#Old research from a paper I wrote once...

[skitskatdacat63]

— Emperor Charles VI's diary entry on Count Althann's death

[text: "My only heart, my comfort, my most faithful servant, my soulmate, who loved me dearly as I did him for 19 years, [we] had a true friendship, we were one heart and one soul, and we never concealed anything from one another. He will always be in my heart, [my] beloved friend..I. have lost everything."]

[fanwarriorfictions]

Not Again- Part Four

Summary: With the discovery of a special book, Y/n is one step closer to home. The inner court learns even more about her family back home. And Azriel needs a babysitter of his own

Series Masterlist

-Part Four-

Amren found them in the kitchen, food had been waiting for them on the counter before they’d even arrived, the house it seemed was sick of her not eating as well. She’d simply laughed at the nagging presence and started filling her plate. Azriel had entered moments later, a small scowl on his lips from being left in her dust. He’d huffed and quietly filled his plate, he wasn’t kidding when he said flying worked up his appetite.

“I have use of your stray, boy. Go find somewhere else to be.”

Azriel gives the small female an unimpressed look, “nice to see you too, Amren.”

Y/n pushes her half eaten plate away, waving off the wisps of shadows that angrily dance around her at the action, “Did you find something?”

“I had that insufferable songbird pull any books she could find with your Wyrd marks,” Amren says, snapping her fingers.

A pile of books fall onto the counter, old withered pages that look like they hadn’t been opened in many many years. A plume of dust flies off them and Y/n wisks it away with a small breeze.

“Can you read them?” Azriel asks, eyeing the pages one book that’d fallen open.

“I thought I told you to find somewhere else to be?” Amren snaps, though there’s no threat behind it.

“My babysitter here is vigilant in his task,” Y/n sighs ignoring the withering look Azriel gives her, she takes one of the books into her hands and flips through some of the pages, “My mother taught me what she knew of the marks. Protection, locking, unlocking, many things like that, but we never covered gates, it simply wasn’t possible, and she didn’t want me testing fate.”

“Well to bad, it would’ve been useful to know that now,” Amren sighs, picking a book out of the stack, shoving it towards her, “Gwyn said this one practically jumped off the shelf at her.”

Y/n eyes the title and almost drops the book in shock. Azriel takes a casual step closer to peer over her shoulder at the book, a shadow finds her arm and gently wraps around it, a comforting touch.

“You know it?” Amren asks, giving that wisp of shadow a curious look, “I couldn’t read it, what is it called?”

“The Walking Dead,” Y/n answers breathlessly, “in my native language.”

Azriel couldn’t read the book, but he still looks over her shoulder periodically as she flips through each page. She’d been at it for hours, taking notes on the scraps of paper littered over the dining room table. Amren had taken the remaining books to look over, most had been fae scholars from this world musing over the marks, nothing quite as useful as the book in Y/n’s hands it would seem. Amren would also look over the Book of Breathings, see if anything jumped out at her.

Y/n had barely spoken to him the whole time, quietly mumbling to herself once in a while as she wrote. Azriel noticed that her notes switched between his language and her own in sporadic patterns, sentences switching back and forth, one word in one language then the next in the other. Swirling letters that connected in long strokes of her pen. The words were close together, she hardly lifted the pen as she finished one to write the next, like her brain was moving faster than her hand could keep up.

She was so focused that she didn’t notice Azriel slip out the door, didn’t notice when Rhys had appeared and waved him towards the hall.

“How’s research going?” The High Lord asks, “Amren has yet to find anything useful.”

Azriel turns an eye through the door, at the female still engrossed in that book, “nothing yet, though it seems Y/n may put Amren to shame in relentless focus. I don’t think she’s looked away from that book for more than the few seconds it takes to write something down.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Amren she has the competition,” Rhys chuckles, “I hear you two went for a flight today. All over Velaris people are talking about the almighty Shadowsinger chasing after a bird all afternoon.”

He gives Azriel a shit eating grin and Az scowls back at him, “she was determined to leave her babysitter in the dust.”

His scowl deepens when Rhys just laughs, “what? Don’t like chasing after pretty females?”

“I’m sure his ego is just bruised cause he can’t keep up,” Y/n’s voice calls out from the room behind them, “Big strong males tend to dislike being shown up by us pretty females.”

Azriel glares over his shoulder at the female who hadn’t even looked up from her notes, “I can keep up just fine.”

“Sure you can,” she laughs, turning a page, “I won’t hold back next time if that’s what you wish.”

His shadows laugh in his ears and he turns his glare on them. Rhys next to him grins as he walks into the room, eyes taking in the mess of papers full of Y/n’s half put together thoughts. She finally looks up then, acknowledging the male with a small nod of her head.

Her eyes are tinged red, like she hadn’t even blinked in the time she’d been sitting there. She glances at him, grinning at the scowl still on his lips. He glares harder, shoving his shadows down as they continue to laugh at him.

Rhys looks between them, “found anything useful?”

It breaks their stare and her smile falls. Azriel gets the strangest sense that he wants it back.

“Yes and no,” she sighs, “I recognize a lot of it, this was the book my mother learned a lot of what she knows of the Wyrd marks. She used it to open a gate to the place souls rest once to talk to… a friend. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere, I just need to keep looking.”

He notes the pause, the shift of her tone, whoever Aelin had tired to talk to, it was a sore subject. Take a break, she’s sad again, sad, she needs to rest, working for hours, hours, break. Azriel is half tempted to hiss at the nosey little shadows. They’d been at it for the last hour, as soon as the sun started to dip below the horizon, it’s like they switched into nanny mode. He wasn’t sure why they were so concerned anyway, she was more than capable of taking care of her damn self.

“The gates are the tricky ones,” she continues, grabbing pages of notes, “I’m close to figuring it out, I could probably open a gate, but to get to the right place is the hard part. I could just as easily walk right into a hell realm as I could into my own. And as fun as that seems, I’d rather not test my luck.”

“How many realms are out there?” Azriel asks.

“Who knows,” she shrugs, “my mother remembers falling through many, she couldn’t even describe most of them because of how fast she was falling. Give me a day and I think I could figure this out-“

“You’ve been at it for hours,” Rhys cuts in, “surely you could take a break. Maybe join us for dinner? We’ve all stewed up more questions for you, Cassian has a list.”

Yes, yes, yes, dinner, she didn’t eat enough, yes. Mother above, he wished he could get the shadows to shut up.

Y/n hesitantly glances at the papers surrounding her on the dining room table, “I seem to have commandeered the space. I’d hate for it to get stained.”

Azriel could tell that what she really wanted to say was, I need to keep working so I can get home. It was written in the longing glances at the book, in the way she flew towards the horizon like home was on the other side, the way she looked at the sky expectantly, searching for something he couldn’t quite figure out.

“We’ll eat at my home,” Rhys shrugs, “your research will be here, exactly where you left it when you return.”

She looks ready to argue, to deny, to beg to stay, but instead she sighs, “Is dinner a casual affair, or does your lot like to preen?”

Rhys laughs, “It’s whatever you like, preen as much as you wish.”

She hums, “My babysitter and I will be there shortly then.”

Mother, give him strength. She pushes to her feet, giving him that saccharine smile as she walks past him towards her room. Her scent lingers as she leaves, that hint of embers stronger than usual. He can’t help the subtle intake of air, nor the shadow that grazes her wrist like it would wrap around and make her stay.

She’s barely out the door before Rhys is clapping him on the shoulder with a quiet chuckle, “do you need a babysitter? I’m sure Cassian would like to return the favor.”

Azriel snarls at him, “We’ll see you at the house brother.”

Rhys just laughs again, throwing a wink over his shoulder as he moves towards the door, “take your time. I wouldn’t blame you for being a little late.”

“Get out.”

Azriel waits for her in the living room, she’d still been in her room when he’d gotten dressed, which wasn’t surprising since it only took him a few minutes to change into a slightly nicer shirt, he didn’t bother with the preening, Rhys did that enough for all of them.

Heel clicks on the floor alert him to her approach, she turns the corner into the room and Azriel couldn’t stop the way his body goes absolutely still.

He thought night court black suited her but he was wrong, she looked good in it but it didn’t compare to the way she looked in this dress. Deep green of a forest, the silk fabric flows with her body like water, showcasing each of those curves like currents, with accents of silver thread and shining jewels that glow in the light like the stars above. She’d lined her eyes with kohl, giving them that sultry look that could drive a male wild. And her lips, Mother help him, her lips were painted a deep wine red, so dark it could’ve been black.

Gorgeous, she was absolutely gorgeous. He’d known she was pretty, he wasn’t blind, he’d noticed when he’d found her laying in the moonlight, even covered in blood she was beautiful, but it didn’t strike him till now exactly how attractive she was.

“You like what you see shadowsinger?” Her grin is feline and lethal, voice dripping with honey, “I told you I was your type.”

He doesn’t respond, simply continues to look her over. There’s a fire in her eyes that has his shadows whirling around him and when her head angles in that predator way, he’s almost willing to be the prey.

House wasn’t a good discriptor of the giant building that sits before her. Manor maybe, but Azriel had called it the River House. Rhys and Feyre’s personal residence that Feyre had apparently designed herself. The garden in the back had been where she’d fallen into this world, she’d been to frantic to really appreciate her surroundings. It was absolutely beautiful.

Azriel led her through the front door and the interior was just as magnificent as the outside, intricate and elegant, yet it still felt warm and lived in. A multitude of paintings lined the walls as they walked to the dining room. From their conversation earlier, she assumed they were done by Feyre herself. The High Lady had mentioned her art studio, she had a class this afternoon that she would be teaching. Y/n had leaned towards musical arts, but she always loved going to galleries with her aunt Lysandra. According to Rhys, there was a section of Velaris called the rainbow, the artist quarter of the city. She assumed she’d flown through it today with Azriel, the place had been alive, filled with music that she couldn’t help but be drawn to.

As they moved down the hall she could hear the sounds of the Inner Court, as they called themselves, growing closer and closer. Their laughter reminded her of home, of dinners with the cadre and her uncles visiting from Adarlan, or even Nesryn and Sartaq all the way from the southern continent. They were never quiet affairs, always full of laughter and teasing, usually from Fenrys and Dorian on the later.

The last dinner like that had been little over a month ago. She’d dressed up in a gown this exact color. Her aunt Elide had helped her do her makeup, she’d practically had to hold her down in her chair so she could finish, to excited to sit still. It was her favorite nights of the year, these dinners, seeing her family come together all in one place. Sometimes they’d even convince Manon to join them, never aunt Manon, though she’d gotten away with that once when she was a child. It was always magical seeing her and Dorian dance around each other as if they weren’t desperate for the other.

She would sit there and watch her family, watch the way everyone loved each other. How her parents would stare into each others eyes and grin like someone had told a joke. How her uncle Aedion would dance with her aunt Lysandra to music only the two of them could hear. How uncle Chaol and aunt Yrene would bicker together with smiles still on their lips, to the utter annoyance of her cousin, Josefin. She watched them all, and hoped one day she would have someone who would love her just as fiercely

“Where’d you go, princess?”

Her mind drifts back from that far away place across the stars, finding Azriel’s gaze on her. Stoic as always, but she could see the bit of concern behind those whiskey eyes. It warms something in her, just barely, just enough for her to give him a small but genuine smile.

“Home,” she says quietly, “I was home.”

“So you’re telling me, a demi fae is one of your strongest warriors,” Cassian says, throwing quotes around the words, “and the guys power is death, just pure death? And he’s how tall exactly?”

Y/n laughs, “My uncle Lorcan has described it to me as death, I’m not sure what that means exactly, it was a gift from the old God of Death, Hellas. It looks like Azriel’s shadows, though they’re not sentient little creatures more like whips of shadow that he controls. I don’t know how tall he is exactly but he’s taller then you, he’s taller than all three of you males, actually. You should see the height difference between him and Elide.”

Azriel couldn’t help the small grin on his lips as his brother continues to pester Y/n over the apparently giant uncle of hers. It’d started with him asking about her father, and then the rest of his cadre. She’d told them all about the mighty warriors. Fenrys, who she could only describe as very very pretty, he could shift into a giant white wolf, and winnow, though not quite as much as those here could. Lorcan, the giant shadow wielder, who’s name is apparently Lord Lorcan Lochan, to everyone’s utter amusement. And a mysterious figure named Vaughan, who she admits wasn’t around a lot when she grew up, usually away in Wendlyn, he could shift into a massive osprey.

���There’s no way, he’d have to be like seven feet tall,” Cassian argues, mouth opening to ask yet another question.

Nesta elbows him in the side, “I want to hear more about the shapeshifter.”

“Lysandra,” Y/n supplies the name with a warm smile, “Her favorite form is a snow leopard, lethal creatures, but the softest fur you’d ever felt in your life. When I was a child she’d let me cuddle up next to her by the fire to take naps.”

“You’d mentioned a sea battle earlier,” Mor chimes in, “what was the creature she shifted into.”

Y/n’s eyes light up, “One of my favorite stories, I would beg to hear it again and again. It’s called a sea dragon, the companions of the Mycenians of old Terrasen. When they were banished from their home centuries ago the sea dragons all died out and it became legend that once the dragons returned, so would the Mycenians.”

Azriel watches her, enraptured by her stories. It had been like that the whole night. She’d been stolen away by Feyre as soon as they’d arrived, more and more questions being thrown at her throughout dinner. He’d taken a seat across from her next to Cassian, who had by far asked her the most. But she met each one with a story, that look in her eye from out in the hall hidden but not gone. She’d seemed lost, far far away, and so sad. He’d almost turned around and brought them back to the house of wind just so she could keep looking for a way home, just to erase that look. But when she’d smiled at him, all he could do was stare.

“During the war my mother had traveled to Skulls bay.” She talked with her hands, Azriel noticed. “One of the missing Mycenians was there, she’d figured it out a long time before that when she was still an assassin, when she’d wrecked the whole port to free hundreds of slaves. Captain Rolfe, the pirate lord, was not happy to learn the assassin who’d ruined his island was actually the long lost Queen of Terrasen. He refused to send aid, so my mother did what she does best, she schemed. Her and my aunt devised the plan to bring the sea dragon back. The battle didn’t go quite as planned, the valg had sea wyverns, vicious and powerful. But that sea dragon form, huge and magnificent was stronger, smarter. She used them against the valg forces, sending those beasts straight into the hulls of their own ships. My mother tells me that she could barely keep up with Lysandra’s speed, if you blinked she was gone. It was close, she was badly wounded, but she won.”

“Wow,” Elain breathes, eyes sparkling, “That’s amazing.”

“My uncle Aedion tells it better,” Y/n shrugs, smiling at the memory, “He always told me that it was then that he decided he could not live without her. When he saw her bleeding on that beach still in that huge form, half wild from the fight, he wasn’t afraid of her even though she looked ready to bite his head off.”

Cassian laughs, hooking an arm over the back of Nesta’s chair, “I know the feeling.”

Nesta looked half tempted to bite him right then to prove his point. Cassian simply grins at his mate, that telltale look in his eyes that would usually have the pair leaving early at any moment.

Azriel rolls his eyes at the pair, looking towards the female across from him. To find Y/n already looking right back. She’s got that overly sweet smile on her painted lips that she knows gets under his skin. He gets the sense that she enjoys it, the way he glares at her, it’s like a game. See how much she could push before he finally pushed back.

Rhys leans forward, that knowing grin on his lips again, “How fast can you fly in that hawk form? You said you went easy on poor Az earlier.”

She laughs and somehow he doesn’t care that it’s at his expense, “Very very fast, I can shift the air under my wings to go even faster. I could make it to the house of wind in less than a minute if I wished.”

“Impressive,” Azriel says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh don’t be a sore loser, Az,” she taunts.

It’s the first time she’s called him that, he quite enjoys the sounds of it, “Is it really losing if your competitions got a boost?”

“Only using what’s in my arsenal,” she shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of her wine.

Azriel’s eyes zero in on the motion, appreciating the way her lips rest on the edge of the glass. He was right, that color stained.

Careful brother, Rhys whispers in his mind, Or I really will send Cassian to babysit you.

He glares at the high lord, I do not need a sitter.

That’s what Cassian said, Rhys shrugs, Now look at him.

And it’s like a timer goes off on his patience, Cassian stands from his chair, taking his mate’s hand in his own.

“Well I think it’s time for us to go,” Cassian declares, he’d lasted longer than Azriel thought he would.

Nesta turns her eye on Y/n, “We train at the house of wind every morning, 8 am sharp, be there.”

Y/n grins, baring those sharp canines, and Azriel has the good sense to be wary of letting those two near each other in a sparring ring.

Tag List- Anyone in white could not be tagged. Let me know if I got your tag wrong!!

@inloveallthetime , @microwaveallthedemons , @nayaniasworld , @thecraziestcrayon , @fightmedraco , @blackgirlmagicforever , @nikt-wazny-y , @fangirlloza010 @fussel9913

[movingmusically]

What Are Friends For? - Chapter 23

Word Count: 3.5k

Masterlist

It didn’t happen all at once.

There wasn’t a conversation or a milestone. No defining moment where it shifted from seeing each other to something more. It just… built. Quietly. Week by week.

It started to feel like a rhythm.

Not a routine, exactly—nothing that structured. But something close. Something steady. Something I could lean into without realising I’d started to.

We’d text or send voice notes during the day—quick updates, dumb inside jokes, photos from set. Some made me laugh—a photo of Callum passed out in an armchair with his mouth open, one boot still on, and a crumpled script on his chest. Austin had captioned it, “He locked himself in the old office set and said he was just closing his eyes. It’s been 40 minutes.” Others were quieter—shots of the sky while he waited for a scene reset, or the silhouette of the airbase set against a peach-pink sky. Sometimes he’d just write, “Long day. Thought you’d like this.”

I replied when I could, usually on my lunch break, thumbing out messages while Zara pretended not to watch me from across the table. If she noticed the way I kept smiling at my phone, she didn’t say anything. Just raised her eyebrows and nicked something off my plate.

Most nights, Austin would call—late, after wrap. His voice always low and warm, worn soft from the day. Sometimes he’d ramble about filming. Sometimes he’d tell me a memory out of nowhere, like how in elementary school he’d go home every day for lunch and his mum would make him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Another night, I told him about Jayda in my English set, who meant to write about synonyms but confidently wrote, “I used lots of cinnamons to make it better.” He laughed for nearly two minutes, then said, “That’s genius. I might steal it.”

I drifted off before the call ended. Woke up to a message from him the next morning.

You fell asleep. It was cute. I’ll call you tonight.

Saturday evenings were ours, if we were lucky.

If filming wrapped on time and there was no night shoot, I’d get a message that said something like, On my way, or just Ten mins. I’d do what I always did—read a few pages of a book without absorbing any of it, open the fridge even though I wasn’t hungry, fluff the cushions like I wasn’t counting down the seconds.

Then the knock would come. Always the same soft rhythm, like he didn’t want to wake the whole building.

And I’d open the door, and he’d be there. Ruffled and warm, eyes soft, shoulders a little heavy with the weight of the week.

