#can you tell I’m watching this as some kind of coping mechanism ???

[artinvain]

supernatural is interesting because the writers really did their research so the episodic lore and detective work is always really capturing - and you know what they did the best? subtle racism!! stealing lore from every culture while demonising the people who originated it. oh and the micro-agressions?? don’t get me started. but they also make america look like the no-man’s-land-facist-shit-bucket country it actually is. and I love a good stupid show I don’t need to focus on because it’s so expository.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil.

I know you are flooded with asks and this somehow became extremely long. Too long. “Why am I suddenly telling this poor man my life story?” too long. “I think I’d rather he work on the GO3 script than read this wild beast” too long. “He’s going to think you’re criminally dangerously insane” too long. If you never get to it, I’m good with never seeing a response from you. Maybe it’s better that way? Maybe an anon would have been nice here. But, it’s 2024, so I say “we ball.” It’s a privilege to be able to send this to you at all. You get a lot to this effect and I hope they give you good feels, so maybe what’s the harm, yeah? Because this is not an ask. This is a thank you letter.

First, thanks for reblogging my therapist post, I hope it amused you. I nearly sent you “How am i supposed to explain this to my therapist?!” But refrained. At that time.

So, therapy. What is therapy really? Well…

Things have been really rotten for as long as I can remember. Bad health, bad doctors, bad relationships, bad coping mechanisms, bad all kinds of things. (Yeah, bad is a weak and unhelpful word, my therapist reminds me, but we’re doing this.)

Well, things got even more really really rotten and BAD these last few years. Health declined further, coping mechanisms declined further and more intensely, packed up my life, applied for disability, moved back in with my parents across the country.

Then 4 years ago last week I watched my fiance die of a sudden heart attack. I was 29. Two years later my best friend died. Then last summer I sauntered vaguely into a cancer scare. Not long before an operation my cat who has been my companion through so much garbage died as well. I’m not entirely in the clear on the cancer scare front. All my attempts at going back to work, volunteering, going to grad school - they collapsed on me because I couldn’t get through this STUFF.

(Sometimes when I talk about this, when I tell people, I think “they are going to think you are a raging pathological liar.” Because I’m not sure I would believe someone if they told me all of this happened to them. In such a short time period. All before they were 35. And hell if that hasn’t been isolating. You know how it sounds? Lonely. And it is.)

I did the hypervigilant and sensation/experience chasing stage of PTSD. It got me in a lot of trouble in all kinds of ways. I had to do a lot of medical and psych advocating because things kept getting worse. That was exhausting. Then that peaked. I went into the thick of the “I feel absolutely nothing” stage for a long time. I didn’t feel fatigue or hunger or thirst. Not people, feelings, a reason. Not hope.

But of course, like seems be for a lot of us, I somehow found Good Omens at just the right time. I was a very “I’m so cool and intellectual I mostly consume non-fiction media” person for too long. Like, what? How is that even a real thing? And it wasn’t real. It was just part of this curated autism mask that I don’t think anyone really bought anyway.

I think I got to a point where I’d just had too much reality. I needed fantasy. I didn’t realize I always needed it. But I denied myself for too many odd and painful reasons. Maybe I thought it was an escape I didn’t deserve.

But as it turns out, it wasn’t an escape. I watched both seasons last fall, and then this light came on. I watched it again and again.

I came to tumblr because I needed more. I found this fandom. I stepped into this beautiful world of fanart and fanfiction and brain flexing meta writing and a sense of community and wonder that you and Terry created - that everyone involved in the show inflated - exploded in the right way - like fireworks if fireworks were some kind of autocatalytic reaction - a self perpetuating force.

It’s not a “saved my life” feeling. Not a “getting my life back” feeling. It’s been a “maybe it’s time for you to have the life you’ve always been denied - that you’ve denied yourself” feeling.

I’m creating. I’m not “great” yet. Not terribly “good” at all. Maybe “behind” as far as the “proper” timeline for starting. I know there isn’t one, not really, but boy does that society machine make ya feel like there is. And sure, I started and stopped a lot in the past. But the second it got hard I always gave up. I felt like if I didn’t get it “right” to begin with, then I just didn’t have it in me at all. But for once I’m really in it. I’m writing and trying to draw things that look less like fever dream five year old drawings. (Not that there’s anything wrong with those, is there? 🙃) I’m eating better. I’m sleeping better. I reach out to old friends more. I’ve made new friends who share this love of Good Omens.

My therapist has been floored by the change in me. After that first funny mini flop, he has been so encouraging about it. I saw him this week and I said “Maybe this is helping me get prepared to start living again. Maybe it’s a springboard.” And he honest to god said “But You ARE living. This is YOU LIVING. Why does it have to be a springboard? Why do you have to turn this into ‘work?’ Just let yourself have this for once in your life.”

But there were two more added elements that made it all work. And I can’t help but think this whole brainrot thing wouldn’t have happened without them. So many things just happened all at just the right time - a proper coincidence.

In all of the madness of the last few years I finally got the memo that I'm autistic. i figured I was for a while. But it finally sunk in for me and my docs and my people. So I’d been working on unpacking that. Grieving the life that could have been entirely different, shedding the mask. I let myself hyperfixate openly instead of hiding it and hating myself for “spiralling” or “obsessing” like others -!like ‘I’ always punished myself for before we knew that it was a trait and not a personality flaw.

Then over the last few months my therapist and I started trying this new exercise. One session he stopped me and said “in the last 20 minutes you have responded to what I’ve said with 9 ‘I knows.’” My response to that? “Ugh, I know.” So we started this “I know” swear jar type situation. Really, I’ve been afraid of not knowing. I couldn’t let myself “not know.” Because it meant I was “dumb.” I was just drowning for so long in guilt and self loathing for the “I knew better and screwed up anyway.” Or “I should’ve known better - I should know that by now.”

As it turns out, there’s a lot of things I don’t know. That I didn’t know. Things I will never know. And refusing to admit all of that kept me from learning a damn thing. Kept me from asking questions. Kept me from trying new things because it was scary to do something new - something unknown - and I "knew" how it would all turn out anyway. Kept me from connecting with people because it was painful or embarrassing when they knew things I didn’t and it seemed like I already should have. Kept me from getting better at making art, music, writing. Kept me from forgiving myself. Kept me from growing. And kept me from moving forward. Maybe not on. I don’t know if we ever “move on” from things. But we can move forward as we carry them. And as we do, the weight gets less. We’re able to carry it better. But only if we can admit that we don’t know how. Only if we don’t treat ourselves like this is something we do know or should know and we’re just failing because we’re less than. Not good enough. Not strong enough. Not deserving. We have to be able to say “I don’t know how to do this.” And then we can start looking for the answers. We can ask. We can learn.

I thought about the apple. Being able to tell the difference between good and evil. Aziraphale’s years and years of watching what he “knows” to be true be proven wrong. Crowley’s need to ask questions…

The simple and enormous gift of “Knowledge.” The “Knowledge” of the difference between Good and Evil. The “Knowledge” that can only be gained by realizing, accepting, admitting that there are things we don’t know. Asking the questions. Sometimes we get answers we don’t like. Sometimes the consequences of asking hurt us. And unless you want to stay in that painful place that painful knowledge got you, well, you’ve got to let yourself learn how to get out.

So all of this good? I never expected this. I never thought I deserved it. Joy and belonging and this sense that “Yeah, maybe things can get better. Maybe things can be good.” Because I said those things, not truly believing them, to the people I thought needed to hear it. But it couldn’t save them. It was hollow. The proof for us wasn’t really in our orbit or on our radar at the time. And now they’re gone.

People always say “it’s never too late.”

One of the people I lost said “it’s later than you think.”

I jokingly would respond “it’s already too late.”

It was for him in the end. For them. For some people I guess it really is. But maybe a lot of the “too late” people are there because they think “they know” that things will never be good for them. So they stop looking, they stop asking, stop finding. And eventually they just stop.

Then there came Crowley’s “It’s always too late.” The first time I heard it I thought “For sure, Crowley-cakes, I KNOW.”

But then…I just needed to rewatch the whole thing. And lines like that…familiar things…familiar themes…I was suddenly identifying with these characters. I suddenly saw myself. And the realization hit - I connected with something! Something new. And I FELT THAT. And that tiny little crack that made in the wall was just enough to start breaking it down. Yeah, when you start letting yourself feel after not feeling for so long, opening up to the good feelings means opening up to feelings and then the bad ones come out too. But when there IS good … it helps you balance. You can deal with the bad a little better because you’ve got the good thing to lean against when it gets too much. And now you’ve got feelings. You’ve got good and bad. You’ve got sticky foggy grey. You’ve got life.

Whew.

So, TLDR, thank you. From the bottom of my slowly healing heart, thank you.

And to sign off with some shits and giggles… I couldn’t find this in existence as a sticker so I had to custom order. Perhaps this will spread misery and panic among the humans of my city - or at least a malignant and creepy sense of unease.

Or maybe they’ll say “wtf” and go home and google it and they’ll fall into the Good Omens hole they never knew they needed too.

Thank you for this. I never quite know what to say to messages like this apart from I am really glad that it helps. (It becomes the weird extra piece that I worry about when writing season 3 -- hoping that it will be that thing again. Not just a story, but something that helps people feel and helps with healing and helps with love.)

[storiesforallfandoms]

roses are red ~ damon salvatore;the vampire diaries

word count: 2936

request?: yes!

@faithiegirl01​ : “Hi amor mio!! I’ve read though some of your other works and I absolutely love them. I was wondering if I could request a Hanahaki Disease fic with either Jasper hale, Damon Salvatore or possibly Steve Harrington? I’m just absolutely obsessed with these fics so so much right now. Useally I have a full blown summary to what I want with imagines, but this time I kinda just wanna let the artist do their thing. The only thing is that I don’t really like smut, but you can put it in if you want, I myself would just skip over that part. You don’t have to take this if you don’t want to, I just think it’d be a cute fic idea and that you’d write it very well.”

description: in which she develops a disease after realizing she’s in love with one of her best friends

pairing: damon salvatore x female!reader

warnings: swearing, mentions of a fatal sickness (Hanahaki Disease)

masterlist (one, two, three)

It was the way he looked at her; like he needed her more than the air he breathed. Like she was the most beautiful thing to ever walk the Earth. Like he wanted to worship the ground she walked on.

I wish he would look at me like that.

I don’t know exactly when I realized I had a crush on Damon. I had known him since he and Stefan moved to Mystic Falls. Of course, I thought he was attractive when I first met him, but I didn’t think of him in any sort of romantic way. At least, I didn’t think I did.

Until he told me he had feelings for Elena. Then, I started to have this bitter feeling towards Elena whenever she was around, especially when Damon was with her. It was like her very presence alone made me irritated and I couldn’t be around her for very long. Eventually, I was able to put two and two together to realize what was going on: I had fallen for the age old cliché of unrequited love for a friend who loved someone else.

It was so hard. I couldn’t just avoid Damon, he would know something was up. But watching him fawn over Elena when she was head over heels for his brother was extremely difficult.

Like right now, sitting at the bar in The Mystic Grill, watching Damon look at Elena and Stefan with this lovesick puppy look on his face. It was enough to make me want to order the strongest drink the bartender was allowed to give me.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” Damon said, finally tearing his eyes away from Elena and Stefan.

I rolled my eyes and muttered, “You have to get over her.”

He looked over at me. “What?”

I shook my head, realizing what I said would surely cause a fight. “Nothing.”

“No, tell me.” He didn’t sound mad, just genuinely curious. I could’ve made something up, or insisted it really was nothing. I could’ve easily avoided any sort of conflict.

But instead, I said, “You need to get over your feelings for Elena. It’s kind of sad to watch you pine over your brother’s girlfriend.”

The bartender passed us our drinks. I immediately downed the contents of mine, wincing at the bitter taste and burning feeling of the liquid running down my throat. Damon took a moment longer to drink his.

“You think I haven’t tried?” he asked. “To get over Elena? You think I want to feel this way about my brother’s girlfriend?”

“Drinking and having meaningless sex isn’t ‘getting over’ her,” I pointed out. “That’s just coping mechanisms. You need to actually move on.”

“I’m fucking trying,” he snapped. “But it feels impossible. She’s all I can think about. And she’s always at our place because of Stefan, which makes it worse.” He paused to take another sip from his drink. “Besides, it’s not like there’s anyone in this town that I would consider dating.”

His words felt like a knife through my chest. I could feel a lump forming in my throat, but I couldn’t let him see me cry. If that was how he felt, then fine. But it didn’t make his confession hurt me any less.

I ordered another strong drink before saying, “Well, maybe you should try at least. It’s annoying to watch you go after your brother’s girlfriend when she’ll never feel the same way for you.”

A tense silence fell over us. Damon downed the last of his drink before standing from his chair. He pulled some money from his wallet and threw it down onto the counter. I watched as he left the restaurant in a huff. Elena and Stefan shared a look before looking over at me, but I turned away before they could lock eyes with me. I had to admit, what I said was harsh. Maybe I shouldn’t have said it the way I did, but I just felt hurt. Not that he would know that, but my pain wasn’t making me think straight.

I took my drink and downed half of it in one mouthful again. The minute the bitter liquid was gone, I started to cough. I thought maybe it had gone down the wrong way, but then the coughing became harder until it felt like something was coming up in my throat. I quickly ran to the bathroom and collapsed next to the toilet just as something finally came up. I spit it into the toilet and sat back. I was absolutely shocked at what I had seen.

