#obviously there's been violence linked to fictional content

[evilkitten3]

we cannot still be on the "do video games cause violence" train lmao

The default question “do video games cause violence” is loaded, but with a bit of rejiggering it becomes clear that the answer is closer to ‘yes’ than ‘no’. & I think a lot of us on here have been dodging this topic for a long time because we like video games and we want to protect their reputation

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Don’t Go Blindly Into The Dark

Summary:

To hide that he can't read, Jan Van Eck has been forcing his son to pretend he's blind since he was eight years old. Wylan is now attending Ketterdam University, and meeting Jesper Fahey may very well be about to change his life. But is he safe to tell Jesper the truth? And what will Jesper say if he does?

Jesper is struggling to weigh up his life in the Barrel and his life at the University of Ketterdam, and there's a good chance that his growing debt is about to make the decision for him. He hasn't attended class consecutively for months, but maybe that will change when his newest project includes partnering up with Wylan Van Eck. But can he really leave the Barrel behind him? And how long can he keep up the pretence of who he thinks Wylan wants him to be?

Meanwhile there is a darkness growing in Ketterdam, and it seems a killer may be stalking the streets of West Stave. An unknown evil is closing its jaws over the city, and it’s starting to feel like nowhere is safe.

Tags: @justalunaticfangirl @lunarthecorvus @i-need-help-this-is-my-obsession @devoted-people-hater

If anyone else would like to be tagged let me know :)

Content warnings for this chapter: implied trafficking references, implied violence, implied death references, threats, implied abuse references, abduction references, separation from family/loss of family

AO3 link

Chapter 56 - Nina

Even after mulling on her words for a few days and giving herself the time to assume that some smaller details may be over exaggerated or entirely fabricated, Nina was still feeling pretty sure that the rumours Siobhan had heard were complete and utter nonsense. Squallers flying, she’d said, and Tidemakers turning to mist? Please. Whatever this drug was, Siobhan had no name for it from whatever hearsay she’d picked up on, and however the story was being spun, this was not the truth. It couldn’t be.

Though the disbelief hadn’t stopped Nina from asking around, had it? 

Her contacts in Ketterdam weren’t extensive but they could be considered reasonable enough for her purposes; she was trying to start a conversation to find out whether anyone knew the whereabouts of Wylan’s friend Anya, anyway, so she reasoned that if she was already talking she might as well bring the rumours into it too. And people had heard of it, she started to realise. Jurda parem, they were calling it. She supposed it made sense if it had some link to jurda, the little blossoms were stimulants and to Nina’s understanding it sounded like this - obviously fictional, she promised herself - drug was as well, but it was that second word that bothered her. Parem. A Shu word, she knew. Without pity.

There was nothing solid anyone could really give her, so it was probably just some melodrama that would blow over within the month, but for some reason Nina couldn’t shake it. 

The hunt for Anya had been less fruitful. Anyone who had heard of her - which so far was only one Fabrikator from the other side of town, though there was a Squaller at another house on West Stave who’d said he knew someone in the Geldin District who might be able to find out more - could only tell her that they’d heard nothing of the girl since her indenture to Councilman Van Eck came to a somewhat seemingly abrupt end. That was hardly unusual around here; Nina doubted anyone would think twice about it. 

Nina could have just waited a few days to see if the Squaller’s contact managed to find anything for her, but she desperately wanted to be able to give Wylan news - even just of progress in searching, if not anything concrete. She thought he needed to hear something good. 

“The staff are mostly too well paid to bribe,” said Inej, speaking Suli, as the pair walked down East Stave together, “But I managed to gather a little gossip,”

It had been three days since the de Baal job, and the sun had briefly returned to Ketterdam in between the recent rain showers but the air was still cold and Nina was wrapped snugly into her coat. Inej usually, and to a casual onlooker would have done today, seemed resistant to the weather, but more than once on this walk so far she’d tugged on her long sleeves to pull them over her palms. Nina wasn’t sure if she was cold or if something was on her mind. She wondered if she should ask, but she didn’t want to pry. 

The ground was still wet and the cobblestones were slippery underfoot as they strolled, but Nina had been watching Inej with close attention for the past ten minutes and was yet to see her slip or struggle with her injured knee. Good. Inej had neglected to mention it since a few nights ago, the night of her birthday, when she broke into Nina’s room at the White Rose in tears. Nina still wasn’t sure if she’d seen anything in particular when she’d been scoping out the WIllow Switch, or if it was all just too much for her to keep it under wraps any longer. Hopefully, after what Nina had told her that night, Inej wouldn’t feel like she had to keep it buried anymore; if she wanted - needed - to talk, Nina would always be there. 

“Apparently there was quite a shouting match the day she left,”

Nina raised an eyebrow. 

She’d asked Inej after her fruitless initial attempt at tracking Anya down, if she could try to find out anything about Van Eck sending her away, only if she had time and only as soon as she had a chance. Nina glanced at her watch - it had been about ten hours. 

“All I could gather from the servants was that she and Van Eck were briefly alone, and then she ran out in the main hallway shouting for Wylan. They said that she tried to attack Van Eck and the guards had to pin her down,”

“She attacked him?”

“Well,” Inej shrugged, “The servants are also spreading that the reason Wylan left was because he got caught in a sweaty romp with one of his tutors, so I’d probably take their words with a pinch of salt,”

Still, Nina thought, that seems like a development. Nothing that happened in that house ever seemed to quite make sense. 

“Do you think…?” Nina hesitated, and glanced at Inej to see that she was staring up at her, patient but expectant, “He wouldn’t have… killed her, would he?”

Inej paused for a moment, her head cocked slightly to one side as she considered. They had both stopped walking for this moment, and Nina found herself rubbing the soft lining of her coat between her thumb and forefinger as she watched Inej’s mind turn. Inej had pulled her sleeve right up over her palm. 

“No,” she said, decisively, shaking her head, “No, I don’t think he would have. Where’s the money in that?”

Inej turned to make another step and Nina made to follow her, again trying to study the younger girl’s gate until she looked up and - catching Nina off guard - asked lightly: 

“Did you know that Elodie has ten siblings?”

Nina blinked. 

“Really?”

“Well, eight living siblings; five older, three younger. She was telling Jeluna about them,”

Nina frowned, nodding slowly. She wasn’t sure where Inej was going with this. 

“She’s never met the youngest, her mother was pregnant when she came to Ketterdam,”

Eleven children. Saints, some women were bloody stronger than Nina was. 

“I thought…” her voice drifted, thinking of what she had told Inej at the Slat when they’d spoken quietly about Elodie before. 

“Her parents?”

Nina nodded. 

“I think so. The way she talks about it all, at least, makes me think you were right. It sounds like she all but raised her younger sisters alone; a six year old and a one year old. They… they won’t remember her, will they?”

What was she trying to get at, here? Nina tucked her thumb inside her palm and began to work it against her skin in comforting, repetitive circles. Her earliest memories were all at the Little Palace in Os Alta; groups of small school children, raised by teachers and nurses and in a way each other, peering on tiptoe through the windows of the Palace to see the older Grisha rushing about below on their important missions. She remembered her early lessons, with Healers and Heartrenders alike in their little chairs where some were still so small their feet didn’t touch the ground. She remembered, at least for the most part though maybe the finer details would be lost on her, the dormitory she’d lived in before she was old enough to move into a double room, split with one other student when twelve and deemed an inappropriate age to make them stay with the tiniest of the others, or to have to change in the space shared with so many. She remembered the Civil War, the evacuation of the school to Keramzin, trying to calm the littlest ones from crying even as she had wanted to simply give in and start sobbing herself. She remembered the Darkling’s army finding them, and damn everything straight to hell if she didn’t remember the Shadow Fold. She remembered having her own bed chambers upon her return, and wondering whether she’d reached the age the school deemed proper for it or if there were simply less Grisha than rooms left over. 

But Nina didn’t remember the arms that had held her before she could walk. She didn’t remember who had fed her before she sat in a dining hall with dozens of other children. She didn’t remember who dressed her before she learned how to herself, or who gave her the clothes she had travelled in the whole journey to Os Alta. The journey, at least to her faded recollection and a little child’s mind, had been incomprehensibly long, and she had spent it - though this part she no longer remembers very clearly - sat on the bench of a carriage with her legs pulled up to her chest and her arms wrapped tightly around them as she glared over the top of her knees at the man and woman in the fancy, colourful coats. In her tiny fist she had clutched a handkerchief, someone from wherever she had come from must have given it to her, and with all her minuscule might she tried to keep it safe and secret. But as soon as she arrived at the Little Palace she was led to a small, strange looking room, given a pile of clean clothes, and told to change. She didn’t have a kefta yet, of course, and the children didn’t exactly have a uniform - though there were certain rules expected of them - but they were not allowed to keep the clothes they had arrived in. 

“It’s a plague precaution,” the woman in the pretty coat had told her, kneeling down so they were closer to the same height, “We just have to be safe, you understand that don’t you?”

Nina didn’t remember this by now. She didn’t remember nodding at the woman slowly, even though she didn’t really know what that meant. It sounded scary. Everything was scary today. 

“And look at these new clothes,” she’d smiled, holding up a blouse that was a crisper white than the one Nina wore beneath her cardigan, clearly much newer, “Aren’t they pretty?”

If Nina really searched her mind, she could bring to the surface some vague snippets of that day. She could remember that her cardigan was a thin, woollen thing, of comfy navy blue. When she took it off she did her best to fold it in front of her to lay it on the table, though it probably looked a mess, and she could remember the golden embroidered crest on the too-small-to-put-anything-in breast pocket. A school uniform, then? But surely Nina had been too small for that, yet? What else could it have been? 

She could remember, as well, the embroidered black stitches on the inner tag of the cardigan, that matched the tag of her blouse and skirt and the label inside her shoes; the letters of her name in neat, threaded lines. But she couldn’t remember who had sewn them. 

She’d washed all over and then dressed in the clothes that the woman with the pretty coat had left for her, and had then been walked hand-in-hand through the doorway to an entirely new world. That was when they found that she was still clutching her little handkerchief, refusing to give it up. She might have cried, she didn’t remember by now, but plague precautions were plague precautions, Nina needed to be a big strong girl now, and her tears were not appropriate for a future soldier.

“You are special, Nina,” someone had told her - the woman with the pretty coat? Someone different, in a different coloured coat? There were so many of them, all so tall and strong and busy. Nina had never felt smaller, “You are part of the Second Army, now. You are forever part of something bigger than yourself. Isn’t that special? Isn’t that exciting?”

Nina smiled, nodded, let them take her hand and lead her on. She trained and studied and dedicated her entire life to Ravka, to her home, to the country that would love her forever, to the Second Army of which she would now forever be one small cog in the grand machine. She was Grisha, she was special, she was a soldier of the Second Army. That meant something.

They took the handkerchief and burned it, along with the clothes that someone had embroidered for her. Someone for whom Nina had not even done the courtesy of a memory. 

“I suppose so,” she said quietly, without looking at Inej. 

It wasn’t like she hadn’t been happy at the Little Palace. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to be part of the Second Army. But for whatever reason this had been bothering Nina lately. The lack of the Before. 

“My little cousins will have forgotten me, won’t they?”

Oh. That was where she was going with this. 

Nina finally turned to see Inej, who was staring fervently ahead in what looked like an effort not to drop her gaze down and start studying her boots. She couldn’t really say anything. She just slipped her hand around Inej’s and squeezed it tightly. What could she say?

[martyrlamb]

I’ve seen your post from October and where you said “by sharing it they condone it” or “someone will commit sexual violence”

and hear me out

It’s true someone might. Not even psychologists and other experts in the human psyche can predict who is and isn’t going to act out on fiction, and why or how. And in fact, if you think fiction condones something, then that says more about you than the fiction itself. It tells me about your upbringing, culture, beliefs and such.

media psychology is a research field I could recommend to you

i wasn’t going to dignify this with a response but i can’t leave this alone because What the hell. im just going to do it in bullet points bc im genuinely baffled at this. tw talking about sexual violence

og post

- did you even read what i said at all?? 😭 and trying to flip what i said onto me, then being condescending about it is RIDICULOUS like actually abnormal.

- where the hell did you pull that second quote from??? i quite literally said the opposite of that in my post, “when someone is desensitized to this kind of violence, they will think it's okay in their real personal lives. maybe not to even do themselves, but have someone do it to them. i've seen countless people believe they're into extreme kinks because of how the internet has desensitized them.”

- the only thing i could remotely link to that second quote is this. which IN THE CONTEXT ALSO COUNTERS YOUR WHOLE POINT. WHICH YOU HAVE CONVENIENTLY FORGOTTEN TO ADD. i say, “even if you don't want to partake in incest or sexual violence someone does. and i can guarantee that they read and enjoy the type of smut that's being written and posted on here” i literally say that not everyone who reads it will commit sexual violence, i say that people who do (not that everyone who consumes media like that will) are likely to consume this content because why wouldn’t they indulge in a gross fantasy they enjoy??????????

- im not going to regurgitate the same points from my original post but yeah. people who post stuff like that condone it to some extent because no one writes non-con stepcest hardcore smut without some kind of enjoyment out of it 😐 Literally just read my post and you’ll see why i say that bc obviously you either skimmed it or deliberately misinterpreted what i said or you actually lack critical thinking skills

- i’ve taken psych classes before and there’s actually many confirmed factors that contribute to the likelihood of someone’s beliefs/pleasures being influenced by writing and media because it either confirms beliefs they already had or introduces them to a new pipeline that preys on a vulnerable part of their personality. smut online hasn’t been explored specifically because its niche and relatively new in comparison to psychology studies as a whole

- then, i feel like i know what you’re getting at by trying to flip this narrative onto me being like “well maybe its a problem with YOU since you can’t separate reality from fiction” literally SHUTT HE HELL UPPPP stop being dense on purpose 😭

- i can separate reality from fiction just fine. fictional murderers? evil villains? fine with me. doesn’t mean everyone who likes them condones murder. the difference is that these people are writing these things as something to TAKE PLEASURE IN. THATS THE MAJOR DIFFERENCE!! dont paint ME to be the weird one for saying that writing men (or anyone) beating the shit out of women for sexual gratification is strange and harmful

- lastly, clearly you missed the entire fucking point of my post because it wasn’t even ABOUT the people who might commit sexual violence irl. that was a minute point in comparison to the larger context which was: the psychological damage it causes to vulnerable people that may think receiving this violence in their personal lives is okay!!!! due to being desensitized to it!!!!!!!

so. yeah. whatever. reread my post extremely slowly or something. im not usually this aggressive and rude but you put words in my mouth that i didn’t say and then had the gall to be condescending with that last line 😐.

[akumatizedpuns]

Anti-Arguments and Rebuttals for them

Things to remember:

Antis usually want an easy target. Freelance artists/writers, small businesses, etc.

But it's easier to get angry with a smaller entity than one you know you'll never be able to do anything with/about.

A lot of antis just deeply enjoy the thrill of witch hunting. If you pay attention, you'll notice a lot of them engage in cancel culture and make memes about the topics they call themselves taking a stand for or against.

Antis will almost always use a strawman argument. Most things on this list will consist of these sorts of arguments.

1. Fiction affects reality.

The funniest and most ridiculous thing about this argument to me is that it always comes out of nowhere. No one ever says anything that implies this isn't the case, yet antis seem to think everyone except themselves are woefully unaware of this fact.

If fiction didn't affect reality, then people wouldn't use fiction to work through trauma. Obviously, fiction does affect reality.

But I somehow doubt you'll ever come across an anti who wants to ban all violence and/or disturbing content in media. No one wants Fortnite, GTA, Mortal Kombat or Call of Duty to be taken off the shelves forever. No one wants Tokyo Ghoul, Attack on Titan, Death Note or Dragon Ball to never be available to watch again. Yet all contain negative content. Negative content that is consumed by kids daily.

If an anti was really concerned about fiction and the fact that it can affect reality, they would be tackling these bigger problems. Some of these games and a lot of violent or disturbing media in general have been linked to real life attacks. There are so many more.

But I'm not gonna end my argument there and just say, 'Since antis are okay with this wrong thing, then they should be okay with that wrong thing.'

No. At the end of the day, it comes down to the person. Educate children on safe ways to consume media. If someone shipping two cousins together somehow influences a person in the real world to do something terrible, then there's something wrong with that person.

If an SA victim is dressed a certain way and get's SA'd would you blame the SA victim for how they were dressed or the perpetrator? You also have to realise that by placing the blame on fiction, you're enabling similar behavior.

Because too many times throughout history we've seen a murderer get the 'benefit of the doubt' because they were inspired by some form of media. That's no excuse.

2. If you read/write something you must condone it.

Okay, lets say I'm writing a story wherein the protagonist is assassinating a Hitler-like character or entity. The character describes their murder as though they are completely happy about it. Everyone in the story continue on with incredible lives, something that would not have been possible if not for the murder.

Let me first ask, what do you think about this? Do you hate or at the very least disagree with the way the murder was glorified/romanticized because you think that murder is reprehensible no matter what? Or do you think some form or semblance justice was served?

Neither is wrong or right. Not in fiction. Objectivity would come more into play if this were a real situation, though.

But just because I, the author, decided to write it from the character's prespective doesn't mean I condone murder. That didn't mean that I didn't get to acquire any insight on the possible prespective of the character. But even if I did, I could flat-footedly disagree regardless.

I don't feel as though I can explain this. It's something you have to understand. But I'll post this link and hope you can put at least some of the pieces together, https://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/MoralityTropes

3. It's okay to harass someone because shipping something that problematic is just wrong.

The point is, no one in fiction is sentinent, except for in our minds. Morality is much more flexible.

It throws me that animals are sentinent, yet we'll know this and eat them regardless. We're hard-pressed to value animals above people, let alone put them on remotely similar levels.

But somehow their is a group of people out there who are condone harassing or threatening people because a completely non-sentinent being is being hurt from their prespective. Really??

Humans go by a general consensus. That we won't put animals above humans. Yet, we're willing to put invisible, fictional entities above humans? This sounds eerily similar to radical cult/religous groups. The only difference is that antis (hopefully) know for sure that a fictional characters aren't real. Most religious people at least have an excuse, even if it's a terrible one.

4. Aging up Characters is wrong

The most unbelieveable argument, but I'll bite. It's not. It's not pedophilia. By Google definitions, pedophilia is a sexual attraction toward children. A pedophile is someone who is sexually attracted to children.

This is not pedophilia. Characters have been aged up in media ever since media has existed. You are not sexualizing a child by aging them up, even if said drawing is suggestive.

When you incorrectly use this term, you make it harder for real victims to be believed, you trivialize the struggles that actual victims have/are going through. If it's weird and suspicious to you, then fine.

5. All proshippers are pedophiles/condone pedophilia.

Firstly, please stop saying this as a lot of proshippers are minors. You are further spewing misinfo on what a pedophile is toward someone who is still developing and may meet an actual pedophile but aren't able to properly identify them because some stranger in line kept insisting an artist who aged up a character is one. Minors are very easily influeneced by the internet. Being harassed does more damage than shipping something they will likely grow out of.

And those who are not minors usually are survivors of CSA/SA and cope with their trauma through drawing or writing certain content. They get to rewrite or redraw what happened to them and give themselves a better ending.

You don't have the right to tell them how to cope. Fiction is supposed to be a safe space, thus, why it is a medium recommended by therapists and has been for centuries. This shit has literally been researched.

Secondly, adult proshippers usually have something along the lines of 'Minors DNI' on their pages. I notice that even antis who post explicit/NSFW content don't, though. Which is ironic.

And the 'not all victims cope this way so they don't have to cope this way' argument is valid.

6. Well, I wouldn't attack them if they weren't public with it.

That's no excuse. You have entirely too much time on your hands, first off. Be hateful towards a person who actually deserves that hate.

Secondly, as long as they have proper warnings on their page, it's their shit. You can't tell them what to do with it.

Lastly, I've never met a proshipper that forced an anti to interact with them or their content. I've never met a proshipper who can somehow resist being blocked by the complete stranger who happened to stumble across their page.

Generally speaking, I don't believe in the 'don't like, don't interact' thing. Not with video games. Or TV. Or social media. You have the right. But when it's another human being, I highly doubt that's something that can't be accomplished.

This also sounds weirdly familiar to the, "Well, if gay people weren't throwing it in my face, I wouldn't have anything to say about them!" Antis are oddly authoritarian.

In Conclusion:

There's no excuse to harass anyone over fiction. And if someone has a very difficult time seperating fiction from reality, I highly recommend therapy in all brutal honesty.

Nothing will ever make telling a suicidal person to kill or hurt themselves okay.

Nothing will ever make falsely telling a survivor that they are their abuser or like their abuser okay.

If I tell Charlie Brown to kill himself right now it won't matter.

If I tell a real person to kill themselves, my words can and just might have real, lasting, effects.

If I tell Percy Jackson to kill himself he'll be okay and we know this without question.

If I tell a real person to kill themselves because they told me they ship Percy with Hera or whoever the fuck, theirs no way of knowing. And if you're fine with that - if you even so much as defend that - then maybe you should engage in something less hateful.

How about worshipping a flying spaghetti monster (since you may as well be)?

[averagewriter-inthedark]

The Chaotic Adventures Of A Dysfunctional Quartet | Post-TFATWS Series Masterlist

Link to my main Masterlist

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Vigilante!reader (platonic/flirtatious), Bucky Barnes x Vigilante!reader (platonic/flirtatious), Helmut Zemo x Vigilante!reader (platonic/flirtatious)

Content warnings: profanity, blood, violence, banter, fluff, angst, death. Past criminal behavior. Hints of Deadpool and Daredevil.

Premise: Two’s company, three’s a crowd and four’s a party. This party consists of a grumpy, 106-year-old super soldier who keeps getting asked if he cosplays as the terminator, A very optimistic falcon turned Captain that relies too much on his little birdies, a former Baron of an extinct country who’s an enemy of the world state, and lastly a tech-savvy vigilante who’s criminal record is both questioning and impressive. Have I mentioned this bunch have teamed up to stop the rise of Hydra and Super-Soldiers from gaining power in the world? Well, what’s a heist without a little fun and drama.

Note: This series in not set during, but after the events of TFATWS. Also it’s not really a series, but just a masterlist of headcannons, and imagines of what I believe would happen if you were on missions with the chaotic trio of Madripoor. Sam is still Captain America obviously, and for this you can imagine that Zemo cut a deal with the U.N for his release if he helped the former Avengers stop Hydra

Key: 🤍 personal favs, ♥️ popular works, 📝 in progress, ⏳ coming soon

Link to Pinterest inspired board

Spotify Playlist

Introducing ‘The Dysfunctional Quartet’ | How the team came to be

Interview for Y/N L/N: Hotwire

Interview for Sam Wilson: Captain America

Interview James Barnes: The Winter Soldier (formerly)

Interview for Helmut Zemo: Baron of Sokovia

Imagines Set List (in progress 📝)

Four’s A Party: After taking deals and agreeing to partake in a secret operation against Hydra, a team consisting of two Avengers and two high skilled criminals are teamed up and tasked to take down the terrorist instillation and operatives. The mission is simple, but with a quartet this dysfunctional mishaps and drama are expected to happen. Can they survive their ordeal? Maybe, if they don’t kill each other first.

Uncomfortable Silences: Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction once said, “why do we feel like it’s necessary to yack about bullshit in order to be comfortable,” when talking about uncomfortable silences. Many think she didn’t know what she was talking about, but this dysfunctional quartet was about to find the true meaning of uncomfortable silences—and it was all because of a little heist gone wrong.

Truth Or Dare: It’s been roughly two weeks since the dysfunctional quartet were put together for a heist against Hydra. There’s been quiet the chaos since and finally they’ve found some peace and quiet on the plane to their next target. And of course because there’s never a dull moment, some games are played and histories are understood.

Can I Please Have A Cocktail?: Going undercover is never an easy operation. What makes it more difficult is when the mission entails being in a crowded area like a bar or club. Unfortunately for the dysfunctional quartet, if they wanna get a hit on their next move of attack they’re gonna have to step it up with watching each other’s six.

Fury, You Son Of A B****

Show Me Your Moves, Stud.

See You On The Flipside

Headcannons & One-Shots:

How the boys would react to you getting hurt on a mission

How they react to you being drunk/high

Them asking you to pretend to be their romantic partner

Yours and their names in y’all’s phone contacts 🤍♥️

What you and the boys do on a day off together

How they act when you get a partner

The boys finding out you hooked up w/ Ross

The boys meeting Wade for the first time🤍

The boys meeting Matt Murdock for the first time 🤍

The boys meeting Jessica Jones for the first time

Going ghost hunting together

*moodboard made by me w/ pictures from Pinterest*

………………………..

Tag list: @esposadomd

[duskholland]

Stuck With(out) You - Mob!Tom Smut

tom was having a really nice day until the metropolitan police decided to crash his date.            or, when the law finally catches up to london’s most notorious mobster, tom learns that nothing is fair in love and war.

word count ↠ 15k. warnings ↠ angst with a happy ending, alcohol, a car chase, extensive depictions of prison, violence (very minor injury detail), tattooing, pregnancy, bad language, smut! there are extended nsfw warnings below the cut but this is 18+ so minors please do not interact.  a/n ↠ this is a work of fiction and is not meant to be taken 100% seriously! similarly to every other fic I’ve written about mob!tom, I don’t condone any of the actions shown in this story and all depictions of the mob and prison are entirely fictional. please do not date members of the mafia even if they are tom holland !!!!! + this fic was conceptualised before the release of cherry, and there are no purposeful links to the content of that film! the image from esquire that I’ve used is what led me down this path lmfao...esquire I love/hate you. ++ the biggest thank you ever to the wonderful @uglypastels​ for helping me with the initial brainstorm on this one, and for just generally being so supportive as I’ve struggled with writers block :’) I wouldn’t have ever been able to think this up let alone have the motivation to write this without you, so thank you and ily z <3  +++ there is a pov change halfway through this fic! it is intentional and you should be able to see it pretty easily but I’m just flagging it so you don’t think I lost it halfway through ahahha. enjoy!

nsfw warnings ↠ car sex, soft!dom!tom ft minor sir kink, oral and fingering (fem-receiving), multiple orgasms with brief refs to overstimulation, minor pregnancy kink, unprotected sex ft cumshot. 