He’d kiss me like he’d been holding his breath all week.

Like he’d missed it.

And sometimes we didn’t make it to the sofa. Sometimes it was the kitchen counter. Or the hallway floor. Or straight to bed, still half-dressed and laughing.

But other times, we made dinner together. Slow, easy meals—pasta, grilled cheese, something roasted and smothered in garlic butter. We played music as we cooked, taking turns queuing songs, a few 1940s tracks slipped in now and then, leftovers from his research.

We didn’t dance, not really. But sometimes we moved like we might. Quiet steps. A shared smile. My hand brushing his back as I passed behind him. His chin on my shoulder while I stirred the sauce.

Later, we’d curl up on the sofa and put on a film, sometimes ones I loved and wanted him to see, sometimes the old ones he’d grown up on. We didn’t always make it to the end. We’d talk instead, tucked close beneath a blanket, his arm around my shoulders, fingers absentmindedly playing with the ends of my hair.

Sunday mornings were slow—tea in bed, lazy touches, the heat of him still heavy on my skin as we drifted in and out of conversation.

The Sunday paper, which I always bought and never properly read. Austin would sprawl across the sofa like he lived there, flipping through the magazine section, muttering things like, “Why is there an entire article on mushroom coffee?” while I curled up next to him with a crossword.

He always tried to help. And to be fair, he was pretty good—right up until a clue involved something wildly British.

“Four letters, starts with B… ‘Luggage space in a car.’ Boot?”

“That’s not a real word,” he muttered, frowning. “You mean the trunk?”

“No. I mean the boot.”

“You all just make stuff up over here.”

Still, he kept trying. Pen in hand, brows furrowed, a smile tugging at his mouth as he muttered, “I’m gonna need a translator.”

Then, in the late afternoon, we’d head to pottery.

I still wasn’t very good. My bowls wobbled and my mugs leaked—but I loved it. Because Austin would sit beside me, legs braced wide, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, dust already clinging to his skin. He was focused but playful, like he couldn’t quite decide if he was an artist or a menace. Sometimes he helped me re-centre my clay, his hand over mine, grounding. Other times he’d lean over and whisper something that made me snort-laugh mid-pull and destroy the whole thing.

He was irritatingly good at it. Not showy, but skilled. The kind of person who watched one tutorial and just got it. He made things I wanted to steal. Bowls that looked intentional. Pieces with shape and balance. And still, when I held up my latest disaster—usually with a sigh and clay on my nose—he’d just grin.

“I like yours better,” he said once. “It’s got personality.”

After class, we’d walk along the river, past trees rustling softly in the breeze, the light turning golden. Sometimes hand in hand, sometimes bumping shoulders like kids. I’d talk about my class—what they’d said, what they’d done, the absurdity of playground politics. Austin always listened. He asked questions. He remembered names.

Then we’d end up at The River Café.

It was never a question—just where we went.

The hostess knew us now. Ruthie always waved us in like we were long-lost family. She’d kiss Austin’s cheek and raise an eyebrow at me like she could read every thought I was trying to hide. Some nights she’d bring wine before we even sat down. Some nights she’d just slide a dish in front of us and say, “Try that.”

We didn’t argue. It was always good.

Callum came with us a few times. He’d blow in like a storm—talking before he even sat down, waving his arms, updating us on absolutely everything we didn’t ask about. He’d steal food off both our plates without hesitation. Once, he offered Ruthie a spoonful of her own sauce and told her it was “alright, but not life-changing.” She smacked him with a menu and refilled his wine.

After dinner, we’d sometimes stay late, lingering over drinks and playing cards or a chaotic dice game Callum insisted was “world-famous” despite clearly making up half the rules. Ruthie always joined in—sharp as anything, trash-talking all three of us and laughing the loudest, especially when she managed to beat Callum at his own made-up game.

It was chaos. Loud and lovely and very Callum.

He always left before we did, claiming “people needed him elsewhere.” Usually with a wink and a, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” thrown over his shoulder. Then it was just us.

Austin’s hand on my thigh under the table. The candlelight flickering in his eyes. The way he’d lean in when I spoke, even when the conversation was nothing—just idle thoughts, passing stories.

Those evenings felt like something I wanted to bottle.

Not flashy. Not dramatic.

Just warm.

Real.

Ours.

It was easy to keep it just ours at first. To not say anything.

Zara already knew, of course. She was smug about it in that way only close friends can be—never outright saying I told you so, just raising her eyebrows whenever his name came up. She asked the right questions. Teased me when she should. And she never pushed for more than I wanted to share.

“You’ve got it bad,” she said one day, watching me try (and fail) to focus on an email while waiting for Austin to reply to something inconsequential.

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

But I was smiling when I said it.

I didn’t tell anyone else for a little while. Not because I didn’t want to. But because it felt like opening the lid on something too new, too good. I wanted to keep it close for just a bit longer.

Eventually, though—I told my mum.

It was a Thursday evening. I was curled up on her sofa, the dog snoring against my legs, and we were halfway through an episode of The Chase that we’d definitely seen before.

I’d been meaning to bring it up for weeks. I just didn’t know how. But when she paused the telly to get more biscuits, I blurted it out without thinking.

“I’ve been seeing someone.”

She blinked at me from the kitchen doorway, holding a custard cream. “Oh?”

I cleared my throat. “His name’s Austin. He’s one of Callum’s friends. From the thing he’s filming now.”

Mum padded back to the sofa, handed me a biscuit like it was a peace offering. “Is it serious?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But it’s… really good.”

She nodded slowly, settling back beside me. “He nice?”

“Yeah. He’s… he’s kind. And thoughtful. He makes me laugh even when I’m knackered. And he remembers things—like how I take my tea, or what day I’ve got playground duty. That I can’t sleep properly without a window cracked open. Just stupid little things, but…” I trailed off.

“But they matter,” she finished for me, her voice quiet.

I nodded.

She smiled over her tea. “Well. He must be something, if you’re telling me about him.”

I didn’t say anything. But I think she saw it on my face anyway.

“You sound happy,” she said eventually.

And that was it.

No warnings. No cautious reminders. Just… that.

I left with a Tupperware of leftovers and the sense that I didn’t need to say any more.

A few others found out naturally after that.

It was a Friday, the end of a week that had been more chaos than curriculum. We were at our usual spot, a pub so familiar it felt like part of the group—sticky tables, dodgy lighting, chips served in little metal buckets.

Conversation pinballed from work disasters to weekend plans to which Bake Off contestant had the least emotional stability. At some point, someone mentioned Callum—something they’d seen online, or maybe just a memory that surfaced between stories—when someone asked, “So, is he still trying to set you up with all of London?”

It made me laugh. And maybe that’s why I didn’t dodge it this time.

“He introduced me to someone, actually.”

Four heads swivelled toward me.

“Oh?”

I nudged a chip through some ketchup. “Yeah. His name’s Austin. They’re working on the same show.”

There was a brief silence—just long enough to register surprise—before Ellie leaned in, eyes sharp with interest. “Wait. Is this a thing?”

I hesitated, then nodded. “I think so. It’s still kind of new, but… yeah. It’s good.”

That was all it took.

The floodgates opened—questions tumbling over each other, all of them curious but kind.

What’s he like? How did it happen? Is Callum behaving himself about it?

Someone pointed out I’d been suspiciously cagey the last time the topic of dating came up—weeks ago, same table, same cheap wine.

“You said nothing was going on,” they accused, mock-dramatic.

“I didn’t lie,” I said, smiling into my glass. “It just… wasn’t, yet.”

That got a round of teasing and a chorus of “ooooh”s, but it all stayed light. No one pushed. No one tried to make it into more than I was ready to say.

They moved on, the way good friends do, and I was quietly, completely grateful—for the ease of it. For the way something that felt big and delicate to me could still be held gently in their hands, without needing to be dissected or performed.

Just heard. And understood.

Our weekends stayed steady, but everything else sped up.

Summer term always did this—snuck up on you like it had all the time in the world and then hit like a freight train. I was knee-deep in assessment folders, theme week planning, moderation meetings, and my fourth cup of instant coffee before noon.

Then came the Year 4 residential.

Four days in Devon. Three travel sick children. One bunk bed with questionable springs. I came back covered in insect bites, minus a voice, and swearing I’d never set foot near another high-ropes course again. I found sand in my shoes three days later, and it took me most of the weekend to feel human again.

By the time Monday rolled around, I was sleep-deprived and staring down the barrel of end-of-year reports.

Austin was just as busy. Long filming days. Night shoots. Last-minute changes to the call sheet that meant by the time we’d get each other on the phone, we were usually half asleep, talking in the kind of drowsy murmur that felt like brushing fingertips.

I missed him.

Not in a big, cinematic, waiting-at-the-train-station way.

Just… quietly. In that way where your day feels a little off-centre. Like something’s slightly missing.

And then the flowers arrived.

It was a Tuesday. I was halfway through explaining how to spot a fronted adverbial when there was a quiet knock at the door. I turned, expecting a latecomer or maybe someone from SLT doing a learning walk.

Instead, it was Maureen from the office, holding a bouquet so big it should have had its own postcode.

She raised an eyebrow at me like she knew something I didn’t. “These are for you, love.”

My class, who’d been barely clinging to focus a moment ago, perked up like someone had flicked a switch. I took the flowers with a murmured thanks, heat already rising in my cheeks as twenty-nine pairs of eyes followed my every move.

“Oooooh,” they chorused, in the way only children can. Someone wolf-whistled.

“Is it your birthday?”

“Are you getting married?”

“Can we smell them?”

I held up a hand. “Alright, calm down. Back to work, please.”

But the damage was done. The energy in the room had shifted, and I set the bouquet carefully on my desk, dumbfounded. A beautiful arrangement of soft cream roses, pale pink delphiniums, and tiny white anemones, wrapped simply in brown paper. Bright and beautiful, and very clearly not from a generic service. They looked chosen. Considered. Like someone had thought not just of flowers—but of me.

There was a card tucked into the stems. In his handwriting.

Thought you deserved something pretty to look at today. See you Saturday. —A. x

I bit the inside of my cheek, trying not to grin like a teenager.

One of the boys raised his hand. “Miss, who’s it from?”

I folded the card shut and cleared my throat. “A very good friend who knows how tired I am.”

They didn’t buy it. Obviously.

But I didn’t care.

Because a few minutes later, while they worked on their sentences and whispered excited theories about mystery boyfriends, I perched on the edge of my desk, flowers beside me, cheeks still warm—and felt completely, totally, seen.

It turned out to be exactly the boost I needed.

That week was the final stretch before half term, and I was barely clinging on. Report deadlines, a mountain of marking, end-of-unit assessments—and Year 4, who had collectively decided that anything resembling focus was optional now the sun was out.

I found a vase in the staffroom and kept the flowers on my desk all week. Even when they started to droop, I couldn’t bring myself to take them home. One of the girls gave each bloom a name. A boy spent his free writing time sketching their “security team.” Another class spotted them through the door and immediately accused me of having a secret admirer.

I didn’t confirm or deny it. I just smiled and told them to save the gossip for break time.

By Thursday night, my eyes were gritty from staring at report comments on my laptop. I’d rewritten the same sentence in three different ways and still hated all of them. I was about to give up entirely and reach for the chocolate hidden at the back of the cupboard when my phone lit up.

Incoming call — Callum & Austin (FaceTime).

I blinked at it. Then sighed and propped it up against a half-drunk cup of tea.

Callum’s face appeared first, far too close to the camera, like he hadn’t quite grasped how front-facing lenses worked. “Jesus, you look rough.”

“Thanks,” I muttered, pushing my hair back. “It’s called the last week of term. I’m being held together by caffeine and pure spite.”

He grinned. “Right, listen. Just wanted to confirm—this weekend’s happening. You, me, Aus, a few others. Sunday and Monday off for the bank holiday. No excuses. I’ve checked the timings, and we’ll be good to go straight after filming wraps on Saturday—just be ready.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “Assuming I survive until then.”

Austin’s voice came through before his face did. “How’s it going over there?”

When he finally appeared on the screen, he was lying back on what looked like the world’s comfiest sofa, eyes heavy-lidded, hair fluffed from running his hands through it. He looked tired—but less so than earlier in the week. Softer. Warmer.

“I’m hanging on,” I said. “Barely. Reports. Assessments. Year Four’s collective decision that summer equals chaos.”

Callum snorted. “Don’t worry, we’re taking you to the middle of nowhere. No reports. No schoolbags. No Year Fours. Weather’s supposed to be decent too.”

“Sold,” I said, already smiling.

I shifted the phone slightly. “Who’s actually coming again? You’ve changed the line-up three times.”

“Ellie and Dan. Ollie and Mia. Finn. Plus us three,” he said, ticking them off like a roll call. “Solid crew.”

Austin looked amused. “How do you all know each other?”

“Ollie’s our oldest friend—we’ve known him since primary school. Ellie’s from secondary. And Finn…” I paused, smirking. “Finn’s from Callum’s brief but passionate semi-pro football days.”

Callum grinned. “The glory years. Remember when you almost got sent off the sidelines?”

“You got fouled—proper studs-up tackle—and the ref didn’t even blink,” I said, eyes narrowing at the memory.

“She went feral,” Callum said proudly. “The linesman had to tell her to calm down.”

“I stand by it.”

“You scared the poor kid half to death.”

“He was twenty-five and blind.”

Austin blinked, then let out a low laugh, his face creasing on-screen. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“You’re safe,” I said, tipping my head. “Probably.”

Callum rolled his eyes. “Anyway, we’re sorted. Car’s booked, everyone knows the plan. It’s about two hours away. We’ll swing by and pick you up. You just need to show up and not try to sneak in any actual work.”

“I wasn’t going to—”

“Ange,” Austin said, gently but with the tone of someone who knew better.

I sighed. “Fine. I’ll leave the laptop.”

Callum gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Because you need a break. And I’m not having you writing reports while we’re trying to get drunk in a field.”

We talked logistics for a few more minutes—who was bringing food, who was in charge of music, how many bottles of wine was too many (answer: there is no such number)—until Callum bailed to go double-check the group chat and Austin stayed behind.

Just us.

“Hi,” I said softly.

“Hi.” His smile went lazy. “You really doing okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired. It’s been a long week.”

“I figured. That’s why I wanted to call.”

I shifted the phone a little closer. “I’m glad you did.”

“Two more days,” he said. “Then I’ve got you all weekend.”

I bit my lip, smiling. “Looking forward to it?”

“You have no idea.”

And somehow, I believed him. The warmth in his voice, the way he was looking at me even through a screen—it wrapped around me like something I hadn’t realised I needed.

We didn’t talk much after that. Just the quiet kind of chatter that happens when you’re both too tired to say anything important but don’t want to hang up just yet.

Eventually, we said goodnight.

And I sat there for a moment after the call ended, phone still warm in my hand, heart a little lighter.

The week wasn’t over yet.

But it was almost time.

Almost time for a few days away. For breathing room.

Because after six weeks of this strange, steady something—this almost-routine built from late-night phone calls and Sunday dinners and kisses that felt like home—I was ready for more.

Not louder. Not bigger.

Just more time.

More of him.

Taglist:

@slowsweetlove @richardslady121 @ilovereadingfanfics @thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222 @faegoddessog @lucianegm @butlers-angels

[tr4gictea]

May I request Alhaitham and Kaveh taking care of teenage reader that is sick, like, reader sees them both as older brothers so they hang out sometimes but now reader is sick so they take care of them 🥲

Kaveh & Alhaitham w/Sick!Reader

❥Masterlist

Tags: fluff, sick reader, overworking

Including: Brother Figure!Alhaitham&Kaveh

word count: 1,662 words

A/n: Second post after coming back :D idk if you wanted a headcanon or a story sooooo I wrote a story d:

The morning you woke up with a headache you had beams of sweat running down your head, and your whole body felt hot. Piercing pain went through your skull as if you had just been shot sending you to grip your head in pain.

After adjusting to the pain you hobbled over to the medicene cabinet and grabbed some headache reliving medication.

This had to be one of the worst days to get sick as this was your scheduled date to enter the restricted section in the akademiya library. They only let a few select in and you were lucky enough to get on the waitlist. you had to wait at least three months before you could enter the restricted library. If you wanted to go in a different time from your scheduled time you would have to wait another three months or more.

This was something you could not miss.

After a slow start to the morning, you arrived at the akademiya looking ghostly. The medication you took earlier helped your headache but did noting for the stomach ache you had afterward. Gripping your stomach you opened the doors of the akademiya you hobble over to the restricted libraries front desk. The woman at the desk reading the book she had on the desk and handed you a form to sign before entering the library. It was probably for the best she had he nose in a book, cuz if she looked up she would have thought the zombie apocalypse started.

Handing back the filled out form the woman at the desk pressed a button on her desk and the doors opened.

"Please no food, drinks, or other items that can damage our books. Thank you and have a good time." She said it as if she rehearsed it a million times and didn't take one eye off the book the entire time.

Entering the library you took in the sight of all the books hidden from the public eye, the ones that you had free reign to read through for exactly 2 hours. With only a small amount of time to cram information. Opening the first book you looked at the old pages and began reading through at a rapid pace. Take all the information you can in and stopping every once and a while to blow your nose or sneeze.

Thirty minutes into your time you felt a searing pain in your head. Your headache was coming back worse than ever. Rubbing your temples aggressively you kept trying to focus back in on the book but the pain of a headache, stomach, and stuffy nose combined was too much to bear.

Unnoticed passing by you was the acting grand sage. You had often had talks with the man as he was like a mentor to you. He had gone down to the restricted section to find a topic that wouldn't typically be found in the normal library. But on his way, he stumbled upon you hunched over your book with your head in your hands.

Approaching you from behind intending to see what you were doing he was met with a ghastly sight of you with your eyes closed rubbing your temple, face hot with beads of sweat rolling down your face, and teeth clenched. Around you was a hoard of crumpled tissue paper.

Alhaitham leaned down to your level and called out your name. "(Y/n)?"

Opening your eyes you jump back in surprise to see your mentor in front of you looking at you with a straight face. Though most can't see it, the expression looked concerned to you.

"Alhaitham!" You exclaim "Sorry I didn't see you,"

"I can tell, it seems as you were busy with other things."

Thinking he's referring to your research you pick up the book to show him the cover "Ah, yes I am doing a paper on-,"

"No (Y/n), that's not what I mean." he cuts you off "You look unwell, I believe that you should go home and take time to rest."

"I will after my time is up, I still have about an hour and thirty minutes left to finish my work and go home."

His expression remains unchanging and he reaches out to close the book. "Yes, but that is time you could use to rest and get better. This is how your body fights infections."

You let out a sigh "You sound like an old man right now," laying your head on the desk and burying in your hands and try to stop the pain in your head.

"I do not. I am just informing you on how to help yourself get better faster since you obviously aren't taking the initiative on your health right now." He retorted back in a matter-of-fact tone.

"See the words 'informing' and 'initiative' make you sound old,"

"That's not the point (Y/n)," he says sighing at your comeback. "You are acting so immature right now," he says under his breath, you let out a small chuckle.

