him. It was the kind of beauty that creeps up and you don’t realize it until you’ve been staring at them for too long. He was rugged, yes, but there was something enticing about his looks. A boyish quality. You remember the smirk that donned his face when he challenged you to a fight.

You shake your head. “Yeah, he definitely made an interesting impression.”

The two of you leave the kitchen once some of the older students begin filing in, many making their own breakfasts instead of eating the provided meal with the other students in the dining room. “Are we training today?” you ask as the two of you walk down the main hall.

“I think Charles wants us to wait until he’s spoken with Logan. Wants us to meet him properly.”

You roll your eyes. ‘Meet him properly.’ Tackling someone to the ground isn’t a proper greeting?

“Be nice,” you hear someone say behind you. Jean falls into stride with the two of you. 

“Jean! Don’t read my thoughts,” you say, pushing her lightly.

“But you think so loudly,” she complains.

The three of you make your way outside, deciding to steer clear of the mansion until Logan has had his conversation with Charles. “I really don’t want to run into him again. It would not be conducive to a healthy future relationship,” you mutter.

“He is kind of volatile, isn’t he?” Jean asks rhetorically. “I mean, he attacked with no real provocation.”

“Waking up in a room you’ve never been in with two strangers isn’t provoking enough?” Ororo asks, taking a seat at one of the lawn tables. You join her, leaning back in your chair.

Being in nature calms your nerves, but also sets them alight. Your senses come to life again and you hear the running water of the fountain, the wind whistling through the trees, and the small animals stepping in the grass. As Jean and Ororo continue their conversation, you close your eyes and lean your head back and allow yourself to connect. It is only the second day after the full moon, which means your sensitivity to everything around you is still high. You pull at the energy from the ground, letting it throb through your body. You feel the aching in your body disappear, feel your muscles rejuvenated, feel the blood pumping through your veins.

You hear the humming of a man’s voice, scratchy and slightly off-key. It’s a voice you haven’t heard in years. He’s humming something that only graces your ears in dreams. It scratches your scalp and kisses your forehead. Dad.

You steady your breathing, trying to latch onto his voice. You’ve never experienced this in the daytime; it usually only happens when you’re asleep or in a deep meditative state. The words of your friends fade away.

In your mind’s eye, you stand from the table and follow the humming into the woods. You stumble over fallen branches, but your unusual miscoordination doesn’t prick the logical part of your brain. All you can think of is your father. His voice roaming through the trees, taking you deeper into the woods. And suddenly, you are somewhere else.

The church. 

His voice is gone.

“No,” you whimper, turning into a young girl again. 

You feel the shackles of the past lock around your wrists, forcing you to your knees. A screech escapes your throat at a forcible yank of your hair backwards. You look up to see your mother staring down at you. Her eyes are pitch black. “Your father rejects you. Even in death, he will not visit your wretched soul,” she says with a sneer, pulling your hair farther back. It feels as if she is trying to rip it from your skull.

“He never rejected me,” you spit.

“Are you so sure?”

You open your eyes with a deep inhale. It wasn’t real. You remind yourself.

Jean and Ororo stare at you, waiting for your response to something. You subtly shake your head of the images conjured by your mind and ask, “Sorry, what were we talking about?”

You hope they assume your exhaustion from last night got the better of you and you simply dozed off for a moment. “Logan is ready to meet us,” Jean says, her eyes a reflection of worry. Not toward meeting Logan, to your dismay.

“Oh, great.”

Despite a desire to remain calm, your heart thunders in your chest. You worry your cross between your fingers. You have no idea what to expect from him; you fully believe he will pounce at you again. 

Ororo holds your hand as the three of you enter Charles’ study. Scott sits on the armrest of one of the chairs in the room, arms folded over his chest. Charles is behind his desk and sitting ever so casually on the edge of the desk, is Logan.

He wears a gray X-Men sweatshirt and the jeans he had on when he arrived at the mansion. His eyes fall to yours immediately, recognition filling his gaze. You break eye contact dismissively, going to sit on the other armrest of the chair Scott sits on. You keep your eyes strictly on Charles, but you feel Logan’s on you. Your heart doesn’t steady.

“Everyone, this is Logan Howlett. The Wolverine,” Charles says, gesturing to the man sitting on his desk.

Scott huffs a laugh. “Wolverine? Like the animal?”

You nudge him in the side. “As if Cyclops is any better.”

Charles clears his throat. “Please.”

“We are the X-Men, some of which you have already met.” Charles gives you a pointed look. You throw your hands up in defense. “I promise you not all of your introductions will be so…violent.”

Scott snickers. 

“Shut the hell up,” you hiss. Your eyes flick to Logan’s. He watches the interaction between you two carefully.

Charles goes around the room, introducing each of your friends to the stranger. When he gets to you, Logan’s stare bears into you heavier than it had before. It intimidates you, but doesn’t scare you. Charles tells him your name, following with, “Others know her as Proserpina, the Roman goddess of spring.”

You don’t expect him to say anything, but his voice fills your ears for the first time since last night. “The goddess of spring is who knocked me out cold last night?”

“It’s not just nature I can manipulate,” you say tersely. “Bub.”

His eyes narrow as his lips turn up in a smirk.

Charles finishes the introductions and tells the team that training will commence in thirty minutes. The second his spiel is over, you stand. Deciding to jump into the fire, you approach Logan. “Sorry about last night,” he says.

It takes you by surprise. You expected more of a fight from him.

“Uh, it’s okay,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “You gave me some much needed practice.”

You sense your friends watching your interaction from afar. Although they are conversing casually, you feel their eyes on you.

“Yeah, you seemed a little rusty, Pro.”

You narrow your eyes. “And you seemed a little overzealous, Wolverine.”

He grunts. “If that’s overzealous, then I worry for your boyfriend.” He points to Scott on the word boyfriend.

“Scott?” You laugh. “Now, that’s a good joke. You’re funny.”

A look of confusion crosses his face and you leave him like that, feeling content with how the conversation ended. Screw a healthy relationship.

━━━━━━━━━━☆━━━━━━━━━━━

i had to get this out of my brain or i was going to go crazy. i hope you enjoyed! im excited to keep writing them :)

[kazperthegh0st]

Leo realized too late that Nico di Angelo was extremely attractive.

Leo didn’t think of his friends as attractive.

Piper: angular features and gorgeous eyes and nice tits. But she was also Piper; the one who cried in his arms when she told him about her dad, the one who did his hair and nails, the one who could beat his ass. But he wasn’t attracted to her.

Jason: tall and strong and intense with a good chest. But he was also Jason; the one who saved him at the Grand Canyon, the one who never found Leo annoying, the one who died for the Prophecy so Leo could live.

And down the list of his friends. Were they gorgeous. Yes. Were they sexy. Yes. But they were his friends.

But Nico.

Nico gods.

Nico had never been the kind of guy that every camper wanted to ask out. That was always Jason or Percy. And more importantly, the campers refused to ask Nico out directly.

They had deemed Leo as the approachable one. And that was how Leo realized his best friend was so incredibly attractive.

Random campers approached him to ask him if Nico was single or straight or gay or if he’d be interested in them.

Several instances of this later, and Leo had comprised a list of responses to these questions:

“Is he single?”

“No sorry, he accidentally entered a marriage contract with the devil during a spooky ritual.”

“Is he gay?”

“Yeah sure! In the way that Viktor Frankenstein is gay: Nico is building himself a six foot tall boyfriend out of dead bodies.”

“Does he like girls?”

“Oh yeah totally. Loves ‘em. Especially virgins. He could probably use another sacrifice if youre interested in being carved open with a styngian iron sword.”

“Would he be interested in me?”

