#multi purpose bench

[gymequipmentforexercise]

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[seumyo]

rainy mornings with husband!bakugou

Bakugou didn’t like the rain. That was a fact.

But the thing about rain is that it’s inevitable, something that only nature has control over (and additionally the particular people who have rain-based Quirks).

The rain was steady, soft against the windows like a lullaby. It wasn’t a storm, he notes, just a lazy morning drizzle that blurred the glass and painted the world in cool grays and muted greens.

He stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing loose black sweats and one of your hoodies—oversized on you but fitting snug on him (he remembered the sheer happiness you had when he told you your parcel finally arrived). The sleeves were a little too short, exposing his forearms as he stirred a pan of scrambled eggs with slow, unhurried movements.

He wasn’t in a rush, and for once, there wasn’t any tension in his shoulders. Thank god his schedule was getting lighter these days, especially as Japan is now entering a much colder rainy season this year.

Behind him, you were curled up on the couch, legs tucked under you, a throw blanket tossed lazily over your lap. You hadn’t bothered changing out of your pajama shirt yet—one of his old Dynamight shirts (which he was sure was sold at a golden price nowadays since it was one of the first ones released), faded from too many washes. You had your tablet propped on your knee, aimlessly scrolling through something, one hand cradling a mug of still-steaming tea.

He glanced over his shoulder, watching your thumb flick across the screen, your brows furrowed just the tiniest bit in that way that always made him want to kiss it away.

Damn marriage making him soft.

Having him thinking of kissing your worries away and whatnot.

“You ready to eat?” His voice was low, rough with sleep still lingering around the edges, though he’d been up for a bit now. It was the kind of morning that made him feel stress-free again—quiet, warm, you.

You didn’t even look up. “Mm… not yet. Gimme ten more minutes.”

Bakugou snorted, scooping the eggs onto a plate with a quiet clink of the spatula. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I did not,” you murmured, still distracted. “I said that fifteen minutes ago.”

“You callin’ me a liar?”

“...Nossir.” No, Sir.

“Uh huh.”

He turned off the burner and walked over to you, crossing the room with his usual quiet authority. You didn’t flinch when he sat down next to you and didn’t look up as he leaned in to press his lips to your temple. You just shifted slightly, making room for him as if it were the most natural thing in the world—which, honestly, it was.

Because if you hadn’t seen all of him by now—

Ahem, then casual intimacy would be a bit awkward when you’re 4 years into your marriage.

“You’re not even really lookin’ at anything,” he muttered, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“I’m looking at furniture,” you replied, lifting the tablet slightly for him to see. “For the entryway. I found this bench with drawers under it. It’s soo cute.”

He peered at it, expression blank. “It’s a bench.”

You gave a dramatic sigh. Here we go.

“It’s a functional bench. With storage. It’s called multi-purpose, Katsuki.”

“Yeah? Looks like a trip hazard to me,” he said, lips twitching at the corners.

You gave him a lazy elbow in the side, just enough pressure to make him grunt but not enough to move him. “You’d survive.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I busted my ass ‘cause of somethin’ you brought into the house,” he said, smirking now, eyes flicking down to the tiny mountain of throw pillows on the floor that had been there since you reorganized the couch again last week. “You and your ‘aesthetic.’”

You finally looked away from your screen, giving him an unimpressed look. That expression—one he knew all too well—is so fucking cute it makes his chest hurt.

“You like the aesthetic when it’s candles and not vanilla-scented ones and have things that are either black or white instead of having color. What’re we trying to have here? A monochrome house?”

“Didn’t say I didn’t like it,” he said, and kissed your cheek again, slower this time. “Just sayin’… you got a way of makin’ this place feel lived in. That’s all.”

That made you pause. You turned your head just slightly, enough to meet his eyes, your features softened, and your smile became a little cheeky. “That’s sweet of you. I knew I had that effect on you.”

He shrugged, embarrassed now, and tried to cover it up by reaching for your tea. “This still warm?”

“Get your own,” you said without bite, holding it out of reach.

He let out a soft huff and leaned into your space more, nose brushing against your jaw. Because if anything, the husband version of Bakugou Katsuki—your husband Bakugou Katsuki—doesn’t have a concept of personal space during mornings.

“You really gonna deny your husband a sip? Really? When I prepared this for you?”

“You’re gonna drink half of it.”

“I will if you keep holdin’ it hostage,” he threatened, and you laughed—an actual, sleepy laugh—and finally let him take the mug. He took a sip, then handed it back with a little grunt of satisfaction. “Uh huh. Made it right today.”

“I make it better.”

“You put too much honey in it sometimes.”

“I like it sweet.”

“I like you sweet,” he said under his breath, then added, “Not your damn tea. That’s a health hazard at some point, dummy.”

You rolled your eyes but leaned over and bumped your forehead against his. He stayed there for a beat, closing his eyes as he let the closeness sink in. Outside, the rain kept falling, and the whole apartment smelled like eggs, toast, and the faint vanilla candle you lit sometime before he got out of bed.

“You gonna eat with me or what?” he murmured against your skin.

“In a bit,” you said again. “You’re warm. And it’s raining. I don’t wanna move yet.”

He made a low sound in his throat, something between a hum and a sigh, and settled in beside you, one arm looping behind your shoulders, the other resting on the blanket over your legs.

“This your excuse to make me feed you like last time?”

You smiled, sleep still tugging at the corners of your lips. “Maybe. That’s what husbands are for, right? Serving their spouses?”

“You’re a pain.”

“And you love me—unless you don’t. Then I’ll have you know I will be taking the washing machine with me; that one’s the most expensive piece of furniture we have.”

Bakugou snorted. “Really?” he says. “But fuckin’ right I do,” he added, voice low and reverent now. “I love you ‘til the sun fucking explodes, and even after.”

...

“That was poetic, hun. You should’ve written that for our vows.”

“... I’m regrettin’ that I forgot.”

You sat in silence for a while; the only sounds were the rain, the occasional tap of your fingernail on the screen, and the soft buzz of the world going on without them. Bakugou didn’t mind the quiet—not with you, at least.

You made it feel full instead of awkward.

Safe.

Eventually, you sighed and leaned into his side, closing the tablet and letting it slip onto the couch cushion beside you. “Okay,” you murmured. “Maybe I’m ready now. Because I don’t like cold eggs.”

He kissed the top of your head. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes half-closed. “But only if you bring it over here. Then we could continue watching that romance drama we forgot to finish because you went to Spain.”

Bakugou huffed, standing up with a stretch. “You’re spoiled.”

“You spoil me.”

He glanced at you over his shoulder as he walked back to the kitchen. “And don’t you forget it.”

He brought over the plates a minute later—eggs, toast, and a little variety of fruits because you liked it when he tried to be ‘balanced.’ He handed you the fork and watched as you thanked him and lazily started to eat, your movements slow, like your brain still hadn’t fully woken up.

He sat back down beside you, one knee brushing against yours under the blanket, and started eating his food, satisfied by the small sounds you made with each bite. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t flashy. But it was theirs—yours.

A rainy morning, warm food, the person he loved within arm’s reach—Bakugou couldn’t have asked for anything better.

So yeah, Bakugou might not like the rain, but he likes spending it with you.

SEUMYO © 2025. PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, PLAGIARIZE, MODIFY OR TRANSLATE.

[milessunflowers]

wag!franco and footballer!reader!!!!! :D

FOOTBALLER!READER MY BELOVED WITH FRANCO TOO VINVIN YOU SPOIL ME

wag!franco colapinto x footballer!male!reader

synopsis: franco loves his life as a football wag, especially because your uniform looks amazing on you

author's note: I LOVE FOOTBALLER!READER SO MUCH YOU GUYS DONT UNDERSTAND. like footballer!reader has a special place in my heart so if yall wanted to send in more i wouldn't be opposed to it (as long as it isn't american footballer bc i know nothing about american football). also, i just really like that picture of franco and will use it at any given chance. it also did get a bit suggestive because franco is franco and it felt like the vibe

starting off, i really don't think he could ever play football

hes good at racing but not field stuff at all

loves watching you so much though

especially because you get all sweaty and hot and he goes crazy

youve tried teaching the different positions (forwards, midfielders, defense, goal keeper) but he just cannot get the hang of actually playing them

you are multi-talented and could play basically anywhere on the field but for this purpose, you typically play midfield

so you're running wherever you are need at whatever given time

franco's attention is always trained on you

he is so loud when he cheers because he wants to stand out (even though everyone knows you are dating him)

lowkey feel like he would boo when you are benched/if the other team scores

except when it's the national teams for the world cup and stuff

then when you play against argentina (if you aren't from there) he's so rooting against you

still supports you but he loves argentina more

you understand though, because if the roles were reversed, you would cheer for your home country (unless it's argentina then it's self explanatory)

during the normal season you play for barcelona though (guys im sorry if you don't like barça but they're my favorite)

goes to every game he can and when he's working on his degree in engineering or business (idk why but i feel like those suit him?), he's streaming it on his phone/tele

curses a lot in spanish if you miss the goal or the other team scores

absolutely panics if you get hurt

like one time you fucked up your ankle that it ballooned and bruised so much you couldn't move it so you were out for a few games

you were so whiney about missing them but you were so happy to be at home with Franco

franco, at any chance, wears your jersey because he loves showing his support/showing off he's yours and vice versa

he would also look incredible in a barça jersey if i do say so myself

especially if you got him a size smaller and it just shows off his pecs and stuff

and when he wears your jersey you go absolutely insane because you find it so attractive

his legs absolutely are shaking after you guys are done

hes not complaining though because he loves it

you also have huge hickeys you have to cover up with makeup the best you can before the next game

you're so proud of them though and want to show them off

you cuddle with him all the time because you claim it's good luck

it kind of is because it puts you in a good mentality and happy mood so you perform better

next thing you know, you're teammates are ruffling their hair for some "buena suerte" as they all say

boom, you guys win that game

plus franco is just happy to be there

he loves supporting you just like you support his degree

and you go to his graduation and cheer just as loud as he does at your games

TAGS! (if you want to be added, lmk!)

@op-81-lvr-reblogs, @koalapastries, @justaf1girl, @ghostking4m, @spoonfulofmilo, @seonghwaexile, @alex-wotton, @raizelchrysanderoctavius

[raynavan]

(for day 12 of Sept-Ingo: Protect) read below the read more or on AO3!

Learning Pokémon moves was a difficult endeavor for any human- while everyone had the capability to do so, some were more proficient at controlled use than others. Generally, those who had a deep understanding of Pokémon and the use of the moves themselves had better chances at perfecting it. 

So, using moves on the battle subway out of excitement or surprise was not unheard of- Ingo had seen many trainers accidentally set a bench on fire, emit sparks, or summon a small puddle. 

While both he and Emmet prided themselves on having excellent control over their moves, sometimes even they slipped. Especially on the multi-line- it was endlessly hilarious to see his brother spark in pure indignation as Eelektross fell to Earthquake. 

(As if he had any right to complain when Eelektross had gastro acid for that specific purpose.

…ignoring the fact that Haxorus was faster.) 

Due to these random uses of moves and intense pokemon battles happening in the relatively cramped train, both twins had gotten incredibly apt at dodging them. It was a safety hazard that neither had manufactured a solution for, but they managed well enough. 

…usually. 

Dodging took a lot of concentration- spotting the attack, guessing its trajectory and moving accordingly all while continuing to keep an eye on the battle and directing their own pokemon. 

Concentration like that took a lot of energy and awareness- both of which Ingo was ashamed to admit he was… lacking, at the moment. He’d had a long night of being unable to fall asleep along with a long shift with a ton of paperwork and- 

He was tired. Too tired to spot the wayward Focus Blast heading straight for him in time to dodge. 

Somehow, Emmet was faster. 

The powerful attack dissipated harmlessly over a frantically thrown out Protect, Ingo wide-eyed behind his panting brother, thoroughly shaken. 

They paused for a moment, Pokémon in the car frozen as the passengers behind them covered their mouths. 

“…when did you learn Protect?” Ingo asked, voice oddly breathy.

“…” Emmet blinked, “just now, I suppose.” 

Ingo laughed, and sat on the floor, still trembling slightly. 

“Thanks.”

[sv3t1ana]

⇜ previous chapter ⋮ next chapter ⇝ ➤ a multi-chapter fic in which Satoru and Suguru are your childhood best friends. Reuniting as adults, you realize you're in love with them both. Will they make you choose? S. Gojo x fem reader x S. Geto

WARNINGS ᯓ none really

WORD COUNT ᯓ 864

Chapter 2. Departure

You didn’t notice it at first.

Not the way Satoru began showing up late to lunch, giving lazy excuses when he collapsed on the bench beside you. Not the way his texts took longer to send, his responses slightly clipped and devoid of his usual dramatic flair. It wasn’t until he stopped draping himself over your shoulders constantly, stopped stealing your snacks, stopped calling you in the middle of the night just to tell you about some stupid dream he had, that’s when it hit you.

He was pulling away.

It wasn’t a grand gesture or a majestic goodbye, nothing obvious or bold. It was the absence of things, the dainty threads that once bound you daily to him.

And in his absence, Suguru stepped in.

It was subtle at first, the shifts in gravity and adjustments in your triangular orbit. Satoru still laughed the loudest in every room he was in, still throwing his arms over you and Suguru when he ran into you like nothing changed, still nudging your knee under the desk. But it wasn’t the same.

Not when Suguru started waiting for you after class, his shoulder brushing yours in the crowded halls, conversations filling the space Satoru took with him.

“You free after school?” Suguru asked one morning, leaning against the wall in the locker bay.

You glanced at him, blinking. His voice had a weight to it now, a purpose that carried something heavier than the careless ease before.

“I think so, why?”

He shrugged. “I dunno. Just thought we could go get something to eat. Just us.”

Just us?

It wasn’t like you never spent time alone with Suguru before, but something about the way he said it made something shift in your chest. And something about the way he said it made you feel guilty, sad that Satoru wasn’t there.

And so, it became a habit.

Satoru’s presence had once been like the hum of a space heater, a constant that shaped the very air around you, an unspoken warmth that settled into the background of your life. But now, it was a fading sound, a memory that slipped further away, and every time you reached out, your fingers brushed against nothing.

He always seemed busy, college entrance exams, family obligations, a million reasons he gave that were probably true but never feeling quite right. Suguru filled that space, stealing the magnitude Satoru carried and offered it to you. He walked you home when the sun thinned out into the horizon, his voice thoughtful as you two talked about everything and nothing and something in between. He let you borrow his jacket when the wind sharpened. He listened when you talked about your future, about how the three of you were supposed to go everywhere together, yet somehow you were all going to end up apart.

Suguru’s smile seemed to linger a little longer each time, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that made you stutter, unbalanced in the weight of his full attention. You often found yourself taking the long way home, passing the old cafe you three would visit together. Where Satoru would order the same thing without fail, and Suguru would tease him for it. The familiar sight of it stirred a quiet longing. You wondered if you would ever feel the same again, or if that place had become a relic, frozen in time, holding memories that no longer belonged to you but a version of yourself you’d soon forget.