"Look Alhaitham," you call out to him as you reopen the book Alhaitham closed. "I'm well enough to stay for a little longer unt... til... ACHOOO until my sniff time is up."

Unconvinced, the acting sage stands up straight and rests a hand on your forehead. "Your temperature is well over a hundred and ten, from your facial expression I can tell you're in a lot of pain but are trying to hide it, even though it is freezing cold in here and yet you still managed to break a sweat. From these signs and a few others, I can tell you are in a lot of pain right now."

He was right, as much as you hate to admit it he was right. the pain in your head was still searing your brain, your stomach ache got worse and you felt like you needed to throw up. But you waited 3 months for this spot you can't just walk out thirty minutes in.

"I have some medicine that I can grab you from my house." hesitant to follow his instructions your eyes dart between the books on the desk and the doors leading outside.

Probably sensing your hesitancy he says "If you need to I can schedule another time for you to come to the restricted library two days after you make a full recovery."

"Really?" You say perking up slightly.

"Yes if that is what it takes for you to start your recovery process."

"Thank you Haitham." He smiles slightly at the nickname.

"Please come with me, i need to go grab some medicinal supplies from my house."

Having been to his house many times for tutoring, you knew it was only a long 15-minute walk. Entering his house you were greeted with warm-colored furniture and books and blueprints scattered all across the floor. In the middle of all this mess, you see a blonde-haired man peek out from behind a couch.

Kaveh was Alhaitham's roommate and biggest hater. He probably complains more about the man than he sees his own family.

"(Y/n)!" he jumps up from his spot on the ground and rushes to your side. "You look terrible! Are you sick?"

"ACHOO, no," you say sarcastically

He scoffs at your answer. "(Y/n) lay down I'm going to get you some tea." he looks around the room til his eyes land on Alhaitham slowly taking his shoes and coat off. "ALHAITHAM! What are you doing go make them some tea immediately and get them some medicine"

"If you would give me a second I was going to get them some medicine but the walk here was a little long-,"

"WALK?!? DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME YOU MADE HER WALK HERE SICK!?!"

"Yes, what else am I supposed to do? Pick her up?"

"YES YOU IDIOT SHE'S SICK!" Kaveh storms off into the kitchen. "And I thought the scribe was supposed to be the smartest!"

Alhaitham sighs shaking his head "Here, take this in case you get cold." and hands you a blanket "And feel free to grab any book off the shelf as long as you don't spill or ruin it in anyways."

"I know," he has stated this rule to you one too many times. You learned that it was a big rule for him when you accidentally split juice on one of his books. He gave you the book that you spilled juice on and when you came back the next day he had three more copies of that same book.

While waiting on the couch and checking out the building blueprint, Kaveh comes out of the kitchen with two teas.

"This one has herbs that help with stomach aches and headaches," He says while giving you the cup. He takes a sip of his own cup and rests it on the table.

"Don't I get a cup?" Alhaitham questions Kaveh.

"Make your own." the architect stats plainly.

"I like your new designs Kaveh," you say point to the big one on the ground. "Who's it for?"

"Oh yeah this one is for a client out of in Fontaine. He wanted an 'exotic style' for his house." He said putting air quotes on 'exotic style'.

"But it looks like a city house style?"

"Yes but the client insisted that it made him feel like he was in a jungle," Kaveh said rolling his eyes.

"The stone outer walls are not helping him prove his point," you chuckle

"hehe, the stones he wanted for that aren't even from Sumeru hehe, they're from Liyue." he chuckled with you "You feeling any better?"

"not really.."

"Well, you'll feel better after you rest up." Alhaitham suddenly speaks up.

"Rest, we will wake you up later but for now sleep."

"Ok, yawn." Pulling the blanket that Alhaitham gave me over me. Resting your head on the pillow you immediately drift to sleep, while the acting grand sage and the light of kshahrewar watch over you.

[strniohoeee]

Hidden In The Shadows Pt. 3

Read part 1 and part 2 here

Pairing: Matt Sturniolo X Female Reader

Synopsis: It’s been a month and all Y/N keeps hitting is dead end after dead end. Not only that but she seems to have formed a friendship with the strange boy. Will this hinder her research??

Warnings⚠️: Nothing really tbh, anxiety inducing parts, talks of cults briefly, psycho Matt, oh and one last thing SMUT, submissive-ish Matt??

Songs for imagine: Lonesome Town- Ricky Nelson and This Haunted House- Loretta Lynn

⚠️This is an 18+ imagine so minors do not interact, or do??⚠️

Taglist: @gamermattsgf @lacysturniolo @franticroads @creamoncreamoncream2 @melanch0lybby @anlqq @cindylcuwho @nicksmainbitch @riverwritez @s7urnfilms (idk I might’ve missed some people🥺)

There’s a place where lovers go

To cry their troubles

And they call it Lonesome Town

Where the broken hearts stay

The rain trickled down the window as the pen in my hand ghosted over the papers scattered all over the small desk. My eyes glued to the rain, watching the dirt become mud and the grass drown.

Vigorously tapping the pen back and forth on the paper clad desk as my leg bounced quickly. Many thoughts running through my head, but none that could be placed properly.

I was a full month into my research and for some reason I was way more confused now than before stepping foot into this town. I thought I found out a lot more, but it’s either dead ends or more weird shit going on.

I was pretty much hanging out with Matt everyday, it took a while for his parents to warm up to me; but the more he brought me around the more they got comfortable.

What royally sucked was that I was becoming so close to them that I felt weird asking any questions about the dark history of this town. I truly felt bad and like I was hiding something from them.

Professor Wayne wrote to me pretty much everyday, and all I could tell him was how nervous I was to dig further. Scared to unearth something that might actually keep me trapped here.

Letting out a long sigh I slid back from the desk letting out a deep breath I didn’t know I was holding in. Slipping my slippers on, I shuffled down to the kitchen.

Opting once again for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with some water and some leftover popcorn from the previous night.

Sitting alone in silence at the table I let my mind wander. Glancing over at the back door as the rain pattered against it. I was feeling pretty useless right about now.

It’s so crazy how you can go from feeling invincible to pretty much a useless piece of shit. I felt like I had no purpose here. Endlessly wasting my time day in and day out.

I wasn’t sure if it was the shitty weather that made me feel this way, or if I was actually wasting my time. Rolling my eyes I took another bite of my sandwich. Blinking slowly as I chewed the thick piece that was in my mouth.

I used this time to look around the kitchen. I mean this was in fact an old house with…. I’m to presume many previous owners. Smiling gently my brain painted the image of an innocent family spending their holidays in this kitchen. Laughing, feasting, talking…. It’s so crazy how things come and go, including people.

My eyes scanned in front of me, and it was only then that I saw the gold reflection of a doorknob. My eyes lit up! How did I forget about the basement? A whole month here and I never once thought to check the basement.

Washing down the last bit of my sandwich with my water I placed my dishes in the sink before walking over to the door.

Grabbing the door knob I twisted and pulled, but to my surprise I was shocked by a thud. The door was locked. Shaking my head I walked over to the kitchen light switch flicking it on and I walked back over to the door.

My eyes squinted once I saw that not only was the door locked but the whole door had been painted over. A shitty light green might I add. It’s like when you move into an old apartment and maintenance repaints but they painted over light switches, the breaker box and even bugs….

“Ughhh everytime I think I find something it’s another dead end” I say out loud banging a flat hand against the door

But then I figured I could ask Matt to somehow break this door down for me. Sighing I dragged my feet back to the kitchen table sinking into the wooden chair. I threw my head back and groaned, rubbing my hands over my face

My head shot up as I looked at the kitchen walls…. That same shitty green color. My brows immediately furrowed and my back straightened.

To the naked eye this seems normal, but I remembered something. The listing didn’t show the kitchen being this color.

Scooting back harshly I bolted up the stairs rounding the corner as I ran into my room. Breathing heavy as I opened safari on my laptop.

Opening Zillow I went to the listing for this house, my eyes scanned the page before getting to the end.

“Last updated by realtor on 05/13/2023”

Rummaging through the papers on my desk I found my phone, opening up the phone calls I went back to May. I called Beaufort on May 16th…..3 days after the pictures were updated on the house.

Two and a half weeks is more than enough time to paint evidence over…. Especially incriminating evidence. I swear the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up.

Opening a new tab I decided to search up this address and literally the only thing that came up was the Zillow page. This house is so fucking old and not a single thing pops up on it. The next best place would be the public library and lord knows if some weird shit went on in this house all those files would be burned or blocked out on the database.

Slamming my laptop screen down I ran my hands through my hair. I opted to go back downstairs. Swinging every drawer and cabinet door open in hopes I’d find the basement door key.

No surprise I didn’t find it, but I decided to take a knife and cut through the paint like that one scene in Coraline. And to make it even creepier I’m sure my fate would be ending up like poor Coraline….

Pulling and rattling at the door knob some more, I kicked the door once I realized I couldn’t get it open. And this wasn’t something I could go to Beaufort with….. I probably shouldn’t even be going to Matt with this, but whatever.

Feeling defeated, I decided to shower and relax for a bit. About two hours later my phone rang, and it was Matt calling from his bedroom phone. Can’t believe this guy still has a landline…. They really live like it’s the 80s here.

“Hello Matt” I said placing the phone to my ear

“Hi darling” he says on the other line, playfully rolling my eyes at the pet name

“You rang?” I asked as I looked at my nails

“Ahh yes, well you see I’m actually relatively bored this fine evening. Want to hang out?” He asked me

“I’m pretty bored myself. I’d love to hang out” I said as I sat up

“Alright sweetheart I’ll be over in like an hour, sounds good?” He asked me

“Yeah sounds great” I stated to him

Matt was so funny and awkward you could tell he didn’t really speak to girls because he didn’t even know how to end a call. He’d just hang up and I’d usually crack up laughing as I shook my head.

I decided to clean up my room. Hiding my paperwork and laptop under the bed. Thank god there was a skirting around it to hide everything or else I’d be royally screwed.

Sitting at my desk I saw Matt flicked his bedroom light to let me know he was coming over. I got up from my seat and headed downstairs. I held the door open as Matt made a run for it in the rain.

“FAST FAST” I yelled to him as he hopped onto the porch

“It’s raining cats and dogs out there” he said slipping his boots off at the front door

“Ew…you talk so old southern style” I said scrunching my nose up

“Well…” he said cocking his eyebrows at me while pointing down his body

“Sorry! Sometimes I forget you really are southern” I said laughing

“It’s alright darling, hope you’re hungry I brought dinner” he said holding up a huge lunch box.

“I actually am” I said nodding my head as we made our way to the kitchen table

“Okay so mama made her famous roast, with some carrots, corn and grilled potatoes” he said as he pulled the Tupperware out of the lunch box

“That sounds sooo good, tell your mom I said thank you” I told him

“Will do little lady” he said winking at me

I grabbed us some soda as he set our dishes out full of food. As we sat eating quietly he gaze often jumped over mine whenever he saw me look at him. I found it adorable…he was so nervous.

“I hope I didn’t put your mom out, you know like having her make extra food for me” I said cutting some meat

“Oh no, no worries…. You see mama thinks…. Well mama thinks we’re more than….more than just friends” he replies getting a bit shy and blushing

“Oh.. have you never brought a girl home before?” I asked, mentally smacking myself in the face for asking such a rude question

“Not since little suzie….but we were like 9. Swore we was gonna grow up, get married, have a family” he said giggling a bit

“And what happened to that?” I asked him

“Ahh her family decided to move right before high school started…never saw her again” he says swallowing thickly as he blinked rapidly

“I’m sorry Matt” I said taking a sip of my drink

“Oh it’s alright, it was just a foolish thing to think” he says laughing

“Since her…has there been no one else?” I asked him

“No. There’s no real time for that round these parts either you grow up as neighbors and end up marrying or you stay solo forever” he says shrugging his shoulders

“Seems a bit outdated” I replied back

“It is, but it's just the way it is” he says back

“But anyways, how are you liking Oklahoma so far?” He asks me as he sips his drink

“Other than missing my family and friends, I’m thoroughly enjoying it here” I said to him

“Do you plan on going back? Or having them visit?” He retorts

“I was thinking maybe for the holiday season they could come here, there’s plenty of room here for them” I said to him

“Yeah there is” he says nodding his head

“And speaking of plenty of space I remembered there’s a basement here. I can probably set a few friends up down there, except there’s one problem” I replied looking over my shoulder at the door

“What’s that?” He asks eagerly

“It seems to be locked and I can’t find the key, do you think there’d be an extra somewhere in this town?” I said looking back at him

“Oh you know the basement keys are universal, way back when they figured as a small town it would be easier to make the keys universal so if someone lost theirs then they could call their neighbors” he says as he cuts a piece of meat, as I began to have a lightbulb moment

“You don’t say” I reply sliding my tongue over my teeth

“Except only issue is as of recently due to termites and water damage the chairman’s from the towns had gone into every home, painting over the doors and locking them while also confiscating any keys. Just so that no ones tempted to use the basement…..that would be many lawsuits if something went wrong” he says looking up at me

“Ohhhh I see, wow that sucks” I said to him, mentally sighing in defeat. I literally could not stop hitting dead ends and it was killing me

After dinner Matt had helped me clean the kitchen up and helped me pack his mothers Tupperware away.

“I can’t thank you enough for dinner” I say handing him the last container

“It’s my pleasure darling” he says winking once again at me

“Wanna come up to my room?” I asked him as I dried my hands

“Yeah sure” he replied placing the lunch box down

We headed up to my room, turning the light on Matt plopped down on my bed letting out a loud sigh. Fluffing my pillow up he laid it against the headboard while leaning back

“I know I don’t have much here especially no TV, but I do have some books I bought from back home” I say to him shrugging my shoulders

“I wouldn’t mind reading” he says nodding his head

As I open my mouth to reply the power suddenly goes out

“What the fuck” I say out loud

“Anytime it rains even an ounce the power goes out. Faulty wires and old houses” Matt says laughing

“How do we fix it?” I asked him

“We don’t, it usually goes back up in like 3 hours. I’ll run to my house and grab some candles keep it bright until the power goes back on, and I’ll even keep you company too” he says smiling at me

“That sounds nice” I say to him nodding

As quickly as Matt left to get some candles, it was as quickly as he came back. He had a small duffle bag and he pulled out many candles and a box of matches.

Removing his sweater and placing it down to dry on the door knob, my eyes couldn’t peel away from how nicely that white shirt sat on his body….

Matt and I lit a shit ton of matches all over my room, it was now warm lit and very…..intimate might I add.

“I hope this is good enough for you” Matt says blowing out the last match

“Oh no this is perfect I honestly prefer candlight over artificial light” I said waving him off

He laughed and fluffed the pillow up before laying on my bed again. Propping himself up against my headboard as he crossed his legs over.

I sat next to him with my back against the headboard as well. Grabbing my copy of Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson I relaxed my shoulders before opening the book to where I last left off.

“I hope you don’t mind I started the book already” I said looking over at Matt

“Doesn’t bother me” he says nodding for me to go on

“My room belongs to an alien. It is a postcard of who I was in fifth grade. I went through a demented phase when I thought that roses should cover everything and pink was a great color” I read aloud as my finger ghosted the rough paper

Stopping I looked up, taking my bottom lip into my mouth and sinking my teeth into the flesh.

“Isn’t it crazy how fast we change” I said chewing the already shredded skin on the inside of my mouth

“I’m not even sure I know what change is” Matt whispers

Looking over at him I watch the warm light reflect against his blue eyes. And for a split second I swear I can see his past in them. Sad….lonely….misunderstood…..

“I’m just following the norm here. I’m becoming what every man becomes. I’m growing, but am I changing? I’m not when I’m the exact same as the ancestors who came before me” he states swallowing thickly

“Have you ever considered leaving?” I ask him

“And go where?” He asks

“You could always come to Vegas….with me” I state in a whisper

“But all I know is Pleasant Town” he replies shaking his head

“Well now you know me, I mean we could at least visit I can show you where I’m from like you did with me” I say smiling at him

“I’d like that a lot actually” he says nodding at me

But suddenly he grows cold and immediately his attitude changes

“That’s just a fairytale though. I belong here on the farm and taking care of my parents” he says firmly

“And no one’s saying you can’t do that, but at least vacation for a little bit” I say to him

Shutting my book I place it on the night stand as I give Matt my full attention.

“You can experience so many new things! See and do things you’ve never done before” I say to him tapping him on his knee

“Like what?” He asks laughing

“You can go to the Las Vegas strip, we can go shopping and we can go see where Elvis Presley used to perform, shit we could even get you a one night stand. I mean it’s Vegas you know what they say… what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” I say to him giggling

“Ehhhh” he says sounding hesitant

“Okay what about that plan do you not want to do?” I ask him

“The one night stand…. I’m not experienced with women” he says shyly

“What? You? You’re telling me in this whole town you’ve never been with a single girl?” I asked him genuinely shocked

“No…” he says once again shyly

“That’s alright, well let’s see you’ve at least kissed a girl right?” I ask him as he shakes his head no

“Held hands?” I asked raising my eyebrow and he shakes his head no once again

“Uhhh innocent flirting?” I ask

“No” he says laughing a bit

“That’s alright! We can…we can get you practicing now and this way you’ll be a champ in Vegas” I say laughing

“Practice?” He asks looking a bit unsure

I grab his hand and interlock our fingers as I look back up at him

“Holding hands… check!” I say smiling

Turning more towards him I place my hand on his cheek as I look into his eyes

“Can I kiss you?” I ask genuinely

“Yes ma'am” he whispers out breathlessly against me

Leaning in I peck his lips quickly

“What I did you’re also going to do okay?” I say to him and he nods

Leaning in again we both press our lips together, pulling away Matt looks at me before attaching his lips to mine again.

Shuffling over I straddled his lap as we pulled away, and Matt looked at me with doe eyes as his chest rose and fell rapidly. A dazzling blush across his nose and cheeks and pupils blown wide.

“Is this okay?” I ask him and to this he nods

“Darlin I don’t know what I’m doing, but just know I’m enjoying myself” he says to me as he licks his lips

“I can teach you some things, and don’t be afraid to stop me. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to” I say to him

“Okay” he says nodding vigorously

Removing my shirt I look over to Matt

“You can touch me you know” I say to him

“I don’t know how” he replied back

Grabbing his hands I placed them on my breast and his mouth hung open. Gently caressing them I moan against his touch.

It wasn’t long before Matt’s shirt was off and I was peppering kisses along his neck and down his chest. My bare chest against his warm skin. His breathing became rapid as his hands traced along my back.

“Please don’t stop” he breathes out as I look up at him

Raking my nails up and down his body I leave open mouth kisses along his warm skin as his hips buckle up against me.

“Pretty girl I need more” Matt moans out as his brows furrowed

Letting my hand caress over his growing bulge his hips fly up as he moans. Covering his face in the crook of his elbow.