✧ *:･ﾟStuck With(out) You･ﾟ:*✧

There’s something wrong with you, and Tom can’t quite put his finger on it.

He wonders if it’s the wine. He’d spent hours debating the type of grape and ideal bitterness, scouring his memory in search of the perfect blend to share with you on your date. Eventually, he’d settled on the same deep red that he’d shared with you the first time he’d visited your flat, back when your love was just a small spark. Three years have passed since then, the nerves of early romance melted away and replaced by knowing and love, but the wine has recurred each time one of you has decided to treat the other, so what better blend to bring along to the picnic that Tom had so meticulously planned?

You haven’t touched your glass, and Tom—for all his confidence and charm—is deeply unsettled by this.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks for what feels like the tenth time, with brows furrowed so tightly his forehead aches. Tom reaches across the gingham blanket to join your fingers together, surprised to feel the clamminess of your skin as you gently squeeze his hand.

You hum. “I’m fine,” you say, voice devoid of any intense emotion. You sigh softly before bringing your eyes to meet Tom’s, and the man feels his heart constrict in his chest. You’re perfect, even with your hair messy from the light spring wind and the nerves that sit across your face. When you squeeze his hand again, and Tom glances down to see the engagement ring on your fourth finger, the ache in his heart sharpens.

He never knew love could be this fulfilling, nor so easy. Breathing is harder than it is to love you.

“Okay,” he replies. “Do you want to go home?”

You’ve been so quiet for the entire date, which is strange because usually, you match his energy effortlessly. Tom has been away for a few weeks doing business in Liverpool, and this date by the river is the first time you’ve been properly alone since he returned. He’d really expected you to enjoy the date—or, on a very basic level, at least look like you want to be here. With your quiet answers, avoidance, and nervous stares, he can’t confidently say that you do.

You shake your head. “No, no.” You fiddle with some of his rings before pulling your hand away from his. As you sit up a little straighter, you turn away from Tom to stare instead at the River Thames.

The river behind you is lit by the mid-afternoon sun and flooded with boats. It’s such a lovely day that Tom almost doesn’t notice the horrible brown tinge to the water. Lining the bank are small groups of people—families, friends, couples, tourists. They all stay clear of the two of you, undoubtedly wary of the security guards lingering near their boss. He rarely goes out so obviously like this, but you’ve always loved London, and he’d wanted to treat you. He’d wanted this to be a nice day.

“You know you can talk to me, don’t you?” he checks, voice catching slightly.

Your eyes snap up to his quickly. “Tom,” you say, voice wrapped endearingly around his name. Moving easily, you slip closer to him, carefully shifting around the food and the glasses until you’re close enough to reach out and touch his cheek. “I love you.”

Tom’s teeth graze his lower lip as he feels you pad your thumb across his jaw. “I know,” he murmurs, dropping his gaze. “I love you too.” He pauses for a few moments, savouring the closeness and the scent of your rosy spritz. He’d missed you so much that it almost hurts to have you so close again. “I know you have something on your mind, darling… Can you tell me what it is? I want to help you.”

“I…” A breathy exhalation follows. You bring your hand away from his cheek and rest it on the red silk material covering his shoulder. He’s in a loose designer shirt, the top two buttons unbuttoned and showing off the silver-linked chain he has hanging from his neck. “Tom, I just…”

“What?”

A small smile twitches at your lips. “Not here,” you seem to decide, voice a little stronger. “I have something I need to show you.”

“At home?”

“Yeah.”

Tom feels the weight rolls from his shoulders. It’s fine—everything is fine. You want to let him in, want to trust him with the cause of your anxieties. You still want him.

“Let’s go, then,” he decides, knowing he’s far too impatient to spend another hour laying by the river. Tom offers you a hand, and you take it. He tugs you away from the picnic setup with ease. He doesn’t need to bother with putting the things away—someone else will do it. Just one of the perks of his job.

“I missed you,” you say, smoothing your thumb over the back of his hand as you walk together towards the car. “It gets lonely without you in the house. Our bed is ridiculously huge without two people in it.”

Tom chuckles. “Good job I’m back now then, eh?”

The noise you release is stacked full of so much relief it makes Tom feel guilty for ever leaving to begin with. As he watches the bright, genuine smile flow across your face when you meet his eyes, he resolves to never leave for business again. Never. Not without you.

“A very good job,” you clarify. When you reach the car together, Tom holds the door open for you, ushering you in dramatically until you’re laughing and making fun of him for fussing. The only way he can stop you from your jovial whines is by leaning across the dashboard and pressing his lips to yours, so really he can’t complain. “This car is stupid, too,” you decide.

“Oh, that’s too fucking far,” Tom murmurs, glancing in the rear mirror as he peels away from the pavement. He’s glad the air between you has lightened. You seem happier now you’ve decided to spill your secrets. He rests his hand on the back of your headrest as he twists in his seat, eyes on the road as he reverses. “This car is a beauty.”

“This car is confusing,” you say, and Tom feels you staring at the flex of his bicep. “I tried driving it when you were gone.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Mmm. Couldn’t even get it up the drive.”

“Well, not to be rude, darling, but it’s hardly fair to blame my beautiful car for the fact that you’re an atrocious driver.”

If looks could kill, Tom knows he’d be six feet under.

“Fuck you, Tom,” you seethe, but your voice is charged with laughter. “I take it back. I didn’t miss you at all. Go back to Liverpool, see if I care.”

Tom cackles. “Maybe I will,” he teases, “just to see how long it takes you to start begging for me to come back again.”

You grumble something incoherent at that, then the words between you lull into a comfortable silence. After a few moments, you shift your palm to rest on his thigh, your hand gentle, warm. Your fingertips trace tiny love hearts over his slacks.

“Don’t,” you say eventually, voice quieter. “Stay this time.”

Tom risks a quick glance to you, growing breathless in the depths of your eyes. “Of course,” he says, voice thick. Tom returns his gaze to the road, his chest feeling tight. “I’m never leaving you again.”

“I mean, you can leave sometimes if you want—”

“No. Never.” Tom’s cheeks ache. “I’m never leaving your side.”

“Alright, Tom.” You sigh lightly, feigning exasperation. “I guess there are worse things than being stuck with you.”

“I’m charmed, darling. So relieved you like spending time with your fiancé.”

You shift in your seat at that, and Tom doesn’t have to look at you to know you’re flustered. You’re always shyer around him when he mentions the fact that your futures are intertwined, almost unbelieving that he’d slipped that ring onto your finger. It doesn’t matter how many times Tom tells you that he cherishes you—you never quite make peace with the fact that he wants to chase the moon with you. That doesn’t mean he’ll stop telling you, though. You hang the stars in his sky.

“I love spending time with you, Tom,” you mumble. “And I hope that what I’m about to tell you doesn’t change how you feel about me.”

His eyebrows raise. “Wait— what?” Tom scrunches the tip of his nose up as he squints in your direction. “Y/N, what—” He pauses, concentrating on keeping his voice level. “Angel, nothing you could ever do would change the way I feel about you. Nothing.”

You smile quietly. “It’s not a bad thing,” you add, almost sensing his unease. “I think you’ll like it.”

“Perfect.” Tom sits a little straighter in his seat. “Then there’s nothing to worry about—”

Sirens cut into his words. Tom startles, glancing in the mirror to see a police car with a whirring blue siren perched atop the grimy vehicle.

“Tom,” you say slowly, voice filling with dread. Your tone sends shivers down his spine. “Did you do something?”

Tom bites his lip.

He’s been trying his best to stay above the law recently, but… Liverpool had been messy. Very messy. He hadn’t intended on things going quite as terribly as they had, but one thing had led to another, and he’d had to fuck a few things up. The crime is nothing as intense as he’s been booked for in the past, but he’d had to write a few irregularities into his taxes and business agreements to smooth over the waters. It’s not as bad as murder, but it’s tax fraud nonetheless.

Tom had thought he’d been fine. Apparently not. He’s been a hot target for the Metropolitan Police for years, and they’ve consistently unearthed every tiny discrepancy he’s tried to get away with. He should’ve been more fucking careful.

“Shit,” Tom mutters. As he brings his eyes back to the road in front of him, he realises the police car behind you has been joined by another two, closing in from side streets and boxing him in amongst the traffic. He swallows thickly. “I messed up.”

You curse. “Idiot,” you mutter. You sit forwards in the seat and start to point to a gap in the traffic, right across the square. “Go there,” you say, voice pitching higher. “If you go fast, you’ll make it.”

He could book it. Tom’s run away before, in situations of peril where the alternative had been the law and escaping would give him the chance to alter some books and clear his name. It would be easy to slam his foot on the accelerator and dive down side streets, dodging the thick London traffic.

“Tom!” you say again, voice stressed with desperation. “Tom, go!”

The gap in the traffic is narrowly closing, the window of time Tom has to zoom through and get to safety shrinking before his very eyes. If he was alone, he’d do it without a second thought, but you’re here.

You’re here, and that means he can’t be selfish. Tom couldn’t ever risk you, not with such a treacherous manoeuvre like the one that you’re suggesting, nor with the repercussions you’d face if he books it. You’d either have to come on the run with him, or you’d end up captured and grilled by the Met, and neither of those options is the types of things he’d ever bring willingly upon you. You would never deserve that, and he refuses to make it a possibility.

Tom slows down the car.

“Tom,” you say, shock filling your voice. “What are you doing? They’ll get you.”

He nods. “I want you to listen to me, very carefully,” he says quickly.

“But—”

“—Darling, please. Please.” Tom stops the car abruptly. He calculates he has mere seconds before the officers ditch their vehicles and start storming across the traffic to haul him from his seat. “Don’t say anything to them. They want me, not you.” He turns off the engine and grabs your hands, holding them close as he stares into your eyes. “Call Harrison. Whatever shit they’re bringing me in for won’t hold up for long. They’ve— they’ve done this before. They never win. We have backup plans for this crap.”

“Tom,” you whisper, eyes welling with tears, “but they—”

“I know. I know, baby. I know.” He presses quick kisses to your knuckles, clinging so tightly to your fingers it’s like he’ll drift away without your touch. “I’m sorry. I am so bloody sorry. I love you so much.”

His throat hurts. The sight of the pain in your eyes makes him hate himself for ever bringing you into this faithless way of life. He doesn’t give a fuck that he’s destined for a cell—Tom cares that he’s hurt you.

“I love you too,” you say. You lean closer, undoing your seatbelt and popping his too as you reach up to cup Tom’s cheeks in your shaky hands. “It’ll be okay,” you stress. “I’ll get you out of there, baby.”

You lean in closer to kiss him, and Tom aches. The scent of your perfume is overwhelming, and he feels fragile beneath the hold you have on his face. The kindness in your eyes makes it hurt even more. It’d be easier if you’d let fury consume you and spend these last sacred moments denouncing him instead of loving him, but of course, you’re not like that.

The car door opens, and Tom is hauled from the car the moment his lips touch yours. Before he can process it, he’s being pushed up against his car, stiff arms keeping him pinned in place. He closes his eyes, firming up his face and shoving down his feelings as he forces himself to dry up, become stoic. He won’t show weakness now he’s outside.

Tom hears you exit the vehicle a few moments later, the crash of the door coupled with a few scuffles. He drowns out the words of the officers whilst they reel off a list of fabricated crimes, smugness evident in their voices. Good for fucking them.

When they eventually release him, he’s cuffed and weaponless, his spirit bent in two. The metal of his car had hurt his face, but nothing breaks Tom’s heart more than the sight of you being held back by two officers, tears streaming down your face. You bring your hands into the shaky outline of a heart, and it’s the last thing he sees before he’s pushed into the back of a van.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tom’s day goes from bad to worse.

It’s clear that everyone at the station has been waiting for him to fuck up. He’s met with sly smiles and teasing comments as he’s reacquainted with some of his most despised wardens and guards. He’s held in a temporary cell for almost a day and quizzed on the shreds of ‘evidence’ they’d procured from his house during a raid, and though Tom declines to answer every single question they throw at him, their smugness never fades.

He walks into the trial already knowing he’s going to be locked up, and not even the sight of you beside Harrison and Harry on the benches soothes him.

Five years. He’s charged with five years.

Now, Tom isn’t worried. He knows he won’t actually be held in a cell for that long. He’s already had correspondence with Harrison, who’s assured him that he’s working on it, and there’s really nothing much to worry about. Tom has been in this situation twice before, and on both occasions, he’d been released in less than a month. The connections he’s built from his years heading up the mob are reliant and unwavering, and he knows he won’t have to serve even a fifth of his sentence.

The only difference between the times before and now is you, and Tom can only fucking pray that you don’t despise him for dirtying your name with his crimes. You’d been normal before him—a waitress, aspiring painter, an innocent. Despite your insistence that you love him with all strings attached, his guilt weighs him down. He doesn’t give a fuck about the law and whatever twisted loopholes the jury had bought, but he does care about you and what you think of him. That’s the hardest part.

Two weeks pass achingly slowly.

Prison isn’t that bad for Tom. He’s pretty fucking lucky, all things considered. He has friends here—blokes he’d met around town, most of whom are willing to welcome him in. A few of his old guys are locked behind bars with him, unwavering in their loyalty and more than happy to absorb him as members of their group. Those who don’t know Tom know of him. His reputation as a murderous, cold-hearted killer follows him inside, regardless of its falsity. Tom hasn’t taken a life in three years, but these men don’t need to know that.

“Holland! Get the fuck up. You’re in the gym.”

Tom glances up. He’s lying on top of his bed, one hand propped behind his head, the other holding open a book. He isn’t an avid reader like you, but you’d sent him a copy of your favourite book with scribbled annotations in the margins, and he’s been spending every hour since its arrival clinging to the pages.

He sighs as he puts the book down and stands from the lower bunk. He’s in with a young lad, Ollie, booked on a minor drugs charge. Why they’d paired someone on such a minimal sentence with a member of the mob, Tom will never understand, but the fear in the lad’s eyes every time he looks at him is enough to keep his wavering ego bobbing just above the waterline.

“Step away from the door.”

Tom does as instructed. A moment later, there’s a loud buzzer followed by the swinging of the heavy metal door.

In walks Luther, Tom’s archnemesis. If the inmates fear him, the guards despise him, and to be fair, Tom understands why. He’s a bit of a dick when he’s behind bars. Usually, when he’s free, he operates with a level of poise and charm that comes with his position as leader. He speaks to his men with a firm but kind hand, respects everyone he deems his equal and commands supreme authority without becoming a tyrant. However, when he has his freedom stripped away, and he has to bend to fit the system’s will, his attitude becomes… problematic.

“Holland,” Luther barks. A moment later, he appears in the doorway, coughing loudly, cheeks flushed a ruddy red. He snarls at Tom, his voice like jagged glass. “Come on.”

“You alright, mate?” Tom asks. “You sound fucking terrible.” He looks it, too, with a dripping nose and red-rimmed eyes. He looks ill.

Luther’s features sharpen. “Get over here now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Tom swaggers to the door and dodges a little as Luther cuffs him, the man digging the metal into his skin with extra ferocity. They start to march down the long, grey corridor towards the fitness suite, Luther prodding Tom forward with a hand digging into his back.

“How’s your wife?” Tom tries, tired of the echoing footsteps.

Luther sighs. “How’s yours?”

“She’s doing very well, thank you.”

The guard tuts. “Does she like having a criminal for a husband?”

“Does yours like being married to such a wanker— hey!”

Luther pushes him down the corridor with haste. “Quiet, Holland,” he mutters. “I’ve had enough of you.”

“Well, then it’s too bad you’re stuck with me,” Tom replies. “Did you know that if me being here annoys you so much, you could always let me go? That would sort out your problem.”

He barks a laugh. “Yeah? Let London’s most wanted convict escape?”

Tom raises a brow. “London’s most wanted?” he echoes. “Wow.” Pride seeps into his voice. “That’s an accomplishment.”

“Not a positive one. Self-absorbed bastard.”

It’s easy to laugh. Letting the comments bounce off his back is easier than admitting the jibe about you has irked him. Do you like having a criminal for a partner? Even Tom, for all the world has jaded him, knows no sane person would rest well with the knowledge that their significant other has lied, stolen, and killed. It doesn’t lie well with him, and he was born into this.

They reach the gym.

Tom sticks to the same workout regime he has at home. He does his cardio for twenty minutes on the wobbling treadmill, then sits around on the bench press and does curls with a few of the guys. He keeps quiet, his mind loud, only adding a few comments when necessary. His sullenness adds to his image, and he’s busy with thoughts of you. By the time he’s finished, he feels arguably worse than before. The endorphins from his workout are overshadowed by the guilt Tom feels, clawing at his heart, heavy and persistent in its certainty that he’s a lousy partner.

He can handle being a bad guy, but a bad man? A bad brother, bad friend, or bad lover? The opinions of the guards mean nothing to him, and neither does the law, but when it comes to the people he cares about, their opinions mean everything. Tom has let Luther get into his head, and whilst he knows that was the guard’s intention, the seed of doubt has been planted. As he pumps iron, he feels it grow, taking root, blooming taller.

“Holland. Time to go.”

He grunts as he stands. Sweaty and sore, Tom hobbles to the doorway, feeling considerably smaller than he had when he’d left his cell. The cuffs hurt his wrists as his hands are clasped back together, and the walk back feels even longer than before.

“You had a parcel delivered,” Luther says, breaking the silence. “It arrived last week.”

Tom’s eyebrows pull together. “Last week?”

“I thought I should hold it back until you’d settled in,” comes the patronising response. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you with too many new experiences, Thomas. Not that being in here is anything out of the ordinary for you, though.”

He feels his jaw twitch. He flexes his hand, knuckles burning for movement. Not yet, not yet. He has to wait, has to play the long game.

“You’re a dick,” Tom decides. He doesn’t care that he gets thrown roughly into the cell. He trips over the floor and barely manages to scrape himself to his feet, but he throws out a smirking “fuck you,” before the door slams shut. He’d follow it up with more snide remarks, but he becomes distracted by the sight of the parcel sitting on his bed.

It’s neat, despite the obvious intrusion into its contents by the guards. He flops onto his lower bunk, glad his cellmate is absent as it allows him to drop the ruse. Lips sagging into a frown, Tom rips open the package.

He releases a fragile sound as the contents pour across his duvet. Polaroids fall across the sheets, glistening slightly, neat and pristine. A lump comes to the back of his throat as he shuffles through them, finding images of you, Harry, Sam, Tess… The list carries on. For every person he can think of, there’s an image captured perfectly in time. He even appears in a few of them, with his hand around Haz’s shoulder or his lips pressed to your temple.

He finds a note attached at the bottom.

Tom, I thought you’d want some reminders of home while you’re away. We’re all looking forward until the day you can come home to us. Love you forever, Y/N <3

As Tom traces the edge of his nail along the outline of your face, his eyes well with hot tears. You always know what he needs, even when he doesn’t. You know him, inside out, and you’re continuing to support him, despite it all. He is indebted to you, and he knows already that as soon as he’s let out, he’ll spend every second of his life trying to repay that.

The seed of doubt burns away.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Two weeks later, Tom finally gets to see you again.

The prison visiting room is fucking grim. Toned in sludgy shades of grey and brown, it’s about as ugly as it could be. There are window slits pressed high into the walls, but the primary source of light is from the musky bulbs set above each table. The chairs are uncomfortable, and the decor lacks inspiration. Tom often wonders if the room was designed to be as revolting as possible.

Despite this, as Tom shuffles into the room that smells suspiciously of plasticine, he couldn’t be happier. It doesn’t matter that his wrists ache from the cuffs, nor that the garish shade of orange clashes horrendously against his skin: you’re here, and that makes everything better.

You’re sitting at the table in the corner of the room, drumming your fingers pensively over the surface. His eyes catch on the glinting ring wrapped around your fourth finger, and the sense of longing that had settled in the hollowness of his chest is quickly burnt away. Sensing his movements, you glance up, and when your eyes meet with his, Tom feels his heart come home.

You raise a hand in greeting, smiling shyly, and he tries to look as non-threatening as possible. He knows the new buzzcut and the stupid get-up probably don’t help, but you don’t look at him like he’s any different.

As he draws nearer, Tom finds himself blinking a few times, questioning how long you’ve been separated. The version of you he has holed up in his memories pales in comparison to the woman that he sees before him now, but he can’t quite pinpoint why. You seem fuller somehow—vibrant, glowing, alive, your face doused in a heavenly glow and your skin bright with health. Your figure has changed slightly, and Tom can’t stop himself from running his eyes all over you, trying to memorise every tiny detail his memory had blurred away. You look so beautiful, every single part of your form enhanced and bright, and your chest—

Fuck, it’s been a long time.

“Y/N,” he exhales the moment he’s been pushed into his seat. His guard unclasps his cuffs, and Tom immediately reaches out across the table, almost moaning from relief when you wrap your fingers around his. Your skin is so warm.

“Tom,” you whisper. Emotion seeps into your voice, and he feels his chest crack as tears pool in your eyes. “Are you okay? I— I missed you.”

He hums, biting his lip. “I’m fine, baby. I’m okay. Are you?”

You nod quickly. “I’m okay too,” you say. “Things are strange without you, but we’re working around the clock to get you out of here.” You drop your voice slightly. “I think we’re near a breakthrough.”

Tom’s teeth brush his lower lip. “Good, good,” he says. “How’s Tess? And Harry, and the others? Are they looking out for you?”

“Yeah,” you say. You squeeze Tom’s hands tightly. “They’re all okay. Mainly just worried about you.”

He shrugs, trying to lessen the furrow in your brow. “‘M all good, darling,” he promises. “Don’t worry about me.”

Your eyes skate across his face. “I like your hair,” you say gently. For a moment, Tom thinks you’re going to try and reach out to touch the buzzed fuzz, but you seem to remember that anything beyond handholding is prohibited. You have to settle for a slightly suggestive smile. “It looks good on you.”

“Thanks, lovie.”

Your smile is sad but it’s still hopeful. Whatever emotions you’re feeling, it’s clear that you’re trying to smooth them away and keep them to yourself. “There’s something I wanted to tell you,” you say, easing into the words with difficulty. Tom watches as you look away, doubt casting across your face.

“What is it?” Vaguely, Tom remembers how skittish you’d been the day he’d been taken away, the memory distorted from the noise of everything else that had happened. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” You bite your lower lip. “Uh, just first… how are you holding up in here? Like, actually. Don’t bullshit me and play the tough guy.” Your eyes are wide and persistent. “How are you actually doing?”

Tom blinks a few times. “Fine,” he shoots immediately. He clenches your fingers tightly in his, clinging on for a moment until he exhales. “I wish I could be here for you properly, though. It worries me that I don’t know what’s happening on the outside…” He hates being left out in the dark, but it isn’t your fault. It’s his. “I wish I could be a better boyfriend to you.”

“Fiancé,” you correct, the word soft like it’d left your mouth without thought. “You’re already a good boyfriend, Tom. I knew what I was signing up for. I wanted this back then, and I still do now.”

“Still,” he grumbles. He tries to even out the heaviness of the conversation with a smile. “I think about you all the time, baby. And the others too, but… mostly you. I just hate that I’m missing out on our life together.” He has to stop for a moment as he recollects his thoughts. “I’m sorry that I did this to us, and I’m sorry I let you down.”

You crack a wry smile. “You can’t change the past, Tom. You can only affect the future.” You pause, your expression hardening. “I need to know that you’ll go slower when you get out. I know this is your life, but some things need to change. We— I need you to stay out of trouble. Do you understand?”

He nods his head immediately. “Of course, of course. I don’t ever want to get arrested again, darling.”

You drop your voice. “I’m not saying you need to quit everything, just… get better safeguards and be smarter. I love who you are, Tom, but this…” You break off to gesture around, pointing vaguely at his cuffs, the jumpsuit, and the guards. “This isn’t good for you or for me. And I love you, but I won’t stay if you don’t try.”

It’s hard to hear, but he knows it’s what he deserves to hear. He knows you deserve to stand your ground.

“I know,” Tom says gently. “I’ll get clean when I’m out, Y/N. I promise. I’ll be a good man by you.”

You squeeze his fingers tighter. “You already are,” you promise, “and I love you so much, even when you’re being an idiot.”

He laughs breathlessly. “Thank you, darling.” Tom tilts his head to the side. “What was it you wanted to say?”

Conflict briefly colours your face, manifesting itself in the arch of your eyebrow and the biting of your lower lip. You inhale sharply, only to exhale again a moment later.

“I’ll tell you when you’re out,” you say softly.

Tom scowls. There’s no anger there, just confusion. “What are you talking about? What’s going on?”

You shake your head. “I… Pretend I never said anything,” you say. You follow it up with a quick, “if I thought you needed to know, I’d tell you.”

He doesn’t want to push it, so Tom lets the topic slip away. You sit together silently for a few minutes. It’s hard to talk, difficult to express how much he misses you, how much he’s sorry. He knows that you understand—you always do, and you have similar tears wobbling across your eyes. Talking can come afterwards when he’s out and he’s free. All he needs now is the feeling of your hand back in his.

The visit is over far too soon.

Leaving you is difficult. Tom isn’t allowed to hug you or go any nearer than the linked hands on the table, but you tug at his fingers until he feels the imprint of your engagement ring rubbing against his skin. He even manages to kiss your knuckles a few times before he’s pulled up from the table and cuffed again.

“Be on your best behaviour,” you say, soft with your parting words. “The lawyer says the better you are, the easier it’ll be to get you out early.”

Tom has a bit of his spark back. Even as he’s pulled back, he manages a devious smirk. “When am I ever not on my best behaviour, darling?”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A few days later, Tom snaps.

To be fair, it isn’t really his fault. He’s pushed to the very verge of insanity, prodded at and provoked beyond the point of return.

It happens when he’s in the barber, huddled in the back corner of the room as he gets a new tattoo. Tom is used to the pain of the burning needles as he already has a few pieces on his arms and his hands, so he’s able to take the fresh marks to his knuckles as the ink stains black against his skin. However, he’s a bit on edge from the sharp buzzing, which is perhaps why he responds so negatively to the taunting he starts to receive. It comes from Toni and the rest of his snivelling gang. They’re all members of the East London mob, ruled over by Tom’s nemesis Gordy. Most of the time, they stick to their side and Tom sticks to his, but they’ve caught him in a vulnerable position, and Toni never seems to know how to pick his timing.