Several flower pedals floating in the water.

~~~~~~

A few days later, I was sat in my doctor’s office. After the first time at Mystic Grill, I had started coughing up more flower pedals. Even in a world that included vampires, werewolves, and witches, I had a feeling that throwing up flower pedals was not normal.

I thought my doctor would want to run some sort of tests to see what was going on, if he even believed me at all. I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t. I barely believed it and I was the one experiencing it. But when I told him what was going on, his face dropped. I suddenly felt very nervous by his reaction.

“Miss. (Y/L/N),” he said. “This is...very serious.”

“I kind of figured,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.

He didn’t seem to appreciate the joke. “(Y/N), this is an illness that’s still very new. We don’t know too much about it yet because it’s very rare.” I sat up a little straighter, my heart starting to pound. “What we do know is that it’s called the Hanahaki Disease. It was first noted in Japan, thus the name being a combination of two Japanese words. There’s not a lot known about how someone gets it, except the fact that unrequited love is involved.”

Are you fucking kidding me?! I’m throwing up flowers because of my crush on Damon?!

“So, what can be done?” I asked. “There has to be a cure or something discovered for this, right?”

The look the doctor gave me didn’t give me a lot of hope. “There’s been attempts at a surgical procedure that will remove the flowers from your respiratory track.”

“Attempts?” That doesn’t sound promising.

“Well, the procedure works. The thing is...it takes away your feelings for the person you have unrequited feelings for. Feelings you will never get back. Which may sound like a good thing, but that includes friendly feelings. With this surgery, you’ll just become apathetic towards the person you had feelings for.”

Okay, that was definitely less than ideal. I would love to lose these romantic feelings for Damon. It would make seeing him fawn over Elena a lot less hurtful. But, if it took away all feelings for Damon, including friendly feelings, then our friendship really would be over, and I didn’t want to lose him as a friend. That was the whole reason I hadn’t told him I liked him in the first place.

“That’s the only way to get rid of this?” I asked.

“The only other way is if the love is reciprocated, and I mean romantically not just in a friendship way.”

Well, that’s not happening.

“Can I think this over?”

The doctor gave me a look that I could only describe as pity. “You can, but try to come up with a decision soon. This illness is fatal if left for too long untreated.”

That should’ve been enough for me to agree to the surgery on the spot. My life was at risk so the solution would be a no brainer to anyone else. But there I was, days after my doctor’s visit, sat in my house with no decision having been made. My condition was getting worse. I could barley go a few minutes without coughing up a flower. I knew I must not have too long left before the fatality of the illness finally got me. Again, that should’ve been enough for any normal person to choose the surgery immediately. however, I couldn’t make that decision when I knew it would mean I’d lose Damon.

I had been holed up in my room and basically pushed my friends away. I told them I wasn’t feeling well, but I didn’t go into any specifics. They still reached out to check on me, but I didn’t respond much.

I hadn’t heard from Damon at all since that night at Mystic Grill. That was probably for the best. Talking to him right now, considering my condition, was probably a bad idea and I’d prefer him hating me if I died over him knowing I was dying because I had feelings for him.

I was in bed in the darkness of my room when I heard a knock at my front door. I ignored it, thinking it was a salesman or something, and figuring they’d just go away eventually. But, when I didn’t answer, there was another series of knocks, followed by the doorbell ringing repeatedly. I sighed, which turned into another coughing fit and a few bright red pedals landing on my floor. I groaned and reluctantly pulled myself out of bed. It seemed whoever was at my door was not leaving until somebody answered. Maybe if it was someone annoying I could just cough some flowers on them and scare them away.

But when I opened the door, it wasn’t a salesman on the other side.

It was Damon Salvatore.

“You look like shit,” he commented.

“Thanks,” I croaked, followed by another coughing fit.

Damon’s face suddenly became serious as he reached out for me. “Jesus, you really aren’t doing well.”

“No, I’m kinda dying,” I responded before I could stop myself.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.”

“No, Damon. I’m literally dying.”

I felt him tense. I started coughing again, this time actually coughing up a few flower pedals. I caught them in my hand before letting them flutter to the floor. Damon looked at them in a mixture of shock and confusion, before wrapping his arms around me and guiding me into my own house. I let him take me to my living room, and we both sat down on the couch. Damon took one of my blankets that I always left on the back of the couch and wrapped it around my shoulders.

“What did you do to make yourself start throwing up pedals and apparently be on the verge of dying?” he asked. He had one arm around me, and I let myself lean into him. I knew this was probably very bad for me, for my condition, but if I had little time left, I was going to allow myself to have this one moment with Damon.

“It’s some sort of new illness,” I said. “Something that starts with an H, a Japanese word I think the doctor said.”

“Geez, should I be worried about being so close to you then?”

I smiled. For the first time in many days, I was actually able to smile. “It’s not that kind of illness. The doctor said it...it stems from unrequited love.”

There was silence. I realized Damon had been running his hand idly up and down my arm. It felt nice. Despite having kept him away for so long, I was realizing now that I really did need to see him one last time. To just have one final moment of somewhat normalcy with him.

“So...you have feelings for someone...they don’t like you back...and now you’re dying?” Damon asked.

“Apparently so,” I responded. “It’s something rare, but it’s been happening.”

“Who would be stupid enough to not love you?”

I knew that shouldn’t have hurt me, but it did. It hurt because I knew he didn’t actually mean that. Not in the way I would’ve wanted him to. But I really, really wish he had meant it that way.

“Someone who is already in love with someone else.”

“Ah,” Damon said. “That’s...that’s rough.”

I nodded. “I guess you know how that feels.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I’m a vampire and can’t get these sorts of illnesses then.”

“Lucky bastard.”

We both started to laugh, until I started coughing again. This time, it was a lot harsher of a cough, and I coughed out more flowers than I had ever at this point. I hunched over as the flowers came up in my throat and fell onto the floor. My chest burned with every harsh cough, and part of me wondered if this was the end. Was I going to die next to Damon? The irony of that was not lost on me.

I felt his hand against my back as I finally stopped coughing. There was basically a bouquet of flowers at my feet now. It could’ve been beautiful if these plants weren’t the thing that was killing me.

Damon pulled me back so I was in his arms again. My eyes felt heavy suddenly, so I rested my head in the crook of his neck and let them close for a second.

“Can I tell you something?” he asked.

“Now is the time to,” I mumbled back. “Who knows how much longer I have left?”

I meant it as a joke, but I could tell he didn’t appreciate it as much as I wanted him to.

“I’ve never loved Elena.”

My eyes popped open and I quickly sat up to look at him. “What?!”

“Okay, I can’t say never,” he clarified. “I did have some feelings for her when I first met her, but then when she got with Stefan and...and when I met you...those feelings went away.”

“When you met me?” I asked. He nodded. “Damon...are you...are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

He wasn’t looking at me now. “Depends. What do you think I’m saying?”

“Are you trying to tell me that your feelings are for me, and not for Elena?”

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t have to. His body language said everything. Damon Salvatore loves me, not Elena Gilbert.

There was a million and one things running through my head. I had no idea how to even respond to that. I was sure this was all some sort of hallucination caused by the disease. Like I was getting to see the one thing I wanted more than anything before I died.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I asked. “Wait, no, more important question: why did you always act like you were so in love with Elena if you never were?”

“It felt easier than trying to admit to you that I had feelings for you,” he said. “I knew you never would’ve looked at me that way because you saw me as a friend. And Stefan had already clocked that I had feelings for Elena when I first met her, so I figured I would just lean into that until I could find someone else that captured my attention the way you did. But I couldn’t find anyone else, because there isn’t anyone else who makes me feel the way that you make me feel.”

He barely had the final word out before I was lunging at him, pressing my lips against his. It was a forward approach, I’ll admit, but I couldn’t stop myself. It was the words I had been waiting to hear from him for so long, and now that I was finally hearing them, it was like I didn’t have control of my body. I acted before my brain could process what we were doing. It took Damon by surprise, but it didn’t take him long to start kissing me back. He moved me so that I was actually sat on his lap, my legs on either side of his. His arms pulled me as close to him as I could get.

We kept kissing like that for so long that I didn’t even notice the heavy feeling on my chest had lifted, or the fact that I hadn’t been coughing up flowers anymore. I was so lost in Damon that I didn’t realize that the disease had been cured. I didn’t realize until Damon pulled away from our kiss and looked at me in shock. “Holy shit, you look so much better.”

“What?”

“You don’t look sick anymore.”

I stood quickly and rushed to the nearest mirror. He was right, I didn’t look as sickly anymore. And I felt like I could actually breathe again.

“Whoa, that happened fast,” I murmured to myself.

“How did it happen?” Damon asked, appearing behind me. “I thought it was an unrequited love thing?”

I turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. “Damon...do you really not know who I was talking about earlier? After I literally just threw myself at you on the couch?”

I could literally see the gears turning in his head until his eyes lit up. “Me?!”

I chuckled and walked towards him. I cupped his face in my hands and leaned upwards to kiss him again. “Yes, stupid. I was talking about you.”

“You almost died because of me?”

“Kind of, but also because I was too chicken to tell you how I felt. But I’m not sick anymore.”

“Thank God for that.”

He pulled me in for another kiss. I never wanted to stop kissing him. I had never felt so good in my entire life. I just wanted to pause in this moment and live it over and over and over again.

[audiblehush]

I know this isn’t really relevant to the recent promo we’ve gotten (which I’m still swooning over, for the record), but I’ve been thinking about how some people in this fandom have been fussing over Pen having a potential suitor (or suitorS, we don’t really know) this season, and I don’t understand their complaints, I guess?

… like, I’m pretty sure that it’s meant to MIRROR Season 1.

(…see what I did there? ;)

There are multiple ways in which Colin and Penelope’s stories / situations have mirrored the other. They are not perfect mirrors (that would be dull), but they ARE similar and I truly believe that it’s intentional to reinforce both Polin’s compatibility and ultimately their empathy for the other.

A few examples:

—

Colin: is viewed as the “one-dimensional” easy-going, un-serious, charming brother who never rocks the boat; never gets angry.

Pen: is viewed as a shy, quiet, harmless wallflower who never steps out of line and is kind of a doormat.

—

As a result of the above perceptions:

Colin: is desperate for something to fill his time and energy the way his brothers have something, SO he impulsively courts and proposes marriage to a girl he barely knows to feel needed and wanted in a way that makes him feel mature; and he gets the validation he seeks from Marina, as it suits her needs (I don’t mean that in a derogatory way, she genuinely needed him to be desperate for validation to get a quick marriage). A heady feeling, someone relying on you and telling you that you are desperately needed…

Penelope: is desperate to feel a part of the ton in any way she can, because her and her family are tolerated at best, and heavily criticized at worst. So rather than suffering through the season, crushed, and always on the sidelines against her will, after choosing to start LW —perhaps on a whim, perhaps it was discovered and encouraged by chance like in the books— she “chooses” to hug the wall and not be noticed… (not at all a coping mechanism and a fear of rejection, amirite??) …and she eventually gets the acceptance and validation she seeks by having the ton hang off her every word as LW…. Again, a heady thing for a lonely 17-18 year old who wants to be heard and who craves acceptance, however she can get it.

—

Penelope: has to watch the man she’s in love with, one of the few people who listens to her and who she shows aspects of her true, (sometimes cutting self) with, court and eventually propose to a girl she knows is actively manipulating him.

She then (quickly, imperfectly and messily) interferes to spare Colin from the plot… without his input (after a failed first attempt to appeal to him, in her defense… and then the time limit became a problem).

Colin: quickly and imperfectly interferes in Jack’s ruby scheme in order to fix his own rashness, but also to spare the Featherington family… (without their input, it must be noted, even though he says he does it for them).

…And now in season 3, Colin will need to watch as Pen attempts to attract suitors, possibly while he watches with feelings of jealously if she has some success (Edit: Though I doubt it will get all the way to an engagement; too redundant)

(And this is nothing but speculation, but I also wouldn’t be surprised if Colin either discovers something about one of the suitors, or about another plot entirely and is forced to make a difficult decision regarding it, that impacts Penelope).

—

Penelope: writes things that can have a negative impact on or hurt people, sometimes for her own own comfort (LW), even if it’s not intentional.

Colin: says and does things that hurt others or that are misleading / obliviously harmful, sometimes for his own comfort (avoiding the needling of those men at the end of S2), even if it’s not intentional.

—

Penelope: has self esteem that has been in the TRASH since the beginning of the series - this poor girl hates herself, and has had it reinforced often (and likely from a young age) that her thoughts and opinions aren’t worth hearing, and that she is never enough (and is one of a few reasons why I find the “she wanted Colin for herself!” takes about the end of S1 pretty laughable)… so she hides behind LW. Colin is one of the only people she’s hinted to that she can be biting (Eloise gets glimpses of it), and I think the ONLY one she has hinted at that she has “grand dreams”

Colin: ALSO has self esteem that is pretty low, desperately seeking something that he thinks will make him feel whole and complete, the forgotten middle child (same, bro…), and he masks this uncertainty by flaunting a fake confidence and hiding behind his hobbies and being what everyone wants him to be… also he he can keep people from looking deeper… while simultaneously desperate to be seen by those around him. Pen is the only person he’s really hinted at that he’s unhappy when they discuss purpose.

—

EDIT: How could I forget?! BOTH are the third children in their family. Colin is the forgotten middle child, and Pen is the youngest, but both are criticized by their acting heads of their household (Anthony for Colin, Portia for Penelope), and criticized by their siblings. Penelope’s sisters brutally mock her often: her weight, her skin, her letter-writing, etc. Colin’s siblings clearly mean to just tease him, but it’s obvious how much their lack of interest in him as a person hurts him and makes him feel invisible and unwanted (my poor boy 🥺…)

—

Mirrors, mirrors, and more mirrors. Sometimes they are funhouse mirrors, the situations aren’t ever exact, there are nuances and specific context to each, but imo the similarities are very intentional.

The show is going out of its way to put these characters on more equal footing, and to have each of them make blunders in their lives and in the lives of others, knocked off their respective pedestals, to set them up to be like “wow, I get it, I get YOU and I choose YOU, with all the highs and all the lows” … and I LOVE it!! 🥹

People in this fandom tend to relate to either Penelope, Colin, (or sometimes both), and that’s awesome… but that doesn’t mean they don’t each have flaws. It also doesn’t have to become a “who hurt who more, who is more right?” - I am so uninterested in that: pain isn’t a competition.

What I AM interested and invested in is their growth, seperetly and together, and the removal of their masks to truly see and accept the other.

So yeah, y’all. It’s called a parallel, and I really hope we get loads of them in S3. 🥰

I honestly really welcome conversation and thoughts about this; I’m pretty new to the fandom, but unfortunately I have seen a lot of people (on tumblr in particular) be very “holier than thou” if they don’t agree on an interpretation, and it makes the fandom seem very unwelcoming and makes me nervous to even post things, which is pretty ridiculous. :/

Fandom gonna fandom, I guess. 🤷‍♀️ I just really love this show and this pairing and I’m dying for S3.

[chaoticunicornsworld]

about Neil Newbon fandom

My native language is not English so if you find grammar error please forgive me.

So here is the thing about Neil Newbon. He is a real person in a real world with a real life. And he works as an actor/artist. For money. Also, I can imagine he is working for fun, but first, for money. His work contains impersonations of fictional character's voices and movements. And also it contains keeping touch with fans. When he streams he is not your friend or boyfriend and he is not an object, he is working. You don’t know shit about him, you just collect the crumbs of his public persona. And as somebody who works in customer service i can tell, it can be different from the real person. I can be flirtatious if it serves the cause, even if I don’t exactly like the people in front of me. I can smile, I can be kind and helpful, I can listen, I can make them seen. And the next moment I can do the same with the next customer. And It's not a lie it’s not manipulating, I just use my customer service persona. And sometimes the stories what i hear can touch me. It is a tiring mental work, it can be overwhelming sometimes as well. So when you buy his prints or cameos, you don’t buy him, or his friendship. You just buy a piece of art, and you can think you buy to be seen for a moment. But if you have to buy to be seen by someone, better find a counselor or a therapist as he always suggests in those videos. If you play BG3, and romance Astarion, there is a scene where he tells you his favorite lines, and at some point he tells you „I love you”. And if you choose „it is to soon” he tells you it can be true if only for this night. That’s what you get from Neil, his attention for that moment. If you watch his streams you can notice people pay to write messages that can be mentioned by him. That’s working for money. Even, if he enjoy it. And I’m not against supporting his work, but please don’t use him as a therapist, or sex object. 

Also about the thirst. I’m a fully functioning woman, so I’m not denying that he is attractive and sexy, and the edits on tiktok about him can be really dirty. I feel ashamed when I see them even if they can affect me. Again, those pictures and videos are not him, those are his roles. Even if they are from interviews, or from public events. Those are the characters played by Neil. (And yes, there can be a character for Neil Newbon as a public person.) Not him. Please try to contain yourself, don’t embarrass yourself and don't objectify him, or anyone else. It’s humiliating. You can bring back the energy to your real life with your real partner, it could make your relationship better. Be aware, what you see isn't Neil, it is his art. How would you feel if somebody used a piece of art from you to look at you as a sex object? How would your partner feel about it? What do you think, how his wife feels about it? Or how will his daughter feel when she sees them?

And last. If you claim you “Love him” and then feel happy about that made up scenario as he is single, you don’t know about love at all. First of all, how could you love somebody you don’t know? What do you love about him? I can tell you, you love your imaginations about him. And it’s a form of avoiding real relationships when you love fictional and/or unavailable persons. You don’t have to face real emotions, if you chose that path. But it is not real. It’s a maladaptive coping mechanism. But If we accept theoretically that you “Love him”, and you tell you are happy because his marriage ended and he is single, that also isn’t love. It’s more like possessing. (And I can’t even tell if it’s true or just made up by some twisted mind.) Do you really think love means being happy for someone being unhappy? Do you really think if he is single then a person like you, with your mindset can be a real pair for him? Keep your dignity please, and let the real person keep his boundaries.

[herowithbadpublicity]

Who is Hal, really?

