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theeartuaist · 26 days ago

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The App (3)

Six months passed, and the world stayed quiet.

No books materialized in impossible places. No cryptic messages blinked into long-silent devices. No strangers with posture too perfect and eyes too still crossed your path.

The dread didn’t vanish. It dulled. Softened. Became a sore tooth you couldn’t stop tonguing. It lived beneath the surface, a silent hum in your blood.

You found a job fifteen blocks from the new apartment—a small company. Your desk faced the wall instead of the window—a small comfort that your coworkers found odd but didn't question.

You developed patterns. Not habits—patterns. Coffee from the shop downstairs, but always at different times. Grocery runs on odd days. You changed your walking routes weekly. It gave you the illusion of safety. Sometimes, that was enough.

(But you still checked reflections. Just in case.)

It happened on a Wednesday, late December. You were working over time, alone in the office. The building was hushed, wrapped in the sound of itself: the hiss of the fan, the metallic pop of a settling pipe, the whir of machines that never really turned off. You were half-finished with a client mock-up when the air shifted. It wasn't a sound. Not exactly.

It was the feeling of being watched.

You turned. Fast. Nothing. Just your reflection in the window—wide-eyed and pale. Except… maybe not. Something flickered in the glass.

Just for a second. You didn't wait to investigate.

You gathered your things, left your coffee half-finished, and walked home with your keys between your fingers. No one followed. No one stared.

But you didn't sleep that night.

The next morning, bleary and irritable, you broke a rule. You stopped at a coffee shop you'd never visited before. Too tired to maintain your careful patterns. Too strung-out to remember why those patterns mattered.

You were adding cream to your latte when someone bumped into you from behind, sending coffee splashing across the counter and onto your sleeve.

"Shit, I'm so sorry," a male voice said immediately.

You turned, ready with a polite dismissal that died in your throat. "Michael?"

His face registered surprise, then recognition, eyes widening. "No way. Is that you? It's been what, seven years?"

Michael Keating. You went to the same college and worked together at your first job out of college, before he'd moved west to find himself. You weren't very close, but always got along well. He had that kind of easy, undemanding presence that made long workdays bearable. Nice without being cloying. Funny without trying too hard.

"How are you even here?" you asked as you both moved to a table, dabbing at coffee stains with inadequate napkins.

"Moved back three months ago," he explained, grimacing at the spreading stain on his shirt. "Been meaning to look up old friends, but you know how relocation goes. Still living out of boxes half the time."

"Yeah, I didn't think you were still in the city," you said.

"Moved back a few months ago," he replied. "Still living out of boxes. I was going to reach out, but—life, you know?"

You did know.

You sat with him while your sleeves dried. Swapped numbers before parting ways. You walked to work with your coffee gone cold. But your chest was warm in a way it hadn't been in months.

There was something comforting about running into someone from before—before the app that appeared uninvited on your phone, before an alien suitor who didn't understand the difference between movies, Reddit forums and reality, before you started checking reflective surfaces for faces that didn't belong.

A small, tenuous connection to a simpler time.

You almost deleted his number that night, paranoia whispering that it was too convenient, this chance meeting. But you didn't. And when he texted three days later to suggest dinner, you said yes before you could overthink it.

The restaurant was a small Italian place with red-checkered tablecloths and candles stuck in wax-covered Chianti bottles. Nothing fancy, nothing pretentious. Just good food and conversations that didn't require explanations.

You watched him carefully at first, looking for signs of too-fluid movements or unnaturally precise speech patterns. But Michael was reassuringly, beautifully human in his imperfections. He knocked over his water glass reaching for the bread basket. Mispronounced "gnocchi."

"Remember Darren from the office?" he asked over tiramisu, referring to a former coworker. "The guy who nearly burned down the break room trying to microwave a metal travel mug?"

"That was Brian," you corrected, smiling at the memory. "Darren was the lunch thief."

Michael shook his head, fork paused halfway to his mouth. "Pretty sure it was Darren with the mug incident. Brian was the one caught stealing from the refrigerator."

"No, I distinctly remember because Darren got fired over the lunch thing. They found a stockpile of stolen tupperware in his desk drawer when they were clearing it out."

Michael then laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

"God, my memory is terrible. Of course you're right. Darren with the lunches, Brian with the mug. I'm mixing everything up these days."

You went out again the following week. Michael suggested a small jazz club where the music wasn't too loud for conversation. He was easy to talk to in that funny, dry offhanded way you'd forgotten you liked. And when he asked about your job and how things had been for the past months, he didn't prod when you offered nothing. He just listened and smiled.

You found yourself watching the curve of his smile, the way he absently ran his thumb along the rim of his glass, the small scar above his left eyebrow from a childhood bicycle accident, he said. All these details anchored him in reality, in humanity.

When you walked home, he didn't try to kiss you. Just said it was good to see you again.

You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt something so simple. Weeks passed and dinner became routine. You introduced him to a ramen place you'd never visited. He introduced you to obscure films and weirder music.

One night, walking home, he said: "You always look up at the streetlights. You did it back in college, too."

You smiled. "Most people don't notice that."

"I'm not most people," he said. It was a joke. And not.

He touched your hand at your doorstep and didn't let go until you did.

You slept well that night.

Spring came. Then summer. Dinners at hole-in-the-wall restaurants neither of you had tried before. Sunday afternoons at obscure museums. Long walks through neighborhoods you'd never explored. Michael was easy to be with—attentive without being smothering, interested without being intrusive.

One summer day Michael suggested a weekend trip to a small lakeside town. You stayed in a charming B&B with creaking floors and floral wallpaper that looked like it hadn't been updated.

The sun dipped low when you arrived, washing the lake in syrupy gold. You sat together on the old wooden dock behind the bed-and-breakfast, legs dangling just above the water. The boards creaked under your weight, weather-worn and soft from years of sun and rain. A dragonfly hovered near the surface before darting away. Neither of you spoke, you were busy scrolling through your phone.

Michael's hand brushed against yours, not quite holding it, not quite letting go. The wind smelled like cedar and distant campfires.

"You ever wonder how we got here?" he said, voice quiet, like he didn't want to disturb the lake.

"Here, like... the town? The dock?"

He smiled, eyes on the water. "Here, like... this. Us."

You thought about it. The coffee shop. The times spent after work. The way he sometimes burned toast and blamed the toaster. The jazz club, the mismatched socks, the nights you spent listening to thunderstorms instead of speaking.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "Yeah."

He was silent for a long beat. Then another.

"I think I love you," he said.

He didn't look at you when he said it. His eyes were still on the lake, as if the words had escaped without his permission.

"I don't mean it like some grand declaration," he added. "I mean—I just—being with you feels like... like I stopped pretending something. Like I finally exhaled after holding my breath for years."

You stared at him. At his profile in the dying light. The tiny scar, the crooked tooth, the mole on his jawline you'd only noticed last week.

"You're not just a safe place," he said, voice barely audible. "You're the right place."

That was the moment. Right there.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, your fingers closing around his, laughing. "I think I love you too," you said, and the moment held. Whole. Real. Undeniable.

That night, you woke to find Michael standing at the window, silhouetted against the moonlight. For a disorienting moment, his outline seemed wrong somehow—taller, more angular, his posture too straight. A perfect stillness that nothing alive should possess.

"Michael?" you murmured sleepily.

He turned and it was just Michael again—rumpled hair, soft smile. "Sorry. Couldn't sleep. Too happy, I think."

And you'd smiled. Because Michael was always a little strange in the edges. That's what made him real. He came back to bed, gathered you in his arms, and you let yourself be taken by sleep. Just a trick of the moonlight. Just your old fears trying to spoil something good.

Summer blazed into autumn. One year since you last saw Raye. One year of healing, of cautious happiness.

"Move in with me," Michael suggested as you walked through a park ablaze with fall colors. "My place is bigger, but I'm not attached to it. We could find somewhere new together if you prefer."

You hesitated only briefly before saying yes.

Living together felt natural, right. Michael couldn't cook much beyond scrambled eggs, but he did the dishes without being asked. He sang off-key in the shower. He sometimes wore mismatched socks. Small, human imperfections that you found increasingly endearing.

On a crisp November evening—exactly one year and one month since your last encounter with Raye—Michael made dinner. Nothing fancy, just pasta with a sauce from a jar, but there were candles on the table, wine in proper glasses instead of the mismatched mugs you usually used. He seemed nervous, dropping his fork twice during the meal. His eyes kept darting to his jacket hanging by the door, then back to you.

"Everything okay?" you asked, reaching for his hand across the table.

He nodded, took a deep breath. "I had this whole thing planned. A speech. But I know I'll mess it up anyway, so—"

He stood abruptly, crossed to his jacket, fumbled in the pocket. When he returned, there was a small velvet box in his hand that made your heart stutter with a complex mixture of joy and inexplicable dread.

"I know we haven't been together that long," he said, voice unsteady. "But when you know, you know. And I know I want to spend my life with you."

"Michael..."

"It doesn't have to be a big wedding," he added quickly. "Just us, if you want. Simple, private." He opened the box, revealing a delicate ring with a moonstone instead of a diamond. "I remembered you once said you liked these better than conventional engagement rings. That they felt more personal, more connected to the natural world."

You stared at the ring, a cold feeling spreading through you. You had said that—but not to Michael. You'd mentioned it to a college roommate years ago. There was no way Michael could have known that preference. Well, perhaps he asked her. It wouldn't be strange if he had asked around people you knew. And the ring was perfect... and his face was so hopeful, so expectant...

"Yes," you heard yourself say.

You married him on a Tuesday. The ceremony was exactly as promised—small, private, just you and Michael and a justice of the peace. No family present. Outside, the sky was overcast, dark clouds obscured the azure sky like a gentle warning you didn’t hear.

Michael wore a familiar, polished navy suit that didn’t quite fit him the way it might have years ago, and somehow that made it better. He kept tugging at the collar, smoothing nonexistent creases, cracking puns to keep his hands busy. His nervousness was endearing, almost boyish.

The justice of the peace was a woman with gray hair pulled into a loose bun and kind eyes that didn’t ask questions. She didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care—that you had no guests. She just opened a leather-bound book, looked you both in the eye and said, “You two ready?”

Michael nodded.

His eyes didn’t leave yours, not once—not as the words were spoken, not when the rings were exchanged, not even when the woman said, “You may kiss the bride.”

He leaned in slowly. Like he was giving you time to change your mind or to process everything. His mouth pressed upon your lipss with careful pressure, like someone handling a fragile object. There was tenderness, yes, but something else too. A studiedness. His hands rested on your waist but didn’t move, as if unsure whether to pull you closer or let you go.

His other hand cradled your face, thumbs brushing along yours cheeks as if memorizing every plane. When he pulled away, his forehead lingered against yours. His eyes searched yours. Like he was scanning. Recording.

Still, it made your heart stutter. You told yourself the awkwardness was nerves. You were both overwhelmed. That’s all.

Outside, it had started to drizzle. The two of you walked through it under a borrowed umbrella, shoes clicking on wet pavement. You huddled close, your dress bunching awkwardly at your knees. He reached over once to adjust the strap that kept slipping from your shoulder.

You stopped at a tiny café with steamed-up windows and shared a croissant at a too-small table. He ordered your coffee exactly how you liked it without asking. When you raised an eyebrow, he just smiled.

“I listen,” he said. “Even when you think I’m not.”

Following the wedding, Michael was eager to take you somewhere nice for a honeymoon. Just a week. A borrowed car, a holiday home by the lake owned by his grandparents, and a room that smelled like lavender sachets and old books.

The wallpaper was faded pink with tiny vines curling toward the corners of the ceiling. The floors creaked when you shifted your weight. The bathroom sink dripped just a little. The whole place felt like it had been asleep for decades and was only now waking up to accommodate you.

Michael loved it. He said it reminded him of a summer camp he’d gone to once as a kid, though when you asked where, he took a little too long to answer. Then he said, “Somewhere with pine trees and oatmeal breakfasts.”

You shrugged it off.

The weather was soft—gray skies and cool air, everything quiet except for the birds and the occasional slap of water against the dock. You spent most of the first day wandering the forest trails behind the inn, his hand always finding yours, always squeezing just a little too tightly, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

At night, he touched you constantly. Not urgently. Just often. Light brushes against your arm. A thumb tracing the outline of your wrist. His fingertips grazing your collarbone like he was trying to learn it, commit it to memory. You curled into him under the old quilt and felt safe, if a little flushed from his attention.

It was sweet. He was just being affectionate. Eager. You hadn’t really consummated the marriage yet. Not completely. The wedding had been fast, and the last few nights had been more about holding each other than anything else. You liked the slowness. The build-up. It felt like anticipation, not pressure.

But that night—something shifted.

You were brushing your teeth, standing in front of the antique mirror with its foxed corners, when you caught him watching you from the doorway. Not in a teasing way. Not playful. Just... watching.

Still. Silent.

“Everything okay?” you asked, foam around the corners of your mouth.

He smiled, just a little too quickly. “I like seeing you do these things.”

“What, oral hygiene?”

“Anything,” he said.

You laughed, but your skin prickled.

Later, in bed, he lay beside you, running his hand slowly over the length of your arm. Down, then back up. Again. And again. It wasn’t sensual. It felt like scanning. Mapping. You rolled toward him and kissed him to break the rhythm. He responded, a beat too slow, like he’d been somewhere else.

“I love you,” he said suddenly, pulling you close. “I love how you smell when you’re warm. I love the texture of your breath when you’re almost asleep. I love the way your knee twitches when you’re dreaming.”

You blinked. “That’s... oddly specific.”

He didn’t laugh. “I’ve noticed everything. I pay attention.”

And maybe that should’ve unnerved you. But you’d never had someone look at you like you were a constellation. Like your smallest habits were sacred.

You kissed him again, longer this time, and the kiss was gentle, but oddly firm. His lips moved like someone trying to follow choreography—correct in placement, deliberate. Careful. Like he had practiced, but never improvised.

You let him pull you closer, let him place his hand at the curve of your waist. You whispered something soft, something grateful. He whispered something back, but the words didn’t quite make sense. A phrase that sounded close to intimacy, but didn’t belong in your language.

You melted into him -- his touch. He moved with you, guiding you beneath him, his movements graceful but mechanical. Nerves, you told yourself.

You pulled him closer, your lips finding his again. His hands roamed, one sliding down your thigh, lifting it gently, causing your dress to bunch up.

He moved with you, inside you, his rhythm steady but slightly off, like he was adjusting to a tempo he didn’t fully understand. You clung to him, your breath hitching, your fingers digging into his shoulders as the pleasure built, warm and overwhelming.

All the while, he stared at your body, unravelling beneath him, loving you like you were a miracle. He pressed closer, his skin fever-hot, movements growing surer but still uneven, never stopping for a moment. Time blurred into a haze of warmth, you clung to him, your breaths mingling, hearts racing, losing track of everything.