“No sorry, he prefers his lovers in the later stages of rigor mortus. If you get what im saying.”

And maybe Leo had taken it to far. Maybe he had made Nico seem too creepy. But so what. They didn’t have the balls to say anything to his face in the first place. Besides. Half the camp already thought Nico was weird and creepy; if they believed the stuff Leo had said, then they were assholes who didn’t deserve Nico in the first place.

The next time it happened. Leo snapped.

“Do you think he’d let me take him out on a date?”

“Hell fucking no! He wouldn’t let any of you assholes within twenty feet of him if he knew about this! He wouldn’t want anything to do with a shy asshole who is to scared of him to ask him out to his fucking face like he fucking deserves!”

The girl tried to stammer out a response but Leo was already marching in the direction of Cabin 13.

And then he was pounding on the big black door with his fists and all the strength he had in him.

The door opened a crack. Just enough that leo could observe an eye staring back at him through the darkness. Nico opened the door and stared at him.

“Are you okay? Is something wrong? Are you hurt?” Nico was asking him so many questions and ushering him quietly into the cabin and encouraging Leo to sit down on the edge of the bed.

Nico was crouching on the ground in front of him and all Leo could think about was how pretty his face was.

Nico, who had matured into such an attractive and kind individual. Nico with gorgeous hair that framed his face. With delicate eyeliner. With pretty lips and soft cheeks that Leo wanted to press gentle kisses to.

Nico put the back of his hand against Leo’s forehead.

“You’re so hot,” Nico said.

Leo laughed.

“Not like that.” Nico sighed. “You’re burning up. Worse than a fever. Is something wrong?”

Leo nodded numbly.

“So it’s just a stress thing? Youre not burning up cause you’re sick?”

Nico sat on the bed next to him and pulled him into a hug. “Talk to me.”

“You’re a really good friend, Nico.”

“Thanks but,” Nico paused, “this isn’t about me Leo, it’s about you.”

“No.” Leo said. “It is about you.”

“It is?” Leo felt Nico start to pull away.

“No wait. Its not you. Its not I promise I just.”

“Its what?” Nico asked, cautiously.

“Half of the camp is in love with you.”

“Leo?” Nico asked. “Are you ok? When’s the last time you got some sleep?”

“No, no, listen, Im not crazy!” Leo stood and paced back and forth as he spoke. “Im not crazy. Every day for the past week there’s been at least five campers that have come up to me to ask about you. People who dont even know you!”

Lep paused to catch his breath. Then he pitched his voice and imitated the questions he’d been asked. “Is he gay? Is he interesten in me? Would he want to ho out with me? What does his ideal girl look like? What would a good date idea be? Is he single? Is he taken? Is he this is he that!”

“I’m just so sick of it. They don’t even know you and they’re to scared of you to ask you in the first place.” Leo tossed his head back and laughed. “So they come to me to ask! Because I’m your best friend. They harass me because they’re too scared to talk to you.”

“Im sorry-“ nico started.

“Don’t apologize! Its not you’re fault that they’re assholes. Its just. They dont even know you. They have this idea of who you are but its not you. Its not even close. They have no clue how kind or funny you are. They only want you because Alternative cultures are being seen as cool again.”

“They shouldn’t be bothering you.”

“They don’t know you like I know you. They don’t care about you like I do.”

“Leo, I-“

“And I’m running out of excuses— running out of things to tell them so they’ll leave me alone. I don’t know what to do anymore. I don’t know what to tell them.”

“Tell them,” Nico started, his voice quiet. “Tell them that I’m yours.”

Leo stared at him.

“What?”

“Tell them I’m yours.”

“What-“

“But only if you want me to be— want me to be yours that is.”

“I- You- Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah.”

“Like for real? You want me to be your boyfriend?”

Nico nodded. He stared down at his shoes.

Leo approached him. And tilted Nico’s face up, forcing the son of Hades to look him in the eyes.

Nico’s whole face was red.

“Fuck yeah.”

[marie-swriting]

Everything Was Okay - Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw

Top Gun Maverick Masterlist

Summary : You and Bradley are in love, but overnight, he stops reaching out.

Warnings : angst, ghosting, sad ending, mention of Goose's death, feeling like you're not enough, maybe some grammatical mistakes as English is not my first language, tell me if you see some or if I missed any warnings.

Word count : 2.1k

French version

Song inspiration : Forever And Always (Taylor's Version) by Taylor Swift

In your bed, you’re straddling Bradley’s lap while you’re talking about your favorite book, Frankenstein, and its author and making big gestures to emphasise your words. You’re completely focused on your improvised essay and Bradley is focused on the passion with which you’re speaking. He looks at you with starry eyes while he tries to follow your train of thoughts as best as he can. He doesn’t stop you, allowing you to get out everything you have in mind. A smile makes its way to his face, realising how his affection for you turns a bit more into love. 

After rambling for about an hour, you breathe normally again, recovering from your passion rush.

“Long story short, you absolutely have to read this book,” you conclude, beaming brightly. “I can’t believe you’ve never read it.”

“Everybody knows the story, I don’t see the point of doing it,” Bradley replies, shrugging and you dramatically roll your eyes.

“See, that is the precise reason everybody misinterprets Frankenstein. It’s exactly why people think Frankenstein refers to the creature when it’s actually-”

“The scientist, I know. See, I listen to you.”

“And weirdly enough when I ask you to put the toilet seat down, you don’t.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, faking an innocent expression.

“Yeah, let’s say that,” you add, quickly tickling him.

In one move, Bradley takes your hands and gives you a defiant stare before throwing you over and taking the upper hand. You laugh while Bradley starts tickling you. By some miracle, you manage to grab the pillow next to your head and hit him with it. He pretends to fall by your side, playing dead. Once you’ve let your guard down, he takes you in his arms and kisses you passionately.

“I love you,” Bradley suddenly confesses.

“I love you, too.”

“You have no idea how happy I am with you. I’m yours forever and always.”

Overwhelmed by this new milestone in your relationship, you put your hands on both sides of his face before pressing your lips on his again.

A loving smile makes its way on your face as you think back to the first time you said “I love you” to Bradley while staring at your copy of Frankenstein. You sit down on your couch and put a blanket over your legs. Before starting your reading, you take your phone and check your notifications. Bradley has been in deployment for three months, he’s coming back in two weeks and you haven’t had any update from him for two days now. You know he can have busy days thus you don’t worry too much but you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t give anything to have a message from him. You open your conversation and take a picture of your book before sending it to him with a quick text. 

Text from you to Bradley, 9:50 P.M.:

Daily reminder you have to read it or we’ll break up ❤️

You put your phone next to you and peruse for the umpteenth times your favorite novel.

Day six.

You haven’t heard from him for six days. Yet, Bradley has read your texts. Sometimes he reads them and only replies a few hours later but in this case, it’s not normal. You don’t understand what’s happening. One day Bradley did not text you back for three days though it was only one time and he felt guilty about it. Of course, you had promised him you weren’t mad at him, knowing it wasn’t his fault. You understand his work keeps him busy. However, right now, your guts can’t stop whispering in your ears something is wrong. Bradley should have found a way to talk to you by now. 

You try not to imagine the worst case scenarios and search for a rational explanation. In any case, Bradley will call you tomorrow. Last time you talked, he told you which day he’d be free so, in any case, you’ll hear from him tomorrow. No need to panic... right?

He still hasn’t called.

He told you he’d call around 7:00 P.M. and it’s almost nine and still nothing. Maybe something came up? Anxious, you put on a random tv show as you wait for his call. Every ten seconds, you check your phone to make sure you haven’t missed his call or a text saying he’d ring you later. But nothing. Radio silence. In spite of yourself, you start biting your nails, something you only do when you’re too stressed. Your eyes have stopped watching the tv for twenty minutes and they’re now staring at your phone as if they could magically make a call from Bradley appear. You wait for so long that you end up falling asleep on your couch when the clock is about to strike 2:00 A.M..