“I guess we can’t all stay here forever,” you murmured one night, Suguru and you lingering in the front of your house, neither of you ready to part ways just yet.

Suguru hummed, looking up at the star-filled sky. “No,” he said optimistically. “But, I think that’s okay.”

Your brows furrowed, frowning. “You do?”

He looked at you, streetlight illuminating his sharp face, bangs swinging in the wind. “Yeah, I think some things are meant to change.”

You looked down, wanting to ask him what he meant. Some things are better left unspoken, and the better part of you knew exactly what he was talking about.

Nostalgia, you realized, had a way of weaving itself into every corner of your life, even the ones you thought you could escape from. You never really appreciated the good times when they were here, didn’t see how fragile they were, never realizing how close you held it to your heart. You felt yourself slowly descending into the unknown, losing your grip on the normality you’ve grown accustomed to, the laughter, the quiet moments, the comfort of having both of them by your side. What once brought you balance was going to be the very thing that wavered your stability. And the hardest part was realizing that nothing would ever be the same again.

Did growing up really mean you had to abandon everything that felt comfortable to you? Did growing up really mean you were forced into a phase of your life you weren’t ready for? Maybe you were destined to meet Suguru and Satoru, destined to experience that phase of your life, and learn that pieces fade with time. Your puzzle ever changing.

tags: @fortunatelyfurrygiver

[simstorian-blog]

Komorebi Onsen & Spa

(CC List + DL)

O N S E N B A T H H O U S E

S P A

F L O O R P L A N

World Map: Mt. Komorebi

Area: Yukimatsu – Sutefani Onsen Bathhouse

Lot Size:  30 x 20

Amenities

Onsen – Locker Rooms, Bathrooms, Hot Spring, Hot Pots, Cafeteria, Dining Area

Spa – Reception, Waiting Room, 2 Stylists Chairs, 5 Mani/Pedi Chairs, 1 Massage Table (private room), dressing rooms, bathrooms

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Needed

Expansion Packs

Cottage Living

Discover University

Get Together

Get To Work

High School Years

Island Living

For Rent

Seasons

Snowy Escape

Game Packs

Dine Out

Journey to Batuu (just a wire)

Jungle Adventure

Spa Day

Stuff Packs

Laundry Day

Recommended Gameplay Mods

(Please READ through what these mods have to offer before deciding if it fits your gameplay style or not.)

Multi-purpose Lots by Down in Simsland (If you don’t want it owned.)

Shear Brilliance (Active Cosmetology Career) by MizoreYukii

CC Used

[All credits go to the following creators for sharing their work with the community. It is greatly appreciated and I hope that you all have endless nights of the best sleep ever.]

Helpful Tip: Having Only What is Needed For CC Builds (Tumblr)

Anye

Neomy Rug

AroundTheSims4

Beauty Salon (Styling Station)

Bbygyal123

Keratin Collection

Felixandre

Estate Pt. 2 | 6

Fayun Pt. 1 | 2 | 3

Kyoto Pt. 1 | 2 | 3

Shop The Look S4

SOHO Pt. 1 | 2 | 6

GUA

Wall Air Conditioners

Harrie

Brutalist Bathroom

Spoons Pt. 2 (Pedastal Block – Medium)

House of Harlix

Bafroom

Livin’ Rum

Orjanic Pt. 2

LilacCreative

Chalet (Framed Photo)

Keratin Collection (Salon Sink)

MyCupofCC

The Modernist Dining Room (Wall Bench)

Pierisim

MCM Pt. 3

Stefan Living Room

Unfold

Winter Garden Pt. 1

Plush Pixels

Shape Collection (Basket w Magazines)

Sooky88

Bright & Bold Wallpapers (Painted Wainscoting)

English Country Wall Set (Plain + Vertical Paneling)

Valia

Arty Bathroom (1tile Mirror)

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

DOWNLOAD (328 MB)

[salty-tang]

For the Record 5: Jakarta, Manila, and Washington DC (multi-chapter series)

Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Chapter Summary: Bucky runs from Manila to DC, picking fights with enhanced operatives, getting poisoned, and nearly bleeding out in the quinjet - only to show up bruised and half-dead just in time for the vote. It doesn’t go how he hoped. But he keeps his promise anyway.

⁕⁕⁕

a canon compliant congressman bucky x congresswoman reader fic set somewhere between tfatws and thunderbolts, chronicling congressman barnes’ first term as a representative.

Warnings/ tags: Slow Burn, Political Drama, Light Angst with a happy ending, Mutual Pining, Bucky Doesn’t Think He Deserves Good Things, Hurt/Comfort But Make It Legislative, Secret Missions with Legislative Consequences, The Interns Have Theories, Canon-Typical Violence, Congressman Bucky Barnes, Congresswoman Reader, author is not american and barely gets american politics, no use of y/n, this is the plot heavy long form fic

Word count: 3.9k

ps: AO3 is my main platform for this work, tumblr is just getting the reupload

For the Record masterpost || AO3 || congressman bucky masterpost

The Quinjet hums low and constant, making quick work of the thousands of kilometres between Manila and DC. What it gains in speed it sacrifices in comfort, the engine rattling through the hull and up his spine.

Bucky sits rigid on the bench against the bulkhead, one knee braced high, field jacket peeled back to let the med patch he hastily slapped on breathe. The poisoned wound on his face burns in waves.

He’s flashing hot and cold, ribs bruised, fingers trembling. Still, he keeps one hand wrapped around a tablet, the kind that (for better or worse) Mike keeps synced with the laptop in his office.

The screen glows in the cabin gloom. Memos, committee catch-up briefings, reviews from legal, and a flagged alert from the Congressional intranet about an ethics review he knows already won’t be about the right people.

He’s not reading, not really. His thumb glides through the 20-odd page document without focus, stopping when his vision blurs too much to parse the charts. He blinks until it’s clear. The pain is manageable. The fatigue is not. Adrenaline’s long since burned out, and what’s left is bone-deep and quiet – something that, if he lets in, would feel like defeat.

And beneath it all, looping quiet and insistent – Jakarta.

*

When he thinks about Jakarta, it’s not the mission that comes to mind, and certainly not the trip’s Congressional purpose either; three days of economic partnership meetings with Indonesian counterparts.

What he thinks about is the rain.

He’d been scoping out a contact point near a banh mi stall popular with locals. His target’s a shell shopfront several doors down, papered with rental notices in three languages. No sign of movement inside – no guards, no watchers, nothing but a rusted shutter and faint light at the back.

He lingered on the sidewalk, posing as a lost tourist, eyes on his phone, gloved metal hand resting easy at his side. A quiet scan. No approach, no confrontation. Just confirmation: the place was empty today. The excursion wasn’t meant to be anything more than that – a quiet collection of intel to be filed away for later.

But the rain had other plans.

Before he could flip up his hood and make a run for it, he saw you. Caught in the same sudden downpour, white linen plastered to your skin. You were ducked under a feeble awning just outside that banh mi stall, two blocks off the itinerary’s carefully vetted and secured route.

Rain hits the pavement in vertical sheets. Street food smoke curls around engine grease. You stand there alone, hair dripping, a stray strand plastered to your cheekbone, looking like a drowned cat – yet your posture is still proud. Arms crossed, chin tipped towards the heavens like god himself has personally wronged you. Your shirt clings translucent to your chest, the dark outline of your underclothes visible against your skin.

You didn’t look very surprised to see him – like you were expecting him to be there all along. And in maybe another life, in another context, he would have been. But here and now, it’s just him with his hood up, shoulder brushing rusted siding as he steps beside you.

He doesn’t remember what he wanted to say, and he doesn’t think he ever actually said anything.

You were soaked through. And cold. And alone. And he –

He doesn’t know why he did it. Why he took off the hoodie and handed it to you without a word. Leaving him standing there in a thin singlet, the scarred seam where metal meets flesh exposed to the humid Jakarta night.

The arm itself didn’t bother him. But the scarring – that ragged edge between what he was and what he’d be turned into – it just looks wrong. Grotesque in a way that even he couldn’t ignore. It’s the kind of exposure he usually avoided. People didn’t need to see the parts that never healed right.

He waited for the small shuffle back, the quiet step people always took to put distance. The pity, the attempt not to stare. But you didn’t – you just noticed and turned back to the rain, your assessment of him staying exactly the same.

You slip the hoodie on and he blinks. You look…softer, somehow. Real.

You didn’t thank him, and he doesn’t expect you to. Neither of you say anything else. There’s nothing to say.

And for the next seven minutes, maybe longer, you both stand there in silence, watching the rain fall. For that unearned moment of peace under that awning, you weren’t soldiers or lawmakers or weapons dressed as men. You were just people, caught between storms.

He doesn’t remember walking back. Only that when the rain stopped, you both did.

He remembers how you looked at him. Not like a ticking timebomb. Not like a risk. Just him.

By silent agreement, neither of you never speak of it again. Not in Jakarta, and certainly not on the flight home where you end up sitting next to each other. Maybe there was no need to. It was just rain and proximity. But if he had wanted to speak of it – if he had said anything at all – he would have had to admit what it meant.

That it wasn’t instinct or duty that kept him there, but want. You.

And back then, choosing someone over the comforting solitude – wanting something that human – felt like freefall. No plan, just the rush of wanting.

So he lets it go.

Not because it didn’t matter (it could be argued that it mattered too much) – but because once you claim something, you owe it. And he wasn’t ready to risk turning this quiet understanding into something as transactional, as unwanted, as obligation.

The very last thing he ever wants is to make you carry the weight of him.

*

A jolt of turbulence drags him back into the now. Bucky grits his teeth and shifts the tablet to his other hand. The policy report’s a lost cause. He switches tabs to an email chain about constituent outreach logistics for Brooklyn, already outdated.

Jakarta is over. Manila is over.

A calendar notification pings across the screen: Reminder: AFTERMATH Act Final Vote – 20 minutes.

He taps the display off, and for a moment, his dark reflection stares back at him. Pale. Drawn. The circles under his eyes are deeper and darker than he ever remembers. His shirt is stiff with dried sweat and blood. He probably smells like the back end of a fish market.

Funny, how he notices these things now. There was a time he didn’t have the luxury of caring. But lately, it’s something he thinks about – optics, presence, and the way he takes up space. What it means to be seen.

And it’s hard. Harder than disappearing ever was.

He’s still bloody. Some things never really change. Only this time, it’s for a future that still might not want him.

But he gave his word.

And he’s still breathing.

“ETA?” he asks, voice low and cracked.

The pilot doesn’t turn. “Thirty-three minutes.”

Bucky closes his eyes. Hears monsoon rain on tin roofs. Smells cigarettes, pork fat, and motor oil.

He doesn’t know if it means anything.

But he’s going to show up anyway.

***

Seven hours ago, Manila

The heat never leaves, not even at 3 AM.

June in Manila is hot and dry, with nights that refuse to cool. The humidity clings worse than a second skin, especially near the salt-stung sea. The air sits heavy and damp on Bucky’s skin.

He adjusts his collar, absently thinking of over-chilled committee rooms and recycled Rayburn air, the hum of vents echoing off marble walls. It’s the kind of cold he’s starting to almost miss. And when he thinks about the Capitol, he also always thinks about the vote waiting for him there – and how close he’s going to be cutting it.

But that thought fades as quickly as it comes. He's already made sure he'd be back on time. There’s no room for needless fretting here.

Despite the early hour, the port is bustling with activity. Mosquitoes hum, street dogs stir in the alleyways between warehouses. Lanterns swing over crates of half-melted ice while dockhands bark orders in clipped Tagalog, boots slick with brine. No one pays Bucky much mind – he’s walking two paces behind a local man in a faded fishing expedition shirt, sun-lined and unbothered. That’s the trick, his contact had muttered earlier. Let them look. They will lose interest quickly.

So he keeps his head down and lets the sweat bead and fall, his jacket sticking to the back of his neck like a damp shroud.

Ahead, the offloading crew is already halfway through the container. Working hastily under a floodlight rigged to the side of a warehouse, the small gathering of motley locals pull smaller metal crates from the container, sides slick with condensation. The crates are not obviously marked, just stamped Humanitarian Aid in English and French, stencilled with lot numbers and barcodes for scan-and-pass inspections.

The press release, flight manifest, and congressional briefing packet all agree: these are emergency medical supplies for earthquake relief in the Palawan sector.

And yet.

A crate lands with a hollow metallic thud – too heavy for gauze, too light for medicine. The sound is all wrong. It doesn’t belong with the IV bags and thermal blankets marked on the manifest.

Across the dock, Bucky catches his contact’s eye. Just a flicker of recognition, a quick nod. Two minutes, the nod says. He’ll cover the distraction. That’s all the time Bucky gets.

Without waiting for Bucky's acknowledgement, the man wipes his palms on his shorts, then shouts something sharp and commanding toward the crew unloading the crates – an order disguised as irritation – loud enough to draw attention but not suspicion.

Bucky wastes no time. He’s already moving, closing the distance in precise strides. His hand goes to the blade strapped flat against his thigh, sliding it free with a clean, practiced flick. The lid gives under his knife with a reluctant groan.

The top layer is as expected – bundles of IV drip bags, packs of surgical gauze, a couple of boxes of electrolyte tablets. The vacuum-sealed plastic bears the generic stamp of Atlas Relief.

He pushes them aside and plunges his hands deeper into the crate, until his fingers close around cool metal. Weapons, enough to arm a small unit, stacked a little too neatly beneath the gauze. Their ammunition tucked into corners where no customs officer would think to check.

Bucky frowns. It’s too easy. Too staged, like someone wanted this cache to be found – but not too fast, and not without a little difficulty.

There's something more here. He pushes the cache of weapons aside and he finds it – a small padded box nestled between magazine rounds. It opens with a hiss of cold vapour, revealing three slender vials resting in cooling foam, each filled with a viscous substance that shifts blue-green under the floodlights. Bucky lifts one and rotates it slowly, watching as the colour separates into faint swirling strata. The handwritten label on the side reads: Catalytic Nanogel (gene suspension V2).

He stares at the vial for a long moment. He’s seen those words before – scrawled across half-burned Soviet reports and dog-eared field notes in languages meant to be forgotten. And more recently, etched onto cracked glass and reused labels in Nagel’s lab in Madripoor. He knows enough to fear what's inside.

“She said the Soldier would come.”

The voice cuts above the noise of the port, thin and high-pitched.

Bucky turns.

A man steps out from the shadows near the crate. Slight and wiry, dark skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones. His clothes are local – a loose cotton shirt and cargo pants – but the boots are wrong – military-issue, polished to a shine that doesn’t belong here. Across his chest is a tactical vest, black webbing stretched taut over his narrow frame, bulked out with slim magazine pouches and reinforced plating. His eyes gleam with recognition and something worse – purpose.

Bucky sets the vial down, slow and deliberate, hands raised. Picking a fight now would blow the schedule.

“Whoops. Wrong crate,” he deadpans. “My bad.”

The man doesn’t blink. Just smiles, sharp and too calm, before vanishing into the dark like he was never there at all.