Like, we see so many different versions of him. We’re introduced to this awkward, neurotic, definitely not Mitchell, vampire in season 4. Oh cool, he has these friends he’s been with for years, that’s great!

Hal literally kept Leo chained up with the sole purpose to watch him kill people (and make money, as he mentions betting on the fight). This was actually in a prequel clip, not in the show - if you saw the clip, Hal and Leo’s relationship dynamic completely changes when we see them on screen together for the first time.

Throughout the show, Hal implores people to be his keeper, to watch him and make sure he doesn’t commit anymore sins. First Leo. In some ways, this is extremely cowardly - Hal puts the responsibility on others. If his inhibitions drop and he’s placed in just the right situation, he does awful things and can say “oh they didn’t watch me close enough”. I’m surprised Leo kept his promise - if I got free, the guy who initially kidnapped me would be getting these hands.

I really really like Hal and Annie’s dynamic. She is so opposite of him, and from the very beginning you see his discomfort. Then, when Kirby shows up, we get a scene where Hal wants to confess his sins. Part of it is because he would rather she hear it from him, but another part is something Hal does frequently - burden others with keeping him clean.

Who is Hal though? There are 3 parts of Hal. Of course there’s the awful part, that killed Cutler’s wife and who is 100% capable of becoming a genocidal dictator. Then there’s the part we see most of the time. Seemingly harmless vampire with obsessive compulsive tendencies, endearing in some way and obviously trying his best to stay out of trouble. But there’s this other part, that we only see a few times. It’s when the two overlap. There’s some glimpse of it with his prequel - he’s a “slavemaster” but he’s hesitant and ashamed, and wants to be someone else. We also know that this is the in between, as he references the cycles of bad and good Hal.

I think, living for over 500 years, Hal has had to develop a way to cope with everything he has done. There are old ones like Mr Snow who seem chill and totally fine with being menaces to society. But we SEE Hal is capable of acting without malice, of choosing to do things to keep others safe.

I propose then, that Hal, upon becoming a vampire and murdering people left and right, had at one point realized his psyche could not manage and be okay with it all. So, what better way to cope then to organize who you are. Hal is neurotic. He creates a line - bad Hal and kind Hal. It becomes black and white for him - he either goes full villain, or he is safe. He treats the bad part as another being, trying to separate his sins from who he is as a person. I suppose we can also see it as vampire Hal and Vampire Hal.

I struggle at times when trying to figure out who Hal is for real. Is this the true him, proper, neurotic, judgemental. How do these traits present in Vampire Hal. He dresses classy, he manipulates, and he harms. The judgement in this case leads to murder. Try to imagine Hal, the one awkwardly holding Eve, and when he turns Cutler. How can one man behave so contrastingly? The blood eases the anxiety and the pressure. Hal can let go, fall into habits. Without blood, he has to always be mindful.

So, other than being a story telling device; I see the Jekyll and Hyde aspect of him being a coping mechanism. He either fights the urges and the habits, vampire Hal who keeps a schedule, or, he goes full Vampire.

[idontknowreallywhy]

Estera - Ch 21 - Consult

The only thing more evil than an evil cliff-hangar is not resolving it in any way in the next chapter.

A little Sky and Stars though? That would be good wouldn’t it?

What went before

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

John, however, had not been keen.

When Scott had mentioned to him that he’d like to call in on Estera whilst they were in the UK for the TI meeting the following day there had been… a tension.

He hadn’t said anything and appeared content to go along with the plan. But the best part of 3 decades experience of big-brothering told Scott that John was on edge at dinner. Then he’d come back from an evening sea swim with Gordon to find his two nearest brothers deep in conversation in the kitchen. John was pacing and gesticulating, Virgil using the firm, reassuring voice Scott recognised as the one he tended to use on him when he was about to fly off the handle.

Scott backed quickly back around the corner, some instinct telling him his presence would not improve the situation. A frustrated exclamation floated around the corner.

“How can you be so calm? I can’t bear to… we can’t afford to lose him again.”

A reassuring rumble, too quiet for him to hear.

“We don’t know that. What if she triggers another episode? What if he’s rushing in to something not thinking straight and…”

The Virgil rumble interrupted slightly more abruptly.

John trusted Scott’s judgment. From rescue strategy to tactics for managing the TI Board to wrangling The Tinies. Even when they disagreed on the best approach, his brother would advise but in general fall in with Scott’s instinct (whilst making contingency plans in the background of course). In turn, Scott took John’s advice seriously and more often than not adjusted to fit in with it. That’s how it worked, it was how they worked together.

John trusted him to make a good call in everything except, it turned out, in any kind of decision relation to Scott’s own welfare. The fact he could immediately think of five or six reasons that might justify his brother’s view on that point did not prevent the painful knot of hurt and defensiveness forming in Scott’s gut.

He was about to stride around the corner to tell his brother exactly what he thought when a hand rested firmly on his shoulder and Gordon looked up at him, absolute seriousness in his gaze, and slightly shook his head. His little brother then adopted a casual expression and strolled into the kitchen.

“Interesting fact - if trigger avoidance was a good coping mechanism I’d never have set foot in Thunderbird Four.”

The unmistakable sound of the fridge opening and jars being rattled around muffled whatever responses John and Virgil were making and Scott’s heart clenched at the light hearted delivery of such a heavy reminder that his little brother knew the darkness too. Then the thump of the fridge door and click-hiss of ring pull before:

“I’m just saying, oh beloved, ancient and immensely wise bros of mine, that the Old Man is probably aware of what his triggers are and unless she adopted a whole new therapeutic approach with me, Patricia will have never suggested it was a good idea to actively avoid them forever.”

There was a silence.

His very much beloved, much-older-and-definitely-wiser-than-Scott-usually-acknowledged little brother had strolled back round the corner and saluted him before counting down from 5 with his fingers and then nodding in the direction of the kitchen again.

So Scott had gone with the flow and trying to feign the same level of casual, wandered into the kitchen with a cheerful “evening all”. He pretended not to notice the flickers of awkwardness on both faces and made a beeline for the coffee machine. “Beverage?”

“It’s 10pm”

“It’s 10am somewhere, surely?” John raised an eyebrow. “Fine, just for me then.” Scott pressed the button and watched the coffee flow into the cup as he collected his thoughts and tried to ignore the silent conversation going on behind him. He carefully added the tiniest splash of cold water before taking a sip and turning back to them:

“So, I was thinking while we’re in London there might be a good moment for me to pop in on Patricia if she’s got a slot free.”

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

The receptionist looked up and gave a dashing smile as Scott paced back past him for the umpteenth time.

“Not long now, sir. Might I get you another hot drink?”

“Please.”

“Coffee extra strong, right?”

Scott inclined his head with a smile.

John had a theory about Scott and caffeine, apparently, he’d said as much on the flight over but hadn’t let on what it was yet. The trip over in Tracy Two had been slower than Scott would have preferred but John’s quiet suggestion that he’d prefer to use the jet rather than One - just in case Scott wanted him to pilot back - seemed a reasonable compromise.

It was easier to talk in TT than in One, and so they did, off and on. Mostly TI related or brothers related. But comfortable. John seemed relieved that Scott was going to talk his idea through with someone who knew what they were talking about and for the moment, that was enough.

Scott hadn’t made any plans though, he didn’t want to set something up and then cancel. He just had to hope she would be available when… if… he asked. If not, there could be another day. It didn’t always have to be now or never…

He hadn’t noticed the door opening.

“Tracy?”

Here goes.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

John was waiting outside with the fast-becoming-traditional take away coffees. Scott raised his cup in salute and nodded his thanks as they wandered over the crossing to the park and grabbed a bench overlooking the water.

“How was it?”

“Different.”

“How so?”

“Normally I crawl in there a bit of a wreck. It was interesting to… not.”

“A positive kind of different then?”

“Mmm.” Scott sighed and looked up at his brother who was regarding him with tangible patience. “So, do you want a blow by blow account or the executive summary?”

“Whatever you want to give me.”

Scott leaned back on the bench and watched a couple of ducks swoop down and land on the pond, one gliding in smooth as silk, the other making a complete hash of it and sending up a tidal wave of spray. He could almost sense the first bird’s eye roll.

“We spent” he checked his watch and his eyes widened in surprise “nearly 75 minutes discussing my known triggers and how I approach each of them. Most I don’t actively avoid and can mostly just ride it out if they turn up… dogs, snow, rust…”

“Rust? I didn’t know about that one.”

“It doesn’t feature much. Hooray for cahelium, I guess?”

“And a strict maintenance schedule.”

“Indeed. The other kind, like needles or being stuck in the infirmary or, you know, ‘having malaria’” Scott added air quotes to try to lighten that one “I try to avoid but often don’t have a lot of choice so it is what it is but I do find them… difficult to manage.”

He sipped his coffee and tried not to think about how difficult.

“I understand. So… which is the girl?”

“I don’t know yet that Estera” he placed a subtle emphasis on her name “is either. It might just have been the conversation we had.”

“Does that make a difference?”

“I guess not. If we meet, it will probably come up at some point. It could happen again. And then maybe you and the others would have to… help… me. Again.”

He sighed.

“Is it worth it, Scott?”

Scott reached out and took John’s hand from where it rested on the bench between them.

“You’re always looking out for me John, I know that. And I do appreciate it. I know you’d rather I didn’t take so many risks and I guess it would be easier on you all if I just moved on and didn’t pursue this friendship. But… I think I have to try? I want to try. I think it might be good for me to try, even if it does end up going wrong. Can you understand that?”

John squeezed Scott’s fingers between his own and nodded. No words were necessary.

Scott blinked rapidly and looked away. A pair of dogs were chasing each other’s tails in the distance, too far away to hear. He breathed out slowly and pondered the fact that yet again he’d felt able to share 90% of the volume of information with his brother but not the bit that was nagging at him most insistently.

Patricia never told him what to do, that wasn’t how it worked. No doubt she’d had hundreds of ex-military clients just desperately wanting someone in authority to give them a list of orders to follow. Not that Scott had ever been particularly good at unquestioningly complying with directions… but sometimes an uncomplicated “how to” crib-sheet would be really welcome.

Instead, when they had occasion to discuss a decision with which he was faced, she might give some limited general information, but mostly invited him to use his own logic to work through likely outcomes, suggested some others. She took no crap and often bluntly called him out on his (usually negative) assumptions and thought patterns. Sometimes he’d go away and think, other times he’d come to a decision then and there but she’d never express an opinion on whether she thought it was the right one. He’d tried to read her expression so many times but it was always impenetrable. She never told him what to do or not to do. That wasn’t how it worked.

Today for the first time in nearly ten years she’d broken that rule. As he’d put his hand on the door handle and turned back to express his thanks as always she had looked up from her notes and frowned ever so slightly at him:

“One more thing. You might find that emotions run particularly high to start with, it might be a good idea to bear that in mind.”

Scott had apparently failed to hide his lack of comprehension as to her point because with the faintest hint of an eye-roll, Patricia clarified:

“For heaven’s sake, Tracy… don’t sleep with her.”

In response to which he’d done a stellar impression of a goldfish, nodded and hurriedly backed out of the room.

Given her speciality, they’d never had cause to discuss that annoyingly persistent facet of his public reputation that refused to die no matter how unjust it might be (or how many articles EOS tampered with). It wasn’t particularly important what his trauma therapist thought about it anyway, it just wasn’t relevant and so it didn’t come up. But… surely after all these years, she knew him better than that? He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or outraged, settling in the end for confused. He hadn’t been thinking of Estera in that way, not more than a fleeting, barely conscious acknowledgment she was a woman with features he generally found attractive. Anyway, given the memories he was struggling with, thankfully false but still horribly potent, that was not a headspace he was going anywhere near.

And given the look on John’s face right now… he was going have to make that really clear before anyone got overexcited.

✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨✨

[strawberry-cowmilk]

I posted something like this for Asmo before, so why not do the same for other characters.

it makes me feel better

-> simeon x mc

mc's gender is not mentioned, not proof read

a/n: I'm not very confident in my ability to write for Simeon, so I hope this is still okay and he's not ooc or something.

content warnings: lesson 5/6/24 spoilers, mild strong language, bottling feelings up, overworking, celestial war

-----

It’s lonely up here, ever since that fateful day. Actually, it probably was already lonely before. Simeon cared about the former angels a lot, especially Lucifer. They were a family. Simeon wanted to be Lucifer’s dearest friend, but he always seemed to be busy. Or did he just not care about Simeon the way he cared about him? At least he had somebody to talk to, right? 

The day it began, Simeon actually didn’t want to fight. Surely there would have been a better way out of that situation than to spill blood, but apparently the other angels didn’t share this mindset. He remembers that moment like it was yesterday: the moment he saw all seven of them fall from grace. Simeon tried to reach out to them, but it all happened so fast. He couldn’t save anyone. All he could do is watch as these seven former angels got smaller and smaller in his field of vision.

You know, it’s funny how Michael still loves Lucifer after what happened. He keeps a whole collection of the now-demon’s old possessions, and talks about him a lot. Why? Michael played a big role in the whole war, and the reason the Celestial Realm lost seven great angels. Sometimes, Simeon finds himself wondering why he even works for such a hypocrite, and why the younger angels admire this dude so much. To Simeon, Lucifer and his brothers are way more admirable, whether they are demons or angels. That’s why he writes books about them. Or is it because he’s trying to distract himself from the loss? But none of that matters now! The prince of the Devildom announced a new exchange program, and Simeon has been chosen as a candidate. Finally he gets to see them again.

But that doesn’t take away from the pain and loneliness. Some days, Simeon feels extra shitty, and some days he feels okay. But, he has a child to look after. What kind of guardian neglects a child for some ‘self-care’? Also, said child wouldn’t expect his caretaker to harbor such dark feelings. So, guess it’s a secret now.

...

You were doing some homework in the RAD library when Luke came to you. ‘Mc, I need your help.’ the angel said as he sat on the empty chair next to you. You turned your attention away from your book to face him. You assumed Luke was having some trouble with school work, or maybe Mammon was teasing him too much by calling him a chihuahua. You never expected to be met by this response after you asked him what’s wrong. ‘It’s Simeon, he’s doing too much work around Purgatory Hall and I can tell he’s sad.’ That’s certainly weird. Simeon doesn’t seem like the type to be sad for no reason. ‘What kind of work does he do?’ Could he be using the work as a coping mechanism. ‘Well, it started out as just doing all the laundry and cooking but recently...’ Luke paused for a while. ‘He’s been going overboard taking care of people! Just yesterday, Simeon made me some new clothes and offered to read a bedtime story! I mean it’s nice, but this usually happens only on special occasions.’ You closed your book and stuffed it in your bag. Something is definitely going on. ‘Thank you, Luke. I’ll go check on him right away.’

When you went to Purgatory Hall, Simeon wasn’t there. Luckily Solomon was, he told you the angel went to the House of Lamentation. It took you a good ten minutes to find him, planting flowers in the garden. Upon having spotted you, Simeon flashed you a smile. You waved back meekly, you couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under his eyes. 

‘Simeon, what are you doing here?’

‘Ah, Lucifer said this garden is a mess. So, I’m here to clean it up for you.’ 

‘But, he didn’t tell you to clean it up right?’

‘No, he said he was going to do it himself later but I wanted to save him the trouble...’ 

Simeon muttered something you couldn’t quite hear after that. You leaned in a little closer to him. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’ The angel briefly closed his eyes and exhaled. ‘I said he’s already so busy, he needs more free time to spend with his family.’ This seems like a good moment to bring up what Luke told you. 

‘Hey, Luke told me something’s going on, and I think he’s right.’ You placed a hand on his tense shoulder. ‘Do you want to talk about it?’ Simeon placed one of his hands over yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. ‘No, if you don’t mind. I’m sorry.’ he sighed. ‘It’s just... I take care of others when I don’t know what to do with myself.’ Your chest ached for him, whatever is bothering him must be messing him up a lot. You tried to comfort him to the best of your abilities. ‘You know, it’s okay to be a little less selfless sometimes.’ You showed him a sympathetic smile. ‘Everyone admires the things you do for us, and we want you to be okay in return. Plus, you’ll never be alone because we love you.’ Simeon looked down while squeezing your hand a little harder before his shoulders relaxed a bit. ‘Mc, thank you.’ the angel pulled you closer to his side, leaning against you a bit. 

‘No problem, but now you need to go to sleep.’

‘...Okay, then.’

[nerves-nebula]

Idk about your intentions, and feel free to ignore me if I’m wrong, but Mikey sounds like a maladaptive daydreamer lol.

Just some background, maladaptive daydreamers use these huge fictional worlds called paracosms to escape reality. Some people do it because of anxiety or stress, but some do it as like a coping mechanism (which is how I’d see Mikey doing it based on your dissociation post) People with maladaptive daydreaming can stim while doing it, like rocking back and forth, pacing, etc, but some can master the art of being able to sit still and just daydream whenever. There’s almost an addictive aspect to it, and a lot of daydreamers have to take adhd or anxiety meds to shake it

Would Mikey stim at first but learn to stay still after Splinter lectured him too many times? Would his paracosm be the book that he’s writing about killing splinter? Idk feel free to look at this like I’m crazy but this subject is very close to my heart as I’m a daydreamer myself.

OK SO like. I don't know. and I don't know if Mikey has maladaptive daydreaming for a specific reason.

That being that I'm basing him on myself. I spent a lot (AND I DO MEAN A LOT) of my time in my head as a kid. I don't really know what a paracosm is so I'm not sure if I was exploring within them. but there are huge chunks of my childhood i really only remember via the emotional exploration I was doing inside these fictional worlds. Like most of puberty for me was just imagining gay fictional gods and forbidden love and abuse and violence and at all that. and it's hard for me to tell if that was a bad thing because it's linked to a very integral part of my personality- that being the desire to tell and experience stories.

I was always dragging around paper and pencils to draw these imagined worlds. But i was also often just sitting with my eyes closed (or sometimes opened, but closed if I wanted to really focus)

if I was painfully bored, or very anxious (which happened often, basically any time i was outside the house or not watching tv or playing a game) I would do this. If I was stuck in a car or a room while my siblings were fighting violently, I would force myself to try to only think about my characters. If the talk radio host was getting on my nerves I would try to drown him out by thinking about my characters going through their worlds and getting in fights and having sex and all that stuff.