You still don’t have any news from him, consequently you start worrying more and more. Maybe he’s been hurt and considering you’re only his girlfriend you didn’t get a call? You sent a text to Phoenix and she told you Bradley had to eject while training, though nothing bad happened to him hence there’s no reason why he hasn’t communicated with you. Natasha tried to reassure you by saying maybe he has some problem with his phone which would explain his silence. Though, you both know there’s something fishy going on.

His silence isn’t trivial. Something is up. You think back to the last time you saw each other and everything seems normal. You had spent the night at his place, enjoying as much as you could your boyfriend before he had to leave. You hadn’t gone out, you had only watched a movie before going to bed, well you had actually talked for a few hours before sleeping. The next morning, in spite of the fatigue, Bradley hadn’t regretted it, he had been glad he had made the most of the last moments he had with you. Therefore, everything was okay. You had done nothing wrong or at least, you don’t think you had. Was it your last call with Bradley? It hadn’t been a long one, he was tired of his day. He had only told you his assignment - at least, the nonclassified details - and then, you had explained what you had been up to. Bradley had ended up falling asleep on the phone. You had smiled as you had heard his light snores. You had hung up then sent a ‘goodnight, I love you ❤️’ text before doing just like him. This sudden change in character can’t be caused by your last call either. Everything was okay. Was it one of your last texts then? You open the conversation and read some of them. Nothing out of the ordinary, some ‘I love you’s here and there, some random discussions, others more serious ones but nothing too bad. You really don’t get it. Everything is supposed to be okay so why is he playing dead?

The more the time goes by, the more a thought makes its way to your mind: what if everything was over? What if Bradley wanted to break up? It would explain his sudden silence. If you’re right, you don’t know what you did wrong. You overanalyze it time and time again, you were happy with him just like you thought he was with you; you are about to celebrate your one year anniversary, therefore why would he end it now? It made no sense. 

You try not to be pessimistic, yet as the silence grows louder, the more complicated it is. You feel so low that you can’t even work properly. You’re making a lot of mistakes at the café, mistakes you used to do when you had begun five years ago. And the second you’re home, it’s no better. You only eat what you need, not being too hungry and you spend your nights in your bed, rereading your numerous texts, searching for how you could end up this way. How could you go from ‘I’m yours forever and always’ to having no news at all.

Two weeks have gone by since the beginning of Bradley's silence vow consequently you know he has come back and you’re set on confronting him; the sadness having officially turned into anger. He can’t just ignore you that way, promising the earth and then overnight not talking to you anymore. You want explanations and you will get them.

However, you don’t even have the time to leave your house when someone knocks on your door and the second you open it, you find Bradley with a shameful expression on his face. At least, he’s not proud of what he’s done, it’s already a start.

“Did you remember you had a girlfriend?” you sharply ask and he looks down.

“Can I come in?”

“Depends, are you going to let me do all the talking or are you gonna answer?”

“I’m gonna answer,” he says, looking up.

Despite your annoyance, you step aside and allow him to come into your house. Bradley walks to your living room while you follow him, preparing yourself for what he’s about to say.

“I know I owe you some explanations,” Bradley starts, scratching his neck.

“You totally do. You stopped replying to me, I was worried! I called Natasha and she told me that besides the time you had to eject and you didn’t get injured, nothing happened to you. So tell me!” you retort, angry and hurt. “Was it something I did? Did I say something that hurt you? Because, clearly, you’re avoiding me and I have no idea why. For me, everything was okay between us before you left, so tell me. If you wanna break up, fine, but tell me.”

“I… we should stop,” he states.

“Why? What changed?”

“It’s better that way.”

“You gotta do better than this. I just spent two awful weeks because of your cowardice.”

“You deserve better,” Bradley explains after taking a deep breath, “someone who doesn’t always have to leave for work and who isn’t risking his life.”

“And who do you think you are to take this decision for me? I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to date you. I know damn well you have to be away for a long period of time, that your job is dangerous and I’m not gonna lie, I miss you and I fret every day, and yet I still wanna be with you,” you reply, pointing your finger at him. “I made the choice to stay with you because I love you. You don’t have the right to decide we should stop because of things I accepted.”

“You’re saying this now but in the long run, you’ll change your mind.”

“And how do you know? You don’t even want to try to last longer than a year with me.”

“You can’t understand,” he insists, avoiding your gaze for a second.

“I understand you’re a coward. You create a problem on your own and to solve it you want to break up. You know what? You won. It’s over between us,” you announce, angry tears about to fall. “And not because of your work, but because you ruined everything. I have been miserable for two weeks, worrying myself sick, questioning myself, thinking I wasn’t enough and all of this so you could come back swanning in just to toss me aside like an old sock. And I won’t stand for it. Get out,” you add, coldly, showing him the exit. “Get out of my house, Bradley. I don’t wanna see you ever again.”

Heart tightening in his chest, Bradley nods and turns around without looking back, without seeing the tears streaming down your cheeks, though he hears your sob the second he closes the door. You stare at it for a few minutes, replaying the scene in your head. You thought you’d get answers, you only got more confused. You sit down on your couch, tears still making their ways on your face. 

Top Gun Maverick Masterlist

Bradley’s face is in a similar state. He tries wiping his tears in vain. He gets in his Bronco, breathing deeply several times before driving away. He keeps telling himself he did the right thing, he shouldn’t regret it, yet his heartache only grows. He doesn’t like the way he ended things with you, he should have done better, however he didn’t have the strength to gather his courage and tell you things directly. Bradley knows he’ll never find someone like you, but he thinks it’s better that way. He thought he was ready for a serious relationship, that the ghost of his parents had left him, yet he only had to eject once and to stay at the hospital for observation for him to imagine a future where you two would have the same fate as his parents and he can’t handle it. He’d rather suffer by cowardly leaving you behind instead of leaving you to grieve his death until the end of your life.

[naffeclipse]

For Charm Brought It Back:

I love how 2/3 boys explicitly vow to keep their bride warm because the cold is out there and it WILL kill you.

Does this mean they can be sweet talked into starting the car for us on cold days?

Enchanted socks that keep your feet the right temperature?

Do they click the thermostat up a couple of degrees at night because there isn't a fire they can tend as a little act of love?

(It's cold here and all I can think is if someone vowed to keep me warm I would say "I do" on the spot 😅)

Nothing is too much or too little for their darling bride! Sun is gonna fumble with the keys and curse the vehicle before he figures out how to turn it on, but you can bet it'll be nice and toasty before Y/N gets in. Moon would definitely knit some enchanted socks and even a hat for his new spouse. There is a fireplace in the boys' home, so Eclipse would make sure to keep it well tended, as well as the Sun and Moon. The witches would also work together to sew a nice quilt for their bride. They would be so secretive about it and work on it at odd hours with each witch taking a turn to do their own pattern and design. It's a Frankenstein of a quilt but when they finally present it to their bride, they love it dearly! And it's large enough to fit everyone under its covers.