The knife flashes before Bucky can finish processing. Its arc is low and fast, meant to slip under awareness, not into it. It’s not a feint, it’s not a warning – it’s a kill strike.

It nearly does. Bucky jerks backwards, but the oily tip catches his cheek with a clean slice that skims muscle and cuts deep enough to draw a warm, immediate line of blood. The sting ignites a beat later – sharp, metallic, burning hot.

Well this is new, he thinks as he flips his own blade and lunges at the man without hesitation. The guard parries with mechanical precision, his knife glinting slick under the port lights. Their blades clash faster than sight can track. Then the guard twists hard, wrenching Bucky’s knife from his grip with brutal torque that ends it skittering into the dark behind them.

Fine. Hand to hand it is.

“Do you have any last words?” The man asks, pressing in again with a flurry of sharp, aggressive slashes.

And Bucky, cheek bleeding, ribs tight with adrenaline, couldn’t quite help himself. “Do you people ever come off the assembly line with your own personality, or is there a default script somewhere?”

The guard smiles again – thinly, mockingly – like he knows exactly how long Bucky has left. He feints high, then pivots low, sweeping for Bucky’s knees. Bucky absorbs the momentum with a low grunt, shifting his weight just enough to keep upright, but it costs him his balance.

Fists pummel at his side, each impact driving deeper into fast bruising bone. That rib is going to give. Not now, but soon.

The guard doesn’t let up. Everything about him is disciplined and controlled – except the intent, which drips with frantic brutality.

Bucky blocks the follow-up hook and drives his knee into the guard’s torso, feeling immediately how much give is missing.

Ah fuck, here we go again. Enhanced – not as strong as any of the old stock, but certainly faster and tougher than any human has the right to be.

They collide again, shoulder to chest, and this time the guard slams him backwards into a stack of crates that groan with the threat of collapse. Steel meets bruised rib and pain blooms white and hot. Bucky exhales through it, metal hand catching on a crate ledge to steady himself.

Bucky spits blood onto the concrete, breath ragged. “Good to know I’m on the right trail,” he pants. “Bet she didn’t tell you I hit back.”

The handler swings high, and Bucky’s left arm goes up to meet it. Bucky traps his wrist, and he twists it viciously. The guard’s knife skitters away, vanishing under a cargo dolly. But the stench of whatever was on that knife still clings to his gloves. The wrist cracks with a sound it really shouldn’t, but it doesn’t matter, because the man just switches hands and does not slow down.

Great. Pain tolerance, no fear, no words. He hates this type.

They grapple now – brutal, fast, close enough for Bucky to smell the chemical tang of the toxin seeping into his bloodstream. It’s not enough to stop him, but the edges of his awareness are starting to blur.

The guard tightens his grip, trying to muscle him. That’s his big mistake.

Bucky abruptly lets go and plants a well-timed kick to his midsection. The man stumbles – just for a step – but in that beat he’s off balance. Exposed. Bucky catches him by the collar and drives a fist into the base of his throat. Before the man can recover, Bucky drags him down by the straps of his vest and knees him across the jaw – once, twice – with enough force to crater brick.

The guy still doesn’t scream, but he finally slumps over, defeated. Bucky throws him to the ground, and he lays there, immobile. For the first time all night, he looks almost human.

Bucky groans and hauls himself to his feet, giving the man’s side one last kick to check for movement. Just to be sure.

He drags a hand down the side of his face as he squints into the communication device strapped to his wrist, looking for the time. Sweat and blood mingle freely on his palm. It should be crimson, but it comes out deep burgundy. He pokes at the screen, calling in evac. No point in pretending to be covert now.

He limps out of the crate lane, that poisoned cut still dripping fresh blood. Each breath he takes flares hot across his broken ribs. The lights overhead are too bright now, and the cold is starting to seep into his chest – sharp, biting, wholly unnatural.

Even with his metabolism, it’s holding on longer than it should. It's potent stuff, strong enough to take down more than just humans.

There’s an armoured SUV with blacked-out windows idling at the edge of the port. Two men rush forward to meet him halfway. One calls his name, hand pressed to his earpiece; the other reaches for gauze and gloves.

Bucky doesn’t resist as they ease him into the backseat. His grip on the vial doesn’t loosen.

He’s out before the doors close.

*

He comes to, briefly, while they’re bundling him into the aircraft. Cold metal flooring under his boots. The soft hiss of a pressure seal. Someone pressing gauze to his face. There’s a voice in his ear. “Stay with us, Congressman.”

It almost makes him laugh.

He’s unconscious again before the jet lifts.

*

The next time he wakes, it’s to a shift in engine pitch as they cut through the pre-dawn fog. The sound is too shallow – they’re not climbing but turning.

He opens his eyes slowly. Everything hurts in a dull, distant way – like his body’s being narrated by someone else. He tastes iron and ethanol; the inside of his mouth is bone-dry. It’s been a very long time since he’s been like this.

“Where the hell are we going?” He croaks out.

There’s a pause, long enough to confirm his suspicions. The pilot’s voice, calm and clipped, comes through the internal comms. “We’re diverting to Pampanga med station. You were bleeding out and unresponsive. Standing orders are to get you to base.”

“Change them.”

“Sir –”

He’s already trying to get up, one hand bracing against the armrest. He pulls himself up too fast; his ribs protest, dull hot pain sharp enough to blind him for a second. Blood’s drying along his collar and his cheek is crusted and tight – but his eyes are clear.

“Turn this thing around,” he rasps. “If you’re not going to land at Andrews in the next six hours, I’ll fly it myself.”

The cabin goes quiet. Then, a clipped acknowledgement. “Copy. Redirecting to DC.”

***

The next thing he knows, it’s the Quinjet ramp lowering with a metallic clatter onto the tarmac grey, and then the warm envelope of warm wind on his cold skin.

By the time he registers walls again, he’s in the Capitol basement. The fluorescent lights overhead are harsh, clinical, and oddly comforting.

Mike is already there waiting near the service elevator, phone in one hand, badge clipped to his breast pocket. It might just be the light, but stress lines are carved deeper into his face.

“Jesus, Bucky,” he curses under his breath. His eyes flick over him – smeared blood, half-buttoned shirt, combat boots leaving red-brown footprints on marble. “You look like death.”

Bucky sways a little but keeps walking. “What’s the count?”

“Close.” Mike falls into step beside him, voice low, steady, professional even as his free hand hovers like he might reach out to steady him. “We’ve got seven votes holding on the fence. Whip thinks it’ll split by two.”

Bucky grunts, and the breath catches sharp under his ribs. The poisoned wound pulses with each step, every heartbeat forcing heat down his collar.

“Bucky –” Mike’s voice softens. “You don’t have to –”

“Yeah,” Bucky rasps. “I do.”

The elevator dings open onto the staff corridors.

He almost walks straight out, but stops when he sees them. Jenna stands just outside, tablet clutched to her chest. Micah hovers behind her, phone half-raised like he was just taking a call. Both of them freeze when they see him – bloodied, grey-faced, tie dangling loose around his neck.

“Mr Barnes,” Jenna says, voice too calm to be natural. She reaches out and hands him a navy tie – already knotted, ready to pull tight. “Mike asked me to prep this.”

Bucky takes the tie from her. His grip is clumsy, but Jenna doesn’t react. She just nods once – efficient, composed, like she’s handing him a briefing packet before a vote.

He loops it around his neck, fumbling slightly. Micah steps forward, gaze flicking over Bucky’s shirt. He says nothing about the crusted blood or the tear in the fabric, but his nose twitches almost imperceptibly. He can smell it - the med patch hastily taped to Bucky’s ribs, bleeding chemical sterility into the cotton.

For a moment, Bucky braces for the question. The judgment.

But Micah just nods – once, brisk and silent – and opens his phone again, thumbing a quick message. “Roll call’s starting,” he says, voice tight with focus. “You’re up.”

Bucky tugs the tie snug against his throat, feeling the pressure steady him.

“Thanks,” he mutters, rough.

“Go,” Mike replies, crisp. “We’ve got it covered here.”

*

The chamber is full but hushed. There’s an undercurrent of expectant stillness, taut and electric.

Bucky leans against the chamber door for half a second longer than necessary, collecting what remains of himself. Then, from the east entrance, he slips in. No announcement. No fanfare. Just boots scuffing marble, jacket wrinkled from being transported in his duffel, tie crooked despite Jenna’s careful knot. His congressional pin catches fluorescent light with each unsteady step.

He hears his voice before he sees you – calm, clear, amplified to every corner of the room. “Madam Speaker, I rise in support of this legislation not because it is perfect, but because it is necessary.”

He doesn’t look up. Won’t let himself. He keeps moving, past rows of suited bodies, past other Representatives murmuring in low tones. His seat awaits – fifth row from the front, nameplate gleaming under chamber lights.

And when you yield the remainder of your time, stepping down from the dais to your seat, your gaze flickers over to him without pause. Bucky sees the moment you register him – the faintest lift of the corner of your mouth, the only crack in your otherwise perfect composure.

He sinks into his chair with a barely suppressed groan, pain biting deep under his ribs. He allows himself to sit there – breathing shallow, pulse roaring in his ears – as the Clerk begins the roll.

Names echo one by one across the chamber in the usual steady rhythm of procedure, each response logged and confirmed.

His fingers twitch against the edge of the table, aching to hold onto something solid.

“Mr Barnes.”

His answer is immediate.

“Aye.”

No inflection. No hesitation. Just that.

The chamber absorbs it in silence – the Clerk notes it down and the board flickers overhead, but he doesn’t look. His gaze is fixed at some distant point – the bronze fasces mounted beside the Speaker’s rostrum, bundled rods glinting in chamber light. He thinks if he stares hard enough, he can, through sheer force of will, keep away the black that is creeping in at the edges of his vision.

His whole body protests, pain radiating with every breath. But underlying it, there’s a quiet steadiness.

It feels good to show up. Even when it hurts.

It feels good, keeping his promise to you.

<< 4. Lockdown || AO3 ||

[senka-mesecine]

So, what if...and hear me out on this...the authorities got involved? The reader can either be a missing hiker Barnes took, someone he kidnapped, someone he rescued and whisked away, imprisoned with him up in the mountains. Doesn't matter. What's important is that the cops are hot on the trail of this missing person's case and it leads them to Barnes's cabin up in the hills after a year or maybe even two after you dropped off the radar. I don't know, but I just really enjoy the notion of people from outside reacting to Barnes' and the reader's relationship.

Bride Kidnapping in the Appalachians.

---

Robert Barnes x Reader.

---

― Kidnapping, which is forcibly taking a person against their will for the purposes of a felony, is usually a multi jurisdictional matter involving multiple agencies and usually involving the Feds. The classic kidnapping for ransom is pretty darn rare in the US these days actually.

It was 1973, after all.

Not in this neck of the woods, though.

In this particular neck of the woods laws were ageless, in effect, time having stopped moving in many a ways, or rather, if it moved it moved in a way it choose to move, winding around like a snake, all clever and elusive, having a mind of its own rendering whatever happened down there, in the towns, villages and settlements lining the foot of the mountain obsolete the further one moved up the top, beyond the barrier of the mists and the clouds and into the bosom of the evergreen mountains, Officer Jackson knew as much, having been born and growing up around The Smokies, being just as aware it was always a particular kind of people that chose to be isolated and lonesome in the wilderness; the hermits, the moonshiners, the smugglers, crazed hunting enthusiasts, folks up to no good and in this case, them Vietnam war Vets; the way people in the village located in the woodsy hamlet at the end of the junction road riddled with parked trailers, trucks and truckers taking a brief rest before hitting the highway, benches and the cars of so many campers leading up the hills spoke about Robert E. Lee Barnes like he was the damn Yeti or the Sasquatch — in strictly fantastical terms. Heck, even the asshole’s full name sounded fantastical and worthy of an eyebrow raise. Now, he’s heard folks give many a questionable name to their offspring ‘round these parts, but going as historical as this eluded even him. He scarcely believed the man was real until the Detective’s secretary, seated next to him grimly on the passenger’s seat pulled up this big fish’s service record and just looking at his picture caused him an unease not unlike looking a photographic evidence from the sense of a car crash would’ve.

One scarred, ugly ass motherfucker with dead, killer shark eyes.

A facial scar that sent a jot of phantom paint down Jackson’s own cheek.

If anyone was responsible for disappearing you?

It had to have been him.

The case so ridiculously one note, transparent and black and white it almost solved itself.

He, this Barnes figure, lived up there; the only one who lived up there, in fact.

 — Your trail was lost there approximately two years ago now.

Somehow, it clicked into place like a perfectly God-given puzzle piece.

This Barnes fella’ — he undoubtedly took you, had his fun as was to be expected from some anti social mountain dwelling type, stuffed you into several bags once he was sated, dug you into some overgrown, wild, muddy ditch; somewhere where only the wolves would roam over the soil of your unmarked tomb and called it a day. Jackson almost gulps wondering what a man like that does to some deluded little woman like you roaming these mountains with a backpack on her shoulders thinking she’s in charge of anything out here where everything that can go wrong will go wrong within the blink of an eye; if Jackson could have his way, in fact, he’d make roaming up the Appalachian trail illegal or at least put up signs that say ‘Enter at your own Risk’. Make it illegal for womenfolk, if nothing else. Pretty thing too; Jackson had your face from the missing posters committed to memory — the old case has been circulating in the newspaper for so long they could had to put something in the unfinished, now dusty report and putting something in the report meant going up there, into the mountains and actually looking at the situation, up close and personal; Detective Campbell clears his throat, search warrants and documents in a black leather briefcase on his lap, a navy blue rain jacket, a matching sweater, a white dress shirt and a tie underneath it all; the higher ups have been on his ass over the unresolved story for six months now; said it tampers with tourist prospects. Ain’ nobody gonna be climbing up that mountain anymore if a reputation for unsolved disappearances gets tied to it — nobody but the loonies who are drawn to the mystique of that sort of thing, but that wasn’t the type of crowd honest folk here wanted to attract anyway; so here they were, their vehicle jumping suddenly, the dusty trail becoming rocky, violently jolting up and stopping, disappearing behind the pine tree. Couldn’t keep driving even they wanted to. They would have to leave the car here and continue on foot. Any attempts to actually navigate this from behind a steering wheel would result in their engine falling out like a fistful of shit.. -"Well, reckon that’s it, Detective —"- Jackson remarks, shutting the motor off and removing the key. -”No driving up that monstrosity.”- He points the point of his nose vaguely, in front of them and the wilderness that enveloped the eternity of their front windshield; no road and all woodland — dark green, vast and wild. -"Should be some an odd mile up that steep slope; We can try our luck on foot."- He points only to look down, by instinct, at the choice of Campbell’s footwear; a pair of those hoytie-toytie half boots gentlemen around Nashville tended to peacock themselves in. Could do the job. Not ideally, though. -"Hope those are up to the challenge."- He asks, half in jest, halfway entirely serious, but by then, Campbell’s hand was already grabbing the interior handle of the car’s door, showing himself outside, adjusting his own jacket, making himself all official like while he was slamming the door behind him. Fair ‘nuff. Jackson was only tryin’ to be practical and sound of mind. Never understood city folk who refused to dress for the occasion.