“You don’t have to cover yourself for me” I say to him as I rub my hands up his torso

“I’ve just never done anything like this before I don’t want to embarrass myself” he says to me

“Listen my love I’m taking the lead tonight so there’s no need to feel pressured or embarrassed, and if at any point you want to stop we can” I say to him kissing his cheek

“Okay” he says swallowing thickly

Ghosting my fingers over his large buckle I unhook his belt, unbuttoning his jeans and sliding the zipper down. I help him slide out of his jeans. Tossing them somewhere behind me on the floor

To my surprise he was in briefs rather than boxers which left little to the imagination. My cunt was actually clenching on nothing at the sight.

Ghosting my nails in between the waistband of his underwear. He lied against the mattress moaning and twitching. Begging to be released

Sliding out of my bottoms I straddled him once again. The only thing separating us was our underwear. Sliding up and down against him we both let out a load sigh

“Holy shit this feels so good darlin” he moans out looking up at me

Matt moves his hands up my thighs and to my breasts, lightly squeezing them as I moan and shutter against his touch.

“Kiss me please” he says desperately

Leaning down I kiss Matt, grinding down against him harder causing him to open his mouth. Which allowed me to slip my tongue in. For a moment it took him a while to get the hang of it, but soon after our tongues were fighting for dominance. The kiss was hot and messy and so so needy.

Releasing myself from him I leaned back, scooting back I slid his briefs down. His hard dick springing up as I bit my lip

“God you’re so hot” I said to him

“Oh sweetheart no one’s ever called me that” he says biting his lip

“I’ll scream it from the hilltops if I have to” I responded to him

Sliding my underwear to the side I gently rubbed the tip of his dick along my cunt. Both of our moans syncing together.

“Are you ready?” I ask him

“Yes maam” he says back grabbing onto my hips

Slowly I began to sink down on his length. The burn sent shivers up my spine. Both of our mouths hang open as my toes curl. Completely bottoming out I let out a load moan

Slowly bouncing up and down on his dick I allow him to get adjusted to the feeling.

“Holy shit Oh my god” he moans out as he watches me bounce up and down

“You feel so good” I moan out as I begin to grind down on him

“Oh my goddd” he whines out as I begin to feel his thighs shake

Bringing my hand down I rub my clit as I bounce on his dick. My thighs shake as I bring myself closer to the edge.

“Fuck Matt I’m so close to cumming” I whine out as my breathing becomes heavy

“Me too, oh godddd” he moans out as his torso begins to lift off the bed every now and then

Leaning forward I grind up and down, allowing my clit to massage against his pelvic bone. Without warning Matt opens his mouth and begins to swirl his tongue around my nipple, sucking and licking like his life depended on it

“Fuckkkk” I moan out clenching down on him

Within seconds I’m cumming all over his dick, shaking and moaning as I clench down on him. Continuing to ride out my high I feel Matt twitch

“I think I’m going to cum?” He moans out

Once again I feel his thighs shake and his lower abdomen tighten. And I hop off and just as I do Matt’s cumming all over his lower stomach. Whining and moaning as he comes down from his high

Heavy breaths and groans as he involuntarily twitches.

“Feeling okay cutie?” I ask him as I pet his hair and pull him closer

“That felt amazing, I’ve never felt that good in my life” he says looking up at me with puppy dog eyes

“And in time it only gets better” I say laying a kiss on his lips

We laid there for a little while talking and kissing and finally we decided to get up and get cleaned. Laying back down I read some more of my book. Until eventually we fell asleep and most candles had gone out by this point.

We fell asleep snuggled together, and at some point in the night we shifted opposite ways. But at around 2am I got up to use the bathroom.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes I cracked my neck and back before standing up. Lightly walking from my side to around the bed, but before I could finish coming around I had stepped on something

Silently wincing I looked down, seeing some type of metal I assumed it was Matt’s belt buckle. Smiling and blushing to myself I bent down picking the item up, but to my surprise it was what felt like keys.

Running into the bathroom I shut the door, gently opening the shower curtain to let the moonlight come in through the window. I held the keys up. They looked pretty normal except for one.

It said “BASEMENT” on it and I blinked to make sure I wasn’t half asleep.

Peeing quickly I flushed the toilet and washed my hands. Sticking my head out of the bathroom I peaked over at Matt who was snoring peacefully.

Sighing I tip toed out of the bedroom and quietly down the stairs. I mean as quiet as I could….it was an old house. Lightly walking towards my kitchen thanking the lord for the moonlight coming in through my back door. I was able to see the basement door perfectly.

Sticking the key in lightly I turned it to the left, and heard a click. Silently cheering I turned the knob and opened the door surprisingly the door wasn’t creaky.

I figured I would go down , check it out real quick and go back upstairs. Placing the keys back where I found them.

Shutting the door behind me I felt for a light switch on the right side, and I flicked it on. In about three seconds I heard the faint buzz of a warm light turn on.

Stepping down the stairs gently I turned the corner. The basement looked really nice actually. It was pretty well kept for how old the house was. I didn’t see any water damage nor any termites, but hey who knows.

Walking in a bit more I saw large desks with papers everywhere and bulletin boards covered in papers and a lot of dust….

Walking over to the area I blew some dust around and even wiped it with my fingers. Looking to my right there was a lamp. Testing the odds it actually turned on illuminating the area for me a bit more.

My eyes squinted trying to read everything. My eyes scanned the bulletin board.

“Animal slayings”

“Cult rituals”

“Witch craft like sacrifices”

My eyes went wide. I finally was finding something… and the whole time it was in my house?

I looked to my right and that’s when I got a little bit nervous

“Suzie Buchanan, age 14, found slain in her father’s farm house”

Surely this couldn’t be thee Suzie Matt knew……

I mean that’s recent years? How would that even be in this house? I was becoming anxious with dread.

Looking down at the table I looked at the newspapers closely.

“Thomas Sturniolo released from prison”

“Thomas Sturniolo still being questioned about cult killings”

“Sturniolos back in town?” One read

These were all newspapers not from this town…. Something deeper was going on here….someone knew more than they were saying. There’s an outside source here and I haven’t known this whole time.

Flipping open the newspaper my eyes scanned the text.

“Thomas Sturniolos home 27 Field Drive has been purchased by his grandson”

27 Field Drive was this house….. my hands began to shake as I realized what was going on. This whole time I’ve been living in Thomas Sturniolos house. And there’s someone who knows about me…. My heart began to speed and I rummaged through more newspapers

“A new generation of Sturniolos” one newspaper read

Opening up the newspaper my eyes scanned the page

“Jimmy Sturniolo has now purchased 26 Field Drive, directly across the street from his estranged grandfather's home located at 27 Field Drive” it read

“What the fuck?” I whispered as a cold sweat began to take over

Scanning along the page some more

“Jimmy Sturniolo avoids questions from sources asking about his grandfather. Seen here with one of his sons Matthew Sturniolo covering his face” I read

My heart was thumping out my chest as I let the papers fall from my hands.

You know those scenes in movies where the protagonist is just standing still as the world around her moves and her hearing has gone clouded?? Yeah that’s me right now

Unbeknownst to Y/N Matt had snuck downstairs after realizing she was gone. Sinking down the stairs of the basement he watched the young woman shake in fear as she read the newspapers.

Shaking his head and mentally cursing himself out he quietly walked up behind her

I stood there in fear not really sure what to do. Pretend like nothing happened and wait till tomorrow morning to book it out of town, or book it out of town right now while Matt’s asleep??

Racking my brain for answers I stood there when suddenly I heard

“I’m so sorry” turning around slightly I was faced with Matt

“Wha-“ but before I could finish my sentence Matt charged at me

Grabbing the back of my head and holding a chloroform covered rag against my nose and mouth

And suddenly it all went

BLACK

The End

Don’t kill me for the cliffhanger😏. Had to spice it up a bit. Now I will be working the next four days, so I will try and work on Part 4 a little bit and hopefully have it up soon for you guys. I love you all so dearly 🥹🖤🖤

-J💅🏽

[meiplays]

Father’s Day (Winchester Style)

Pairing: John Winchester x Reader

Summary:

It’s Father’s Day, and John actually tries—first with Sam and Dean over awkward gas station sandwiches, then with you, asleep in motel sheets he can’t stop staring at. You surprise him with pancakes. He surprises you with feelings. And when you call him Daddy—joking… mostly—it flips a switch that turns the whole morning into something sweeter, rougher, and more intimate than either of you expected.

Vibes: burnt heart-shaped pancakes, flannel lap straddling, motel morning kisses, soft gruff dad energy, spicy tension, Daddy kink undertones (SFW), emotional healing, rare domestic peace

Word Count: ~4.5k total

Warnings: SFW but spicy tension, suggestive themes, light daddy kink, emotional softness, family awkwardness, John trying™

A/N: I wrote this for @voodoochildthings & got inspired by @supernaturalarchive 's reblog. Happy Fathers Day 🥰☺

John hasn't been there for Sam & Dean much.

John hadn’t meant to remember what day it was.

But the moment he walked past the dusty gas station calendar and saw the words “Father’s Day” scribbled in red Sharpie—he stopped cold.

For a second, he just stood there, coffee in hand, jaw tight, watching the cheap clock tick past 7:12 AM.

He could’ve ignored it. Should’ve.

But something about this year—this morning—felt different. Maybe it was the way Sam was finally speaking in full sentences again. Maybe it was the way Dean had started smiling more when you were around. Maybe it was you—still asleep back at the motel, curled under his arm, the first real peace he’d known in years.

Whatever the reason… he wanted to try.

So he picked up two breakfast sandwiches from the gas station, grabbed a Coke for Dean and black coffee for Sam (because the kid insisted on drinking it like an old man), and headed for the library where they were helping Bobby research a salt line distortion case.

When he walked in, Dean blinked. “You’re… early.”

Sam looked up from his book. “And holding food.”

John grunted, setting the bag down. “Don’t make it weird.”

Dean smirked, pulling out a sandwich. “Too late.”

Sam raised an eyebrow but took the coffee with a quiet “Thanks.”

They ate in semi-awkward silence, punctuated by paper rustling and Dean mumbling complaints about the lack of egg-to-bacon ratio. John watched them—really looked—and realized they weren’t kids anymore.

Sam had that sharp, too-old look in his eyes that only came from losing childhood too soon. Dean was leaning back in the chair, looking like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

So John cleared his throat and said what he never did:

“I know I haven’t been…” He paused. Bit the inside of his cheek. “I know I haven’t made it easy.”

Both boys looked at him—eyes wide, surprised.

“I didn’t know what the hell I was doing when I lost your mom,” he went on, voice rough. “Still don’t, half the time. But I’m proud of you. Both of you.”

Sam blinked.

Dean looked like he’d been shot in the chest with emotion. “Uh… thanks.”

John scratched the back of his neck. “Figured I’d say it. Just… in case.”

Sam’s voice was quiet. “Is this because it’s Father’s Day?”

John sighed, almost annoyed at being found out. “Maybe.”

Dean snorted, then softened. “Guess we should’ve gotten you something.”

“I don’t need anything,” John said. “Except maybe… just one morning where you two aren’t at each other’s throats.”

Dean raised a brow. “That’s asking a lot.”

John smirked. “Thought I’d shoot for a miracle.”

They sat there a few more minutes. And for once—it felt normal. Still strained, still cracked around the edges, but better than most days.

John stood up, grabbed a styrofoam cup of coffee to-go, and turned to leave.

“Where you headed?” Sam asked.

John gave a rare, half-smile. “Back to the motel. Thought I’d surprise someone with breakfast.”

Dean made a face. “Y/N? On Father’s Day? Dude. That’s supposed to be your day.”

John glanced over his shoulder, eyes unreadable. “Yeah, well… feels like hers too.”

You woke up to the scent of coffee, bacon, and something suspiciously sweet wafting through the air. That was already a red flag. John Winchester didn’t do pancakes—at least not without swearing at the griddle first.

Still wrapped in sheets and morning warmth, you blinked against the sunlight streaming through the motel window. You stretched just as the door creaked open.

“Stay in bed,” a familiar, gravelly voice said. “I mean it. Not even one foot on the floor, sweetheart.”

You raised a brow. “You know, if I didn’t trust you, that’d sound threatening.”

John smirked, stepping in with a tray—actual tray—balanced in his hands. He wore a flannel shirt rolled at the sleeves, bedhead tousled but charming, and a look on his face that could melt asphalt.

“You trust me?” he asked, setting the tray down on the rickety nightstand. “Guess I’m doing something right.”

On the tray was a Father’s Day breakfast. Well, an attempt at one: heart-shaped pancakes (a little burnt on one side), crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, and a steaming mug of black coffee with “#1 Dad” scribbled in Sharpie on a cheap gas station mug.

You blinked again. “John…”

“I know it’s dumb,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck like a boy caught carving a name into a tree. “But the boys—Dean and Sammy—they’re with Bobby today. Thought maybe we could… I dunno. Pretend, just for a second, that it’s normal. That I get to be celebrated for once without screwin’ it all up.”

Your heart twisted, and you sat up, blanket still wrapped around you like a burrito.

“It’s not dumb,” you said softly. “You do deserve to be celebrated. Not because you’re perfect—God, no—but because you try. You love them. You love me. And that counts.”

He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, his hand finding yours beneath the sheets.

“I’m not always good at this,” he murmured. “Being a dad. Being a man. But with you... I want to be better. I want this—syrupy pancakes and sleepy mornings and... less monsters for once.”

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his stubbled cheek, then his lips. “You’re already better. And you’re mine. That’s enough.”

He groaned, dramatic and over-the-top, when you pulled the syrup-drenched pancake toward you. “I tried so damn hard to flip that thing right.”

“Don’t care if it’s burnt,” you said through a smile. “It’s a John Winchester pancake. Instant five stars.”

John chuckled, reaching up to tuck your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing along your jaw with a reverence that always caught you off guard. His thumb lingered, eyes softening.

“Y’know,” he murmured, “if I’d met you earlier, maybe Father’s Day wouldn’t have just been another damn ghost hunt.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “Well, you’ve got me now. And you’ve got your weird gas station mug.”

He laughed—really laughed—and for once, it wasn’t weighed down by the past. It sounded like freedom.

“Damn right I do,” he said, raising the mug like a toast. “To second chances. And the best damn woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

“And to your sexy lumberjack-dad aesthetic,” you teased, flicking the flannel with a grin.

He leaned in close, voice low and mischievous. “Careful, sweetheart. Keep talkin’ like that and Father’s Day’s gonna turn into Daddy’s Day real quick.”

You smacked him lightly with a pillow, laughing until he tackled you onto the mattress with warm kisses and syrup-sweet hands.

Maybe he wasn’t always the best dad. But today? He was all yours—and that was more than enough.

“You’re gonna make me forget about breakfast,” John murmured as you straddled his lap, the tray of pancakes long abandoned on the motel dresser.

“Good,” you grinned, fingers slipping into the mess of his bedhead. “Because I was never here for the pancakes anyway.”

His laugh rumbled deep in his chest—warm and amused as his hands slid up the back of your thighs, under the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. You were still technically dressed, but the way his eyes flicked to the curve of your bare legs made you feel like you were wearing nothing at all.

“Well, damn,” he muttered, squeezing gently. “Could’ve saved myself the trouble of burning those things.”

You leaned in close, nose brushing his. “You made heart-shaped pancakes, John. That’s not something you walk away from unchanged.”

His smirk was lazy and wolfish. “You mocking me, sweetheart?”

“Not at all,” you said sweetly, rocking your hips just enough to make his breath hitch. “I think it’s the hottest thing you’ve ever done. Besides that time you fixed the Impala shirtless in July.”

“Oh, so that’s how it is?” he asked, voice dropping. “I play house for one damn morning and suddenly you’re climbing into my lap callin’ me Daddy.”

You froze for half a second—half shocked he said it, half wanting to melt at the way he said it.

Your face must’ve betrayed something, because his eyes lit up—like he’d just uncovered a secret you didn’t mean to give.

“Ohhh,” he said, drawing the word out with a cocky grin. “That’s what this is about.”

You tried to play it cool. “It’s Father’s Day. You are a father. It’s not my fault the word’s got… layers.”

He hummed low, dragging his hands up your sides, slow and warm under your shirt until his thumbs brushed just beneath your chest. “Nah. It’s how you say it. Like you know exactly what it does to me.”

“John…”

“You like makin’ me lose control, huh?” he asked, voice rough, lips ghosting over your neck. “You like bein’ the one to make me soft and desperate?”

Your breath caught. “Maybe.”

He grinned against your skin, then pressed a kiss to the base of your throat—slow, lingering, sinful.

“Then let me give you somethin’ better than pancakes, baby,” he said. “It’s my day, but you? You’re my reward.”

You swallowed hard, heart thudding. “That’s not how Father’s Day works.”

“It is now.”

And then he kissed you—deep, lazy, and utterly consuming. He kissed you like the motel room didn’t exist. Like the world outside was paused. Like the only thing that mattered was how your lips moved against his, how your fingers clutched his shirt, how your body trembled just slightly as his touch mapped over your skin like he was claiming every inch.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. John Winchester was a storm in slow motion—deliberate, possessive, a force of nature that didn’t ask permission.

“You drive me crazy,” he murmured between kisses, voice thick. “You show up in my life, in my bed, in my heart—and suddenly, every hunt, every motel, every bruise means something.”

You blinked. “John…”

“I’m not good at this,” he confessed quietly, resting his forehead against yours. “But when you call me yours… when you look at me like I’m worth more than silver bullets and regrets—hell, I wanna give you everything.”

Your hands cradled his jaw, your thumbs brushing the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “You’re already giving me everything that matters.”

His gaze softened, chest rising and falling beneath you as if he didn’t quite believe he could deserve this peace.

You shifted your hips again—slowly, experimentally—and watched his control fray.

“You sure you wanna keep it SFW today?” you teased. “Because I’m not so sure this is staying PG.”

He chuckled darkly. “I promised myself I wouldn’t corrupt you before noon.”

“And what time is it?”

He glanced at the bedside clock. “Almost eleven.”

You grinned. “Then what are we waiting for?”

That was all he needed.

He flipped you gently onto your back, trailing his lips over your collarbone, his flannel brushing your bare skin as he kissed his way down.

“I’ll be good,” he said, even as his hand skimmed down your stomach and pulled your thighs apart like it was instinct. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you whispered.

He raised a brow. “No, but I was a soldier. And I take orders real well—right after I give ‘em.”

You couldn’t even breathe as he leaned in, pressing a slow, wicked kiss just below your navel, making your toes curl.

This wasn’t just Father’s Day anymore.

This was Daddy’s Day.

Later, when the tension had faded into lazy kisses and tangled sheets, you curled into his side, the warm scent of coffee and leftover syrup still in the air. John ran his hand through your hair, eyes half-lidded, completely relaxed for the first time in months.

“You really think I’m a good dad?” he asked softly, like it still haunted him.

You tilted your head up, pressing a soft kiss over his heart. “You’re better than you think. And you’re mine. That’s what counts.”

He swallowed hard, lips brushing the top of your head.

A/N:

John Winchester might not win any Parent of the Year awards, but in this little fantasy? He’s healing. He’s hot. And yes—he’s giving off enough Daddy energy to short-circuit every EMF reader in a 10-mile radius.