[bethebesttoyou]

Vampire In the Corner - Huening Kai

Synopsis: y/n learns the meaning of "reaping what you sow", when she wishes for a romance experience, only for it to come back as the form of a hungry vampire.

pairing: Vampire! Huening Kai x College student!reader

song: Vampire in the Corner - Magdalena Bay ( this song has been stuck in my head TEW GOOD) the song itself is quirky and kinda weird and sweet and I tried to make it the same vibe, but then like always we lost the plot. But it's inspired! Also inspired by Lisa Frankenstein! Also bad writing, but practice makes perfect :D

warning: Blood and biting and you know vampire stuff... the whole shebang.... and I think that's it! I tried to make it fluff and but honestly the mind does its own thing most of the time *sigh* Winter as a wannabe witch (or is she?) You as a hopeless romantic.

wc: 5k (😀)

A/N: You ever get a storyline stuck in your head and you love it so much, that even seeing it actually written down isn't enough? I need to be IN this story. I had this song and storyline stuck in my head and honestly not sure if I did it any justice but I wanted to so badly put it out before 1. I lost it and 2. I started to see the flaws in it.... If theres any plot holes, no there isn't <3 KIDDING PLS TELL ME

…And what endearments am I allowed? Let me think. Lizzie for everyday. My pearl for sundays and goddess divine…

The small tv illuminated the dark living room area of Soobin and Beomgyu’s apartment. Five faces braced the bright light, with one pair of eyes sparkling at the scene of her favorite movie, while the others watched with amusement at the cheesiness of it all. Surrounding them were plates with pizza scraps, sugary drinks and chips as they laid in different positions on the floor. 

…And how are you this evening Mrs. Darcy?...

“And how are you this evening, Mrs. Darcy?” the five of you repeat, you with a love laced voice, while the others mocked then gagged. 

“Seriously, who wrote the script…” Beomgyu groans as he rolls his head back. The credits had begun to roll down the screen, Winter reaching forward to pause the video. 

“A genius... You wouldn't know anything about that.” You throw the pillow towards him, hitting him square in the chest. 

“Alright, birthday girl… what’s next?” Yunjin grabs her plate, setting it on the already full coffee table, before stretching her hands in the air. 

This was a common Friday night for the five of you, while the apartment complex was buzzing with drunk college kids and a loud bass making the walls vibrate, your plans consisted of junk food, ranting, movies, trying not to kill Beomgyu and sometimes board games that Soobin stole from the recreational area on campus. Today, being your birthday, was spent doing everything you wanted to do, which included watching romance movies until the sun went down. You were three movies in before you decided to officially call it quits. 

“Hmm… I think Ive tortured you guys enough…” 

“Thank god…” Soobin whispers on the other side of the coffee table. 

“You guys suck! The girls enjoyed it right!?” 

“No.” Winter states blandly, her eyes covered by her dark side bang. 

“Um…I enjoyed you watching it~” Yunjin tries to flirt her way out, when she sees your glare, she continues, “okay present time! Me first! Me first!” 

She stands quickly running to her bag when Winter and Beomgyu pull out the boxes from behind them. 

“Quick. Open them before she upstages us.” Beomgyu whispers, pushing the boxes into your hands, Winter nods enthusiastically. 

You laugh before unwrapping Beomgyu’s box. Within the precise wrapping was a knitted brown sweater, the fabric was soft and decorated with blue flowers and patterns, accompanied with a matching blue beanie. It screamed you, as you put the sweater on, the color matching your maxi skirt. 

“Thanks Beomie! It's so me!!” 

“I know! I stalked your socials!” He said with a childlike excitement. 

“Oh!” 

“Me next! Me next!” Winter pushes the smaller box towards you. 

The box itself was wrapped in all black being held on all four sides by a gold ribbon. Untying it revealed a small vial of gray glittery liquid. A potion. 

“It's an armor potion. Meant to keep you from getting harmed if ever in danger. Made it myself!” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. 

“That's weird.” Beomgyu says upfront. You elbow him in the chest. It was weird, but thoughtful.

After no one speaks, she continues. “It can also be just for decoration.” 

“Youre so right! Going straight onto my shelf! Thanks Winnie! It's beautiful.” 

“Let's just hope she never has to use it.” Soobin glanced nervously at Winter’s small smile. 

“Me and Soobin pitched in together to get you this one…” Yunjin hands you their box. Opening it revealed a digital camera, already decorations with painted red flowers, and pink and white stars. 

“Oh my god… It's beautiful.” You looked at them both with adoration as they high five. 

“We know you've been wanting to take more pictures!” 

“Guys… All of you! I love you, guys!” your tears are threatening to spill. 

You wouldn't say your group of five were considered losers on campus…more so you weren't considered at all. Invisible really. Except for Winter, whose darkly appearance would garner stares and giggles. But no one really minded. Being in your own little world had its perks, You were able to be yourselves, able to speak your mind, maybe get bullied for it but in your own loving way. The outside world hurt, it burned and felt lonely. In the boy’s shared apartment, life felt easy and hopeful. 

You knew you made an odd bunch, different personalities mixed together wouldn't have probably worked for others, but you all genuinely enjoyed each other's presence. Whether the night consisted of Winter begging to contact ghosts or trying out spells she saw on some weird witch website, or Beomgyu and Soobin arguing about which game graphics were better on which console, or even Yunjins heated rants about everyone she hates (which amounts up to everyone), your nights were never boring. Spending your birthday with them was no different. In fact, nothing felt more like family. 

“Quick! Group picture before she starts getting sentimental!” 

You set the timer on the old camera, wiping your eyes before sitting in between Beomgyu and Winter, both resting their heads on your shoulders, Yunjin and Soobin joining in, sitting at the ends. The flash goes off as giggles spread around the room. 

—--

The clock had hit 1am by the time some were beginning to fall asleep on the ground. It marked the end of the night so once the cake was cut, and the group made fun of you for loudly wishing for a boyfriend on your candles, the five of you cleaned and started heading out. 

“Are you sure you don't want any of us to walk you home? It's really late…” Yunjin and Beomgyu look concerned as you all stand outside. 

Your place was towards the other direction than the others, leading you to have to take the dark road up to the furthest wing of dorms. 

“Yeah…I dont mind walking you.” Soobin stated, pushing his glasses up. He looked nervous watching the path to your dorm disappear in the darkness, crowded with trees and shrubs, letting you know he was more scared than you were. The path itself looked like a forest with how covered it was, the wind making the branches rattle and crack as the ‘hoos’ and caws from the nightbirds became louder. 

“Guys, it takes me like 8 minutes to get up there, ill be okay…who knows maybe I'll find the love of my life in those scary bushes.” 

“I dont think anything good is coming out of that forest…” 

You shrug, “I like bad boys too.” 

They groan, again. 

“Hey, you have that potion on you right?” Winter says from the back. 

“Yes, ofcourse!” 

“Dont be scared to use it.” 

“After I use it, they should be scared of me.” 

“YES!” Winter exclaims proudly. 

“Okay! Bye guys! Love you!” You exclaim, walking towards the dark end of the street, before they can protest. 

“Text us when you get home!” Yunjin yells. 

While they worried, this wasn't a new path to you. You had taken it many times since the group formed back in freshman year, when beomgyu and Soobin had invited you guys over to discuss some group project at the time. It was fate that the five of you were the last remaining students with no group to work with yet (maybe not fate, since no one wanted to work with introverted losers). You were boy crazy then too, the smiles of both beomgyu and Soobin had you in a trance, convinced that they were much in love with you as you were with them. But the infatuation wore out. It always did. Your obsession with love and the consumption of it,drove you to binging romcoms, staring at couples in restaurants, daydreaming about meeting your charming prince, and falling with just about anyone you'd meet. Yes, you were a little weird and your social skills might've been a little off to those you weren't close with, but you knew there was someone out there for you. Yet, you never actually went further than the feelings you gain, you would obsess then let it fizzle out. It was a routine, and kept your thoughts running at 80mph. 

You craved romance and would have sold your soul to be able to actually experience it. The late night kisses, the giggling under covers, the shy hand holding, the flustered cheeks, the sighing kisses, everything, you fantasized about it all. And you thought about it every single day, taking up most of your thoughts, leaving you distracted just like now. 