It’s basic teasing, instilled with a brutal hard edge that would phase him if Tom cared enough about their opinions of him. It doesn’t hurt him when people attack his character or his honour—Tom knows the truth about his life, and he couldn’t give two shits about an outsider’s opinion of him. However, he finds it a lot harder to grin and bear it when the man changes angle.

“Word is, a couple of our guys saw your missus out with Haz the other day,” Toni taunts. “He said they were getting real close if you know what I mean.”

Tom’s jaw flexes. The action is minute, but it doesn’t go undetected. Toni smirks.

“Eh, you don’t like that, do you?” The man steps a little closer and Tom tries to ignore him by looking down at the needle pressing into his fingers. “Don’t like the idea of your best friend hanging around your wife. Can you even trust them?” He breaks off, laughing coolly. “They think you’re so stupid, did you know that? You’ll get out of here, and they’ll have cut you out of everything—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tom murmurs. He flexes his right hand, shaking out his knuckles. With every passing day, he’s felt tetchier. He can feel his anger burning, churning deep within his stomach, growing brighter, harder. He knows he shouldn’t lean into it, but… He wants to. He craves that rush of the fight, selfishly so.

“But she’s not your wife, is she? You aren’t actually married. Have you ever thought that maybe she’s just using you? Maybe they all are? Look at you, Tom.” Toni breaks off to throw a disdainful hand in Tom’s direction. “You are so weak in here… How are any of your guys going to respect you when their leader can’t even stay out the slammer?”

The guy tattooing Tom’s hand finally pulls away, glancing up at him with knowing in his eyes. “You’re done,” he says. “Don’t do anything with that hand, though.”

“Thanks, man.”

Tom stands up, Toni mirroring him. The man looms in front of him, 6’2 and stocky. He’s larger than Tom in every respect, but he’ll never be the bigger man.

“Get out of my way,” Tom sneers.

“Make me, twat.” Toni smirks. “Or are you too much of a pussy to follow through on that as well?”

Tom sees red. Acting on the edge of adrenaline, he pounces, rushing the man and jumping with so much unexpected force that the larger man goes tumbling to the floor. Tom hears the shouts of the guards, but they pale in comparison to his need to straddle the man’s chest and make him pay. With each meeting of his fist with Toni’s face, Tom feels better. He’s never been an excessively violent person, but old habits die hard, and it’s so, so, so fucking easy to pummel the guy who dared breath an uncomplimentary word in his family’s direction. Tom would put the whole city six feet under if they so much as breathed wrong around his loved ones, so really, Toni had it coming.

The prison guards don’t agree.

He ends up in solitary, and when he’s put back into the normal population, Tom is given restrictions. He isn’t allowed visitors for a fortnight, and his calls are reduced to once a week. All other privileges he’d had are taken away again, and he’s relegated to the very bottom of the pecking order.

It’s still worth it.

When he’s finally allowed visitors again, Tom is surprised to learn that his next meeting isn’t with you or his lawyer. Things only make sense when he shuffles into the meeting room and sees his right-hand man settled in the corner, and if Tom had found the room drab before, it appears even more depressing with the addition of the blond man sitting in it. Harrison sucks the life from the room, any hints of happiness at being reunited with his friend overshadowed by the pinched expression on his face.

The guards don’t let Tom take off his cuffs. He has to sidle into the chair, falling into the heavy silence as he places his hands on the table. Metal links click, and Harrison just stares. He stares, and stares, and stares, his blue eyes almost black.

“So,” Tom eventually says. “Hello.”

Harrison’s jaw twitches. He brings his hands to rest on the top of the table, flexing them as he takes a moment to find the right words. “Tom,” he says, speaking very slowly. “You are a twat.”

He blinks. “Wow,” Tom mutters, chuckling slightly. “Okay. Good to see you too, mate.”

“Do you…” Harrison breaks off, groaning. His forehead develops angry ripples. “Do you understand how detrimental this has been to your case?”

Tom bites his lip, shaking his head slightly.

“You’ve been pushed to the bottom of the pile,” Harrison says, voice controlled but simmering with unspoken anger. “We were about to get your appeal passed for early release.” He sits back, crossing his arms as he shakes his head. “There’s been a penalty applied due to your stint in solitary. Your case won’t be assessed until it’s lifted.”

Tom feels his stomach drop. “Shit,” he mutters. “That’s not ideal.”

“No. No, it’s not.” Harrison sits forward, leaning on his hands. “You are a bloody idiot. Stop acting like a child… Why… Why did you even attack him? You must have known this would happen. Are you stupid?”

He doesn’t like the patronisation in his tone. Tom’s already beat himself up enough about this in solitary. He doesn’t need Harrison questioning his judgements, doesn’t appreciate his friend breathing down his neck so obviously.

“He deserved it,” Tom says firmly. “I would do it again.”

“You can’t. You absolutely cannot.”

“I think you’ll find that I can, Harrison.” There’s a stupid smirk on his lips now. Tom’s missed being a little shit to his friends. He knows it’s not the time, but he’s vibrating. The callous concoction of shame, anger and isolation make him volatile and abrasive. “I’m pretty sure I can do whatever the fuck I want, actually.”

The expression that mars Harrison’s face looks very out of place against his demeanour. The man is in a long black trench coat with a tight grey turtleneck layered beneath it. He has a few pendants hanging from his neck, the gold metal bringing out the warm tones in his curls, mussed in a way that screams of old charm and perfect romance. Harrison’s illusion of control falters only under the pressure of the anger that manifests itself so clearly on his face.

“Tom.” Harrison bangs his fist on the table. The ring wrapped around his pinky clangs against the wood. “You can’t keep this up. If you do, the case gets pushed further, and that is unacceptable.”

Tom scowls. “Well, Haz, last time I checked, I was the one who has to deal with the consequences of my actions. Not you.” He can’t stand the expression of condescension hanging over Harrison’s face. “If I want to throw a few punches, I bloody well will. You have no idea what it’s like in here. No idea at all.”

Harrison’s angered expression fades a little, but only for a moment. When Tom hardens the curve of his eyebrow, Harrison devolves into irritation again, almost snarling as he narrows his eyes. “Your actions affect everyone in your life,” he snaps. “Stop pretending you’re the only one paying for the things that you’ve done.”

“I’m the one with the cuffs, Harrison. I’d say I’m paying considerably more than anyone else.”

He shakes his head. “Yeah? Tell that to the men who had their property searched and their possessions seized. Tell that to your family, who continue to be pulled in for questioning. Tell that to Y/N, who—” he breaks off awfully quickly, cheeks flushing slightly. “Nevermind.”

Tom’s blood goes cold. “Y/N?” he repeats sharply. “What about Y/N?”

“Nothing.”

He sits up straighter. “What about Y/N, Harrison?”

“Nothing.”

Tom is angry now. “Tell me right now or god help me, I will find a way to kill you.”

Harrison rolls his eyes, then covers the movement with a sigh. “I can’t. It isn’t my place.” He seems regretful as he jumps in to add, “she’s fine. She just needs you. We all do.”

The guilt returns. It falls over Tom like a wet blanket, extinguishing his frustration and leaving him cold. “Does she… Does she hate me?” He’s looking down at his cuffs.

“What— no. No, Tom.” Harrison looks guilty for the first time, but at least he isn’t confirming Tom’s deepest insecurities. “Nothing like that at all. Just… Listen to me, alright? You need to behave. I know it’s hard in here, I know that, and I understand it must be frustrating. You just… You can’t let that rule you, Tom. You have to look at the bigger picture. You need to come home, and the sooner the better.”

It’s easier said than done, but he knows Harrison is earnest with it.

“Fine,” Tom grumbles. “I’ll behave.”

Harrison nods. “Thanks, mate,” he mutters. “We all miss you, myself included.” He glances up at him, eyes finally back to the cool blue tones Tom grew up beside. “It isn’t the same without you around.”

Tom manages a tight smile. “I miss you too.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

IT’S BEEN THREE MONTHS since Tom was taken away, and you are miserable.

Every day has been the same. You wake up, nauseous and alone, always on Tom’s side of the bed despite forcing yourself to fall asleep on your own. The mornings are a blur of paperwork and phone calls that follow you into the afternoon. You work around the clock, Harrison, Harry and Sam at your side as you go over Tom’s case, again and again, only stopping when night falls, and one of you throws in the towel.

You had been so close to springing him until he’d gone and got himself demoted to solitary, and there’s not a morning that you don’t think about that. You’d submitted the appeal, stacked full of so much evidence that there was no way the judge would deny him freedom, only for Tom to get into a fistfight the day before the hearing. Just like that, the floor had vanished from beneath your feet.

You’d taken it badly, the others too. Losing Tom to the judge’s gavel had been hard enough, but for his escape to be taken away by his own actions hurt a thousand times worse. You know it’s worse for him, being alone in a cell, but that doesn’t stop the bitterness seeping into your mouth every time you think about the lost chance. Harry and Sam had been incensed, their anger fuelled by the void of a missing brother, and you know Harrison’s frustration comes from similar veins.

Even now that Tom’s served his time in solitary, the frustration lingers on, manifesting itself in the way none of you could decide who should go and visit him first. Under normal conditions, you would’ve been there in a heartbeat, but… Things have been complicated, even without recent events, more so than they’d been when you’d visited two months ago. When Harrison had bitten the bullet and volunteered himself, all of you had been more than happy to let him go.

He’d left this morning, and the house has been quiet ever since.

You’re sitting up in one of the spare rooms as you wait for Harrison to return, your back aching and your mind spinning. You twirl the rings on your fingers as you think, taking turns alternating between your engagement ring and the silver signet rings you’d taken from Tom’s dresser. Keeping him close makes everything easier. You’d take any reminder of him you could get, be that his rings, his shirts, his cologne, or…

The baby.

You shift a hand down to sit on the swell of your belly. Tears prick your eyes as you let them close, a frustrated sigh tumbling past your lips.

You’re four months pregnant, and that throws a spanner in the works.

Sure, you would’ve tried equally as hard to get Tom released under normal conditions, but the biological countdown that has now been sprinkled into the mix has only given everything an air of desperation. Even if it isn’t you vocalising what everyone else is thinking, the fervour to get Tom out before it’s too late is there. You can see it in the way Harrison never lets you go anywhere unaccompanied, and Harry and Sam have been working nonstop to get their brother’s freedom. Everyone around you is aware of how vital Tom’s release is, even when the man himself remains oblivious.

Exhaling gently, you shift around on the cosy armchair. The nursery smells of fading paint, and as you move around, you glance at the messy borders of the walls. The sex of your baby is still a mystery to you, but a few days ago, the twins had freshened up the room with a shade of light green whilst you and Harrison were in court. Neither of them is particularly artistically inclined, but they’d done a pretty decent job, all things considered.

Tom’s family have all been good to you—very kind. You haven’t felt alone, even with half your heart locked away in the outskirts of London. It just hasn’t been the idyllic pregnancy you’d dreamt about with your fiancé.

Guilt falls across you as you look down at the rising swell of your belly.

It’s been hard trying to decide whether or not to tell Tom what you’d tried to come clean about three months ago, down by the Thames. You’d wanted to tell him when you’d gone to visit him, but you couldn’t find the heart to come clean and admit that he’s missing out on the one thing he’s waited for his entire life. Telling him would hurt him immensely, and he’s already hurting being away from you. You don’t want to tell him until he can be part of it, and with that uncertainty present, you’ve kept your lips sealed.

Visiting him today in place of Harrison is all you really wanted to do, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You’re vulnerable and explosive, and you want to come clean to Tom when the situation is better. There would be nothing worse than storming into that dingy meeting room, flaunting your obvious pregnancy but being too distracted by your anger at your fiancé to explain everything else. You won’t hurt him like that by taunting him with the one thing he wants but can’t have. You refuse to.

All you can do is hope that he forgives you for holding the information back, pray that he understands your motivations, and, above all, hold onto the hope that he’s there when your child comes into the world.

“Y/N? Where are you?”

Blinking yourself from your reverie, you look up through the open door.

“In here, Sam.”

A moment later, Tom’s younger brother appears in the doorway. The man looks as exhausted as you feel, deep shadows hanging beneath his hazel eyes. When he sees you, his mouth pulls into a small smile and he lifts his hand in greeting, and you can tell that he’s trying. You try to match him by sitting up a little straighter and smiling back.

“Hey,” he says. “I was just… bored, I guess. Thought I’d come and check on you.” Doubt briefly flickers across his face. “Is that okay? Are you busy?”

“I’m bored too,” you admit. You stand from the armchair and groan as you stretch your arms, your stiff back aching. “Do you want to do something?”

Sam grins. “Fuck yeah,” he says. “Can we try the mural?”

Wincing, you manage a smile. “Okay… But if it looks terrible, I will paint over it.”

“As if. I’m the artistic one here, Y/N. Just be glad Harry’s still away.”

“Did someone mention me?” Harry’s voice rings through the air, startling you. With a hand clutching your heart, you look to your side in time to see Sam’s twin taking his place at your side. Where Sam is in a shirt and tie, Harry is clad in a pair of deep denim dungarees. He offers you a rusty smile. “We’re just filling in these lines, yeah?”

Sam’s the one to nod. He gestures at the wall and you notice the faint outlines, scratched in pencil. “Be precise,” he informs, “it took me bloody ages sketching it.”

Harry rolls his eyes, shooting you a silent smirk. “Yes, sir,” he mutters. “Anything you want, sir.”

“Fuck off.”

Harry pulls a face. “Well,” he says, looking at you pointedly, “I hope you’re keeping a record of how many times Sam is swearing around the baby, Y/N.”

Brows furrowing, you pick up a paintbrush. “Why would I be doing that?”

The ginger grins. “Just betters my case for being the better uncle,” he says.

“Oh, what? Don’t you mean the boring uncle?” Sam chides, bristling beside you.

Harry laughs. “I will be the favourite uncle. I don’t care what you say, Sammy. Both of us know it.”

Rolling your eyes at the argument you’ve heard a thousand times before, you give them both a nudge. “Shh,” you plead. “Paint, don’t fight.”

Sam shoots you a soft smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

With a smile lingering on your lips, you watch as Harry puts on one of his playlists, then relax as the three of you get to work. None of you say anything, but the air is full enough—tickled to life with Sam’s quiet whistling and the sound of paintbrushes thick against the wall. You concentrate on the intricate details of the mural, like the outlines of the clouds and the spirals of the grass, and marvel at how wonderful it is to be so content in silence. It’s indicative of how tight your bond has grown, you think.

No longer despising solitude, you’ve found a comfortable middle ground around the men. You and Tom’s inner circle have learned to work together well, stringing together complex case files as you’ve organised accounts. Nothing you’ve been doing recently is legal, but you would’ve left a long time ago if you genuinely cared about the law. You can stomach a few fixed accounts if it means Tom gets to walk free—you can stomach a whole lot more than that, actually, for Tom. You’d set the whole world on fire just to see him smile.

Like the splotchy mural covering the walls, your team has got the job done. Your case for the court is watertight, if a little messy, but you know it’ll be enough to spring Tom. It has to be. You need him, and your child needs him. Everyone in the house needs him.

“Guys? Where are you?” Harrison’s voice joins the mix just as you’re stretching up to flick a few rays of gold into the sun. Harry is at your feet, crouching on the balls of his feet as he tries to paint a few red flowers to the sprigs of grass.

“Nursery,” Harry calls out.

A few moments later, Harrison joins you. You fail to meet his eyes as the focused man sweeps into the room, billowing coat swirling around his feet. His expression is terse as he jerks off his jacket and grabs a paintbrush, dipping the tip in a bit of sky blue paint before standing at the end. You don’t rush him. He’s vibrating with something, his face flushed and his eyes dark, so you give him space.

A few minutes pass, illustrated by Harry’s playlist and the colours of the rainbow. Just when you’re beginning to worry, Harrison speaks.

“Tom is an idiot,” he states, drawing a laugh from one of the twins.

You bite your lip. “Did you explain?” you ask.

Harrison nods. He glances at you, and you note the fleck of purple paint pressed into the pale arc of his cheek. “He said he wouldn’t do it again,” he tells you. “He was angry, though. I think he’s having a bad time.”

Harry hums. “It’s hard in there,” he mumbles. “Was he still himself?”

The blond nods. “Yeah,” he says. “As snarky as ever.”

Sam smirks. “That’s Tom, alright.”

“Good news, though,” Harrison adds. “I went to the courthouse on my way back.”

“Oh?” You look away from your cloud, your heart skipping a beat. “And?”

“And,” Harrison continues, a semblance of a smile twitching across his lips, “I submitted the appeal again. They said they’d probably process it next week. So, if things go according to plan this time, he might be out by next Friday.”

You almost drop your paintbrush. Eyes widening, you turn to face him properly. “Wait, really?”

Harrison’s expression softens. “Yeah.” He puts his paintbrush down, tugging yours from your fingers as if he can tell you’re close to dropping it. “He’s almost out, Y/N.”

Relief spills across you, uncontrollable and overwhelming. Closing your eyes before those easy tears can fall down your cheeks, you step closer and push your way into Harrison’s embrace. He’s ready and waiting for the action, eager to comfort his friend.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Harrison’s chest is warm, and though his hugs aren’t as good as Tom’s, you’ve come to rely on them. You’ve come to rely on all of them. “That’s amazing news.”

“Mhmm.” He squeezes you. “This nightmare is almost over.”

“Thanks, man,” Harry speaks up. You pull away from Harrison’s hold when you hear the quivering tones in his voice, quickly glancing to the man to find him glassy-eyed and flushed. Biting your lip, you extend a hand towards him.

A group hug unfolds, as it’s had the tendency to do since Tom was taken away. The first time had been stoic and cool, with frozen elbows and embarrassed shuffling, but slowly, each one of them has loosened. They’re tough men, burdened and hard, but love ties them to you, and at your request, you know they’d do anything for you. You also know that they all enjoy the physical comfort more than they’d ever let on.

It’s been hard without Tom, and you’d do anything to have him back, but if there’s anything his absence has taught you, it’s that his brothers have become your brothers as his best friend has become your own, and you’ve never really been alone.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Tom’s release day comes quickly, hidden behind the retrial and the quick-paced days in court. It’s busy at the trial, and spaces are limited, so Harry and Sam attend in place of you and Harrison. You get them to take in a few letters for Tom and pass on your condolences for your absence, but you don’t allow yourself to get too hung up on it. When Tom’s release is announced, the weight that rolls from your shoulders is immediate.

As you wait outside the prison, you try to find solace in the rays of the mid-afternoon sun. It’s quiet in the car park, allowing you to ruminate in peace, and though you’re comfortable resting against the bonnet of Tom’s car, your thoughts are far from restful.

Anxiety weighs heavily in your chest, mixing with your excitement and creating a volatile concoction. You find yourself pacing, biting back your nerves as you try to reason with yourself. Draped around your shoulders is a long coat that obscures your bump, chosen as you’ve decided you don’t want to overwhelm Tom with too many things at once. You hope it does the job. The coat twitches in the wind as you walk, noisy and obnoxious.

Things around you are still until there’s a sudden, loud buzzing noise from the prison compound. You jerk your head around to see two men leaving the main building, small in the distance but gradually growing larger. They’re still enclosed in the fenced courtyard, but they’re on their way to the exit, and every rational thought you have flies from your mind as you see him. Tom. Your Tom.

He’s in the clothes he’d been arrested in—red shirt, black slacks, shiny shoes. Looped around his hands is his Rolex and his rings. Tom seems almost identical to how he’d been on that cursed day, just his head is buzzed and he looks a little smaller. He’s carrying himself with confidence, though, and when he looks fervently around the car park and spots you, his entire face swells with happiness. The sight of that large, lovely smile hanging from his lips brings immediate warmth to your eyes.

Every breath is easier now you have him in your sights. Overwhelming love gluts your insides, warm and emotive, choking you up. It takes everything in you to stay still as you wait for Tom to finish talking with his guard, a tall man you recognise from all of his stories, Luther. Tom’s smirking in a way that’s obviously infuriating, and the guard doesn’t hesitate to give him a light punch as your boyfriend saunters out of prison, leaving the compound with a swagger to his stride and a smile the size of Saturn.

The sight of Tom jogging towards you breaks you from your reverie, and you push yourself away from the car to meet him somewhere in the middle. Nothing matters until you’re colliding with his front, finding warmth in his arms, feeling his entire body shake as his tears fall into your hair. Nothing matters unless it’s him.

“I missed you so much,” you whisper. Your grip on the back of Tom’s shirt is hard, a violent sprawling across your knuckles, but you won’t let go. You’re giddy with love. “Fuck, Tom, I missed you so, so much.”

You pull away from his chest and look into his eyes, your lower lip wobbling as you note the fresh tears on his face. You use your thumbs to brush beneath his cheeks, flicking away the tears as you clean up his handsomeness.

“I missed you so much more,” he promises. Tom brings a hand to rest on the back of your head, breath hitching as he meets your eyes. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

He kisses you, and it’s so intense you end up pressed against the side of the car. Tom moans with relief as he strokes his fingers over the side of your face, delicately reacquainting his lips with yours as they meet again and again. You keep your hands gliding over his back, his arms, his shoulders, letting your tongues come together as tears flow down your cheeks. The kiss is everything and nothing, familiar and new. The kiss says I missed you. It says I thought about you every day. It says I would wait a thousand dawns if it meant I got to wake up beside you again, but thank fucking god you’re here right now because I missed you more than I ever thought was possible.

“Baby,” Tom murmurs. He pulls away but keeps your foreheads pressed together, the cool tip of his nose brushing yours. “You’re so perfect. I missed you so much that it hurt me.”

He tries to move closer, but you become aware of the pressure to your belly, so bring a gentle hand to push his shoulder away. Hurt immediately floods to his eyes, his expression twitching as Tom takes a few steps back.

“Tom,” you say, voice soft. “I need to tell you something.”

Tom’s jaw twitches. “What is it?” he whispers.

“A good thing,” you clarify. You reach up to wipe the residue of your tears away, then bring your hands down to the tie of your jacket. Biting your lip, you take a steadying breath. “I hope you aren’t angry that I didn’t tell you sooner,” you preface, “but I did it for you.”

Tom nods intensely. “Okay,” he says. “It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s fine. I’m… I’m here, okay? For anything. It’s me and you. Just… me and you forever.”

A smile flickers across your face. “Me and you, and…” You gently open the front of your coat, then reach out for Tom’s hands. Guiding them slowly, you bring the warmth of his palms to rest on the rise of your bump.

“Wait…” Tom shifts his hands around your belly before staring up at you, slack-jawed. He doesn’t try to hide the obvious tears in his eyes. “You’re…?”

Nodding your head is easier than trying to speak.

“Oh god.” Tom sniffles. “What?” He immediately drops to his knees in front of you, his fancy dress trousers getting dirty in the dust. “How— how far along?”

“Almost five months,” you whisper. “I found out right before you got back from Liverpool. I was going to tell you when we went on that date, but…”

“But I fucked up.” Tom sounds wrecked, his aching eyes fixed on the curve of your belly. “I fucked everything up. I… I left you alone for this entire time, and you had to do this all without me.” He rests his forehead against your bump, very, very gently, and you see him close his eyes. “I am a terrible partner.”

Rolling your fingers over the scruff of his hair, you guide him up to look at you. It’s second nature as you roll a thumb over his cheekbone, trying to instil the action with love and reassurance.

“I’m not angry,” you tell him. “You didn’t know, and you didn’t get arrested on purpose. If anything, you should be angry at me for keeping this a secret.” Your teeth catch your lower lip. “I didn’t want to hurt you, but I thought telling you would only make things worse. I’m sorry.”

Tom shakes his head. “No, no. Don’t apologise.” He rests a hand on your leg, the other still on the curve of your front. “I’m sorry.” He drops his voice and looks at the bump. “And I’m sorry to you too, little one.” He nudges his mouth forward and deposits a soft kiss to your stomach. “I love you too.”

Digging one of your hands into your coat pocket, you pull out a photo. “Here,” you urge, handing it to your boyfriend. Tom takes it after a moment, his eyes slow to move away from your front.

He releases a noise somewhere between an exclamation and a choke, nimble fingers gripping the image from your ultrasound. His cheeks flush a brilliant rose.

“When was this?” he whispers.

“At three months,” you reply. You continue to run your hand over the top of his head, trying to soothe him as he absorbs so much information at once. “I went with my mum and Haz.”

“Haz?”

You nod. “Harry and Sam lost a bet.”

Tom hums. He looks between the photo and your bump, then nudges forward to kiss the rise again. His lips are so warm you can feel them through the material of your dress. “Have they been looking after you well enough?”

A light laugh slips past your lips. “Yeah,” you promise. “They helped so much, Tom. It was hard at first… Really hard. Especially when we thought you’d be in there for five years, but… Things worked out.” You have to pause to gather your thoughts. “We converted one of the rooms into a nursery. There’s still stuff left to do, and we can do that together, of course, but… They were all really helpful.”

“Good.” Tom looks up at you, still kneeling, and your hand slips down to cup his face. “I’m sorry,” he adds. “I wish I could’ve been here for all of this.”

Shrugging gently, you squeeze his face. “You can be here for the rest of it,” you promise. “And, I guess… If we have another one, you’ll be there for all of that, right?”

“Of course, darling.” You smile as Tom tilts his lips to knock against the side of your palm.

“So it’s okay.”

“Are you sure?”

Chuckling softly, you nod. “Yes,” you promise. “I love you, and I’m so happy this has happened for us, even if the timing was difficult.” Feeling yourself well up, you exhale slowly. “We’re going to be parents, Tom. Isn’t that crazy?”

“It’s brilliant.” Tom’s eyes sparkle. “I’m going to be a father.” He blinks. “What the fuck.”

Laughing, you move your hands to the crown of his head. “Yeah, it’ll take a while to get used to that.”

“I’ll get there,” he states. Tom returns his attention to the bump. “Hey, little one,” he coos, voice all silk and amber tones, “it’s going to be the biggest honour of my life being your dad.”

Tom spends a while at your feet, speaking softly to you and your bump, and you keep your hand resting on the back of his head. He’s weary when he finally climbs to his feet but regains some of that spark when you step forward to kiss him. You don’t mean to make it as heated as you do, but it hasn’t only been your heart that’s missed Tom. You’ve craved him, constantly, during every single lonely night, and now that he’s here, you’re willing to take everything you can get.

“I love you,” you say, hushed against his mouth.