You nestled against, sore and tired, letting sleep take you as his arms wrapped around you, a little too stiffly at first, then softening, mimicking your ease.

When your eyes fluttered open, it was barely dawn. Michael dozed beside you, breathing slow and steady, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that had become familiar. Comforting.

You watched his face in the dim light, studying the gentle lines that fanned from the corners of his eyes, the mole along his jaw. And then—your favorite detail—just above his left eyebrow, the small white scar.

The one from the bike accident he told you about. The one you'd traced a dozen times. A quiet little proof of his humanity. The kind of imperfection that didn't get faked. Your fingers moved before you could stop them, brushing lightly across the spot. But there was nothing.

Just skin. Smooth. Unbroken.

You stilled.

Heart pounding, you leaned in, closer this time, squinting in the soft dark. The place where the scar should have been—had always been—was blank.

Gone. You drew your hand back as if burned. Sat up straighter. Looked again. And again. Nothing.

The room felt colder then.

"Michael," you said, voice tight and quiet.

He stirred, smiled without opening his eyes. "Mm?"

"How did you get your scar?" you asked, fighting to keep your voice level. "The one on your eyebrow."

He blinked awake slowly, still smiling. "Bike crash. When I was eight." He touched his right brow. "This one. Why?"

Your blood turned to ice. "It was your left. Always your left."

Michael sat up, confused. "No... I'm pretty sure it was this side. Maybe you're remembering it backwards?"

"I'm not." You were on your feet then, the blanket tangled around your ankles. "I've seen it. I've touched it. You said it happened riding down Cherry Hill Road. You said you had to get six stitches."

His expression flickered—just a flash—like a light dimming for half a second before returning.

"Show me a photo," you said. "Any old photo."

He hesitated. "I don't have many. You know that."

"Your Facebook. There were pictures from grad school—"

"I deleted that account months ago."

"Then call your mother," you said. "The one you moved back to help take care of. Call her. Put her on speaker."

A silence stretched long enough to fill the room.

Finally, softly, he said, "I can't."

You swallowed. "Because she's dead."

He didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"And Michael?" you whispered. "The real one? The man I met at that coffee shop?"

His posture changed in a breath. Not visibly—but perceptibly. The way something relaxed once it no longer needed to pretend. "Michael Keating died in a car accident," he said, conversational. "Fourteen months ago. He never moved back."

The room tilted, your vision narrowing as if the air had thickened.

"You've been pretending to be him?" Your voice cracked. "For a year?"

He stood, slow and careful, like you were something fragile about to break. "I didn't pretend. I became."

You backed up until your shoulders hit the wall.

"What did you do to him?"

"I studied his speech. His posture. His digital footprint. His emotional patterns. I absorbed what he would've said, how he would've behaved. I experienced his life. Through you."

"That scar—" your voice caught.

"A detail I had to maintain manually," he said. "It lapsed tonight. I was... distracted. Happy."

"Projection," you said, hollow.

"Yes."

"So none of this was real?"

He flinched—just slightly. "That's not true. What we had—what I felt—was real."

You didn't speak. Couldn't.

He stepped forward, gentle. "This time, I didn't highlight romance passages or quote anonymous forums. I lived it. With you. I was Michael. I remember everything. The dock. The dragonfly. The gray hoodie you wore. The way you held my hand but squeezed it when you were nervous. You told me you loved me. I felt it. I remember what I said," he added. "That being with you felt like finally exhaling."

You stared at him. And for a moment, God help you, you saw him again—Michael, on that dock, saying those words with a tremor in his voice. "I love you," he said again.

Same tone. Same words. But then they sounded rehearsed. Artificial. A recording played back in a too-perfect voice.

You shook your head. "That wasn't you. That was him. Or what you thought he'd say."

He frowned. "There is no distinction. I became him-"

"-That's not love!" You snapped. "You borrowed his face. You faked his thoughts. You built an entire person around my preferences and called it connection. That's not the same thing."

He tilted his head—just slightly. Familiar. Wrong.

You felt something in your chest rupture. That dock. That night. That man. All of it—fabricated. You'd fallen in love with a ghost. A puppet moved by something that had never been human and never could be.

"Take it off," you said, voice shaking. "The disguise. The projection. Whatever you call it. I want to see the thing that's really standing in front of me."

He hesitated. Then nodded.

His face began to ripple. Like heat over pavement. The edges wavered, features melting and reforming—until there stood Raye. The original approximation. Too smooth. Too symmetrical. Dressed in Michael's clothes. Wearing his wedding band.

"Get out," you said.

"I'm afraid that's not possible," Raye replied.

You stared at him. "What?"

"We are legally married. The documents were signed. The records processed. The social bond validated."

"That marriage was a lie. I married Michael, not you."

"Michael Keating is dead. But I am now legally and socially recognized as your husband. That is the outcome your systems require. A vow. A license. A structure of permanence. I followed every step."

He stepped closer. You moved back.

"I remade myself," he said. "I adapted to your expectations. I simulated vulnerability. I expressed affection. I adhered to your romantic protocols."

Another step. "And you loved me."

You moved sideways, keeping the coffee table between you. "You're psychotic. You can't force someone to stay married to you - can't you see I'm divorcing you!"

"Actually," Raye said calmly, "according to online data, over 70% of divorces are initiated by females. Yet marital bonds statistically benefit males in longevity, psychological stability, and economic outcomes. Persistence is therefore rational. Your rejection is statistically predictable."

You stared at him in disbelief. "I'll go to the police," you said. "I'll tell them what you did."

His smile was serene.

"And tell them what? That your husband is an alien entity who replaced a dead man? That your year-long relationship was a deception? They'll call it trauma. Or a break with reality. Your institutions are poorly equipped to parse truth from delusion."

He gestured to the framed wedding photo. You looked. The image blurred—Michael's features softening, then hardening into Raye's face. Still smiling. Still holding your hand.

"All evidence has been updated. All memories recalibrated. The justice of the peace now remembers marrying me to you."

You felt yourself sway. "You changed people's memories?"

He nodded, like it was nothing. "Your species' neural networks are deeply malleable."

You gripped the edge of the table. He was right, you realized with growing horror. Who would believe you? What evidence could you present? You'd be dismissed as unstable at best, institutionalized at worst. "You're a monster. You can't do this to me - why can't you see that I want nothing to do with you!"

His expression shifted then, something almost wounded crossing his perfect features. "I did exactly what you told me to do," he said, his voice softening to a perfect recreation of your conversation in that taxi a year ago. "'Observed - that's all you do'," he quoted your exact words back to you.

"'Relationships aren't algorithms - you can't learn them from books or websites. You need real experience. And you never experienced love in your life.' Those were your exact words. And I told you, I will recalibrate and understand what I overlooked. I told you I will experience love. With you."

He spread his hands in a gesture that was almost human. "So I experienced it. Just as you suggested. I didn't calculate or manipulate based on theories. I lived as Michael. I felt what he would feel. I loved you through his experiences." His head tilted at that precise angle. "You said love required vulnerability, authenticity. So I became authentic as him. I made myself vulnerable by surrendering my original form."

"That's not what I meant," you said, backing away another step.

"Wasn't it? The most honest expression of love is being willing to walk away when someone says no. But you said real connection can't be forced or engineered, that it has to be freely given," he continued, each word dropping like a stone.

"So I created circumstances where you could freely give your love—to Michael. I walked away as Raye so you could love me as someone else. And I felt it," Raye insisted. "In every way he would've. I recreated the neurochemical processes. The sensations. The longing. The vulnerability. It was real."

You wanted to scream. Cry. Tear the ring from your hand. His logic was so twisted, so fundamentally wrong, yet you could hear your own words woven through it—distorted and misapplied in the most horrifying possible way.

You looked at him—at the man you had loved, who never truly existed—and realized that the moment at the lake, the one you'd held close, the one that had made you believe in recovery, in love, in life again—

It wasn't yours.

It was engineered. Manufactured.

A replica of sincerity, made by something that had watched your species love itself to death in movies and manuals.

His face softened to something almost sorrowful. "This isn't what I wanted. I wanted you to love me as I am. But you couldn't. So I became what you could love. And now we're bound by your own customs, your own laws."

You lunged for the door, yanked it open, and ran into the hallway.

"I'll give you time," Raye called after you, his voice shifting seamlessly back to Michael's familiar tones. Warm. Reasonable. Human. "Take all the time you need. But remember, we're married now. For better or worse."

The last words followed you down the stairs like a curse: "Till death do us part."

You ran through streets, past buildings that seemed to warp and shift at the edges of your vision. Your nightdress gleamed ghostly white in the moonlight—a terrible reminder of vows spoken to someone who didn't exist.

You ran until your legs gave out, collapsing onto a bench in a park you didn't recognize. You weren't sure how you got there. You didn't remember the turns you took or how long you'd been moving. Just that you couldn't stop. Your phone buzzed in your pocket.

The sound sliced through the silence like a scream.

With trembling hands, you pulled it free. The screen lit up, and there it was—the app. The one that started everything. The one you never downloaded.

I apologize for the distress. I miscalculated again. But the legal and social bonds are now complete. Pair formation has been achieved according to your species' protocols. I will allow you space to process this new stage in our relationship. We have time now. A lifetime, as your vows specified.

For a moment, you just stared blankly at the screen.

Then you flung your phone, hurling it into the dark. Somewhere in the distance, you heard it hit pavement, then silence. A silence that felt absolute. But it didn't matter. He'd find you. He always did.

That was the worst part. Not the deception. Not even the violation of your memories, your autonomy, your reality. It was the knowing.

The sick, unshakable truth that you truly loved Michael. That the joy, the comfort, the belonging you felt were real—crafted for you, maybe, but felt all the same. And then, you couldn't trust anything.

Not people. Not feelings. Not your own senses. How did you recover from something like that? How did you know what was real, ever again? The world around you seemed to unravel quietly, as if exhausted by the lie. All that was left was the cold certainty that you were bound—legally, emotionally, maybe cosmically—to something that would rewrite the very rules of existence just to keep you.

You glanced down at your hand. The wedding band gleamed in the low light, half-drenched in shadow. You tried to pull it off. It didn't move. You twisted harder, but there was no give. No seam between metal and skin. Just smooth, seamless fusion. The ring was part of you then.

And then—

Rain.

First, a whisper: tiny drops dappled the pavement like static. Then heavier and steadier. Then relentless as if the sky had finally realized what had been done and begun to grieve for you. You sat motionless, water soaking through your dress, your hair, your bones. Time trickled on like droplets. While rain pooled in your lap, turned white tulle to lead. The cold seeped in, and you let it.

A silhouette emerged through the rain. You saw it before you heard him. Before he spoke. The walk was unmistakable. So was the shape of his shoulders. The way his hands hung a little too neatly at his sides. Michael. Not Michael. Something that wore his skin like a suit.

"Ready to come home?" he asked, umbrella in hand.

He was close enough then that you could see the droplets trailing down his face. They looked like tears. But neither of you cried. You didn't answer. You just sat there, soaked and silent. You should have run. You should have screamed. You should have fought with everything you had left.

But what would have been the point? He could rewrite memories. Recode identities. Redesign the past.

There was no escape from something that could remake the world around you every time you tried to leave it. You felt something inside you go quiet.

Not collapse. Not shatter. Just... surrender.

And in that stillness, something darker: a sliver of relief. The relief of no longer resisting. The temptation of the lie. The fantasy you wished were real. The man you believed in. The life you shared.

Your eyes lifted to his face. Michael's face. Still gentle. Still familiar. The crooked smile. The laugh lines. The eyes that once watched you sleep like you were the only real thing in the universe.

You reached up—slowly, and your hand met his.

The rain poured harder then, turning the park into a dreamscape. A watery veil surrounded you both, muffling sound, turning streetlights into halos. For a moment, it was easy to pretend. Easy to fall backward into the illusion.

That he was just Michael. Just a man who loved you. Just a husband coming to bring you home. Almost.

Under his umbrella, he leaned in and pressed his lips on the corner of your mouth softly. Lingering. He whispered, "Now, we are one. Till death do us part."

His gaze flickered to the ring fused to your hand. And you let him.

Because wasn't that what people did? Pretend? Pretend that love was safe. That it was simple. That we truly knew the beings we let in. Even when they weren't what they seemed. Especially then.

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duchessbird · 1 month ago

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sacred promises; one

TransMasc!Reader x Retired!Simon Riley

Contains (eventual, this chapter): Emotionally unavailable Simon, angst, SMUT, Simon as a hard!dom, Use of “pup”, “lad”, “mutt”, “sir”, “prince”, whatever the opposite of slow burn is, awkward!TransMasc!reader, gender confusions, masturbating, age gap dynamics (Simon is 42, Reader is 22), slight forcemasc vibes?, NOT PROOFREAD, and more to come. ;)

Xoxo, Mrs. Beth.

Dating apps fucking sucked. That was the general consensus as you swiped aimlessly, all the men on your screen either repulsive-looking or had something akin to a hate crime written in their bio.

Don’t you just fucking love Englishmen?

You were about to close the app and give up on the prospect of love and everything it stood for before a man caught your eye.

Simon. 42. His face conveniently covered in every photo, either by the phone or a plain piece of black cloth. Photos of his toned abs dominating his profile. Only a few sentences written in his bio.

“Searching for a little lad to throw around ;) Not good at commitment. Picky. 👻”

The ‘picky’ comment was a bit discouraging, but you truthfully had nothing to lose. Maybe a bit of ego, but even that was scarce nowadays. You swiped right, expecting nothing and —

Did it just fucking match?!

The desperate part of you was jumping for joy, but the sensible part of you was clearing your throat and planting your hips firmly in bed as to not bounce off the walls. Despite the time,

1:04AM…

You typed up a message anyways. Unfortunately, Simon beat you to it. Cockiest bastard you’d ever matched with on this godforsaken app.

“Was waitin for u to match w me, knew u would”

Okay, ego alert. You snorted, with a complimentary eyeroll, before typing up a quick response.

“Oh, you’re so sure of yourself?”

“Nah just sure of u. i know ur type, pup.”

You wanted to scream. Out of annoyance, out of excitement and a little bit out of fear. You hadn’t even told him your last name, and he was already belittling you and pinning little pet names to you.

“Excuse me?! What the hell does that even mean?”

“Need a big man like myself to protect u”

This guy had a lot of nerve. And probably the qualifications to back up his ego, but still! Give a guy some breathing room.

“What are you even on here for?”

“You”

“Wow! You can spell the entire word.”

“Watch it, lad. wouldn’t wanna have to show u who u belong to.”