this got even better (or worse, considering how you think of it) once I got earbuds/headphones and access to my cousins old ipod. I was finally able to fully block out the world and only, ONLY ever think of my stories. just how I'd always wanted.

and sure, I was always kind of spacey, but even when I wasn't thinking of stories and art I was bad at paying attention the way adults liked. I think adults liked me more when I was just sitting there thinking anyway, instead of being hyper and then having an emotional breakdown when i realize they thought I was annoying.

There was a particularly vibrant time for daydreaming around puberty where i had dozens if not around a hundred different intricate stories that I started to overlap, just because. And I'd go through them over and over, adding or changing little things, making up reasons that the characters would all end up living in the same bunker or fighting the same enemy. making up reasons for the god of war and his little lamb prince to be torn apart. making up reasons for them to attack each other. then forcing them back together through all the trauma.

and recalling these spaces makes me kind of shiver because they're almost like real memories to me. I remember thinking of these scenarios more than I remember my real life around 11-12 years old. And i think that's largely because after I got my blackbelt at around 11 years old, my parents let me quit karate, and didn't force me to do any more sports or anything. So for the most part I legit never left the house. My entire life was in these stories and in my art.

I really only stopped doing this once I got sent off to high school at around 13-14 and was basically FORCED to participate in the real world more.

but I did that all on purpose. i was bored, and i hated other kids because they never clicked with me. and it never seemed to interrupt my life in a way that my parents noticed or cared about. in fact it was the only thing that kept me from being actively suicidal for a while there!

so like. i don't know man. i don't know.

[deancasbigbang]

Title: You will greet yourself arriving

Author: an_ardent_rain

Artist: Corvu

Rating: Mature

Pairings: undefined

Length: 25000

Warnings: discussion and depiction of alcoholism

Tags: Case fic, domesticity, fake relationship, getting together, healing, post-canon, fix-it, alcohol use disorder

Posting Date: October 27, 2023

Summary: When a ghost is causing trouble in a wealthy suburban neighborhood, the Winchester’s are asked to investigate. Their cover: Dean and Cas are a couple just moving in. Dean’s fine with this, despite things being awkward between him and Cas since that big speech as he was dying, confessing his love. And despite all the troubles Cas has had since coming back human. And the struggle to deal with his preferred coping mechanism of heavy drinking now that his liver is no longer divinely inspired. And, oh yeah, there’s the tiny fact that Dean loves him too. Sam is convinced that the case will give the two a chance to talk and fix things, but with their track record of poor communication, Dean’s worried it’ll only make things worse. Some things are worth it, though, and when the case turns out to be nothing but a milk run, there’s no excuse left for them to keep ignoring the tension between them. (Based on the X-Files ep “Arcadia”)

Excerpt: “You can still play your character,” Jack assures him.  “I know you were practicing.” “Practicing.”  Sam’s eyebrows shoot up.  “What the hell does that mean, Dean?” “Watching several episodes of the early 2000s era show Desperate Housewives,” Jack says.  “And a telenovela.  And the Dr. Sexy episode where—” “I’m a professional,” Dean says.  He walks from the foyer into the kitchen off to the right.  He looks over his shoulder at the others and gives them a shit-eating grin.  “I’m always prepared.” Jack and Sam are talking, but Dean ignores them.  He’s not about to stand there and be insulted for his television choices.  He starts opening the cabinets and looking around at what’s been left.  Jody’s friend Marlene isn’t living there, but she left enough for it to be habitable, and apparently her son was living there for awhile.  There’s a few dishes, a toaster, something Dean recognizes from YouTube rabbit holes as a sous vide machine, and an entire corner dedicated to coffee-making.  He whistles.  “Looks like Marlene was a coffee snob,” he says, fiddling with the switch on the electric kettle.   “Well you’re welcome to use anything here, she said,” Sam tells him, coming into the kitchen trailed by Cas and Jack.  “Electricity’s on, so is wi-fi, some streaming services I think, and the HOA dues are paid.” “What’s a fucking HOA?” Dean asks, bending down to look through the cabinets.  This Marlene definitely seems like the kind of well-off to have some Le Creuset.  “Don’t they measure the blades of grass in your lawn and have stupid rules about how you can decorate?” “It’s the homeowners’ association, Dean,” Cas says, sounding snooty as hell about it and staring up at the top of the cabinets like he’s trying to smite them.  There’s a dried piece of vine, probably from a plant that used to be there that no one bothered to clean up, which apparently offends Cas somehow judging by his squinty eyed frown about it. Dean opens his mouth to snark back when Sam interrupts.  He prefaces this interruption with a loud, put-upon sigh, which in Dean’s opinion is just fucking overkill.  “All the rules and regulations are in the stuff Jody forwarded to us, okay?  Solve the case quickly and I doubt you’ll be here long enough for it to matter.” “I’m willing to lick some boots, Sam—” “Dean—” “But those assholes better not say a damn thing about Baby.”  He stands up from his search of the cabinets, his bad knee twinging.  He points at his brother.  “That’s non-negotiable.” “I”m pretty sure the only parking regulation is no street parking,” Sam says. “Street parking?  She’s a damn lady, Sam, I’m not—” “Cas.”  Sam sighs again and folds his arms over his chest.  “Just make sure you know the rules, okay?  And try to keep Dean from doing anything that will cause obvious problems

DCBB 2023 Posting Schedule

[sugdenlovesdingle]

Here it FINALLY is Tarlos @flufftober day 5: ... +1

this is soooo late and I rewrote it sooo many times and I'm soooo behind on flufftober… but life™ got in the way - you know how it is. I'm going to try get back on schedule over the weekend!

Under Arrest (AO3)

5 times Carlos had to arrest a member of the 126 + 1 time he got arrested himself

---

1 TK

“Reyes, I’ve got one more in holding from the bar fight, can you process him and get rid of him?”

“You mean let him sleep it off in the drunk tank?” Carlos asked his coworker. He hated the overnight shifts on weekends. They were always filled with people getting drunk and doing stupid shit.

“Nope. He’s sober.”

“What? Did you pick him up by accident?”

“Nope. According to the staff he’s the one that started it all.”

“Why would anyone pick a fight in a bar while sober?”

“I don’t know man, ask him yourself, I put him by your desk.” Jackson said and handed him a tablet. “Have fun. I’m taking my break now.” He said and walked away

“Yeah, thanks…” Carlos mumbled and pulled up the arrest record. “Hey are you sure this name is correct?” he called out to Jackson who was on his way to the coffee machine.

“Yeah, it’s what’s on his ID.” He shrugged. “Why?”

“No reason… just… an unusual name I guess.”

“Ah yeah the double name. It’s common in Europe. My wife is from France. Her brother’s name is Jean Pierre.”

Carlos nodded.

“Well… I’ll go process Tyler Kennedy then…” Carlos said and went to pick up TK’s personal belongings before making his way over to his desk.

He took a moment to compose himself. He was a professional, he could do this. He could process the guy he’d hooked up with a few times. No big deal. It’s not like they were a couple. TK had made it perfectly clear he wasn’t interested in that.

He dropped the bag with TK’s phone and wallet on the desk next to his face, making the other man look up.

He had a split lip and was holding an ice pack to the side of his face. Carlos suspected someone had taken pity on him and given him the ice pack as well as some range of motion by cuffing his hands together instead of to the side of Carlos’ desk.

“Hello TK. Or should I say Tyler Kennedy?”

TK groaned.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Austin is a small town, TK. If you didn’t want me to know your full name you shouldn’t have gotten yourself arrested. Want to tell me what happened?”

“Not particularly.” TK mumbled. “Isn’t you processing me some kind of conflict of interest?”

“Why would it be? It’s not like we are anything to each other, are we?” Carlos said, doing his best to stay professional and not do something stupid like wrapping TK up in a hug.

TK stared at him for a moment before, reluctantly, starting to explain what he’d done to end up handcuffed at the police station and Carlos began to understand the mystery that was TK Strand a little more.

He tapped his tablet to pull up the right form and made TK sign for his belongings before taking off the handcuffs.

“You’re sober, nobody is pressing charges… so you’re free to go.” He said and watched TK gather his phone, keys, and wallet.

“I’ll see you around.” TK mumbled.

“Yeah. Hopefully not like this. Please get some better coping mechanisms."

---

2 Owen

“Of course sir, we take this kind of thing very seriously.” Carlos heard one of his coworkers say as he walked back into the precinct after his lunch break. He was in a good mood, he’d spent his break with TK at the firehouse and things were getting better between them every day.

They’d planned a date night for later in the week when they both had the day off. Carlos would cook and TK would stay over. Something which was happening a lot more often lately.

The rest of the crew had teased them for acting like an old married couple but they’d just laughed it off.

“Yes sir, I will send a uniform unit to make the arrest and bring him in for questioning. I will keep you updated. Alright. You too sir.”

The coworker ended phone call just as Carlos walked past their desk on the way to his own.

“Reyes. A job for you. You need to pick someone up for assault. Take Mitchell for back up.”

“But I just got back from lunch. I have paperwork to catch up on.” Carlos protested. He’d hoped for a quiet afternoon where he could maybe sneak in a little dinner planning and texts to TK.

“That can wait. Did you not hear that call just now? This guy pissed the wrong people off. You need to go pick him up.”

“Fine. Give me the details.”

“Sent to your phone.”

“Oh… oh no… I can’t do this.” Carlos said when he checked the message. He was breaking out in a cold sweat just by thinking about it.

“And why is that? You’re free, it’s your job… it’s one guy.”

“Yeah… but Owen Strand is my boyfriend’s father.”

“Oh… have you been together long?”

“A few months.”

“Well that’s alright then. It’s not like you’re married. Just go pick the guy up. And hope your boyfriend doesn’t find out.”

Half an hour later Carlos was sitting in his cruiser outside the firehouse, trying to work up the nerve to go in.

“Maybe you could make the arrest?” He asked Mitchell. “I’ll just be back up.”

“I would but… that might make it even worse.” Mitchell said sympathetically. “You just standing there while this bitch of a partner of yours drags his poor old dad off to jail? Not doing anything to stop it?”

Carlos dropped his head forward on the steering wheel.

“I hate it when you’re right.”

They got out of the car and walked into the firehouse. TK was leaning on the rig, talking to Paul and Carlos could tell the exact moment he saw him.

A bright and happy smile spread over his face and he walked up to him to greet him.

“Hey babe, back so soon? Did you miss me?” he gave him a quick kiss hello.

“Yeah… uhm I’m not here on a social call…” he glanced around but of course Owen Strand was nowhere to be seen.

Mitchell lined up beside him.

“We’re looking for Captain Owen Strand.” She said in a serious tone. “Do you know where we can find him?”

“You’ve found him, officer.” Owen walked up to them. “What can I do for you?”

“Carlos what’s going on?” TK asked, confused.

Carlos didn’t reply, just took a deep breath and grabbed the handcuffs from his belt.

“I’m sorry sir, I really wish I didn’t have to do this… but I’m going to need you to turn around and put your hands behind your head.” He said and avoided looking at TK as Owen did what he asked him and let him put the cuffs on him. “Captain Owen Strand, you are under arrest for assault. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you do say, can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

---

3 Marjan

“Unit 363H20, there is another disturbance call at former fire station 126. Are you available?”

“Unit 363H20 responding.” Carlos said into his radio, already knowing what, or rather who, he’d find at the location he was getting sent to.

When he got out of his cruiser he was met by an annoyed foreman.

“Officer, we can’t do our jobs like this. She’s destroyed our equipment again and she’s chained herself to the doors. We can’t work like this but I still have to pay my people. She’s ruining our business.”

“I understand sir, but she’s on public property and there is no official order from a judge saying she can’t be here…” Carlos sighed. He’d had this conversation far too many times lately. “I will go talk to her.”

“Can’t you arrest her? For trespassing or something?”

“I’m afraid not. Like I said, she’s on public grounds. You or someone from your company is free to file for a restraining order. If that gets issued and she still comes here, I can arrest her for violating that. I’ll go talk to her now.”

“So if you haven’t done so already, please donate to my fundraiser, together we can save the 126!” Marjan said to her phone, obviously live streaming her entire protest. Again. “And look, here’s Carlos! Say hi to Carlos everyone.” She said when she noticed Carlos walking over.

“Chica we have to stop meeting like this.”

“Oh come on, it’s always nice to catch up with friends.” Marjan said, still filming. “How have you been? You look tired.”

“I’m fine. I’d be better if I didn’t have to pick you up every other day.”

“He’s lying guys. He’s not fine. He got his heart broken and he won’t tell us what happened. His ex won’t either. They’re so stubborn.”

“Ok, that’s enough. No need to broadcast the state of my love life to the entire world. Please stop filming now.”

“Uh oh, he’s serious guys. I better go. But remember, my fundraiser is still open! Please give what you can, and spread the word! Bye for now!” Marjan said and stop her stream.

“Thank you. Now lets go. I hear you’ve put sawdust in the engines again, so they won’t be doing anything today.”

“They have no proof of that.”

Carlos sighed.

“Yeah, just come with me. Show them I’m doing my job. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day don’t you think?”

“It’s called civil disobedience. I’m merely exercising my rights.” Marjan said, a little too loudly so the workmen heard her too.

Carlos decided to let it go and opened the door of his cruiser for her so she could get into the backseat.

“They’re going to get a restraining order against you.” He warned her when he got behind the wheel. “And if you violate that I have to actually arrest you.”

“I promise I won’t do it if you’re on shift then.” She promised and Carlos wondered if that would be better or worse. “By the way can you drop me off at the other firehouse? My shift starts in an hour.”

“You know that’s not how it works, chica. I have to take you to the station and process you before I send you on your way.”

“Right.” Marjan sat back for a second before pressing her face up to the barrier behind Carlos’ head. “Can you turn on the lights and sirens then? If we hurry I might still make it.”

Carlos rolled his eyes but after a moment still flicked the switch and pressed down on the gas a little harder.

---

4 Owen

“Alright, we have to be smart about this. We only have an estimate on how many people will be in there, and they’ll most likely be armed. Be careful, be alert, but only grab the people on the list you’ve been given. Let’s get in and out as quickly as possible without anyone getting hurt.” Carlos’ captain was briefing the team that had been put together for a raid on a bar popular with white supremacists. “We’re supporting the FBI on this so follow their lead at all times.” He stepped aside to let the FBI agent in charge of the operation to address the team herself.

“Thank you captain. I have very little to add to this, other than a slight update to our list of suspects. There are a few more names on there and we’ve pulled pictures from surveillance footage so you know which face goes with the names.” She told them while another agent handed out the updated list.

When Carlos got his and he quickly scanned it, his heart sank.

“Uh… sorry ma’am… are… are you sure this list is correct?” he asked.

“Why wouldn’t it be officer… Reyes.” She glanced at his nametag.

“I uh… I recognise one of the names and I just don’t think he’s involved in anything…” He trailed off.

“I can assure you officer that we’ve checked all of these suspects’ involvement and all of these are people we can charge with dealing in illegal firearms, drug trafficking, money laundering, or being a member of a terrorist organisation. Or any combination of those. So whatever petty criminal you recognise and think belong on there, trust me when I say that they do.”

Carlos nodded.

“Yes ma’am.”

He read over the list again and stared at the picture that went with the name and severely regretted volunteering for this raid. The extra money would be nice but the fall out it would cause was already giving him a headache.

“Alright everyone, let’s head out.” Carlos’ captain said and clapped his hands to get everyone moving.

“Hey…” Lexi Mitchell fell into step beside him and Carlos was never more grateful she regularly signed up for these kind of things. “I saw the list… isn’t that…”

“Yeah.” Carlos cut her off quickly, not wanting the rest of the team to overhear anything.

“Did you know he was into this?”

“No. And he’s not. It can’t be right.”

“You heard the FBI agent…”

“I know. But I just… it can’t be. I know him. He wouldn’t.”

“I guess he would.”

“It can’t be.” Carlos shook his head. “I just have to get to him before anyone else does. Make sure I’m the one to make the arrest.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“I don’t think so. TK and I are not married yet.”

“Alright… it’s your funeral.”

The drive over was tense and when the first officers entered the building, Carlos followed them on auto pilot.

He knew what to do, he’d been trained for this. He knew how to keep a clear head amid the chaos.

Only all of that went out the window when he saw Owen standing near the bar, looking bewildered at the raid being carried out around him.

Thankfully nobody else had seen him yet and Carlos pushed through the crowd or bar patrons and fellow officers to get to him.

“Carlos!” Owen said happily when he saw him, but doing a double take when he noticed the rifle in his hands and the Kevlar vest he was wearing.

“You need to come with me.” Carlos said, grabbing his elbow.

“Carlos what’s going on?”

“You’re on our arrest list. I’m arresting you so nobody else will. Just come with me and do as I say.”

Thankfully Owen was smart enough to listen to him and let Carlos lead him outside.

“Just sit down here. I don’t know how, but I’ll get you out of this.”

“Officer, when you make an arrest, please make sure your detainee can’t hurt you or himself.” One of the FBI agents reminded him and kept watching him to make sure he followed protocol.

“Of course. I was just about to do that.” He grabbed a zip tie from his belt. “Turn around, hands behind your back.” He ordered and thankfully Owen did what he was told and let Carlos secure his hands behind his back.

“Don’t forget to read him his rights. We wouldn’t want the case to fall apart on a technicality.”

“Of course, sir. I won’t forget, sir.” He turned to Owen and mumbled a quick I’m sorry to the man before taking a deep breath. “You have the right to remain silent, anything you do say, can and will be held against you in a court of law.”

---

5 TNT

“Yes Nance! Come on!” TK braced himself in the back of the ambulance as Nancy raced through the streets of Austin. Lights and sirens going, full speed ahead.

Surely they’d beat Paragon to the scene.

“Ok next right and then we should get ahead of them!” Tommy said over the radio.

It was a little reckless and petty but beating Paragon was worth more than maintaining professional conduct.

“Ok hold on! It’s going to be close!” Nancy yelled and TK had a feeling she just took the corner on two wheels.

“Yes! We’re in front of them! We’re going to get there first!” Tommy yelled excitedly.

Only suddenly another, slightly different, siren joined the two ambulances.

“Is that APD?” Nancy asked over the radio. “I don’t see them in my mirrors.”

“Ignore it, they probably just got called to the same scene as us.” TK reasoned as they drove the last of the way to the scene.

Nancy parked the ambulance and the three of them got out, ready to get to work before the Paragon guys could take charge of the scene.

Tommy started giving out orders, while Nancy and TK grabbed their gear.

None of them even acknowledged the APD cruiser pulling up.

“Captain Vega.” Someone said and Tommy looked up.

“Oh hi Carlos. Did you get called out here too?”

“I did, yes… Do you have a minute?”

“Uh not really, we’re kind of in the middle of something here. You’re going to have to walk and talk with me.”

“Captain Vega I suggest you call for a second ambulance and listen to what my colleague here has to say.” A second officer said as he got out of the car.

Carlos was looking increasingly uncomfortable and like he’d rather be anywhere than here in this moment.

For a minute TK thought he was going to be sick.

“Carlos what’s going on?” he asked.

Carlos cleared his throat and looked at a spot somewhere over Tommy’s left shoulder.

“I uh… Sgt O’Brien and I… have gotten word of some uh… complaints made against you. All… three… of you.”

“Complaints? By who? We’re just doing our jobs.” TK said indignant.