You were so distracted in fact,  walking the dirt road through the trees, as the moonlight made your footsteps cast shadows, that you didn't hear the other pair of footsteps behind you, or the wisps that caused the leaves to rustle. It wasn't till the crack of a branch nearby that you came to a halt.

You looked around for a sign of movement, holding onto the strap of your crossbody, listening in for any other sounds. The wind picked up, causing a chill down your spine, before you chuckle slightly, the fear slowly dissipating before blaming the weather for the scare. 

“Hi.”  A voice spoke, making you whip around to see no one, only when you face back to the direction of home, a man stands in front of you. Grasping at your heart, you stand still as you take a good look at him. The moonlight bounces on his black hair and his pale white skin that shines specks of crystal like freckles, but his eyes… no light reflects on them. 

“H-hi.” You respond back. You can't stop staring at his eyes as his pupils dilate and then return to normal. He steps forward and you step back, almost losing your balance. 

“I-its really late, a d-damsel like yourself shouldn't be l-left alone so late at n-night.” The man stutters out, he seems nervous and almost tired, with the heavy breaths he's pushing out. He rolls his head slowly, almost trying to regain any composure and opens his mouth, as he, very noticeably, stretches his jaw out and that's when you see it. Reflected by the white dull light of the moon, his two sharp teeth shine, pointy and thick…fangs. 

He returns your stare, licking the grooves of his top teeth. 

“Are…are you a vampire?” You ask, eyes wide and for a second, he's mirroring your reaction. 

Why arent you screaming yet? Neither of you move, and the figure looks at you confused. Why would you ask that so nonchalantly?

“Um…yes?” His brows were furrowed and head tilted. 

“Oh…” 

“Are you not scared?” 

You thought about it for a moment. Your hand was still on your heart, feeling the quick beats hit against your chest, yet you couldn't necessarily blame it on fear. You were…intrigued. The glimpse of half of his face left you wanting a closer look, the shining of his skin was blinding and distracting. 

“Youre so…pretty.” You say, mostly to yourself, but he is able to catch it. His eyes widen, watching your eyes sparkle with the moonlight and he feels heat rise to his cheeks.

“Um… What's your name?” You ask out of habit. 

“Kai.” 

“Y/N.” 

He nods. You can tell he's having a mental war with himself. This is probably not how these things go for him as he scratches his head softly. 

 With that, you realized why you weren't scared, he was not intimidating at all. Everything about him was soft, even the curve of his nose and the softness of his jaw. He didn't look like a threat. He looked like a painting, with his white flowy button up under a blue vest and blue jeans, his hair that laid like a mop on his head flowed in the breeze, uncovering a bit of his forehead. His teeth stuck out of his ‘o’ shaped mouth, you wondered how they would feel, if they were as sharp as they looked. 

You take a step forward, he takes a step back. 

“Um… Kai…Can…can I touch them?” 

“What? M-my fangs?” 

You nod nervously, almost regretting feeling bold enough to ask. Its the one thing that can kill you in this moment and yet the urge to feel them clouds your judgement. 

Kai, on the other hand, is completely lost in this situation, he has never garnered this reaction before. He's never been called pretty before. And he's caught off guard again when he realizes he's opening his mouth widely giving the stranger room to feel. 

You reach with one finger to smoothly feel the top before reaching the sharp end. The plush skin of your finger is not a sensation that Kai can turn a blind eye to, and yet he doesn't understand why he doesn't just bite down. You were merely food to him, so why is he having so much hesitation when it comes to you? 

Wind blows a bit harder this time around, reminding you where you were, the vibrations coming from your bag becoming louder. Shit. You remove your fingers from his teeth harshly. 

You begin to rummage through your bag before pulling it out and answering, the strange man still watching you in shock. 

“Hello?” 

What the hell? Are you dead? We have been calling and texting!! Soobin is on the other end, and you can hear beomgyu ask frantically, Did she answer? 

“I know, i-im sorry… I, uh, got caught up w-with something.” 

are you home atleast? 

You looked at the flustered vampire who was looking at you, disoriented. 

“Uhh, Yes, I'm heading to bed now, bye!” 

Hey! Wha- *Click* 

You focus on him again and then the lights of the building behind him. 

His pained face alerts you. 

“What?” 

“Your finger…” You look down at your hands and feel the liquidy substance dripping.

“Fuck.” You say as you begin wiping the blood on your skirt, but this just pains him more, a growl from his stomach breaking the silence. You stare up at him. The eye contact is prolonged as once again, he seems to be at a crossroads. Was he about to kill you? 

“I-Im just g-gonna go.” he grunts, and you feel a breath you didn't know you were holding. 

As he tries to make his departure, he finds himself once again feeling tired, but this time unable to stand straight, leaning on a tree close by, heaving. 

“A-are you okay?” You step closer, putting a hand on his back cautiously. 

He groans again, falling to his knees. 

“H-hungry…” He turns his neck to look at you and there's tears pooling in his eyes, theres red thick veins traveling from the inside of his shirt up up his neck and jaw, pulsing, each one causing him to close his eyes in pain, he looked like he was dying…it looked unbearable. You feel your eyes soften and you begin to worry. 

“Oh.. Um…” Your mind races trying to find a solution that doesn't involve dying or killing a person. OH! 

“S-Stay here! Ill be right back!” He turns to lean against the tree, sniffling, holding his stomach as the crystals in his skin start to fade. 

You sprint out of the tree infested woods, across the back lawn of the campus and head straight to the 24 hour diner. It would be the only place open at this time. You thought about it for a moment, how this couldve been your escape. Nothing was stopping you from leaving him there, from escaping danger. He didn't have to voice that he had every intention of killing you tonight, you knew, and yet his matted black eyes filled with tears made you run faster, the act of someone dying in front of you made you keep running. 

The door rings as you barge into the lonely diner, one booth occupied by a young looking man stirring his cup. You head towards the counter, frantically ringing the service bell. 

“You dont have to ring it that many times. How can i help you?” A very bored looking Anton waits for your order, but you cant stop your heavy breathing. You knew Anton from class, he had asked for a pen more than once, you thought he liked you, he just really needed a pen. And nothing reassured that statement than this moment, as he seemed to not realize who you were. 

“Um..” you clear your throat, “I-I need your bloodiest steak. Dont cook it.” He gave you a weirded out look.

“I legally cant give you that. Its a safety hazard. What? do you eat them raw?” 

you were running out of time. 

“Look, i have with me…” you take your wallet out counting your change, including your birthday money from your parents, “ 60 bucks for an uncooked steak, the bloodiest one you have. There's no cameras, so j-just take the bribe.” 

“Is this a prank?” 

“No? Please, Anton.” 

“How do you know my name?” Ouch. 

“We have class together, does it matter? The steak.” You were growing frustrated as you stole glances towards the trees in the distance. 

“Fine.” He takes the money from your hand and shoves it in his jeans before walking to the back. As you waited, you began to process the night. 

He could have just sucked your blood and left. You wonder what stopped him. What made him show you any mercy? Or was it maybe your blood doesn't smell tasty enough? Did even vampires not want you? You were kind of offended. 

“Here, it was the last one in the bag, so i just kept it with the juices.” He grimaced, staring at the sloshing of blood in the clear bag, “Is this for that one girl, whats her name? Autumn? Isnt she a wit-“ 

“Cant stay! Bye!” 

He watches as you leave the diner, heading straight towards the dark woods, and he shutters. weird, that was weird. 