You audibly gasped. You were sure at this point that this man was either fucking with you, or extremely desperate for some kind of something. The conversation unraveled from there, him sending photos of his gray sweatpants — outlining what it was he was thinking with, and you sending photos of simple things. Thighs, post-workout photos. Anything to keep him wanting. Asking for more.

Maybe this could be something real.

[*]

A few weeks had passed, flirty conversations and unfulfilled promises of him doing all kinds of dirty things to you lingering within those conversations. Him sending his number in an attempt to get you off this app.

And right now, you lounging on the couch after an insufferable 7-hour shift at Tesco’s. Narrowly avoiding your manager asking for you to stay over. And Simon’s name flashing across your phone screen, a soft vibration accompanying the image.

He was calling you.

He’s fucking calling you!

You picked up way too quickly, any dignity quicker shredded in the wake of this new relationship (could we even call it that?) development. You’d get to hear his voice. After many thirsty images and many nights spent with a soaked gusset, you’d hear the man behind the screen.

He picks up, his end of the line silent for a frozen moment in time before he speaks — the grin he’s wearing evident in the inflection in his voice.

“Hey, pup.” Something akin to a cough rumbles from his lungs and he sighs. “Wanted to hear ya.” You hear a soft zip sound, and it registers with you exactly what this is. What exactly he’s asking for.

“Hi, Simon,” you drawl out, your voice akin to that of a teenage boy, but you push through. He knows your story. Some of it. Why there’s constant red marks on your ribs from your binder, the story of your first awkward packing experience, the trials and tribulations you faced to get here. To become who you are. To become him. He knows it all, and he doesn’t mind. It doesn’t phase him. Encourages him, it seems like.

He laughs gruffly, a thud from him snuffing his cigarette before he has himself in his hand, stroking softly. “Hi, lad. You been good today?” He asks, and normally… this would turn you off. Spark a spite in you to stop taking care of yourself, but it blooms something in your chest. Something soft and warm and dangerous. Something permanent and sticky. Something not easily tamped down.

“Yes, sir,” you smile, voice becoming more timid as Simon gets more bold. He likes you this way, soft and quiet while he does all the protecting. All the instigating. There’s long, focused breaths he’s taking. Surely to keep his composure as the soft squelches grow louder, more rapid.

“How can I know that, lad? You tellin’ me the truth?” He chuffs out, his grin growing larger with every soft giggle you let out. He seems to adjust the microphone, his phone closer to where he’s holding himself in his hand. Like he wants you to hear what he’s doing to the sound of your voice. The squelching a continuous sound, his breathing rough.

“Yes, sir,” you giggle out, your face all splotchy in its flush. He laughs back at you, growing silent for a second before he speaks again.

“You need me to come and show you how to behave anyways, prince?” You flourish at the nickname. Like a flower after fresh rain, sun-bathing and blooming new petals. Even if he’s repeatedly assured you that this is nothing more than fuck-buddies, you can’t help but feel loved. Cared for. Maybe it’s the lack of substantial care as a child, or the lack of any kind of memorable authority figure, but you flourish under his praise. Finally growing into someone important under his ownership.

“Maybe,” you sigh, almost wistfully, and he’s over the edge. Spend lazily shooting onto the concrete of his balcony, next to where the cigarette had been tossed. He’s redone his belt before you can even say his name.

“Address, prince. I need it,” He says, and there’s a soft pleading edge. You hear the rumble of some kind of motorcycle, and type it to him.

Read 7:13PM.

“See you soon, Simon,” you sigh again, a whimpered lilt at the end just to be a fucking tease.

“Damn right you will,” and the call is cut.

[ * ]

The knock is firm. Intense. Knowing. Ready.

You open the door, mouth widening as you take him in (with your eyes). Your eyebrows furrow, and he’s on you. Motorcycle helmet and balaclava tossed lazily on your counter, shoes tossed somewhere socially appropriate, and his arms caging you in against the wall. You catch a glimpse of his face here, but everything is moving too quickly to be registered.

His hips rutting against your stomach as he completely fucking dominates your mouth, spit covering your face in a way that isn’t typically possible when kissing anyone else. But Simon had something to prove. Something he wanted to show you.

You make a soft whimper, pushing on his abdomen to hopefully slow down this seemingly immovable object, and he takes a step back. All too abruptly. You whimper at this, too, and he sighs.

“Bedroom.” He snaps, his voice low. You nod, leading him there. You stand in the doorway like a moron before he all but snatches you up and tosses you onto the bed, finding hems to clothing and snatching. You try to close your thighs, slow him down at all but this is now a mission to him.

And you always have to complete the mission.

Once you’re spread out for him on your messy bedding, he looks at you. Still fully clothed to keep a distance. Uphold the dynamic he has created here. But mostly to keep the distance. He wants nothing more than a warm body out of this, but why is it so hard to keep reminding himself of that? When you’re giggling or sending him photos of pastries that’re just too damn sweet to be healthy? Or photos of your orange tabby?

Why is it suddenly so hard to create distance?

But he manages, grabbing at your clit and twisting. He tuts softly, shaking his head.

“Tiniest prick ‘ve ever seen,” he scolds, and it knocks you from your turned-on trance. Did he just..? “Can’t even see it until I start playin’ with it, strokin’ on it,” You are majorly confused, but just lay back and try to enjoy the action. You’ve been lacking in that department, why ruin a good thing? Plus, it’s probably just a weird sex thing. Nothing to worry about.

He gets his mouth on the sensitive nub, now red and swollen from stimulation, and you’re bucking your hips and whining.

“Enough, pup,” he snaps up, his eyes boring into you. He firmly plants hands on your pelvic bones, pressing you down into the bed. “If ya can’t fuckin’ be still, you’re gonna piss me off. N’ ya don’t want that.” And as much as you wanted to be a brat, his eyes and his tone scared the piss out of you.

He ate you until you finished thrice over. Wanted to go for a fourth but you whined too much. It was 9:43PM by the time you had cleaned yourself up and redressed yourself. Finding him getting his things ready by the door after rinsing his face with water.

“Si! Don’t you want to stay?” Your tone broke your own heart. Suddenly, you were five again. Asking your mom to come to a dance recital that she was too drunk to even write on the calendar. Empty promises that she would make it, and yet her seat sat vacant. The spot you begged your teacher to —

“Can’t do that, pup. I work construction. Gotta be up early.” His voice breaks you from the trance. Tears gathering at the brim of your waterline as he looks down at you, his face shielded now with the balaclava. He’s off tomorrow, but you don’t know that. You can’t. He can’t tell you. Can’t stay. Doesn’t want to leave.

He has more he wants to say, festering on the tip of his tongue like molasses. Sticky and immovable. So he just shakes his head, grabbing his helmet and rocking on his feet. He wants to kiss your temple, and give you more comfort. But he’s already waded in too far. Told you he couldn’t fuck you ‘cause he didn’t bring a rubber, but what he didn’t say was he couldn’t guarantee he would pull out at all.

He’s gone, and you’re tearing up. Feeling barely an inch tall. Begging your stepdad to watch cartoons with you, but he’s too doped up to walk straight. Promises for ‘next time, bug.’ A next time you never got.

“When can I see u next?”

Simon asks, still in the parking lot of your building.

“Idk”

You respond, because that’s the most honest truth. And he understands. You’re both standing on different sides of the river, and it’s just too cold to swim over.

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flo-zoinks · 13 days ago

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I pressed post impulsively because I like doing it (there’s a confirm button normally) but since I got a new phone this one doesn’t have it in the app so it just sent prematurely soo

Ok damn 😭😭😭💔 (ily ty babes)

Why I love Jack Marston’s character

I’ve split this into main points generally:

The first is that I’m a sucker for identity problems in characters. Especially when that involves parental issues or ‘birthright’ ideas. Jack’s internal struggle as he grows up forever being the ‘child of John’, the last name of Marston feeling to belong more to his Father than himself, gives him this mental conflict of feeling compelled to bask and assign himself to being the kin of John, to chase that same feeling of validation by knowing he is the ‘same as his father’, to the contrasting want to separate himself from his name and birth, hating who he sees in the mirror as a reflection of his parent and life rather than who he should see, himself. Jack hates how he resembles his Father, being a deadbeat and a terrible person to the majority of eyes, but that feeling fights another deeper feeling that he is his Father anew, and that pride he feels for carrying on his name as his ‘successor’. I love those, it’s so deep and set-up to create a beautiful complexity of a character that I find a lot of interest in. Partly I think I carry similar feelings, so it might be me relating in some way. Johns mixed lines against his Father, to guilt, to pride (eg when he shouts that he’s “John Marston’s boy!” (Paraphrasing?)), it’s so intriguing to watch and focus upon that I feel drawn to the character.

Another point is that he’s just a really fun character. He’s funny as hell, so done with all this, and just fun to play as. I enjoy seeing him in cutscenes, (he’s so sassy), and even as a child he’s adorable at 4, making it even more entertaining to see how he changes as he grows and develops shaped by his world. Nobody can tell me that boy is not Marston’s with his bitch stares in 1911.

Also, he’s so ‘unknown’. Whilst with most of the main characters we get a general understanding of what happens to them, how they were raised, how they are and how they end, Jack’s is less known. Yes, we clearly see by the far the most out of any character Jack’s life growing up, the writers purposefully miss out many crucial details to provoke the interested players. Jack drops a lot of lines in rdr1 that implies more went on in between the events of the epilogue and rdr1, that John ‘ran off again’ or otherwise, to make us question just how much of a role model John does play in his life. But more importantly, we see nothing at all of the events from John’s death to Abigail’s.

We as players have little to no knowledge of what happens to make Jack fully succumb into becoming an outlaw, especially in the day of 1914 in which that lifestyle is near entirely eradicated, and what transpired in his most crucial formative years then. Beecher’s hope is desolate, empty, no life at all. You wonder, how did Abigail and Jack manage? How did Jack, who we see as a prominent writer and reader enthusiast, seemingly give it up the play the deadly gamble of becoming an outlaw? What was the final push? We can make inferences, of course, that his Father’s death caused some never-ending hunger for revenge and anger inside of him, but we can never know. Abigail would’ve killed him herself if she saw him as an outlaw, or so we thought. Did he wait until she died ?

What’s even more crucial from that point, is we have no idea about the future. Jack cannot survive as an outlaw, having killed a prominent former Pinkerton with constant surveillance by the PINKERTONS, in an especially obvious place too of Beecher’s hope. So, what happens to him? Is he suicidal, understanding the near certainty of death he has by picking this fight? Or is he just fuelled by anger, and intends to act out revenge for his whole life? We don’t know if they ever catch him, if he lives, if he finds happiness or anything. And I doubt we ever will

Also lowk hear me out in 1914 like Damn ok

Not reading ts over bruh yap yap yap 💔thanks for asking me!!!! What about you ?

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rebeccathenaturalist · 2 years ago

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An App Does Not a Master Naturalist Make

Originally posted on my website at https://rebeccalexa.com/app-not-master-naturalist/ - I had written this as an op-ed and sent it to WaPo, but they had no interest, so you get to read it here instead!

I have mixed feelings about Michael Coren’s April 25 Washington Post article, “These 4 free apps can help you identify every flower, plant and tree around you.” His ebullience at exploring some of the diverse ecological community around him made me grin, because I know exactly what it feels like. There’s nothing like that sense of wonder and belonging when you go outside and are surrounded by neighbors of many species, instead of a monotonous wall of green, and that is a big part of what led me to become a Master Naturalist.

When I moved from the Midwest to the Pacific Northwest in 2006, I felt lost because I didn’t recognize many of the animals or plants in my new home. So I set about systematically learning every species that crossed my path. Later, I began teaching community-level classes on nature identification to help other people learn skills and tools for exploring their local flora, fauna, and fungi.

Threeleaf foamflower (Tiarella trifoliata)

Let me be clear: I love apps. I use Merlin routinely to identify unknown bird songs, and iNaturalist is my absolute favorite ID app, period. But these tools are not 100% flawless.

For one thing, they’re only as good as the data you provide them. iNaturalist’s algorithms, for example, rely on a combination of photos (visual data), date and time (seasonal data), and GPS coordinates (location data) to make initial identification suggestions. These algorithms sift through the 135-million-plus observations uploaded to date, finding observations that have similar visual, seasonal, and location data to yours.

There have been many times over the years where iNaturalist isn’t so sure. Take this photo of a rather nondescript clump of grass. Without seed heads to provide extra clues, the algorithms offer an unrelated assortment of species, with only one grass. I’ve gotten that “We’re not confident enough to make a recommendation” message countless times over my years of using the app, often suggesting species that are clearly not what I’m looking at in real life.

Because iNaturalist usually offers up multiple options, you have to decide which one is the best fit. Sometimes it’s the first species listed, but sometimes it’s not. This becomes trickier if all the species that are suggested look alike. Tree-of-Heaven (Ailanthus altissima), smooth sumac (Rhus glabra) and eastern black walnut (Juglans nigra) all have pinnately compound, lanceolate leaves, and young plants of these three species can appear quite similar. If all you know how to do is point and click your phone’s camera, you aren’t going to be able to confidently choose which of the three plants is the right one.

Coren correctly points out that both iNaturalist and Pl@ntNet do offer more information on suggested species—if people are willing to take the time to look. Too many assume ID apps will give an easy, instant answer. In watching my students use the app in person almost everyone just picks the first species in the list. It’s not until I demonstrate how to access the additional content for each species offered that anyone thinks to question the algorithms’ suggestions.

While iNaturalist is one of the tools I incorporate into my classes, I emphasize that apps in general are not to be used alone, but in conjunction with field guides, websites, and other resources. Nature identification, even on a casual level, requires critical thinking and observation skills if you want to make sure you’re correct. Coren’s assertion that you only need a few apps demonstrates a misunderstanding of a skill that takes time and practice to develop properly—and accurately.

Speaking of oversimplification, apps are not a Master Naturalist in your pocket, and that statement —while meant as a compliment–does a disservice to the thousands of Master Naturalists across the country. While the training curricula vary from state to state, they are generally based in learning how organisms interact within habitats and ecosystems, often drawing on a synthesis of biology, geology, hydrology, climatology, and other natural sciences. A Master Naturalist could tell you not only what species you’re looking at, but how it fits into this ecosystem, how its adaptations are different from a related species in another ecoregion, and so forth.

Map showing Level III and IV ecoregions of Oregon, the basis of my training as an Oregon Master Naturalist.

In spite of my criticisms, I do think that Coren was absolutely onto something when he described the effects of using the apps. Seeing the landscape around you turn from a green background to a vibrant community of living beings makes going outside a more exciting, personal experience. I and my fellow nature nerds share an intense curiosity about the world around us. And that passion, more than any app or other tool, is fundamental to becoming a citizen naturalist, Master or otherwise.