Tom’s teeth brush over your lower lip, and you moan when he tugs. There’s a fervour to it, hot lust burning through sensitive emotions. He releases your lip and pulls back to stare at you, his eyes rippling darker.

“I love you too,” he murmurs. He brings his hands to your waist, pulling you closer. “I love everything about you.”

Your mouths come back together, and it’s messier than before, your lips wettening as your kisses become wilder. Tongues dance and teeth clash as your body temperature starts to rise. Now you’ve moved through the emotional reunion, you’re left with an underlying pulse—a heat throbbing persistently between your legs. The fire builds as you hear Tom’s grunts and feel the desperation in his hands when they grab at your sides and jerk you closer, his mouth devouring yours until your lips are puffy and tender. You’re greedy, chasing more, desiring everything you’ve missed out on in the months you’ve been apart from your lover.

“Darling,” Tom murmurs, breaking the kiss to whisper hotly against your lips, “I missed you, but if you keep this up, we’re not going to get home.”

Desire takes hold of you. “Who said I wanted to go home?” You push in closer, shifting slightly until you’re able to feel the hardness of his crotch pressing up against your thigh. The familiarity of it all makes you inhale sharply. You drop your tone, trying to seem coy as you speak, “I don’t think you understand how badly I needed you whilst you were away, Tom. I missed you.”

The tips of his teeth glint as he arches his brows. “Well…” Tom mumbles. “I owe you about four months of lost opportunities.” He swallows, briefly breaking from the lust-filled headspace to look guilty. You smooth it away by reaching down to squeeze at his hands. “If my radiantly stunning fiancé decides she wants me to start repenting for that now, then who am I to stop her?”

Rolling your eyes, you step away from the car. “You’re a suck-up,” you taunt. You plant a light kiss to his lips. “C’mon,” you urge. “The car.”

He wiggles his eyebrows. “The backseat?” he teases. “Shit, angel. You must be desperate.”

Warmth tickles your face. “Shut up.”

Tom smirks deviously. “It’s okay,” he soothes. He darts forward to open the car door for you, resting his hand on your lower back as you step forward. “I’m just as desperate as you, baby.”

“I hate you,” you murmur. Tom follows you into the car, shutting the door behind you both. You wait for him to sit before straddling his lap, your legs stretching until you have a shin planted on either side of his thighs. The position is comfortable, with enough space between your bump and his chest for you to breath, and you whimper as Tom bends nearer to ghost his lips over yours.

“No, you don’t,” he murmurs.

You want to tease him, but you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You’re alright with too much adoration to even think about pressing it down.

“I really don’t,” you agree.

Tom makes a soft noise of vindication, the tip of his nose brushing yours for just a moment until he’s bearing down and bringing your lips together. You sigh, reaching up and urging him closer. His lips are lovely, and you enjoy kissing them for a while, but then you find yourself distracted by the open expanse of his neck. With his hair buzzed, you’re keenly aware of his throat, pale and sensitive, and if there’s one thing you remember about your boyfriend, it’s his affinity for lovebites.

You bring your lips to the side of his neck, nuzzling your mouth against the long, pale stretch of his throat. Smirking against his skin, you start to suckle deep hickeys against the side of his neck, revelling in the throaty gasps Tom deposits into the air in response.

“Fuck, darling,” Tom whines. He has a hand on your back, urging you closer. When you graze the tips of your teeth against his skin, he whimpers. “Shit. More.”

“More?” you tease. “Forgotten all your manners, Tom?”

He growls. The hand on your back shifts to the back of your head, and he jerks you ever closer. He’s still mindful, especially of the bump laying between you, but he knows just as well as you that you aren’t a piece of porcelain; you like being tugged around. You’ve missed it.

“Give me what I want, and maybe I’ll return the favour.” He says it like you’re oblivious to the desperation in his words. You decide to oblige him.

“Okay,” you murmur. You look up to meet his gaze, his honey-brown eyes full of appreciation. For a moment, it knocks you off balance. It’s so strange readjusting to having Tom back—almost overwhelming to be able to touch someone who had existed only in your memories for so many weeks. You drop your head and give him what he wants.

Tom’s skin tastes clean, and it smells distantly of pinecones. He groans, fisting at your hair and holding you close as you kiss and suck along his skin, drawing deep hues to the surface of his neck. He shifts in his seat, basking in the pain and whining every time you soothe a fresh mark with the warmth of your tongue. You keep your hand resting on his hair, the cropped length of his buzz prickly and coarse beneath the pads of your fingertips.

“Oh god yeah,” he murmurs, voice mingling with the wet noises coming from your lips. “Your mouth is so fucking good, baby. I missed it.” Grunting, he brings a hand to your waist, squeezing the flesh of your hips hard. “I thought about you all the time in there.”

Tom releases his hold on your hair and begins to stroke his hands over your back. As you continue to mark his neck, he starts to tease you, gradually dropping the heat of his palms lower and lower. You can’t stop yourself from bucking down into his hold, moaning against his neck as he grabs handfuls of your ass.

“Tom,” you break off to whimper, panting softly. You feel dizzy on the taste of his skin. “You’re being mean.”

“Mean?” you can hear the smirk in his voice. “How am I being mean?” Tom squeezes the curves of your figure, his slender fingers warm against your skin. You’re in a dress, the material thin, and he doesn’t hesitate to curve his hands beneath the hem and bring them to rest over your panties. “You’re the one who wanted to come in here and get your hands all over me… I’m doing what you asked.” He breaks off, chuckling darkly. “That’s not how things usually work, though, is it?”

The air between you shifts.

You pull away from Tom’s neck, your mouth inflamed and throbbing. You have to dig your teeth into your lower lip to muffle your whimper when Tom brings a hand to the front of your legs, gently brushing two of his long fingers over the front of your panties. He’s teasing with it, eyes alight with deviousness, jaw set in a determined line.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “Maybe I want to be in charge this time.”

Tom laughs gently. “Oh, yeah?” He rubs your cunt a little faster, causing you to suck in a sharp breath as you feel the delicate pressure on your clit. The contact makes your passage clench, growing wet enough to dampen the front of your panties. “So you don’t like this, hmm? You don’t want me to follow through on everything I have planned for you?”

“What have you got planned?”

He tuts. “Oh, I’m not going to tell you, angel. That’d be too easy. Either you want me to be in charge, or you decide to call the shots.” Tom smirks as he feels you buck down against his hand. Maybe if the circumstances were different, you’d find the strength to push back, but you don’t. It’s been so long, and your cunt is weeping already just from the husky tones in his voice.

“You’re in charge,” you whisper. The vindicated smirk he flashes in response is enough to send shivers down your spine.

“Damn right, baby.” Tom moves his hands away, pressing them to your waist instead. “Can you lay down for me, please?”

You shuffle across the car seat as instructed, Tom shifting until he’s kneeling in the footwell of the backseats. It’s a good thing the car is obscenely huge, otherwise, the already-cramped fit would be unworkable.

Draping your legs over Tom’s shoulders, he pushes the hem of your dress up, bunching it just above your bump. The hungry fire in his eyes fades slightly.

“Is this okay? Are you comfy?”

“It’s fine,” you soothe. “Are you okay down there?”

Tom nods. The scruff of his buzzed head scratches against your inner thighs. “I’m bloody perfect,” he responds. “Can I touch you?”

“Please do.”

The tip of his nose nuzzles against your covered clit. “Perfect,” Tom purrs, his breath hot against your panties. “I think it’s time I remind you who owns this fucking pussy… As hot as it was when you were trying to tell me what to do, it’s not on.” He brings his mouth away from your core, and you whimper as his tongue laps gently across your thigh, the muscle deliciously slippery. “I’m the one calling the shots.”

You’re throbbing, every inch of you aching for his touch. The burn is visceral—pulsing, wet. “Yes, sir,” you return. Tom’s eyes snap to yours. “Do whatever you want.”

“Say please.”

Swallowing the dryness in your throat, you add, “please.”

“Good, baby. You sound so pretty begging for me.” Tom easily pulls your panties down your legs, returning to push your thighs further apart. He brings both of his thumbs to your sensitive lips, humming when you whimper. Using the pads of his fingers, he gently parts your centre, groaning softly at the sight. “Say it,” he murmurs, entranced by the paradise between your legs. “Tell how badly you want me.”

He’s incredibly infuriating, but you play right into his hand. “Please, Tom,” you whine. “Please touch me.”

He hums. “Of course, lovie,” he murmurs. He glances up at you. “All you had to do was ask.”

The first touch of his tongue against your slit makes your eyes roll back. A breathless whine slips past your lips as his mouth envelops your clit, the strong tip of his tongue nuzzling over your sensitive skin in a way you’ve only dreamed of. You’ve been able to get off in his absence, but nothing can simulate the sizzling heat of his mouth and his tongue, nor the scratching of his short hair against your fleshy inner thighs.

The way he unravels you is obscene, toned with the sounds of spit and lazy lips, the sensations of desperation. Tom devours you, using his elbows to push your thighs apart as he buries his face as close to your centre as possible. You can barely see him over the rise of your belly, but you can certainly feel him. When you start to grind down against his face, things only escalate, your eyes fluttering shut as your spine arches in response to his feverish movements.

“Oh god,” he murmurs, voice thick as it vibrates across you. “Missed this… Tastes so fucking good, sweetheart.”

Your high rolls over you suddenly and without warning, manifesting itself in a silent cry as your body goes rigid. You hear Tom hum in surprise, then feel his hands lock around your thighs, holding back your legs as they shake in the face of absolute pleasure.

“Sorry,” you pant, recovering gradually, “I didn’t know that was going to happen then.”

Tom runs his tongue over your slit, still sensitive and throbbing. “‘S okay, lovie,” he replies, voice warm. He nuzzles in closer and brings two slender fingers to push against your entrance. Your hole is hot and pulsing, pooled with your arousal. You hear it pucker as he gently presses against your cunt, teasing your entrance with his fingertips. “I’m not done making it up to you, though. Is that okay?”

Exhaling, you nod quickly. “Fuck yeah,” you say, struggling to think. “Oh.”

He slips two fingers into you, your eager walls parting and welcoming him in. Tom removes his mouth from your heat and replaces his tongue with the pad of a thumb, and when you release a loud noise of strangled enjoyment, he begins to crook his fingers into you. He strokes his digits against your walls with poise and elegance, nudging up against your g-spot and stroking, again and again, chasing the noises you release.

“So pretty,” he coos. “My pretty baby. Making all those beautiful noises.” Tom smiles almost proudly. His chin is wet with your arousal. “I love your cunt… Look at how well it's taking me.” To prove his point, he feeds a third finger alongside the others. “So greedy for me, eh? Greedy little pussy. So hot. So wet. God…”

Tom drops his head again, disappearing from your sight of vision. You moan, body jerking as you feel his tongue move around his fingers, catching the arousal that seeps from your pussy as he works you open. He releases an obscene moan before dragging his mouth to your clit, stimulating you with his hands and tongue in tandem.

“Holy fuck,” you whimper. You feel hot in the best way, your skin becoming sweaty as you writhe over the leather seat. “Feels so good, Tommy.” It feels like heaven—especially when he bends his fingers and the tips of them stroke up against your sensitive spot. “‘M gonna cum again.”

“Already?”

“Yeah.”

Tom chuckles. “I’m so good at this,” he murmurs. “Go on, angel. Don’t hold back on my account… You’re so pretty when you cum.”

The tide breaks, and your climax rolls across you, legs trembling as Tom holds you in place. You writhe as you bask in the heat, your knuckles losing blood as you clench your hands into hard fists. The press of your nails against the soft flesh of your palms hurts, but you don’t care. It feels far too good to think about anything beyond Tom.

You ride it out, and Tom eventually draws his face away from your clit. He kisses along your inner thighs as you gasp for air, only removing his fingers when you start to whimper. As good as the climaxes have felt, panting for breath on the backseat, it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough by far.

“Get up here,” you say breathlessly.

Tom chuckles as he appears from between your legs. He gives your thighs a little tap before he closes your legs, wriggling out of the footwell as you sit up. Easily, like you’ve done a thousand times before, you swing a leg over Tom’s lap, straddling him when he sits with his back against the car seat.

“Are you okay up there?” he checks, bringing his clean hand to rest on the curve of your stomach. When you nod, his brown eyes darken. “Perfect…” he hums. “Clean off my fingers, will you?”

You nod, opening your mouth expectantly and moaning as Tom slips three of his fingers between your lips. Fighting your smirk, you maintain eye contact with him, your pride swelling as you see his cheeks darken. He gently fucks his fingers into your mouth, making you moan at the movements and the taste of your heat as it spreads across your tongue. He’s messy with it, and you feel your lips and chin grow heavy from spittle.

“Pretty,” he coos, “so, so pretty.”

Tom goes to move his fingers from your mouth, only for a detail to make you pause. Eyes straining, you reach up to catch his wrist, holding his hand in place just as his fingers pull away from your lips.

“What’s this?” you query, narrowing your eyes. You drag Tom’s left hand nearer your face, gasping softly as you take note of a new tattoo resting at the bottom of his ring finger.

“Oh.” Tom shifts around slightly, biting at his lower lip. “I got your initials tattooed… When we get married, the ring will cover them, but I wanted you with me—I want you with me—all the time, even without a bit of metal.” He hesitates. “Is that okay?”

You press a delicate kiss across the letters. “Yes,” you say. You feel shy as you meet the eyes of the man who loves you so immensely. “That’s really, really sweet, Tom.” You bite your lip as you look up at him. “Gone soft on me, baby?”

“‘M always soft on you,” he says gruffly, guiding a hand to your face. He brings you closer, encouraging you to lean higher on your knees. “Love of my life, angel. You know that… My wife.”

You shift on his lap, smiling bashfully. “I’m not your wife yet.”

“Soon, soon, soon,” he whispers.

Both of you come together, no words needing to be exchanged for you to know what to do. Tom loses his clothes as you sit up a little straighter, one of your hands curling around the headrest of a seat as Tom angles himself slightly. With the rise of your bump between you, you aren’t able to be flushed together like times before, but the man beneath you is quick to readjust so he’s laying further back, giving you plenty of room to move in a way that’s comfortable. He kisses over your knuckles as you run his hard cock through your slit, his interested eyes fixed firmly on the sight of his length as you finally begin to move down.

The moment the head of his cock pushes into you feels indescribable. The ache of the stretch falls away as relief pours over you, the closeness satisfying far more than just your arousal.

“Gentle, gentle,” Tom murmurs, hand resting on your belly. “Be careful.”

You chuckle, beginning to move but only slowly. “It’s okay,” you reassure him, “it won’t hurt them.” Your eyes roll back slightly as you bring your hand down to rest on Tom’s shoulder, moaning quietly. “You can move too… Please, move.”

“Okay, darling.” Tom gently starts to move his hips. He groans as he slumps back against the seat, beautiful face coloured light pink. You’d missed the expressions he makes, how emotive the slants of his features can be. His nostrils flare and his jaw tenses as you ride him, your cunt so wet the movements are almost effortless. “That feels… so good.” His voice is hollow, gutless. “I can’t tell you how long I’ve been thinking about you. You, and your hot cunt.” He moans again, unable to sit around the words. Tom ruts into you a little harder, guiding you to move faster with the hand on your hip. “Taking me so well, darling. So fucking well. I’m not going to last at all.”

“That’s okay,” you murmur. “I won’t either.”

Tom manages a lazy smirk. He opens his eyes as he brings a hand to your clit, teasing the sensitive bud with his thumb. You jerk a little at the stimulation but start to ease into it, basking in the pleasure from the bud and Tom’s cock. He’s buried deep within you, pressing your walls apart, the curved tip of his head brushing deeper than you’ve felt in months.

“So tight,” he murmurs. Tom leans back, clearly enjoying the sight of you riding him. “My darling. You look so beautiful like this… I swear your tits are bigger, too.” The hand on your belly gently caresses the bump, Tom’s tongue briefly wandering out to wet his lower lip. “Look at how beautiful you are… I can’t wait to knock you up again.”

Stifling a moan, it takes everything in you to focus on your movements. “You feel so good, Tom,” you whimper, unable to hold back the praise he loves to hear. “I missed this so much.”

“I know, baby. I missed this too… Come on, now.” His voice hardens slightly. “I’m about to cum, but I don’t want to unless you’re right here beside me. So… will you be a good girl and finish with me? Please?”

Heat flushes through your system as you bounce your head quickly. Your eyes close, breath hitching as you feel your climax rise. It starts in the pit of your stomach, a coil pulling tighter and tighter until it bends and snaps, bursting wide and spilling pleasure across your body in warm waves of enjoyment. You cry out as you fall apart, holding Tom’s shoulder tightly as his hand clamps around your waist. You feel him mirror you, hear his loud groan as his cock pulses inside you, your movements unceasing as you ride it out together.

It ends, but you stay joined. Tom sits up, the distance put between you by your belly requiring him to stretch closer and seize your lips in a smouldering kiss. His hand returns to your cheek, yours to his, and the look in his eyes is dizzying.

“I love you so much,” he speaks, words soft like a promise. “Everything I do from here on out is for you, and…” He glances back at your stomach. “And our child.” Words thickening, you see Tom’s eyes well with tears again. He chuckles, cheeks flushing red. “Sorry,” he adds. “I get a bit choked up thinking about it.”

You stroke your fingers over the back of his hair, spiky strands smooth against your hand. “Don’t apologise for expressing your emotions, baby,” you whisper. “It’s been a very long day.”

Tom nods. “Love you,” he murmurs again. He nuzzles his head into the palm of your hand, his eyes closing.

“I love you too,” you say, words truer than they’ve ever been before. You bend down to kiss his forehead. “Do you want to go home now?”

He hums. “Y/N,” he whispers. Tom blinks up at you, eyes soft. He catches the palm of your hand with a few kisses as he sits up a little straighter. “I’m already home.”

Teeth grazing your lower lip, you hold back your smile as you marvel at how clichéd he’s become. You bend down and kiss him very gently. “Sap,” you murmur. “Love you, though.”

Tom pulls a face. He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice—only love. “Love you too,” he says. “Yes, though,” he adds, “I would love to go home.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

finis

yay

that’s probably a wrap on mob!tom ! i don’t have any more fic ideas for him :( that being said, this was a lot of fun to write, and i really, really hope you liked it :D ik the theme isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, so if you read it all, i love you very very much

please let me know if you have any thoughts!!

masterlist through the link in my bio <3

[samsonet3]

Krakoa is eugenicist but not in the way you think

Marvel doesn’t understand Moira but I do. I’m here to tell you why Moira would help establish Krakoa if her goal from the beginning was to cure mutants.

Content note: this post discusses eugenics, genocide, reproductive issues, racism, ableism.

To begin, I want to draw your attention to a bit of specific terminology in the Marvel Universe: “mutant” vs “mutate.” While in our world a “mutant” is any individual with any kind of mutation, in the 616 a mutant is only a person whose mutation is caused by an x-gene. When people talk about “curing mutants,” they’re specifically talking about getting rid of individuals with that specific gene.

People have invented these kind of “cures” before. They focus on the individual: removing one person’s x-gene, or repressing it, or covering it. This is violence. The X-Men fight against this... or at least they did, before Krakoa.

But these aren’t the kind of cures Moira seems to have been thinking of. As we see in Inferno (2021) 4:

How is this cure meant to work? I’ve seen speculation that the Krakoan medicines were tampered with. This is possible, but I don’t think it’s what Moira is referring to here. Let me explain.

Moira’s cure is not meant for individual mutants. Moira’s cure is for the human race as a whole.

From House of X 2:

To Moira, the x-gene is not a simple variation in the human population. It is something “other,” something to be removed. 

From the narrator of that issue: "When two aggressive species share the same environment, evolution demands either adaptation or dominance."

To which I would ask her: are mutants another species?

From an evolutionary standpoint, mutants and humans are one species.

This is an area where the mutant metaphor cannot be applied to any real-world marginalized identity. I’m a person of color. I have a chronic illness. I am obviously not a different species.

So I’m putting the metaphor aside for now, and focusing on the origin of species in the Marvel Universe.  Of course, Marvel evolution is science fiction; it’s not going to match exactly with the real world. However, Marvel evolution is inspired by real-world evolution. Moira is also noted as a geneticist, so I feel like it’s reasonable to assume she is familiar with evolutionary theory. I’m going to be quoting and linking to places because I’m not going too deeply into science in this post.

First: speciation. Nature.com: “new species form when individuals from diverging populations no longer recognize one another as potential mates, or opportunities for mating become limited by differences in habitat use or reproductive schedules.“

Second: gene frequency. Wikipedia defines it as “the relative frequency of an allele (variant of a gene) at a particular locus in a population, expressed as a fraction or percentage.”

Third: gene fixation and gene loss. Wikipedia again: fixation is the state of a gene being present in 100% of a population; loss is when it is present in 0% of the population.

In Moira’s Krakoa -- at the beginning of the Dawn of X, when entry was at its strictest -- only allowing mutants on the island meant that the x-gene was fixed in the Krakoan population.

Note that this doesn’t automatically mean that the x-gene is lost in the population of the rest of the world. Here’s one more term to explain why:

Fourth: the Hardy–Weinberg principle. Here’s the Wikipedia page. Basically: the frequency of a gene in a given population will remain constant unless something influences the population. Some of those influences: selective breeding; migration; mutation.

Remember how I showed you earlier that Moira thought of mutation as a cancer? Here’s what’s so difficult about treating cancer: it metastasizes. That is, it reappears in other parts of the body, sometimes without warning.

People have tried to depower mutants individually. They’ve tried to kill all the mutants -- they’re still trying to kill all the mutants. But even if all the known mutants in the Marvel Universe disappeared, there would still be mutants born the next day.

Non-mutant humans can still give birth to mutant children. 

From Inferno 4:

"Us” is not Moira and Destiny. It’s not even mutants as a whole. It’s the human population that the mutants were once a part of.

That is who she is attempting to cure: not the currently existing mutants, nor any mutant children they could potentially have. She is curing the human population of Earth by removing the x-gene. She is preventing their children from being born with an x-gene.

Alright, I promised you that I’d explain how Krakoa would further this goal. I’ve seen speculation that it’s meant to be a trap for mutants. I agree. A place where mutants -- especially those with visible mutations -- can live in safety? A place where their needs are provided for? Nobody can be blamed for wanting to live there permanently.

It seems most Krakoans are living there permanently. Note how big of a deal it was that Cyclops took the X-Men back to New York, for example. Or for a less positive light, look at Firestar. She is one of the few mutants who does not live on the island and says why: she wants to stay close to her human father. She’s treated as suspicious by mutants on Krakoa. While many mutants were formerly close to their human friends and family, such relationships are now scorned by Krakoans.

(I also want to note that some of the other mutants who were living off-island -- Beak and Angel -- were also staying with human parents. Said parents were then killed by other humans, allowing the mutants to move to Krakoa with no problems. I don’t blame Moira for that, of course. I just think it was an interesting choice from the writers.)

So: removing a population from a larger population. Encouraging the separation of those with an x-gene away from those without.

From Way of X 3:

Then there’s the focus on “making more mutants.” Moira didn’t have anything to do with that law (...that we know of). Kurt himself makes it clear that compulsory reproduction is not what the law should mean. I have a lot of thoughts on the subject, but because this post is already getting long, let’s just assume that everyone on Krakoa who gets pregnant wants to be pregnant and wants a baby.

Krakoan society looks down on humans. Human partners need permission to be on the island -- in fact, the only human partner we’ve seen in the Krakoan era is Northstar’s husband Kyle. Krakoa encourages sexual relationships on the island.

The result: babies with an x-gene being born to parents with x-genes. Parents who might have had children with non-x-gene humans instead having children with other mutants.

And in a few generations of mutants immigrating to Krakoa and staying there?

Nobody in the outside human population has an x-gene, nor is anyone a carrier of it. The gene is lost. Humanity is cured.

It’s genocide. It’s violence. It’s an evil that is difficult to illustrate, much less fight, and one even those who know about Moira don’t seem to be aware of.

Now.

How does this fit in with her post-X Deaths of Wolverine arc?

I don’t have a good answer for that. I’m just gonna blame that on Hickman’s departure and avoid thinking about this new Moira as much as possible. Thank you for reading through this!

[dongofthewolf]

Omg I’m sorry for not realizing u had a list 😅 but I wasn’t wondering if u could do 41 with Abby and could u make it like rlly angsty but with some fluff or smut at the end

Everything Good in Life Seems to Lead Back to You

Abby Anderson X Reader

Prompt: 41. Overhearing they have feelings for you

Warnings: blood and injury, canon typical violence, swearing, fluff, angst (I tried anon I tried), Owen slander once again (sorry not sorry)

Gender neutral pronoun for the reader (if you’d like your request to use specific pronouns please add to the ask)

Link to the prompt list here

A/N: it’s safe to say that I wrote this with the speed of a thousand blazing horses if that even makes any sense. I hope that you all enjoy this lovely word vomit (esp if you requested) it was a blast to write !!

btw the Virginia Woolf reference is from her letters to Vita Sackville and the Jane Austen one is from Pride and Prejudice. What can I say? I guess I’m just a hoe for old love, baby.

Abby spent a lot of time reading; so much so that she had created this false expectation of what love was supposed to feel like. Abby believed that love was supposed to be strong, and passionate, and bright—an everlasting devotion. Of course she shrugged it off at first, they were just books after all—pieces of fiction to fantasize and dream about. Love wasn’t something you could define in a book nor could it ever live up to the likes of Shakespeare or Virginia Woolf.

Abby had never been in love; she sometimes believes she came close to some iteration of it when she was with Owen, but looking back now she realized that what she felt wasn’t love. It was a desperate attempt to be wanted—to be needed, a manifestation of her desire for approval. And after her falling out with him, Abby had come to accept that she simply wasn’t made for love, and that if by some miracle she ever did fall, it definitely wouldn’t be like the books.

That was Abby’s initial perspective on love, but oh how times have changed. The moment you waltzed into her life, every sad, pathetic notion she had about love was thrown out the window in a matter of seconds. Never in her most outrageous dreams did Abby expect to fall this hard, especially since the two of you were practically best friends.