-"What sort of man lives up here willingly anyway?"-

Campbell remarks, deep in thought, staring up, towards the ridge of the mountain.

Contemplating.

He didn’t really know how to answer that in simple terms.

What sort of man indeed.

Anyone who’s ever caught a glimpse of Barnes driving down into town to stock up every other month or so, Jackson supposed, would understand that this place fit him like a glove fits a hand.

-"Used to be an old mining town up those parts —"- 

Jackson rubs his fingers together, attempting to ward off the chill.

-"Coal, you see."-

He adds, walking around the car, joining Campbell in the act of sightseeing; scoping the territory out.

-"Didn’t even have no name — just a serial number."-

He explains things he’s heard others say, things that were fact, things re-constructed from memory; one thing being certain — he always believed there was basically something wrong with never naming a place where flesh and blood people once dwelled and made their hard earned work, toil and lives; like having a child and refusing to Christen it. Not unlike summoning the devil to one’s doorstep. No wonder the place went and got depopulated. Not that a Nashville boy like Detective Campbell would believe such superstitions and Jackson didn’t expect him to; he figured he just wanted to paint a picture. Try and portray the type of people that inhabited this place. -"Died out around the 30’s. Left nothing but a ghost settlement behind and the scattered bones of infrastructure once there was nothing to dig."-  He continued, the distant, echoing cry of the Loon bird interjecting with his speech, causing him to shiver. -"But, some folks sure are stubborn, keen to cut off their noses to spite their faces."- Jackson shakes his head, crossing his arms around his chest, settling deeper into his insulated puffer jacket for heat. -"When I was a kiddie himself, there was some five families still up there, ah, but that was a long time ago. Then, it was down to two. Then one."- He asses anecdotally, remembering it like it was yesterday; people refusing to move when the government made efforts to landgrab and clear out that side of the hills, shutting down mining shafts, clearing it off scattered, old equipment so hikers could move around uninterrupted; couldn’t say he blamed them for digging their heels in and standing their ground, refusing to be chased out of their homes built with the sweat and blood of their coal miner grandfathers. Even if the surrounding soil was said to be contaminated from all that digging. -"Now, last I heard, it’s that Barnes fella went as far as digging himself even further away from the mining facility — downright turnin’ hermit like he’s Grizzly Adams."- Jackson waves his head, vaguely, in the direction of the summit of the pine tree riddled mountain; they say there was a cabin up there and that he resided up there even when the whole damn place was six months under the blanket of snow, all roads, natural or otherwise cut off. Detective Campbell turns his scrutinizing, watchful eye from the precipice of the wilderness enveloped in a thin, scattering mist and looks knowingly at him, fishing a cigarette out one of those fancy pants cigarette boxes, pushing one into his mouth; this was a job for homegrown, country cops who knew their elbow from their assholes, not these slick, dandy Nashville birds, but Jackson was willing to take whatever and however was given to him.

On the subject of Barnes:

 -"So, he can’t be sane."- 

Campbell quips simply, tilting his head, giving his diagnosis with an air of absolute conviction.

Like the good sir believed a man’s close proximity to nature rendered him abnormal.

Jackson’s almost offended, being a backwoods kid himself.

Choosing to hide the ache of the jab.

Fucking city slicker.

-"He’s sure’s sumn’ frightenin’ to behold."-

Jackson retorts back, shrugging his shoulders, trying to joke and make light of the situation but being unable to deny the nervousness starting to seep into his pores as he watched the man flick his lighter, dragging in the smoke, letting it coil from his mouth; Thank Christ almighty they’ve been greenlit to bear arms. The devil himself couldn’t make him come up here and stand at the precipice of the steep, jagged, rocky path that led further into the forest with nothing but a warrant against someone who’s service record, for all intents and purposes, described him as a virtual killing machine who’s survived being shot in action anywhere from seven to nine times. Seemed almost Biblical. Mythical. Something a snake handling, Strychnine drinking Preacher would describe someone from the Good Book do during a Sunday sermon.

-"Cigarette?"-

Campbell offers, pushing the shiny box his way; one for the road.

-"Don’t mind if I do, sir!”-

Jackson reaches forward almost immediately relieved, glad he was given something to alleviate the growing trepidation in his nerves.

—

The fog only manages to thicken instead of dispersing around approximately ten o’clock.

Ten o’clock in the forenoon and the mist became as white as milk in certain places, drifting through the pine trees like smoke, saturating the visibility with a sense of something that could only be referred to as the fog of war and Jackson knew all about that term; he had men on his force who served — in Vietnam and Korea alike. Good men too. Well adjusted. Proper. He respected the veterans. Any man willing to put in the time to shed blood for his country was alright in his book, but something about this fella’ didn’t sit quite right with Jackson —- all this eerie silence, all this desolation, hell, he believed that if either of them dropped a needle right about now it would just about echo all across this mountain like fireworks going off  — with each step taken, a sensation that only settled in deeper and deeper into his belly like a heavy, heated anvil; a notion he had to begrudgingly agree with city slicker Campbell, not that he’d ever admit to outloud under pain of death — no saneminded, healthy person would ever choose to live here, in what was effectively a graveyard — the amount of old, rusty mining carts, steel beam pipes overgrown with moss and packing crates with lids that have collapsed in on themselves exposed to the elements that they’ve bypassed being something Jackson’s lost count of. At one point, what could’ve only been a diner in better times, now with bricked up windows and a heavy, metal lock on the door is one of the many attractions they bypass and Jackson semi-expected the ghost of a dead miner to saunter past them at the end of his shift and off for some egg and bacon, tip his working helmet charred black and greet them with a stout Howdy. 

An old ramshackle collection of overgrown sheds.

A rusty Ford pickup truck with the paint peeled off dotted with dried up bird excrement. A wooden house that had a tree growing through its dented roof; the foliage disappearing in the mist. A pheasant crossing their path in a haste, running from one bush to another, startling the living daylights out of them.

After a while the road that seemed like it was freshly walked upon, beaten in by the soles of a well worn set of boots clears out, devoid of the populated junk, leaving nothing but the woodland slope behind, moving upward, always upward and they genuinely use whatever was on hand, the occasional branch, shrubbery, boulder rock as makeshift armrests to avoid tumbling backwards and losing their balance, the occasional slip-up of their footwear scraping against the soil, sending pebbles flying back, towards the bosom of the abandoned colony behind them  — God never created such a wretched place. And this Barnes fella was downright spawned there or so his birth certificate claimed, every bit of information on this man sounding more fake than the previous, but somehow in his heart of hearts once the edge of the horizon breaks and what seemed like the top of a smoking chimney and a roof appears in the distance through the fog Jackson knew it was all true. Detective Campbell halts for a second, catching his breath in his hoytie toytie gentleman’s straight city asphalt walking shoes, taking in the sight, reaching the end of the road connecting to a clearing in the forest where a homestead stood — not at all a shabby affair to behold by the looks of it. Sheds, a path that led to it, a garden in the distance, some laundry drying on a string — heck, it even had a little fence. Funnily enough — even a singular electrical poll leading up to this very house — the last one, attached to the building like the end of the line and all civilization. A stack of wood for the stove as tall as a wall adjoined to the side of the house; the sound of thumping, muted by the mountain’s echo. There was someone at home. Cutting firewood, perhaps? He and Campbell give each other meaningful looks, proceeding further up the property, cautiously, leisurely, yet threading warily. It was like stumbling upon the lost land of Lilliput hidden behind the rainbow; still difficult to wrap one’s head around the notion a living person actually lived here, especially when taking into consideration the ghost settlement they had to pass through first; the fence squeaks a little as they open it, stepping into what was effectively a front porch, a man with his back turned, slick with sweat is the backyard working an axe, chopping stumps — skin rust colored and riddled with scars — he turns, just as leisurely as they’ve waltzed in and even if Jackson doesn’t see it, it’s like he feels, second-hand, the tension caught in Campell’s throat in spite of the confidence he puts up as a wall once the zig-zag scars of the man’s face are facing them even if from afar. Straightening out his form he looked like the type of thing you only hear old folks talk about showing up in the mountains, with no confirmation of anyone actually seeing it.

-"Robert E. Lee Barnes?"- 

Campbell calls out, questioning, holding his badge up. The man sets down his axe, lodging it into a stump, grabbing a rag and wiping his hands. Approaching them slowly, like he wasn’t at all in a hurry. Only when he’s close enough does Jackson notice he had a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He supposed he was too distracted by the scars to notice.

-"We’ve a search warrant for this property. Mind if we took a closer inspection of perimeters?"-

Campbell explains and Barnes’s mouth moves, almost in confirmation, mouthing a ‘eyup’. Never actually uttering it out loud, throwing his jaw out instead, eying the piece of paper. Jackson could almost swear the man looked halfway haughty, like…like he’s been expecting them. Might’ve even heard them too — ever since they parked the car at the foot of this rocky peak.

In any case, his file didn’t do him justice where appearances were concerned.

This had to have been the most singularly frightening man he’s ever seen up close.

 -"Sergeant, we’re looking for —"- 

Campbell starts verbally unfolding their reason for being here, Jackson’s hand instinctively flinching to go and reach for his firearm, never actually doing it, tensing up from the man’s deep abiding, self contented silence, only for the detective’s words to be cut off by the sounds of footsteps on a squeaking floorboard from inside translating to activity on the front porch once a smaller figure emerges from the shadowed darkness of the doorway’s threshold. A woman. The woman. Startled, and then partially surprised. Then smiling. It was you. You. -"Hello?"- You say, acknowledging them like a hostess would acknowledge her guests. What in the great big balls of fire — he and Campbell exchange looks for the second time, quickly, in a panicked haste, quickly regaining their footing; Campbell’s hands fly to his hips in a visible state of exasperation he couldn’t, no doubt, express any other way. -"Good day, ma’am; Detective Campbell and Officer Jackson; Care to identify yourself?"- The detective spits those words out cordially yet with the quickness of a firing bullet, Jackson’s eyes catching the gesture of your hand coming protectively over what was the swelling curve of a belly peeking from underneath you dress and before he could even register the thought and conclude what he was looking at a toddler scampers past your feet and then another, dragging itself, still not having learned to walk. Barnes’s head was so high up now from the sidelines one could only deem him unbearably proud.  -"Now, whose children are these?"- The Detective goddamn nearly stutters, caught entirely off guard, eying the younguns. -"Ours."- You chuckle, answering almost immediately, picking up the toddler and holding it in your arms with a little smile, then growing a glance at the offending mountain man who’s made himself decent in the meantime, putting on a shirt as oily greyish green as the rest of his outfit; something very army-like about the way he was dressed. Like he didn’t change much about his looks from the very day he was deployed to the very day he arrived back home. -"Mine and Bobby’s."- You add and that nickname, however inconspicuous, causes the hairs on the back of Jackson’s neck to stand. Bobby? Calling a man like that Bobby was like naming one of them bloodthirsty hellhound Pitbulls Baby.  -"Are you police officers?"- You ask downright sweetly, your gaze travelling between the Barnes fella and them like someone looking for comfort; Jackson immediately catches the detail and he knew Campbell did too. You fidget a little, hiccupping baby in your arms, stepping aside only slight, the passageway to the front door on the porch open to them --- welcoming. This was one surreal bitch of a situation. They didn't even expect to find you alive, least of all ---

-"Do you — do you want come inside?"-

You inquire, somewhat shy seeming, your eyes on Barnes once more.

-"Bobby, we should invite them inside."-

You try for courtesies and the man who hasn't set a word since they've arrived him nods only barely, behind them the entire time as you led the way forward with a small smile, children in tow, one in your belly, two around you --- Three in two years? A set of twins? What the fuck was going on here? How'd that even function? Barnes would've have to work overtime to...gosh almighty, he would've had to keep working at it one after the other, when you were barely healed and shit. That animal, Jackson thinks bitterly, seated at the man's own dining table, inside of the man's own kitchen, all brown wooden paneling and brown wooden colors. -"Now, Ma’am, we won't bore you long; I’ll cut right to the chase —"- Campbell begins, before he's even properly plopped down into his own chair, clearly impatient to start, wanting to get to the bottom of this real bad, Barnes seated at the head of the table, fishing a cigarette out of his pocket somewhere, your diligent hand there to wordlessly light it for him. This was...like some sort of circus or other; they came here searching for the carcass and the remains of an abduction victim and they found...a pliant wife playing house up here with this man who's very presence caused all the air to seep out from between the hold of a four wall kitchenette. Campbell starts opening his briefcase and it's only then that Jackson remembers to breathe properly. The Detective produces the necessary paper, flicking through his folders and files. -"You realize there’s been a whole hoo-ha and that your face has been in every newspaper for the past two years now? That you’ve been pronounced missing? That your hiking group —"- He throws his glance down on all the signed testimonials; some several of them in total, only to shrug it off curtly. —"Well, I won’t read out their names —"- He clears his throat, shrugging quickly. -"But, rather the point is that they reported you missing, on November 14th, 1971?"- He looks at you, no doubt searching your face for any and all confirmation as you set next to what you deemed your husband who's face was semi-enveloped in the haze of tobacco smoke curling and coiling around his face like a veil. Not a shred of fear on that one. Not a shred of fear. Robert Barnes looked like he was a man just about ready for a cookout, legs and thighs spread out under him on the chair that seemed too small for his form. Campbell doesn't like that, Jackson knew, so Campbell ups the ante --- there was a display vitrine of firearms and shotguns hanging off the kitchen wall. Repeating Winchesters and Carabiners. Jackson feels caught looking at them, Barnes noticing that he noticed.

The threat is vague but ever present.

-"That some of them speculated you dead or a victim of a serious crime?"-

His tone of voice was harsher now, accusatory, impatient.  

-"Now, there’s no law or regulation against a kidnapped person hiding from those searching for her, but I must say this is wholly unethical —"-

He begins, only to be cut off.

You chuckle, not unkindly.

 -"Sir, I’m not kidnapped."-

You correct.

 -"I’m married."-

You explain, the weight of that one word rendering this entire thing obselete.

 -"This is my husband."- 

You add, throwing a fond look at the quiet, shit-your-breeches frightening man beside you.