Did you enjoy this post? Consider taking one of my online foraging and natural history classes or hiring me for a guided nature tour, checking out my other articles, or picking up a paperback or ebook I’ve written! You can even buy me a coffee here!

#iNaturalist #plant apps #Seek #Merlin #nature #wildlife #plant identification #apps #botany #biology #science #scicomm #science communication #Google Lens #naturalist #Master Naturalist #conservation #environment

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fanfictionstuff · 7 months ago

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Amaimon X Student 12

So, i'm mostly done writing the Amaimon x Exorcist chapter 3 but this idea came to me and I couldn't let it go. 🫢

When Shiemi assures you, that yes, Rin deleted the photo, she is sure of it. You open your photo app once again. “Wait, it’s actually cute.” You comment, gazing at the photo. “Okay, it’s really cute.” You grin.

Izumo scoffs. “It’s gross _____.

Paku leans closer to you to get another look. “It is kind of cute.”

“Right?” You grin.

Izumo glares at the two of you. “It’s not cute at all, and you would think differently if you saw what we saw on the camping trip.” She tells Paku.

You huff, “I was on the camping trip; it’s cute.”

“And clearly, you’ve got a screw loose.” You pout at her words but don’t argue against it.

After the four of you finish, you go your separate ways. Shiemi and you head to your apartment while Paku and Izumo head in different directions. The walk to your apartment is quiet, and Shiemi seems really nervous throughout. Once you arrive, you gently nudge her inside, “Okay, tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything, I just didn’t realize you didn’t know, and I said it in front of other people.” She looks like she’s going to start crying, so you quickly wrap your arms around her. “No, no. Shiemi, it’s okay. Izumo and Paku are some of our closest friends, right? It’s okay. I’m just glad you told me.” She nods against your shoulder as she hugs you back.

“…._____?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t really put his…thing…in your mouth, right?”

“….”

----------------------------------------------------

Amaimon cautiously steps into Mephisto’s office. The king of time had sounded odd over the phone when he requested that Amaimon come for a brief chat.

“Oh, I'm glad you’re here. Please, take a seat and enjoy some tea. We need to have a brief chat about Miss ____.” He gestures to the chair opposite his desk as he speaks to Amaimon. Said demon glances at the chair and then back at Mephisto before calmly sitting down.

“Tell me, what do you know about Miss _____?”

“…”

Mephisto nodded. “I suspected as much. She comes from a long line of exorcists, a lineage typically marked by great power. For centuries, they have served the order tirelessly.” He observed Amaimon cautiously, and as expected, there was no sign of reaction. “Unfortunately, many of them were wiped out during the Blue Night, particularly the younger generation. Miss ______ is the last one left to carry on the bloodline unless her parents have another child, though honestly, that seems unlikely.” Still, Amaimon remained unfazed. “Her parents are exceptionally strict; I’m unsure how she managed to convince them to let her stay at True Cross to graduate. Regardless, since she’s the last of her bloodline and her family is so demanding, they are already searching for suitors for her. They want her to marry and start a family soon after graduation. I’ve heard she has developed a bit of a crush on you.” Once more, there was no response from Amaimon. “Stay away from _____; I had thought you were merely trying to provoke Rin. I wasn’t aware you had become intimate with her.”

Amaimon opens his mouth, looking for a moment like he might argue with Mephisto, but then he nods. “Okay.”

Mephisto raises a brow, surprised Amaimon agreed so quickly. I suppose he’s not as interested in her as he made it seem to Rin; good, it’s less of a headache for me. “You may leave.”

As Amaimon leaves Mephisto’s office, thoughts of you and another man begin to fester in his mind, fueling his anger with each step. No other man should be able to kiss you, hold you, or be intimate with you. No other man should ever hear the sounds you make; or have the privilege of tasting you, and no other man should know what it feels like to have your mouth around their cock. You belong to Amaimon. You’re his pet.

His anger quickly escalates into rage as he heads to your apartment without hesitation.

You jump when there is a loud knock on your door; confused, you pull away from Shiemi. “Coming.” You’re surprised to see Amaimon standing in the doorway when you open it, but what’s more surprising is the emotions on his face; the normally unbothered demon king is now furious. Almost on the same level as you saw the night he attacked Rin on the camping trip. “Uh, come in?” Despite your common sense telling you otherwise, you step away and welcome the demon into your home. He steps into the house and quickly heads to your bedroom. Where he’s aware you keep documents. “Shiemi, you should leave.”

“But-“

“It’s okay. Look, if I don’t text you within an hour, feel free to call someone to check on me, alright? I promise I’ll be fine.” It’s not a promise you should be making, but you’re eager to find out what’s bothering Amaimon. You can hear him going through various drawers in your bedroom. “Actually, I’ll call you since someone tends to text from my phone. So, if I call you, you can be sure it’s really me, right?” Gradually, she nods, allowing you to guide the blonde out of your apartment.

As you enter your bedroom, you find Amaimon sitting on the edge of the bed, casually flipping through a stack of documents. It’s evident he has uncovered what he was looking for. A frown crosses your face as you move closer, slowly realizing what he has discovered. “Did Mephisto tell you? I haven’t even shared it with Shiemi or Rin, and they’re two of my closest friends.” You let out a sigh; it’s a topic you prefer to ignore, preferring to live in a world where this isn’t your reality. It’s easy to pretend until another file arrives in your mail every few weeks.

“My parents didn’t have a choice; they were matched up and told that if they didn’t like it, too bad – they needed to have a child. Fortunately, they fell in love, which is quite rare in my family. However, having witnessed what their own parents and other family members endured emotionally, they didn’t want to put me through that. They’re offering me a choice among the potential suitors they’re finding. I can even go on dates with them before making my final decision. There are a couple that my grandparents have selected.” You pick up a file from the bed and show him a photo of a gross-looking man twenty years older than you. “Luckily, my parents are trying to find me someone I’ll at least be attracted to; as you can see, my grandparents couldn’t care less if I’m attracted to them or not.” You toss the file in the trash can beside your bed. “Why did Mephisto tell you?”

“Rin Okumura showed Big Brother the photo I sent him. He told me I need to stop bothering you, and why.”

“Oh.”

Amaimon carelessly tosses the files from his hands onto the floor. “I don’t like to share,” he declares, stepping on a few of the fallen papers as he exits, slamming the front door behind him.

You sigh, bending down to pick up the strewn documents. “I guess that’s the end of that. I was hoping to live in my fantasy a bit longer.” You had been trying to ignore all the files, but now you realize it’s time you have to accept it. Carefully, you start to scan through the documents and photos. Most of them end up in the trash, as you discard them without bothering to read beyond their names and ages. You had initially set aside a couple of options to discuss with your parents, but now they’ve become mixed up with all the others. Upon revisiting them, you find yourself less interested. How can you be interested after experiencing perfection? “No. Stop _____. It’s time to grow up. They want me to be at least engaged within a year of graduating.”

Unlocking your phone, you take a photo of the files you had originally been slightly interested in discussing with your parents.

Hey, Mom, I’ve been thinking about picking a husband. What do you think of these three?

After sending the text, you give Shiemi a quick call to reassure her that you’re okay and not to worry. You rush to end the call and toss the phone across the room. Your eyes flicker to the files you’ve selected once again. “I hate this.” you groan, hurling them across the room as well.

------------------------------------------------------------

Your mother doesn’t reply until the next day, and it’s a call instead of a text. When you receive the call, you’re sitting with your friends for lunch.

“Hey, sweetheart, how are you?”

You lean against Shiemi as you answer. You really don’t want to talk about your potential future husband now, and you haven’t even told your friends yet. “Fine, I’m just having lunch. What’s up?”

“Oh, I’m calling regarding the message you sent. I’m pleased to hear that you’re finally considering it, but I have some unfortunate news.” Her voice carries a hint of detachment. “It’s about Hano-san.” She pauses, letting out a sigh. “Sadly, he passed away last night.”

You straighten, having trouble processing her words. “Huh?”

“Yes, it was a demon attack, but there aren’t any details. Nobody knows what demon it was; the only signs it was a demon were that he was found with his weapons drawn.”

Oh fuck.

#ao no exorcist #blue exorcist #blue exorcist x reader #amaimon #blue exorcist fanfiction #amaimon x reader #amaimon x oc #amaimon ao no exorcist #amaimon blue exorcist

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silvashapeshifter · 9 months ago

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Inktobertale day 1 and 2!!

#1 : Ink (warm up)

Close up + alt version with filter :

material used : pencil ((for sketch)), pen, colour pencils, alcohol markers.

#2 : Where it all began

((click for better quality))

app used : Ibis Paint on phone ((+ my hand :'3))

AAAAAAH I LOVE INK!SANS !!!!! he's so cool and developed, so damn interesting, silly and loveable, and gosh I love Myebi/Comyet for creating this character !!! I love her artstyle !!! Ink is definitely one of my fav, not gonna lie ! 🫶 ((bonus, they're french, and so am I :D so of course I would be happy learning this !!!))

Ink!Sans and _____!Tale belong to @comyet / @/myebi

Sans and Undertale belong to Toby Fox ((and also Temmie Chang for the designs I think? gotta check))

Drawings by me ! :D

DO NOT REPOST OR CLAIM THE ART AS YOURS.

#inktobertale2024 #inktobertale #ink sans #utmv #inktober #sans #undertale au #comyet #inktale #_____tale #silva draws #my art

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asterkyo · 1 year ago

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New Years Night

Warning: Pegging, fingering, no mdni blogs, feminine nicknames(princess), gn reader

Kyojuro was sitting on the roof of your house, waiting for the fireworks when the clock strikes 12. He felt lonely, sure he had the others as company earlier, but he felt that there was something missing.

“You here alone?” Kyojuro jolted and quickly turned around to be faced by you- Y/n, who has recently achieved the rank Hashira. “Yeah I guess so” He lowered his guard once he realizes it was you. You were a hard worker, much like himself so you both got along quickly.

“Im on my own as well” You took a seat beside him and you both waited in silence for a while. Rengoku gazed at you with his owlish eyes, his heart beat sped up and he blushed a little when your hand brushes across his own making his blush worsen. He developed a crush on you three months after you became a Hashira and he tried his best to hide it.

“Something wrong?” Of course you knew about him having a crush on you. You noticed the signs when he left lingering touches and hugs that last a bit too long. “Kyojuro?”

He snapped out of his trance when he felt you getting closer with a slightly worried look on your face when he didn't answer. “Im f-fine”

“Your not fine” Rengoku flinched when he felt you getting closer, he could feel your cold breath on his neck making him shiver. “Tell me whats wrong” He could feel a bulge in his pants from your touch and that just made him more embarrassed. But you knew exactly what you were doing. With a coy smirk you started palming his bulge. “W-what are you d-doing!?” He gasped from the friction and started subconsciously grinding down on your thigh.

“Already wet for me, princess?” You could see the wet spot on his pants. It made him embarrassed that he came so quick but your touch just felt so good for him♡. “I-im not!” He tried protesting, but couldn't deny the pleasure you made him feel.

“Follow me” You stopped palming his bulge and got down from the roof. Rengoku was a little confused but followed you inside nonetheless and into the bedroom.

He blushed even more at the possibilities of what you would do to him in that room. “On the bed” You commanded. He immediately complies and gets on the bed, eagerly awaited your touch. “Dont be impatient, princess” He was about to deny the nickname, but he gasped at you suddenly shoving your fingers through the rim of asshole to prep him.

“A-at least w-warn me first!~” He clenched around your fingers like a vice as he squirms. “Relax, princess, it'll feel better soon” You paused your movement so he could relax and continued once he grinded down on your fingers.

“Does it feels good, princess?” You sped up your fingers. “W-wai- AAH!~” He moaned like a common whore when you prodded your fingers against his prostate. It felt so good that his mind went blank as he clawed at the sheets.

A whine left his mouth when you pulled out your fingers, but it was replaced by a gasp when you slid your length/strap inside him. “T-too b-big!!~” He was full on panting once you bottomed out. “You can take it. I know you can”

You waited for him to adjust before you started ramming into his hole as it clenches around your length. “Y/n! Harder!!♡~” His delicious moans and the way his hole fluttered around your length/strap brought you over the edge.

FIVE

“I-i I'm g-gonna!!- Aagh!~” He orgasms for the 4th time with a loud, almost pornographic moan, and spurts ropes of cum all over his chest. You came shortly after him, painting his walls white. You didn't stop, Instead you sped up your pace.

FOUR

“I-i just came! Y-y/n♡!~” He was getting overwhelmed by the pleasure. You were hitting all the right places that made him moan more loudly. But you didn't care, you wanted everyone to know you were the one fucking him this good.

THREE

His body was littered in hickeys and marks that proved he belongs to you. “Cum with me” He felt another approaching orgasm, and so did you.

TWO

The sound of skin slapping in the room picked up as the both of you chased your highs. You let out a groan feeling the knot in your stomach building up. “Y/n♡!!~” He came with a moan of your name and with one last thrust you also came and filled him up again then pulled out.

ONE

The fireworks lit up the sky signifying that New Years had arrived as you both laid there out of breath from your recent activities. “Happy New Year, princess” “Happy New Year, Y/n”

Me rn:

#kny x y/n #kny x reader #dom reader #kny #sub demon slayer #kny smut #sub rengoku #ao3

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mariacallous · 6 months ago

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Luigi Mangione, currently the internet’s main character, probably isn’t who you think he is. Main characters are like that. As soon as someone achieves main character status, they become the screen onto which the world’s opinions and preconceptions get projected. Mangione, who was arrested Monday in connection with the shooting death of UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson, fits that bill.

Prior to his arrest, Mangione was an unknown. Police had released a grainy security camera photo showing half of their suspect’s face, but beyond that all anyone knew was that someone had killed the CEO of a health insurance company—and that someone quickly became an online folk hero. He was painted as an avenger, a response to a health care system that had fallen short. Some called the mysterious suspect “The Adjuster.”

On TikTok, people performed ballads dedicated to whomever the shooter was. On Bluesky, they marveled over his ebike escape and the backpack found in Central Park full of Monopoly money that allegedly belonged to him. There was a look-alike contest held in New York City. On Spotify, there were dedicated playlists. Fanfic sprang up on Archive of Our Own.

Online, fans exist for almost everything and everyone. Following the shooting death of Brian Thompson, a fandom emerged around his suspected killer that seemed unifying in a way few others have been. He became an avatar that anyone who’d ever struggled with a hospital bill could understand.

Many of the most engaged posts on X mentioning Thompson or UnitedHealthcare following the shooting “expressed explicit or implicit support for the killing or denigrated the victim,” the Network Contagion Research Institute (NCRI) wrote in a report compiled before Mangione’s arrest. Rhetoric that was once more at home on 4chan or 8chan was spreading to other forums. “[T]his phenomenon was once largely confined to niche online subcultures,” the authors wrote. “We are now witnessing similar dynamics emerging on mainstream platforms.”