In fact, it had been very platonic at first; Abby was your superior and you often worked together on missions. She didn’t know what compelled her to talk to you but when she did, the two of you hit it off immediately. You started training together, then working out together, and eventually you were spending almost every minute together. The two of you could literally correctly predict every thought that went through each other's head, all except of course (in Abby’s case) for one. It even got to the point where you both somehow knew when the other couldn’t sleep, so much so that Abby had grown accustomed to opening her door to see you holding a glass of milk and a plate of cookies like a little kid on Christmas. She had spent so many sleepless nights alone only to realize that the one thing she was missing, was you and your adorable midnight snacks.

Abby never entertained the thought of professing her slightly less than platonic feelings for you, because she had become content with the idea that you’d simply never feel the same. However, while she had come to accept her unfortunate situation to be a permanent one, it still hurt her when she saw you flirt with other people. And she’d be lying if she said your absentminded touches didn’t still send her soaring. Sometimes she hated how naturally affectionate you were, it made it so hard for her to not love you.

The box that Abby had continually shoved herself into so she wouldn’t fuck up your friendship was almost starting to feel like home, and as uncomfortable as it was, she knew it was for the best. Almost nothing could compel Abby to leave this torturous, self-inflicted prison she was trapped in. Almost nothing.

—

The mission was supposed to be a simple one: get in, get the weapons, get out. A mission so simple, the both of you could’ve done it in your sleep. In fact, on a few occasions after a long night of drinking, you had practically done just that. You met up with the group of traders who you were well acquainted with, and the deal went down smoothly. Everything was going according to plan, which is why you and Abby were completely caught off guard when a group of rogue hunters suddenly began firing shots like it was a fucking carnival.

Turns out there was a new rival group in town, and someone had tipped them off. You and Abby luckily were able to find cover from their relentless fire, but not before you got a bullet straight through your left thigh. You didn’t even realize it at first, the adrenaline coursing through your veins still working to protect you from the devastating pain that was to come. When you did notice it, you had already lost copious amounts of blood. Then the dizziness began to set in, and soon after the pain. Abby hadn’t even realized you were injured till you slumped over on the ground next to her.

Looking down in horror, Abby lifted you into her arms. “Y/N? What’s wrong? Why are y-” Then Abby noticed the blood, and suddenly she was panicking. “Oh shit. Oh fuck, Y/N we have to get you out of here.”

“T-the package, we need the package. Can’t leave without it.” Your response was weak, desperate. You had to finish the mission, the WLF was in dire need of these supplies and you were not going to be the one to tell Isaac you failed.

“Fuck the package, we need to get you back to base.” Abby removed her belt, turnoqueting your leg with such surprising ease that you nearly didn’t notice the agonizing pain in your leg. Nearly.

You groaned when Abby hoisted you into her arms bridal style, careful not to move your leg too much before she booked it to the truck. When she plopped you down into the passenger's seat and began to speed away from the scene, you suddenly felt your eyes becoming heavier. You were so tired. You had lost so much blood already and your body felt like it was shutting down.

Abby was frantically racing towards the base, eyes fixed to the road until she heard you let out a small whine. “Abby, I‘m so tired. Need to sleep.”

Abby noticed you drifting off and she reached her arm out to shake your shoulder violently. “No. No sleeping, you gotta stay awake Y/N.”

Though Abby didn’t mention it, she was terrified. When she looked over at you, you were pale and cold to the touch, drifting off while your leg continued to bleed profusely despite her tourniquet. This could be it; you could die right now, and Abby would have lost the one person in this world she cared about most. She couldn’t let that happen, she wouldn’t.

You were equally as terrified as Abby; every natural instinct in your body was begging for you to sleep and you were becoming tired of trying to ignore it. The last thing you remembered was the look on the face of the girl you had fallen for, her eyes brimming with tears while she wore a desperate, horrified expression.

—

You laid unconscious for what felt like an eternity and Abby never left your side. She had abandoned her duties (with Isaac’s permission) and spent every second next to you, her head resting on the edge of your bed while she waited for you to wake up. The only thing that prompted Abby to step away was Manny, who had heard what happened and went to check on her.

Manny knew full and well that Abby was in love with you; in fact, almost all of Abby’s friends knew. Abby had confided in him during many torturous nights and he was a surprisingly good listener. He understood her circumstances and never pushed her to confess her feelings for you, even if it did annoy him how oblivious Abby was to the fact that you obviously felt the same way. “Abby, I heard what happened. Is everything okay?”

Abby was exhausted, she hadn’t slept at all since you made it back to the base and she couldn’t get the memory of your cold, pale body out of her head. “I almost lost them, Manny. Y/N could’ve died out there without ever knowing how I feel about them.” Tears threatened to fall but Abby did her best to keep her composure.

“It’s going to be okay, Abby. Y/N’s here and they’re alive, and that’s all that matters.” Manny’s hand was on Abby’s shoulder, trying his best to comfort her. “You should tell them how you feel though.”

“Huh?” Abby hadn’t expected that. Manny knew her situation well enough to know that telling you how she felt was a bad idea… It was a bad idea, right?

“It’s like you said, Y/N could’ve died without ever knowing how you feel about them. Wouldn’t it be better to have no regrets at all?” The words stopped Abby in her tracks. She never thought she’d actually agree with Manny.

“It’s just- I love Y/N so much, and I don’t want to lose them this way.” Abby was on the brink of tears, her voice turning into a desperate plea.

“I’m not going anywhere Abs.”

Abby froze, turning around slowly. You were gripping to the doorway for support, limping on one leg and looking extremely weathered.

“Y/N!” Abby immediately ran to put your arm around her shoulder while she carried you back to your bed, setting you down carefully. “You shouldn't be on your leg, you could make it worse.”

There was genuine concern on Abby’s face and in that moment you weren’t sure you could love her any more than you already did. She was so incredibly sweet and caring and no one had ever shown this much concern for your safety and well-being. You had heard her through the door and you couldn’t stop yourself from interrupting her. There was so much about Abby you absolutely adored and she had no idea. How could she not have known you were hopelessly in love with her? Was she truly that oblivious to your obvious flirting? All the subtle touches, the pathetic excuses to sleep in her bed, the fact you literally went out of your way to find rare coins so you could bring them back to her, it all just flew over her head. You couldn’t believe it.

Abby was still rambling about your leg, clearly trying to pretend like she didn’t just profess her love for you while you were standing right behind her. Instead of speaking, you wrapped your hands around her neck before leaning in, silencing her with a kiss so perfect you could’ve passed out right there. You could tell she was stunned at first, but soon enough she was kissing you back. Her fingers were running through your hair and when you pulled away she leaned her forehead against yours, not wanting to part from you.

“Did you mean it?” You pulled away to look Abby in the eyes, your hands still wrapped around her shoulders.

Abby had a dumbstruck look on her face. “Mean what?”

“When you said you loved me, did you mean it?” Your eyes searched her face for an answer while your heart was beating a million miles a minute.

Abby smiled, her eyebrows furrowed as she spoke. “Y/N, I have loved you for as long as I can remember. I’m so hopelessly in love with you that it’s almost pathetic. You have no idea how essential to me you have become—how many nights I’ve stayed awake because you weren’t there to hog all the blankets. Y/N, you have no idea how ardently I love you.”

You smirked “Abigail Anderson did you just quote Virginia Woolf and Jane Austen?” You couldn’t help but let out a small laugh, Abby could be such a nerd sometimes.

“I just confessed my ever-lasting love for you and that’s the first thing you say?” Abby was smiling widely now, relief flowing through her now that she no longer had to conceal her feelings for you.

“I love you too Abs, so fucking much. Also I do not hog the blankets, your comforter is simply too small.” Abby chuckled before she leaned in for another kiss, the worry suddenly disappearing the moment her lips touched yours.

Although Abby had never really known what she expected love to be, this is what she imagines it’d feel like, and you bet your ass it was better than the books. To tell the truth, it was better than any other conceivable thing on this entire planet. Nothing could beat the way Abby felt now that she had finally broken free from her excruciating self-inflicted prison.

Abby pulled away from the kiss, gazing at you lovingly. “Are you hungry?”

God damn Abby, it was like she knew exactly what you were thinking. You didn’t know how long you had been unconscious for, but you were ravenous. “Starving.”

And almost as if you were telepathically communicating, the both of you spoke at the exact same time.

“Cookies?”

“Cookies.”

[stayarmytinyzenmoa-l]

Lavenza

Scientist AU

TW: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Blood Mention, Major Character Deaths, Gun Use, Glass Breaking, Implied Murder, Explicit Murder

Genre: Drama, Angst

Pairing: Scientist!Lee Taeyong x Reader ft. Jaehyun

YN Pronouns: Female (She/Her)

[Main Masterlist]

[Ao3 Link] | [Wattpad Link]

Word Count: 10.5K

Notes: This was actually scrapped a while back, but I recently did this [survey] on my blog and turns out a lot of people were interested in it so I decided to polish it up and post it anyway. I hope you all enjoy! It was a fun one for me to write despite the genre and the TWs haha.

Playlist I Listened to While I Wrote This: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pMlBuV4wXxJ3WoNsUS5OV?si=f4e4535d76954cb7

Disclaimer: Please remember that this is an AU and a work of fiction, obviously the idols mentioned/written about in this story would never partake in or condone these actions. I would never wish any of these actions to occur to the Idol(s) mentioned in the writings of these stories, nor do I wish any harm on them.

The world is beautiful.

That much you understand.

You loved the colors, the aromas, and the sights. They were all enchanting, almost as if you could sit down surrounded by them for hours and lose track of yourself, who you are, where you are, what you are. The world is engrossing, it’s fantastical, and it’s sweet. With adventures around the corner and love in the little things, you could say that you were enchanted by the world, you were content. You couldn’t ask for anything more than what you had, it was perfect.

In your little home on a cliff by the sea, the view was perfect. You could watch the soft waves roll over each other all day, and with the light winds blowing over the grassy knoll you sat on it was like this scene was straight out of a storybook, it was wondrous. You could sit here forever and ever and not feel a single qualm about it. The fresh air and the calming sounds, the scenery was magical, almost. Like someone cast a spell over you and wished you happiness.

“There you are, love,” Taeyong sits next to you on the grassy hill, bringing one knee up and resting his arm on it while he looked over at you with an amused smile. He played with the wedding ring on his finger, turning it around slowly. At the moment you held a blue butterfly in your hands, and you stared at it with such delicate features, he couldn’t help but fall in love all over again. You leaned your head on his shoulder and sighed.

“What do they think of, Taeyong?” You continued to focus your gaze on the butterfly, memorizing the magnificent patterns on its wings that went beautifully with the royal blue. It stayed perched on the gem that adorned your wedding ring, not doing much aside from simply existing, and yet it was still one of the most beautiful things you had ever seen. “I wonder if they have worries like us, if they think about how their friends are doing, how they’ll get home, and whatnot.” Taeyong combs through your hair gently.

“My love, they’re just butterflies,” he chuckles. “They’re not as advanced as we are, rather simplistic. They come and go. At most, I believe they think about what to eat next.”

“You and your science facts,” you pout when the butterfly flies away. Taeyong wrapped an arm around your waist and brought you closer, laying your head on his shoulder while the two of you looked up at the blue skies. Your eyes once again caught the butterfly, moving without a care.

Science, it was a word you could only whisper. The practice alone had been nearly banned save for some exceptions, but innovation had taken over the world, nearly trampling upon it and turning it into a wasteland, until the Naturalists retook power and restored the world to what it was meant to be. Lush greenery brimming with life. There was just something about being able to run outside and dance in the sunlight that was wonderful. Your quality of life was exceeded. You were with the one you loved and you were happy. But you hoped every day that he could say the same. Your husband with a curiosity that could never be satiated, who would work in the darkest of night to play into it. He was a man of science, and such a thing was grounds for eternal imprisonment should he be found out.

“Come back inside?”

“Already? It’s only been a few minutes…”

“A few minutes?” Taeyong laughs. “Try a few hours, love.”

“What?” You look up at him and he smiles.

“Yes, believe it or not. Or at least, that’s how long I spent looking for you,” he pulls you onto his lap and nuzzles his face into your neck. “I’m clingy, you know…”

“Right, how could I forget?” You rest your hands on top of his and pull them up, lacing and untangling them every so now and then.

“Let’s go then?”

“Yeah,” you stood up and pulled him up with you. He led you back into the home through the hidden cellar door and, right as you stepped down the ladder, you found yourself back in his lab. The many computer screens towered over you, and the smell of whatever chemical concoction filled the steel room. Part of it had its own magic, you think. A magic of scientific wonder, oh the miracles you had seen Taeyong perform in this very lab alone, it was breathtaking. Sure, the wires and buttons and switches were something you weren’t used to seeing, but it was beautiful in its own right, you think. It had its own charms that someone could fall for, despite not knowing what half of the items in the room were called. Taeyong would usually advise you to stay out of the area when he wasn’t around for fear that you might get hurt. You spotted a large container with a sheet drawn over it and you looked away, feeling a sort of ominous feeling from it. You never were too comfortable in your husband’s lab, as much as you wanted to support him with it.

“My lab isn’t the prettiest place to be, you know, the upstairs is much more preferable,” he gestures for you to catch up to him and, with a skip in your step, you do. You take his hand and let him take you back up to the more comfortable part of your home. At the slide of a bookshelf, you both step back into the living room. The warm light of the morning filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting their holy light on the rather antiquated styled furniture. It was a jarring difference in comparison to the wonderland of steel in the hidden room just behind you. The wooden furniture with woolen and cotton upholstery added a sense of naturalness to the home, it made the place look much more inviting, and with all of your houseplants, it was a miracle that it didn’t look cluttered at all.

“Hey, you left the fireplace on,” you glared at him.

“I wasn’t thinking that I’d be gone for long,” he shrugs. He picks up the two mugs on the coffee table, knocking over his glasses in the process. “Whoops.”

“I’ve got it!” You walk past him and pick up the gold wireframe glasses. He leans towards you slightly and lets you place it on him.

“Thank you.”

“Mmhmm, you need to be more careful, my love,” you watch him walk off into the kitchen and wash the mugs before you pick up the tablet that was just teetering off of the couch. “You really shouldn’t just leave this anywhere, love.”

“It must have slipped my mind,” Taeyong says with a light voice. You placed it in its normal hiding spot under the couch cushions and approached the mail slot by your door, picking up the newspaper and the various letters with it. You read through the paper first. “Oh, Kun is on the news!”

“What did he do?” Taeyong’s voice was distant. You didn’t miss the way his shoulders tensed. The two were going through a falling out of sorts, to your observations. It was a shame, you were all rather close at one point.

“Hmm,” you skimmed the article. “Ah, just another philanthropy project!” You sat down on the couch and resumed reading through the various articles, until a soft ping emitted from the tablet, you pulled it out from its hiding spot and read the notification.

‘Fr: J. Jaehyun, Subject: About those materials��

“Taeyong?” You called out his name and you heard the tap shut off. “You have an email from someone.”

“From who?”

“Someone named Jaehyun?” Taeyong walked into the room and you handed him the tablet. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose while he went through the email, humming a slow song to himself whilst he did so. Then he grits his teeth slightly, which was followed by a dragged-out sigh. “Something wrong?”

“It’s more annoying, really,” he shook his head and turned the tablet off, tucking it underneath his arm. “I’m going to go make an impromptu visit to the main office, I won’t be home until a bit later tonight, so don’t wait up for me, alright?”

“The main office? That’s hours away,” you said with slight disbelief. What could be so important that Taeyong would have to leave now?

“I know, love, I know. But this is of utmost importance, I just wish the timing was better.”

“What a shame… I’ll have to tell Yeri and the others that we can’t come to their gathering later,” you sighed while he pulled a jacket on.

“That’s alright, I’m sure Miss Yeri will have plenty of other tea parties we can go to,” he chuckles, “Are you going to do anything?”

“Might go shopping for a bit, why?”

“Just curious, you know the rules, right?” He rests his hand on the doorknob.

“Of course! Don’t leave the village. But then again why would I? Everything I need is right here,” you laughed.

“I know, I just wanted to make sure. The world’s dangerous beyond the village boundaries, and you know I worry,” Taeyong sighs.

“I love you,” you waved at him. Taeyong looked at you with a warm expression for a brief moment before pressing a chaste kiss to your lips.

“I love you too,” then he left, locking the door behind him. You sat on the couch for a few moments longer before you finally decided to at least turn the radio on. It first opened to the news channel, and, just as usual nowadays, weather and whatnot, harvest reports, animal watchings, etc. But what could you do in a small village? Everyone here knew everyone, there wasn’t much news to go around. Even internationally there weren’t many words of interest. You walked out of the small home and watched Taeyong hail a carriage, he turned around one last time and waved goodbye before stepping in and leaving. You walked back into the home and tidied up a bit, doing your regular chores like usual all while listening to the droning voice of the radio, until a specific headline came up.

“An underground laboratory has been discovered, owned by the once prominent Huang Renjun. His trial is set to begin tomorrow, tune in to station 56.8FM to listen to the proceedings.”

You switched off the radio. No doubt Taeyong would hear about this as soon as he reached the office, Renjun was a close coworker of his. But if Renjun got caught… anyone could. He was one of the most cautious people you knew, to think that he got caught, it brought a new anxiety through your veins. You walked to a cabinet off to the side and dug through the various seeds there before finally pulling out a bag of seeds for climbing roses. You had to hide that cellar door, you couldn’t risk Taeyong being taken away from you, he’d understand, surely, if you covered the entrance. Plus, there was always the bookshelf he could enter in from, it was just one less entrance, and it was for his safety. You shook out any doubts and walked out to your backyard, planting the seeds with care around the weathered cellar doors. This was for both of your safeties.

You’d come check on those again later, you thought to yourself as you re-entered your home. There was so much to be worried about now, just things as simple as not being suspected or found out. You never reprimanded your husband for his interests, it was who he was and you didn’t dare change a part of him against his will. The only times you saw him truly happy was in that lab below your feet, and you couldn’t take that from him. So you never voiced your concerns to him, and truthfully you didn’t need to. It was an occasional conversation between you both, what would happen if he was found out one day, but it’s one you’d rather not speak about. You’d cross that bridge when you got to it, that’s what you both settled on.

You stepped into your shared bedroom. It matched the living room, nearly, with wooden furniture and wool sheets. There were a few small pictures and paintings around the room, some decorating the dresser and some adorning the cream walls. The sunlight shone right on your bed, adding a warm glow to the relatively small bedroom. You pulled open your wardrobe, it would do you good to change before leaving for your brief outing, naturally. You pulled out the first outfit you saw and got ready for the day. Finally, you grabbed the small leather purse on your dresser and made your way back to the front door.

“Oh, I guess I should dress for the cold,” you pulled the woolen coat from its rack and left the small house, locking it behind you.

Now, some context. Your name is (Y/N), you and Taeyong had gotten married about three years ago now, and you had both been living in this village for quite some time. Friends and family around the two of you would describe the relationship as sweet, and it was, really, you two were both very happy with each other, and you couldn’t have asked for it to be anything else. You both are very good at spoiling each other and, to your recollection, you don’t remember ever having an argument with him. Or at least, not a huge one, maybe minor ones like when he stayed up too late, or when you would accidentally run into his lab tables and knock off a few testing tubes. Well for that last one you ended up doing the last few on purpose, it was nice how he’d pull you to safety, away from whatever acidic chemical was then creeping on the floor.

You stepped onto the gravel paths, the cool air immediately surrounding you in a quick flurry. You took a moment to pause, as much as you loved and supported your boyfriend’s indoor scientist antics, you had to appreciate the actual outdoors. You took another deep breath of the clean air before descending the path from your home. Normally, by now, Taeyong would’ve been complaining about how it would be so much faster to call a carriage. But, you had to be honest, you preferred to take your time, the world will only look like this for so long, might as well enjoy it until it’s gone. Finally, you reached the outskirts of town and you greeted the gatekeeper before weaving your way through the few people of Hymnal.

Hymnal was, you guessed it, a small village by the sea. The village looked straight out of a storybook, with small houses and shops, it was quaint in its own right, with various rustic charms and appeal, you were glad that you and Taeyong decided upon this village to stay in. Sometimes when you’d visit you’d hear music in the town square or small festivities throughout the streets, it was wonderful. But, for now, you’re here to run some errands. You could save the playfulness for another day.

“Mrs. Lee!” A young voice ran up to you and hugged your legs.

“Aww, what’s wrong, dear?”

“They’re being mean again!” The little boy pointed to the group of little girls. “They told me I’m not fun to play with…”

“What? Why would they say that to you? Why don’t you just help me instead? Mr. Lee went out on a job so I could use the help.” You told the young boy and he just nods. You handed him a basket and continued along your way. “Where’s your mother? I had to tell her something anyway.”

“She’s working in the seamstress’ room, Mrs. Lee!”

“I thought so,” you hummed, grabbing a few materials from the market stands and placing them in the basket that the young boy held on to. You would drop the appropriate number of coins in the hands of the vendors before moving on. “How is she?”

“She’s good, Mrs. Lee.”

“And how are her tea party preparations?”

“Very good! But I’m guessing that you’re not going, huh?”

“How did you know?”

“Mr. Lee isn’t in town, you only go together,” the child says while you placed a few apples in the basket.

“Astute observation of yours,” you remarked. You held the Seamstress’ door open for him and you both walked in. “Hello, Yeri,” you greeted the woman and she waved.

“Mrs. Lee! My friends Juhyun and Seulgi are here too, I hope you don’t mind,” she gestures towards the woman cutting threads and the one sewing buttons onto dresses, they waved politely.

“Not at all, are you from the next town over?” You asked.

“Yes, from Bellsang,” Juhyun answers. You could feel your heart race now, they weren’t from town. There was many a time Taeyong would advise you to not spend too long around strangers, all they brought was trouble, and with the anti-scientist craze going on right now you knew he had a point. Sometimes you were afraid that people could just read it off you, that the man you had been happily married to for years practiced a long outlawed job. “You must be Mrs. Lee.”

“I am,” you nod.

“Your reputation precedes you,” Seulgi comments. “A lot of people know about you and your husband.”

“Oh, do they?” You hoped that they didn’t notice the bead of sweat that rolled down the back of your neck.

“Yes, everyone has told us about your kindness,” Juhyun continues. She finishes the button on the dress and folds it neatly. “I’m rather envious.”

“Ah… I see,” you cleared your throat and the little boy handed you your basket. “Yeri, I’m afraid I won’t be able to make the party this evening.” Yeri’s hands falter on the manual sewing machine and your breath caught in your throat.

“Whatever for?” She asks.

“Well—”

“Mr. Lee is out on a business trip, momma!” The little boy chimes in. “She asked me to help her out, that’s why.”

“Oh, I understand, what a good boy I’ve raised you to be,” Yeri smiles. “No worries, (Y/N), thank you for letting me know then. It must have been sudden, you and Mr. Lee aren’t the types to cancel last minute.”

“No, we aren’t,” you confirmed. “But yes, it was rather sudden. But we will most definitely be able to make your next party,” you affirmed.

“That’s good, you have a safe trip home then, (Y/N). There are rumors of a monster living in this town,” Yeri continues. This catches your ear.

“A… monster?” You were intrigued now.

“Indeed. An amalgamation of human body parts, it’s horrific,” Seulgi clicks her tongue.

“Truthfully?”

“Oh yes,” Juhyun nods.

“Come on now, that’s just hear-say,” Yeri waves her hand in the air. “Monsters? Such a thing only exists within us. They don’t manifest in reality.”

“That’s not entirely true, Yerim,” Seulgi continues. “They say some scientist somewhere made it, it’s the devil’s work, let me tell you. Creating a monster only for it to go on a rampage.”

“How… how do you know it was a scientist?” You asked.

“Who else would know how to create artificial life? Certainly not a normal citizen,” Juhyun’s voice was cynical.

“And this scientist… is he still at large?”

“People are saying that Renjun boy was its creator, but he swears up and down that he’d never do it.”

“Oh, the poor boy, he used to help me with my errands,” Seulgi sighs. “He lived nearby to me and Juhyun, you see. It’s shocking to think that he was a practitioner of an arcane belief like that.”

“Yeah, it’s truly terrifying,” you answered. You pulled the lid down of your basket and cleared your throat again. “I should probably be going home now. It was nice meeting you both,” you smiled.

“Safe travels, Mrs. Lee,” Yeri waves goodbye to you as you exit the small shop. You released a long-held breath and took a step forward, you just needed to pick up a new vase for the bedroom and then you would return to the safety of the small home.

“(Y/N)?” An unfamiliar voice was behind you. You turned around, not seeing anyone you recognized. “(Y/N)!” You spotted a boy in a tattered white button-up shirt and equally dirtied trousers, which were held up only by suspenders. He pulled his old cap off of his head and he had on an expression of shock. “Hey, (Y/N), it’s been forever I… wow, you look great.”

“Uh… thank you?”

“This is crazy, I never thought I’d run into you here!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh man, I have to tell the boss about this, oh shoot he’d be so happy.”

“Uh… who?”

“The boss! Duh!”

“I… sorry, I apologize for saying this late but… Who are you?” The man blinked once, then once again.

“Oh! Haha, I must be thinking of a different (Y/N) then! Aw man, I’m sorry. You just look so much like someone I know.”

“No worries, I’ll carry on then.”

“Wait, uh, I’m new in town.” Oh no. “I just need you to point me in the right direction, if that’s okay.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, where are you from?”

“Portside. The harbor town—”

“A few hours from here, yes. My husband works there.”

“Oh we definitely don’t know each other then,” the stranger laughs awkwardly. “Well then, can you point me out to where Mr. Lee Taeyong lives?”

“Mr. Lee Taeyong?” You narrowed your eyes and looked off. “Uh, yes. Yes, I can do that. But he’s not home right now. I can relay a message to him when he returns though. What was your name?”

“It’s Mark! Mark Lee. I work with him and I need to ask him some questions.”

“Alright then, Mr. Mark Lee. I assume you’re staying in the inn over there so I’ll come get you when I get word that he’s back.”

“That would be great, thank you!” Mark beams. “Wait, how did you know I was staying there?” “It’s the only inn in town,” you answered with an amused chuckle. “But no worries, I’ll come get you when he’s home,” you reassured him.

“Thank you again, it’s such a huge help, miss…” he trails off, waiting for you to answer.

“Mrs. Lee (Y/N),” you answered him.

“Oh, missus, right,” he eyed the ring on your finger. “Cool. Okay… I’ll go now, thank you again,” he says. He walks off first and you made your way home. The vase can wait. For now, you had your thoughts to organize.