Happy Father’s Day… to Jeffrey Dean Morgan. 😌🖤

[bumblebeehug]

Writer's Blues

Summary: A small dive into Lucy's mind after a less flattering book-review. Ao3 - FF.net

***

Lucy swallowed the lump of tears that had gathered in her throat. She liked herself, she really did, but sometimes she found herself wishing she’d never published her book. Today was one of those days – another review from a big newspaper had appeared in her mailbox, and there it was: “As a mage she’s perfectly delightful to look at. As a writer, she’s perfectly boring.”

It stung. In fact, it made her heart feel so heavy that she felt like she could throw up. She never cared about criticism when she worked as a reporter: any journalist knew that there would be push-back if an article pointed out a flaw too many in an establishment or corporate business. As an author, however? It wasn’t as easy to read the many ways the reviewer wished to give themselves a concussion, in hopes to forget what she’d written. After all, she had given a piece of her soul to her book. Countless hours had gone to research, including physical, adventure-like research, meaning she also spilled plenty of her actual blood in the making, and this was where it left her? She had sat down with both Levy and Freed to check her work for spelling mistakes, grammar mistakes, or anything that simply wouldn’t appeal to the public, and that was a humiliation on its own.

She realised soon in her life that she didn’t take rejection well. No one else knew, for it was her burden to carry, to hide. Who could possibly spend this many years on something, still never getting any better? To this day she erased sentences and paragraphs until the paper wore so thin it tore, and she still spent hours looking over the same passage, trying to find the right descriptor of a scene. Plenty of times she found herself wanting to rip her hair out, or gnaw on her nail beds until they would bleed – anything to soothe herself from the stress she was under.

For a long time, she never wanted to admit to the real reason she wrote. She hid it under childish reasons: “My mother thought I was talented when I was young” and “I just enjoy the process”. She didn’t actually enjoy the process, though, and she certainly didn’t believe that the words from a mother to her 7 year old daughter were the complete and honest truth. What was the truth, was that she craved confirmation. She needed to know that her rumour as “the brainy one” in Team Natsu carried some truth, because if it didn’t, who was she? What did she give to her team?

Natsu, Erza and Gray were fighters, always reliable in their strength to attack, as well as defend. Wendy was irreplaceable, and had been ever since she first joined the team: her magic was beyond useful, as it saved them all from injuries that would take months to recover from otherwise. Happy and Carla covered airborne attacks, swift and quick to react and bring a fellow fighter in the air. Lucy? Oh, she was helpful once or twice, decoding a puzzle that would malfunction either way, leaving the rest of her teammates to fight off the consequences. Not even her skills as a celestial mage felt like enough to assure her of her place. Back in her mind it haunted her that it didn’t have to be her. Any celestial wizard would do: she wasn’t unique in her way of viewing her spirits as friends and equal, nor was she the sole being who could learn how to wield these keys. Anyone could replace her, and the dynamic wouldn’t change.

The one thing she could cling to was her academics. She was smart, educated and had her own set of skills – this her teammates liked to tell her. It would be more convincing if she ever got to use these skills, but she couldn’t complain: the alternative would be to be completely useless in their eyes, and she would never be able to cope.

Lucy wiped the sole tear that had escaped her tear ducts before she carefully cut out the review and put it in between the pages of the only copy she still owned. With shaky hands she glanced over the other reviews she’d collected over the years. Some kind, some neutral. Very few were actually as blunt and harsh as this: yet Lucy could point them out as easily as she could her enemies in a crowd. They shone like bright flashlights in her eyes, hurting her physically every time she was reminded of them. They were etched into her retinas, haunting her each time she closed her eyes.

She looked up at her clock. In thirty minutes Natsu would come by with a new board game to try out. In the meantime, she had to hide all evidence of her crying, cheer up and forget about it for a while. He didn’t know: he was never allowed to know. He didn’t read the paper, so there was no risk that he would figure it out himself. Only if he one day decided to snoop in her bookshelf, would he come across these cutouts. Because for as long as he was around, she had vouched to hide her sorrows from him.

When he asks about the publication date for her new book, she’ll smile, a white lie coating her teeth, tell him it got postponed. When he wonders why she cries, she’ll bend the truth as she bends her gaze, telling him she’s thinking about her mother. When he uncovers the truth, she’ll laugh it off: it’s merely a writer’s humble blues.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

MORE THAN WORDS (7).

PAIRING — writer!steve rogers x librarian f!reader

CONTENTS — miniseries; alternate universe—modern setting/library/small town; second chances at love; angst with happy ending [*tw: grief, mourning, illness, character deaths]; eventual fluff; book spine poetry (kind of).

SERIES SUMMARY — It’s been five years and he’s lost his way. Steve Rogers has taken a hiatus from his writing career and moves to the small town of Westview to escape the memories of a love lost. He unexpectedly finds a kindred spirit in the local librarian, and something compels him to begin communicating with you using the only way he knows how—by using the spines of your books.

WORD COUNT — 6.5k

NOTES — please note that this is me posting some of my old work, and also, i’m not playing around with those warnings. i wrote this as a response to my own experience with grief, and it’s not always pretty. if you are experiencing the same thing, as we all inevitably do, please know you are not alone. reach out to your loved ones; tomorrow is never guaranteed, after all. take care <3

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Once you figure out what matters, you’ll figure out how to be brave. —EMILY X. R. PAN, “The Astonishing Color of After” 

You wake, as always, to the shrill ringing of your alarm. For a moment, for one glorious moment, you forget. 

You forget that your heartache had been temporarily brushed aside by anticipation and butterflies. You forget that you had rummaged through your closet for your best dress to have dinner with Steve at his apartment. You forget that he kissed you at the end of the night. You forget that you kissed him back. 

You forget that you liked it. You forget the immense guilt you had felt afterwards almost the second you got home, and the fact that you had cried yourself to sleep that night. 

You forget that it’s been nearly a month since Steve left Westview, with no word from him whatsoever since. 

But, as you know, time doesn’t—won’t—stop for you, no matter how much you try begging for mercy. So, as always, you throw your covers off to the side to haul yourself out of bed. It is nearing the time of the year when students flock to your library in droves, trying to cram in some extra studying before midterms and research papers are due. At the very least, you can try to busy yourself with work. 

You aren’t, however, looking forward to the sad glances Wanda and Pietro will give you when you arrive. Wanda had tried to broach the subject with you only days after Steve had gone back to New York, after she got word from Thor that his apartment now stood empty. You didn’t want to talk about it. 

You are determined to go about your day in your usual manner, like nothing’s happened. You pull a sweater out of your closet without even looking, looping your arms lazily through the sleeves and tugging it over your head. You lift a pair of jeans off the floor, not caring that they’re slightly wrinkled and probably need a good washing first. 

Ollie is at your feet, tail curling around your leg affectionately. Your heart thaws slightly when his yellow eyes meet yours. 

In a rare show of docility, he allows you to pick him up off the floor. You sling him over your shoulders like a sack of potatoes, and he deigns to just hang there as if he knows you need it this morning. His little body vibrates against you as he purrs, turning his head every now and then to nuzzle it against the back of yours. 

Your cat lays there as you go about your morning routine, but things come to a standstill when you see shreds of the blue dress you had worn to Steve’s apartment sticking out from the garbage can. 

The day you had gotten his farewell message, the moment you reached the safety and solitude of your apartment, you burst into tears. Ollie had approached you with concern and curiosity, but kept his distance when you suddenly stomped to your closet and pulled out the dress. 

Much like your heart, you never expected to use it again. You never thought you’d ever feel beautiful again, never thought you’d want to dress up for anyone else. You thought romance would never visit anymore, knowing that fate had already stolen love from you once before. 

In a moment of vulnerability and anger, you grabbed a pair of scissors and proceeded to cut it to shreds before throwing it in the trash. 

Seeing it now, you feel nothing but sadness. You find yourself too exhausted to be angry for any real length of time, despite how indignant you had been that first day. 

After all, you had also felt the twists of guilt after your dinner, and you had just gone through a similarly tiring journey to mend your friendship with Thor over almost the same thing. 

Did you really want to do it again? 

Could you? 

Also, given how long it’s been without any word, who’s to say you would even see Steve ever again? Who’s to say that there would be anything left to mend, at the end of the day? 

Despite your attempts to rationalize everything, your chest still tightens at the thought of never seeing him again. His warm blue eyes, the way they crinkled at the edges on the rare occasions he laughed. His strong but gentle arms, the way he had curled them around you as if to protect you from the world. 

The way he’d done the impossible and made you feel alive again. 

You turn away from the ribbons of fabric, lifting Ollie off your shoulder to set him back down on the floor. He tilts his head, watching you closely as you continue getting ready for work. 

It’s as if he knows as he trots back and forth after you, and you take a minute to squeeze him in a tight hug and give him extra pats before you finally leave the apartment. 

When you arrive at the library, it is Pietro who approaches you first. He looks a little hesitant as he hands you a stack of papers, and when you quickly leaf through them, you realize with a start that it’s a stack of resumes. 

Your heart sinks and Pietro squeezes your hand tight when your eyes go from confused to stricken. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to try and keep your emotions in check. 

You had known the time would come. You need to fill the position that Loki’s death had left vacant. You and the Maximoffs couldn’t manage the library alone; you had barely made it through the last few months. Another set of hands would be really helpful, especially with the upcoming busy season. 

“I’m sorry,” Pietro says, even though none of the fault lies with him. 

“I’ll look at them today,” you promise, even though you aren’t sure that you can. You bring them back to your office and leave them at the corner of your desk, staring at them like they’ve personally offended you somehow. You can barely concentrate on work, their presence seeming to mock you silently. 

You are given a respite when Thor arrives, knocking gently at your door, presenting you with a small smile and a small bottle of champagne. Despite yourself, you manage to grin back at him. 

“I have good news,” he says, stepping into your office and closing the door behind him. 

“Ah, do you now?” You reach into the bottom drawer of your desk, where you keep your own stash of alcohol for particularly bad days and a few clean glasses. 

“I think we’re long overdue, don’t you?” 

“Amen,” you say, placing two glasses down onto the surface of your desk. Thor efficiently pops the cork off the bottle, pouring you both a drink despite the early hour. What is it they say? It’s 4pm somewhere. “What’s your news, Thor?” 

“They’ve lifted my sabbatical; I’m going back to work in a few weeks,” and for the first time in a while, your heart soars. Thor’s job at the college means so much to him. 

“Oh, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you,” you clink glasses together, taking a big gulp and relishing the feel of the bubbles on your tongue. It’s been a long time since you had cause for celebration. 

“Yes, apparently Bruce led a revolution of sorts.” Thor laughs. Bruce is Professor Banner, a science professor at the college. He and Thor have been longtime friends, and apparently he didn’t take it lightly when the administration forced Thor to go on leave. 

He didn’t have to search too far for people willing to support his cause to have Thor reinstated; students and their parents stepped forward in droves, writing letters, signing petitions, with some of the more wealthy threatening to withdraw their children—and their dollars—from classes. 

“Why a few weeks and not now?” You ask, changing the subject a little when you notice the way Thor’s chin quivers slightly with emotion. It doesn’t go quite as planned, however, when he looks down into his lap, wringing his hands a little awkwardly. 

“I’m waiting for my certification to come in,” he says, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Certification?” 

“To be a counselor,” a few beats of silence go by before you arch an eyebrow in confusion. 

“And you’re being weird about that, why? That sounds like a really good thing.” 

“You don’t think it’s a bit… presumptuous? A bit hypocritical? Given how I… well, freaked the hell out.” 

“You’re the one who’s going to be a counselor,” you tell him with a wry smile. “Is there a roadmap for how these things should typically go? We all do what we need to do. You’re back now , and you’re doing your best to help struggling kids.” You pick up the bottle and refill his glass. “You’re going to be doing amazing things, so take the win. Okay?” 

Thor nods, clearing his throat to get rid of the lump that’s formed there, and the two of you finish off the rest of the champagne in a few more moments of silence. He glances at the open door that connects your office with Loki’s old one, getting a wistful look in his eye. 

“There’s a book signing event in New York tomorrow,” he says, breaking the silence before reaching into his jacket and pulling out his phone. He opens up Facebook and shows you an event page. You barely finish reading what’s on the screen before you sigh and look away. 

So, this is what he really came here for; his good news was secondary. 

“You should go,” he says. 

“Thor…” you sigh, slightly annoyed. 

“You’re just going to sit here and mope, then?” 

“Wow, that is so—” 

“You know you’re doing it again, right?” Thor points out, but not unkindly. Still, you get up from your desk, exasperated, taking the now empty glasses with you to the break room. He follows, unrelenting. “The only difference here is that Steve is still alive. If there’s something between you—”

“There’s nothing, okay? Absolutely nothing!” You snap, whirling around after slamming the glasses down onto the counter next to the sink. 

“Stop being stubborn. What happened that night?” 

“We—nothing.” You groan, biting back the words you were going to say. You turn back towards the sink and start scrubbing furiously at the glasses. 

“You, what?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Tell me.” 

“He left. Okay, Thor? He got up and left. There’s been no word from him—not one call, not one text, not even a fucking Tweet. It’s been an entire month now, so he obviously doesn’t miss me, alright?” 

And there it is. The truth you hadn’t wanted to admit to anyone: you miss him. 

How was it possible that one man, someone you’d only known for a few months, could do so much damage? You had been just fine before he came along. 

You would have gotten by just fine without him. But now you had known what it was like to be his friend, to be in his silent but reassuring company, to hear him laugh, to hear him speak about things he loved, things he believed in, to teeter over the line between friendship and something more. 

And you couldn’t go back. 

Thor places a hand on your back as you hunch over the sink, trying your hardest not to weep. Steve had gone back to his old life in New York, went back to work, and is now holding book signing events in a city you know nothing about. 

The idea that it was so easy for Steve to just pick up and leave you behind, to wipe your existence from his life with such astonishing efficiency, hurt more than anything. 

“It obviously didn’t mean as much to him…” you say in a wobbly voice. “Not as much as it did to me. And what? I’m supposed to go running after him anyway? No. I won’t do it.” 

You realize how petty it all sounds, that you’re letting your wounded pride get in the way of finding answers. Even if you went to New York and he said he wanted nothing to do with you, so what? 

You could come back to Westview, dissolve into Wanda’s loving arms, and then pick yourself back up again. 

You had done it before. You could, in theory, do it again! 

Couldn’t you? 

Suddenly, the sound of Thor’s phone fills the break room. He quickly checks it, only for his brows to come together in slight confusion. He turns his screen towards you. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, showing you a notification from Twitter. 

@WestviewPL is trending! See what people are saying. 

You frown when you see the words, wiping your wet hands onto your jeans before reaching into your pockets for your own phone.

Your hashtag #MoreThanWords is trending! ✨ See what people are saying. 

Your hashtag? But you don’t tweet. In fact, you automatically swipe away the app’s notifications whenever they show up. You handed responsibility over the library’s Twitter page to Wanda ages ago, trusting her completely to handle it for you. 

“You guys?” As if on cue, Wanda’s voice floats into the break room, quiet and hesitant. You and Thor both look up at her, and her eyes are wide and frantic. She’s heard everything you said, and she is partly at fault for what you’re feeling. 

Because she knows it isn’t true that Steve doesn’t care. It isn’t true that he had gone back to New York and moved on with his life. 

Because he had come back. A few times, for that matter. 

“What’s going on?” You ask. Your friend nods at your phone, silently telling you to open the app. You do, and to your surprise, you see the photos she’s been tweeting. 

All the recent ones are of your book exchanges with Steve, each message immortalized in pixels on the web. People have been commenting and retweeting, a slew of heart emojis and gifs flashing across your screen. 

“There’s more,” Wanda says, showing you the camera roll on her own phone. There are pictures of book compilations you haven’t seen before. 

Wanda looks sheepish. She initially didn’t know why she bothered to take them, let alone keep them, when she could have easily just gotten rid of the books and that would have been that. Nobody would have been the wiser. 

But she supposes a part of her knew that things would come to this, that one day you would be ready to forgive him. 

Actually, that’s not quite right either. If Wanda were really being honest with herself, she would say that one day, she would be ready to forgive him. 

She had been there the day Steve decided to say goodbye and disappear. She saw the books with his farewell message at the corner of the checkout desk and his retreating back, her heart sinking. She begged him not to go. 

Steve turned to look at her with the saddest eyes she had ever seen, looking like he hadn’t slept a wink, looking like a dead man walking. 

“Please, you can’t do this to her,” Wanda pleaded, thinking about how his leaving could possibly destroy you. Steve just muttered apologies, over and over again, before disappearing out the door. 

Wanda was immensely disappointed, not just at Steve, but at herself. 

She had been the one to encourage you and him, the one who thought she saw something special. In the end, it had only hurt you more. 

It would take a few more days for her to realize she had, indeed, been right. 

Steve somehow managed to come back without anyone seeing him, sneaking in and out like a thief in the night. However, Wanda would come back to her desk to see a new stack of books, knowing full well that you weren’t the one who left them. 

Wanda watches as your eyes widen, staring speechlessly at the photos that are timestamped from weeks ago, just days after Steve left Westview. 

I Hope This Finds You Well by Kate Baer Let’s Talk by Art Rios Take a Chance on Me by Jill Mansell With Love from the Inside by Angela Pisel

A few days later:

I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb I Found You by Lisa Jewell I Let You Go by Clare Mackintosh My Biggest Mistake by Leddy Harper My Darling by Amanda Robson Believe Me by Tony Strong I Regret Nothing by Jen Lancaster About That Kiss by Harper Bliss

Steve had evidently been back. Multiple times.

Atonement by Ian McEwan A Season for Second Chances by Jenny Bayliss Can You Ever Forgive Me? by Lee Israel Dreadful Sorry by Kathryn Reiss It Wasn’t Your Fault by Beverly Engel Only Mine by Susan Mallery

Each time hoping to be forgiven. Each time asking for a second chance. Each time pleading, only to receive what he perceived to be your silence in response.

"I was so mad at him," Wanda confesses, her large green eyes shining with tears. "I told him not to go. I told him what it would do to you and he left anyway! So, when he came back a few days later, I just... I don't know. I thought I was protecting you."

You look up at your best friend, the one who's been there for you for as long as you can remember. Now, for the very first time, you see the helplessness, the frustration in her eyes.

"I'm sorry I kept it from you, but I was so tired of seeing you hurt. I was so tired of not being able to do anything about it. So, I thought if this was the only way I could protect you, then I'd do it." She approaches you and takes your free hand. "I'm sorry."

She lifts a hand to swipe at the screen of her phone, showing you there's more.

Tell Me Your Dreams by Sidney Sheldon Because by Mo Willems & Amber Ren You’d Be Mine by Erin Hahn

"So, you're wrong." Wanda says. "He does miss you. And all of it meant more to him than you know."

"I guess you know that that means, then," Thor quips.

"What?" You breathe, unable to look away from all the messages Steve had unrelentingly left for you, all the hope in the world evident in each word.

"It means you're going to New York."