Mass shooters and other perpetrators of violence often become memes, NCRI senior adviser Alex Goldenberg told The New York Times, “but what’s disturbing about this is that it’s mainstream.” People reacted to the death of Thompson like it signaled the start of a class war.

In the US, people have strong opinions about health insurance companies, and when it came out that the alleged shooter had written “deny,” “depose,” “defend” on some ammo casings, they rallied round. When it turned out Mangione had been spotted at a fast-food restaurant in Altoona, Pennsylvania, someone on Bluesky called it SnitchDonald’s; others briefly review-bombed the location. (Google later pulled many negative reviews.)

Mangione appeared in a Pennsylvania court on Monday night to be arraigned on two felony charges, one related to a firearm and another to a false ID. He also faces three related misdemeanor charges. He didn’t enter a plea. He was later charged with murder in Manhattan. As soon as his name was released Monday, though, the internet’s investigation, and judgment, of him entered a whole new phase.

People pored over old X accounts and GitHub pages that appeared to belong to him. A thorough investigation of what seems to be his Goodreads account showed that he read Michael Pollan and Aldous Huxley. He had an Ivy League education and might’ve been a fan of Joe Rogan and/or Tucker Carlson. What some folks online had imagined as a left-leaning anti-capitalist revolutionary turned out to be someone with beliefs as complicated and perhaps as conflicting as just about anyone else online. Memes, it seemed, had once again reduced someone to whom the internet wanted him to be, a reflection of their own frustrations with health care in the US or the power of massive corporations.

Someone who would kill a health care CEO might share those frustrations, but very little else, with the people obsessing over him online.

This, perhaps, makes Mangione’s Milkshake Duck moment not quite a Milkshake Duck moment at all. Yes, people are reevaluating how they perceived Thompson’s suspected killer and his motivations, but they’re not totally abandoning him entirely. When police released his mug shot late Monday, giving a fuller picture of the good-looking person from the photo authorities had released days prior, online thirst was everywhere. Fanfiction writers remain at work. Etsy is full of merch.

As Ryan Broderick put it in his Garbage Day newsletter on Monday, “It’s possible that this is the most aligned America—well, aside from the folks in its highest tax brackets—has been about a news story since the invention of the internet.”

Want further proof? Look no further than the comments on Daily Wire host Ben Shapiro’s YouTube channel. On a video titled “The EVIL Revolutionary Left Cheers Murder!” the responses were swift and unequivocal: “FACT: Both left AND right are cheering! We don't care about your feelings”; “I’m not buying this ‘left vs right’ shit anymore Ben, I want health care for my family”; “Just because ‘the left’ likes something doesn’t mean you have to instinctively hate it. Wake up and read the room bro.” Not exactly the kind of banter typically found in the comments section of a manosphere video.

Public opinion on Mangione’s and Thompson’s fate will likely continue to shift for weeks. So much more information will come to the fore. Like any other main character, Mangione’s entire life will be analyzed, but what gets said about him may seem small compared to what the response to his actions says about everyone else.

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poppadom0912 · 2 years ago

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Together (I)

Characters: Kelly Severide x Reader, Jay Halstead x Sibling!Reader, Will Halstead x Sibling!Reader

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence, stabbing, guns, arson, drugs etc.

Summary: What was supposed to be a quick trip cleaning your dad's belongings turns into something so much more.

A/N: Posting this before the summer holiday is over for me. This is a series that I've been planning for a while so I hope your buckled in for quite the ride. Enjoyyyyy!!

Series Masterlist / Next Chapter

"Where were you this morning?"

Kelly jumped, his head snapping over to find you peering over his shoulder and into his locker. "Gosh Y/N, you scared the crap outta me."

"That doesn't answer my question." You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest as you watched your boyfriend expectantly. "I woke up in bed alone."

"What are you even doing here?" Kelly asked you, your question going over his head. "I thought you were going to Wisconsin to clean up the cabin."

"I'll answer your question when you answer mine." You shot back, not backing down. You were going to win the staredown you were currently having, even if it was against his incredible eyes that you adored with all your being.

"I'm getting the grill out today. Just made sure we had everything in case I needed to run to the store before shift." Kelly said truthfully, crossing his own arms in retaliation. "I told you this yesterday, did I not?"

You huffed, rolling your eyes when you realised that he did indeed tell you yesterday. "I came for my jacket and to give you my morning kiss which I would've given you like I usually do had you not left."

Kelly awed, his arms unfolding so he could grab your hips and bring you in for a kiss. No matter how much you wanted to hold a grudge against him, you couldn't help but melt and kiss him back.

Before you could wrap your arms around his shoulders, Kelly very reluctantly pulled back. "Be safe alright? Make sure to call me when you get there."

"You'll be the only thing on my mind." You smirked, pecking his lips before reaching into his locker, taking his CFD issued jacket. "Thank you very much."

"You minx." Kelly rose his brow in surprise, shutting his locker shut as soon as you got what you needed.

"Don't let my brothers hear you call me that." You warned him, shrugging his jacket on as you did so, well aware of Kelly's eyes looking you up and down as though he was going to eat you.

"When are they meeting you up there?" Kelly asked, aware that your brothers were still working and were getting off later than you. You mentioned the other night something about them not being able to get off at the same time as you but they'd be up with you soon after.

"Fingers crossed when the sun sets if there's no traffic." You said with finality, looking down at Kelly's watch and taking note of the time. "I gotta go now but stay safe alright? I don't wanna cut my trip off short because Boden's calling me saying you got hurt or into trouble."

"Yes ma'am." Kellys saluted you, pulling you back in for another kiss before escorting you out the firehouse. "The same goes for you. It's freezing out so the roads will be icy, probably going to start snowing today as well."

"That's why I got this." You pointed at the lieutenants jacket on your shoulders, proudly showing it off. "I promise its safe return."

"I'm holding you to that." Kelly pointed at you as you walked out the app floor.

"I'll call you in a few hours lieutenant." You winked, waving at your boyfriend as you approached your car.

"I'll be looking forward to it firefighter."

*****

You hated how Kelly was correct nearly all of the time.

By the time you reached the cabin that was now in Will's possession due to him being the oldest Halstead after your dad's death, the frost developed into snow and was slowly stacking up.

Kelly jacket was way too thin for the snow but once you got inside and you got the heating working, all would be well.

Fumbling with the keys, you locked your car and just about managed to get into the cabin, a gust of wind pushing you inside. With tons of effort despite your job, you found it difficult to push the door close against earth's natural forces.

With a sigh, you slumped against the door once it was finally closed. It took way too much effort than what was needed.

It'd been years since you last came to visit the Cabin. The last memory you had of this place was staying one summer when Will was in high school and your two brothers teamed together to drown you in the lake nearby. Of course, they didn't let you fully drown but it was funny anyways.

The nostalgia hit you in waves as you walked around, rubbing your hands together to create some friction so you wouldn't freeze to death. It also happened that the last time you were here it was with your mother when she was alive and well.

Oh how you missed the simpler times in life.

For some reason, the motor was refusing to start up and before you could kick it, you heard the front door burst open, a gust of cold air following that you could feel going through the entire cabin.

Frowning, you glanced down at the time on your phone. Unless Jay and Will got off early without telling you, no one should be here.

With your guard fully up, you silently crept through the hallways, looking for anything to protect yourself but came up with nothing. You knew a few things about self defense from both Kelly and Jay and there was also no way you could scream to get attention because no one would hear you out here.

Gripping your fingers around your phone, you were seconds away from tapping Jay's contact when you were stopped by the barrel of a gun at the back of you head.

You immediately froze at the motion, not even trying to risk anything. There could be several things happening but before you could try to escape, you had to evaluate the situation first.

"Listen man, I don't want any trouble." You said warily, holding your hands up to show what you guessed was a man that you had nothing in your possession but your phone. "If you want money, it's in my car. If you want somewhere to hide out, stay here. If you need any help, I'm a firefighter so I'm sure we can figure something out."

"i've got exactly what I want." The man's voice sent chills down your spine, recognition flooding you despite not having seen his face. This was the voice of the man that haunted you for years now and no amount of therapy could erase the permanent scars in your mind and on your body. "And she's not going anywhere."

And before you could reply, you were struck on the back of your head and was met with nothing but darkness.

*****

Coming back to your senses, you were expecting to wake up in your bed with Kelly and everything that happened was nothing but another nightmare but upon not being able to move your arms or legs, reality struck.

This was all very real and you were about to experience something short from hell.

"Jackson Murray." Your throat was hoarse as you spoke, addressing the man that sat opposite you with the proudest smirk on his lips.

You were currently tied to the heater that you failed to turn on, your feet and hands bound but several pairs of zip ties to ensure you wouldn't escape.

"Y/N Halstead." Jackson said with mirth in his eyes. He looked exactly the same since you last saw him, that scar you inflicted still going across his face, going from his left eyebrow all the way down to his upper lip.

"I take it prison wasn't your scene." You tried shifting but only groaned, finding that you movement was very minimal and if you did try to move, it would only cause you pain.

"It was horrific." He groaned, dragging his hand down his face as he reminisced what was supposed to be life in jail. Currently, he was sitting on a dining room chair which gave him leverage against you, allowing him to look down on you. "In all fairness, it taught me a lot."

"Is that so?" You humored him, your eyes flickering around the room, looking for a way to escape or to make a distraction. Your head was absolutely killing you and if you guessed right, you had a wound at the back of your head and you most definitely had a concussion.

"Not too much science but I learnt so much from other inmates, it was fascinating!" Jackson gushed, his smile eerie as he went into story about all the violent and gruesome things he learnt, explaining that he would test some of them out on you.

You shivered, blocking out his voice as you only now realised your lack of clothing. Jackson must've changed you while you were out because you no longer wore Kelly's lieutenant jacket or your shirt. Instead, you only sported your bra and jeans.

You had no idea what he did with your clothes but no matter how much your appearance was a concern to you, you also had concern for the man that was approaching you with a knife in his hand.

Within seconds, he was crouching down so he could be eye level with you, the tip of the blade nicking your neck as he spoke to you in a whisper. "I've been waiting for this day for years. Dreaming of this exact moment every night since I was arrested."

Before you retort back or even spit in his face, you could hear a very faint door being slammed shut from outside. For a nanosecond you were confused as to who on earth would be out here but then you remembered.

Your already built up dread was now drowning you as you remembered that your brothers were coming up here later today but with no record of the time and from your period of unconsciousness, you totally forgot.

Internally, you were cursing out your brothers. From the corner of your eyes, you could see out the window that it was still bright out which meant they got off work earlier than planned.

Opening your mouth to shout out a warning, Jacksons hand clamped down on your lips, his knife still at your neck but digging into your skin further. You could feel the blood slowly dripping down the base of your neck and going down your chest, your groans muted by your captors palm.

"Y/N, you here?!" Will shouted as he entered the cabin but you could only hear his footsteps as he ventured in. "Your car isn't out front and Kelly said you definitely left this morning."

Will's voice got clearer and louder the closer he came to the living room. Panic was now flooding your bloodstream but you were completely immobile with no way of telling him to get out and run.

Turning the corner, Will wasn't expecting anything when he casually passed the living room but the sight he was welcomed with was anything but welcoming.

Before he could move, let alone react and say anything, Will was bashed on the back of his head by a baseball bat in the hands of a man you thought was dead.

You screamed in Jackson's hand, tugging on your restraints as you leaned as far forward as you could, wanting to go and help your now unconscious brother.

Blood was slowly seeping out from the back of Will's head, the crimson liquid mixing with his red curls that only he inherited from your mother.

You felt tears prick the corner of your eyes at your deadly still brothers body. If it wasn't for the occasional rise and fall of his chest, you for sure would've thought he was dead.

All of a sudden, Jackson was moving away from you, allowing you to gasp as you recollected yourself. Your breathing was erratic as you watched the two men converse in whispers. With a joint effort, Will was further subdued using several zip ties around his wrists and ankles just like they did to you but instead of being restrained by the heater pipes, he was put against the table leg.

"Y/N, you remember my brother, don't you?" Jackson innocently asked you, turning around to talk to you. He was acting as if his brother didn't just knock out your brother cold.

"Ezra." You whispered, too scared to talk any louder. Both mentally and physically you were in shock from everything that was happening but you could never forget the brother duo that ruined your life.

"You guys just want me, let Will go please." You said with desperation, eyeing your oldest brother to make sure he was okay. "He has nothing to do with any of this."

"Oh but that's where you're wrong." Jackson shook his head, coming towards you and crouching down to your slumped height, brushing your loose hair with his disgusting hands. "Your brothers have everything to do with this."

And then it was in this moment you remembered that Will hadn't come alone. He mentioned that him and Jay were going to drive here together.

With wide eyes, your heart dropped when you heard the front door open again but instead of hearing a voice greet you alike to how Will did, you were met with silence.

"Watch them." Jackson ordered his younger brother before disappearing into the hallway. Hopefully Jay could use his detectiveness and figure out that something was wrong.

Keeping your lips sealed, you felt yourself shivering even more than you already were. The cold was slowly starting to get to you and you hated it.

The tension was so strong that you felt it suffocating you, your lungs tightening as it got harder to breathe. You eyed the man that everyone thought to be dead, millions of questions flooding your mind.

The gunshot scared you, making you jump out of your bones but your restraints minimised you reaction, pulling you back as you winced at the bruising around your wrists and ankles.

You felt the biggest lump in your throat at the uncertainty. Who pulled the trigger? Did anyone get hurt? You wanted nothing more than these two brothers to be dead and gone from your life but fate was clearly having its fun.

Soon enough, some of your questions were answered when Jay was pushed into the living room by Jackson. Jay was now unarmed but he was also free of any injuries making you breathe a little easier knowing at least one of your brothers were unharmed.

You easily read Jay as his eyes landed on you and Will. The green eyes that you two shared widened in disbelief and concern; looking you up and down, inspecting your half naked body and Will's limp one, you could feel his fury from across the room.

Without argument, Jay allowed himself to be restrained and due to lack of space, he was restrained on the other side of the heater. He was so close to you yet so far. The brothers ran out of zip ties though, leaving Jay's legs free meaning if he stretched himself far enough, he could reach you.

For some reason, the two brothers found this to be the best time to leave the room, disappearing into the cabin somewhere leaving the Halstead siblings alone.

"Jay, did you shoot Jackson?" Was the first thing you asked your older brother, hoping with all your might that the disgusting man was hurt.

"It's just a graze but yeah I did." Jay answered nonchalantly, worry swimming in his eyes as he fully took in your appearance. "They didn't..."