As you get closer to the tree, you notice a crawling figure making their way out of the path, it was kai. Kai was on his knees, looking worse by the minute. You felt fear in this moment, if you get close to him, will he be able to control himself? But with the brittle way he tries to hold himself up, you knew you didnt have the heart to leave him there. you stick your hand in your bag to feel the vial, maybe winter knew what she was doing when she gave you this. So you run the rest of the journey, and begin to pull him up, setting him up against another tree nearby, watching the veins now turn black and thicker, it was like something inside him was eating him up. The tears were now running down his cheeks, and his hair was looking tussled. 

“what are you doing? I told you to stay… You're wasting your energy.” 

“I think I'm dying…”

“Here, I hope this helps.” You pull the bloody steak out of the bag and prepare for him to grab it, only for him to begin eating from your hand, with his teeth digging into the slab of meat aggressively. With each slurp the veins retract back into his skin, the softness and shininess coming back. Your hands tugged every now and then, as you tried to stay still, the blood was running down his neck and bleeding into his white blouse as he sucked the last drop. The crystallized freckles popped out one by one and even a dozen more, his cheeks were fuller and had a bit more color than before.And his black eyes were no longer dull, they were shining and reflecting the light coming from the nearby building. The most noticeable change was his lips, that were once dry and cracked, had become tinted pink and soft, creating their very own gloss. 

His eyes looked up to you after realizing the steak was now dry. The pink on his cheeks grows a shade darker as he stares, slowly releasing the meat from his hold, letting the weight, or lack of it, hang on your fingertips. You clear your throat. 

“Um… complementary blood juice?” 

“You're so weird… What are you?Why aren't you running away? Matter of fact, why did you come back?” He no longer feels at death's door, having the energy to investigate. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and you watch as the blood drips from his mouth. You swallow hard. 

“I-Im human. Im Y/N.” His head tilts. 

“I know your name… why did you come back?” 

“I dont know… I don't know! You looked pretty but also sad and scared and you were crying… I couldn't leave you like that!” You're looking down at your hands, noticing not only the dry blood on them, but the ring of mud on your skirt. Anton had every right to be weirded out.

Kai covers his face with his hands, “Stop calling me pretty!” 

“Im sorry.” There's a beat of silence. 

“Where did you even get this? Did you put something in it? Are you working for someone?” 

“What?! No! I-I bought it! Pretty expensive I might add! And I-I expect to be paid!” 

“Dont worry, I can afford a 5 dollar steak” He smugly adds.  

“Ha! 5 dollars… what world are you living in?! You're in the year 2025!! That steak was 60!! 60 dollars!!” You refrain telling him the part where you offered that much. 

“60 dollars?! Where did you get 60 dollars from?!” He looks you up and down, from the muddy brown skirt to your new brown, now covered in splotches of red, sweater.

“It was birthday money.” you snap unintentionally. A beat of silence passes. 

“I'm sorry, I'm being ungrateful, you just saved me…I just… humans aren't usually this… caring? Happy Birthday….by the way…” 

“Thank you.” You sheepishly state, no longer looking at him as the heat rises to your cheeks. You grab your phone from your bag again, taking a look at the time. 2:43am. The group chat had died down by this point, leaving you with a couple of missed calls and messages of concern and then an updated message from your call with Soobin before everyone started saying good night. One message caught your eye though, a private message from Winter. 

1:20am

Please be careful…

“What is that?” 

“What?”

“In your hand? You talked to it earlier too, right?” 

Hes leaning forward now, scooting a bit closer. Its almost like he forgot he was a threat and you leaned back, before he looked at you and then back your hand curiously. 

“My phone…it's a phone.” 

“Woah… you mean like the telephone was modernized? Where’s the wiring?” 

“Its mobile now… l-like wireless?” 

“Wireless?! That's so interesting…This is so advanced, where are the buttons?” His eyes are bright with curiosity. 

“Its touchscreen!” His excitement was contagious and you couldn't help but giggle. 

“Touchscreen?” 

“Yeah, look!” You say clicking it on, the lock screen displaying a picture of Winter and Soobin wearing halloween masks posing back to back. You smile softly. You unlock it, passing it over to him to look through. Your hand skims his as he grabs the device. You feel a shock before pulling your hand away quickly, knocking your bag and hearing the items that it contains hitting the floor. Your eyes widening looking back at him and see he's already staring at you with the same expression. You clear your throat and frantically start collecting the items. 

I'm crazy but not Bella crazy. You thought. 

As you watch him scroll through your social media, leaving likes accidentally, asking ‘who is this?” Every time someone comes up, you realize just  how funny this all is. Here you were hanging out with a vampire. You were sure you were gonna wake up at some point. 

“What year were you born?” He stops to look at you, thinking for a moment…

“I dont really remember…” His eyes dim, brows scrunch together. “I've been 22 for a while…” He clears his throat, “What about you? I mean, how old are you?” 

“I turned 22 a couple hours ago” 

He nods. 

“Its been awhile since I've been up again… this era feels different. Everything seems so…” 

“Boring? It might just be the town.” 

“No it just feels like something big is gonna happen, It makes me nervous.” 

“Oh… are there more of you?” Your phone is no longer on, his gaze intensifies. 

“Y-yes. Actually, it's getting late… You should head home.” He gets up as quickly as he can still groaning, probably the blood was still working its way through his system. 

“You're letting me go?” 

“Ofcourse, you saved my life.” 

You felt silly but couldn't help but ask. 

“Will I ever see you again?” He looks up at the trees, looking around like he’s keeping guard. 

“I don't know if that's a good idea…” 

“Well… you still owe me 60 bucks…” He laughs, and it makes him look the most human, even with the sharp teeth. 

“Okay. I'll be back with your money, but for now, let's get you home.” 

Luckily, the walk to your dorm was taking a bit longer than it usually did, both of your footsteps slowly making its way down the cemented path to the dorms. You still had so many questions, yet no way of framing them without coming across as nosy. You wanted to know more about him, why was he in this lousy college town, why doesn't he remember where he's from, who are the others and why did he look so nervous mentioning them. But instead, you had to start small, not wanting to bring up troubling thoughts. 

“What was your last year awake?” 

“Hmmm…guess?” He smirks and looks down at you, his hands locked behind him, holding on to the bag of steak juice that was probably a bit warm now. 

“Okay, well you knew about the telephone but they weren't wireless… and your steak prices were unimaginably low, but your denim fashion is throwing me off…Hmmm…” 

“Was denim a thing recently?” 

“Well, theyve always been a thing but jean vest give off 80’s or 90’s…Thats not my answer though!”

He's squinting his eyes at you, trying to force a smile down. 

“19…7…1?” 

“Ooo, close. 1965.” 

“damn…But the jean vest?!” 

“It was outta sight! All the rebels were wearing it!” 

“But, you don't seem like the rebel type, you're too nice.” 

“I dont know about nice…” he rubs the back of his neck, “but someone like me has to blend in.” 

“Hmm…” 

“What about you?”

“What about me?” 

“Are you a rebel?” Kai looks at you amused with a smile, and it only grows as you heat up.

“G-god no! I'm not built for that lifestyle.” It was true, you were weird but all you ever did was follow the rules, anything that felt mildly risky, threw you out for a loop. 

He laughs and nods. 

“I'm like that too.” 

“Yeah right…” 

“No really! I've never been good at being “bad”…maybe that's why I couldnt…you know…” Hes referring to the moment back in the woods. 

“Oh, yeah well, thanks for that.” 

“No, um thank you.” He remembers the look of curiosity upon your face as he sucked on the steak, the way your mouth hung open and your eyebrows furrowed together, your eyes displayed different emotions at a grand speed, he wasn't sure if you once ever looked disgusted, and he was glad he didn't.  He never wanted to be at the receiving end of it. 

You took your keys out. Looking back at him, you had one more question to ask…

“Have you ever…killed someone?” He stares at you, once again the intensity of his stare grows, like back when you asked if there were more of him. 