“Let me guess, those Paragon roaches are the ones who complained?” Nancy asked, glaring at the Paragon ambulance that had pulled up and started to get to work.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information but I’m going to need you to follow my colleague and I to the station.” O’Brien told them. “And I would suggest you go willingly, none of us want to cause a scene.”

“May I ask what these complaints are?” Tommy asked, doing her best to stay calm.

“Officer Reyes, if you please.”

Carlos nodded and pulled a small notepad out of his pocket.

“Reckless driving, endangerment, harassment, and you violated various traffic laws on the way over here.”

“I had the lights and siren on!” Nancy protested. “You can’t pin traffic violations on someone driving an ambulance!”

“I’m sure we can figure it all out down at the station.” Carlos told her. “I’m sure it’s just a big misunderstanding.”

“Oh no it’s perfectly clear. The Paragon assholes just can’t handle us beating them to scenes!”

“Captain Vega, I will ride in the ambulance with you, the other two can go with my colleague in the car.” O’Brien decided, ignoring Nancy’s angry ranting.

“Very well. After you sergeant.” Tommy said, holding out her hand to Nancy for the keys to the ambulance. “We’ll see you down there.” She told TK and Nancy and gave Carlos’ shoulder a quick squeeze in passing.

The three of them watched her and O’Brien get in the ambulance and drive away.

The second they were out of sight, Carlos closed his eyes for a second and let out the breath he’d been holding.

“I am so sorry. He insisted on riding with me today and I don’t know why. I think he’s figured out our connection and wants to test me or something. I couldn’t get out of it.” He rambled.

“Babe, relax.” TK discretely grabbed his hand, trying to remain somewhat professional. “It’s just people using you to get us. We’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sorry. I hate this so much.”

“Yeah, us too. But we better get going and head to the station. I don’t want you to get in trouble for not following orders.” TK said and the three of them walked to Carlos’ cruiser and got in.

TK really wanted to get into the front with Carlos but decided it would look better if he was in the back with Nancy. The last thing he wanted was for Carlos to get into trouble because of him.

“We’ll get these stupid charges dropped, and them I’m suing the hell out of those Paragon assholes!” Nancy vowed and if Carlos had lowered the window a little when they passed the Paragon crew, well that was their secret and nobody needed to know.

---

+1 Carlos himself

“Hey baby, where are you?” TK asked over the phone. He was working while Carlos had a few days off, and judging by the constant stream of texts, it was a slow day for the 126.

“I’m just getting a few things for dinner tomorrow night.” Carlos replied, parking his car in front of the store.

“Oh are you at the farmers market?”

“No, I thought I’d try something different. I’m at that Asian supermarket near that new bakery by the park.”

“The one we went to last week? With the good cupcakes?”

“Yeah the ones with the filling you liked. Do you want me to pick a few up for us?”

“It’s your birthday and you’re feeding me cake. What’s wrong with this picture?” TK deadpanned.

Carlos laughed.

“It’s not my birthday yet. So I can still treat my husband to his favourite cupcakes.”

“I knew there was a good reason I married you.” TK joked.

“For the cupcakes?”

“Yes. And you’re also really good in bed.”

Carlos choked on air and hoped to god Nancy wasn’t in earshot or she’d never let them live this down.

“Ok I’m at the store now, so I’m going to hang up. I’ll see you at home later.”

“Or you could come down here and keep us company.” TK suggested. “Maybe we can even have some fun in the bunk room.”

“And risk getting caught again? No thanks. Let’s just do that at home.”

“Spoilsport.” TK said and Carlos could picture the playful pout on his husband’s face.

“That’s me.” He said laughingly. “I love you. Bye babe.”

“I love you too baby. See you soon.” TK replied and they ended the call.

Carlos grabbed his stuff and his shopping bag and headed into the store. He liked the place, it was near the place where his old townhouse had been and back then he’d shop there often. Only these days they lived on the other side of town so it was more of a special occasion than a regular shopping trip.

He greeted the woman working the check out and started browsing the aisles. He had a few ideas for the family dinner they had planned for tomorrow, and he figured he’d just decide on what to make depending on the ingredients he could find.

He’d gotten a little lost in thoughts when he bumped into someone.

“Oh, sorry.” He quickly apologised before recognising one of his colleagues. “Oh hi, doing some shopping too?”

“Not exactly.” The guy said.

“Please put the basket down.” Mitchell said, coming up on his other side.

“What’s going on? Lexi? What the hell?” Carlos asked when he glanced down at her hands and saw her holding a pair of handcuffs.

“I could ask you the same thing. Shoplifting? Really?”

“What are you talking about? I just got here. I haven’t even left the store!”

“Oh so you definitely weren’t putting things in your bag that you weren’t going to pay for? And pretend the alarm was going off for no reason when you walk out the store?”

“This is ridiculous. Lexi you know me. I would never steal!”

“Yeah that’s what they all say. You’re coming with us. You know the drill. Turn around hands behind your head, interlace your fingers.”

“What? Do you think I’m violent?”

“It’s just protocol Reyes, you know this.”

“You’re making a mistake.”

“Funny, that’s also what they all say.” Lexi said and turned to the other officer. “Isn’t it crazy how we’re always making mistakes and arresting people who have done nothing wrong?”

“So crazy.” He agreed.

“Come on Reyes, turn around. Don’t make me do it for you.”

“Lexi come on, you can’t be serious.” Carlos said and the next thing he knew, Mitchell had him pinned against the shelves and was twisting his hands behind his back and putting the cuffs on him. “Lexi!”

“That’s officer Mitchell to you. You’re under arrest for shoplifting. Let’s go.” She pushed him out the store and to the cruiser parked outside.

“Lexi, what the hell? I thought we were friends. Why won’t you believe me?”

“The owner saw you. Don’t deny it.”

“Saw me do what? Shop? Pick out things I wanted to buy? Plan a family dinner?”

“I’d stop talking if I were you.” Lexi said, putting him in the back of the car before getting in herself and driving to the station.

“Please don’t make me go in there in cuffs.” Carlos pleaded, looking at the familiar building.

“You know I can’t take them off until I’m done processing you.” She and the other officer got out of the car and opened the door for him. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” She grabbed his elbow and steered him into the building.

Somehow everyone he knew seemed to be on shift and was there to see Carlos get brought in like some kind of hardened criminal.

“Ok. You know what to do.” Lexi said, taking him to the processing area. “Stand here and smile for the camera.”

“This is insane.” Carlos muttered but decided it was in his best interest to cooperate. “At least let me call TK. He’ll be wondering where I am.”

“When we’re done here.” Lexi told him. “Face left and then right.”

Carlos did as he was told while his mind was racing trying to figure out a way to get out of this.

“Alright, I’m going to undo the cuffs and then you can move your hands in front of your body so we can take your prints. Do you understand?” Lexi asked and Carlos nodded.

He let her move his hands and put the handcuffs back on.

“Put your hand on the scanner, four fingers first, then thumb. Repeat with your other hand.” Lexi said and checked the scans. “Alright. We’re done here, let’s go.” She grabbed his elbow again but she didn’t lead him to the holding cells.

“Where are we going? Where are you taking me? Can I call TK now?” Carlos asked but got no reply. Instead she just lead him down a few hallways and up a flight of stairs. “Lexi what the hell?”

She knocked on a door before opening it and pushing him inside.

“SURPRISE!” a group of his friends, family, and coworkers yelled when he stepped through the door.

They were gathered in one of the lesser used conference rooms of the precinct and all of them were smiling and laughing while Carlos was just… confused.

“Happy birthday baby!” TK said, walking over to him and kissing him. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and undid the handcuffs and rubbed the skin where the metal had been. “You didn’t have to put them on so tightly, Lexi.”

“I had to make it look good, didn’t I?”

“You had me arrested?” Carlos asked, finally starting to put two and two together. “You set this whole thing up?”

“I told them to go easy on you.” TK told him. “But do you know how hard it is to pick a date for a party that works for everyone when most of the guests are first responders? This is the closest we got to everyone being free and available and able to get together.”

He looked around the room, slowly taking it all in.

The whole of the 126 crew was there, though all of them in uniform so he suspected they were on call, most of his coworkers, Grace with Charlie on her hip, his parents and Luisa, and even his captain.

“Happy birthday, Carlos. Your husband put a lot of work into making this a birthday to remember for you.” He said and Carlos just nodded.  

One by one his friends and family came over to him to wish him a happy birthday and slowly he started to relax and actually enjoy his party.

“Happy birthday. Blame your husband for the show, it was his idea.” Lexi told him when it was her turn. “I promise we won’t put the arrest on your record… but we might just save the mugshot.”

[starsinkpop]

hey babe! i hope you’re doing great 🤍 i’d love to ask some things about Mingi if you don’t mind.

Does he really have some trust issues? is there a reason behind it?

It just looks like he constantly needs to be reminded he’s loved and that people are proud of him 😭

Hey babes, I’m doing great thank you! Hope you are as well 💖 this was kinda hard to interpret but here we go.

Life and the Entertainment industry can be extremely hasty and moving fast forward. I feel like Mingi has the deeply rooted fear of kinda missing the train and being left behind. He knows that as fast as success (in any part of his life) comes it can go as well. And I think he deals with some insecurities, which makes him question his own capabilities and purpose in life. I think that’s why he needs a lot of reassurance from people that are important to him. Potentially, there could have been someone close to Mingi in the past (or could still be around) who has difficulties accepting changes of situations or people. And now Mingi is thinking that whenever he does something different or changes something about himself or his life, he loses value to this person. Which again could be a reason why he needs reassurance.

Another reason could also be that people used him and took advantage of him. This could’ve been financially, emotionally, or really just for better reputation. This has happened too often to him and caused him losing trust in others. What if they gonna use him again? What if they’re just nice because they want a piece of his cake? I see him being very conflicted. Because he likes people and I actually think he really enjoys meeting new people. He loves being social. But there will always be this little devil in the back of his neck telling him he’s just being used and they don’t actually care about him. He dealt with too many people in the past that have been hot and cold. There also could’ve been a constant on and off relationship (romantic or platonic) that kind of turned a switch in his head and now he’s having a hard time believing in himself.

His trust issues could also be caused by some type of loss that he is slowly overcoming. This doesn’t have to be a loss of a person, I see this more as a loss of a part of himself. What comes to my mind right away as I’m reading this is his hiatus he had a few years ago. He had to watch his group continuing their work without him. I can only imagine how hard this must’ve been for him and I think that he still has to deal with some trauma because of that. This could’ve caused a lot of self doubt and made it hard for him to trust in his own talent. But I honestly see him slowly moving away from this mindset. It takes time and strength but Mingi is a very strong person in my opinion and he can overcome this whenever he is ready.

I also see him gaining a bit of freedom and space by not trusting others. Now let me explain, if he doesn’t trust others easily, he lowers his expectations which means he can’t really be disappointed by anyone at the end of the day. Disappointment could throw him off track, but if there’s nothing that could disappoint you, you can freely move forward. It feels like it’s allowing him to have no expectations in anything. It’s like a coping mechanism tbh. I hope i make sense on that.

Overall he’s just trying to protect himself from getting hurt I think. Maybe right now it feels safer for him to not just trust everyone. If he feels better by being wary of others, then so it be. I just hope he gets all the love, affection and reassurance he needs from his fave people.

Love,

~nicky 🫧

Masterlist

Cards pulled: VII The Chariot, Four of Wands, XVI The Tower (R), Five of Cups, Eight of Wands

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Hydra Sanatorium"

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Word count: 5297

Tags: a/b/o, medical institutionalization, cognitive disability, made up kinky medical things, diapers, catheters, non-con medical procedures, restraints, forced wetting, hurt/comfort, humiliation, kind!Careworker Steve, bratty!Patient Bucky, alpha Steve, omega bucky, dry humping, forced orgasm, masturbation, implied self harm, orgasm therapy, age difference (19/30), omorashi

Summary: Bucky is a troubled teen coping with the traumatic transformation of late-onset omega puberty. Steve's the care worker who's been developing too much of an attachment.

A.N. I will no longer be going to the trouble of posting extensive warnings, cautions, "Minors DNI", "smut below the break", or extra trigger warning outside of the story tags etc., like I used to. Because the staff troll has targeted my account and held it to standards that virtually no other explicit fanfiction authors are consistently held to or follow on this platform, I will now only be tagging major themes above the story summary, and other than that, the only warnings you'll see from me are the "mandatory" (🙄what a joke) community labels: mature. Sorry, but I'm not going to bend over backwards to please a bunch of antis and an illiberal, vindictive child who works at Tumblr with zero accountability for their abuse of their position. Troll: grow the hell up, and PLEASE for the love of God: never go into politics.

So here is my new sign I'm so excited to introduce!🥳Feel free to use it - no need to give credit. As Mr. Mackie likes to say to the nitwits: "Baby I'm a grownup."

Wait! I think I missed a previous chapter! Series Masterlist

Chapter 6: Inflation Therapy

Previously:

"It’s going to be okay, Buck. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, voice dull. “I know.”

It’s not the tantrum Steve was expecting, but somehow it feels just as bad. Because rather than reacting, Bucky’s just withdrawing. Steve watches him pick at his meal for another half an hour. With some gentle encouragement he’s able to get the kid to eat the majority of his protein, but he’s obviously getting no enjoyment from the food, his mind a mile away as he chews mechanically. It’s depressing. Steve goes into bossy alpha mode to try and give him some direction, make him feel a little more secure. He tries to show Bucky that he does have an alpha who cares about him, however temporary it may be.

“Throw your trash away, bub. Put your tray over there. Good job. C’mon now, let’s go do an activity. I’m leading art tonight. You want to give that a go?”

Bucky seems docile enough, following Steve into the art room and sitting on the carpeted floor with one of the lap desks for drawing circle. A few other patients trickle in, until they’re a group of ten. Steve hands out paper and cups of colored pencils, and takes up a spot on the carpet. He tries not to be obviously over-focused on Bucky, figuring that the kid needs his space to process the news about his parents relinquishing custody. “Okay everybody," Steve greets the group. "How are we doing?”

He gets friendly answers from the other patients, then guides them through a few warm up exercises. They do some rapid-fire sketch associations, where Steve throws out words like “recreation” and “comfortable,” and “dread,” and everybody has to sketch the first thing they think of in ninety seconds.

Then Steve tells the group they’re going to be doing a “Now and Then” project. He asks them to draw a picture of how they see themselves and their lives in the present, and gives them twenty minutes to work without scrutiny. “Try to pick one word or phrase to focus on. You can draw anything you like, to express it,” he tells them. “Something literal, or something abstract. Anything that you feel depicts your current emotions, state of being, how things are going for you in the world or simply in your head. Anything goes. Get as far with it as you can, but don’t feel like you have to rush with coloring it in or anything, if you’re trying to make a masterpiece.” He chuckles self-deprecatingly at his own drawing board. “You can always add details later if you’re as nitpicky about your art as me.”

“We can draw anything?” one boy in the circle asks. He’s not Steve’s patient but Steve knows his name, knows he’s there for treatment following a miscarriage. Steve nods and gives him a gentle look. “Yeah, Daniel. That’s right. Anything goes.” Across the circle, Bucky glances up and meets his eyes. Steve smiles sadly. “If anybody needs to draw violence or something that depicts self harm, this is a safe space to do that. You won’t get put on protocol for it, as long as you’re willing to join in the discussion portion and explain your drawing.”

Bucky and one other boy look like they’re relieved to hear that, and Steve gives them both encouraging looks before turning his attention to the sheet of paper he’s got on his own lap desk. He’s always been good with a pencil—had even considered going down the art-therapy track, back when he was in college. The only reason he hadn't wound up pursuing it was because he didn’t want to turn his passion into something he had to do for a job. But he still loves leading art sessions for the omegas on-ward. Figuring that powerless is a pretty good focus word for his 'Now' drawing, Steve picks up a mustard yellow pencil and begins to sketch.

“Okay pencils down.”

Twenty minutes later, everybody takes turns showing what they’ve drawn. Unsurprisingly, five of the boys have drawn something literal from their current stay on-ward. Two others have pictures of their families. One boy has chosen a forest scene to depict his feelings of uncertainty about an upcoming heat, and Daniel talks about his violet-hued sketch regarding his feelings over the recent miscarriage. Bucky is the last to volunteer to talk about his piece, and in fact Steve has to prompt him twice before he’ll turn his lap desk around to face the circle.

He’s drawn a person—presumably himself—in thick, brown lines. The person is sitting and hugging their knees to their chest, contained in a tiny space like a box. It’s a scratchy drawing but rather well-done, and the instant feeling Steve gets from it is isolation. Outside the box, it’s bright and colorful with a lot going on, but inside the box it’s muted and still, with heavy olive and brown lines. “What does this represent for you, Bucky?” Steve asks, forcing himself to do his job rather than crawl across the carpet and wrap Bucky in his arms the way he really wants to. “Hm? To me it feels rather lonely, looks isolated.”

Bucky shrugs, not looking up. “I guess.”

Steve asks if anybody has positive comments for Bucky’s piece. Daniel ventures, “... The lines get messier on the dark side. On the bright side, they’re all neat and specific, but then they get kind of scratchy on the other part.”

Steve hums, glad to at least have a couple people willing to participate in art tonight. Usually patients just sit around grunting and rolling their eyes at it. “Good point. I see what you mean. What do you think that technique could communicate?”

Daniel hesitantly meets Bucky’s eyes from across the circle before saying, “Um. Like … it’s more chaotic, on the scratchy side.”

“Yeah. Kind of gives it a distressed feeling, doesn’t it?” Steve looks at Bucky and gently prods, “Buck? Why do you think you chose those colors?” He gets nothing from Bucky besides a mumbled, “Dunno,” and forces himself not to push him on it. He talks to the group as a whole about colors and what they can represent. “Most people know that darker colors can indicate a sense of foreboding or depression,” he says. “But lighter colors aren’t always ‘happy’ per se. Take mine, for example.” Steve shows the group his drawing of a bear sitting on the side of a road with cars. “You’d think this should be in greens and blues, yeah? A nature scene. But I only used taupes and yellows and a little brown and olive. I think it looks kind of sallow, gives it a feeling of melancholy.”

“Why’d you draw a bear?” Daniel asks.

“Well, I’ve been feeling sad this evening. Kind of helpless, you know?” Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bucky’s head lift up a little. “And I remember seeing this clip once on Facebook or something. A bear that’d been separated from its cubs across a busy highway. And it just seemed so sad.” He shrugs, feeling silly but knowing that he needs to be open and honest if he’s going to expect the same from his patients. “So that’s what I drew. That feeling of powerlessness that the video made me feel.”

“Why do you feel powerless?” Daniel asks.

This time, Steve does let his eyes slip over to Bucky—who is looking at him, but who quickly flicks his eyes away. “Because I’m worried about somebody I care about,” Steve says. “And I’m not sure I can help them the way they need. I’m not sure how much they’ll let me help.”