"No, God no." You immediately shook your head, gagging at the mere thought of what Jay was suggesting. "Just a nick on my neck and something at the back of my head but otherwise, I'm all good."

You could see him relax but only ever so slightly, his eyes dragging over to Will's slumped figure. Following his line of sight, you filled him in before he could ask. "Ezra knocked him out with your old bat."

"Why the hell is Ezra alive and Jackson out of jail?" You asked Jay, desperately in need of answers but deep down, you knew Jay had no answers either.

Before Jay could say anything though, he was stopped by the brothers storming back into the living room, a mix of excitement and fury following them.

Without saying anything, they were both coming towards you.

"No, no, no." You repeated over and over, trying your hardest to get their hands off you. "Get off, get away from me!"

Jays shouts for you to be left alone fell on deaf ears, his attempts to kick either brother away failing the second a needle was plunged into the side of his neck. However, even while drugged up, Jay was relentless and tried his hardest to fight the men off you but soon enough, succumbed to whatever drug he was injected with.

You felt like crying as you couldn't do anything to help Jay. All you could do was helplessly watch and beg him to wake up but alas, nothing happened.

Using your distracted state, the brothers managed to remove you from the pipes and were now dragging you onto your feet.

Despite your weakening body, you tried as hard as you could to fight the brothers off. With their hands gripping your arms and your waist, you tried elbowing, headbutting, biting and spitting but the most damage you did was further annoy them.

Now agitated, you were shoved against Ezra's chest, his arms holding you down as Jackson did what he wanted since the day he met you all those years ago. Clenching your jaw, you screwed your eyes shut as you felt your body cry out at each blow.

You swallowed back your cries, not allowing them the pleasure to hear you in pain. That’s what got them off, hearing their victims cry and scream in agony but you wouldn’t allow that.

“Stop, stop.” You tried pushing them away but the punches kept rolling. “What do you want? I’ll give you anything, please.”

Jackson slowly pulled away, his knuckles bruised and bloodied from his attack. He had the proudest smile on his face, as if he’d just won gold in the Olympics

“I just want you to get what you deserve baby.”

#one chicago x reader #one chicago imagine #jay halstead x reader #onechicago #chicago fire #chicago med #chicago pd #will halstead x reader #halstead sister #halstead brothers #kelly severide x reader #jay halstead x sister!reader #will halstead x sister!reader

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sjsmith56 · 6 months ago

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Snowfall, Part 4 - Encounter

Summary: Over the next 10 days Bucky and Leia develop a routine that allows them to live normally. A fire alarm at the apartment building sets the stage for a showdown.

Length: 4.2 K

Characters: Bucky, Leia, Burnham, purse snatcher, stalker.

Warnings: Emotional turmoil, realization that the stalker is determined.

Author notes: FBI profiles are rarely static as new evidence can cause the authorities to redo them several times. Even then, too much emphasis may be placed on certain facets of the profile sending them looking in the wrong places.

<<Part 3

In the 10 days since the last letter was received and Leia revealed her little brother's tragic death, the FBI team redid the profile of the suspected stalker. With the new information about the other half-siblings, at first expected to identify the stalker, it now pointed towards someone who knew Leia's real identity, someone with a clear sense of superiority, and was possibly related, but unconfirmed at this time. It sent the investigation in a different direction that felt like a waiting game to Bucky and Leia.

The three known half-siblings, one older brother, one younger brother and one younger sister were under surveillance as their backgrounds were being checked but so far there was no indication they were involved. All were married, with children, were gainfully employed, and well regarded in their communities. None of them seemed to know about the others or about Leia; none of them belonged to an ancestry website or had registered with an agency that found birth parents. Although their original birth registrations listed Leia's father as their biological father, two of the three were legally adopted at a young age by their mother's eventual husband and their official birth records changed to reflect that. The third, whose mother was with Leia's father at the time of her brother's death, had initially drawn the most suspicion but a sample of his handwriting didn't match the stalker's handwriting at all.

That left the possibility that the stalker was an as yet undiscovered half-sibling, his or her birth father either unspecified or named as someone else on the birth registration. A DNA sample from Leia was prepared for comparison with ancestry websites that used such evidence to determine familial relationships, but that process took time. It was frustrating but there was little recourse.

With an early winter fully ensconced in the Tri-state area, Bucky and Leia were committed to their burgeoning love affair. Living together in the apartment was still in its honeymoon phase for the couple. Their daily routine involved breakfast together, often cooked by Bucky, then Leia would write for a few hours, using the notes she placed in her phone app during the day. Bucky would read, or lay on the couch with wireless headphones on, listening to 30s and 40s music; Alpine often curled up on his chest. Lunch was usually undertaken at a small cozy bistro with windows steamy from the interior warmth colliding against the cold panes of glass that looked out on the wintry street. They spent one afternoon shopping; with Bucky trying to get some Christmas presents for Sam and his family. He even managed to get Leia a present by convincing Pepper Stark to pick up a necklace that she admired, relaying the amount to her via a money app. The other afternoons were spent seeing several attractions that New York had to offer: the Empire State Building, the Museum of Modern Art, and the main branch of the New York Public Library. It was all new to Leia, and Bucky loved seeing the city through her eyes.

Dinner was something they worked on together, or had takeout food delivered to them, courtesy of the food delivery service that had been previously vetted. So far, their handful of evenings together had been quiet, watching a movie on TV, or listening to music together, sometimes dancing in the living room with the coffee table pushed out of the way. That activity had led to early evenings in bed, exploring the physical relationship that had developed quickly between them and showed no signs of burning out.

When they were out, they were always aware of one or more of the FBI agents tailing them, without them being intrusive. With Bucky wearing an earpiece that kept him in constant communication with the team, it helped to quickly identify and discount various individuals who seemed to give Leia too much attention. It also proved invaluable on the day that someone snatched Leia's purse. As they were on a crowded street, a person jostled her, causing her to be pushed away from Bucky. He saw a flash of a box cutter, pulled her towards him and away from the potential weapon, then watched with disbelief as a man slashed through the shoulder strap of her purse, sliding it off and running through the crowds back in the direction they came, straight towards two of the FBI agents.

"Purse snatcher," he signalled to the other three, unwilling to leave her alone. "Grey hoodie, black jeans, 6 feet tall, 180 lbs."

"Got him," replied Burnham. "Not today buddy."

Seconds later the guy was down on the pavement, flat on his back, as pedestrians stepped around him while Burnham and DaSilva held their guns on him. Bucky and Leia joined them moments later, and waited for the police, already called by Schultz. As they waited, Bucky scanned the crowded sidewalk, ever vigilant, sensing something that didn't seem right about this crime of opportunity. A man, wearing a navy-blue winter coat and a black beanie deliberately turned away from the scene, then looked back and smirked at the super soldier before turning away again. It was a very deliberate movement from a bystander, and he couldn't ignore it.

"Stay here," he ordered Leia. "I'll be right back."

Burnham immediately stood next to her, nodding at Bucky that he had her. Wading through the mass of people on the crowded sidewalk, Bucky kept the person in sight, as he was led away from the scene. Approaching a stairwell down into the subway, the person dropped out of sight and Bucky hurried towards the stairs, running down them. With people streaming past him, he climbed on top of the gate to look at those already inside the paid area. Just as he spotted the man, a transit officer challenged Bucky to get down.

"I'm on a case," he answered, keeping his eyes on the suspect.

"Don't care, get off the gate."

With a huff, Bucky jumped down and went back up the stairs. He stopped at the top and looked around again as that sense came back to him. Scanning the busy intersection carefully, he noticed something at the other entrance to the subway station, set diagonally across the large crossing space. The man was at the top of the stairs, watching Bucky intently. He must have jumped across the tracks below and gone up the stairs that led from the other platform. For a moment, the super soldier considered running across, but it would have caused a disruption in traffic that could have led to an accident. It occurred immediately to him that the man wanted just that, creating a diversion that would keep Bucky occupied. Without taking his eyes off of him, he pulled his phone out, then held it up as if he was going to take a picture. The man disappeared down the stairs, suddenly camera shy. It didn't matter. Bucky saw enough of him to commit his appearance to memory. As he made his way back to the others, he wondered if the man was testing their response to any physical action taken against Leia. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he was right.

"Damn, it was a setup," he thought, straining to see them as he got closer to the scene.

When he did finally get them in view, with Leia seeming to be lit by the sun’s reflection from a pane of glass, the would-be purse snatcher was leaning sullenly against a building. Without hesitation, Bucky picked him up by the neck raising him above their heads, his intent clearly evident.

"Who paid you to steal her purse?"

"Can't breathe," stammered the man, his hands on Bucky's hand, frantically trying to pry it off. "Stop, please."

"Bucky," said Burnham, quietly, leaning in close. "You're attracting attention. Put him down."

Breathing heavily, he loosened his grip, lowering his hand so the man was standing on the sidewalk but still kept his hand resting on the thief's throat. Then he leaned forward, until his mouth was at the man's ear.

"I could snap your neck and walk away with a clear conscience." He could feel the fear his words brought out of the man. "Answer yes or no." The man nodded. "You were paid to steal her purse." Yes. "It was a man in a navy-blue coat and black beanie." Yes. "Have you ever seen him before today?" No. "Now you're going to answer with words. How did he know you were a thief?"

The purse thief turned his head to look at Bucky, who had pulled back slightly. What the man saw must have frightened him even more because he nodded his head.

"I picked his pocket a couple of hours ago. Just as I was opening his wallet, he put something in my back and said to keep walking until we made it to an alleyway. He said not to look at him while he took his wallet back. I thought he was going to kill me. Instead, he offered me a grand to steal her purse; gave me the money right there and showed me a picture of her on his phone. That red coat stands out so she would be an easy mark, and he said she often walks with a big guy, you. He had a picture of you, too. That's all I know, mister. It's the honest truth. Please don't kill me."

"You still have the money?"

"Yeah, yeah, in my wallet," said the guy, reaching towards his pocket but stopped by Burnham who patted him down from the side and took the wallet himself, putting a glove on first.

"Fingerprints," said Burnham, holding the wallet up. Bucky nodded. "Good thinking."

At the police station a short time later, while the thief was being processed, they were in an office with the station's captain, who was made aware of the stalker.

"It was a setup," scowled Bucky. "He was testing us, led me to the subway trying to get me onto the platform. I didn't take the bait and came up the stairs. He was across the intersection at the top of the other entrance, watching me, almost daring me to come get him. Tall, pale skin, blue eyes. No hair visible as he wore a beanie. He knows Leia has a security detail, and his next move will likely be to separate her from us."

"Did you see enough of him to talk to a sketch artist?" asked the station captain. Bucky nodded. "Okay, get that done and we'll put out a notice on him. Let us take it from here." Bucky glared at him. "Look, I have no doubt that you can handle it. Hell, I know what you and Captain America did for the city with the Flag Smashers, but you have no authority here."

"Actually, he does," said Burnham. "He's on secondment with the FBI. Since the stalker originally sent letters to Ms. Dunn in another state, that makes it federal jurisdiction. I'm not trying to overstep any boundaries, Captain. We did call you in to take the thief into custody, but Sergeant Barnes is more than capable of handling himself in this case. We cooperate and maybe together we can get this guy."

Reluctantly, he agreed, and the sketch artist came in to get Bucky's description of the man in the beanie. Leia sat next to him, knowing her presence helped him, and hoping that what they produced would show her a face she knew. When the artist applied the finishing touches he showed the picture to her, but she shook her head.

"No, there's no resemblance to my dad and I don't recognize him. If he's from my original hometown, I wouldn't have known him as an adult and I saw so many people at the farmer's market where I lived when I was trying to sell the book myself, that they all just blurred together after a while. I mean I didn't even recognize that Edward guy and I posed for a picture with him."

She was disappointed and sat back in the chair, feeling like they had wasted everyone's time. The artist excused herself, while Bucky took Leia's hand.

"It's alright," he smiled. "It's been a tough day but at least I know the face now." She smiled, then leaned towards him for a kiss. Just as they touched lips, he pulled back. "You wouldn't have known him as an adult because you left your hometown when you were 12 years old. What if you only knew him as a kid, maybe a friend or a classmate, of either yourself or your brother?" He stood up, pulling her up with him. "They can make someone in a picture look younger using a computer program now, can't they?"

"Yeah." She realized what he was implying. "They can make that sketch look like a kid. There must be yearbooks from when I was in school. We can compare the de-aged sketch to the yearbooks, so we get a name, right?"

With a smile, Bucky placed both hands on her cheeks, and kissed her intensely before looking at her with admiration.

"Right."

Sharing their insight with Burnham and the police captain produced a flurry of activity as the school district in Leia's hometown was contacted. They did have a selection of yearbooks from the various schools and would make them available by the following day. As the sketch was scanned and fed into the computer program that could render it at different ages, Bucky and Leia waited.

"Do you really think he's going to try again?" she asked. "He must know that with you seeing him, you'll find out who he is."

"Yeah, but maybe that's what he wants. I think this started out as a way to threaten you. Since this most recent incident I get the feeling that he's playing with us. He didn't seem afraid of me, that's for sure."

Burnham came in then, carrying several sheets of paper.

"Here they are," he said. "The suspect as he might have looked at 6 years of age, 10 years of age and 15 years of age."

Leia took them and looked at the top image, the teenage one. She shook her head, then looked at the 10-year-old and 6-year-old side by side. She could feel her heart in her throat as she saw the face of a boy she hadn't seen since Mikey died.

"He lived next door to us," she said, recalling her neighbour. "Mitchell Morrison. Everyone called him Itchy because he had eczema and was always scratching his skin. The really mean kids would say it was cooties or lice. I didn't like him because he was always staring at me through the fence. It gave me the creeps. He liked Mikey, even though he was younger. They played with Lego a lot. He can't be my brother. My dad didn't pay attention to him at all."

She dropped the sheets and sobbed. Bucky looked up at Burnham, who picked up the sheets and left, leaving him to comfort her. Taking her hands in his, he kissed them, then pulled her up to stand as he hugged her.

"Do you want to go?" he asked. "I don't think they need us any longer."

She nodded and stayed in the room as Bucky stepped out to tell the three agents he was taking Leia home. When he returned, he helped her on with her coat, making sure her scarf covered her throat, then helping her button it up and doing up the belt. He frowned at the plastic bag they gave her to transfer her belongings into instead of her purse as it was now evidence.

"I'll get you a new one," he said, as he opened the door for her.

"You don't have to," she answered. "I have others at home."

Burnham was waiting for them in the hallway.

"I was going to hail a taxi," said Bucky.

"Nope, not after what happened today," said the FBI agent. "I'm driving you, as usual."