~

“Thank you,” Taeyong bows his head to the carriage driver and watches him leave before he does anything else. He walks down the cobblestone streets of the harbor city before he walks into the tavern.

“Dr. Lee!” A small voice shouts.

“Well, hello there, I see you’ve been feeling much better,” Taeyong rubs the child’s head. “Where’s your father? I have to speak to him really quick.”

“You won’t be staying long?” The child looks behind him.

“I’m afraid not, little one, but I’ll be sure to stay longer next time,” he smiles. The child nods and runs to the back room of the tavern, reemerging with his father.

“Doctor,” Johnny’s eyes lit up. “Go wait in the back, okay?” He told his son. The tyke nods and runs off.

“Did you get Jaehyun’s message?” Taeyong spoke in a hushed voice. Johnny only nods.

“He told me that you’d be on your way,” he gestures for Taeyong to follow him. “I had to move the entrance, they’re really cracking down on the underground now. They got Renjun,” Johnny shakes his head.

“They got Renjun?”

“Someone sold him out, or at least that’s what we’re thinking. His trial’s tomorrow,” Johnny said in a somber voice. “He was able to get Junmyeon to represent him in court but… You know how these go.”

“I do.” Taeyong and Johnny stop in the storage room. Johnny moves a few crates aside and stomps on one of the floorboards, pulling it up with ease and exposing a handle. “I haven’t had a chance to clean the new entrance, so it’ll be pretty dirty down there.”

“I don’t mind, I’ll be out in about six hours, no more, no less,” Taeyong pulls the handle up and descends the ladder. Johnny closed the hatch above him and the sounds of crates being piled on top of it signaled that Taeyong would be there for a while.

True to his words, the pathway was rugged, uneven on a few ends, and some of the lanterns above him were out of fluid, but he could still see his way. He walked down the cavern easily, he knew this path better than the way to his own home, nearly. After about a mile, he reached his destination.

“Welcome back to Neo City, Dr. Lee,” the entry keeper nodded his head. Taeyong held his hand up in greeting and proceeded.

Beneath the grounds of the harbor town was a city of technological marvel. It was being held together by a planned structure of steel and cables to keep the Earth from caving in on itself. The underground city was, for the most and obvious part, dark and lit only by the bright LEDs and Neon signs of shops or adverts. There were tall buildings and small buildings alike for anyone’s technological needs. All around were various other entrances to the city including a secret subway rail provided for by the elusive Qian Kun, and the tunnel systems were pioneered by Lee Jeno to make the area more accessible. Should any of the above world entrances be discovered, they were rigged to close in on themselves and appear as underground disaster bunkers, they had planned for every possible event.

And with a technological wonderland came advances that people would have never thought possible. Cars and skateboards flew above Taeyong, androids were walking up and down the sidewalks and stationed outside of what would’ve been skyscrapers if it were above ground, and there were large techno billboards throughout the city providing more than enough light to keep the hidden metropolis lit up.

“Dr. Lee! You’re just in time,” the familiar voice of Yangyang was one he wasn’t expecting to hear today, but welcome anyway. The young assistant jogged up to him.

“JYP Tech is about to announce their next big thing!” His eyes grow wide. “It’s the talk of the city, are you going to go?”

“This is the first I’m hearing about it,” he hummed. “I’ve been out of the loop, recently. Sure, I’ll go with you. I’ll just head to the office later,” Taeyong reasons. “What’s it about?”

“No clue, but I heard through the grapevine that Bang Chan’s the one heading the project.”

“Really? I’ve been following his work for a bit, he’s a genius, that one.”

“Yeah, it’s insane. I wonder where the hell he gets his ideas from,” Taeyong saw a slight twinkle in Yangyang’s eyes. “Who knows? Since you’re coming with me maybe he’ll want to meet you, we can get a VIP look!”

Lee Taeyong was no small name, in fact, he’s the opposite. If you lived in Neo City you at least knew of the name of Lee Taeyong. He was one of the pioneering scientists for robotics, being in the first group to manufacture a completely maintainable system of robots, which are currently being used throughout the city for a variety of tasks. But knowing this, it comes as no surprise that the man is always working, constantly updating his machines, constantly creating new ones, to him there’s always room for improvement. Even those in the company knew him as the successful workaholic, some even strived to be like him, something that Taeyong was somewhat oblivious to.

“There it is!” Yangyang and Taeyong make their way to the front of the building.

“Hello everyone!” Bang Chan waved to the crowd while he stood before a huge container. He spotted Taeyong and his eyes lit up. “Quite the crowd today, I’m honored. Thank you all for taking the time to come to my live demonstration.”

“Bang Chan is top of the line, JYP’s pride and joy,” Yangyang explains. Taeyong nods, he was somewhat aware of the young man’s accomplishments from the periodic notifications on his tablet.

“Have you ever lost someone?” Bang Chan opens up his presentation. “And I mean lost someone, as in they had gone missing with no trace of where they could be? You could retrace their steps and go back to their usual spots and they’d still be missing. You could have every police officer in the world go out and look for them but… nothing. It is the worst feeling in the world, if you’re not familiar with it, and I’d hope that you never would. But I’d like to change that,” Chan ripped the sheet off of the container and a large computer was beneath it.”Behold, FINDR. Faraday International Navigating Device Radar. I used the Faraday constant and a few other components and created a foolproof locating device, all you need is a piece of genetic material, like a hair, and an object of affection. It is only in the beginning stages for now, but once I’ve worked out the kinks, it’ll be up and running. I’ll take questions now.”

“How do you plan on powering the program?”

“What is the approximate size of the program?”

“Do you have an idea for the price range of this program?”

“How exactly does this device work?”

“Well, the program will be powered through our basic run-of-the-mill supercomputers that our company provides. I will, of course, create other ports for different devices in the future. The size, I’m thinking, will be around 50,000 terabytes, or 50 petabytes to be more specific. As for the price range, I want to say 10,000 units, but that price may change. It will be using what’s left of the satellites that are circling the Earth right now prior to the naturalist revolution.”

“And how exactly will you pay for this?” “I have a very wealthy sponsor who has asked to stay anonymous.

The questions continued and Chan was excellent in answering them to the best of his abilities. The voices of the reporters and other scientists were shouting all around him, but he was rather used to the chaos and commotion, having been born and raised in the illuminated streets of Neo City, but for once they felt uncomfortable. Taeyong shook his head and tapped Yangyang on the shoulder.

“I should really go now, I need to be back within six hours and I don’t know how long I’ll be at the company building,” Taeyong explains. Yangyang just nods.

“For sure, Dr. Lee! It was nice seeing you, I’ll tell the others you said ‘hello’!”

“Please do, thank you,” Taeyong pushed his way out of the crowd and walked straight towards the tallest building, the building that belonged to the one and only Neozone Industries.

Taeyong made his way into the building. It was nearly blinding in comparison to the streets outside. The walls and furnishings were white and boxy, the uniforms were white with hints of lime green, the only other color in the building aside from the natural skin and hair tones of its staff. The place reminded him of a decrepit dystopian building. He stepped into the elevator, holding his ID card to the scanner until he saw the doors close. He watched as he rapidly ascended levels, it was a moment of solace despite the chaos just outside of the building, before finally stopping at the highest. He stepped out of the elevator and walked forward, approaching the large desk at the end of the room.

“Jaehyun.” The current CEO of the company sat at his desk. He rose when Taeyong entered the room and clapped his hands together, a box rising next to him. “Got your email.”

“Taeyong, might I ask why you need this many PFCs?” Jaehyun gestured towards the box next to him. “Sure, a few grams or so are normal, but this is very nearly a ton. If I didn’t know you better I’d assume you were building an army,” Jaehyun adds with a small laugh. Taeyong stops a few paces away from Jaehyun, eyeing the picture frame on his desk, before turning towards the wooden crate. “And in such discrete packaging, should any of the naturalists see what’s inside… it’s over for you.

“I’m working on a new project, and it’s becoming more costly than I originally thought,” Taeyong ignores Jaehyun’s last statement.”

“Costly in what way?”

“Just… expensive. I’ve begun to dip into other reserved areas of my bank account to fund this one.”

“Oh, do tell,” Jaehyun moved back to sit on his leather chair and leaned forward. “I just need to know what could possibly require this much of such an expensive material. It could put us in jeopardy, you know. They already got Renjun. And the safety of this… project, so to say, is very important to me, I’m sure you know.”

“I know, I’ve heard,” Taeyong nods solemnly. “It’s a bit revolutionary, and I’m not quite sure if I should tell you. I think it would be better if I left it as a surprise, I’ll present it once I’m fully confident in it.” Taeyong nods. “You don’t mind, right?”

“Of course not, you’ve never failed us before, Taeyong,” Jaehyun drags his laptop closer to him. “But, please, next time you buy this much let me know. I worry for you sometimes.”

“No, it’s quite alright, but I’ll be sure to give you a heads up next time,” Taeyong shook his head and picked up the box. “This is all that is necessary, thank you. Really, the project is complete, I’m just replacing parts at this point to see what works best,” Taeyong nods his head.

“Oh, one more thing, Taeyong.”

“Yes?”

“What kind of robot requires biocomponents?” Jaehyun folded his hands in front of him, a dark look shading over his eyes.

“It’s not that it’s a requirement, it’s more of experimental curiosity,” Taeyong explains. He opens the box and goes through its contents. “You know me, I like trying new things.”

“Costly new things,” Jaehyun’s voice had a hint of sarcasm. Taeyong catches a glance of the picture frame again and Jaehyun slams it down. Taeyong flinched slightly.

“You’re the sponsor aren’t you?” Taeyong guesses. Jaehyun remains silent, but he takes the picture frame in his hands, softly running his thumb along the glass. “For Bang Chan’s program.”

“I am.”

“It has promise, I’ll tell you that,” Taeyong nods. “But he’s rather new. Why not just buy the idea off of him?”

“You don’t think I’ve tried? That one doesn’t budge. I like that, envy it even,” Jaehyun sighs. He places the picture frame face down, gently this time. “Do you have any more questions, Taeyong?”

“No, none at all, sorry,” Taeyong nods. He walks back to the elevator, but stops before he presses the button. “She’s dead, you know that, Jaehyun. Why waste the money?”

“Because I know what it’s like to lose someone you loved, and I never want anyone to go through that.” Taeyong pressed the elevator button and hesitated. He turned back around and saw Jaehyun pouring himself a glass of whisky.

“It’s been three years, hasn’t it?” Taeyong says after much thought. “Jaehyun, it’s time to let go. She’s gone.”

“I can’t,” Jaehyun takes a drink. “Want one?”

“I’m not a hard liquor kind of person,” Taeyong says. “Jaehyun, she wouldn’t want to see you like this.”

“What would you know?”

“More than you. She was my friend too, you know.”

“Right,” Jaehyun dismissed Taeyong and took another drink. His phone rang and he answered it, before it connected he turned to Taeyong. “You should go, before anyone notices that you haven’t left the tavern,” Jaehyun says. Taeyong just shakes his head and presses the elevator door button, stepping in as soon as he could. Before the doors closed, Taeyong caught the name of whoever was on the phone with him. “What is it, Mark?” Then they closed and descended.

~

“Hmm,” you hummed a soft song while you embroidered the raven into the fabric. Night had long fallen, the crickets outside were louder than your thoughts, surely. And as much as your eyes weighed heavy, you were determined to stay awake until Taeyong came home. You turned the radio on next to you, listening to the melodic orchestral music while you completed your small project. But despite the radio sound, you couldn’t stop thinking about the events of today.

A friend at a death trial, a monster at large, and a stranger who seems to know you and your husband. None of the facts added up, and you didn’t know what was true. You assumed maybe you met Mark through Taeyong at one point, but it must have been quite some time ago, and without a doubt, you were very embarrassed if such was true. But wouldn’t Mark have known that Taeyong was at work that day? Or maybe they crossed paths on the road without knowing? Then again, Taeyong was suddenly called in, maybe it was the last-minute nature of his job that confused the poor boy. In your distracted state, you plunged the needle into your index finger and winced quietly, bringing the pricked finger into your mouth and tasting that unfamiliar metallic that hit your tongue. You shook your head and mentally scolded yourself for being ignorant.

Your thoughts were put to a halt when the door opened and you looked up. “Welcome home, love,” you put on a tired smile, but when you noticed the exasperated look on Taeyong’s face, you were quick to put down your cloth and needles to walk over to him. He just smiled and nodded towards you while he placed a wooden crate down next to him. “My love, what’s wrong?” You held his face in your hands, but he doesn’t answer, he just pulls you in close and holds onto you tight.

“I need to tell you something important, love,” Taeyong’s voice was shaky.

“You can tell me anything,” you told him. He led you to the couch and sat you down, sitting on the armchair parallel to it.

“Before I met you… there was another person,” he says. He takes a deep breath. “You see, she went missing. We still haven’t found her, I was very close to this… girl. I was her best friend, you see. It’s been three years since then, and my friend just told me that he thinks that he found her.” He says. You nodded while you listened to his story, you couldn’t help but feel like it was somewhat… familiar.

“What was her name?” You asked.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Taeyong says. “She’s been long dead, no choice in giving life to someone who had been gone for years now,” Taeyong dug his hands in his hair. “It’s impossible that he found her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s dead. I visited her grave,” Taeyong says. You leaned back on the cushions. You wondered why Taeyong never spoke much of his life before meeting you, but now you had a good feeling. Taeyong, you could see it in his eyes, he had a life of troubles, one that he couldn’t run away from, and one you were sure he wouldn’t even try to. You leaned forward and took his hands in yours.

“So what will you do now, my love?”

“I can’t just tell him, (Y/N). He won’t believe me, I’ve tried. I just feel horrible, horrible that there’s nothing I can do,” he says.

“Don’t say that, Taeyong,” you rubbed the backs of his hands with your thumbs. “He, your friend, will just have to learn the hard way. Sometimes, that’s all that it takes,” you told him.

“A harsh awakening, huh?”

“Yeah, there’s nothing more you can do. But be there for him when he does get that harsh tug back into sanity,” you sighed. You hoped that what you were telling him was how you truly felt. “Why don’t you go to him again tomorrow? You shouldn’t leave him alone right now, Taeyong. People who are grieving… their actions can be scary when they have no one to support them, I’m sure you understand,” Taeyong pulled his hands out of your gasp and he rubbed his wrists nervously. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No, no, you didn’t, you’re right, as always,” Taeyong spoke quickly. He looked up to you with that same gaze you fell for in the first place, the look that held a love so true, one that wouldn’t waver at adversity. Taeyong was like that he was always more inclined to solve any problems as soon as they arose, he never let them fester, for fear of them growing larger to the point that they overcome him. “Let’s just go to bed, please.”

“Yes, we can do that,” you stood up first and took his hand, helping him up as well. You both walked to your bedroom and while you sat on the mattress, he took his time to get ready.

“(Y/N), my love, can I ask you a question?”

“Yes, of course.”

“If I get found out tomorrow.”

“Stop,” you cut him off. “We’ve already had this conversation. I don’t want to talk about it any more than we already have.”

“(Y/N). Will you be fine by yourself?” He continued anyway.

“Of course I will be. And I’ll wait for you, however long it takes,” you answered him. He pulled a nightshirt over his head and turned to you.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” He moves to lay next to you in bed, a look of quiet resolve on his face. “I love you,” he looked at you again.

“I love you too,” again a tired smile was on your face, you laced your hand with his and looked at your interlocked hands on the space between the both of you. “And never doubt it.”

“I wouldn’t even dream of it,” he says tiredly. He squeezes your hand once and closes his eyes. You pressed a small kiss to the top of his hand and fell asleep yourself.

When you awoke again, he was gone. The moon was still in the sky, and the space next to you was cold. Instead, a note lay on his pillow. All it specified was that he was going to take her advice and go back to his friend and tell him the truth. You let out a sigh of relief. You knew Taeyong well enough to know that he would’ve taken action regardless, but you wanted to give him the push anyway, you felt like he needed it. It was still rather late, but the worry for him was what forced you to stay awake. You got up and fell back to your normal routine, watering your plants and cleaning the house. It was all you really could do, anyway. You picked up yet another embroidery project of yours and sat back down next to the radio, listening to the news while you created the shape of a simple carnation on the weathered cloth.

You debated on tuning in to Renjun’s trial, they usually took place this late in the night when they were sudden like his, but you knew well how it would end. And you’d rather save yourself the grief, maybe you and Taeyong would find a time to speak to him again while he was in prison. If they let you in, that is. You could already hear Taeyong’s voice, it was dangerous. You’d both be under suspicion if you visited a scientist in jail, and with the sudden scientist-hunt going on, you needed to be smarter above all.

There is a frantic knocking at your door and you rushed to open it, seeing only a horrific monster in front of you. It grabbed onto your arms and you shrieked, trying to push it off of you, but it continued to claw into your skin and you tried your best to fight it off, but the burning feeling of its fingertips digging into your delicate flesh caused you only to scream louder. Each time you’d grab onto its arm it would just squish under your hands, as if it weren’t solid in the first place, and your hands would coat with red until you let go. You grabbed a pair of knitting needles hanging off the side of the couch and dug it into the monster’s chest, but it didn’t relent, no, it just got more upset. Finally, it pushed you to the ground and wrapped its decaying hands around your throat and while you were gasping for air, a terrifying realization came over you.

The monster above you was none other than yourself. And you screamed even louder.

“(Y/N)!” Taeyong shook you awake. You gasped and pushed him away. “(Y/N), it’s just me, love, it’s just me,” he holds on to your wrists and you take in shallow breaths. “It was just a bad dream, my love,” he says to you in a quiet voice. Your shoulders shook and you held on to him like it was the last thing you’d ever do. He held you tightly while he hummed the same soft lullaby you’d often hear him sing. Your arms burned and your face was wet with tears. You hit your head against his chest while he slowly pulled you both down again. All of the stress of thinking about what happened the day before, it must have gotten to you. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” He continued to reassure you and rub circles into your back. “What happened? Do you want to tell me?” You just shook your head and balled up his shirt under your hands, with your heart still racing from the nightmare.

It was just so uncalled for. You didn’t know what could have brought it up, maybe it was the talk in the seamstress’ office that stuck with you, you didn’t know.

“Taeyong.”

“Yes, my love?”

“You should go to him, your friend,” you said in a quiet yet firm voice. “I fear what a scientist is capable of when they are in a state of madness.” Taeyong remained silent. You were telling the truth, science was a magic that none were familiar with that could work wonders that none could ever even dream of, and that wasn’t even the limit of their capabilities. The curious mind was a dangerous one, such you learned in your childhood.

“You’re right,” Taeyong reiterated. You were certain that the two phrases he said the most to you were that and “I love you.” Not that you had a problem with it, but there were times you wondered if it was more than just that, if there was some kind of hidden meaning that you had to decipher for your own. “I should go now.”

“Now? It’s still night,” you looked out the window and saw the stars.

“You don’t know him as well as I do, love. When he’s determined he will stop at nothing until he gets it. It’s dangerous, it could put us at risk,” Taeyong got off of the bed and opened the wardrobe.

“Taeyong,” you sat up in bed and called his name, he turned to you while he adjusted his belt buckle and your breath caught. The two circular scars on his chest, you never questioned it, you figured what was in the past was the past, but after your dream, you were more inclined to ask. “What happened?” Taeyong pulled his shirt on and started buttoning it.

“Lab accident. One of my instruments went haywire, why?” He grabbed one of the ties and moved to the mirror, putting it on himself.

“No reason, I’ve just always wondered,” he looked at your reflection in the mirror before grabbing his briefcase. “Have a safe trip, love.”

“I will… if you see any strangers, avoid them. You’ll never know who’s working with the investigators now,” he says before he put on his suit jacket. Then he left the bedroom. You waited until you heard the front door close before you stood up yourself, your feet dragged against the cold wooden floors, an unwelcome sense of fear bounced off your walls. Surely it was just residual from the nightmare you had, but you suddenly felt unsafe in the place you called home. You walked to the front door and locked it after seeing Taeyong walk down the steps of the hill house, no doubt to find some mode of transportation somewhere. You walked a few paces to the back of the cottage, the bookcase loomed over you with a menacing aura. You ran your hands along the dusty shelf and stopped at what you understood was your husband’s favorite book.

“Frankenstein,” your finger lay on top of it, ready to pull it out. It was a story about a scientist obsessed with creating life, but when he succeeded he saw his creation as a monster. His monster who was entirely sentient, and aside from his appearance, he learned to be very human, in the end, he longed for love, but when the Mad Scientist pulled a trick on him, the monster went insane and killed all of his loved ones. It was a tragedy, from when you last read it. You pulled it out from its case slightly and a soft click was heard. You placed it back down and pushed the shelf aside, revealing the stairwell into the grim laboratory under your home. You descended down the stairs, a chill running down your spine at every step.

The lab was dark, the outlines of Taeyong’s “instruments,” as he put it, settled a strange feeling of suffocation in you. You approached the covered container, afraid of what you will find. You held on to the cloth, ready to pull it off. Taeyong had told you that it was his life’s creation, something that would undoubtedly be what changed the tide of the battle between scientist and naturalist. And you supported him, like you’ve done with all of his things before, you supported him. But, as you were about to pull the cloth off, a loud and resounding knock came from the front door. You rushed out of the lab, taking it as some divine interference that you shouldn’t stick your nose into places that it didn’t belong, and you pushed the bookshelf back to its original place. Again a knock came at your door and you checked your appearance quickly before you came to a stop in front of the frosted glass. You could barely make out the outline of man, his

shoulders were broad and his posture perfect, his silhouette didn’t match anyone that you knew.

“Can I help you, sir?” You didn’t open the door just yet, Taeyong’s warning in your head. Then a voice at the back of your head screamed ‘run.’ You had heard of the naturalist investigators doing surprise raids of people’s homes since more scientists were being turned in, you stepped away from the door.

“Is this the home of Dr. Lee Taeyong?” He asks. Your blood ran cold. Should you lie or should you tell the truth? You were frozen in place. But in using your husband’s correct title surely he knew him well enough, only those Taeyong trusted knew about his status prior to the naturalist uprising. It was a closely guarded secret for reason that he didn’t want to be dragged into a prison for the rest of his life. “Pardon, scientia sit potentia.” You recognized the slogan well, Taeyong had told you years before that if anyone had said it to let them in, they were looking for a place to stay, or more specifically, a place to hide. But the conflicting facts stopped you, it was entirely possible that the NP had caught on to the phrase, understanding that it was a key into any scientist’s home, you were still unsure of what to do.

“He’s not home right now,” you said next.

“That’s fine, he just has something of mine that I need to pick up.” You looked at the crate off to the side.

“What is it? I’ll get it for you.”

“It’s a wooden crate. It should have hardwood inside of it. You opened the top of the crate and, sure enough, that’s what was inside of it. You noted the glint of something shining inside of it, and you knew that whoever was outside of your door was telling the truth now. You closed it and put your hand on the doorknob. Without another thought, for surely if you thought more you’d tell him to leave, you opened the door.

Before you was a stranger, he had to be, you didn’t recognize him at all. But why was it that when you saw him your heart flipped in its chest like you’d loved him an entire lifetime ago? When he saw you his eyes grew wide, a strange mix of shock and disbelief.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. He took a step back to steady himself.

“I’ll get that crate for you, my husband brought it home a few hours earlier.”

“Wait, I… can I come in?” He asks. He looks over his shoulder and you knew that it was probably dangerous for him to just stand outside, the night patrol should be coming around your house soon.

“Uh… sure, yes,” you stepped aside and let him in, against your better judgment. You didn’t know what to prioritize, your husband’s warning or your belief to do right. The last thing you wanted was an arrest to happen on your front lawn, the people in the village would never look at you or your husband the same and… you might need to move again, which was something you’d rather avoid. “Um, would you like tea, Mr…?”

“Jung. Jung Jaehyun,” he introduces himself. “And you are?”

“Lee (Y/N),” you answered. You turned from him and lit a fire in the stove. You filled a kettle with water and placed it on top.

“Lee, huh?” He sighs. “I’m an associate of Taeyong’s, thank you for allowing me into your home, Ms. Lee.”

“Mrs.” You corrected him. You grabbed two cups from the cupboard. “The crate is off to the side here, you can take it and leave. It’s rather heavy so be careful when you do so.” There was no response. “Mr. Jung? Would you like honey or sugar?” You walked into the living room, but he was gone. You then noticed the bookshelf that had been pushed to the side and you were in a state of shock yet again. You ran down the stairs, the entire lab now illuminated, and you saw him standing before the covered container. You ran between him and the container, slowly ushering him back towards the stairs. “Sir, I can explain. This was all here before and my husband and I didn’t want any trouble—”

“Your husband, huh?” Jaehyun’s voice was stable, he wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t accusing, but with each step you took, he took one back. “Taeyong, tsk tsk, he always kept his labs the same no matter where he moved. Always behind a bookshelf, and always dragging this thing around with him,” Jaehyun was more of speaking to himself. He grabbed a file off of the table next to him and flipped through it, chuckling to himself. “But so smart, I’ll give him that, that’s why we were best friends, after all. The Lavenza Project, inspired by his favorite book. Frankenstein, you’re familiar, right? It was your favorite too.”

“How did you…”

“Elizabeth Lavenza was the character who Victor Frankenstein was smitten with, then she met a tragedy,” Jaehyun continues. “Do you know what that means in terms of this?” He held up the file and you shook your head. Before he could reveal it, another’s voice came from upstairs.

“(Y/N)? I’m home. I should’ve suspected that there would be no readily available carriages at this time of night.” Taeyong. Jaehyun looked up and cracked his knuckles. You looked to him and he looked to you. “(Y/N)?” Taeyong’s voice came again. It was only a matter of time now before he noticed the bright lights from his lab.

“Who are you?” You asked Jaehyun.

“You know me, I know you do,” Jaehyun held his hand up, an aged ring on it. “Who are you?” You knew what he was implying, but you didn’t want to acknowledge it.

“You’ve got the wrong girl.”

“No, no I don’t,” he walked forwards now, and you took a step back at each pace until your back pressed up against the covered container. He reached into his pocket and you flinched when he pulled something out of it. “You know me,” he held a small picture frame up and you opened one eye to look at it, but soon you opened both with confusion. This person in the picture, it surely was you, in a big white wedding dress and with the same ring you had on now, but the one next to you wasn’t your husband, no, it was the one who was holding the frame. You took the picture and examined it.