“...not directly… Ive…fed on them before but they were already dead.” He whispers and he looks so ashamed. 

“You really shouldn't be so trusting…” he wouldn't look at you anymore, “there's no way of knowing someone could be truly dangerous.” 

“I feel like I can trust you at least, right?” you wanted to touch his hand, reaching forward to grab it, and when Kai sees the mess of dry blood on it and on your sweater sleeve he grimaces, but grabs it. 

“You should head in and wash this off.” His cold hands linger on yours for a moment before he bends down and kisses your palm gently, squeezing his eyes shut trying to fight off the smell of your blood and the steak’s. 

You can't fight the blush that comes to your cheeks, so instead you turn to unlock your door. Once opened you turn in hopes of locking in the image of the shining man you've met.

“Goodni-” But he's gone, leaving no trace of himself behind, just the lingering feeling of his mouth on your wrist. 

—- 

Waking up the next morning, replaying the dream of Kai biting your wrist instead of kissing it over and over again, confirmed that last night was not a dream and you did in fact meet a vampire. Now the question was, Where was he now? What was he doing? 

“Y/N! Come quick!” your roommate, Chaewon, yells, panic laced in her cry. 

Your hair was still wet from last night's shower, not having the energy to blow dry it, you had placed it in a messy bun. You untangle your hair now from the band, and walk into the living room. 

BREAKING NEWS: Diner worker and college student, Lee Anton, found dead this morning by diner manager. As of now, Davenport College is working closely with police. While the autopsy has come back as an unknown death, police are not ruling out homicide- 

“What?” you whisper. Chaewon is already hanging on to you, shaking at the proximity of it. You didn't know Chaewon all that well, saying polite greetings and exchanges was as far as you went and yet you couldn't help but hold on to her as someone knocked on your door. 

Shaking, you head over and crack the door. 

“Hey, this was at the front door of the building, it was addressed to you.” The RA looked down at his hands and you followed. 

In his hand, was the grey glitter liquid encased in the glass vial, with it came a note: 

Y/N L/N, forgetting this?

A/N: YOU MADE IT!!!! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!! Please let me know your thoughts! I'll most likely continue this cause vampire kai has my attention rn... but I am starting school up again soon so,,, WHO KNOWS?! it also depends if people liked it :'3. SO please let me know your thoughts, tell me you love it, tell me you hate it, either way tears will be spilled! - J

ps. still learning how Tumblr works so if my formatting looks funny...help...

[clinical-space-podcast]

Okay here it is. The moment that zero of you have been waiting for: My infodump about framing devices and modern audio fiction.

If you're a newer fiction podcast listener, you may have asked, "Why do so many shows pretend to be some real thing?" And if you're a newer fiction podcast creator (as I am), you may have asked, "Do I have to use a framing device?"

Short Answer: It's never been a requirement, but it is fun for some creators, it is useful for some stories, and the tradition of it dates back farther than you might think.

(Extremely) Long Answer:

I would say that the tradition's lineage can be traced back in two directions, separately: horror and radio.

Horror.

This one goes way back. Way way back. Dracula, Frankenstein, etc etc... There really is something about what we would now call "found footage" that creates a workable balance between believable and unbelievable - make it seem like it could have actually happened, however impossible the story is, and (if done right) the horror aspects hit deeper. Combine that with the automatic sense of the unkown that comes from only reading snippets from a few characters' personal perspectives; horror thrives on the unknown.

[Tangent] The podcast Re:Dracula, which I feel should be mentioned here, is a very interesting representation of all this - as a direct adaptation, it maintains the framing device of the novel Dracula: the letters. Its extension of the device is brought not in the audio format but in the RSS feed format. No attempt is made to explain why we're hearing the voices of the characters, as many fiction podcasts default to, rather the immersion comes in experiencing the sense of time between the missives. [End Tangent]

Moving into film, found footage actually took a while to make it onto the scene, but once it did, oh my god did it change everything. Okay, Blair Witch was technically not the first found footage horror film, but we're not going down that rabbit hole. Most would call it the first good one, or at least the first successful one. Which is interesting because at this point we've had plenty of films based on books with framing devices, most of which entirely do away with the framing in the adaptation. So why was 1999 the year film was ripe for framing devices to enter the horror film genre in a big way? I would say it's plausibility. Personal-sized video cameras were now (relatively) affordable, and had been around long enough that people who made and watched films were familiar with them. So it's now a believable thing to be able to cobble together a documentary from clips found on a camcorder, and so they do and now the horror market is changed forever. Next comes copycats, and movies that take the concept and make it their own (like Cloverfield and Paranormal Activity), and movies that parody the now-ubiquitous trope (like Grave Enounters).

So by the time fiction podcasts take off, found footage horror is well established as a beloved reawakening of a beloved literary tradition. And it fits easily in audio horror for much the same reasons as it did in video horror. Think Magnus, Archive 81, probably every SCP podcast, and so on. And within audio fiction, the horror genre is very popular and very much a trendsetter, historically speaking.

Radio.

I could probably get away with just discussing a single event here, and you can probably guess it, but I'll try to go for a broader scope than just the autumn of 1938.

So, honestly, as far as I can tell, old radio shows had a habit of using framing devices just for funsies (or at least for lots of different reasons that I could get lost in exploring but I won't). Importantly though, they largely used different framing devices than books had used up to this point. They were innovative, which is an attitude that certainly transferred into modern audio fiction. Without digging too deep into any of them, here's some notable examples:

Let's start with The Shadow because of course we start with The Goddamn Shadow. This one used a very soft framing device, since it doesn't really explain why the audio broadcast exists, just why it's coming to you in audio format instead of visual: The Shadow has invisibility powers. Yeah I know that's a pretty weak connection, but it's a connection the show attempts to imply: The Shadow often manifests as a disembodied voice, and that ties in to it being a radio show. 🤷🏻

Sherlock Holmes (the one with Basil Rathbone) used a somewhat stricter framing device in pretending to be conversations between Holmes, Watson and an interviewer, in which they describe the events of solving the mystery after the fact - pretty similar to the framing of the original books, but adapted well to audio.

Dragnet framed itself as police reports, I think.

Dimension X and X Minus One both, to varying degrees, frame themselves as tales coming to the listener from the actual future and from an actual alternate universe, respectively. (If you ask me, they should have traded names.) Of course, this doesn't make much use of the audio format specifically, but it illustrates that by this point framing devices in audio were a tradition and not unusual at all.

~We now return you to the music of Ramón Raquello and his orchestra.

Yeah okay here it is. We have to go here.

October 30, 1938 was a day that changed science fiction, audio drama, FCC regulations, and probably the entirety of scripted performance art, forever.

Orson Welles' radio adaptation of The War of the Worlds was so flawlessly framed as breaking news that it famously caused something of a mass panic. While the extent of the panic was slightly exaggerated, it's true that the show was so well done that many people who missed the beginning (or didn't pay attention to it) thought the nation was actually being invaded.

The story that they wanted to tell relied heavily on the device of being a purported news broadcast, and there's no doubt that its impact stems from that device - we're still talking about it 90 years later, and not because of the plot of the story.

I'll leave the parallels and differences between the legacy of War of the Worlds and that of The Black Tapes to be explored by someone else.

Modern Audio Fiction Carries On the Tradition.

Broadcasts.

I've already mentioned TMA, Re:Drac, and Black Tapes.

I haven't mentioned Welcome to Night Vale, which (love it or hate it) was without a doubt one of the biggest catalysts of the audio drama renaissance in podcast form. We all know people who have only ever listened to one fiction podcast, almost invariably either TMA or WtNV. And Night Vale came first and got popular first. Its format as a small-town news radio broadcast has been imitated, innovated, responded to, and intentionally avoided more times than I can count. Very much worth mentioning is that Night Vale popularized the idea of using a framing device not as a way to add plausibility to its stories (nothing could, it's peak absurdism after all), but to add structure. The author knows what to write where, the listener knows what to expect when. Another appeal of framing devices, and another reason why they're so widespread.