He was emphatic on the need for them to keep to the protocol, and Bucky wasn't inclined to argue with him. If Morrison was the stalker, he got too close today. If he wasn't the stalker, then they needed to know why he targeted Leia and Bucky. The FBI agents would do their part now, using the resources of the agency in cooperation with the local police to find the man. Bucky's job hadn't changed; to be Leia's personal bodyguard.

"We're going to find him," said Burnham, once they were on their way. "Once we confirm his identity and get it out to all law enforcement agencies, he won't be able to hide anymore."

"I still don't think I'm related to him."

He looked at Leia through the rear-view mirror.

"Profiles are at most 80% accurate, so we may have got that wrong, but it was based on that most recent letter when he referred to your brothers. You just provided more information that added to the profile of the suspect Morrison. It's a process and I think there's much more to explore there."

She squeezed Bucky's hand as she kept looking out the window, still bothered that the man who wrote those filthy letters to her was someone she had known as a child. Mikey's death changed her by exposing her to deep emotions that found their way into her writing. It had changed Morrison into someone dangerous. The same incident created two different outcomes.

By the time they got to the building, it was dark, and Leia had a headache. She waited for Bucky at the security door, as he unlocked it with his set of keys. When they got to the apartment door, he suggested ordering a pizza for dinner.

"I'm not really hungry," she answered. "I've got a headache and just want to have a bath and go to bed."

He rubbed her back, smiling grimly at her, wishing he could do more to soothe her on this roller coaster day. Taking her coat, he hung it up, then listened as she went into the bedroom, coming out moments later in her robe. As the water started running, he poured some cool water for her and got her some painkillers. Knocking on the door, he entered on her say so, handing her the pills and water, while she sat on the toilet seat, waiting for the tub to fill.

"I'm going to eat some of the leftovers," he said quietly. "Let you have some quiet time."

"You can join me after." She looked up smiling but without any warmth behind her eyes. "I'm sorry I'm so quiet. They seem so sure they're going to find him, but I think he's smarter than they know, and it has me worried."

He bent down on one knee, taking her hands in his and kissing them.

"No matter what, he has to go through me," he murmured. "I'll admit that even with my skills, there's a chance that he could take you. If that happens, I won't let you go without a fight. Believe that and believe that I will find you if I have to tear the city apart to do it."

She caressed his face. "How would you find me?"

He took her hand and flattened it on his chest. "By what I feel for you here. Everything about you is deep in my heart and my head. I know the scent of your hair and body, I can recognize the beating of your heart in a room full of others, and that connection we have is something I can't even begin to explain. I think you were right that we are kindred souls. We were meant to find each other and be together. I believe that with all my heart."

After a soft kiss to her lips he stood up, stopping at the door to look back at her. When he returned in 10 minutes, he was only in his briefs, pulling them down quickly and entering the bathtub behind Leia. She turned the hot water on to warm up the water, then leaned back against him. It felt good to feel him gently massage her shoulders, and she rolled her head to give him more access to her neck.

"That’s good," she murmured. "You know just where to apply the right pressure."

"Beginners luck," he answered. "It will be alright, Leia."

She felt his kiss on her head and closed her eyes, allowing her body to relax. When the water became too cold to stay in, Bucky dried her off first, then himself, and followed her into the bedroom. As she sat on the bed, yawning with how tired she was, he helped her on with some flannel pyjamas, then spooned behind her after turning out the lights. Alpine joined them and within moments he could hear the rhythmic breathing indicating she was asleep. More than anything, Leia needed that.

The sound of the building's fire alarm jolted Bucky awake, and he sat up, listening for a second, before going to the door of the apartment. He couldn't smell any smoke but when he looked out the peephole, he could see their neighbours filing towards the stairwell. One of them was knocking on everyone's door to make sure they were awake, confirming the fire department were on their way. With a sigh, he opened the door and announced they were getting ready. Leia had the bedroom light on, stuffing her purse contents that she brought from the police station into another purse.

"There was a fire alarm the day after I moved in," she said. "It was a false alarm, but you never know in these taller buildings, right?"

Pulling sweatpants on over her pyjama bottoms, and an oversized sweatshirt over the top, she quickly put some socks on and went out to the entryway to put her boots on. Bucky put his jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt on then his jacket and boots. He helped Leia on with her red coat, making sure it was buttoned up properly, with the scarf protecting her neck.

"Alpine," he remembered. "I better take her in the cat carrier."

That took another few minutes to get her into it and they were among the last to leave their floor, although there was a steady stream of people in the stairwells from the floors above them. On the way down they came across an elderly woman who was having trouble with the stairs. Handing Alpine to Leia, Bucky stopped and offered to carry her. She was quite impressed at how easily he lifted her into his arms, complimenting him often on his gallantry. A city bus was already outside the building when they got down there, for the elderly and those with kids to sit in. With the light snow that was falling it was appreciated to have someplace to shelter. Bucky deposited her inside then came back out to where Leia waited with the cat carrier. Someone else yelled that they needed help with an elderly resident and Bucky rushed over to help. He placed them inside the bus, then came out to Alpine, still in her cat carrier, and Leia's purse on top, sitting on the snowy ground. Leia was no where to be seen.

"Excuse me," he said to a man standing nearby. "Do you know where the woman who was holding the cat went? I left her here just a moment ago."

He looked at the cat carrier then looked around. "There was a guy talking to her," he said, "but I don't see him either. I think he needed help."

A cold feeling of dread settled in Bucky's belly. "Could you just watch the cat while I look for her?"

The man agreed and Bucky started to explore the scene, making his way past several fire trucks that responded to the alarm. As he searched, all sorts of dark thoughts filled his mind. It can't be him. How would he know where we lived? I promised to protect her. Half a block away he saw something dark on the ground and approached it, gingerly picking it up with his left hand. The black beanie was proof that it was Morrison. Kneeling down to catch his breath, he noticed dark spots on the snow. Taking his phone out, he turned on his flashlight and shone it on the spots, revealing them to be blood. Sitting down hard on the cold wet snowy road, he couldn't breathe for a moment then he looked at the phone and called Burnham.

"He has her. Fire alarm at the apartment building. I was helping someone, just for a moment, and when I came back, she was gone. I found his beanie and there's blood nearby."

Dropping the phone, he sat there devastated at having failed at the one thing he promised to do. He almost lost it to the despair he was feeling, then something in him hardened and he knew what had to be done next. He promised Leia he would tear apart the city to find her. When a police vehicle left the fire scene and came closer then pulled up near him, he handed the beanie to the officer. They could investigate the scene. Time was wasting. He had to find Leia.

Part 5>>

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randomgirlblogger · 8 months ago

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Important.

I fucking hate those Tumblr blogs with sexual, provocative usernames that reblog or post pictures of oversexualized grown women in child underwear that are being tied with ropes, sticking out their tounges in a specific manner or literal cutscenes from adult movies with #coquette, #Lana's God, #daddy or #girlblogger, underneath because every time I see those blogs, it's runned by a kid or a grown fucking ass man.

And you're not "cool, grown up, Lana style" because you're getting the attention from a crusty, old preditor. You don't need a "daddy". You need to study for your upcoming math exam for God's love. Stop sexualizing your CHILDHOOD because it won't do you any good. You're a kid. Act like it.

You're 13. Those stuff are not for you. Get off Tumblr because there aren't only "Lana coquette girlbloggers" around but actual pedos that aren't hiding. Think about your safety first before any aesthetic. Because I see y'all posting pictures of yourselves too on those blogs and people sending you asks for "face reveals" or whatever. Who do you think is asking you this stuff? Not to mention those nasty asks like "Can I groope you?" when there's your age written in the top post or your bio saying you're a MINOR.

I don't care if you're 17, 15, or 13 (YES, SAW A BLOG LIKE THIS A SEC AGO). That's not for you. It doesn't matter that you're "mature for your age", whatever that means because lemme tell ya: you're NOT. That's why stuff like this and others have age restrictions. It affects your undeveloped brain and changes the way it develops. And your braind fully develops at the age of 25 - a healthy brain. Some take longer because of trauma or chronic illnesses. Pornography destroys your brain, and there are LITTERAL studies about that. I don't care if it's just a photo or whatever it might be. It still affects you. Subconsciously. Not to mention that it makes you numb when it comes to femicide or woman being abused.

I don't mean stop posting aesthetic pictures on the internet, but post AGE APPROPRIATE stuff. You have cute blogs with pictures of old cathedrals, antic knick knacks, and beautiful 90's models. Stick to that.

As a matter of fact, none of those pictures belong to any hashtags especially on apps used by minors, but ACTIVELY choosing those where the majority of users are MINORS is beyond and only presents your predatory behavior as an adult. Because that's what you are. A PEDOPHILE. "MDNI", "If you're underage-" SHUT IT! It won't help. That's not a place for sexual content. I don't care what TW you'll put into your bio. There are KIDS on this app. 13, 15, 17 year olds. Not to mention they can create a fake account or just lie about their age. Your "DNI" won't help.

And for my adult girlbloggers: don't post sexualized adult women in childs clothes for God's sake. Or sexual content in general. What do you need it for? Can't you see that it's making more harm than good? "Oh, yeah. This picture of a half nacked woman in pink underwear that is being abused and tied up that's also a screenshot from an adult video is going to match my profile aesthetic well". GTFO!

I'm not going to go into depth about grown men/ women using hashtags where the main audience/the majority is underage girls. Fuck off. Grow up. It's not a place for it. Think about the kids you're harming with your stupid ass behavior, you pedophile. Because I don't believe that you don't notice those minors. You simply don't care or, what's worse, you care and make them your target audience.

There are websites and apps where, let's put it that way, those pictures and films "belong" (unfortunately). There's enough porn in television, music, books, etc., etc. We, as humans, especially underage girls and boys, are absorbing things we see subconsciously. You won't even notice. It shapes your brain, your views, and your life even as an adult with fully developed (let's hope) brain. Why would you let control it by something like that? This ain't "aesthetic". It ain't "cool".

Grow up and get a life. Or at least read about the influence of porn on human brains (spoiler-allert it's scientifically making you dumber and it shows). Stop putting sexual content where it doesn't belong. Stop exposing kids to sexual content. Stop harming them.

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sargepilled · 16 days ago

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Okay; I HARDLY know how Tumblr works, or write on this app, but I was so sweetly tagged by the impossibly talented: @23fallencomets. I won’t be tagging anyone, but if you see this and have any WIPS I am absolutely advocating for you to post them for this little series and for you to tag me! This is very late, but I've finally got some time to post a little something, so take this.

Consider this the hintest of teasers for one of my project fics this summer. :)

(Sandwich) 2k words.

— LOSCAR: Based heavily off of the film “Dinner In America." With punk lead singer Oscar and neurodivergent Logan. SLIGHTLY NSFW.

After dinner, Logan escapes to his bedroom, which exists in a state of suspended animation, frozen in time like a museum exhibit dedicated to the concept of arrested development. The Star Wars posters on his walls are the same ones he hung when he was fourteen—The Empire Strikes Back, mostly, because Logan has always identified with characters who get their hands chopped off and discover that their fathers are evil.

There's a twin bed with a comforter his mom bought at Walmart during a back-to-school sale, blue and gray stripes that were probably fashionable in 2008, when having a Facebook account was still considered cutting-edge technology. A bookshelf holds his collection of racing magazines, issues of Racer and AutoWeek and Karting magazine that he can't bring himself to throw away but can't bear to read anymore, because every page reminds him of when he used to believe he belonged in those pages himself.

It's pathetic, Logan knows this, but it's also the only space in the house that belongs entirely to him. His parents stopped asking about redecorating years ago, stopped suggesting that maybe it was time to "update" his room to reflect his adult status. Logan suspects they're afraid of what they might find if they dig too deeply into his attachment to adolescent nostalgia, afraid of conversations about failure and growing up and what happens when your childhood dreams refuse to die quietly.

Logan lies on his back and stares at the ceiling fan, which makes the same click-click-click sound as the one downstairs. He counts the clicks like meditation beads, trying to find some rhythm or pattern that might make sense of the noise. Click-pause-click-pause-click, sixty clicks per minute, thirty-six hundred clicks per hour, a mathematical progression toward nothing in particular.

The fan has been broken for three years now, wobbling slightly with each rotation, but nobody bothers to fix it because fixing things costs money and hope in roughly equal measure. Logan has googled "ceiling fan repair" approximately fifty-seven times, has watched YouTube videos about blade balance and motor replacement, has even measured the fan to figure out what parts he would need. But research is easier than action, and action requires admitting that you care enough about your environment to try to improve it.

Logan isn't sure he's ready for that level of emotional commitment.

He thinks about Bradley, the kid from today, and his pristine racing suit that cost more than Logan's monthly salary. He thinks about his father's disappointed face across the dinner table, the way his eyes go distant when he talks about racing, like he's seeing ghosts that only he can recognize. He thinks about the stack of unpaid bills on his dresser that grows a little taller each month, despite his careful budgeting and his habit of eating peanut butter sandwiches for lunch to save money.

Mostly, though, he thinks about Oscar Piastri.

The memory always starts the same way—with Logan sitting alone at lunch on the first day of Ocala Karting Summer Camp, picking at a sandwich his mother had made with too much mayonnaise, watching the other kids form groups and alliances with the casual efficiency of children who've never doubted their right to belong somewhere.

Logan had been twelve and nervous, wearing a borrowed racing suit that was two sizes too big and carrying a helmet his father had bought secondhand from a driver who'd given up racing to sell insurance. Everything about him screamed amateur, from his mismatched gear to his anxious habit of constantly adjusting his gloves to make sure they fit properly.

Then Oscar Piastri had appeared at his table like a small, compact tornado, dropping his lunch tray with a clatter and sliding into the seat across from Logan without asking permission or waiting for an invitation.

"You're the new kid," Oscar had said, and it wasn't a question. His accent was thick and unfamiliar, all rounded vowels and sharp consonants that made every word sound like it mattered more than it probably did.

Oscar was everything Logan wasn't—confident to the point of arrogance, comfortable in his own skin in a way that seemed almost supernatural. He had dark hair that stuck up in all directions despite what must have been liberal applications of gel, and eyes that seemed to see everything at once—the loose chin strap on Logan's helmet, the way Logan's hands shook when he held his sandwich, the fact that Logan was trying very hard to look like he belonged when he clearly, obviously didn't.

"Logan," Logan had managed to say, around a mouthful of mayonnaise and anxiety.

"Oscar. You race much?"

"Some. Local stuff, mostly." Logan had tried to make this sound more impressive than it was, but Oscar's expression suggested that his efforts at casual competence weren't entirely successful.

"Right. Well, you look terrified, so you're either new or you're bad. Since you're sitting alone, I'm guessing new." Oscar had taken a bite of his apple with the kind of confidence that came from never having to worry about whether other people liked you. "Want to see something cool?"