—

-"Now, what in the blazes is the whole shit here!? What sort of wild goose chase is this anyway!?"-

One marriage certificate later and two weddings bands being produces as confirmation, Campbell paces angrily on the back porch overlooking a tree lot of pines, hand running through his hair, tightly pushed together lips practically seething venom. -"Married!? She's married!?"- He whispers, wide eyed, lowering his voice even further like he was careful to ensure the walls didn't have ears. -"To him!?"- He almost mouths those words instead of uttering them out loud causing Jackson to shake his head, staring out into the misty, overcast woodlands embracing the back of the house like a mother's warm, green bosom. -"M’fraid we can’t arrest a man for puttin’ a ring on a woman’s finger and settlin’ down’n’ popping out a litter; not even out here."- He crosses his arms over his chest; shoot, he expected this situation to turn out in a million different ways but this one sure wasn't one of them; seems like all they did is butt into someone's home, disturbing their routine and shit. -"But, it’s a clear case of coercion! Hostage infatuated with the captor! "- Campbell pushes his face towards his own, pointing with his whole hand, vaguely towards the front of the house; yeah, figured this wouldn't look good on them papers --- hiker found over two years later, married to local loose screw weirdo, more on page six. Might just be bad for tourism and marketing and deter people from climbing up here. Or it could do merely well to inspire them to hike around these mountains lookin' for freshwater babes that'll coax them into the woods too and whisk them away to some forest wild hamlet somewhere, never to be seen again by no living eyes. Jackson chuckles into his own chin at the notion. -"He sits there, saying nothing. Just watches with those beady eyes."- Campbell paces, back and worth, back and forth, only to turn on his heel with a newfound, firm determination. He halts suddenly, shaking his index finger vehemently. -"I’m getting to the bottom of this."- He saunters hastily and it takes a near Herculean effort for Jackson to keep up, nearly running after him on the circular porch that wrapped around the whole house, following the Detective back into the house to at least be present and de-escalate from anything batshit happening; sure, he was here doing his job, but he sure as heck wasn't willing to die retrieving some crazy broad who's gone and tied the knot with some white trash with a chewed up face; that same man's eyes on them in an instant, already poised towards the threshold before they even cross it properly, staring them down from where he was seated at the table, your back turned towards the counter, minding the meal cooking on the stove. Instinctively, the Barnes fella stands up, some would say like a gentleman of courtesy, but Jackson knew, it was much rather like a man ready to pounce and fight. -"Now, don’t get up on my account, Mr. Barnes."- Campbell gives him leave with a hand raised, focusing his attention on you instead. Why, Jackson hasn't heard a thing out of this Sergeant Robert E. Lee's mouth since they've arrived, yet somehow, he figured they didn't have to hear anything out of him, almost like he said everything by merely being silent, more so when the Detective addresses you and the man's eyes get sharper, unblinking. You wipe your hands into your apron. Removing it and hanging it on a nearby chair.

-"Ma’am, would you mind if I had a private consultation with you; just a standard issue interview one on one. Maybe in of these little rooms here."- 

Wounded pride Campbell gestures and you follow.

—

The first thing that catches Jackson's attention are all the photos.

Framed pictures on the nightstand, the occasional one hanging on the wall, commodes lined with what seemed like pictures of a marriage, uniformed affairs of some circumstance, the birth of children or simply put --- just you; Campbell leaves the door of what he could only deduce was a bedroom half ajar, just enough for Jackson to stand on the threshold leaning against the frame with his arms crossed and to conclude that if this Barnes fella had a favorite thing in the world to look at it sure was reflected in the subject of the polaroid's picked to display. For all he was concerned, their business here was long since settled. He saw the way things were. Just a man loving on his woman, is all. But, the Detective? He persists. Sure a stubborn mule, that one. -"Now, is he keeping you here by force? Has force been used in your settling here? Maybe some sort of blackmail? A threat of violence? Against you or the children?"- Campbell leans his head down, neck bending in order for his eyes to be on an equal eyelevel with your own; a common interrogating tactic when playing the Good Cop; make the subject feel like they could trust whoever it was interviewing them. Bet the man's ego took a bruising; the fact that they'd climb down from here empty handed, looking the fools. Jackson could live with being a fool; he wasn't paid enough to be Elliott Ness-ing all over Appalachia. Not with that man still seated at the kitchen table, smoking, staring daggers at him from across the corridor, causing a chill to run down his spine. -"See, your hiking team seemed to have reasons to believe your disappearance was nefarious in nature and not a mere mishap."- Campbell says, pushing on once your silence yields no results and you look away, body language tense, putting up walls, staring through the veil of the lacey curtain keeping the shadows detained within the hallowed intimacy of the bedroom --- felt weird being here in the first place, just merely standing on this threshold now --- resembled standing on the precipice of a swampy creek populated by alligators, dangling a bleeding hand over the deathly still, green murky waters, tempting fate. Campbell's exasperated at your lack of cooperation, clicking his tongue in annoyance --- try as he may have, he was attempting to put words into your mouth but said words just wouldn't stick. -"Ma’am, I can’t do anything to help unless you’re honest with me and I understand a victim isn’t always willing to speak in front of —"-

-"I am no victim."-

You finally interject.

-"I hiked up here and I met a man."-

Adding immediately after, all matter-of-factly and straight to the point.

-"He offered me shelter. We fell in love. I stayed and never climbed down the mountain again. That’s the whole truth."-

You shrug, simply, nothing else to declare, hitting a verbal bullseye.

-"But why did you at no point attempt to get in contact with the local authorities? Try and go home?"- 

Detective Campbell looks at you square on.

You maintain his gaze firmly. Calmly.

-"This is my home."-

Is all you say.

All you needed to say anyhow, thought Jackson, happy he was going to leave here alive.

—

The march back to the parked police car is a strenuous one.

Peppered with hushed, venomous seething.

This time around, Campbell leading the way in spite of his ill suited footwear.

Trudging through dew drenched soil, the occasional twig snapping beneath him.

Almost like his ire guided him forward, past the tree line, the colony.

Down the steep, rocky pathway of the hill going down.

Fact was, Jackson could only barely keep up.

Hell hath no fury like a Detective who came all the way from Nashville for nothing.

-"Heard about bride kidnappings in the Caucasus, heard about bride kidnappings in the Stans, Africa, heard the VIkings doing it, heard the Comanche back in the days off and riding away with the women, even heard of it happening south of the border, but never in my life did I hear shit like this unfolding under my very nose!"-  

The man mutters in stride, more to himself than Jackson, huffing and puffing all the way to the vehicle still waiting for them where they've left it, the man practically yanking the car door open and throwing himself down on the seat, his ears practically red with what Jackson could only assume was anger breaking out of his pores like wild fire once he's plopped down next to the man, in front of the steering wheel, thanking his lucky stars the Barnes fella didn't stuff them and hang them over the mantlepiece and that it all wrapped up in a vaguely civilized manner. That they didn't have to reach for their guns at any point in time. Especially not with the displayed arsenal that guy had in his goddamned dining room. Nonetheless, the Detective's scowling, displeased mouth plops open, eyes outraged, nose pointing at something back in the forest from whence they came, through the curtain of mist.

-"Look."-

He extends his index finger accusingly and before Jackson could ever properly register which direction he should be looking at or what he was searching for exactly in the disorienting vista of wilderness the man was there, standing on a cliffside overlooking the dented valley where their car was situated, nestled into the bosom of the forest. Arms crossed behind his back, legs akimbo, Jackson was either hallucinating things or this man was actually...smiling. Down at them. -"Look at that redneck hillbilly asshole, taunting us. Knowing we can’t do shit against him."- Campbell was as infuriated as a caged bulldog, hand practically gripping his own knee as Jackson started pulling backwards with the car, slowly, trying not to hit some stray rock with his tire on his way back; the Barnes guy in the frame of their eyesight, scarred face distorting at the seams under the pressure of his lips unfurling, his pale eyes almost like a pair of hollows from this distance. Funny how a man could witness the most harrowingly scary image in his life and he still had to mundanely keep doing his job, maneuvering his vehicle backwards, trying to keep a cool head; truth was, Jackson could feel his legs shake on the pedals, goosebumps erupting all over his skin. If anything, this was a wordless sign relayed back to them through a singular action; Stay out of my territory. You'll wont set a foot out here again and I know it. I'm taunting you with. -"He’s really, honestly there with that shit-eating grin of his face. Piece of shit smug bastard."- Campbell murmurs icily as the mossy, ancient cliffside got smaller and smaller, further and further away from them, Barnes's presence no less strangling --- just standing there, watching them pull out what could effectively be the equivalent of his driveway. Jackson, for one, couldn't wait to be back at the Station sifting through boring old speeding violations, the odd case of vagrancy or petty theft at the local Piggly Wiggly. Was certainly infinitely less stressful. -"Best let sleepin’ dogs lie, chief."- He manages with the faintest bit of optimism, his voice shaking in his throat as he gives the steering wheel a sharp tug, turning away from the mountain and towards the dirt road, borderline overtaken with the desire to chuckle as he turned the car, driving away from this godforsaken, incomprehensible, baffling bit of back wood. And so he does, the tires thudding, bouncing and screeching on uneven, untamed terrain, but never was there a marrier sound to these old ears. -"I for one I am lookin’ forward to a steaming pitcher of coffee back at the office to wash off this whole road trip. Hope I never have to drive out here again, so hear me God."- He remarks hopefully, relieved like never before, the looming forest speeding away in a blur all around them like a fever dream he'd like to forget, glancing at the side review mirror next to him, reflecting the colossal, imposing cliffside back to him.

Barnes was no longer standing there.

The steep, jagged, green mountainside held an empty vigil at their departure.

The mist has cleared, replaced by a soft drizzle.

—

A week later, Jackson knew Campbell began typing away furiously, the itch stirring in him once again like a badly digested lunch, fingers working the typewriter loud enough for half of the Station to go echoing with the noise and causing him to be getting as far as the name of his report that was titled as follows; Bride Kidnappings in the Appalachians --- Jackson saw the man ruminating over the unwritten bit of document on a pristine, white piece of paper for a good half an hour or so, the secretary bringing him one cup of coffee and then another while he sat idly in his chair like he was at a loss for words or weighing his options in his mind --- whether it was wise to proceed or not; by the end of his shift and his last day at the smalltown Sheriff's department, he ripped the paper out just as discontent, crumpling it in his hands and throwing it in the nearby garbage bin, leaving for Nashville the next day, saying goodbye to nobody.

Never was Jackson more unburdened in life.

[hoodlander]

Thanks for the tag @deliciouskeys. How my Butchlander fics got started:

Indecent Company: I’ve always loved mistaken/secret identity fics and Homelander’s convo with Starlight about civilian identities was a scene that always stayed with me. I was writing The Book of Bad Ideas when I conceived Indecent Company. What if Billy met Homelander in his civilian identity and hit on him? And the story kind of just wrote itself from there. Was meant to be a one-shot but...

Sleeping In My Car: RedRidingStiles left a comment that triggered my brain into a sequel. I kept thinking about what their first date would entail and realized John already told Billy not to take him to Vought-A-Burger. So of fucking course that’s what Billy would do:

Me: “Maybe Billy takes him to the Vought-A-Burger drive-thru just to be a dick. They fuck in the back seat and Billy laughs when he gets a 3rd date.”

RedRidingStile: “Oh my God yes! He'd laugh his fucking ass off and just keep taking him on the shittest dates he can think of lol”

I’m also a Roxette fan, so when Sleeping In My Car came on, I was like: Yes. That’s it. That’s The Vibe.

Be Good For Me (on your knees): The hardest one to write in the series. All I had to go on was ‘Billy takes John to a dive bar for fries’. Like, that was it lol. And then as I wrote John got sad but I still needed a sex scene because no, I will not write a PG fic for this series. Thus the back alley blowjob was born.

Slouching Towards Bethlehem: I had most of Chapter 2 living in my head as a movie. John and Billy on the bench, leaning into each other. Billy finding out, their fight and John flying off with tears in his eyes. Those were all concrete. But I needed a way to get there which ended up being Chapter 1 with a surprise appearance by Ryan. In my original conception of this series, he never made an appearance and was only mentioned in passing. Chapter 1 was the way I got to Chapter 2. And then Chapter 3, I needed them to make up as quickly as they broke up, and then they ended up having a much longer conversation at the end with a bonus shower scene.

The Road Ahead of Us: Not the original ending. The last chapter of Slouching completely changed how I ended this series. What I planned from the beginning just no longer worked. So I was a bit stumped. It went through so many versions. I tried to re-purpose the original but it didn’t work, I tried a cross country road trip, but it felt wrong. And then I realized I was trying to go too big. So I still kept the road trip idea because I loved it, but just gave them a smaller New England trip. A trial run of being together, of finding themselves becoming a family. What was supposed to be a one-shot bookend has now turned itself into a multi-chapter. I still want to use the original ending somewhere in this fic in a capacity that works, and I think I might be able to. My ideas for this fic come to me in full scenes and dialogue (normally dropped by my brain at 11pm).

Suburbia I: It all started with the Trophy Wife crop top post and the delightful tags left by @himelander. This is my brand of humour 100% and I was happy to be able to bring it to the Butchlander fandom. It wrote itself and I needed it to be insane.

Suburbia II: Himelander again °˖✧◝(⁰▿⁰)◜✧˖° And that pic of Karl and Antony that I used in the fic cover. They do a bake sale, John takes credit, Ryan is embarrassed by his cringe parents.

Suburbia III: I teased in in Part 2 and felt like writing it. I read a fic probably a decade ago that lives in my head rent free with a similar premise. The character had to pee but they fucked first and then he just started going. Can’t exactly remember the fandom or ship. But it was hot, so this exists now.

Suburbia IV: What is cuter than flying puppies? It all started with “Congratulations, William. You’re a grandfather!”. And also John doing some light B&E to throw a dog at Hughie. I never meant for it to be 3 chapters, but it just kept going ultimately because once again – I did not want to write a PG Butchlander fic.

Suburbia V: lol, again part of a convo with the delightful Himelander. John claiming he’s not gay while Billy fucks him, Billy is very confused by the statement. I knew I wanted to write it into this series eventually.

Suburbia VI: kaijusizefeels wondered how they’d do Halloween in a comment and that ad of The Boys all dressed up as each other inspired the costume choices. The idea of Billy wearing a bad Homelander suit was hilarious.

Suburbia VII: Continuing with my crack-y ideas, I thought it would be funny if the Deep asked John to be his Best Man when he married his octopus. The scene of him doing a best man proposal with flowers was one of the first scenes that came to me. And the tentacles reminding John of Billy’s tentacles, and Billy wanting to go to the wedding because he thinks it would be hilarious.

The Book of Bad Ideas: Chronologically the first Butchlander I started writing. Originally it started as a sugar baby au, but then I realized I could merge 3 fic ideas into one to create a longer and more fleshed out story. The first scene I conceived was a very drunk Billy cat-calling Homelander outside Vought Tower. And I’m not going to lie Taylor Swift’s The Tortured Poets Department, was on repeat as I conceived this fever dream. In particular: Fortnight, My Boy Only Breaks His Favorite Toys, Florida!!!, Guilty As Sin?, and I Can Do It With A Broken Heart.

Masquerade: Again my love of identity porn. There was a scene from The Mists of Avalon that has lived rent free in my head for almost 25 years. I’ve always wanted to write something similar and the opportunity presented itself with Butchlander. The masks and fucking someone you weren’t supposed to have.

Whiskey Talking: Drunk Billy is my trope! A what-if he poured the Temp V, got drunk, and fucked Homelander on his kitchen floor? And Billy wondering if Homelander was asking him on a date. Also it let me use the line of Billy hearing Homelander’s laughter in the wind at the end.

Bad Romance: The first scene I ever conceived was Butcher walking into his apartment completely beat up. Cue a jealous and surprisingly overprotective Homelander, and him eventually bringing Billy a severed head while covered head to toe in blood. For them – it’s super romantic.