Bucky’s lips part, and for a second Steve really thinks he’s going to reply to that, but then he clams up again and looks down at his drawing board, not saying a thing. Steve swallows down his disappointment. “Okay guys, now we’re going to do a second piece, and I want everybody to try and make this one as literal as you can. Let’s all draw a depiction of what we’d like our lives to be in the future. You can draw something you’d like to have happen tomorrow, or something you dream of happening in a year, or ten years, even how you picture the perfect life when you’re old and grey. Really dig deep and think about what you want your life to be like, in a perfect world. It doesn’t necessarily have to be realistic, just so long as it represents what would make you happy. Kay?”

He watches as everybody gets new paper and starts drawing. Bucky, he notes, stares at his paper for a long few minutes before he ever picks up a pencil. He looks lost.

Steve gives them thirty minutes for their second drawings. When time’s up and everybody discusses what they came up with, Bucky has drawn a beach scene. It has a little blue bungalow in the background and a family on the sand. There’s an umbrella and a person lying on a beach towel whom Steve can tell is supposed to be Bucky. He’s surprised though, because that person is also visibly pregnant, and there’s a little kid right next to him, wearing water wings and building a sandcastle. There’s a dog next to the kid, and another person in the picture sitting in a beach chair who looks suspiciously like Steve, but no way in hell is Steve going to point that out. The Steve-person is blond, and Steve knows for a fact that Bucky’s family all have dark hair.

“Buck,” he prompts. “You drew yourself at the beach?” Bucky just shrugs, and Steve tries to draw more out of him. “... Is that one of your favorite places?” he asks.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. I’ve never been to the beach. But growing up, everybody else’s families would always go somewhere in the summer. Up to the Hamptons or down to Jersey, you know? Stay at a beach house, eat crabs, go to the boardwalk and get saltwater taffy and shit, ride the rides. It always seemed nice. Like something real families did.” His lips twist ruefully as he traces his finger from the lines of the pinwheel beach umbrella, over to the black and white dog that he drew. “... And I never had a dog. I like dogs.”

Jesus, God, Steve wants to kidnap this kid and take care of him forever. “Is the person on the beach towel you?” he asks gently. Bucky shrugs again, but then he nods. Steve nods too. “It looks like you’re pregnant in the picture. Is that what you were imagining when you drew it?” Bucky doesn’t say anything, and Steve feels absolutely pained, trying to force answers out of him like this. Across the circle, Daniel has made a little whimper and put his hands on his stomach, and Steve knows it’s time to abandon that point. “Okay,” he says quietly, moving past that little detail. “Um, what about the other people in your drawing?” he asks instead. “What part do they play?”

Bucky looks down self consciously at the paper. “They’re not real,” he mutters. “I don’t have anything right now. And I don’t even know if I want kids, but … I dunno. I drew it with a baby, and an alpha. Cause maybe that’d be nice, even though I don’t think it’s ever gonna happen.”

“Why couldn’t that happen?”

Bucky’s eyes flick up to him, reproachful. “Nobody wants me,” he says. “I just don’t see the point.”

Steve has to swallow past the horrible lump that’s formed in his throat. “Having a family of your own is a totally realistic goal, Bucky. Having children and a partner? Going to the beach with your family? Those are great things to imagine for the future.”

“I don’t have a family,” he says dully.

Steve is about to address that, but before he can, Daniel bursts out into tears and starts ripping up his paper, upset about babies and the pregnancy he miscarried a few weeks ago. Steve has to put all his effort into calming him down and escorting him down the hall to the soft room so that he can calm down. And by the time he returns to the art room, Bucky has left.

Steve sticks around for an hour afterwards, making sure nothing spirals out of control. He was prepared to spend the night on-ward if he had to, but Bucky’s behavior remains rather tame. He wets himself rather abruptly after art therapy, and Steve helps him get changed with no issues. Bucky tells Steve that he’d like to be alone, and Steve can’t force him to talk if he’s not ready. So he just watches helplessly as Bucky retreats to the soft room and curls up in the same corner where Steve found him that morning, face buried in a pheromone-treated plushie.

Steve has a talk with the overnight orderly on duty, making sure that the beta man knows to keep an eye on Daniel and on Bucky. Then he clocks out and heads home, feeling like the most useless support alpha to ever exist.

The next day, he arrives on ward to find Bucky in an unresponsive state, and the soft room having been cleared out to accommodate him.

“Moved everybody else over to the Phys-ed room,” the on-duty orderly mutters with a grimace, as they both stand in the doorway watching Bucky’s behavior. “He doesn’t answer when we talk to him. And he’s tried to bite when we go to grab 'im.”

“How long has he been like this?” Steve asks, concerned.

The beta man shakes his head. “He seemed normal when he woke up. He didn’t talk, but he wasn’t like this. We let them wander around for their AM free time, and then when I came to move everybody to breakfast, he was rocking. He won’t even look at me. Acts like he doesn’t even hear.”

In the padded far corner of the room, Bucky is sitting huddled over one of the foam rocker forms, naked, his knees planted to either side of the form and his thighs gripping it hard in stress. He’s shed everything from his body, including his diaper, and has his head resting on the front piece, his eyes staring sightlessly to the side. His thumb is in his mouth and he’s sucking it while he rocks compulsively. Steve nods grimly at the sight. “He can hear.”

The orderly looks dubiously from Bucky to Steve, and then back. “Um ... are you sure about that?”

Steve inhales deeply. “Yeah. This is a stress reaction to some traumatic news he got yesterday.”

“Oh.”

Steve goes over to kneel beside the rocker to try and get Bucky to respond to him. But when he has no success, he goes back to tell the orderly to watch the room for a minute while Steve consults his boss.

“I think he needs a course of hormones,” he tells Christina, standing in the doorway to her office because he’s too antsy to even sit down for a proper conversation. “Will you sign off on it?”

Christina nods. “Of course. What method of delivery?”

My dick, Steve thinks, though of course he’d never say that. He’s just frustrated is all. He just wants to make all of Bucky’s pain go away. “Inflation session,” he suggests, receiving a nod from Raynor. “We’ll do sense dep. after, hit him with some ASMR, some tactile stim.”

“Sounds about right.”

Steve turns to leave.

“Rogers?”

He looks back over his shoulder to see Raynor staring him dead in the eye, and gets an uneasy feeling. “What?”

“Once he’s out of this episode, I’m telling the doc to go ahead. We’re castrating him.”

Steve’s heart sinks. “Christina, please, no.”

“We should’ve done it a long time ago and you know it. The only reason we didn’t was the parents, and they’re not in the picture anymore. Steve—don’t look at me like that, Rogers. You agreed when the recommendation came down. It’s what’s best.”

Steve looks down at his feet to avoid glaring at the woman who is directly responsible for his employment. She’s not wrong, which is the worst part. Bucky’s so unbalanced, he should’ve had a therapeutic castration years ago, but his parents have always refused and Bucky’s been none the wiser. Quietly, Steve grits out, “He can’t even take the news of his folks giving him up, how do you imagine the conversation about his nuts being chopped off is going to go?” It’s snarky and unprofessional for him to talk that way to his boss, but he’s emotional.

Miraculously, Christina doesn’t call him out on it. “Not well, I imagine,” she drawls. “But what has ever gone well with this kid? After today, I want you to think about your long term care recommendations for him.”

Steve suppresses a growl. “Long term?” he repeats, and she nods solemnly. He feels dread fill his gut at the look that’s on her face. “We can keep him on ward,” he insists, hating how much it sounds like a plea. “Extended stay, and then maybe—”

“He’s not improving here. It’s been three years. He’s nineteen now. We need to think about his future. He’s in no shape for independent living, and you know it,” she says.

Steve huffs, knowing where this is going. “His family dumped him, Christina. He’s got no one. What do you expect me to do?”

“Long term care recommendation, on my desk by the end of the week.”

Steve grits his teeth, knowing there are only a couple of options there. Bucky can either be institutionalized, or sent to a group home, neither of which is promising. Steve knows Bucky, goddammit. He … he cares about him. And he knows that that’s not what Bucky needs. Bucky just needs someone to ...

To love him.

“What if I found him an alpha?” he asks, ignoring his better judgment. “Somebody who was a good fit, who could take him on?”

“By the end of the week?” Christina looks dubious, and rightfully so. She sighs at him, exasperated. “Rogers, you and I both know that nobody is gonna—”

“Just say that I did,” Steve snaps. “Would you approve it?”

Maybe she can tell what he’s thinking, or maybe she just thinks Steve’s venting and throwing out hopeless ideas. Either way, Christina nods reluctantly, her lips pressed thinly together. “Sure,” she says, obviously not believing that Steve can find someone to take Bucky on in such a capacity by the week’s end. “If you found someone who was actually suitable, I’d sign off on it.”

Steve isn’t even sure why he’s posing impossible hypotheticals, but Raynor’s agreement makes him feel relieved anyway. “I’ll need the bathroom isolated for our session,” he tells her, in lieu of a response. “And then the soft room for the rest of the afternoon.”

Christina grunts and waves him out of the office. “You got it. Now go on, get outta here.”

Steve goes.

“Buck? Hey. Hey Honey.” Steve approaches Bucky like he would a wild animal, wary of the possibility of him lashing out. Not that Steve has to worry about being physically overpowered or anything like that, but even he can take a surprise fist to the face, and he’d rather not have a bloodied nose or a black eye today.

Bucky doesn’t get violent. He seems to register Steve’s presence, as his scent shifts to something slightly more eager and his hips start rocking harder on the foam padding of the form. But his eyes don’t track Steve’s movement when the alpha kneels down beside him, and he doesn’t talk. He just keeps making these little stubborn grunts as he works on stimming himself up to another orgasm.

There’ve been several already, if the state of the rocker is anything to go by. Its red vinyl covering is shiny wet between Bucky’s thighs, making squeaky-slick noises as he moves. Steve reaches out and tentatively touches Bucky’s back. The boy’s nostrils flare and he grunts, rocking harder.

“Shh. Okay, Sweetheart. Okay. I’m gonna help you feel better, Alright bub? Just gotta let me move you around a little bit.”

‘Sexual catatonia’ is the technical term for what Bucky’s experiencing. His brain has gone into protection mode and his body is seeking out the most basic of comforting stimuli as it tries to reorient itself. He’s regressed, only able to process a certain level of input right now, and he’ll stay that way until his body receives enough signals that he’s safe and protected and wanted.

So Steve’s job is to make him feel all three of those things.

He gathers Bucky up from the rocker, shushing him and holding him in a basket restraint position until his few seconds of reactive thrashing stop. “Okay, okay. You’re okay,” Steve murmurs, keeping a low purr going in his chest for Bucky to hear and feel against his back. “Shh sh sh. Okay now. Here we go. Come on over here with Alpha.”

He all but carries him out to the hallway and into the bathroom. The nurse is already in there, setting things up. Bucky’s like a blind and deaf animal, staring aimlessly and making upset noises as he scents another person in the room with them. The orderly keeps a wide berth, but nods at Steve as they enter and points to the equipment he’s had set up for them. “Three bags there for him,” he says. “Just in case.” He heads for the door. “Push the button if you need anything else. I’ll be on station for the rest of the morning.”

Steve nods, depositing Bucky on the treatment bed. “Thanks.”

Bucky’s already naked, so that much is taken care of at least. He’s grunting a little more angrily now that he’s been taken away from his rocker and brought somewhere unfamiliar, so Steve moves around in a hurry to get them all set up. The colonics bed is shaped to cradle him in the correct position while he lies on his back. Steve guides his legs over the incline, then goes about setting up the machine.

‘Therapeutic pregnancy’ isn’t much more than a medicated retention enema, but it can help with bringing omegas out of severe emotional and psychiatric episodes. Obviously, it’s not an actual pregnancy. It’s just that the patient’s body is temporarily tricked into thinking it’s pregnant. And that’s what the nurse was referring to when he said he’d set aside “three bags” for Bucky. On the machine’s hook hang three heavy bags—all full of synthetic alpha semen.

Steve pulls a warmed blanket from the electric cabinet and drapes it over Bucky’s upper body. The omega’s eyes flutter closed as he immediately starts purring in pleasure. Steve smiles tenderly and comforts him, even though he knows that Bucky isn't to aware of his surroundings right now. “There ya go, bub. Just gimme a sec and we’ll have you feeling real good, okay?” He rolls the cart over and hooks up the bags. The machine will warm it to the natural temperature of semen as it moves through the tubes and into Bucky’s body, but first: the apparatus.

An average adult alpha knot is about the size of a regulation baseball, and the artificial knotting apparatuses that hospitals like Hydra Sanatorium use are thus sized. Uninflated, however, the diameter is small—no more than Steve's own thumb. It’s very easy to lube the thing up and slide it inside of Bucky. The omega is already aroused, lax, wet and swollen, and Steve feels his dick start to get interested when he glances down to watch the rubber nozzle slip past Bucky’s pink and pulsing rim.

If you were mine … he thinks covetously, Bucky’s plaintive whimpers echoing alongside the treacherously unprofessional thoughts in his head. If Bucky were his, they wouldn’t be in this horrible, institutionally puke-green tiled bathroom right now. They’d be in Steve’s home, in bed or in some little space in the apartment that Bucky had chosen to nest. Steve would be fucking his mate naturally instead of using all this artificial crap.

If Bucky were his, he wouldn’t even be regressed like this in the first place, because he would know down to the marrow of his bones that he was loved and wanted. Steve would make sure of it. He’d keep him healthy and happy and satisfied. Maybe Bucky would even be pregnant for real, bred up all fat and happy with Steve’s pups. Steve can’t stop thinking about the drawing that Bucky did in art therapy, how he’d drawn himself pregnant in the picture. He’d expressed uncertainty about pregnancy, but maybe if it were Steve’s pup inside him, Bucky wouldn’t mind it then. Maybe everything would balance out in his system, if Steve put a litter in him. Maybe it would make Bucky happy if he—

On the bed, Bucky whines, and Steve shakes his head and huffs at himself. If, if, if. Too bad he doesn’t get paid for Ifs. “Get it together, Rogers,” he mutters, and reaches down to grind the heel of his hand punishingly against his trapped dick—It helps, somewhat. He grasps the hand pump for the knotting mechanism and squeezes it, observing Bucky carefully as he slowly but surely inflates the rubber bulb to its full size inside the omega’s body.

Bucky’s unseeing eyes blink up at the ceiling, glossy with unshed tears. “Ahn, ahn, ah,” he grunts softly. “Ugn, ugn, ah …”

Steve uses his free hand to rub over his lower belly. “You’re okay. It’s okay, Buck. S’that feel nice? I bet it does, huh? Don’t worry, Sweetheart. You just relax now for Alpha, mkay? Alpha’s gonna make it feel good.” He’s sure it’s not the actual words, so much as it is the sound of his voice that Bucky recognizes, but even still, it’s nice to see the way that Bucky responds to him. “That’s right,” he soothes. “Good boy. You’re such a good boy for Alpha, Buck. Alpha loves you.”

He starts the flow, remaining at Bucky’s side and massaging his tummy gently while the machine begins to pump.

The therapy mimics a pregnancy in that it fills the patient’s body with a physical weight. It inflates the colon and the uterus and mimics the influx of hormones that a growing fetus would create. These physical cues help to trick the brain into thinking an actual pregnancy is taking place, and it’s that input—in addition to the naturally calming feeling of the knot itself—which forcibly tells the omega brain that it is safe and bred, wanted and protected. Only a strong and dominant alpha can keep an omega successfully bred up, after all—that’s what the basest parts of a regressed omega’s mind hang onto. And Bucky is currently fully regressed.

His thumb is back up in his mouth already, sucking away. Steve rumbles in his chest in answer to every grunt and moan that Bucky makes, rubbing his tummy for him as he slowly but surely fills out from the liquid. Steve’s sitting on a stool beside the bed, down by Bucky’s bottom where the warm blanket doesn’t cover, so he can clearly see the twitch of the boy’s taught little sac, the way his shrunken prick is getting chubby underneath the swell of his belly. He frees one hand up from the belly massage and rubs him there, smiling tenderly at the pleased chirp he gets for his efforts. “Yeah,” he whispers, working the head between his fingers like he would a female patient’s clit, nice and delicate, gliding gently from the precum his little dick keeps blurting out. “S’that feel nice, baby?”

Bucky grunts in an adorably demanding way and shoves his butt down against the knotting mechanism to stimulate himself harder with it. Steve chuckles and uses his other hand to tug on the nozzle, rocking the inflated rubber knot nice and steady against the swollen glands inside. Bucky makes a very happy noise at that, and when Steve looks up at his face, he sees the omega staring at the ceiling with bleary eyes, hand fallen away from his mouth as he pants open-mouthed and drools. A wave of renewed want hits Steve so hard, he almost feels like he’s taken a punch to the gut. “Oh, bub,” he whispers, feeling his eyes start to heat with the threat of tears. He wants to take care of Bucky so bad that it hurts. Just absolutely fucking aches. He thumbs under his cockhead a little faster, and is able to pull the next orgasm out of him within seconds.

Bucky sobs, voice caught high and pleasure-pained in his throat, still non-verbal and lost in his own head. Steve swallows heavily and glances over at the enema bags. “Almost there,” he says, forcing himself to go back to rubbing Bucky’s belly as the boy takes the last quart of semen inside his body. “Doing so well, Buck,” Steve praises, running both of his big hands over the swell of his belly.

Fuck, he really does look pregnant. With his muscles all lax from the regression, and a couple liters of cum inside him, he’s filled out enough that he looks like he could be about four months pregnant. Steve eases him through the rest of the remaining bag, praising him with a bunch of rambling words when the machine cuts off from its pumping cycle. He removes the tubing from the knot and rolls the machine back out of the way, goes to grab another couple of warm blankets from the cabinet and drapes them over Bucky’s midsection and legs so that he’s totally covered and encased in warmth.

The boy sighs and grunts happily at the sensations, and Steve smiles down at him. “I know, Love, I know. That feels really good, huh? That’s what we want. Need to show your body that everything’s okay. Make you feel like a mommy for just a little while.” Bucky’s not really hearing him or seeing him, but Steve refuses to believe that the sound of his voice doesn’t have any effect. Bucky knows his voice, he does. Steve knows he does.

Bucky’s eyes are barely open. The tears that’ve been glazing over for so long have gathered at the corners and trickled down his temples as he lies there and feels his body telling him it’s pregnant. The knot is keeping him plugged up and the liquid will have made it past his cervix by now, filling him up with a warm, heavy pressure. Steve remains close and rubs his bloated belly from overtop the blankets, maintaining a steady stream of praise in his ear.

When it’s been a good half hour or so, Bucky begins to show signs of emerging from the fugue. His eyes seem to track Steve’s movements more, and he starts to become more aware of his surroundings. He doesn’t have his words back yet, because he looks to Steve and whimpers and whines little helpless sounds, rather than asking questions about what’s going on or what’s happened. Steve hurries to hold his hand and reassure him. “Shh sh sh. Hey, you back with me, Sweetheart? Hi.” He smiles gently and pets his face. “You’re doing great. Took your treatment so well, Baby.”

Bucky wiggles in place, and Steve can see the moment he recognizes the heaviness in his belly. His hands go there, touching the swell of himself, and Steve nods and places a hand on top. “Yeah, that’s right. We’ve got your tummy all filled up. It’s okay. Just a little inflation therapy. S’it feel nice?”

Bucky looks shocked, and incredibly vulnerable, but not upset. His eyes still leak sluggish tears as he nods at Steve. “...‘pha?” he warbles, the tail end of what is probably the only word he’s capable of articulating right now.