It's a flurry of activity as Thor ushers you out of the breakroom, calling for Pietro who is at the front desk and asking that he call you a taxi. 

Wanda rushes to your office to grab your coat. In a split second decision, you quickly rummage through the shelves for a final message of your own. 

You bundle the books under your arm as your friends don't give you any chance to protest while they're practically dressing you, wrapping your scarf a little too tightly around your neck and pulling a hat over your head.

Wanda takes your face in her hands and kisses your forehead, a good luck ritual she's always done for you, ever since you told her your mother used to do it when she was alive.

"Call me when you get there?" She asks of you, her eyes shining bright. You can see her real question simmering underneath the surface, will you forgive me?

Instead, you tell her something else.

"I love you, Wan.” 

It occurs to you then that you've never said it to her during the entire course of your friendship. 

You kiss her cheek, promising yourself to never let your declarations of love go unsaid ever again. You had done it pretty much all your life. Well, no more. 

And Wanda, your precious Wanda, of all people, deserves at least that much.

"I love you, too, sweetie." One more hug, and she's sending you on your way. Your friends watch you climb into the taxi, the one waiting to take you full speed towards the towering skyscrapers along the New York city skyline. Pietro smiles as he blows you a kiss.

"Now, go get him!"

I can’t go on. I’ll go on. —PAUL KALANITHI, “When Breath Becomes Air”

Bucky looks up from his phone to see a woman standing outside, peering into the window of the bookshop. He thinks nothing of it, at first, but every time he looks up, the woman is still there, as if gathering courage to come inside.

The woman goes from staring through the window at Steve, who is sitting at a table with several stacks of his books piled high, to taking a few steps back to pace nervously on the sidewalk.

Steve continues to smile at each approaching fan, scrawling his autograph onto the inside covers, not noticing he's being watched. He looks good here in his element, and Bucky had taken it as a good sign that he wanted to get back into the writing world again—to be Steve Rogers the writer again, as the world knew him.

But he also knows that it isn't what Steve needs.

Bucky sighs. Steve is so content to do what he believes to be “the right thing”, even if it hurts him. Bucky is glad to see him back in New York, hadn't known he missed it until Steve came back. But he wonders if there's anything he can say to convince Steve to go back, without sounding like he's trying to chase him away.

Bucky is pulled out of his thoughts when Sharon approaches the table with a smile. 

"Hey, you. What are you doing here?" He asks, stepping around for a hug.

"Thought I'd surprise you both," Sharon says after pulling back, placing a book down onto the table for Steve to sign. He shakes his head at her with mirth, before hastily drawing his signature on the inside cover. "I'm such a big fan. I'd like a message, please." 

She says in a silly falsetto voice, cheekily tapping at the page once he's done. 

"Heartfelt and sweet, made out to 'kind, smart, and beautiful Sharon'."

"So demanding," Steve mutters, but he acquiesces anyhow. Bucky smiles as he watches over his two friends. He isn't sure exactly what happened between them, and while he could hazard a guess, he deigns to let things slide. 

The two are finally talking again after years of silence, and he figures he doesn't need to know the reason why.

His attention, however, keeps going back to the woman in the window. He doesn't know why, but he tells Steve and Sharon he needs to go outside for a smoke.

"You need to stop it with those things," Sharon teases, half-joking but also half-serious. "You're better than that, James."

"She's right."

"Gimme a break, you two." Bucky rolls his eyes with a smile, knowing they're both right. Nevertheless, he makes his way outside and pulls a pack of cigarettes out from his jacket pocket. 

The theory he'd developed in the back of his mind is further solidified when the woman's eyes go wide when he emerges from the shop, as if she knows him.

The guardian of books, the woman who had unknowingly managed to pull his friend back from the abyss, is finally here. Seeing you now, Bucky knows that, while Steve is physically here, his heart has always remained in Westview, with you.

"James," you say, even though, until now, he had always just been a person in a photo on a phone screen. He had been a character featured in the many stories Steve would tell you about his childhood, but his blue eyes are comfortingly familiar. They remind you so much of Steve's, just as warm, just as kind. They may as well be brothers.

"Bucky," he corrects you. "My friends call me Bucky."

"Right."

"Don't be shy, that includes you." You smile when he says this, because you had almost forgotten that, according to Steve, Bucky could charm the pants off practically anyone. You see a bit of that now in Bucky's slightly mischievous smile. "So, what are you waiting for?"

"I don't know. I guess I'm just nervous." You look back into the window. You've had nervous butterflies before, but these ones seem to have razor-sharp wings as they flutter in your stomach. 

Bucky follows your gaze back to his best friend in the shop, thinking that he knows exactly what you mean. He thinks about Sam, about all the years he had let go down the drain because he's been nervous, too. He hears you take a deep breath of the cold winter air. 

"But I guess it's the things we don't say that we regret the most... isn't it?"

Especially when that thing is love.

"Go inside, doll. I promise you, he's been waiting for you a long time." 

You glance over at Bucky, who gives you a small encouraging smile. You hope it's not presumptuous to take it the way you think he might mean it—that Steve had been waiting for you long before the two of you even met. 

That, perhaps, this whole time, while you were prepared to waste away into a sad existence full of grief and regret, that all you needed was each other.

Bucky holds his hand out for you to shake in a friendly gesture. You wrinkle your nose and shake your head, causing him to flush a bright shade of pink. Before he can pull away, however, you hold your arms open and slowly take a step forward. 

Suddenly understanding your meaning, Bucky chuckles lowly to himself as he steps into your embrace.

You wonder how it's possible that Steve, once again just one man , is capable of bringing you so much joy, so many good things. Does he even know what kind of effect he's had on your life?

When the two of you separate, you give Bucky a grateful smile before he opens the door to the shop for you. He watches as you go inside hesitantly, but you grow bolder with each step forward.

Bucky would tell you, one day, that he had gone home that night smiling to himself. Steve really did know how to pick 'em. Bucky has only met you once, and, already, you've changed not only Steve's life, but his as well.

Because that night, he doesn't head back to his apartment as he had planned. Instead, he takes a different route, one that he's taken a hundred times before, the end result always the same. But not tonight. Tonight, finally, Bucky makes his way to Sam's apartment with the intention of changing things for good.

"Do you still want that dinner?" Bucky asks the moment Sam opens the door, with no preamble. It's been five whole years. He's fully expecting a rejection, maybe even a punch in the face. He'd deserve it. 

Who in their right mind would wait five years for a man who couldn't even admit to what he wanted?

"No," Sam says, but he doesn't slam the door in Bucky's face, like he should. Instead, Sam grabs onto the lapels of Bucky's jacket and yanks him into the apartment. 

"You're a pain in my ass, you know that? You're a real piece of work." Bucky is confused as hell, because the words are harsh, but Sam's tone is soft, desperate, loving.

"Sam, I'm—" Bucky has no time to formulate any kind of response, because Sam is kissing him right then and there. It takes him a few moments to find his bearings, warm tears pricking at the corners of his eyes because this is so much more than he deserves. 

He's spent so long behaving like an idiot, knowing that he's kept the love of his life on the backburner... and for what? He could have had this the entire time.

But I guess it's the things we don't say that we regret the most... isn't it?

Sam pulls back, his dark brown eyes both defiant and affectionate at the same time, and Bucky swears he'll spend the rest of his days earning it.

But right now, right in this moment, he watches through the glass as you approach Steve's table, laying your books out for him.

I’ll Tell You in Person by Chloe Caldwell Matters of Great Importance by Louise Philippa Lenard I Hope You’re Listening by Tom Ryan

Steve's smile drops when he sees you standing in front of him, like he can't quite believe you're there. Sharon looks back and forth between the two of you with curious eyes, but she meets Bucky's through the shop's front window and understands. She discreetly slinks back and disappears between the shelves, smiling to herself— finally.

Steve can't quite manage to return your small smile, too ashamed of himself to do it. Instead, he just looks at you like he's quite content for you to be the last thing he'll ever see.

"Hi Steve," you say. He wants to weep, then. He didn't think he would ever hear your voice again. Not wanting you to see the tears in his eyes, because if anyone deserved to be shedding tears, it should be you. He looks away from you then, but you're determined to make it the very last time he does so.

You’ve decided it’s time. It’s time to let go of the things that had always held you back, the things that left you with nothing but regret. What had living in fear gotten you, after all? Finally, you take courage.

You take the final step to grasp at the chance for happiness, to grasp at a future—one that rests in Steve Rogers' very own two hands.

One month later…

"You sure about this, Stevie?" Bucky asks, not to give him second thoughts, but to make sure this is really what Steve wants.

"I'm sure," Steve says, smiling a little as Sam straightens after taping up one last box. The Brooklyn apartment now sits totally empty, all traces of Peggy—and Steve, for that matter—gone. 

The three men take a moment to soak it all in. They all have so many memories here. 

Sam and Peggy would often sit on that fire escape, watching the sun set, rolling their eyes when Steve and Bucky got into needlessly heated arguments while watching football.

Peggy had taught Bucky how to cook in this kitchen. Well, she tried to. He didn't prove to be a very good student, having been unable to really pick up any of the skills. 

It became tradition, however, that she would call him over whenever she wanted to try a new recipe. He would be her taste-tester and also her mixing arm, to "put those muscles to good use" as she had put it.

Steve had lived an entire beautiful life within these walls. He can still hear the echoes of Peggy's laughter, can still see her sitting on the windowsill as she read, can still picture her smiling at him as she danced in the kitchen to music blaring from an old record player.

But it is time. The apartment itself means nothing without her.

Peggy is no longer here, after all. Steve and their friends will keep her alive, will keep her present, in the memories they keep close to their hearts. Sam and Bucky pick up a box, getting ready to bring it downstairs to load it up in the moving truck they rented for the day.

"Ready?" Sam asks, pausing in the doorway. Steve takes one last look around. He doesn't want to think of it as leaving his past behind. He wants to think of it, instead, as bringing it with him to somewhere he can also have a future.

"Ready."

Wanda and Pietro watch bittersweetly as the maintenance person takes down Loki's name from the door to his former office. Once the final letter has been removed, they stop him for a minute to just stare into the empty room.

You and Thor had finally rummaged through all the boxes for things really worth keeping. Thor chose a family photo that Loki kept at the corner of his desk at all times. 

Pietro would tell Thor that Loki would pick it up and look at it often—while he spoke on the phone, while he leaned back in his chair in deep contemplation, sometimes even while he ate—even when he probably wasn't conscious of it.

You took the one of Loki on his trip to the UK from before he came back to Westview, the one where he's smiling brightly at the camera, hand lifted in a friendly wave. You also took the mug you had bought him for his birthday so many years ago, the one that said, "my weekend is booked". 

Wanda recalls the way he laughed out loud when he saw it, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek as thanks, and the way he had used it every day since.

Occasionally, when Wanda visits your apartment, she sees both items you took resting on your fireplace mantle, right next to the one of your parents. The mug is always filled with freshly cut flowers.

The two of you asked the Maximoffs to go through the boxes, too. Wanda ended up taking a little snake ornament he had lying around, hanging it off the corner of her computer screen so she could see it every day. He used to say that snakes were his favourite, much to Wanda's amusement. 

Pietro took a monogrammed keychain, keeping it chained to his copy of the key to the library's front door. It was then time, you all decided together, to let the rest of it all go.

Wanda takes a deep breath, then glances over at her brother, who meets her eye and nods. He takes her hand, which gives her the courage to turn back to the maintenance guy to allow him to finish his job.

The new library technician starts today, a woman by the name of Virginia Potts. The twins watch as the new name is slowly put up onto the door.

All physical traces of Loki Laufeyson are gone, but they can still feel his presence in the walls, up and down the aisles, and laced into the books on the shelves.

Gone indeed, but never ever forgotten.

A knock on your door indicates it's time to leave. You gather up your things, slinging the strap of your purse over your shoulder and picking up your keys from the coffee table. When you pause at your door to put your shoes on, you take one last look into your apartment, taking in the small signs of change.

A book lays on the surface of the wood, freshly printed, newly published. Bucky had sent you an advanced copy in the mail, along with a postcard from him and Sam on their recent trip to Louisiana (the words see you soon! printed in Bucky's scratchy handwriting), a polaroid of the two of them taped to the front. It is attached to the door of your fridge by the palm tree magnet they bought you as a souvenir.

You had been a little surprised when Sam, who you had yet to meet, sent you a separate postcard. 

It couldn't be better over here, but I keep wondering if you know just how much you've changed everything. Can't wait to meet you one day, Book Girl. —Sam

The book on your coffee table tugs at your heartstrings once again, and seeing the name of the author still leaves you a little bit breathless. You had asked Steve if it was possible to find a publisher for a small collection of poems. Luckily for you, Bucky worked for the same publishing company that printed a lot of his work. 

You had reeled back in mild shock, to which Steve had laughed and asked, "Didn't it occur to you that that's why he was at the book signing?"

It hadn't occurred to you, no. Bucky still teases you for it.

You smile down at the light green cover, quickly picking it up to proudly display it on your bookshelf.

Fifty Words for Love by Loki Laufeyson

You turn your attention back to the door when you hear another series of knocks. You open it, smiling when you see Steve standing on the other side.

"Hey," he says, bright blue eyes soft and kind, as always.

"Hey back," you say.

"Ready to go?" He asks, holding out his arm. Thor just finished his first day back at work and all of you are going to meet him at his office for a small celebration.

You take Steve's arm as you step into the hallway and close your door behind you, locking it. He walks you down the hallway towards the stairs, still keeping a respectable distance. 

The two of you had decided to take things slow. After all, the love you hold for those dearly departed doesn't go away simply because they're gone. And they can never be replaced. 

But as long as you're alive, as long as you keep the memories of those you love close to your heart, as long as you keep those sentiments in mind, you have an opportunity to make the most of what remains.

It hasn't been all that long since his return to Westview, and you find yourself saying, "I've missed you." 

They are just three simple words, but Steve hears so much more in them: longing, affection, forgiveness. 

"Days without you felt so long," you confess, voice trembling. 

He pauses on the landing between the first and second floors of the building, forcing you to come to a stop on the last step of the stairs. You watch with bated breath as Steve's eyes meet yours, as he lifts a hand to gently cup your cheek.

The two of you had decided to take things slow, yes. But suddenly the idea seems so silly, because Steve has three words for you, too, and he wants nothing more than to say them with his lips pressed gently to yours.

So, he throws caution to the wind.

He leans forward to close the distance between you, but he remembers what happened the last time he kissed you. He stops just before you two can touch, and you think you see tears in his eyes before he closes them. 

You press a hand against the curve of his jaw, running your fingers gently through the soft hairs of his beard. Steve tilts his head just enough so that he's almost resting in your hand.

You hear him say the words, his lips grazing the skin at the edge of your palm as he whispers them out loud. You smile, thinking that, perhaps, now, your life can finally continue again.

Because this time?

This time, you say them back.

Just live well. Just live. —JOJO MOYES, “Me Before You” 

FIN.

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[thatsonemorbidcorvid]

A few weeks after #MeToo exploded on the internet, an old friend and I did what so many women did during that time: We got on the phone and finally began to acknowledge what had happened to us. My friend shared a story of hers from college. Back then, we’d all just considered it a “bad date,” but she now recognized it as sexual assault. She also shared that at nearly every single job she’s had since college, a boss or co-worker has sexually harassed her.

The month before our conversation, I had published an essay sharing my own experience of sexual assault while traveling abroad. Like my friend, it was not my only experience—it was one of many. But I’d only included the one, because in the early stages of #MeToo, the idea of sharing one assault story still felt risky. The idea of sharing more than one felt culturally impossible. My friend agreed.

“As a woman, you’re only allowed one #MeToo moment,” she told me. “After that, people begin assuming the problem must be you.”

Out of the many celebrity #MeToo stories told in the past five years, only a handful have acknowledged the experience of multiple assaults. In an HBO documentary, Alanis Morisette spoke about repeated incidents of statuatory rape that happened when she first entered the music industry, all of which “fell on deaf ears” when she tried seeking accountability. In her memoir, Selma Blair wrote about a teacher who sexually assaulted her, as well as the many men who raped her in her 20s. In an interview with Dazed, Amber Rose said, “I cannot even count how many times a famous guy touched me inappropriately.” On a social media post during the Kavanaugh hearings, Tatum O’Neal wrote about her multiple assaults: “It was not my fault when I was 5, 6, 12, 13, 15.”

Stories that emphasize the ubiquitous nature of assault are vital in a world that so often focuses on one dramatic episode, with visceral details of the violation and an easily identifiable villain. This amplifies the false idea that assault is just a singular, horrifying incident—when in reality, many of us experience it as part of a larger, more insidious culture.

Once a person is assaulted, research shows they’re more likely to be assaulted again, a phenomenon called “revictimization.” Around 50 percent of children who survive sexual assault reexperience it later in life, and even a single incident of sexual assault in adulthood can increase the risk for it to happen again. As psychologist A.E. Jaffe and her colleagues wrote in a 2019 paper on revictimization: “Perhaps the most consistent predictor of future trauma exposure is a history of prior trauma exposure.”

Why would this be? In lieu of a good answer for it (more on that in a moment), we often blame victims themselves. We easily justify these statistics by suggesting that anyone who has survived multiple incidents of violence must be asking for it—either by acting promiscuously, hanging around too many shady men, or getting themselves into precarious situations. One survivor I interviewed told me that though she received some form of victim-blaming in response to all three sexual assaults she experienced, she noticed a stark decrease in support each time it happened again.

“After the second and third, some people began saying, ‘What’s happening in your life to attract that?’ or ‘Do you have enough awareness to know when men want to harm you?’ ” she told me. “One person even asked why I was ‘trusting men so much.’ ” Another friend who experienced multiple assaults went through a similar line of questioning, only with herself. “After so many times, I began asking myself, ‘What is it about me that brings on these experiences?’ ” she said. I told her I ask myself that question all the time.

In his essay “Spectator” for Roxane Gay’s anthology on sexual assault stories, Not That Bad, Brandon Taylor wrote about his best friend telling him she was beginning to think she was “just the kind of person this stuff happens to.” For a long time, that’s what I believed, too. As a travel writer and a single bisexual woman, I figured that at some point, I’d pay the price. Eventually, I’d have to face some element of physical harm—wasn’t that the obvious trade-off for attempting a liberated life? To me, survivorship—more than resilience, bravery, or strength—often felt like resignation.

But in some cases, it’s exactly that resignation that influences repeat assaults. While there’s no conclusive evidence as to why revictimization happens, we do know that normalizing assault can contribute to future harm. If a survivor has not internalized their experience as exceptionally traumatic, they are less likely to advocate for themselves, or demand accountability if it happens again. If they, like me, accept violence as an obvious fact of their lives, then when it repeats, they don’t seek the support they need to process and heal from each experience.

In an article for Psychology Today, psychotherapist and clinical social worker Keith Fadelici called this a “cognitive accommodation to ongoing violence.” The trauma continuously gets downplayed as victims attempt to normalize their assaults, which helps them feel more in control. “This dissociative process is a common symptom of PTSD,” Fadelici told me. “And can also later make survivors less capable of detecting risk by numbing the fear that is supposed to trigger alertness to danger.”