[angrybubbles]

Rain - Genre Motifs and IwtV

Genre is a really strong factor in what decisions will motivate writers and directors. Everything from framing, music, set-pieces, character roles, character decisions, and symbolism are going to be impacted by the decided genre. So what about AMC's Interview with the Vampire? It's a multi-genre show, but primarily a romantic Gothic Horror. "Romantic" is only slightly modifying the purpose of the story, and while you will find some romance, there's a reason each relationship is built on abuse, trauma, and horror elements. There are stronger story-telling motifs from the Gothic Horror genre than the romance genre, and that impacts the story-telling language the directors are going to use.

So rain is a symbolic metaphor (I hear you groaning, but give me a sec) that sets a scene. Rain is going to be standing in for something, and rain has a lot of different meanings! Everything from renewal, to sorrow, to foreboding. In writing, the author is going to choose which purpose the motif holds to establish subtext, tone, and mood. Which means it will also change with whatever genre the author is working in.

I'm going to look at the Loumand bench scene, but if you want to keep the "Was it raining, Louis?" scene in the back of your head, you may get something there too.

TV tropes has the following to say about Romantic Rain:

If you want to be deserving of your love, you won't care if it's raining, you will rush out into the rain to be with her or him, express what's on your mind and have The Big Damn Kiss. This trope often occurs when the couple gets officially together, finally confessing their love, or if their relationship with bucketloads of Unresolved Sexual Tension becomes resolved with a passionate kiss.¹

So the rain in a romantic metaphor would stand in for something like "the odds" or "the world." You're standing together in the face of the elements that are against you. It's renewal and determination.

Which works well with a romantic reading of the Loumand bench scene! They're finally confessing their dedication on a deeper and more impactful level, and setting up their future BDSM dynamic. Considering Louis and Armand are telling this story, this may be how they view it as well.

But the show is not a romance, it is simply romantic. So what does the Gothic Horror rain motif tend to be used for?

Weather plays an important function in Gothic literature, and remains one of the keys in decoding the inner landscape of the protagonists... Storms are perceived as harbingers of evil, and often present both a reflection and refraction of the inner self of the protagonist, an externalization of internal fears and conflict.²

In "Elements of the Gothic Novel" by Robert Harris, he also notes that rain in the genre of the Gothic is a metaphor for gloom, isolation, sorrow, mystery, or danger.

Louis starts the scene in the rain, using it as a chance to say goodbye to Lestat and finally let him go in order to consciously pursue Armand. In Gothic terms, we're seeing him sitting in the manifestation of sorrow and reflection. Reflecting that he hasn't been seeing the real Lestat, sorrow at letting him fade, and fear about being unprotected from the coming storm (which is why he puts down the umbrella, he has to let the memory of Lestat not be a shield any longer).

Armand steps up immediately after, panicked in his own swirling refraction of incoming danger, unease, and general fear. He is a bit more protected from the incoming storm (his cute hat), but he's still getting drenched. As he lays out his warning of danger to Louis, the rain even begins to increase.

Armand wordlessly shields Louis from the rain when requested, showing the transfer in who is protecting Louis from his storm (which can also be taken away, it isn't Louis that is holding the umbrella). But the next time the rain increases in intensity? Right after "Yes, Maitre," showing that the danger and internal conflict just got stronger. And of course, we know that this exchange is not in isolation, they are being spied on from the bushes.

So if the storm is a metaphor for what's going on in the psyche of the world, then this scene shifts from sorrowful reflection to danger based on Louis' decisions. The foreboding of what's to come has only increased, and the danger has not lessened.

And music-wise? Nothing. Just the sound of rain and them talking, which only adds to the tension.

So if that scene felt discomforting to you at all, I think it's reasonable to say that it may have been intentional. T'is the language of art.

¹ - "Romantic Rain," TV Tropes.

² - "Glossary of the Gothic: Weather," Marquette University.

BTW the resources I used are all free online

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[thehomophobe]

You and the FNAF SB cast as told by incorrect quotes: Nerdy Prudes Must Die Edition

Chica: We never leave anyone behind.

(Y/N): Well I got left behind this morning. Bus driver's a fucking asshole.

Moon: I want to be invisible.

Roxy: *looks at Moon's fit* Then why do you come to public school dress in pajama pants and fucking glasses?

Roxy: Oh my god! You're micro-penis!

Sun: It's not actually a micro penis!

Sun: My titties are tenderized...

Monty: It's 3rd period shit lips. I've gotta get to "remedial algebra".

Monty: Oh, well there's a difference between "intent" and "impact".

Monty: I learned that at the anti-bullying assembly last month.

Monty: *after bullying Sun* Should I let him off with a warning?

Lackey: Haha Yeah! 😃*Monty glares at the Lackey*

(Y/N): Can I carry your books for you?

Sun: "Carry my books..."? I don't think either of us are ready for that, I mean we're only 18!

Claire: This is politics, (Y/N), learn to multi-task.

*Vanessa readies a hammer to smash

Roxy's phone."Roxy: NO! *puts her hand over her phone.

*Vanessa: *in complete confusion* Did you just throw your hand BETWEEN the hammer and the phone?

Sun: Y'know, like--Newton's law of motion, like physics.

Moon: This project's on thermodynamics. What the fuck are you talking about?

Chica: *looks to Sun* What was it like when she touched your arm...?

Chica: DID YOU CUM?!?!

Chica: FREDDY'S TALKING TO BONNIE!!!

(Y/N): NANI?!?!?!?!

*Sun on the phone with (Y/N)*

Chica: What is she saying? What the FUCK IS SHE SAYING?!

Sun: SHUT THE FUCK UP!

(Y/N): Excuse me? 🤨

Sun: You're telling me I've gotta be funny AGAIN? I didn't on purpose the first time!

Freddy: Me and Bonnie in carnal embrace? That's ridiculous.

Bonnie: Think you're better than me 'cuz you come from money?

Sun: Oh, no I-I think the bowtie gave you the wrong idea---I'm not rich.

Bonnie: E U G H. So you're a poor piece of shit then?

Bonnie: I did not consent to this rende-voos.

Freddy: Mom, will you pass the butt stuff?

Mother: 😃

Father: 😀Freddy: *completely flustered* The but-TER. BUT-TER. Will you pass the but-ter, heheh...I just want some head and butter---BREAD!

Mother: 😃

Father: 😀

Freddy: Bread and butt sex to go with this big shaft of meat I'm gonna choke down!

Sun: I've got butterflies in my tummy, and they're flying real low today...

*Claire in Dean Vanessa's office.

*Vanessa: Whoa whoa whoa whose plan was it Claire?

Claire: *having a mental breakdown* It's God plan!

Claire: And he's leaving me out to dry!

Claire: DO SOMETHING YOU SON OF A BITCH!!!

Moon: *points a knife* DON'T! FOLLOW MEH! *runs into the darkness*

Sun: Dagnammit. I need a DOGGONE drink. Give me a cup of hot water and make it strong.

(Y/N): Are we in trouble? Do we need to get hold of Lorelei?

Claire: Good luck getting a hold of her. Does your phone plan cover calls to hell?

(Y/N): Hell?

Claire: She's pansexual and dead, where else would she be?

Sun: *sobbing* I've done so many terrible things, like touching myself and lying to the police.

Lorelei: The souls of the pervs make me strong. >:)

Benison: Eyes on me.

😊Benison: (Y/N) Up here! 😠

Sun: *sighs sitting on a bench alone* I turned 40 today.

Roxy: They ended up studying out of sheer boredom

.Bonnie: Ew.

Chica: You all just watch each other pee? Oh it's better than I ever imagined ~.

Sun: Am I reading as ghost or Lin Manuel Miranda?

Chica: You're the bestest friend I've ever had.

Moon: Oh that's sad.

Monty: I love...to FUCK.

*Sun having a crisis*

Chica: It's all right Sun---

Roxy: Don't comfort him he's fucking weird.

Vanessa: On the ground bitch imma cop

Monty: Man something reeks.

Moon/(Y/N)/Lorelei: Sorry, that's me.

Sun: *on the phone* You don't say?

Sun: You don't say?

Freddy: What they find Sun?

Sun: They didn't say.

(Y/N): I knew him. I just hated his guts.

Claire: Not enough to kill though.

(Y/N): We both know you can't ignore me because you're crazy about me.

Sun: *in shock* WHAT?!

[zayns-beer-can-gainz]

a little story i thought up

premise: one direction was invited to visit a trauma center for young girls who had been victims of varying degrees of assault/violence by their former “caregivers,” this place acts as a shelter for them as well as a place to heal and recover before they get sent off to new caregivers/foster families.

tw: this may be a very sensitive subject for a lot of you, so please only read if you feel comfortable. there is mentions of physical trauma. and there is also mentions of liam (this takes place in the future), so if you are still grieving over him, this may not be the best thing to read. or maybe it will be. it’s all up to how you see it :)

this is told in niall’s pov.

the boys and i had scattered around the multi-purpose room, each of us finding kids to sit down and talk to. i still stood by the doorway, eyes scanning the floor before finally landing on a small girl who looked about four, sitting on a bench in the far corner. hm. she looked lonely.

my head was still reeling over the reception we got from all the girls. massively stunned, but pleasantly surprise. they all screamed like fangirls, which made me laugh. it never got old. just to think, they had endured all this pain and yet the candle that held their spirit never dimmed. they remained fans through it all.

the girl i approached was holding a poster manufactured from years ago, probably begging for each of our autographs. i was simply honored to be the first one.

“hello there,” i sat down next to her, about to pull out a hand for her to shake, when my eyes registered what her face looked like.

a black shiner under her one eye, a small gash in her lip that looked pretty bloody but had since been dried over. some dark bluish smudge on her cheek, a couple on her other cheek. i could see through her lips that her front teeth were clean gone— well, all four-year-olds looked like that, didn’t they? well, with her, i couldn’t be too sure.

she was rubbing her shoulder a touch nervously as i did so, with an arm wrapped in a cast, trying to look away the best she could. she was probably so ashamed of all her marks, all her bruises. her eyes were glossed over with sadness as she looked into my own, which made the stabbing pain in my heart only strengthen.

“erm…” i wiped my face, trying my best to hide my own emotion, “i’m, uh…”

“you’re niall,” the girl finished, the corners of her lips turning up just a little.

“yeah, right,” i chuckled, snapping back to what the moment was supposed to entail. “pleasure to meet you my dear. what uh… what’s your name?”

“harper,” the girl’s voice dropped down, the smile fading with it.

“harper,” i echoed in a whisper, grinning wide. “aw, i love that name. so pretty.” then my eyes jumped to her poster she held in her trembling hands. “you want me to ah, to sign this?” i pointed to my face specifically, what i always did.

harper looked up for just a brief moment, her eyes scanning the crowd before focusing back on me. “where’s liam?” she asked softly, cocking her head.

oh man. i was so afraid of those words being said. the stones were already pelting my very soul, and i could feel it in tremendous force.

how could i explain it to this poor, sweet little girl. that he was gone forever. that he wasn’t going to come back.

“erm…” i sighed, “he, ah… he won’t be here, for a while. he… i don’t know when he’s coming back.” i shrugged. “i’m so sorry.”

then i thought of something i was relatively good at doing. redirecting the conversation to something much happier.

i smiled and pointed at the poster again. “who’s your favorite?” i asked her.

she grinned like mad as soon as i brought that up, which made my heart feel so warm. i was secretly hoping she would point to me, but alas, she pointed to the guy next to me.

“harry.” i laughed. “alright, yeah, he’s a great guy. he’s over there,” i quickly scanned the room until i found harry talking to three girls at once, clearly occupied. they all looked older than harper.

then i turned back to harper. “you want me to walk you over there, so you can go and say hi?”

she immediately shook her head and retracted a bit in her seat.

“you’re shy?” i asked her, and she nodded. “ah, that’s alright, i, i get it.”

it was a miracle how i was talking to this girl, honestly. the others were such naturals at it. harry had a little niece, not even two. zayn had a beautiful daughter. and louis had all those sisters he helped raise… i didn’t have any of that to go back on. i only had a nephew. but it had been a while since i last spoke to him.

but to be honest, i wanted kids someday. but i wanted my girlfriend to be on board with it as well. and i wasn’t sure if she was ready for that chapter quite yet. i knew i was.

“nialler,” i heard a deep voice next to me, a soft hand rubbing my shoulder. “they need you back on the bus in ten.”

i turned to harry, rolling my eyes. “but why though?” i muttered in a whisper through my teeth.

still, i had no choice but to oblige.

then, right when harry was about to get up from the bench and move back over to the girls on the far side, i remembered harper.

“harry, wait, there’s someone here who wants to meet you. i turned around to face my new friend, only to find she had dissapeared. i had to do a double take, before i heard a small quiet sniffle come from under the bench.

i bent my head down and saw she was hiding out under there, probably far too shy to talk to harry.

“aw, harper, it’s okay, don’t be afraid,” i opened my hand out for her to take, and she reluctantly did so. and as i pulled her out of her hiding place, harry chuckled warmly beside me.

“this is harper,” i told him, picking her up by the underarms and sitting her down in my lap.

“hello,” harry smiled and waved at her, opening his arms out but still keeping them close to his body. she was very small, after all.

“she says you’re her favorite,” i explained to him.

“i’m her favorite?” he echoed, before flashing his eyes down to her. “i’m your favorite?” he pointed to himself.

she smiled just a bit and nodded.

“can i be your second favorite?” i asked her.

she giggled and pointed to louis.

“oh, man, she’s got her priorities straight,” i laughed.

harry took her hand that was attached to the cast and felt it gently, his expression softening. “no scribbles,” he mused. “you want us to sign?” he looked harper in the eyes with a dead-serious face.

she shook her head and pointed to the poster.

“here,” harry took the poster from her, “we’ll sign both.”

he took out a purple pen from his pocket and began to sigh in both places, never letting go of harper’s hand. my pen that i took out of my pocket happened to be red, which gave me the idea to draw a big heart around my name.

of course, harry copied my idea.

“there you go,” i told her quietly, kissing her temple. “you’ve been such a good girl for us. i hope you have a nice day. it was lovely to meet you.”

harper grinned and turned around so she could hug me tight. again, i couldn’t help but feel a pulsating pinging in my heart, quite strong.

“i love you,” i whispered to her, passing her over to harry so he could say the same thing.

he gave her a gentle hug and a rub of the back, and a couple more kisses all over than i did, but that was okay. he set her down on the bench and waved goodbye to her, before helping me up from the bench. we had to be back on the bus in five minutes, which was completely unfair. all i wanted to do was spend more time, or rather, all the time in the world with my new friend, and maybe make some more friends.

but i knew rehearsal was tonight, and our next gig was tomorrow. we were still on a time crunch, after all.

i knew harper wouldn’t forget that day, or that experience, ever in her life. and even just for a little bit, i was glad she got to have a little bit of me, and carry those five minutes with her for as long as she wanted.

hope you enjoyed!!! :)

[aneurinallday]

2099

2.1 = THE POWER

“I couldn’t stop them,” Maura whispers, “Virginia…Krester’s whole family…that poor boy, he has nobody left.”