Steve’s face pinches and he smiles and nods. “That’s right, bub. Alpha’s right here takin’ care of you. I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Bucky whimpers, dazed, and his eyes slip closed again. But down below, on the distended curve of his belly, he hooks his pinky finger over Steve’s.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

🍵Consider tipping your friendly neighborhood starving artist smut author!

✍🏻Commissions: reach out via Tumblr DM or contact here

[8thplacewolfos]

Pet Regression Caregiver Albert Wesker Headcanons

Back at it again with some pet-regression-oriented caregiver Wesker headcanons! I just know he would love all sorts of critters, so I tried to keep these as general as possible so that any pet can enjoy them! I’m a parrot and puppy regressor myself.

I accidentally made these a bit long-winded, whoops. These are less headcanons and more… assorted one-shots? I’ve got no clue what happened here.

Reader (that’s you!) is referred to with neutral pronouns, and is not described.

As usual, this is for non-sexual, sfw pet regression. DNI if you sexualize pet regression. Also, please heed my general DNI criteria which can be found in the pinned post on my blog.

Content warnings: food, finance, Wesker is a bit more in-character this round, meaning he’s… a bit egotistical, but I did my best to try and keep it harmless. There’s also a slightly sad part in the “activities” segment but no worries, it ends on a happy note. And there’s almost a swearword.

How Wesker Finds Out About Petre

Wesker finds out about petre the same way he found out about agere; from you, of course! As he did research on age regression, he happened upon articles on pet regression and decided that he should do some reading on that as well. He wants to be a prepared Papa, so he covers all his bases.

He stumbled into a world of adorable little creatures: puppies, kitties, wolf cubs, bear cubs, bats, and all sorts of other darling animals that require their own special types of care. It was all a bit overwhelming, but fascinating. He wrote a short profile for each animal he came across until you got home.

You two had a lovely chat about it. He encouraged you to tell him all about your pet space, even if you were a little shy about it at first. He loves you, after all; he’s happy to praise you for any of your healthy coping mechanisms. If it works for you, it works for him.

Besides, Wesker never had a pet before! This will be exciting. Even if he doesn’t come across as outwardly excited, he definitely is.

General Pet Care Style

No matter what kind of critter you are, Weskie wants to make sure you have ample space to play with whatever kind of toys you need.

With all the jobs (and… extracurricular income) he has, money is no object; he dedicates an entire space in his home to your habitat. Being as well-read as he is, he makes sure to set it up practically, filling any needs a little critter might have. The floor is soft enough for quadrobics if that’s your gig. If you’re the type of pet that needs a nice comfy corner to sleep in, he makes sure to set up a plush, quiet space for you to rest. He lets you pick out any toys you find interesting.

As for decorations… he’s got taste, sure, but he’s not exactly sure how to decorate a baby animal habitat. You might have to help him out there. He might give you a piece of paper or two so you can doodle up some ideas!

Wesker sits his pet in his lap, laying their head against his chest. They hear the calm beating of his heart and feel as if they might nod off, until he gently calls out for them. The rumble of his voice makes them smile. They look up at him as best they can. “There you are, sweet one,” he coos once he meets their gaze. “I’m just picking out some things for your new playroom. I need your help, though. I’m not very good at seeing the ‘fun’ in pet toys. I can tell you scientifically what type of enrichment toys you need, but I’m sure you have your own preferences. Would you like to choose your toys?” Wesker’s pet perks up at that, rapidly nodding and turning to face the laptop screen. They scroll through the website, so enwrapped in colorful photos and the sheer number of things to play with, that they click anything that catches their attention. Wesker watches them, amber eyes amused behind his sunglasses. Once they pause, Wesker places his hands back on the laptop. “All done?” he asks. The pet nods. He clicks over to the checkout tab and his pet paws at him sympathetically, eyeing the price of the items in the cart. “Now now, none of that. The happiness of my precious pet has no price tag. This is nothing, dearest. Papa will make this back in an hour, probably less than that.” Their Papa’s not-so-humble bragging makes them feel a bit better. They give him a big “thank you” hug, nuzzling their head back into his neck. His grin can be heard in his quiet laughter.

Wesker loves the nurturing aspects of animal care, but he’s also logical, so he makes sure he keeps your habitat stocked with pet snacks and drinks for you. He has fun figuring out human-safe alternatives for animal foods; like using dry cereal for kibble or cut up cooked meat for meat-eating pets. If you’re an herbivorous pet, he offers you all sorts of fresh fruits and veggies, even ones you haven’t seen before that he gets from fancy grocery stores and places he travels to!

He also keeps his pockets lined with your favorite dry treats, like animal crackers, cereal biscuits, or fruit chunks. It’s important that he’s always prepared to reward good behavior!

If you’re a sneaky creature, you might be able to steal a couple treats from him when he’s not looking. Of course, his superior senses never allow you to get away with it, but he always plays along and acts like he doesn’t notice.

Wesker pats the pocket of his coat, making a show of being confused. “Hm. I could’ve sworn I had more treats on me just a moment ago… What a mystery this is.” His pet, mouth full of those very treats, chews a bit faster, aiming to clear their mouth before their Papa can turn around to see them. They agree with him; missing treats are a severe mystery. Glancing behind him and catching a glimpse of the critter, he bites back a chuckle. He felt them snatch a few treats from his pocket a bit ago, but he can’t bring himself to discipline them for it. It brings him joy to see them having fun. “How about we play detective to find them? I will be the detective; you’ll be my loyal little pet and sniff out where they might be hiding. I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of this if we work together.”

Activities

If you’re a more active type of critter, Wesker will try to find time to play games with you! His personal favorite is any kind of fetch; it’s easy for him to play at his desk while he works. You bring him a toy, he throws it, you bring it back, rinse and repeat. That is, until he gets a little forgetful of his own strength and accidentally beams the toy through a wall on one particularly hard throw.

Both Wesker and his critter stare at the ball-shaped hole in the drywall. If he squints, he can see clean through the hole, into the hallway, and into the front wall of the room across the hall. “God—“ he glances over at his pet on the floor, reconsidering his word choice. He lets the rest of his sentence go with an irritated sigh. “I'm sorry dearheart, but I don’t have the patience for more fetch today. Let’s pick a different game.” His pet toddles across the hall, brushes off their ball, and brings it back to him. They don’t expect him to play more, but perhaps having the ball back might cheer up their Papa. Wesker glances back down at the floor, his agitation fading into amusement. “Thank you, pup.” He places the ball on top of his desk and pats them on the head.

Games that require a lot of room, like chase, are a little more uncommon for him because of his schedule, but they’re a ton of fun!

Well, they are once he learns how to play, and not win. He spent his life having to succeed at everything he’s tried, physically upgrading himself so he wins by default. He’s not accustomed to playing to have fun. You may have to teach him to play fair.

A defeated pet sits in the soft green grass, finally giving up on trying to catch their Papa in their game of chase. He’s just too fast; he jukes out of the way too quickly for them to tag him. When he’s the one who’s “it”, they lose almost immediately because he tags them before they even finish thinking about which way to run. Wesker approaches the creature on the ground and crouches down to their eye level, features softening with concern. “Dearheart? Is everything alright?” He looks at all the common locations for owies; shins, knees, elbows, hands, and determines that his pet didn’t fall or hurt themself. “Come now, tell Papa what’s wrong. You were having fun a moment ago.” The little one looks up at him and frowns. No, they weren’t, they say. They gently explain that he’s always winning, and it isn’t fair, because they can’t possibly run as fast as him. Wesker, for his part, listens intently. He’s been raised to win, no matter how; no “game” he’s ever participated in has lasted long enough to be considered “play”. He takes a moment to catalogue his own behavior, adding it to the list of belief systems from his childhood that need to be dismantled. It also strikes him that baby animals, like his pet, play to learn and have fun. They don’t gain any skills if they always lose. There’s a faint aching in his chest when he realizes he’s just been besting them this entire time, so much so that they wanted to quit. His brow furrows as he considers how to respond to what they’re saying. “I see now. I had no idea I was playing so ruthlessly. This whole time I thought I had to win; I didn’t stop to think about how that must have made you feel. I’m sorry, my sweet.” He sits himself down across from them, not considering how the grass would stain his suit pants for even a moment. “You’re right, games aren’t any fun if one person always wins and the other always loses. You’ve taught Papa a very important lesson today. Quite a wise creature you are, for one so little.” A relieved grin starts across his pet’s face. They scoot across the grass to sit themself in their Papa’s lap, giving him a big hug of understanding. They know it’s hard for him to admit that he’s wrong and they’re proud of him for being able to. He kisses the top of their head. “Angel, are you up for one more game? One where Papa will play fair?” The critter scrambles up to stand, tagging Wesker’s shoulder and taking off as fast as they can across the yard. He chuckles as he lets them take full advantage of the head start, taking his time to stand up and brush the grass off himself.

And that’s all I’ve got! I didn’t have too many ideas for this one, so I made sure to expand upon what I did have. My beloved @woofkie inspired and helped with a good percentage of these, so very very big shoutout to him! Big thank yous <3! I hope you like 'em!

I hope these are enjoyable for everyone! Thank you so very much for reading!

[slothquisitor]

What Moves in the Dark: Chapter Two

Liv and Astarion come to an agreement. Tw: blood, tw: alcohol use, tw: poor coping mechanisms.

Read from the beginning.

Also on AO3.

____________________________________________________________

Astarion waits the requested hour, wandering the streets uselessly and barely talking himself into going back at all. When he does turn back down the street the shop sits on, he hovers up the street, glancing into the darkened windows to ensure that the dwarf isn’t going to try to run his axe through him and that this wasn’t all some elaborate set-up. He doesn’t think that’s what this is though. There had been something fundamentally honest about the woman, a true desire to help. He doesn’t have a lot of allies left in this city, and even fewer friends. So, he approaches the shop. 

Like much of the city, the building the shop resides in is made of pale stone. But the shop itself is framed by wooden paneling and windows that have been painted a dark green. The paint looks pristine and fresh, so it’s probably enchanted. The wooden sign over the door doesn’t announce the name but instead is emblazoned with a shadowy quill. The glass of the windows is thick and wavy, it’s difficult to see inside clearly, but he sees no sign of the dwarf, so he opens the door and steps inside. At the ringing of the bell, the woman appears looking not the least bit surprised, but she’s also not armed or flanked by the dwarven man, so he takes it as a victory.

“Welcome back,” she says. She’s half-elven which makes it difficult to pinpoint her exact age. She’s pretty, and her long, dark hair is pinned back though tendrils of it seem to be escaping. Her eyes are the color of dark forests and storms, and there’s an air about her, something that feels like sadness, but then she smiles and it’s almost enough to banish it. 

The shop itself is small, filled with plants and potions and spell components. There’s an old run running the length of the space, but the floorboards below it are worn, scratched. He suspects the rug is some effort to camouflage that. 

“Your partner is gone?” 

The woman chuckles. “Kharis is gone, but he’s not my partner. He’s the owner here; I’m just his assistant. Come on back.”

A mere assistant? Oh, this day just keeps getting better and better. He’s beginning to question the wisdom of coming here at all. But something propels him forward instead, a kernel of something planted by Tavren months and months ago: hope. Hope that there is a cure out there to be found, that the world needn’t be so bleak. A part of him hates it. 

He sighs and follows her into the back room. It’s small, cramped, even. There are bundles of herbs and plants hanging from the ceiling, and bottles and tinctures litter every available surface. It would be a kindness to call it merely cluttered. But a fire crackles in the corner and several candles flicker invitingly. The space feels cozier than it has any right to in this part of town. 

“Forgive my assumption, but you haven’t even told me your name.”

Her cheeks flush in embarrassment, but otherwise, she doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m Liv. Would you like to take a seat?” She gestures to a chair beside the workbench.

He sits but watches her as she carefully moves around the space, preparing a needle and a vial. “Tell me, what can an assistant to an alchemist do for me?” He doesn’t mean for the question to come out nearly as bitterly as it does. 

She doesn’t look surprised by his question, but then she doesn’t look angry either. “Truthfully, I’m not sure, but magic is certainly involved somewhere in the vampirism process. And lucky for you, I’ve received the best magical education money can buy.” She doesn’t say any of it with an air of boasting, instead the words are resigned almost, and laced with something else he can’t place. 

“And yet you’re an assistant in an alchemy shop.”

“You wouldn’t believe how hard it is to get a decent job in this city,” she says with a slight smile. It’s a deflection if he’s ever heard one, but he lets her have it. “I’ll need access to your arm.”

He unbuttons his doublet, shedding the outer layer until he’s down to his shirtsleeves. She steps close, hands outstretched. “Is it alright if I touch you?” 

The frank casualness of the question surprises him. He’s strangely grateful to be asked at all. He offers her his arm which she directs to the workbench, then with careful fingers, she gently rolls up the sleeve of his shirt until his forearm is completely exposed. 

Her brow furrows and she pauses. “I just realized…you’re undead, do you even bleed?”

He shifts in the chair as his scars ache faintly at the question. It’s all in his head, he knows. But the question stirs two centuries of memories. Of flayings and beatings and scrubbing his own blood from stone floors. “I bleed.”

“Well, you certainly have nice veins,” she says as she ties a small cloth around his upper arm and then gently taps at the veins.

The comment is so unexpected he chokes out a laugh. “I’ve been on the receiving end of any number of compliments, darling, but that is a new one.” Her answering smile is just this side of smug, he realizes now that she must have picked up on his discomfort, and had said just the thing to pull him out of it. He grinds his jaw together, unsure how he feels about being so easy for her to read.

“Is it rude for me to ask you how you became a vampire?” She asks, pressing the needle into his vein. The connected vial begins to fill with blood. It doesn’t hurt, but he glances away all the same. 

“Well, if you’re going to help me, I suppose you will need to exhume all the gory details, won’t you?” 

She dips her head in acknowledgment, eyes flicking up to his before returning to her work. “It would be preferable, yes.”

He sighs. “I supposed the first thing you should be aware of is that I’m not a true vampire, only a spawn. I was attacked, beaten, and left for dead. That’s when Cazador appeared, and offered to save me. To give me eternal life. Given that my choices were eternal life or bleed to death in the street, I took him up on his offer. It was only afterward that I realized just how long eternity could be.” There’s a lot he’s not telling her. Like how the reason he’d been attacked and beaten was because he’d handed down a ruling as a magistrate he can’t remember but he can guess that it was neither fair nor good. Or how he’d carried almost as much vitriol and hatred for the Gur people as he had for Cazador for making him what he is. He’s surprised at just how much shame he feels, how little he wants her to know the whole truth. 

“What exactly was the process though? What little I’ve read suggests there’s an exchange of blood?” 

“In theory, yes. Presumably, he drained me dry and gave me a drop of his blood.”

“In that order? What if you drink a vampire’s blood before you’re drained dry?” she asks. He can tell by the way she speaks that she’s trying to work the whole process out, puzzle it through. 

The order of the process hasn’t ever been relevant, so he’s never paid attention. “I wasn’t exactly in any condition to be taking notes. It…it was a long time ago.”

“How long?” 

“Nearly two hundred years.”

“What’s the difference between a spawn and a true vampire…why not make you a true vampire?” 

“Because the biggest threat to a vampire is another vampire and because the vampire who turned me was a sadistic asshole who was obsessed with power over people. Spawn are worse than slaves, they’re obedient puppets.” 

“Oh, I didn’t realize…are you…” He watches her struggle to form the question.

“Don’t worry, the bastard’s dead.” It’s the first time he’s told anyone outside of his friends and companions. It’s the first time it’s been relevant. Sitting in an alchemy shop with a stranger, it feels less victorious than he thought it would. 

She pulls away the needle and vial and then presses a clean cloth to the wound left behind. “Hold that there, I’ll grab a bandage.”

“Don’t bother,” he replies, pulling the cloth away. The wound has already healed. 

She peers at the place where the needle should have left a small wound behind, but there’s nothing but a spot of blood against his pale skin. “That’s fascinating. You can heal that quickly?”

He rolls his shirtsleeve back down, feeling suddenly exposed. “Yes.”

Her green eyes are big and bright and full of curiosity. “What else can you do? I’ve never read anything about accelerated healing and vampires.”

Well, she’s no expert, but what the hells? He patiently answers her questions while she scribbles down notes in a book. Her questions are thoughtful, couched in genuine curiosity. She listens to him intently, like she’s weighing each of his words. Her attention is an intense thing, quiet, but the full force of it hits him while they talk and he simultaneously wants to squirm away from it as much as he wants to bask in it. 

She’s clearly clever, but she hasn’t got a magical cure to offer him, and he’s surprised by how disappointed he feels. Perhaps it is because of their recent victory over the Netherbrain, but he had believed that like everything else, if he simply showed up and did the heroic thing…a solution would present itself. Perhaps he shouldn’t come here at all. 

“I thought that vampires couldn’t walk in the sun,” Liv glances up at him after making a note in her book. 

“A gift of the illithid tadpole in my head. A gift that was promptly withdrawn after our defeat of the Netherbrain.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize…” It’s funny because she looks genuinely sorry, but she doesn’t know him. They’re strangers. 

“Perhaps now you understand why I’m here,” Astarion says, a tiredness in his voice he didn’t notice before. 

“How did it work? There were people all over the city who turned into mind flayers, but no one seemed to know how they got infected. We’d been treating people who came to us complaining about headaches and other odd symptoms for a few tendays, but we didn’t realize they were even infected until they turned…if we’d known…maybe we could have done more.” As she speaks, he can see the emotions rising in her, the care, the anger. 

“Trust me when I say there was nothing you could have done differently. They weren’t normal tadpoles.” He’s not sure why he’s trying to offer her comfort, but he offers it all the same. 

“What made them different?” 

“Netherese magic.”

“What? That’s…impossible.”

“I assure you it’s not.”

Liv is quiet for a moment, staring at the floor as if she’s working something out. “So the tadpole suppressed some of the vampirism…and it was infused with netherese magic. There’s got to be a connection there.”

He sighs. “Oh probably. You also mentioned something earlier about a blood disease. Is that why you want my blood?”

“Yes, but now that I know how fast you can heal, I’m interested in it for more than just that. Some of the people who came to use sick, some of them turned into mind flayers, but some of them are still sick. Doctors who can’t find anything wrong. One of them died.”

“And you think my blood might contain answers?”

She shrugs. “All I know is that a vampire walked into the shop within the same tenday, and…maybe it’s a coincidence and maybe it’s not, but I’d be a fool not to look deeper.” 