“I don’t know you, I’m sorry,” you insisted, still looking at the picture frame. You scanned the area behind him and saw Taeyong sitting at one of the tables in the back. Then you heard a click resound in the lab. Jaehyun turned around and you saw Taeyong holding a revolver.

“Step away from him, (Y/N),” Taeyong’s voice held a warning tone that you weren’t used to. He noticed the frame in your hands. “Whatever he told you is a lie, you know that.”

“You’ve gone insane, Taeyong,” Jaehyun stepped in front of you now. “The biocomponents, the constant moving, the scarce visits, it all makes sense now. How did you do it?” He looks back at you and then at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Taeyong looked to you and nudged the revolver towards the cellar door. But you shook your head, you wanted answers too, you wanted to know what was going on. The picture frame in your hand, it spoke a thousand words. Taeyong fired a warning shot on the ground next to Jaehyun and you dropped the frame, the glass shattering across the floor, you quickly picked up the picture and stepped away. It was now you noticed the message in the back.

‘I wish you both happiness in this life and the ones soon to come -Taeyong’

You swallowed down a harsh gulp, trying to put the puzzle pieces together yourself.

“Taeyong, let’s talk about this. FINDR led me here, and Mark confirmed it. What did you do to her?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Taeyong continues, he moves a bullet into place and Jaehyun puts a hand in front of you. You looked at the container behind you, then to Taeyong. “Don’t do it, (Y/N). Step away, this is a conversation between me and Jaehyun.” You grabbed onto the rough material and threw it off. But when you saw the contents under it, you gasped and suddenly grew light-headed, there was no way.

Inside of a glass container lay a woman fast asleep, or at least you’d assume so, she was inside of a liquid you couldn’t name nor understand, but it wasn’t that alone, no, it was the horrific assembly of features sewn onto her to create a crude form of a body, but most notably were the bruises around her neck. But you couldn’t shake off the striking resemblance she had to you. Jaehyun stared at it with fear, he grabbed one of the glass flasks and broke it against the tables.

“You sick monster,” he took large strides towards Taeyong. “Explain this!” He held up a file titled only ‘The Lavenza Project’ and slammed it on the table next to him. “I should’ve known you would do something depraved!” Taeyong took the shot, but not before Jaehyun plunged the broken glass into his shoulder. “You monster!” Taeyong shoved him off and into one of the tables, the sounds of shattering glass filling the room. But you were still staring at the woman inside the tank. Without a doubt, she was you, being kept preserved and having parts replaced occasionally, it was without a doubt a monster— no. The monster had to be the one who was doing this to her. You turned around just in time to see Taeyong fire one more shot, and the number of carcasses in this room rose to two. He pushed the hair out of his face and took deep breaths.

“Taeyong? What is this?” You asked him. He didn’t answer, instead, you felt something pressed up against the back of your head, then you felt nothing at all.

~

The world is beautiful.

That much you understand.

Sitting on this grassy knoll, you took a deep breath of the fresh air around you. You could sit here all day, listening to the beautiful sounds of the nature around you. You held your hand out and a blue butterfly sat upon it. You wondered what they thought of, you wondered if they had worries or if they had pleasures. You were nearly certain that they lived a life of fulfillment, they were content with how things were and would never ask for something more. You smiled softly, a life of nothing but happiness, that was the one you lived now, and you’d never ask for anything more.

“Hello there, beautiful one,” you cooed, watching the butterfly perch itself onto your wedding ring, it was so enchanting, with wings more delicate than anything you’d ever seen but more powerful than any you’d dream of. It had this boundless freedom to move from place to place without a care.

“There you are, love,” you turned around and saw your husband walking towards you. Taeyong sat next to you and drew one knee up while you laid your head on his shoulder.

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[mangamushi]

Thoughts on Panorama of Hell

 (HINO Hideshi, 1 volume, 1984)

(warning for spoilers and disturbing topics)

In Panorama from Hell, a painter obsessed with depicting hell takes the reader on a journey to discover his life. His work, his neighborhood, his family members and family history are presented to paint a bleak and violent picture of hell on earth.

Hideshi Hino is a very big name of horror manga. Panorama of Hell is one of Hino’s most famous and acclaimed manga, and represents in many ways the quintessence of his style. When he draw Panorama, he thought it would possibly be his last horror manga (he didnt actually stop after that, though).

It displays all his favorite themes and even blatantly recycles ideas from his previous works. It is therefore is a very good entry point for anyone interested in Hino’s stuff. One the other hand, it feels a bit redundant when you are already familiar with his work, especially if you have read Lullaby from Hell, as both manga are very similar. 

As the title suggests, Panorama takes place in a hellish setting, described in great details by the main character.  He is a painter who uses his own blood to paint, and the world he lives is horrible in many ways: from his window he sees an execution platform operating non-stop, a stream full off trash and corpses runs next to his house, he lives in the smell of burning bodies because of the next-door crematorium... 

These first few chapters are so insistent on being as abhorrent as possible that I found it hard to take seriously. In the beginning it felt so exaggerated and lacking any subtlety  that it almost felt a bit comical at times, like the author was just stacking awful things on more awful things for shock value.

“his daily routine”

And it keeps escalating from there. Next, his family is introduced: cruel children with a dark sense of curiosity, a beautiful wife who seems straight out of a classic japanese horror tale (pale skin and long black hair, wearing traditional clothes...), until we go back in time to witness the story of his grand-parents and parents. 

It gradually becomes more interesting, especially the part about his family which shows deeply ingrained violence and insanity getting passed down from a generation to the next. It culminates when historical events (WWII and its aftermath, the atomic bombings) are shown, intertwining with the painter’s personal story.

Different kinds of hells complete each other (ambient with initial setting and scenery of desolation, a more personal hell with the intra-familial violence, and the wider-scale historical hell of war).

Overall, I find Hino less imaginative than  fellow “horror masters” Junji ito and Kazuo Umezu. Those two can come up with the craziest ideas, whereas Hino’s scenarios and imagery are somewhat more expected/conventional for horror. 

But perhaps the most interesting part of Panorama is the way it blurs the borders between reality and fiction. First of all, the main character, an artist who specializes in depicting horror, acts as a stand-in for Hino himself. This is fairly common in his work, his other manga Lullaby from hell even has an extremely similar character overtly present himself as Hino: 

The artist from Panorama is making his last, best painting, just like Hino who was thinking of ending his mangaka career with his strongest work.  Both the painting and the manga share the same title, “Panorama of Hell”. 

 The similarities between Hino and his main character don’t end here, and many elements of the story are actually taken from Hino’s own life: his grandfather really was a yakuza, his brother went into a coma, his father was pig farmer with a tattoo on his back...

Just like the painter, Hino grew up in the context of the direct aftermath of WWII. Both the character and the author were born in Japanese-occupied China, and were nearly killed when their family fled back to Mainland-Japan after the country’s loss. He takes inspiration from his own life and in the traumatizing things he witnessed and lived through to draw his manga. It is hard to discern what is fiction or not in the painter’s story. Many elements are obviously fantastical and folklore-ish, like the beheaded ghosts visiting the wife’s bar (this chapter feel like a tone-shift, it is much more whimsical, with the corpses happily eating their own body parts), yet the references to real historic events like the war and Hiroshima bombing still links Panorama of Hell to reality, to our world. 

The painter’s insanity makes him an unreliable narrator. Indeed, at the end of the story, the current members of the painter’s family (his wife, his daughter and son, his brother...) are revealed to have been fake all along : the wife and children are a mannequin and puppets, the brother is a pig’s corpse...

Moreover, by having the painter address the reader directly (”let me show you...”) Hino breaks the fourth wall that should separate the world of fiction from reality.

 This culminates at the very end of the book, where the painter throws an axe at the reader to kill them.

Hino’s art style is really simple and easily recognizable. The way he draws body horror and wounds isn’t very realistic, which makes the gore parts less shocking. His character’s simple, soft, deformed appearance reminds me of modeling clay or perhaps melting plastic toys.

I am even tempted to describe his style as cute. The big eyes, round features, and the way his characters are often miserable and mistreated by others...it is cute in a pitiful way.

Hino draws lots of babies, children, and baby animals which adds to both the cuteness and the horror. It also helps that I share Hino’s fondness for insects, worms and other similar crawling creatures...

There are figures based on his works that are just too cute! 

Hino often puts animals in his stories and even merges animals and humans. He writes stories where people transform into animals (Bug Boy) or give birth to inhuman creatures ( Unusual Fetus -My Baby ). Human bodies are more often than not hosts to parasites and maggots (Mermaid in a manhole...).

In Panorama of Hell, humans are executed one after the other like livestock in a slaughterhouse, and their bodies get dumped in a stream where they mix with other dead animals. Beheaded bodies try to put animal heads on to feel complete again, and the painter’s daughter is obsessed with animal corpses that she collects and dissects.

He doesn’t use any screen tones, nor does he use a lot of crosshatching as a mean to create different shades of grey, so the jet black ink creates a stark contrast against  the white of the paper. Some pages are beautiful and esthetically pleasing in spite of the repulsive contents. Especially towards the end of the book, which depict strange surrealist imagery as the world is falling apart.

His frequent use of pitch black silhouettes reminds me of shadow play theater  (which originates from China where Hino was born), as well as of Kamishibai (street theater using paper, which was very popular in post-war Japan). 

Kamishibai originates from buddhist temples and was often used to spread buddhist teachings.

Hino makes uses of buddhist concepts and imagery in his depiction of hell. Panorama of Hell could be compared to the Hell Scroll, a famous scroll describing the Chinese Buddhist conception of hell with text and pictures. 

↑ The “Blood Lake” and “Needle Moutain” in this panel refers to two of the different kinds of hells depicted in the Hell Scroll. The blood lake is exclusively for women.

Young women are only thing that are drawn in a conventionaly beautiful way.  However, finding beauty and fascination in the most horrendous things is a central point of Hino’s body of work. His characters are either artists or collectors obsessed with what fits their strange idea of beauty (cf. Flower of Flesh and Blood, where a woman’s dismemberment is an act of creation and a research of ideal beauty in the perpetrator’s eyes).

The contrast between the solid black shadows and the untouched white of the paper can give the impression that a strong, blinding light is hitting the world. The violent light emitted from an explosion, for example. Which is fitting, giving the importance of the Hiroshima atomic bomb in the story and its repercussions that still dawn on the characters years later. It’s like the characters are constantly bathed in the harsh light of the bombings. 

The Hiroshima bomb is called a “gigantic emperor from hell”, it rules over the character’s lives, even years after it was dropped. As a child, the painters created a replica of the mushroom cloud that he worships like a god.

Panorama of Hell is a very dark and pessimistic work, displaying a world where there is no hope and nothing is spared (not even the reader, who receives the painter’s axe!). In fact, the main character was already doomed before he was even born. Indeed, he is the child of the Hiroshima bomb itself: his mother got pregnant as she was hit by a beam from the explosion. 

[dasibom]

haven't read it but heard mostly very positive things about a little life, would be interested in why u think it's bad? (if u want ofc)

ofc i love talking abt how much i hate this book. i answered a similar ask on my old blog so i'm just gonna copy paste (with a little editing):

content and trigger warnings for rape, csa, suicide, self harm and abuse. both for the book and this post.

i have so, so many problems with this book. lets start with... the gay stuff. here’s an bit from a goodreads review (link) by Michael Flick, which says it better than i could. the whole review is worth a read, too.

“Some believe that this is “The Great Gay Novel.” That couldn’t be more wrong. There are only two recognizable gay men in this work, JB and Caleb. A creative queen and a violent, probably psychopathic, sadist. All the other “possibilities” are pedophiles (categorically not gay—that’s a sickness, an evil, that has nothing to do with being gay) or so hopelessly confused (and impotent) that you can’t know what they are (JB and Willem). The take on gay men here is antediluvian—a dangerous and discredited brand of heteronormative delusion in which all gay men, no matter the glittering surface of their lives, are fated only to die a lonely, miserable death. Caleb dies an excruciating death (so we’re told) from pancreatic cancer. JB, the witty, flamboyant, unstable, creative queen is merely a plot point. His happiness, told but not shown, at the bitter end doesn’t mean anything more than that. He’s a device to wring one more regret from you, one more sorrow. You can be assured that he, too, will die an ignoble death just beyond this novel’s last page. And you won’t be troubled or offended or titillated by the gay sex (or really any sex) here because there isn’t any: it’s the sex that dare not speak its name. All this is because the author knows absolutely nothing about gay men other than the most superficial stereotypes and doesn’t have the imagination to venture deeper than that. She can’t even imagine that a man (Willem) doesn’t need a woman to quench his sexual needs—he has a solution readily at hand.

other than this, i remember this book having lesbophopic language but i don’t own a copy and i'm not gonna search the internet for that.

basically the whole book is just pure torture porn. so many bad and traumatising things happen to the main character it feels unrealistic and i think the only reason it happens is because the characters life has to be miserable. that's the whole point of the book to me. there is no reason to so graphically include a ton of this stuff in a book other than shock value. some of this graphic stuff includes very extreme descriptions of self harm (mostly cutting but also other stuff), suicide (including possible methods), physical and sexual abuse (part of it when the main character is a child), violence and medical trauma. i’m afraid that there is a real danger to this book teaching people how to hurt themselves (or even stuff like where to hide the tools they do it with) and i can’t imagine what an actively suicidal person might get out of this book. it really, really concerns me. i’m afraid this book teaches people to not get help, to not go to therapy and get help if they’ve been traumatised and/or are struggling with living. i've been traumatised in childhood and i can imagine what someone younger than i am, someone more impressionable, could get out of this book. like seriously some very fucked up ideas, i felt like the whole thing about being traumatised, and the constant self harming and suicide attempts were presented in almost a romanticised way. obviously my opinion here isn't like objective, or something, cause i'm a person trying to recover and deal w childhood trauma, which still affects me every day, in several ways, and realistically, it will never stop affecting me, but the point is that although it was terrible and it fucking sucks, it doesn't mean i will have a life with no quality and will forever be unhappy and unable to cope. and this book so clearly disagrees with it. the fact that the main character is traumatised and that horrible things happened to him as a child feels like a death sentence when it doesn't have to be.

^ lmao a point i also wanted to bring up in this section is that not all of the shit that happens to the main character needed to happen because it's fiction and it's a made up story, like after some point when i was reading it and seriously messed up shit just kept happening and it kept on going i thought like... why? it servers absolutely no purpose after some point. reading a rape scene after rape scene stopped having an affect on me eventually and... that's not very good, is it? like, i'm trying to say, this is fiction, it doesn't need to go that far? at some point, a very early point at that, it was enough to get the message across that hey, what happens to this character is bad and fucked up, it didn't need to go on.

the whole book is also full of people enabling the main character to hurt himself over and over again and do nothing. every character is there to some way hurt the main character and people praise this book for being such a great tale about friendship. it is so pretentious and again, just pure torture porn. the book so clearly seem to think therapy and reaching out to people for help it bullshit!

i’m not saying you can’t write or discuss the themes that are present in this book but i just don’t think this is the way to do it. probably a therapist specialising in trauma should consult with the writer and someone should make sure the description of self harm and suicide will not harm anyone. i think there are guidelines made for that by people working in the field and i just feel like something like that would be of benefit here. like, i don't know, i don't have a solution, i'm just saying this is not it.

also, here is a link to the author literally saying she does not believe in trigger warnings. and i think those would have been extremely beneficial to have at the start of this book and i certainly would not have read it if it was for them. that would have saved me from so much triggering content that i did not want to read and i wish badly that i did not read. it seems clear to me the author does not have any idea how traumatic things can work, or at least that is what i think based on what she says. here is a link to an interview in which she says she does not believe in talk therapy. there, a point about a persons autonomy to end their own life is brought up which is a topic but if that’s what she wants to talk about then it should be done in clear terms and not with the only message “therapy doesn’t work if you’ve suffered enough trauma.” at least that’s how the whole thing seemed to me. like of course a persons own choice to end their life is a discussion i do think is worth having, but... that did not come across in the book.

lastly, here are some links i have saved about this book which i think point out excellent things if anyone wants to read more:

https://www.reddit.com/r/books/comments/a0e1yi/convince_me_a_little_life_is_a_good_book_please/

http://post45.org/2016/06/im-so-sorry-a-little-life-and-the-socialism-of-the-rich/

https://cannonballread.com/2016/07/narfna-a-little-life/

& you're welcome to ask me to clarify something or just discuss, this is a little bit of a mess cause i copy pasted that old answer and edited it a bit to hopefully word things better but like. idk if much of it makes sense

[searchingwardrobes]

Right now over on my website, melanietillman.com , I’ve been reviewing my favorite YA lit series, focusing in particular on series that are classified as “clean reads.” (Some of us want that, okay?) The first two I had already posted here on tumblr, but today’s review is brand new.

And if you want, you can click on the link above and subscribe to my website. Then you can get content, from book reviews to outtakes from my original novels, sent right to your inbox.

So far in this series, I haven’t reviewed a faith-based series. That isn’t for lack of content, however. There are plenty of Christian YA authors. However, to be honest, there aren’t many contemporary YA novels written by Christian authors that I would recommend. Now that I think of it, I don’t really have any YA series to recommend that don’t have an element of fantasy to them. If you think about it, Ally Carter’s teenage spies and thieves are more fantasy than reality. I haven’t given this much thought before, but I think I have avoided realistic YA lit because it tends to be so incredibly depressing, even faith-based content. I get that, believe me I do. Being a teenager isn’t easy, and these books address the struggles teens go through. They definitely have their place, but in this series of reviews I’m leaning more towards reading that’s fun. Call it an escape if you want, but at the end of the day, I’m a firm believer that reading should be fun.

Having said all of that, the two faith-based YA series I will be reviewing are set in medieval times. I know, that isn’t fantasy, but the books are still a way to escape to another time and place. And because of the ancient ideas of chivalry and modesty, they are clean reads.

First up is Jody Hedlund’s Noble Knights series. There are five novels in the series: An Uncertain Choice, A Daring Sacrifice, For Love & Honor, A Loyal Heart, and A Worthy Rebel. There is also a prequel novella called The Vow, which I have not read (I’ll explain why in a bit).

These novels are written in first person going back and forth between the female lead and the male lead. I mention this right off the bat because it has come to my attention that some people don’t like to read books in first person. This floors me, to be honest, especially since first person narrative is extremely common in YA lit (Hunger Games and Percy Jackson, just to name two extremely popular ones). Ally Carter’s books are also written in first person, now that I think about it. Yet on Amazon, I noticed review after review pointing out Hedlund writing in first person and complaining about it. Maybe it's not as common in faith based lit? Maybe these books have more adult readers? At any rate, you have two characters in the Noble Knights series telling the story in their own voice. Two different fonts are used for each character. I actually liked this because it let you know right away what each character was thinking.

I actually didn’t know this was a series when I started, so I read For Love & Honor first. While it’s not confusing reading them out of order, characters do appear in multiple books, and I think you get more out of it if you read them in order. I also wouldn’t read the prequel first. It would just be depressing, in my opinion. I downloaded it on my e-reader because it was on sale for 99 cents, but then never read it. It’s about Rosemarie from book one, and since I already knew it would have an unhappy ending, I couldn’t bring myself to read it.

Speaking of the characters, that was my favorite thing about these books. Each one was so different from the last. You have traditionally handsome heroes like Sir Bennet and Cole Warwick, you have heroes who we are told aren’t obviously attractive like Sir Derrick and Sir Aldric, and then finally you have Sir Colin who uses humor and charm. The women are just as varied. There are the strong and courageous Julianna and Olivia, the intelligent Sabine, the devout Rosemarie, and then the tender-hearted Izzy. I especially loved that not all of these women were running around swinging swords and shooting arrows. I feel like our culture is so obsessed with “bad-ass women,” that we women who are more quiet and reserved wonder if we are weak. There are so many ways to be strong, however, and I nearly wept as I read about Izzy’s insecurities. She thought her tender heart made her weak, but over the course of the story, she realized what kind of strength it actually gave her. For that reason, I related to her, Rosemarie, and Sabine the most.

Since I read Sabine and Sir Bennet’s story first, I want to take a minute to sing its praises. Lady Sabine was born with a skin blemish that she hides with long gloves. If this blemish is ever discovered, she would be branded as a witch, and her chances of marriage forever dashed. Lady Sabine is also unattractive. The entire premise of the story is so rare in fiction, that it moved me deeply. The belief that birthmarks were “marks of the devil” was also a real thing in the middle ages, so it was fascinating to read about Sabine’s struggles.

Speaking of the historical setting, Hedlund portrays it accurately with its arranged marriages, rigid social structures, and faith mixed with ancient superstition. As such, there is violence in these books that sort of reminded me of Kevin Costners’s version of Robin Hood - Prince of Thieves. You know that cage thing that they hung his dad in at the beginning of the movie? The little boy being sent to the gallows? Well, that kind of stuff happens in these books too. So if you’re considering these for a teen in your life, take into account their personality. If they're incredibly tender-hearted (like Izzy!) these books may not be right for them. On the other hand, it could be a wonderful way for your teen to learn more about this historical period.

And speaking of the middle ages, next time I’ll be reviewing an author who takes more of a fairy tale approach to things. Until then, happy reading!

[everythingoesnk]

Once in Rockfield Farm (1/5)

summary; you own Rockfield Farm and your bf Mary Austin asks you if you can help her friends with an enormous favour that will lead to a much bigger unprecedented change into your life. Thanks to a cute guy specifically.

word count; 6 126

disclaimers, PLEASE read them; don’t forget this is fiction. i’m using queen‘s 70s era as a base for the story but it won’t be historically accurate. the song mentioned towards the end of the chapter is from Taylor Swift, i don’t claim those lyrics as mine. sorry in advance if u find a f*cked up grammar mistake or whatever. feedback would mean everything, it’s the first time i’m posting something i’ve written it feels like i’m giving birth looool

warnings; minor violence at some point and mention of abuse

********

Mary didn’t stop until she convinced you to give green light to her proposal.

She called it like that, but it seemed more like an order. Both of you knew she wouldn’t let it pass until you agreed to.

Taken aback, you refused at first.

The idea of four strangers living in your house, coexisting with you in the only safe space you knew, wasn’t appealing whatsoever.

Even though all they needed was a studio to record, they’d have to stay until the album was finished. They could afford to rent a proper one, but Mary made it quite clear that getting out of town was crucial to avoid possible distractions.

You’d been fired from your job because the restaurant bankrupted, so the money they were going to pay for rent was welcomed.

Your grandfather passed Rockfield Farm on to you when he died.

It was a lovely place full of good memories, mainly concerning hours on end together in the studio he built in the attic throughout the years. The relationship you had with him had always been special, but ever since your nana passed away at the age of 70, your bond became stronger.

He also wasn’t there anymore, and you tried not to think too much about it, just were glad that you met someone like him. He was the main reason you loved making music so much.

Sadly, as you grew up, although your talent for writing songs and producing music was undeniable, you realized you needed to be realistic and pursue a more down-to-earth career.

Medicine was another thing you were slightly attracted to, it wasn’t your passion but it would have to do.

The music business was too complex and difficult to get in, and wasting your time wasn’t on your plans. It’s not like you were a prodigy or a diamond in the rough, anyway. That was your honest opinion.

But now and then you’d succumb and compose. It was an effective way to forget about the rest of the world and vent whenever something would make you sad, grumpy, anxious, angry… Rarely did you write about happy feelings.

What’s the fun in claiming how fulfilled you are with your life? Which you weren’t, but still.

Ballads and songs that’d leave you with your heart aching on the floor were your daily bread.

Mary was the only one allowed to hear your little creations. She’d try to get you to show them to the world, to step out of the comfort zone and perform them in public, to rush out of those same four walls.

You were quick to brush her comments off every time, content with her and your dog being the only ones to get to listen to your babies.

“How long they’re going to take?” you asked using a fake uninterested tone, pretending not to care whether they needed weeks, months or a year.

The truth was that you wished for the album to be done quite fast.

“Who knows,” Mary said. “When the album’s finished I’m the first to know, but in the meantime Freddie won’t give me any clues”

You nodded, unsatisfied with the answer.

“Thanks for agreeing to this. I owe you big” her eyes found yours and yours softened.

“If anything it’s them who do, don’t you think?”

Mary grinned and offered to cook something for tonight’s dinner.

She left you alone with your molecular pathology notes resting on your lap.

It was your last year in University, thank the Lord. One last effort and you would be a doctor.

After memorizing various concepts you found yourself staring at the horizon wondering how was Freddie Mercury like.

Obviously because of Mary you sort of formed this idea of him, but hadn’t had a face to face yet. About the other Queen members… yeah, Mary mentioned them sometimes, vaguely: she described John as a nice fella to have around, Brian as the only one with common sense, and last but not least, when it came to Roger’s personality, she told you hesitantly to judge him yourself.

You thanked her when she handed you the pen you forgot inside.

Mary gave you an encouraging smile, placing her hand on your shoulder and squeezing it.

As soon as she turned around to go back inside, you called her name, squinting your eyes to try and get a better sight of the vehicle that kept getting closer to your property.

“What?”

When she spotted the van she sighed happily.

“Finally”

Mary ran to wait for them in the parking area. She was over the moon, clapping and waving effusively to welcome them.

“Are you coming or not?” Mary shouted, gesturing you to go and stand next to her.

You took your time to get up from sitting upon the grass and do just that.

Not a single second since they pulled over went by and Mary was already imprisoning Freddie in her arms.

You chuckled, completely sure he would be dead in a matter of seconds if she wouldn’t loose her grip.

He lovingly wrapped her in his and stroked her hair.

All of a sudden, running from the backyard where he usually played in the mud (this time was no different), your dog appeared on scene. You asked him to remain quiet and by your side, which to your dismay he did not obey.

He went and greeted Queen, who pushed him away with no bad intentions, they just didn’t want to get dirt on their trousers.

John, nevertheless, got on his knees and began patting him. It did not take long for him to regret it when Sherlock seemed to be captivated by his face, licking it non-stop.

You cleared your throat. It would be nice of Mary to introduce you, being the one who organized this whole of a mess in the first place.

Apparently she read your mind. The next thing she did was link arms with you.

“This is (Y/N)” she spoke. “Freddie, come here”

“You have no idea how happy I am to finally meet you”

Freddie gave you two sweet kisses, one on each cheek.