“We’ll fix this,” Daniel replies, “What Ciaran did changes nothing. We’re still going to find him, we’re still going to get out of here, and we’re still going to wake everyone up - the dead included. This is…this is just a setback.”

She nods, but his reassurance feels hollow.

Only half of the group remains alive aboard the vast ship. Daniel and Maura are sitting alone in the Prometheus’ lounge, whose main feature is an observation deck, built for the purpose of enjoyment rather than astronomical study. Benches are arranged facing a large, floor-to-ceiling window whose subtle curvature gives the room an almost dome-like impression. The window is carefully angled so that the other parts of the ship are not visible - all they can see is the cosmos stretching in every direction.

“It’s beautiful,” Maura says.

“Everything you and Ciaran made was beautiful, before his personal vendettas became more important to him than his work.”

“How many opportunities did I have to prevent that?”

“It’s pointless asking yourself that. We can’t change what’s happened - all we can do is try and undo the destruction. Anyway, we still have three days. You should get some sleep.”

“You’re the one who needs sleep, not me.”

“Why don’t we meet in the middle?”

He lies down on the seats, and she joins him - his left arm cushioning her head, his right arm holding her close. Her body is bruised from being trampled, but the physical pain seems insignificant in comparison to the images seared into her brain. She can see the frozen passengers as clear as day. . Somewhere out there, they’re still floating aimlessly.

“Do you see that bright cloud over there?” Daniel points to what looks like a great swirl of paint stretching for a million years across the universe.

“Yes.”

“It’s a galaxy devouring the smaller galaxies around it. As they collide over millions of years, the stronger gravitational forces overpower those of weaker bodies. Orbits are disrupted and realigned, and in some cases, whole planets are torn apart. They call it galactic cannibalism.”

“An ugly name. But it’s still beautiful. Is that what we’re doing right now?”

“Yes. About four billion years from now, we’re going to collide and merge with Andromeda.”

“How’s that going to go?”

“We’re not sure. It might change everything, or very little. We’ll all be dead by then, anyway.”

She savours the sound of his gentle voice in her ear, his Welsh melody that even years of being married to an Englishwoman couldn’t temper. The cosmos casts multi-coloured lights which shift and ripple over their bodies. Maura holds up her hand, watching the light move across her pale skin. With his fingertip, Daniel traces the bluish-green veins in the back of her hand.

“How do you know so much, anyway?” she asks.

“I remember Ciaran telling me. A long time ago.”

She notices scabs forming on his knuckles, which were bloodied during his desperate attempts to escape the box. She strokes his hand to soothe its pain, avoiding the burn scar where his wedding ring used to be. She tries to imagine the isolation he must’ve felt in 1899, the loneliness of being the only person whose eyes were open, unable to convince anyone that he was telling the truth.

“You’ve been through so much,” she murmurs. “I wish I could take it away from you.”

“If I can save you, it’ll be worth every bump and scratch.”

She hugs him close and kisses him. When he kisses her back, she feels all her doubts fade, and wonders how she could ever have doubted at all. How can such tenderness be a mere construct? How can he be anything but the love of her life?

It feels right.

It feels like home.

It feels like Eyk.

Her eyes snap open at the thought, and she pulls back from the kiss.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.

“Nothing. I’m just sore.”

With starlight in his brown eyes, he rubs her back comfortingly and kisses her again.

“This, right here,” she says, putting her hand on his heart, “This is real. Maybe things aren’t exactly how we thought, and maybe there are things we don’t know. But this is real, and nothing can ever convince me otherwise.”

She kisses him more deeply, but it’s his turn to hesitate.

“We shouldn’t,” he says, “Ciaran could be watching.”

“Or he could be sleeping. Even masterminds have to rest sometimes.”

“Still…”

“Do you see any computer screens? If he is watching, he can’t do a damn thing about it. He doesn’t matter - we matter.”

But the moment has passed, and she knows better than to try and recapture it. She closes her weary eyes and nestles in the warmth of his body. She wonders how many thousands of times they’ve lain like this, resting in the safety of each other’s embrace.

“Eventually, all of this will just be a memory,” she says, “An awful, painful memory, but we’ll be free.”

She doesn’t open her eyes to see Daniel’s expression, but she can sense his heartache. As they continue to drift through Space towards an unknown destination, she feels the tension slowly leave his body, and before she knows it, the rhythm of his breathing has lulled her to sleep.

The morning of October 24th comes all too soon, as dark and starry as the night that preceded it. The dozen survivors are scattered throughout the Prometheus’ living quarters, some of them returning damp-haired from the showers, others listlessly forcing down an unsatisfying breakfast from the cafeteria. Krester sits alone in the corner, ignoring Clémence’s attempts to console him.

“Has he spoken a word since yesterday?” Maura asks quietly as Daniel sits down beside her.

“I don’t think so.” Daniel winces, sucking in his breath sharply. “Fuck. I don’t know why, but I can still feel Franz’s knife. Eyk, can you come here, please?”

The captain approaches, looking concerned but a little confused, and crouches down in front of them.

“Show me where the wound was,” he says. “Perhaps it’s left a physical trace…”

“I’m fine,” Daniel whispers as he pulls up the hem of his jumper, “I just wanted to speak to you without Ciaran overhearing. I have a plan.”

“Tell us,” Eyk leans closer, pretending to examine Daniel’s skin for injury.

“Well…Ciaran is the only person who knows the exit code, right? We need to question him, but first, we need to flush him out of hiding. The generator room is located in the centre of the ship. If I can get in there, I can isolate whatever’s powering the video surveillance, and I can cut off that power source. Life support and other functions won’t be affected because they run on separate systems, but Ciaran won’t be able to spy on us anymore.”

“He’ll be blind,” Maura muses.

“Yes. If he wants to regain control, he’ll have to come and restart the generators manually. We have enough people to corner and subdue him before we turn the power back on.”

“But how do we reach the generators without him stopping us? He’ll be prepared for that eventuality.”

“Yes, but only if he thinks that’s what we’re doing. If he thinks we’re heading somewhere else, he won’t care. It’s no skin off his nose. The hull is filled with ventilation shafts, utility chases, water pipes - I got to know them quite well while I was hiding from Sebastian.”

“Sebastian?” Eyk’s brow furrows, “My First Mate?”

“Long story - he was in on the whole thing. But the point is, Ciaran won’t be able to see us while we’re inside the walls. We can make our way to the generator room without him knowing, and by the time we emerge, it’ll be too late for him to stop us.”

“What if he doesn’t show up?” Maura whispers.

“Then at least we’ve crossed that idea off the list.”

“Alright,” Eyk says, “Let’s do it. Where can we enter the hull?”

“Probably from the cafeteria. The kitchen has a large utility chase. Can you tell the others, please?”

Eyk rises and, feigning a lack of urgency, wanders back over to where Ángel and Ramiro are sitting. Maura and Daniel watch as word slowly spreads throughout the group, until, while barely exchanging eye contact, everyone is on the same page.

Maura suddenly stands up.

“I’m sick of this,“ she announces to the room, “Ciaran wants to watch us fumbling around in the dark like rats in a maze, but I’m done playing along. I’m not going to sit around waiting for the time loop to end. If we go to the cargo hold, there’s a chance we might find weapons there, or tools - anything! Daniel knows how to get there, he saw it while he was crawling through the vents. If we follow him, and if we stuck to the vents, Ciaran won’t be able to see us. It’s the only chance we’ve got. Anyone who wants to come with us, can do so.”

She strides away and Daniel accompanies her. In twos and threes, the rest follow, trying their best to project a lack of purpose. Krester trails silently after the group. In the kitchen, they brute-force the stove and extractor hood away from the wall to expose the inner workings of the wall behind it.

“It’ll be a tight squeeze,” Daniel says, “But we can make it.”

Clémence crouches down to peer into the hole.

“Does Lucien have to come?” she asks, “His health…”

“I’ll be alright,” her husband assures her, “I want to meet the man who did this to us, and look him in the eye.”

“We shouldn’t all go,” Eyk cautions, “If something goes wrong and we get trapped in there…It’d be best to have people on the outside.”

“You’re right,” says Daniel, “Some of us should stay behind and guard this entrance. And keep watch over Sebastian, just in case he...well, you never know. Anything can fucking happen around here.”

The group murmurs among themselves in their own languages.

“I don’t think my mother should go in there,” Ling Yi says, “We’ll wait.”

“I’ll stay too,” Olek says.

“Good. The rest of you, follow me.”

Crouching with a small flashlight in hand, Daniel leads the way with Maura right behind him. The others follow, and Eyk brings up the rear to make sure nobody falls behind. Creeping through the labyrinth of pipes and cable-filled shafts, they soon lose all sense of direction. They pass junction after identical junction, and crawl grimly through tunnel after tunnel until their hands, knees, and faces are dirty and stained.

Knowing the size and scale of the Prometheus, but disorientated by all the twists and turns, Maura struggles to visualise what progress they’re making.

“How much further?” she asks Daniel.

“If it was a straight shot, it’d be about four-hundred metres. But the way these shafts bend, it’s about half a mile.”

Daniel, who’s done this countless times before, is unfazed, but for the rest, it’s unbearably claustrophobic. As the tunnels grow narrower, the air grows more stifling and oppressive, and Lucien begin to falter. Everything is catching up with him - the stress, the tiredness, the fear, the claustrophobia. He looks down at his hand, which has begun to tremble.

“Oh merde. Clém…”

“Est-ce que ça va? Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?”

“I need fresh air,” he mutters, “I need - ”

He stops talking as the tremors travel up his arm. His other hand has now begun to quiver. Clémence quickly crawls to his side.

“Je suis là,” she comforts him, “Je suis là…”

“What’s going on back there?” Daniel calls out from up ahead.

As Lucien feels control of his body slipping away from him, a wordless groan squeezes out of him. His body stiffens, and his limbs begin to jerk uncontrollably. The others cluster around, but there is nothing they can do except wait while he convulses. His eyes are open, but stare at nothing, uncomprehending. A little blood leaks from the corner of his mouth - he’s bitten his tongue.

“No, no, no…” Clémence frets over him, “He should never have come with us. This place is going to kill him.”

After a minute or so, it passes. The convulsions lessen until they mostly cease. Lucien lies unresponsive on the ground, still twitching occasionally.

“Lucien…” Clémence cradles his head desperately in her lap, “This was a mistake! He’s staying here and so am I. Once he’s better, I’ll take him back to where it’s safe.”

“Nowhere on this ship is safe - ” Daniel begins.

“He needs to rest!” Clémence snaps, “I’ll wait here with him, and then I’ll take him back where we came.”

Crawling over, Maura checks the Frenchman’s pulse and pupils.

“What does he normally take?” she asks.

“I - I can’t remember. He changed his medication recently because of rashes. He takes different ones in the morning and evening…Why can’t I remember?” Clémence slaps her forehead in frustration.

“Okay, it’s okay…Daniel, he needs proper medical attention. There must be an infirmary - where is it?”

Daniel sighs heavily. He doesn’t have time for this.

“Fuck,” he curses, “Look, I can’t be in two places at once. The medical bay is two levels above here, but you’ll have to find your own way there without me. There’s an elevator for transporting stretchers, but you should avoid it and take the stairs instead, in case Ciaran tries to trap you. All the drugs should be labelled and administered the same as they would in real life…”

“I’ll find my way there,” Clémence says, “Will somebody help me carry him?”

The others hesitate. All their lives are hanging on this one mission, but they know she won’t be able to drag Lucien back through the shafts by herself.

“Will somebody help me?” she repeats angrily.

Jérôme looks down at the slack, unconscious face of his former enemy. Lucien’s vacant gaze is disconcerting.

“Je vais vous aider,” he volunteers, much to Clémence’s relief.

“Be careful,” Daniel says, “If he’s not well enough to regroup with the others afterwards, just wait there and we’ll come and fetch you once we’ve got Ciaran.”

Jérôme nods tersely. Parting ways with the three French passengers, they continue onwards through the ship’s labyrinthine underbelly.

Maura stops to rest her burning knees and aching thighs, and glances down a side-tunnel. Her eye is caught by a spot of colour, and she freezes. Nestled amid the tangled cables, as clean and spotless as if it’s just been placed there, is a toy space rocket. The bright, childish colours of its plastic parts stand out garishly among its grey metal surroundings.

“Look at that,” she says.

“At what? There’s nothing there.”

“But - ” Maura hesitates, sees the concern on Daniel’s face. “Never mind. I thought I saw something.”

“It’s alright. We’re almost there.”

He moves on, but Maura remains crouched where she is, still staring at the toy. Krester, Ángel, and Ramiro pass by without paying her any heed, but a few moments later, Eyk catches up with her.

“Are you alright?” he enquires.

“Yes, I’m fine. I’m just resting.”

Following her gaze, he says:

“That seems like it shouldn’t be here.”

“You can see it too?” Maura is startled.

“Yes, of course.”

“Daniel couldn’t see it…”

“Have you seen it before? It could be a sign. Your sleeping brain trying to tell you something.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it means something but I don’t remember. Maybe it was one of Elliot’s favourite toys…”

He puts his hand on her arm.

“We’ll know everything soon enough. Don’t worry.” Eyk glances both ways along the tunnel, “We need to move. We’re falling behind.”

Maura finally tears her gaze away from the toy, and they press on; but at the front of her mind burns a new, troubling question. Why is Daniel blind to what she and Eyk can see? Does he lack some vital aspect that everyone else possesses? But the possibility of Ciaran telling the truth is one she refuses to entertain.

She becomes aware of a thrumming noise, which grows louder and louder until it seems to surround them on all sides - subtle vibrations travelling through every surface. Here, they stop.

“The generators are right outside,” says Daniel, “It might take me a minute to figure out which one is powering the surveillance system - all of the ship’s systems are powered separately, to make sure everything can’t turn off at once.”

“The rest of us should hang back until surveillance is off,” says Eyk, “If Ciaran’s watching the room and sees all of us show up, he’ll be reluctant to confront us. But if he thinks it’s just Daniel, he’ll be emboldened.”

“You’re right,” Daniel replies. “Wait here.”

He pushes open a small hatch in the ceiling of the tunnel, and climbs out. Maura crawls as close to the opening as she dares, and peeks up, but from her angle she can’t see much except a high metal ceiling and more pipes. She withdraws.

“Are you alright?” Eyk whispers in the semi-darkness.

“Tired. I can’t wait to wake up so I can finally go to sleep.”

They share a soft chuckle. Maura kneels upright, resting on her heels, and inspects her grubby palms, covered in scratches and stains. Seeing the state of them, Eyk takes her hands between his own, and rubs his thumbs over the discomfort.

“When we wake up, do you think everyone will be there?” he asks, “Us, Ciaran, everyone who’s died? We’ll all be together?”

“I hope so. We can all tackle him together.”

He smiles, and looks down at her hand. Her wedding ring. He opens his mouth to speak.

Daniel suddenly reappears at the mouth of the tunnel, peering down at them.