She’s a fool with a bleeding heart anyway, he can tell. He knows her type: naive, quick to help, quicker to get taken advantage of. He notices her picking her words carefully most of the time, but every now and again the control slips and her accent shifts to something that betrays her as being from the Upper City. He’s not sure what she’s doing here or why she’s trying to hide where she’s from, but he doesn’t much care. 

“So, what now?” he asks. 

“Now I need time to work. Come back in a tenday?” 

A tenday? She thinks that is all the time this will take? “You think you can solve this that quickly?”

She laughs, but it’s not a cruel thing. “Gods no. I need time to research and work. I don’t even know what questions to ask you, what more I need from you. This could take…” she falters. “This could take a long time. But I promise I’ll do my best to help you.” He despises promises; they’re too easily broken. 

And with that vote of confidence in this whole endeavor, he bids her goodnight and steps back out into the warm night air unconvinced that he’ll be back. 

***

The door to the Shadowed Quill bursts open in the late afternoon, the bell jingling cheerily in sharp juxtaposition to the worried faces and concerned voices that suddenly fill the shop. Liv is at the counter helping a woman with spell components and arguing that no, she cannot substitute soot with ash, but she immediately steps away when she sees the woman being carried between three men. 

It’s Iona, one of the patients with similar symptoms to Alfran. She’d first come to them complaining about a ringing in her ears that nothing had fixed. Later, she’d begun complaining about blurry vision and vertigo. The last time Liv had seen her, she’d made a house call because Iona’s legs had been so swollen she’d been unable to walk. Liv had left her with a small collection of health potions and no answers. Now, she’s being carried here by her three sons.

“She was doing better, she was,” one of Iona’s sons insists. “But her breathing got real bad last night, and now she’s really struggling. We took her to a doctor…but…”

But the doctor had likely found absolutely nothing wrong. Just like Alfran. She already knows without them saying anything. Their shop is not a hospital or a clinic, but is there really anywhere else for them to go? “Let’s get her in the back,” she says. 

Kharis has appeared in the doorway of the workroom, holding the door open and gesturing them inside. “We can put her on the workbench; we’ll get her comfortable.”

Liv follows in the wake of Iona’s sons. Now that it’s quieter, she can hear the way Iona strains for each breath. “Is her airway blocked?” 

“No,” one of the boys responds, as they carefully lay their mother on the work bench. 

Iona is a small woman, her three sons are all taller than her by at least two heads. She’d told Liv that her husband had died when the boys were young; she’s been working as a laundress her whole life, and now her boys work the docks like their father before them. A quiet life, one that should be safe and not marked with mystery.

Kharis’ hands are outstretched, glowing blue with healing magic. “We’ll take good care of her. Will you wait out front?”

Iona’s sons reluctantly leave, and Liv presses a hand against Iona’s pulse point. “Her heart is racing, Kharis.” She keeps her voice pitched low, so as not to be overheard. 

“Healing spells aren’t working,” Kharis replies. This isn’t good. Iona’s breathing is becoming more and more labored by the minute, and her heart can’t possibly keep this pace. 

She leans down over the woman. “Iona, can you hear me? Can you tell me does anything hurt?”

Iona’s eyes are unfocused, and Liv isn’t even sure that she’s conscious. “My….head.” The words are slurred together, and as she speaks the left side of her face begins to droop. 

“Kharis!” Liv says, getting his attention. “Something’s wrong.”

“Fuck. She’s having a stroke!”

He’s suddenly racing toward the cupboard and reaching for a jar filled with dirt. He pulls out a pinch, before rubbing it in his hands. “ Mortem finge ,” he says as he rubs his hands together over Iona’s unmoving form, and suddenly she goes very, very still. 

“What did you do?” 

Kharis looks tired, haunted. “I bought us an hour to try and figure this out. I can probably heal the stroke she’s currently having, but unless we figure out what’s causing it, it will happen again.”

Liv understands what he’s done now, the sort of death-like state he’s brought her to. She’s not breathing, her heart isn’t beating. She is held in a magical stasis long enough for them to try something . She’s just not sure what. 

“Any ideas?” she asks, but she’s pretty sure she knows the answer. 

Kharis shakes his head. “You?”

“Just one.” She’s already headed to the basin to scrub her hands clean. “I think we need to take a look at her blood.”

She hears Kharis’ curse, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he joins her at the basin, scrubbing his own hands clean. “Alright, but if her blood is weird like Alfran’s you don’t touch a damn thing.”

Liv appreciates his concern. It’s been a long time since it felt like anyone had worried over her. “Alright.”

Kharis hands her the scalpel, and Liv slices carefully into Iona’s arm. She keeps the cut shallow, something that can be easily healed, the blood pools in the wound, and Liv expects it to run down Iona’s arm, but there’s something wrong. She pulls the scalpel away and realizes that the blood is almost viscous. “Her blood is…thick…”

Kharis’ brow furrows. “That explains her symptoms…”

“But what could cause this?” As she speaks, the pooling of the blood seems to ease and a thin tendril reaches up out of the wound. 

“Back away, Liv. Right now.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. “What the fuck?”

“Stand back, I want to see what it does.” Kharis is watching the tendril intently. It rises slowly, then blooms into three more tendrils, like tiny little antennae. It reaches through the space, toward Kharis’ desk where a small jar of blood sits. It’s the blood they pulled from Alfran, and the blood inside the jar is pressed against the side nearest Iona as if the pieces are desperate to reach one another again. 

“It knows itself…” Liv breathes. Her fear and terror are distant things because she cannot do anything but watch this unfold, wondering what happens when the two pieces finally reach each other. 

She doesn’t get to find out because Kharis uses his mage hands to gather this blood in another bottle, and he heals the cut on Iona’s arm, erasing the evidence of what they’ve done. 

“What does this mean?” 

Kharis sets the new bottle of blood next to the last, inside them both, the blood presses up against the sides nearest each other, like two magnets. “It means it’s spreading, and I don’t know that there’s anything we can do.”

Liv stares down at the almost-dead woman on their workbench. “And Iona?”

Kharis looks genuinely sorry. “We should prepare her sons to say goodbye, and we’ll help them burn the body.”

“We need to tell someone about this.”

Kharis laughs, but it’s an empty thing. “Who, Liv? We’ve got two poor people dead and blood doing weird things. Should I take it to the Fist? The Watch? One the Dukes? Tell me, who will care?” 

She can’t even tell him he’s wrong, but she’s afraid. “There has to be someone. This is beyond us.”

“Every time someone walks in those doors looking for more than simple healing and potions it’s beyond us, but we don’t turn them away. We give them hope if we can, and comfort if there’s nothing else we can do.”

But that can’t be all they can do. “What about the heroes? The ones who stopped the Netherbrain? Do think they could help?” 

Kharis’ voice isn’t unkind, but it is firm. “Liv, I will go find a doctor in the morning and see what they think of this, but I don’t know that they’ll care.”

Because they don’t know anything. Not really. They have strange blood and one dead man and an almost dead woman, and they’re not important enough to warrant much concern. Liv would leverage her last name, whatever remained of her reputation if she believed it would help, but she can’t think of a single connection, a single link from her old life that might make any discernible difference. 

“Alright.”

They help get Iona home, and do what they can to buy her some time so that she and her sons can say goodbye. She dies just before the sun rises on Baldur’s Gate. They burn the body as the day begins, and Liv wonders what it’s all for if this is all the help they can give. 

***

The Blade and Stars is bustling tonight, and Astarion attempting to enjoy himself. It’s been years since he’s been in this establishment, but he’d always liked the energy here. He’s come to this tavern because he couldn’t think of a single other thing to do, and he couldn’t stand to be at Ramazith’s Tower another moment to have Gale look at him like he’s all that’s left of their adventure. 

Gale knows perfectly well how to retrieve the crown, but he keeps making excuses not to. And as long as he keeps making excuses, he’ll continue to be here in Baldur’s Gate. Astarion is…fine with that. Some part of him keeps waiting for Tavren, Wyll, and Karlach to heroically appear from their adventure, full of stories and triumphs. But they haven’t, and Astarion must do something . So tonight, he’s here…drinking and entertaining the attentions of a human man who’s nearly as tall as Halsin. 

He doesn’t know the man’s name and isn’t sure he wants to. They’ve been making meaningless small talk about the weather and rebuilding of the city. As they’ve been talking, the man’s arm has shifted so that it’s pressed against Astarion’s. His eyes are half-lidded, blurry with drink. “What do you do for a living?”

Astarion realizes he could lie, be anyone, be anything he wants to be for tonight, but that feels too much like who he used to be. He’s different now, so he tells the truth. “Nothing right now, I’m simply living at a wizard tower and generally overstaying my welcome everywhere I go.”

The man laughs. He’s got a nice smile even though his front two teeth overlap one another. He’s a carpenter, and there’s a stray woodshaving caught in his short, dark hair. Astarion could reach up and pluck it out, but he doesn’t. 

“Can’t imagine someone like you ever being unwelcome anywhere.”

Then the man’s stupid, but Astarion doesn’t much care. He shifts on the barstool so that his knee bumps up against the man’s thigh. This is familiar territory, at least. “Oh darling, you have no idea the sort of chaos I can cause.”

“Maybe I’d like to you show me,” he says, his warm hand settling on Astarion’s thigh. He thinks he might want to want this. He hasn’t been with anyone since the nautiloid…since his doomed attempt to seduce a person who only ever had eyes for Karlach. He’s not even sure how he feels about this man’s clear desire…wonders if he should say yes if only to try and puzzle it out. But the thought makes him feel…nothing.  

And suddenly whatever this is, this game he’s playing where he drinks and flirts isn’t fun anymore. He drains his glass of wine and then extricates himself from the bar. “Perhaps some other time.”

The man looks surprised at his rejection but shrugs it off. “See you around then.”

And there is a thrill in this, in saying no. In coming out to a place like this and leaving absolutely alone. It makes him feel alive; it makes him feel free . That it comes with disappointing random strangers is simply a fringe benefit. 

On his way to the door, a man stumbles into him, and it’s only Astarion’s vampiric reflexes that save him from getting splashed with the man’s drink. “Ugh, you great oaf. Watch where in the hells you’re going.” 

The man isn’t old, but his hair is thin and wispy. The lower half of his face is covered by a sparse goatee that doesn’t quite give him a chin. He laughs. “Mmm..sorry, wouldn’t want to ruin your fancy clothes.”

The man is so drunk he probably can’t even see straight, so the fight isn’t worth it. But Astarion takes comfort in knowing he could rip the man’s throat out. At the thought of blood, his gums ache, but the man’s blood smells…off. Rank. Not unlike that awful blood merchant they’d encountered at Moonrise. The man is already stumbling away and his friends are laughing and joking and the bar is loud, so Astarion keeps moving. 

All that stands between him and the door is a pair of Flaming Fist, he tries to sidestep them, but their faces light up in recognition, and he internally curses Tavren’s weird obsession with befriending everyone in the city. 

“Ay, you’re one of them heroes aren’t you? The ones who took out the brain? We saw you at the Elfsong that night with the High Harper and the Mad Rasheman!” 

He plasters on a smile and waves his hand in a flourish as he greets them. “A fine evening to you.” Having the members of the Fist look at him as a hero has to have its uses, so despite the fact he wants nothing to do with these two, he’s willing to entertain a bit of conversation if it saves him future headaches. 

“You’re just the sort of person we’ve been looking for.” 

Astarion looks more closely at the two Fist. One is a half-orc and the other is a human. He’s pretty sure he could take them both at once, assuming no one else in the bar joins in. He’s not sure he wants to know exactly what they’re looking for from him. 

“And what sort of person is that?” Astarion keeps the words light, but there’s an edge to them as if daring them forward. 

The half-orc doesn’t seem to notice. “There’s a bounty contract Constable Davella is offering a good amount of gold for…guess there’s still some Bhaalists running around the Gate.”

“Bhaalists? Still?” He was pretty sure they’d shut all that left of the resurgence down when Tavren had killed Orin the Red. 

The half-orc shrugs. “Apparently. The Constable wants them all stopped, can bring them in dead or alive. Thought you might want in seeing as you were involved in all mess with them before.”

“Dead or alive, you say?” Astarion asks, suddenly very interested. It’s been a while since he’s murdered someone, and he’s going to need to drink someone’s blood soon. So long as Davella doesn’t mind that the corpses are exsanguinated, this sounds like the best idea he’s had in a while. 

“Davella should be at the barracks with details.”

Astarion smiles. “This was a surprisingly pleasant conversation. Do enjoy your evening.”

And he strides out into the moon-drenched streets, a goal in mind for the first time since the Netherbrain’s defeat. 

[logicalbookthief]

If you're accepting owl house prompts then 37 with Willow? (or whoever strikes your fancy)

37. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

Prompt from this list

So… Anyone remember how messed up it is that Gus knows about the grimwalkers and what Philip did to Caleb?

“Augustus,” Willow greets, sliding in next to him on the couch. It’s a rare moment when they’re alone in the Noceda household. No Hunter keeping a watchful eye on his self-appointed charge. No Amity leaning on her, a familiar tether in an otherwise strange world. “Mind if I sit?”

Gus narrows his eyes. “I guess,” he replies, utterly skeptical. “What’s wrong?”

Busted already. What gave her away? Too casual in her approach? Or too careful? The pitfalls of having a friend who knows you better than you know yourself. 

Two can play at that game, though. “Why don’t you tell me?”

Willow doesn’t have much to do these days besides worry. Worry for her dads, who she misses like a whole half of her heart. Worry for everyone they left behind in the Boiling Isles.

Worry for Gus, who — while he has improved since that initial night of heartache and terror — can’t quite shake this shroud of despair that he wears when he believes nobody’s watching. 

Of course Willow notices. Not much else for her to do while they’re trapped in the human realm.

Predictably, Gus scoffs at her question. “It would be faster to list what’s not wrong with our lives right now.”

Willow can’t force herself to disagree. Her positive attitude is a far cry from Luz’s tireless optimism, but it’s served her well as a coping mechanism, even on some of the worst days of her life. Only it’s difficult to imagine a situation worse than this.

Even the loss of the smallest things — her plants, her bed, her cozy socks — sting like a thousand papercuts. The more she touches the memories, the more she aches.

“You’re right,” she admits. “And it freaking sucks, because we can’t do anything right now.”

Gus remains silent, staring straight ahead at the television. Usually, he watches cartoons with Hunter or Luz, but this time it’s a news reporter on screen. She wonders if it reminds him of his dad. Another memory, another cut.

“But,” Willow points out, nudging her shoulder with his. “As someone who felt helpless for a long time, I’m not really a fan. So I figure, why not try focusing on what we can do for each other?” 

It isn’t dissimilar from what she told King, what feels like an eternity ago. And oh, Titan, does that make her chest quaver. To think that he might’ve taken her words to heart, taken them to mean he should help by staying behind while they fled—

“Thanks, Willow,” Gus whispers, derailing her one-way guilt trip. “But you don’t need to worry about me.”

“No can do. Worrying for my friends is part of the deluxe Willow Park friendship package,” she states firmly. It earns her a slightly exasperated side-eye, which she responds to with a wink. “No returns, exchanges or refunds.” 

It does the trick. Gus snorts out a laugh, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening.

Emboldened by the small victory, Willow presses on. “Okay, we’ve established that apparently I have no reason to worry. Are you ... worried about anything?”

Lips pursed in a tight line, Gus shrugs. Completely noncommittal. Willow would call it childish, but it’s nice, actually, to see him finally act his age. Still, it means she’ll have to prod further to get him to speak.

“Does it have anything to do with why you’re avoiding Hunter?”

“What?” Gus snaps. “I’m not avoiding him! Kind of impossible to do, when we literally share a room.”

“You’re avoiding something with Hunter,” she revises. True, they’re as joined at the hip as ever. When Hunter isn’t paying attention, though, that’s when Gus stares at the older boy, all wide-eyed and wounded. 

Originally, Willow chalked it up to the fear of losing someone else, the way his gaze tracked Hunter’s every move. As the bags under Gus’s eyes grow darker, she can no longer let it slide.

“I’ve noticed you stealing glances at him—”

“I do?” Gus interrupts. It dawns on her that he may not have even been aware. “I’m looking at him weird? How??”

Taken aback, Willow stammers out, “Well, you.... you look at him like... Like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Gus pales, taking on the shade of a ghost himself. His voice is a frantic whisper. “Has he noticed?”

“I don’t think so,” Willow replies, slowly. Carefully, like she’s navigating a field of thorns. “Gus, is... Is there something you haven’t told us?”

Opening his mouth, Gus hesitates. The words catch in his throat, so he swallows them back again. “You don’t need to worry about me,” he insists.

Even though he can’t articulate it aloud, Willow hears what’s unspoken. Her minds flashes to Hunter, who was still in...  Survival mode, for lack of a better term. Where she felt herself faltering from time-to-time, Hunter remained steady.  Always ready to do a chore for Mrs. Noceda, or comfort Gus, or give Luz tips on rebuilding the portal. Never stopping long enough to process what’s happened, focused only on his future goals.

It’s a defense mechanism, to be sure. And it’s just as sure to backfire on him, eventually. Nonetheless, Willow can’t deny that part of her is envious. At least Hunter’s way of coping allows him to move forward, and be useful, instead of stagnating or feeling sorry for himself.

“I didn’t realize that…” Gus sighs, the words coming unstuck. “When you use the mirror to show someone their worst memories, it... It shows you their worst memories, too.”

Her eyes widen, the seed of dread in her stomach blooming into full-blown horror.

“Oh, Gus,” she gasps, her hand flying to cover her mouth.

“Yeah,” he huffs, that not-quite laugh brimming with self-deprecation. “That’ll teach me to pocket magical artifacts from creeps like Gray.”

“Are you okay?” Willow asks. Her gaze sweeps over her friend, as if she can pinpoint the place he’s hurt, as if it isn't already embedded inside, somewhere she can't hope to reach. “Seriously, I can’t imagine what would scare a monster like Belos—”

“He had a brother.”

And that, that of all things, is not what Willow expects to hear. Belos was always this larger-than-life concept looming over the Isles, more of a myth than a man. To know that he was once just a human is one thing. To know that he was a human with a life, family? Even a—

“A brother who he killed.”  

Her chest constricts, her pulse fluttering in shock. Her hand reaches out for Gus’s arm, as much for his comfort as her own.

Now that the dam's burst, the words won't cease. Gus clutches at the chain around his neck, his eyes clouded, distant.

“A brother who looks exactly like Hunter.” He chokes it out like a confession, like some dark, terrible thing he’s been holding back, but it’s finally broken free to the surface. Tears spring to his eyes, but he doesn’t stop, not even to take a breath.

"Willow, I saw— I saw it, this hand, it was clawing its way out of the dirt, and Belos, he was so— He was devastated, and alone, but he was so, so angry at Caleb, too—"

Caleb.

Her heart leaps to her throat. Caleb. Just a name, not a ghost, right? A harmless lie, a cover story for Hunter. But who had suggested that name? It was Flapjack, wasn’t it? Flapjack, who Belos had seen, and then he screamed, his rage a force of nature as he went in for the killing blow—

"What do I do?" Gus croaks. He isn’t asking, he’s pleading, turning so they’re face-to-face, and Willow sees the full extent of his sorrow. “How am I supposed to tell Hunter that h—he’s a—”

And for all she’s three years older, Willow has no idea what to do. She wraps Gus in her arms, and embraces hard, like she can squeeze the hurt right out of his heart.

She holds Gus, waiting until his shaking to subsides, his sobs drying into hiccups, and she worries. It feels like all she can do nowadays.