Oppression also plays a significant role. Those with marginalized identities are more at risk for experiencing assault in general, and thus more likely to experience it again. LGBTQ+ people are four times more likely to be assaulted than the general population (bisexual women and trangender people also are far more likely to experience assault than gay men and lesbian women). Rates of sexual assault for Indigenous women are three times higher than non-Indigenous women, and Black women are much more likely to experience assault than white women. Neurodivergent people are 11 times more likely than neurotypical people to be victims of violent crimes.

“If this is coming up repeatedly with one individual, it might be because that person is within systems and structures that facilitate assault more often,” said Jaffe. For those of us living with any of these identities, we normalize violence because living under oppression is consistently violent. In order to survive, a “cognitive accommodation to ongoing violence” is necessary. We train ourselves to get used to it, and move on.

After #MeToo, I began reading and rereading the legal definitions for rape and sexual assault to make sense of what had happened to me. Any sexual contact that occurred without consent constitutes assault? Any sexual contact that included penetration without the other person’s consent constitutes rape? The criteria felt almost too easy. Under these standards, I had been raped twice, and assaulted several other times—all stories I had not yet fully internalized, and was not yet ready to tell. Dozens of legal crimes had been committed against my body, but that idea felt so unfathomable I hardly knew what to do next.

In the three years after publishing that first story, I experienced more incidents, and I still don’t know what to call them. I don’t feel comfortable firmly declaring them as “assault.” I don’t like how it connects so deeply with an oppressive legal system, and how it automatically connotes some excessive form of violence. Even today, it seems too strong and rough a word for how these episodes played out: often with little physicality, with only brief conflict and polite turns toward quick forgiveness, until weeks later when I’d unpack the severity of what had happened. As I began sharing more of these stories with close friends, I would catch myself saying “technically” before saying “I was assaulted,” acknowledging the semantic disconnect I still felt. This hesitation is common among many survivors: As one 2019 meta-analysis showed, rates of victimization increase when participants are asked “behaviorally descriptive questions” about what happened to them, rather than questions that use terms like “rape” and “assault.”

Sometimes, people ask “How many times all together?” I say “six-ish,” a number that captures the amount of experiences that have dramatically changed the way I relate to my body—how it experiences intimacy, how it engages with the world: The one that happened at work, just weeks into my first job out of college. The one at a festival in India. The one while getting a deep-tissue massage. The one at a New York play party. The one so common I learned it has its own name (“stealthing“). The one with a lover I had loved and trusted deeply. The one with another lover, a violation that was not sexual but physical and thus, as yet another nonconsensual act done against my body, still felt so connected to all the rest.

And this still does not take into account every time I was nonconsensually touched in public—the men who pulled and grabbed my arms, my back, my butt, my shoulders to try to get my attention on the street—nor the times I’ve been followed, harassed, physically threatened by strangers on the street.

The accumulation of more and more of these events creates a compounding impact, one where each additional incident begins to amplify the ones before. For me and most survivors I spoke to, we are not healing from trauma—we are learning how to exist in a world where trauma continues to accumulate.

Every survivor I interviewed for this piece told me they fully accept the potential that they’ll experience assault in the future. Still, most of them admitted to me that it’s still easier to only share just one story with the world—never the full range of what has happened to them. “When you only have one story, the enemy is the rapist,” one survivor told me. “But when you have several people with a lifetime of these experiences, the enemy is all of us.”

This is what we mean when we talk about rape culture. The first thing we can do to start to dismantle it is to recognize what we’re up against.

[blorbologist]

I wish you would write a fic where...

More of the consecuted!Ashton being raised by Essek, please 😘

~580 words | Gen | Essek-centric | Mention of this being 100+ years post-canon and most of the Nein have passed, as well as Ashton

Short one! I stopped to think about how, exactly, Essek would somehow adopt Ashton before they even realized they had past memories, and perhaps this isn't fully sound but I had fun with it :D

I wish you would write a fic where... prompt game

--

Deirta Thelyss once claimed, in the gentle and patronizing way of one practiced at such speech, that she knew from the beginning that Essek was a new soul. He dismissed this immediately as justification for the cool detachment with which she raised him while waiting to see if he was anyone worth caring about.

This was a very solid conclusion until roughly three hours ago, where just as quickly as he disregarded his Umavi’s words he recognized this child. This child he had never met before in his life.

It had been a hunch to ask around. A gift of fortune that he was not immediately carted off as a (as Beauregard would have called it) a complete fucking creep.

But he knew where Greymoore had died. And so could extrapolate the - purely hypothetical - radius to investigate very accurately. And it’s not like the Cobalt Soul didn’t research the strangest of topics. Such as - again, hypothetically - any children born in this range of days potentially experiencing strange flashes and memories.

And if it became a long-term, fruitless research project, well. It’s not like he’s had much better to do. Caduceus is lovely, quite lovely, but there’s only so long he can garden before he’s gently being told to stop cross-breeding the plants and experimenting with grafts. 

(Only so long he can endure the reminders of what they’ve both buried in this same earth. He has always been a weak man.)

Essek long wrote this off as a fruitless thing. Ashton Greymoore was not consecuted, and calling their brain a biological Beacon would be generous (and swiftly provoke several rebuttal papers if he could publish the findings under another alias), and it had been too long. Frankly, he should have given up after fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, twenty years passed without a youth seeking him out on his rounds.

This child is not even toddling. It’s been over a century since he last met this soul, but he knows - he knows, deep in the pit of arcana in his stomach - that this is that genasi.

At this point the towns in his circuit consider it a queer sort of rite to show Essek their children. He’s learned to entertain them with simple spellcraft, enough of a delight to buy good faith. 

“Whoever birthed this little one dropped him on our doorstep,” the weary old orc is explaining; there’s a rush of sympathy and frustration swimming through his bloodstream. Deirta’s face flashes before his eyes, for no particular reason.

They keep talking. Essek keeps nodding and hopes his poker face has improved, because he is panicking. 

He had thought this out. Be the benevolent, strange sort of uncle (the memory of Jester’s voice trills, like a fairy godmother!) and be conveniently available when anamnesis occurred and otherwise simply… observe. For science. Because this was quite the unique sort of circumstance, and could disprove or bolster centuries of his work (and Caleb’s, the foundation of so much of it).

Essek can’t simply sit back and observe - can’t watch Ashton Greymoore grow up in an orphanage. Not again. 

The small human looks nothing like the Ashton he knew. And giggles and reaches for the flutters and skeins of magic without any hesitation, without pain. And he has a shock of red hair.

So with the heedless decision-making that’s evaded him since Caleb and Jester and Fjord and Beauregard and Veth and Yasha and Kingsley passed he says, “Ah. Well, I could offer-” they? They don’t know that yet, “- him a home.”

[dawnsdesire]

Bad Things Happen to the Best of Us — Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge inspired fic

A/N: I had to write an assignment for my Creative Writing lab and came up with this masterpiece. Liked it too much to let it collect dust in my files. Wrote it last night at 2 am-ish after doing research for my diploma paper lol. Enjoy!

!!! CW : death, guns, angst, describing alcohol and cigarette use. This fic is minor-friendly. Read at your own risk.

“... the searchlights find us drinking by the mausoleum door / And they found you on the bathroom floor... !”

My Chemical Romance, Cemetery Drive

�� • —

The glass broke underneath my once-polished dress shoes as I was sure I tiptoed my way through the place we last met before chaos broke loose.

It was so weird but natural walking like this – without a definite scope or a motive. I have spent the last months, no, years, walking around with a devil on my shoulder, dirtying my hands with the blood of yet another businessman or fraud who posed himself as a good man.

They were all good men to me when they were six feet underground, with the weapons of their demise burned away as quickly as their lives have gone underneath my control.

I remember this place like it was yesterday. Your face is blurring away from my memories, a sight I either want to see over and over again or erase completely from the depths of my sick, twisted mind. Still, our memories remain untouched by my trauma-fueled amnesia, and I still can smell the flowery scent of your perfume when your thin frame would envelop me, your silky black hair going through my hands as I ran them over your head, comforting you from the sights of your privileged, strict family.

I’ve always hated your mother, and I could hate her offspring now — but not for the same reason.

One night, right before our great escape, or at least the beginnings of it, we got shitfaced right near the door of your dainty neighborhood’s mausoleum, something I barely saw in my growing years. My kind, unlike your perfect life, were used to slums and old paintings passed down, to the earthy scent of mold and decaying lungs from the packs of cheap cigarettes I’d steal from my father’s jean pockets when he was mid-alcoholic coma induced sleep.

The smell lingered in the air, my cigarettes bitter and strong, the pen-ish taste coming into my lungs and out like magic after all the years of chain-smoking. You were curious – a girl who has never tasted a drunken cigarette suddenly was eager to cough her lungs out after one hit, during which I held you in my arms, the button-down you bought me, charcoal black, contrasting your corseted, flowy dress.

We went down to the local pub near my place and got so drunk we couldn’t walk straight. My dark eyes met yours.. I can’t even remember the color of your eyes, sugar – and we thought of doing the unthinkable.

Tarnishing your family’s well-built reputation.

Your parents were more cautious than the usual folks not even noticing their kids were gone for days on end – and when their spawn would come back home, dirty from the mud and grass they fell in after playing catch for hours and hours, drinking water from a neighbor’s garden hose and eating sandwiches from other neighbors for breakfast, lunch and dinner – they would go, ‘oh dear, go take a bath, your new clothes are ruined! Come now, your favorite TV show’s on. Did I tell you that your father could finally get us cable?’

Yet you were gone for only a few hours and there was a missing person’s report with your very name on it.

The searchlights of some cops I didn’t get the name of found us smoking cheap, carton-like cigs, and drinking booze we stole from that damn pub near the mausoleum door. They took you home and took me in for questioning, ranging from bad influence to abduction, as if I were an alien.

We ran away because of that. We ran fast and we ran far, and it all seemed so sweet, sweeter than your lips — until you died in my very arms. You wouldn’t know, but I killed the man who did that to you, to us. You wouldn’t care anyway, would you? You’d never care for brutality; you scrunched your nose even when you had to dissect frogs during Biology and you’d watch all the jocks in your class run their scalpels through those poor amphibians’ dead bodies.

I sat down after clearing the glass where I used to sit. This is where I killed man number 130. The mausoleum has since then moved or shut down – I couldn’t care less.

I remember you. I don’t remember your name and when I cry thinking of you I can’t help but mention other girls’ names whom I��ve met, but none are as special as you were to me. You moved on. I killed so many men for you, so many people who climbed the corporate ladder and got ridden with greed and disgust towards people like me. All the little things I had, the five dollars allowance I got a week, I’d spend it on you. I’d give you anything and you dared to move on. I thought about it. I tried. I really tried.

One more night with you and I would have been a convicted man in Heaven.

“You know, sugar”, I said, speaking out to nobody but your hallucination.

The gun felt cold against my heated skin, the metal nozzle rubbing my temple the same way you’d caress my forehead when I’d be hungover after many nights of getting booze in my system.

“Bad things happen to the best of us.” I laughed; bittersweet laughter along with tears of genuine hurt running down my cheeks mixing just like your favorite cocktail from the times you got used to drinking with sad, ole me.

The best place to die again, all alone, and to continue haunting eternity – is right where we last spent our time together happily.

Your drive to the cemetery won’t be long.

[fandomluver-101]

So my sister found book reports I wrote in middle/high school and it brought up a number of things I hate about Twilight (yet I did enjoy the books to an extent). Shes not happy and I'm reminded why I so not engage with Team Edward Twihards.

Rant incoming - also, this is about the BOOKS, not the movies

Middle school me knew there was something wrong with Bella and Edward's relationship. The "eternal seventeen" view my friends had (and still have) didn't hold water to me because I was the same middle schooler reading a whole bunch of books about vampires, werewolves, fae, and mythology. In my report on the first book, I said that there's no such thing as an immature immortal character - they'd be dead if they were truly immature.

Because seriously, Bella is a teenager with no real world experience compared to Edward. I said "think of it like a thirteen year old girl dating a eighteen year old boy." Back then, I pretty much wrote about grooming without fully understanding it in depth (I got sent to the counselor and ended up learning more). Edward himself acknowledges the power imbalance of their relationship, he does incredibly disgusting things that are NOT romantic, and reading Midnight Sun years later only validated my old views.

Jacob is also a teenager with no experience. Setting him up as some type of romantic rival to Edward doesn't acknowledge the MAJOR issue of JACOB BEING AN ACTUAL TEENAGE CHILD! A lot of my very rantish book report on that aspect was detailing how Jacob is just as much a victim of the story as Bella if not worse. He's written as a sweet and caring boy trying to do right by his family and friends, gets abruptly turned into an incel because Meyer realized she made Jacob too perfect for Bella, and then enslaved for the rest of his life AT RHE AGE OF SIXTEEN. He did not deserve any of what happened and it happens because Meyer made him, a CHILD, Edward's rival.

Because, YES, Jacob IS the superior match for Bella. Not simply because she canonically calls him her sun, but because HE'S AN AGE APPROPRIATE MATCH. Nevermind that, canonically, Bella acknowledges that she IS in love with Jacob and if, not for Edward the manipulator being her drug of choice, they WOULD be together.

She has a whole "what if I married Jacob" sequence where she had a happy and healthy relationship and LIVED, no amount of gaslighting could change my opinion when I wrote "this is like that old movie that glorified domestic abuse - Edward is constantly slapping Bella and he is her true cause of her death, but 'love in adversity' is the lesson we're meant to take from it."

There's also a paper I wrote using Twilight to discuss racism and PDF-philia in literature for my AP Lit class. And it holds up! Meyer legit had Quil imprint on a TWO YEAR OLD, Jacob on an infant (with the kind of an adult which adds another layer of horror and abuse to Jacob's treatment), made the shifters all angry hotheads who harm the people around them, has them referred to as dogs and mutts by the very White elitist Cullens, and gives all of them awful endings. She legit made it canonical that the shifters have to cut their hair, something that even a cursory amount of research would tell you that is a cultural no-no.

Meyers, and the fandom, give Edward so much grace for his predatory, entitled, and petty behavior and simultaneously drag Jacob for his very justifiable hatred of the Cullens and desperation to get Bella away from them. The Cullens legit repeat history by invading native land and despite KNOWING that their proximity is causing them to shift and result in deaths, THEY DONT CARE (they did it TWICE, by the way). They don't care about Bella either, they constantly put her in danger and treat her like an object, why WOULDN'T Jacob try to get her away from them?

And Bella defending the Cullens, but not ONCE defending Jacob or the wolves from the Cullens and the disgusting things they said THAT WEREN'T TRUE.

And the two page rant I wrote about Jacob imprinting on Renasty (that is legit what I kept calling her) holds up so much that my sister is re-reading the series right now. Jacob is legitimately terrified of imprinting and having what little control he has left taken from him. And when it happens, it is legit HORRIFYING. He's untethered from everything that made him an individual, his life becomes all about Renasty

I don't hate Twilight, mainly because it was part of my formative years. But I DO kinda hate Meyers for the shit she wrote and I hate a chunk of the fandom who share her mindset. My sister might join those ranks lmao.

[sam-dean-and-everyone-in-between]

SO I was listening to my dad’s old records got to thinking about early seasons Sam and Dean, how well much they might’ve listened to it growing up and feeling things, so I wrote a little fic.

MY RECOMMENDATION is to read this with the music—essentially just Side 1 of Wish You Were Here the album—as I found it quite fun to have the multi-sensory experience, but it’s not required to understand the fic

Anyway, full snippet under the cut:

It’s August—late, and they’re on some back route out in the middle of nowhere. It’s getting dark; the clouds have been sinking into that deep denim blue that appears right after dusk, the still light sky just barely peeking its way through.

The route they’re on is virtually abandoned with only a car or two heading in the opposite direction every half-hour or so. Telephone poles, a smattering of driveways with their mailboxes, and a dense layer of trees have been the only things decorating the sides of the road.

Naturally, Dean is driving. Sam, meanwhile, is shining his flashlight over their case research (a stack of loose note pages and newspaper clippings, along with a couple of books he’d “checked out” from a private college library a couple of towns back).

As driver, Dean’s chosen the music, of course, and he relishes as his old cassette tape copy of the Wish You Were Here album begins to play warm through Baby’s speakers.

Sam’s been engrossed in his research for nearly the entire ride so far, but as of the last few miles, he’s been starting to huff and fidget in the way he does when he’s nearing his research limit, his hands flicking between the pages with less and less patience.

Dean sneaks a peek at his brother out of the corner of his eye. He takes in how exhausted Sam looks and feels the edges of his lips tweak up slightly. Dean clears his throat.

“C’mon, man,” he starts, “Take a break. It’s not like the research is going anywhere, we still have five hours left to go.” At that, Dean himself gently twists his head from side to side, stretching his neck, and switches his hands on the steering wheel to let his left arm rest on the window ledge. After some more paper shuffling and a grunt, Sam finally sighs and nods in defeat. He piles his materials into a neat stack and slips them onto the dashboard.

“Besides,” Dean continues, a grin creeping onto his face, “You know how good this album is. So, just sit back, relax, and take a listen for a little while, wouldya?” He reaches to turn the volume dial up to a level that he finds adequate to appreciate the music, but not too loud for his little brother’s ears.

Looking back to Sam, Dean sees him wordlessly nod again, shifting a little lower in the bench seat to rest his head on the back as the intro plays. He lightly crosses his arms over his chest as he gets comfortable, and slowly lets his eyes fall shut.

While he’s not the enthusiast Dean is, the many parts of Shine On You Crazy Diamond might Sam’s favorite when it comes to Pink Floyd—in fact, Dean would say he knows it for sure even though Sam’s never once voiced the opinion. The drums come in, and he catches Sam’s fingers tapping to the beat.

Instantly, Dean’s whole body starts to fill up to the absolute brim with this…feeling, proud and encompassing, that he has felt for his brother for as long he can remember.

He’s trying to watch the road, but how can he when Sam’s actually listening to his advice for once?

So Dean stares best he can between quick cursory looks ahead. Sam’s brows twist up as the chorus swells, then knit back down together for the sax solo, his head bobbing almost imperceptibly a moment later as the drums pick back up.

Suddenly he finds himself wondering what his little brother is thinking about as he listens—what he might be feeling. Dean thinks of his childhood: being with his father, the three of them, together, out on the open road—their dad’s classic rock one of the only constants in their life.

And now a thin stand in for the father they’ve lost.

Sam’s throat quivers and Dean’s eyes snap to the movement. His brother’s eyebrows pinch up once again as he swallows thickly once. Twice. He wonders if his brother is feeling the same heartache at these familiar chords.

A car passes by.

Dean finally rips his eyes away and plants them firmly back on the road. He bites his cheek. If he’s not careful, he’s gonna kill them both by having been too enchanted by his own little brother to actually pay attention to where they’re going.

But a little while later, as the sky gets a little deeper and Welcome To The Machine plays haunting and buzzing and bright through Baby’s sound system, he turns back again to see Sam looking at him through lazily lidded eyes.