“You can come out now,” he says, as Eyk quickly drops Maura’s hand.

One by one, they exit the shaft, relieved to finally straighten up and stretch their aching muscles. The generator room is larger than any of the spaces they’ve entered so far. Even Eyk, who’s accustomed to huge mechanisms powering massive engines, seems momentarily awestruck. Depressed into the walls and floor are several massive, tubular structures - the source of the thrum - each branching into smaller tubes which glow with unnatural light.

“Look,” Maura points to a section of tubes which have turned off. Their afterglow is still fading, a dull incandescence lingering at their core. Daniel stands at a control panel nearby.

“Ciaran’s probably already realised something’s wrong,” he says, “There’s only one door to this room, but it’s accessible from fore and aft. We have no idea which way he’ll come from, so we should split up to cover both doors. Eyk and Krester, you go one way. Ángel and Ramiro, you go the other way. Maura and I will stay here in case he comes through the vents.”

“Will he be armed?” Eyk queries.

“He’ll probably have a Shell - the same device I had. We already know how cruel he is, but we don’t know how dangerous he might be, so stay hidden and be ready for anything. Surprise is the only advantage we have.”

“There are six of us,” Ángel shrugs, “Dangerous or not, he’s only one man.”

“If you see him, don’t engage unless you’re sure you can corner and disarm him. He designed this ship, he knows it better than we do, and it’ll be no trouble for him to lose us.”

“What if he won’t tell us the exit code?” Eyk points out.

“He will,” says Maura before Daniel can reply, “If he isn’t carrying it with him, we’ll make him tell us where it is.”

Daniel looks somewhat taken aback at her suggestion of violence, but nods his agreement. The small group disperses, and Daniel and Maura turn their attention back to the control panel. The generator sits dead.

“Now what?” she asks.

“Now we wait.”

Make our escape You’re my own papillon The world turns too fast Feel love before it’s gone It kicks like a sleep twitch My papillon, feel love when it’s shone It kicks like a sleep twitch

Darling, just don’t put down your guns yet If there really was a God here He’d have raised a hand by now Now darling You’re born, get old and die here Well that’s quite enough for me We’ll find our own way home somehow

No sense of doubt Or what you could achieve Well I’ve found you out I’ve seen the life you wish to leave But when it kicks like a sleep twitch You will choke Choke on the air you try to breathe It kicks like a sleep twitch

Darling Now just don’t put down your guns yet If there really was a God here He’d have raised a hand by now Darling You’re born, get old and die here Well that’s quite enough for me, dear We’ll find our own way home somehow How, how?

It kicks like a sleep twitch Darling Just don’t put down your guns yet If there really was a God here He’d have raised a hand by now Darling Oh, you’re born, get old and die here Well that’s quite enough for me, dear We’ll find our own way home somehow It kicks like a sleep twitch

[mariamakeslemons]

I found I'm actually enjoying writing in @ghouljams fae!AU. Here's Lilac's first meeting with Price, Keegan, and the Changeling/Ainsley.

Lilac stares in terror at the man, fae, standing in her mentor’s garden. He smiles at her and she chokes, shaking as he takes a purposeful step toward her.

“Calm down, little witch,” he chuckles, dropping his heavy hand on her head, “I don’t eat children.” Lilac squeaks at his rough pats before watching with wide eyes as he walks past her, into Miss Witch’s house.

“Price! Stop scaring Lilac!” Miss Witch scolds, her hands on her hips and a frown on her face. The fae, Price, chuckles and strides up to Miss Witch. Suddenly, Lilac sprints to stand between them, her arms outstretched in an attempt to block him from hurting Miss Witch.

“Y-you can’t h-hurt h-her!” She yells, fighting to keep her fear off her face as she stares up at his blue eyes. Price raises an eyebrow at Lilac’s declaration, tilting his head curiously.

“Oh? Are you going to stop me?” he asks, not mocking, but curious. Lilac freezes, unsure of the correct answer when Miss Witch huffs behind her.

“Price,” she intones. The fae raises his hands in surrender, chuckling as he once again steps around Lilac. The girl spins, terrified for her mentor. She knows Miss Witch is heavily warded, that’s just what generational magic does, but Price feels strong. Maybe even stronger than Miss Witch, although magic does what it does, so she might be stronger?

“Lilac,” Miss Witch calls, pulling Lilac from her panicked thoughts. She’s sitting on the bench while Price still stands, looking over his shoulder in amusement, “Go put the herbs back for me please. Then, you can copy down more of those minor spells.” Lilac hesitates, but ultimately, she nods and scurries back into the house, glancing over her shoulder worriedly to the garden.

Cleaning up the herbs takes a minute of squinting at Miss Witch’s handwriting and comparing it to the notes she’s made on the spare notebook Lilac brought. It takes almost ten minutes, but she’s confident at her accuracy. Another forty minutes is taken up by carefully writing out the most basic of spells in various colored pens. Miss Witch mentioned one of her accomplices likes using multiple colors for notes and wanted to see if it would help Lilac concentrate. It worked and now, her grimoire is currently being cleansed of all the black ink that barely meant anything, and they’re waiting for a proper quill and ink set that will copy the multi-colored system that helps Lilac keep her thoughts in order. Beaming at her steady progress, Lilac stands up from her seat and scurries over to the door to the garden, opening her mouth to ask Miss Witch to look over her work, only to stop.

Price is laying on the bench, his head in Miss Witch’s lap, and a soft look on his face as he stares up at her. Miss Witch is humming a song Lilac swears she knows, her fingers combing through the fae’s hair softly, her expression just as soft.

“Y’know, Soap’ll pout when I tell ‘im how nice you are t’ the little witch. Especially when y’re so mean t’ ‘im,” the fae rumbles. Miss Witch scoffs, going so far to tap his nose as they smile at each other.

“Soap’s a grown fae, Lilac is a child. They are completely different, and you know that,” Miss Witch reminds him with a smile, teasing. Price chuckles, his eyes fluttering closed when Miss Witch bends down enough to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Doesn’t mean ‘e won’t bitch,” the fae reiterates before silence surrounds the couple once again. Lilac can’t help but stare, awe and confusion mixing together.

Witches and fae don’t mix, one of the biggest rules Granny beat into Racheal. No witch worth their salt would ever allow a fae into their home, their sanctuary, willingly. But, here they are, Miss Witch completely at ease while Price does nothing more than tease her. No threats of violence, no attempts at violence. It’s a strange thing to witness, after being told and shown reasons that they can’t interact.

Suddenly, a soft knock on the front door startles Lilac from her staring. She slowly turns to the door, blinking in confusion. She’s been here for a few days already, but Miss Witch always knows when customers are coming. Lilac’s never heard a knock at the door and she doesn’t know what to do. Another knock sounds out, low on the door but insistent. Suddenly, Miss Witch strides past Lilac, a fond smile and shake of her head while Price follows with a frown.

“Hello there,” Miss Witch says upon opening the door, “You really need to stop doing this, sweetie. Your mom is going to be worried.”

“And Russ’s gonna be a pain in the ass,” Price grumbles beside Lilac.

“Russ?” she asks, only to jump and squeak when a little changeling wraps their arms around her legs, looking up at her curiously.

“Who?” the little one asks, their voice taking on Miss Witch’s and Price’s and maybe a few other people. Lilac blinks, before slowly raising her head. Miss Witch winces at the sound of so many voices at once, but she smiles.

“She’s my trainee,” Miss Witch explains patiently, “Her name is Lilac.” The changeling hums and chitters like a chipmunk, a smile crossing their face that make’s their cheeks appear chubbier. Lilac smiles back nervously, only for her nerves to be soothed when the child lets go of her legs to grab her hand. They ramble about decay and how it affects objects differently, from leaves turning from green to black, and a squirrel’s body caved in on itself before some birds got to it. It’s interesting, how passionate the kid is about their topic.

“D-do you want t’ read a b-book?” Lilac asks, smiling when the child looks up at her excitedly. They nod and point at a book Miss Witch had told Lilac was about a dog’s life. Taking the book gently from the shelf, Lilac sits on the ground and jolts in surprise as the child climbs into her lap, forcing her to wrap her arms around the kid and rest her chin on their head to read.

They get through two chapters when a man appears with a dog. Lilac looks up and tightens her hold on the changeling fearfully. He’s a tall fae, one that makes promises and demands rewards. One that can stack any deal in his favor.

“I’d appreciate if you’d let my kid go,” he drawls, the German Shepard beside him giving Lilac a warning growl. Swallowing and shying back, she glances down at the changeling worriedly, unsure as to the older fae’s plan for the little one. The fae’s face shifts, from a fake neutral expression to something softer, almost like comfort.

“I’m not gonna hurt him. I need to take him back to his momma,” the fae explains. The changeling on Lilac’s lap beams up at her and nods. Lilac swallows again, before nodding and releasing her hold. The changeling scrambles over to the man, giggling happily as they’re scooped up.

“Alright, you monster,” the fae teases, “Say bye to your new friend.”

“Bye-bye!” the changeling chirps, birdsong weaving through their voice. Lilac relaxes a bit and waves in return, watching as the fae says something to Miss Witch, only for her to scowl at him and Price to narrow his eyes. Quickly, he, his dog, and the changeling leave the cottage, as if this is a normal occasion.

“Is th-this normal?” Lilac asks.

“About every other week,” Miss Witch sighs, rubbing at her temples, “Keegan is a pain, but he’s fairly harmless. Especially around his kid. Just be careful if you see him on the street without his kid or partner.”

“You have trouble with him?” Price asks her, his head snapping to look at her in concern and an almost righteous fury. Miss Witch waves it away.

“No, more like he enjoys getting a rise out of people,” she explains with a sigh. Lilac swears she hears Price mutter about sounding right, but she’s more concerned with her teacher’s frown.

“U-um,” Lilac stutters, “D-do you want t-to have your t-tea out in th-the garden? I-I-I can make it!” Miss Witch blinks at the offer before smiling, patting Lilac’s head.

“Yes, please,” she agrees, turning to her garden and heading out. Lilac feels warm from Miss Witch’s kindness, unable to help but touch where the woman’s hand had patted.

“You’re a pretty good kid,” Price says, startling Lilac from enjoying her warmth. Looking up, a sudden chill runs down her spine at the cold blue that stares down at her. He leans close and warns with smoke curling from his maw, “Don’t do anything too stupid. You hurt her, you can disappear. Clear?” Lilac nods, mute in terror as examples of her ‘disappearance’ form from his smoke. He leans back and suddenly, he’s Price, the strange fae who likes Miss Witch again. He pats her shoulder and saunters out to the garden.

Lilac fixes up the tea and pours out a mug of wine that Miss Witch does every time she goes into the garden, her mind spinning at the whiplash of this past few hours. Especially Price’s threat. Did she do something to upset him? Did she seem like a threat? Carrying the drinks out, Lilac notices that Price is now on the other side of the gate, almost pouting as Miss Witch scowls at him.

“U-um,” she starts, only to tense when Miss Witch snatches up the mug of wine and slams it on the wall.

“Finish that, then on your way,” she snaps.

“I only did that for your protection,” he says, like a reminder or an explanation.

“Just because it was in good intentions doesn’t excuse you for basically threatening my trainee!” she snaps. Price huffs and takes a long drink from his mug, averting his eyes. Miss Witch sighs and turns to a confused Lilac.

“Sorry about the overprotective idiot,” Miss Witch apologizes.

“O-oh, no! I-i-it’s okay!” Lilac tries to assure her, “I m-must’ve done something wrong! I-I can’t do m-m-much right, s-so it’s fine.” Miss Witch gets that pinched look on her face, the same look she gets when Lilac mentions things Granny yelled at her. From the corner of her eye, Price grimaces, putting down his mug.

“No, little witch. Keegan just riled me up and you were an easy target,” Price explains with a sigh, setting his mug down. Lilac blinks at that declaration while Miss Witch sighs. The woman gently scolds the fae while Lilac mulls his words over. Is she an easy target? She’s never been told that, so she’s not sure. Maybe it’s something that will make sense when she’s older.

[polo-drone-055]

The Spiral Within

Jacob Winters was a man of purpose. At 61, he had spent decades building a reputation as an unshakable workhorse, managing a sprawling corporate empire with a multi-million-dollar budget. His days began at dawn and ended long after midnight. Seven days a week, he juggled crises, placated demanding clients, and wrestled with numbers that never seemed to align perfectly. His peers admired his resilience, but Jacob could feel the cracks forming beneath the surface.

The signs of burnout were subtle at first. A forgotten meeting here, an uncharacteristic snap at a colleague there. Then one day, as he was walking through the towering building he managed, he noticed something out of place: a sleek, black cell phone lying abandoned on a bench in the lobby.

Jacob picked it up, intending to hand it over to security. The screen flickered to life at his touch, displaying a swirling, hypnotic spiral.

The colors shifted with a mesmerizing rhythm, and before he could think to look away, he was caught. His vision tunneled, his thoughts slowed, and an overwhelming sense of calm washed over him.

He blinked and found himself back in his office, the phone still in his hand. Shaking his head, he set it aside and tried to refocus on his work, but the image of the spiral lingered, vivid and intrusive. By the end of the day, he had convinced himself it was nothing. Yet, as he drove home, he felt an inexplicable pull to look at the phone again.

Over the next two weeks, Jacob’s life changed dramatically. The pull of the spiral became impossible to resist. He found himself staring at the screen for hours, losing track of time. The demands of his job became secondary. He started leaving meetings without explanation, disappearing in the middle of the day, and eventually failing to show up at all. His colleagues’ concerned calls went unanswered.

In the depths of his trances, a strange directive began to take shape: Find the Hive. Join Golden Army. Become Polo.

Jacob’s feet carried him to an unmarked warehouse on the outskirts of the city, a place he had never seen before but instinctively recognized.

Inside, he was greeted by others who wore sleek, black rubber suits with gold accents. They moved with an eerie synchronicity, their faces obscured by reflective black masks. They were the Polo drones.

Each visit to the Hive left Jacob changed. The first day, he returned home wearing gold dress shoes he didn’t remember putting on. The next day, a pair of black rubber slacks replaced his usual tailored trousers.

Day by day, piece by piece, his wardrobe transformed, mirroring the appearance of the drones at the Hive.

Gold gloves, a face mask that covered his mouth.

Finally a shiny black rubber polo shirt appeared in his closet as if by magic. His reflection in the mirror became unrecognizable.

As his outward appearance changed, so too did his mind. The spiral’s hold deepened, erasing the sharp intellect that had once defined him. He stopped questioning his actions. His thoughts were no longer his own. By the end of the second week, Jacob was no longer Jacob.

He stood in front of the mirror, his transformation complete. His body was encased in a shiny black rubber with gold accents. Tight, reflective gold gloves covered his hands, and gleaming gold boots adorned his feet. His face, once a testament to years of hard work and determination, was now a featureless, reflective gold surface. He was a Polo drone, programmed with only one responsibility to pleasure to his fellow drones. No more stress. No more worries.

Are you burning out? Let go of your stress and join us, contact @polo-drone-001, or @brodygold @goldenherc9