Tapes.

Ah yes the tapes. Horror podcasts and their tapes. Drowning in tapes (/lh). It works so well because (a) it's an easy fit for found footage audio, (b) it adds a "spooky" analog horror vibe, and (c) it's fun and fairly easy to design, and forgives a lot in terms of recording quality and editing skill - good for creators at all levels of proficiency. Voicemail and voice memos have similar benefits but without the well-loved "spooky analog" aspect.

Limitations.

The Bright Sessions, Moonbase Theta Out, Wolf 359, and quite a few others all have something in common: they eventually gave up their framing devices. In my opinion, the shows' improvements after doing so is not by any means a reflection on framing as a concept, but instead a demonstration of a show's need to adapt as it grows. Sometimes Episode 149 follows the same form and format as Episode 1, sometimes it doesn't, and a creator's ability to accurately assess whether the format fits the story they want to tell leads to decisions like this (which can be really difficult decisions to make), but ultimately, doing what's best for the story itself always pays off.

When you choose a framing format, you sort of lock in how you're going to write the show and what it's going to sound like. This can be very useful. Like in writing poetry, some of us work better under constraints - it causes us to flex our creativity. It also, as explained above, creates a framework, a formula, which can make it easier to outline an episode.

But it doesn't work for every story. Some shows hold on to their framing devices too long, the plot filling and stretching the format until the frame is bursting at the seams. Conversely, though, I say a series shouldn't abandon a device if it doesn't need the new narrative freedom to further the story - something to fill the absence of the episode format as a player itself in the work.

Form as Storytelling.

This is, in my opinion, one of the greatest (and too often untapped) strengths of framing devices in any medium. I LOVE IT when a piece of art uses its medium as part of the art itself. What part of your story can you only tell because of the medium you're using? What unique part of your medium can you use to enhance the story?

Some absolute favorite examples of this idea from other media, in no particular order: the ending of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, the very end of Zelda TotK, Shakespeare's frequent use of play-within-a-play, the Thor fight in God of War, tons of bits of Series of Unfortunate Events (the books), the twist and out-of-game-play in DDLC, all of WandaVision, the elephant scene from It Takes Two, Asteroid City...

It's something I kind of want to see more of in audio fiction: powerful moments in using the medium of audio as a tool to tell the story rather than only a limitation to be written around. Framing devices help with this, but there are a lot of opportunities in other tools too. I find it in horror and comedy series, and few other places.

Conclusion.

This went on way longer than I expected. I have too many thoughts about it. To sum up:

Why are there so many shows pretending to be some real thing? Because there is a very strong tradition of it in audio fiction, because it provides a lot of structure and benefits especially to newer creators, because it allows for the medium to be part of the art form in a way, and of course because it's fun!

Should I use a framing device in my fiction podcast? My dear, nobody can answer that but you! Ask youself if it would improve your story, if it would improve your writing ability, if it sounds fun to you, and if it would create a show that you would want to listen to (I always say that you should be your own target audience; if you would want the thing to exist, odds are someone else will enjoy its existence). If you use one, you're in good company; if you don't, you're in good company. If you start with one and drop it for season 3, or if you start without one and pick it up partway through, you're in good company. You can do a full-cast immersive found-footage show with sound effects, you can do an audiobook as a podcast, and you can do anything in between!

Feel free to add corrections, context, and additional notes to any of the above. I'm not a history expert, I'm just a nerd with internet access.

Peace and love on every planet, y'all.

[bwobgames]

“Alright, I got the portable charger, a piece of gum, 500 pesos, a small sachet of salt…”

“Shouldn’t you bring your thingy?”

“The worm wind up toy?”

“No, no. Well, maybe actually. I mean the little machine you made. You brought it right?”

“I did… but do you really think it would help?

“We don’t know what type of overcomplicated puzzle this thing could be hiding in. It could help. Even if it’s just to dismantle it for its parts”

“WHAT?”

“You hurt me. You hurt us. You want to dismantle your own godchild??”

“I think of it more of a beautiful metamorphosis. Kafka-esq in nature”

“You’re a cruel man. An evil scientist. A modern Frankenstein”

They finish their small bags of useful adventure items and go ahead.

As they reach the entrance, they find it empty of people, but a certain item still waited for them.

“My guitar!”

“Will the guitar help?”

“Maybe! It would be cool if we could defeat it with the power of music!”

This is not the medium for that

“Actually, before we go, uh, wherever we are going”

“How do we know its Haunted and not, well. Just haunted”

“Whar”

“What if instead of. Evil house. It’s Ghost house”

He takes a seat to take it all in

“So like, Monster house? Like the movie you couldn’t watch because your mom deemed it inappropriate?”

“That uvula joke changed me in ways I still don’t understand”

“But I mean, it could just be ghosts. Not the house itself being some kind of. Creature”

“A creature feature… like some sort of snake…”

“What? No. A train creature would be a whale. It’s gigantic and ca fit many creatures inside, yet relatively harmless”

“I see your point but a train is literally snake shaped. It doesn’t even have legs. It can even fit the Garden of Eden metaphor”

“I don’t think haunted houses care much about the bible.”

“Just because they are house that doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy literature”

“No, no, I believe that. I just don’t think they would be able to understand more nuanced themes in writing. I don’t think a house has enough media literacy for Ulysses.”

“But a snake might”

“Snakes can be deadly though; we don’t want this place to be deadly.”

“Whales can be deadly too! But on accident, just by being big and hungry. Isn’t that worse for us here?”

Interruption! Beebo attack.

For a supposed professional house hunter, he sure is bad at deciding if a whale or a snake is deadlier.

“Anyways, I was thinking that we should also check the possibility of it being ghosts.”

“So we play Phasmophobia in real life?”

“We must.”

With a new determination, they march to the supposed lost and found. Which a quick talk to a worker confirmed to be the very end of the VIP part.

“Hello! Have you seen a dart anywhere? Around this tall? Pointy? Has great dreams and ambitions? Has not tasted blood yet?”

“Ah, yes! I brought one here, let me check…”

The worker looks around, opening and closing different little cabinets

“… I think it fell somewhere”

“It’s lost^2?”

“Someone might’ve taken it, we’ll ask around”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, its crimes were too great, it won’t be missed.”

“If uh. If you say so”

Once the worker leaves, they begin their scheme.

“Alright, let’s become amateur mediums. Larges, even.”

<PREV START NEXT>

[sesamenom]

oh this was fun! Thanks for the tag @tar-thelien!

hmm, it's a nice combination of fiery and foreboding, so i'll dedicate this to the period of tension just before the Flight of the Noldor

tagging @coffee-gardens, @nighttimepatrons, @tilion-writes, @the-writing-goblin !

(0 pressure tag 😁) Song Poem Challenge! Put your entire song collection on shuffle, then write down the first line from each of the first ten songs that pop up to create a poem. You must then dedicate the poem to the blorbo or OTP that it most reminds you of! Then tag or send asks to three others people that you think might enjoy the challenge!

Very late, but here's what I got:

To know her is to see Living next door to challenge I am the son and the heir It's been a long time High in the halls of the kings who are gone Seems like just yesterday Childhood living is easy to do Oh, can't you see that pretty little bird I've been reading books of old Savour the taste

I dedicate this to... Jinshi & Maomao from The Apothecary Diaries

0 pressure tag: @hirazuki @mirkwood-hr-department @therockywhorerpictureshow