Dean feels the hair on the back of his neck prick up. He glances quickly back to the road. When he looks back, he notices Sam’s lips are parted ever so slightly and the street lamps that pass every few hundred feet cast an amber glow on him that turns his messy, too-long hair into a wavy, wispy halo around his face.

And Sam’s just…watching him drive.

Dean’s stomach flips and he feels his throat start to close up. He clenches his jaw and again forces his eyes forward, Sam’s gaze heating up the side of his face as Dean stares ahead, looking but not seeing.

They’ve only been at this together again for a couple years since that night in Sam’s apartment back at Stanford, but Dean knows in his gut that, even after everything, he’s just as hopelessly taken with his little brother as he’s ever been. Maybe even more so now.

Still, as he flicks his eyes back over only to catch Sam’s again, his baby brother’s pupils dilating and Dean’s mouth going dry, he’s been starting to think, lately, that maybe—just maybe—Sam is just as taken with him.

The road disappears beneath them. Another car passes by.

Dean says nothing. And neither does Sam.

[browniefox]

2024 Fic Wrap-Up

Another year, which means another year of writing!

Most Popular (Kudos)

The Pines Paradox - Gravity Falls

Ford's research is interrupted by his estranged brother showing up on his doorstep with a kid who claims to be time traveller. Meanwhile in the present, Stan and Mabel try to figure out how to get Dipper back to the right time. There will be secrets revealed, old wounds readdressed, and above it all a one-eyed demon watches with interest. (Previously titled Twins Across Time)

Considering the Gravity Falls resurgance, hardly a surprise! Although it's been a second since I've updated this, I am actually really happy with it and how it's been turning out! It's a lot of fun to write, in no small part because of the love it gets from my sister haha.

Least Popular (Kudos)

And the World was a Graveyard - Trigun Stampede

Meryl notices Vash folding paper flowers. In time, he reveals what he does with them.

Like the last one, this isn't surprising other. I actually think I wrote this last year...? Zine pieces always perform worse once they're actually posted. That being said, though, I still find the concept of this one really cute and I'm glad it's finally out there so someone can read it, even if not many have haha.

Longest Fic

Death Does Not Us Part - FFVII Comp

In the Northern Crater, a year after Meteor with the world just barely beginning to recover, there's a shift in the flow of Mako, a call only certain individuals can hear, and the dead wake up. Angeal just wants to know what's happened since he died. Genesis has amends to make - if he can swallow his pride enough for it. Sephiroth thinks he wants to give destroying the world another go, this time with more support. And Zack mostly just wants to find out what happened to Cloud.

Another fic I want to continue sometime! I had a lot of fun writing this one - getting into the minds of all the Firsts can be a little tricky, but their dynamics are very interesting to mess around with. And of course, I had to shove Cait Sith in there somewhere haha. It's definitely the fic I put the most work into this year - Pines Paradox was more fun, while DDNUP was a bit more serious.

Shortest Fic

After the Rain - FFVII Crisis Core

Too late, Cissnei finds Zack's dead body.

If not for my Trigun fic, this also would've been my least popular fic. Hardly surprising. TBH, not totally satisfied with this one, but I do like that I wrote it. There were a few different ways I think I could've gone, but I liked the idea of Cissnei covering up Cloud's disappearance, just as a final act of good will to Zack.

Personal Favorite

A Spark in the Night - FFXVI

Elwin and Cid meet at the Remembrance Ceremony.

I always struggle with this category bc they're ALL my favorite, but I have to go with my niche ship of Elwin/Cid. In general this fic was a lot of fun to write, particularly exploring Elwin as a character and his thoughts on the bearer system and his sons and how thye play into that. Cid is also fun to write bc it's before a lot of his character development, so I get to plant the seeds of the man he'll become.

Honorable Mentions

I'd say sorry for putting so many fics in this category but it's my post so who gives a shit.

Encore - FFXVI - I write a lot of time travel fics, but this is probably one of my favs, in no small part due to it only being the 'fun' part. It was also a lot of fun to write how each of the dominants change from getting their memories of the future, and start to show how that's already changing the trajectory of the future. (Spectator's View, the companion is also really good. I love outsider POVS of time travel)

Singing the Sound (that You Found for Me) - FFVII - What if you were in a time loop but also weren't aware you were in a time loop at the same time. I love Cait and Reeve, and exploridni ghow the time loop doesn't totally affect Cait was a lot of fun, particularly in showing how the world around Cait changes and how his interactions with AVALANCHE change throughout the loops.

Cloud Watching - FFVII - Pretty high on the 'fics I really really need to update', focusing on how people react to Cloud's 'episodes'. A really fun character exploration, and I do have plans to continue it, but I always get caught up in a different project instead of work on it :P

Meeting Behind Enemy Lines - FFVII - OF COURSE I have to mention this fic! Tbh, I'd almost already want to rewrite, bc it's such a cool concept I don't think I quite did justice? In general, Reeve and Nanaki are in the same building for a long time, and writing them meeting before the events of FFVII is a lot of fun. I think they'd actually manage to get along all right, particularly Nanaki and Cait.

Those Trapped in the Tower - FFVII - Okay okay okay, last one I promise, but nobody write fics about Reeve and Chadley so I will! There's parallels between them and then between Chadley and Cait Sith, and I wish it was explored! Instead it seems like they're just giving Cait's plotline to Chadley whole-cloth :P.

[theroguescientist]

Polish scientist watches Orb: Episode 7

Once again, new episode, new character. Jolenta (bit of an odd name, but people in Ye Olde Times did use to spell things weird) is an assistant at Count Piast's library. She wants to do research of her own, but isn't allowed to join any serious scholarly discussions. They tell her it's because she's not ready yet, but it seems to be good old fashioned sexism, actually.

But she tries her best anyway. #WomenInStem. She has found a secret passage that allows her to listen in on conversations behind closed doors. Also, she writes some guy's papers for him. And the guy seems to genuinely mean well, trying to protect her from too much attention. Too much attention can be dangerous in this world, especially if you're a scholar, a woman or, God forbid, both. But, yeah, it sucks that it has to be this way.

Yeah, I guess the only other way a girl could be a scholar in this era is either becoming some sort of high ranking nun or pretending to be a boy. And if she's a nun, pretty much the only fields she's welcome in would be theology and philosophy. Not a good time to be a woman in stem.

"My name isn't important," she says. The knowledge she has discovered matters more to her than anybody knowing her name.

Damn, I love the contrast between her and Badeni! But (perhaps because I'm somewhere in the middle myself in that regard) I hope she doesn't let him take credit for her work. Stand up for yourself, girl!

And, quite understandably in this world, her scholarly inclinations worry her father. Although, apparently he did encourage them at some point? (Is it just me or does his voice sound familiar? Ha. I almost didn't recognize him, with the clean shirt and genuine concern in his voice. The family drama is gonna be interesting.)

Meanwhile, the boys are starting their research.

"It will take a man of true greatness" "Do you know anyone like that?" "Of course. It's me." I mean, he's not wrong. But.

"No successors"? Arrogant little shit. Badeni clearly has a brilliant mind, but he still doesn't get that this is not how science works (This is somewhat understandable, since it seems like everyone who has ever tried to explain it to him was unreasonably mad at him for being too smart).

Alright, let me criticise his arrogance by telling you things about myself that nobody asked about :P I'm a mathematician. I can't reasonably expect any of my research to change the world. Not directly. It may be applied to the real world in a decade or in a century, or never at all. If it has any real impact on the world, it will likely have somebody else's name attatched to it. And, honestly, I'm fine with that. I don't need a chapter in the history books. If I'm a tiny footnote in a science textbook, any future people I might want to impress will read that footnote anyway. I still get the citations. And I still get to be a part of something.

(But I do want that footnote. I want those citations. That's what I meant by "somewhere in the middle". I'm glad to live in an era where I don't have to be a doormat about it.)

And even this show protrays discovery not as the work of one individual genius, but of a series of people building upon their predecessors' work. And that is how it works in the real world. Because even the most brilliant genius would never get around to discovering anything new if they had to invent basic math from scratch first. You're just continuing something that other people have started, Badeni. And even if you're the one to prove it once and for all, there will still be a lot to discover, using your research. You're just one link in an endless chain. A stepping stone is all any of us will ever be. You don't get to complete all of science. I don't think that's possible.

(And yet, I think a lot of scholars in that era might have actually thought like Badeni here. Isn't that one of the reasons why a lot of alchemists and such wrote their notes in code? They didn't want just anyone using their research. If you can't crack the code, you're not a worthy successor or something. So, yeah, it's not unrealistic. I just don't agree with him.)

The irony of a guy getting into forbidden research that the church wants to suppress burning a letter from his predecessor because it's inconvenient to him.

(Also, not all of it is burnt, if someone finds it, they might still be able to read some of it. Hm…)

Badeni seems to have a problem with helping the poor for some reason. Dude, wtf? The fate that God assigned to them? Are you one of those "sin of empathy" assholes?

Oooh! When he said "people of means" I assumed he was looking for funding, but it seems like there's more to it.

Ah, I see. Jolenta is going to solve the puzzle. And then she's gonna hate working with the guy who wants all the credit for everything. Looking forward to that dynamic too.

And she solved it in less than a day? Impressive. She's smart and determined.

Fun historical fact: Piast is the name of the first historical dynasty of Polish monarchs. By the mid 15th century the Jagiellon dynasty has taken over. No idea if this is at all relevant.

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

"In its entire lifetime (from 1936 to the early 1950s), the new penal system [of the Republic of Turkey] worked on the basis of a duality of “old” and “new” prisons. The four-stage progressive system was actually never implemented. In practice, there were only two stages: staying in the old prisons (all non-labor-based prisons) and working in the new labor-based prisons. The original stage system was allegedly abandoned due to financial inabilities (to construct individual cells for each inmate was too expensive for a small economy). However, I argue that the emerging duality was in perfect accordance with the broader bureaucratic project in which the prisoner world was divided into two spheres based not on (temporal) stages but on (functional) compartmentalization. The old prisons served as a deterrent in order to tame the working prisoners in the new labor-based prisons, whereas the latter served as an ideal to reach for those in the old prisons.

It was not compulsory to go to the modern labor-based prisons; in fact, it was a privilege. The convicts of petty crimes, the recidivists, and the political criminals were excluded from the new prisons. For the rest, an age-limit (a maximum of thirty to forty years) and a restriction on the minimum remaining prison term (between one and four years) applied. Moreover, the forms filled out by prison administrators and physicians in each prison would indicate whether prisoners had shown “good conduct.” Once transferred to the new prison, each working day counted two days of imprisonment, in other words, the remaining sentence was reduced by half. In addition, the prisoner-workers earned daily wages, and they did not stay in an actual prison building but in dormitories. If a prisoner-worker broke the rules (which was presented as “betrayal”), he was sent back to the old prison, and all of his earned days and money were appropriated.

In consequence, the prisoner-workers and the reserve army of prisoners lived immensely different lives in two dissimilar institutional spaces. The ruinous situation of the old prisons was the recurrent subject of complaint in the reports of the regional congresses in 1933. In 1940, 1945, and 1946 the deputies made visits to their electoral districts and wrote reports to the Ministry of Justice regarding the unhygienic conditions and primitive environment in the prison houses. All old prisons were suffering from a lack of sanitary toilets, of sunlight, of modern buildings, and of sufficient space (in one case, six hundred to eight hundred convicts lived in an old church that had been converted into a prison). Among others, the typhus epidemic of 1943 hit the prisons so seriously that the Ministry sent steam cabinets to sanitize the clothes of the inmates.

Life in the labor-based prisons, however, was represented in total contrast to the conditions of the old prisons. The İmralı Island Prison, in particular was turned into a dream-world for the new penal regime. Over the years, many ministers of justice (once even the president) made ceremonial visits to the island, accompanied by journalists and politicians; many columnists publicized the experiment in the national papers. In the 1940s, hundreds of law students made research trips to the island and prepared reports and monographs. In one instance, Professor Sulhi Dönmezer stayed for ten days on the island in order to investigate its autarchic economy. Even high school students and teachers were brought to this symbol of modern life. Visitors were amazed by the freedom enjoyed by the prisoners in this setting without handcuffs or prison bars. Economist and bureaucrat Vedat Nedim Tör found here the essence of an ideal life and even wrote a play entitled The Men of İmralı. Cambridge Professor Clive Parry, after his visit, published an article on İmralı and wrote: “I have no hesitation in saying that the Imrali penal settlement is the finest thing of its kind which I have seen in any country.”

There is no evidence to suggest that these representations of the ideal docile convict-worker were simply ideological fabrications. In fact, albeit probably exaggerated, this relatively better-off life in the labor-based prisons was a direct outcome of the dual structure of the prison system, which divided the prisoner pool into a reserve army (in the old prisons) and a labor aristocracy (in the new ones). There were lower levels of brutality in the new prisons, not necessarily because of humane ideals, but because of the threat of being sent back to the old prison in which the reduction of sentence by half would cancelled. In that sense, there was no “job security.” Contrary to generic prison regulations (for example, of the Ottoman period), which on paper forced all prisoners to work (without any success, ever), this dual system creatively established a miserable nonworking space and a privileged working space so that the structure itself enforced voluntary laboring. Hence, “being fired” was a real threat in the new prisons. On İmralı Island, for instance, 443 prisoners (out of 4,889) were sent back to the old prisons between 1935 and 1947 for various disciplinary reasons, and among the 19 escape attempts, 16 were captured and sent to the old prisons with heavier sentences while the other three died.

The effect of the structural violence created by the dual prison system was also observed in the Zonguldak coal mines. The case of the mines is particularly illuminating because it gives an opportunity to compare the situation of the prisoner-workers to other forced-laborers who were employed in the coal basin under the Compulsory Labor Regime enforced during World War Two. The Compulsory Labor Regime was the response of the state to the so-called “labor problem,” which had prevailed since the early 1930s. In a nutshell, the labor problem denoted the lack of a steady labor force (not to the lack of a labor force). Many male villagers used to work in the mines and in other factories for a short time in order to earn some cash; however, since they kept being connected to their village economy and household or had opportunity to change their job, they did not compose a full-fledged working class, an enduring labor force attached to one single factory. Thus, the labor turnover rates were high: It was 68.3 percent in the Karabük iron factory and 24.7 percent in Ergani copper mines in 1941. In the Ereğli coal mines basin, a worker spent fourteen days per month on average in the mines in 1936. Absenteeism prevailed, too: For example, in Guleman East Chromes, in July of 1943, only 116 of 402 workers showed up every day (30 days).

Accordingly, the new National Protection Law (1940) allowed the government to take extraeconomic measures over workers during the extraordinary war years. The relevant articles of the law were immediately implemented in February 1940 with a decree that constituted compulsory labor regime at the Ereğli coal basin, and the sanctions were toughened in 1942 with another decree. Numbers demonstrate the inordinate system: In 1948, of 27,000 workers in the basin, only 5,000 (18 percent) were free workers; the others were conscribed from men living in the Zonguldak region. Of these compulsory workers, 5,000 were steady workers, and the remaining 15,000 were working alternately for one and a half months. In addition, there were 1,000 to 1,500 soldiers and 1,261 prisoners working in the mines. Apart from mines, the forced labor regime broadened to include construction of public works (roads, bridges, railroads). In sum, what war mobilization in 1940 aimed to accomplish was to secure a fixed worker supply for the growing state-run enterprises.

Even though both compulsory work and prisoners’ work are forms of unfree labor, the structures of force and legitimacy were in complete contrast. Peasants under the yoke of compulsory labor regime tried their best to frustrate the implementers. Every one out of ten forced workers succeeded in running away from Ereğli coal basin (9.7 percent in 1942 and 10.7 percent in 1943). Villagers made use of the infrastructural incapacity of the state to escape this “collective conviction-psycho” in the mines. Compulsory labor regime, seen as drudgery, had no legitimacy at all, and the forced workers had every reason to sabotage the system. This was, however, not true for prisoner-workers. Although the official declaration that the prisoner-workers in Ereğli/Zonguldak mines were working “like sheep” should not be accepted without reservation, substantial evidence exists regarding the submissive attitudes of the convicts. In 1939, the official inspectors reported that prisoners and free workers work together without having any coordination problem. It was testified in 1994 by one of the workers, Sabri Eyüp Demir, that the prisoners’ working conditions had been “very good; they had no difference from us.” The prisoners were, it was reported, not only hard-working but even more productive than the free workers. The 1949 observations of Gerhard Kessler, professor of sociology and social policy, supported the reports:

Because every day spent in the pits is regarded as two days of confinement and because their life in mine basin is freer than that in the prison, they are ready to tolerate everything in order to spend most of their sentence here; they constitute the most obedient part of the work force.

Hence, desertion was considerably rare among the prisoners in comparison to the compulsory labor force. Demir, the above-mentioned worker, said, “I didn’t hear [any escape affairs]. Their concern was to finish the sentence, and go away.” Erol Çatma, historian of the coal basin, concluded that the convict workers were in general quite content, and they attempted to run away only when they were afraid of being sent back to the old prisons. The common reason of sending them back was sickness, which turned the convict into a useless burden for the enterprise. Of significance is the fact that while being hospitalized meant for forced workers at least a temporary escape from the mines, it was a disaster for the convict workers. For them, the alternative to the mines was not being sent back to their village, but to the old prisons. Nevertheless, epidemics such as syphilis, malaria, and typhus were widely seen in the basin due to the impact of war and the absence of public health measures. Thus, the attempts of hospitalized prisoners to escape turned into a serious problem to be related by the public prosecutor of Zonguldak to the minister of economics. The penal system based on labor caused “the abandonment of unproductive prisoners to the margins of penitentiary life.”

In conclusion, the dual-prison system had a peculiar structural effect on convict workers’ attitude in the workplace. Both in the agricultural prisons like İmralı Island and in the mining zones of mixed labor like the Zonguldak coal basin, prisoners worked under threat of being “fired”—that is, of being sent to miserable conditions for a reduplicated period of time. It was not only in the propaganda of the national press that the degree of physical violence in the new prisons was considerably low; similar to the rules of free labor market, without any workers’ rights, oppression was shifted from workplace to the general labor structure. In the compulsory labor regime, however, violence was extensively observed, as “firing” was not an option. In other words, forced workers had nothing to lose for being subversive, but the prisoner-workers had something to lose, which made them work voluntarily even more than the free workers. While debates in the literature previously focused on whether (and how) unfree forms of labor contributed to or impeded the development of capitalism, scholars have now turned away from a rigid dichotomy between free and unfree labor and have instead proposed “a multiplicity of forms of exploitation.” The dual structure of the penal regime in Turkey in the 1930s and 1940s complicates the free/unfree dichotomy by highlighting a particular form of unfree labor, which differed not only from the compulsory labor regime in Turkey, but also from other convict labor cases like chain gangs and prison industrial complexes."

- Ali Sipahi, “Convict Labor in Turkey, 1936–1953: A Capitalist Corporation in the State?” International Labor and Working-Class History No. 90 (Fall 2016): 247-250.