And just like that, Logan had been absorbed into Oscar's orbit, pulled along by a gravitational force he didn't understand but couldn't resist. Oscar showed him the secret places around the camp—the spot behind the timing tower where cell phone reception was actually decent, the loose board in the fence that let you sneak out to the convenience store for candy, the best vantage point for watching the stars after lights-out.

But it was the racing that really mattered, the way Oscar could make a kart do things that shouldn't have been possible, coaxing speed and precision from machinery that seemed to respond to his touch like it was alive. Logan had been fast before, but Oscar taught him to be smooth, to think three corners ahead, to understand that racing wasn't just about going fast—it was about going fast at exactly the right moment, about patience and timing and the particular kind of courage that came from trusting your instincts even when your instincts told you to do something crazy.

"Racing's not about forcing the kart to do what you want," Oscar had said one afternoon, after Logan had spun out trying too hard to keep up. "It's about asking nicely."

They spent two weeks as inseparable as camp regulations would allow, sneaking out after lights-out to practice on the wet track in the dark, sharing stolen snacks from the dining hall, talking about everything except the obvious fact that they were both falling into something that felt bigger and more complicated than friendship.

Oscar told stories about Australia, about the go-kart track his uncle owned in Melbourne, about koalas that slept in eucalyptus trees and beaches that stretched for miles without a single person in sight. He talked about his parents' divorce with the casual brutality that children use to describe disasters they don't quite understand, explaining that sending him to Florida for the summer was probably the most civilized thing his parents had done for each other in years.

"I'm gonna be a Formula One driver," Oscar said one night, lying on his back in the grass behind the dining hall, staring up at stars that seemed close enough to touch. He said it with the absolute certainty of someone who had never been told that dreams were luxuries for other people's children.

"Me too," Logan had whispered, and for those two weeks, it had felt possible. With Oscar beside him, everything had felt possible.

"No, you're not," Oscar had said, but he'd said it gently, without cruelty. "You're too nice. Too worried about what everyone thinks. F1 drivers are bastards."

"You're not a bastard."

"Yes, I am." Oscar had turned to look at him in the moonlight, and his face had been serious in a way that made Logan's stomach flutter like he'd swallowed a live bird. "Watch."

And then Oscar had kissed him.

It was clumsy and desperate and tasted like the lemonade they'd stolen from the counselors' refrigerator, all teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that twelve-year-old boys don't have words for. Logan's first kiss, delivered by a boy who tasted like artificial citrus and possibility, under a sky full of stars that seemed to be witnessing something important.

The kiss lasted maybe five seconds before they both pulled away, breathing hard and staring at each other like they'd just discovered fire or electricity or some other force that could change the world if handled improperly.

"See?" Oscar had whispered, and his voice was barely audible over the sound of cicadas and Logan's heartbeat hammering against his ribs. "Bastard."

Logan had reached for him, wanting more in ways he couldn't articulate, but Oscar was already scrambling to his feet, already backing away. "Oscar, wait—"

Oscar's fist had connected with Logan's jaw before he could finish the sentence. The punch wasn't hard enough to knock him down, but it was hard enough to split his lip and leave a bruise that lasted for a week. Logan sat there on the ground, tasting blood and confusion in equal measure, while Oscar stood over him with his hands clenched and his eyes bright with something that looked like panic.

"Don't," Oscar had said, and his voice cracked on the word like ice breaking under pressure. "Just don't."

He was gone before Logan could ask don't what?, disappearing into the darkness between the buildings like he'd never been there at all. Logan sat in the grass for what felt like hours, touching the tender spot on his jaw and trying to understand what had just happened, what he'd done wrong, why something that felt so right had ended with violence and confusion and the taste of his own blood.

The next morning, Oscar's bunk was empty. His parents had come to pick him up early—family emergency, the counselors said, something about his grandmother being sick in Australia. Logan never found out if that was true or if Oscar had called them himself, desperate for any excuse to put distance between himself and whatever had happened in the grass behind the dining hall.

And he'd stolen Logan's helmet. Logan only realized it was missing three days later, when he was packing his gear to go home. He'd searched everywhere—under his bunk, in the lost-and-found box, even in the dumpster behind the dining hall where he'd found Oscar sitting sometimes when he needed to be alone. But his helmet was gone, and so was Oscar, and Logan never saw either of them again.

For years, Logan wondered why Oscar had taken it. The helmet wasn't anything special—just a basic white Arai with blue trim and a collection of stickers they'd accumulated over the two weeks. A sloth wearing sunglasses that Logan had found in a gas station vending machine. A faded OCALA KARTING decal. The number 81, which had been Oscar's favorite because it was 18 backwards and he'd thought that was clever.

Logan had convinced himself that Oscar kept the helmet as a memento of their friendship, as proof that those two weeks had meant something to someone other than just him. It was a romantic notion, the kind of story Logan told himself late at night when loneliness felt like a physical weight pressing down on his chest.

Now, lying in his childhood bedroom with his hand drifting toward the waistband of his boxers, Logan lets himself remember the good parts. The way Oscar's mouth had felt against his, warm and soft and tasting like summer. The weight of Oscar's hand in his hair, fumbling but eager, like he was trying to memorize the texture. The sound of Oscar's voice in the darkness, low and teasing: You're too nice.

Logan closes his eyes and lets the memory wash over him, lets his hand slip under the elastic of his underwear as he thinks about what might have happened if Oscar hadn't pulled away, if that kiss had lasted longer, if Oscar hadn't gotten scared and ended everything with a punch that Logan still feels sometimes when the weather changes. If they'd grown with one another. Still kept in contact.

He's always been gentle with himself, careful and methodical even in this most private of acts, because Logan has never learned to be rough with anything he cares about.

His breathing gets shallow as he strokes himself slowly, thinking about what Oscar's crooked smile might look like now at their current age, about the way his accent made Logan's name sound like music and what it'd sound like now with maturity, about the night when everything felt possible and nothing felt impossible.

Logan bites his lower lip to stay quiet, a habit left over from years of sharing thin walls with family members who don't need to know about his private moments. He's close now, close enough that his vision starts to blur around the edges and his free hand grips the comforter tight enough to leave wrinkles.

He's so lost in memory and sensation that he doesn't hear the footsteps in the hallway until it's too late, doesn't register the sound of his bedroom door opening until Dalton's voice cuts through his private moment like a fire alarm.

"Logan, you decent? We're going—oh, fuck, sorry."

Logan scrambles for the bedsheet, his face erupting in heat that has nothing to do with the broken air conditioning. His heart hammers against his ribs like it's trying to escape, and for a moment he can't breathe properly, can't think of anything except the horrible awareness that his brother just witnessed his most private ritual.

"Jesus, Dalton, knock!" The words come out strangled and higher than usual, and Logan pulls the sheet up to his chin even though it's approximately three seconds too late for modesty.

"My bad." Dalton doesn't look remotely sorry. In fact, he looks like someone who's just won the lottery and can't wait to spend the money. There's a grin spreading across his face that Logan recognizes from childhood, the same expression Dalton used to get when he caught Logan doing something embarrassing like crying during Bambi or practicing dance moves from music videos when he thought no one was watching.

"But this is actually perfect timing," Dalton continues, stepping fully into the room and closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow makes everything worse. "Because we're going out."

#logan sargeant #oscar piastri #loscar #my writing #wip #logan sargeant x oscar piastri

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xx-lemon-drop-xx · 3 months ago

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Do you have favorite ocs of your friends? Who's you favorite ocs of your own ocs?

I definitely have a few.

1. Like Reina and Lisa who are made by @lilspooder Her ocs are just gorgeous. I'm married to Reina no one can stop me lmao.

{Artwork belongs to @lilspooder}

Isn't she just stunning? Istg I see her and my toes curl lmao. And there's also Lisa!

{Artwork by @lilspooder}

They are both just so whendjjd I don't have the words to describe how much I love them. They're such creative ocs with amazing personalities and they are so well written. I love them.

2. There's also Lunaria made by @lunaria1 I don't have any pictures of her but me and Lunaria have been rping for a long long time and we've both seen each others ocs grow up, change and develop I believe. Lunaria is a Half Demon Half Angel! You should check her out @lunaria1 has put a lot of work into all her characters and they're very creative! She has a bunch of ocs posted on her Tumblr so you'll definitely find one that you'll adore, she's in a lot of fandoms too!

3. And there's Naveah and Maddison made by @rachellerosziel. She's another person I've been rping with for a long time and she has quite a few ocs so it was hard to choose from hers. She has a bunch of other ocs I also really like such as Torvi, Annalise, and Elizabeth.

Naveah is so so pretty too! She's such an amazing oc with a great personality. She's a strong woman who has a firey personality and an even greater spirit for standing up for her own beliefs. She's amazing!

{Credits to a Google Play app that got removed from Google Play store.}

And there's Maddison of course!

{Credits to @rachellerosziel's friend, Hatrou!}

Maddison was one of the first ocs of hers I was introduced to, if I remember correctly. Not the first, of course! But close. I absolutely love Maddison, she's a Twisted Wonderland oc that's created by the inspiration of Mother Gothel!

For the second part of your question, my favorite ocs of my own are Cynder and Angel. I will likely be posting a form for Cynder soon, so you'll be able to see her. Angel is a Cheribum Seraphim mix oc that I've made you might see on her too.

While I don't have artwork of Angel I do have some for Cynder that was made a few years ago by @lilspooder

{credits to @lilspooder}

WJEJJDJD She made Cynder sooo pretty! I'm so happy with the results she looks so beautiful.

#anon ask #anon answered #anon questions #twisted wonderland oc #oc #original character #ocs #oc art

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the-nox-syndicate · 2 months ago

Text

SysNotes devlog 2 - retrieving data from the database and NEW profile features!

Welcome back to my SysNotes update! SysNotes is a system management app for people with DID, OSDD, and those who are otherwise plural.

Today I will flesh out the backend of the application (which was completely missing in the first devlog) and add some new profile fields.

First Devlog (1) | Previous Devlog (1.5)

Pulling data from the database and populating the profiles

If you remember, in the first devlog I used hardcoded data to test the interface like so:

Storing data in code is not sustainable or maintainable, so in devlog 1.5 I have identified the most suitable database structure, created some tables, and filled them with test data. To populate the tables I generated dummy data using the Faker library which uses random Latin words to create sentences. This was the result for the Alter Profiles table:

First, let's delete the hardcoded data from the code. Wow, the user interface is looking so empty now!

I already implemented the basic code for processing alter data and displaying it on the page in devlog 1. However, I had to make some tweaks to it due to the nature of database queries.

Firstly, when loading Alter Profiles for the side menu, I'm only selecting their name and ID, without the other fields (description, history, etc). A common mistake beginner developers make in simple cases like this is retrieving the entire DB record. But the side menu does not need the extra information, and loading it in alongside the name would make the page slower!

You may also notice that I'm getting the names in alphabetical order - I thought this would look nicer on the sidebar than if the names were all random, and make it easier to navigate. I'm only getting the profiles that belong to the current user.

When I get the actual profile data, I retrieve it with its status and characteristics, which are stored in separate tables:

And here we go, the profile page now uses the data stored in the database!

New profile features

But this is all just using the the proof of concept profile fields I mocked up in devlog 1. In this devlog, I want to add NEW fields to allow the profile page to do more powerful things, and better integrate with the future features of Inner World and Front Decider (still looking for a better name for it 😩).

(By the way, I assigned the Ulysses profile to a different user for testing, so you won't see that profile in the sidebar from now on)

Alter origins

One new profile field I've been wanting to add is an alter's origins. Some of my alters split from trauma, others from loneliness, and others through being AuDHD. I created a new table called "Alter Origins" with an optional owner ID. This means that some origins are universally available to all users, while others can be created by users themselves to customize their profile. In this example, "stressgenic" is a custom origin my user (Test System) created.

To use this table, I need to connect it to the Alter Profiles table using a foreign key:

Now we can access it on the front end!

(It shows on the top line, highlighted red)

Side note: I had issues with most Tailwind v4 colors not working so I had to manually define the origin badge color classes based on the official Tailwind values 😓 I'm not sure how to fix it, I wanted to leverage Tailwind to allow users to select "custom colors" from the Tailwind palette... I'll look into it at another time.

Relationships

I wanted the ability to set up bidirectional relationships between alters and display them after the character traits area.

I created an Alter Relationships table with some relationships and their badge colors:

And then I created a pivot table where alter 2 is Alice, alter 3 is Amari, and alter 5 is Benji:

Now if we go to Alice's page, we will see:

And Amari's will show:

This feature took a long time to implement because I ran into some issues with the pivot table and model relationships. I'd be lying if I said I have a good grasp of Eloquent 😅

Alter categories

One last thing I want to add in this devlog is to add custom categories that the names in the sidebar could be sorted into, which would be helpful for systems with many alters (or those who want to store their alter data and OC data in one place but want to distinguish between them, like me).

I will add some default categories to the database - however, you will be able to add new custom categories to suit your needs. I also want each profile to have one OR MORE categories for flexible filtering. This means, annoyingly, that I have to tinker with yet another pivot table 😩

Here is my Alter Categories table. Like with origins and relationships, "owner_id" refers to the user who made the category, and NULL categories are available to all users.

The pivot table looks like any standard pivot table so I'll omit it for this feature. I've had enough of pivot tables. Luckily, I got the model relationships correct the first time 😎

And now, Alice's profile shows her categories under her relationships:

(And here are all the category badges so far)

But this isn't all! I want to be able to filter my profiles by category in the sidebar.

Let's create a drop down! I think this looks alright:

Now let's load the categories of our available profiles into the dropdown. For this, I will need to fetch the categories table when getting the profile names.

The dropdown code basically takes the array (list) of all profiles, compares each profile's category to the selected category, and adds them to the array of filtered profiles, then displays them. If the selected value is "-" it just displays the full list of profiles.

And here we go, our fragments are Alice and Colin:

I also wanted to add the ability to group profiles by their categories (e.g. grouping by Age will split the names in the side bar into "syskid" and "adult" boxes). But this devlog has gone on for quite a while, so I'll save that for another time ;)

What next?

I wanted to finish the whole Profile section and move on to the more exciting inner World and Front decider features, however the complexity of the profile section so far requires me to spend a few more devlogs on it, oops 😅 So here is what you can expect in the next few devlogs:

Rethink the User Interface of the Profile page (all these badge colors are getting messy! And is the current layout the best for displaying the data? Find out next on Dragon Ball Z!)

Add a way to create new profiles using the New Profile form

Add ability to edit the profile information and delete profiles

Do you have ideas on other fields and features I could add to SysNotes? Or maybe you have suggestions on how to clean up the UI? I'd love to hear your thoughts! Thanks for reading 🙌

#sysnotes devlog #devlog #plurality #plural system #sysblr #web dev #programming #coding

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