“Same here” you nodded and mirrored his smile when you saw it reached his eyes.

In a heartbeat you were fascinated by him.

There was this intriguing strong aura he projected that made you feel like you were in the presence of someone from the royalty, someone important.

Freddie examined you from head to toe and fell in love immediately with your outfit, a pastel blue dress with tiny sunflowers printed all over it. He did spot your exposed feet and smiled pleasedly at your choice of painting your toenails with the colours of the rainbow.

“Boys, don’t be rude and come say hi” he gestured his bandmates, who were taking a rapid glimpse of their new temporary home, and stepped aside.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Brian”

“Nice to meet you too” you kindly responded, shaking his hand.

“Thank you very much for allowing us to record our album here. If we win a Grammy expect you to be the first one we address in the speech” he joked, face beaming with a heavenly smile.

Damn, you were so soft for him already. And you wanted to touch his curls.

“You’re welcome, Brian”

“Yes, we’re endlessly grateful” another gentle voice joined the conversation.

John stood now in front of you.

“Hi, I’m John Deacon”

“I know” you laughed, tilting your head to the side. “I hope your stay here is… productive”

“I hope so too” he smiled big, and it made your heart melt. He was so cute.

Roger was next.

He was wearing a black leather jacket that fit him like a glove. One silver bracelet hugging his right wrist, matching the necklace around the neck. What caught your attention the most was the glittery rosy shoes, though. He had long blond messy hair (like the others, except the colour part), and prominent sideburns.

They looked ridiculous, you thought, although every second you spent contemplating his face the less they bothered you.

He was gorgeous, what the hell?

You got somehow a little nervous.

“Productive it shall be. I’m Roger” he spoke, referring your words from before. He took your hand and held it to his lips. “We’ve come to the right place, guys. With such a pretty face like hers we’ll never run out of inspiration” he snorted when he heard John face-palming himself.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.

Sure Roger didn’t mean that at all, it was just his constant flirty mood Mary warned you about taking over him, you reasoned.

“Don’t get it started, Rog. We don’t want her to kick us out the very first day” Brian scolded him like a father would his children.

Roger laughed, his silly expression never fading away, and soon he was again observing you.

“I was joking, I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable,” he said, taking some of the heat out.

“It didn’t,” you said back, confident.

You followed the others when they headed to the house carrying their respective suitcases with Mary as the leader.

Roger was fast to grab his and catch up with you.

“You live alone?”

“I have Sherlock”

He was still in ecstasy, trying to get everyone’s attention.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it” you shrugged. “It’s not as tragic as it sounds. I enjoy my own company”

“Oh. Anyway. This is a farm, right? You do all the, huh… you know, farm work on your own?” he looked around, scanning a bit the surroundings. He pointed with his chin at one big rooster. “The guardian of the house, eh?”

You let out a vague chuckle that made Roger proud, already eager to make you like him.

The reason was obvious: you were so eyecatching he almost tripped when he missed one of Sherlock’s toys on one of the porch steps, too engrossed in how the sun made the freckles in your face stand out.

“My grandfather baptized this piece of land as Rockfield Farm, but it hasn’t been a proper farm for years. Now it’s just… my house”

“You know,” he began, digging deep around his mind to come up with something so the conversation wouldn’t end, “years ago I had this summer job in a much more immense place than this. I had to watch over 200 sheep every day”

“Was it as entertaining as it sounds?”

“Clearly not”

Roger extended his hand to stop the door from closing after John came in. He motioned you to go first and winked, but you didn’t notice the last part, which slightly bothered him.

“(Y/N), this place is precious!” you heard Freddie praise.

Mary interrupted you before you could thank him.

“Then you sure are going to love the studio even more! C’mon”

//

“How did your grandfather manage to get this studio together? It’s pretty impressive” Brian enthusiastically asked, taking a small sip of tea.

The six of you were now chilling in the living room. It was the perfect time for them to rest since the road trip had been long.

Moments before they finished unpacking and settling down, Mary and you gossiped in the kitchen. She remarked how attentive Roger acted towards you, and asked if you were into him.

“Are you stupid?” you couldn’t believe her. “We’ve known each other for what, ten minutes?”

“I was just wondering whether there was desire at first sight or something”

“Desire at first sight?” you repeated slowly, taking in every word.

“It was a softer way to ask if you’d give him a ride or not” she laughed watching you gesture her to lower it down. “I’m just asking because I can tell he would”

Before answering Brian, you looked over at Roger.

He’d taken off his jacket and was rolling up the sleeves of the white tee he wore underneath.

Your lips parted, finding that mundane action quite amusing and sexy on him.

You looked away, guilt taking over you for having stared too keenly. There was nothing wrong about it, and you couldn’t explain why you felt agitated. Maybe you were self-conscious about whether the others noticed.

Forcing yourself to remember Brian’s words and with a sense of pride, you smirked behind your cup, gazing at the wooden floor.

Your grandfather poured his soul into this studio, which he also referred to as a sanctuary. It made you happy to hear Brian acknowledging its value.

There were several electric and acoustic guitars, a generous collection of microphones your grandmother enjoyed saving, two trumpets, a synthesizer -to which Freddie and Roger scoffed loudly at-, a drumkit, one saxophone, and a bass.

Not to mention the tape machine that still worked perfectly plus the recording booth.

Mary told you that John Reid, who was looking after Queen at the moment, managed to convince the label to provide them with a significant amount of money. You assumed they’d brought enough tapes to record on, therefore yours would remain intact.

“He bought half of the instruments”

“The other half?” John inquired.

“He stole them” you answered, not much of a fan about it.

“Whew!” Roger whistled.

You took a short sip of the tea and turned slightly towards the window, presencing a flash of light.

“A piano?”

Freddie dropped the question with no high hopes.

“Pardon?” you turned your head and looked at him over your shoulder with your body still facing towards the window.

The head movement was so fast that a clip you wore to hold a fraction of hair in place loosened a bit, letting the lock to fell down your face.

Roger stared at you in awe.

The light illuminating the room had a warm cosy tone, which surely helped to make your skin look softer and smooth. He wasn’t aware of the heart eyes he was giving you, but Brian, John and Mary were.

When you batted your lashes, he looked away and saw Brian try and fail to hide a smile when they locked eyes. He’d been caught.

“Do you have a piano?” Freddie questioned again, eyebrows raised a little.

A tiny playful smile made its way to your lips.

“Of course I have a piano” you cockily answered.

When you saw Fred’s satisfied grin appear you instantly knew he liked you as much as you liked him. It wasn’t in the attic; you’d show it to him later.

To be honest, the piano was your favourite instrument to play. So delicate, so powerful and majestic.

“Excuse me for a second” you got up from your seat, everyone confused by your sudden urge to leave, but not alarmed.

That light from before wasn’t a bolt of lightning, you came to realize, it was a car that parked outside.

A little voice popped in your head guessing it could be him, but it couldn’t… right? There were approximately two hours from Cardiff to get there.

It sure was someone lost, or maybe they were stopping by to beg to use your bathroom because they couldn’t hold it in anymore. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“How about we start dinner? I’m starving” Mary added.

Their voices kept getting lower and lower as you crossed the corridor, oblivious to Roger’s eyes following your every move.

You stepped outside and closed the heavy door behind you, but not completely.

The silhouette of the last person you’d want to see in the entire world was leaning against a red car, one you did know very well because you lost your virginity in the backseat. He was humming to a tune you didn’t recognize, head facing downwards.

Picking at the fabric of the sweater you put on to forbid the cool air of the night from touching your skin, you opened your mouth.

“Leonardo!” you whisper shouted.

He definitely heard you, although he turned a deaf ear.

“Leo, what the fuck!”

“You’re a stupid whore”

Shit. He’s drunk? You prayed he wouldn’t make a scene, not now, with Mary and the guys around. The shame to have them complicit of whatever could possibly happen would be unbearable.

“You’re miserable” he went on with his speech, voice thick, which made it difficult for you to understand him.

You called it quits three months ago. Apparently he wasn’t any close to getting over the fact you ended it.

“Leave”

After what felt forever, he abruptly raised his head.

“What?” the expression on his face revealed he wasn’t happy.

What his eyes showed freaked the hell out of you: they revealed an intense desire, either with words or physically, to hurt you. He wasn’t sober, and you were aware that he had struggled with alcoholism when he was a teenager. It was fair to say Leonardo never put a finger on you in that way before, but alcohol was the push he needed to do it and his body was full of it now.

A lump formed in your throat.

“Get out of here”

“I just want to talk” lifting his hands up in an attempt to seem harmless, losing balance doing so, he took a few steps forward trying his best to sound convincing so you wouldn’t move and listen to him.

“I don’t want to hear what you have to say”

“How do you think I felt? Huh? When I saw you making out with that moron? You’re so selfish. A fucking slut, (Y/N). You disgust me”

That was the final straw. You promised you wouldn’t give in and start an argument, but he fucking did have to bring that up. He had the nerve to blame you for moving on and having some fun with a guy a few days ago at a party.

“Are you serious right now, Leo? How dare you?! We’re not together!” funny enough, this time it was you walking up to him not giving a damn anymore about the consequences.

When you raised your fist to punch him, even in his state, he managed to catch your wrist on time.

“How wrong you’ve done me” he hissed, tightening the grip. That’d leave marks for sure.

He pushed you against the car, causing your back to crack roughly. The situation was so tense not even the tears were brave to roll down your face, your vision blurry and unclear.

“Please, Leo!”

Mary’s voice never felt so good in your ears.

You totally forgot about them, that you could’ve screamed for help instead of dealing with Leo on your own, too absorbed in rage to be able to think things through.

“Do something, help her!” she pleaded the boys.

Four arms were fast to catch him and throw him to the ground.

Everything was happening so fast, almost as fast as your crazy heartbeats.

Brian came to you and held you by the shoulders, checking you out entirely, looking for bruises. He was asking repeatedly if you were alright, if that man dared to touch you. You could hear him, but it felt like he were miles away from you, his words echoing in the back of your mind.

Mary grabbed your arm and the two guided you, treating you like you had some kind of disability.

Before letting them drag you inside, you quickly turned your head to see what was going on, and saw a fuming Roger threatening Leo to disappear and never come back.

Freddie and John remained behind him in case he’d lose his temper. They looked at each other in astonishment; it was the first time they saw Roger like that.

“(Y/N)” Mary called you, once in the common room. “Fancy a glass of water?”

“I’ll be right back with it,” Brian said, his long legs taking him to the kitchen.

“Sit down, babe”

“I don’t want to. I’m fine”

She could perfectly see the tension in your shoulders.

“You’re not. But it’s fine, it’ll be fine” she sympathized, caressing your hair.

At this point you were lost for words. You were confused, angry, stunned.

“Here, take it. It’ll do you good, (Y/N). Is there anything else you n—” Brian began, offering you freshwater to maybe comfort you and make the knot you felt in your throat go away.

“For fuck’s sake!” you felt choleric. Maybe you were about to pass out.

Freddie, John and Roger came in and stopped dead in their tracks when they heard you complain.

Brian blinked a few times.

You were desperate for some time alone to process the last couple of minutes, but that wasn’t any excuse for you to take it out on Brian when all he wanted was for you to get better.

“I’m sorry” you lamented, ashamed at your behaviour, and took the glass not looking at anyone in the eye. That’s when you saw you were indeed shaking a little bit.

He smiled comprehensively, not giving too much attention to your outburst.

“Who the fuck was that?” Freddie wondered.

John elbowed him and mouthed “not now”.

“I’m so embarrassed. I’m sorry you had to witness that” you sighed, choking back the agony.

“Don’t apologize. That piece of shit shouldn’t have treated you like that. He looked mad” Freddie condemned.

Another heavy sigh escaped your mouth when you saw everyone staring intently at you, hating the feeling of their unasked pity.

Roger hadn’t said a word. His muscles were tense, mind way too far from the scene recalling something from the past.

//

It’d been several weeks since Queen came to stay.

To your surprise you had no complaints. They helped you without hesitation with the housework and kept their rooms tidy. More or less. The only thing you could protest about was that after the sessions it seemed like the studio had been the target of a fateful hurricane.

However, they were too cute to stay mad at for more than ten seconds.

Coming out of your shell was easy because of them. It didn’t take you long to feel comfortable enough to show your true self instead of hiding in your room like you did the first three days.

Reading a book easily kept your mind busy, except now; it was unbearably hot outdoors and indoors. Without taking your eyes off the page, you held the Coca-Cola can against your neck seeking a refreshing sensation.

“Mind if I join?”

You lowered the sunglasses until they were fitted a little bit below the bridge of your nose. The sun was hiding behind a cloud now, making it easier to adjust your vision and get it focused on whoever that was.

A shirtless Roger stood before you, with a towel around his neck that he rushed to spread on the hammock next to yours.

His skin glowing due to the sweat made him look rather tempting.

Your brain lent a helping hand forcing you to smile and nod because you wouldn’t, couldn’t do that yourself.

A small grin tugged at his lips when he noticed your eyes on him longer than usual.

“You’re always studying, angel” he pointed out, lying down and crossing his arms above his head.

You let out a loud sigh you’d been holding in, cheeks red at the pet name he chose. Anytime he’d call you something sweet rather than by your name, it was always how you tended to react.

There was no denying that you’d sort of developed a small crush on him.

Nobody could blame you, though; the same thing would happen to any human being with feelings.

He always treated you as one of them, making sure you didn’t feel left out. His sense of humour was similar to yours, and you appreciated it when he included you in their plans even if he knew you were occupied with Uni and probably wouldn’t be able to join.

Also, he was hot as fuck. You swore you’d never seen a man so beautiful in your life so far.

“I have to if I want to pass my exams”

“Sure, but you’re always studying” he emphasized. “It cannot be healthy”

It couldn’t, but everything was so difficult and you were so lost at some points you thought the world as you knew it could end if you took the smallest break.

“(Y/N)”

“Tell me”

“Seeing you stressed out stresses me” he sat straight, took the book from you and shoved it away. “Fuck this. I suggest you have some fun before the pressure ages you”

“And what do you recommend, ay?” you questioned, crossing your arms across your chest.

“We could play Frisbee”

“Frisbee? Really?”

“Why not? I’m sure you’re not that bad” he teased, getting to his feet.

You faked a laugh and stood up.

“Don’t underestimate my skills”

He used his hand to mimic a mouth talking nonsense, and approached the pool since the frisbee was floating in the water. But he stopped when he felt he stepped on something, proceeding to lift his foot to see what it was.

Roger knelt down and picked a piece of paper up, which said in messy handwriting together with scribbles here and there: You tell me ‘bout your past, thinking your future was me.

His brows cocked in surprise and your eyes widened. You grabbed it out of his hand and held it close to your heart reflexively, as if protecting it. It must have flown out from within the pages of the book when he first threw it away.

Roger watched you curiously, crouched down still, as you breathed slow and deep avoiding eye contact. You could feel your face getting hotter.

He got up with an unnoticeable smile.

“That’s yours? It’s decent”

You waited for something to get out of your mouth, but this time your brain didn’t find a way to help you out, speechless at the fact that he liked it.

“Do you have more? I’d love to hear” he continued, glancing at you.

“Oh, n-no” you forced a laughter. “I don’t”

“I’m glad you’re not as bad as a lyricist as you are as a liar”

You gave him a dirty look and the corners of his eyes crinkled at that. He puppy-eyed you.

“Please?”

“No, Roger”

“We don’t protest when you’re in our recording sessions, you could return the favour”

“Excuse me? You’re in my goddamn house. Watch your tone”

He giggled, fascinated by how cute you turned out to be when poked at.

“What do I have to do for you to say yes?”

“Nothing. It’s not happening”

“(Y/N)!” he pleaded. “I want to hear you sing”

You shook your head.

“And I want to own all the dogs on the planet. Guess we’re both stuck”

Roger groaned in defeat and turned around to get his hands on the frisbee.

For some odd reason, it made your heart dance in your chest knowing he was willing to sit down with you and listen.

A sense of enthusiasm and confidence moved you and shockingly enough you found yourself considering the idea.

Roger gave you a quick head nod.

“Ready?”

You didn’t know what the hell you were doing but you whispered a small “okay”. It couldn’t be that bad, right?

“Take a few steps back first, you’re too close”

You pulled a face at him but quickly shook your head.

“I said I’ll do it”

Roger wasn’t getting it.

“Do w—“ he stopped mid-sentence, his sapphire eyes widening in understanding this wasn’t about playing Frisbee anymore. “Yes!” he took you in his arms and spun you around.

Since he was shirtless you could feel how well built he was. Although he wasn’t the most athletic man out there, apparently drumming on and on was enough to keep him fit.

“Rog, Rog! Enough! I’m feeling dizzy”

You were wearing a mini skirt that had a tiny slit on one of the sides. Seeing it rolled itself up a little you adjusted its length, avoiding any extra space to anyone’s imagination. Too late for Roger though.

When satisfied with how your skirt fitted, you looked up and saw a subtle wink roaming his lips.

“I’m ready when you are” he announced, bending over to grab his shirt and put it on.

At first your legs wouldn’t cooperate.

Roger followed you closely.

He saw you toy with your hair, questioning yourself why you agreed to do this when you weren’t a hundred per cent sure about it. He placed his hands on your shoulders and slowly massaged the back of your neck with his thumbs, relieving some of the pressure.

Every single hair of your body stood on ends.

“Don’t be nervous, love. We can drop it whenever you want” he conceded, tossing an arm around your shoulders.

Opening the door to the studio you felt sick, already regretting your decision.

Roger took a sit on the couch, watching you like you were about to do a mind-blowing performance that’d change the meaning of his life forever.

Feeling like a rat in a laboratory with the doctors waiting to see if the experiment was successful or not, you shifted weight from one foot to the other, discomfort intensifying.

The piercing electric blue of his eyes triggered something in you when they met yours. You didn’t know how but it seemed like he was speaking to you through them, encouraging and imploring you to open up to him.

“Take it easy, (Y/N). It’s not a big deal”

“It is for me”

You sank down on one of the chairs next to the control room, poorly trying to hide how intimidated you were.

“You’re singing, then? Or reading the lyrics out loud?”

“Singing” you muttered. God knows if you went downstairs to pick up your notebook you wouldn’t come back.

A very cheeky expression overtook his face.

“Okay, go ahead” he gestured, rubbing his chin.

You clenched your jaw and snapped your eyes shut. It was easier to do it if you weren’t looking. You’d just imagine it was your grandfather in the room with you instead.

“Time won’t fly, it’s like I’m paralyzed by it I’d like to be my old self again But I’m still trying to find it

After plaid shirt days and nights when you made me your own Now you mail back my things and I walk home alone”

Roger’s fingers fidgeted at the sight of you tucking a piece of hair behind your ear, silently wishing it was him doing it.

He saw how your angelic features relaxed along to every word you sang. When it comes to your voice... He had to remind himself he didn’t die nor was leaving a dream, because it felt like he were in the very gates of heaven.

His breathing quickened, well aware he was witnessing something intimate.

Leaning closer, elbows resting on his knees, he allowed your voice to transport him to the place and time you were describing.

“But you keep my old scarf From that very first week 'Cause it reminds you of innocence And it smells like me You can’t get rid of it

'Cause you remember it all too well”

You swallowed before opening your eyes and speaking.

“There’s more but that’s the part I’m most proud of”

Roger’d fallen silent, his brain on fire.

He seemed to be absent, daydreaming probably.

Your heartbeat could make you go deaf any second, partly because you allowed him to have a peek at your heart partly because you were dying to know if he was any positive about it.

“You sounded like an angel” he stated in the softest voice, working on coming back to his senses.

There was nothing you could do apart from blushing and awkwardly shaking your head, yet on the inside you were saturated with a strong feeling that filled you completely: his opinion was relevant to you and the reaction he had was more than enough.

“You’re exaggerating. Thank you though, for your words. You’re very kind” you said, entwining ankles.

“Is it…” Roger was afraid this would ruin the mood. He decided to give it a shot and solve any doubt. More importantly, he wanted to make sure you were alright.

You weren’t stupid and knew where he was going.

“About Leonardo? Yes. Next question” you explained bitterly cutting him off, and pressed your lips together making an effort to not roll your eyes and appear rude.

He did ruin the mood.

Roger felt bad now.

“I’m sorry. Forget it”

“It’s fine” the flat tone you used before switched to a more delicate one.

It was overwhelming that he cared. He didn’t have to but he cared.

“I experienced something similar. I know how fucked up domestic abuse is” Roger confessed, bowing his head.

Wait, what? He what?

“Rog…” you got up and carefully sat next to him.

It shocked you how quick the atmosphere changed.

“It’s nothing, dear, it was a long time ago. She was… she was crazy” he laughed drily and cleared his throat. “You know what I mean”

“I do not. What you saw when Leonardo showed up was a one-time thing. He was drunk and barely himself, but I’m so terribly sorry you had to go through that”

“Ah, good for you then” he tapped you on the knee with a small smile on his face.

It broke your heart. How could anyone be so goddamn evil? You just couldn’t understand why they were people like that out there, willing to harm others deliberately.

Your mind drifted to Leonardo, did he become one of them?

Glancing at Roger, you hesitantly got closer to rest your cheek against his shoulder, letting him know mutely you were there in case he needed to vent more often. You intended to cuddle for just a few seconds before it turned out weird. That was until he wrapped an arm around you to keep you in position.

“Thank you” he whispered.

It sent shivers down your spine hearing for the first time his voice discreetly cracking up. You weren’t entirely sure about what he was thanking you for, though.

Roger didn’t quite understand why such information slipped out his mouth. Maybe he thought it was appropriate to share it since he contemplated you went through the same thing after what he saw. He just wanted to make sure you knew you could count on him as well.

The boys knew about the matter, obviously, but there was this thing about you he hadn’t figured out just yet that pushed him to speak to you about it.

That’s what his mind was saying, his heart on the other hand defended the idea that he felt comfortable with you and that since he presenced the incident with Leonardo he remembered his experience. Hence the fit of anger he had.

The thought alone of that scumbag hurting you made his head collapse. He was very sensitive about the subject.

“Better?” you wondered out loud after a while of snuggling, yet you didn’t move, finding the proximity significantly pleasant.

“Yeah, uh, sorry” he cleared his throat and released you.

“It’s more than okay”

He nodded, not really looking at you yet.

You tried to think of something that could distract him from those undeserved and heartrending memories.

There was no point of comparison to what Roger had struggled with, but every time you argued with Leo during the year your relationship lasted, you were grateful that your friends organized sporadic plans to help you forget about the fights.

You had to do that for Roger. You had to entertain him. To keep his mind occupied.

“Freddie explained to me drums are much more complicated than what they seem”

Roger glanced over the drumkit.

He was suspicious at first about the topic change, and looked at you from the corner of his eye.

“It can be very ambitious if you don’t do try for real, instead of goofing around. There’s too much going on. People believe it’s just hitting the drums and you’re good. Wankers”

It was unmissable how his face lit up, talking about his passion.

Crossing an ankle over your knee, you bent forward to get a better sight of his much more eased features.

“I’m sure it requires a lot of hard work, the coordination on hands and feet and all that stuff. Singing along as well must be tiring”

Roger’s eyes bored into yours, as if studying and reflecting upon your words. A corner of his mouth lifted.

“Yeah,” he replied amused, “physically it can be tough”

He knew what you were doing.

Just when he was about to ask you if you wanted him to teach you some basics, John came flying through the door.

“For God’s sake, there you are. Roger, I need you. Freddie and Brian are arguing again. Help me out spreading some peace before Freddie slaps him”

****

end of part one, lemme know what you think ! ♡

[lookslikechill]

WIP Intro: Between His Fingers

➤ Title: Between His Fingers ➤ Genre: Historical Fiction, Murder Mystery, Romance ➤ Tense: Close Third Person  ➤ Status: First Draft/Planning ➤ Setting: Port Cassandra, Northern Coastal California, USA//late 1940′s ➤ Rating: 18+ for sexual content, violence, and just some heavy-ass content. ➤ Themes: personal struggle & growth, PTSD/mental illness, internalized homophobia, institutionalized homophobia, toxic masculinity, flawed/ineffective government/police, police accountability, familial relationships, gay male romance, secret relationship, murder mystery.   ➤ Featuring: secrets & mysteries - old city - underfunded police force - different kinds of romantic relationships - The Ocean & The Forest - car troubles - men being stupid - Angst(tm) - Passion - drunken nonsense - Everybody Smokes(except Miles) - And Swearing

➤ One Line: Two cops in late 40′s coastal California try to solve crimes while also being secretly super gay for each other.

➤ Summary:  

With state of his knee, damaged in the war and making it impossible for him to pursue anybody or anything on foot, Alistair James Sheep is lucky to be an officer with the Port Cassandra Police Department in the first place, never mind the anxious state of mind he keeps tucked under the rug.  He is unlucky to be divorced, a fairly uncommon status in the late 1940′s.  The matter of luck is a bit more complicated when it comes to the forbidden relationship he somehow managed to slip into with Miles Crawford, his very male crime-solving partner of almost two years.  

The modest city of Port Cassandra had not been the most squeaky-clean, crime-free place since Alistair had lived there, but a sudden spike of murders and arson cases has the city on its toes.  It wouldn’t be that much of a problem, if it wasn’t for the department’s outdated and old resources, lack of organization, and dismissive and ineffective Captain.  If that wasn’t enough, some of Miles and Alistair’s fellow officers seem to be more interested in causing more problems than solving them.  

➤ Characters:

Alistair Sheep(pov), 28, male(he/him); reserved & sharp-tongued, anxious & paranoid, mechanically inclined, introverted, detail-oriented, always the driver, great shot, bad at emotions and sharing.

5′10″, white man with a build on the narrower side of things, lean, very dark brown, wavy hair and a short, full beard, modest, blunt eyebrows, brown eyes, sharp/pronounced jawline, subtly bumpy nose with a slight curve to the left,  straight & alert posture/stance, tends to rest his weight to the left, resting asshole face.  

Alistair arrived home before the war ended, in 1944, due to the injuries that left him with a permanent limp and an inability to run effectively.  He doesn’t (refuses to) use a cane most of the time now, but most likely will have to give in as he gets older.  He and his then-wife and childhood friend, Emily, moved to Port Cassandra in very early ‘46 in a last-ditch effort to save their crumbling marriage, which obviously failed.  With the issue of his mobility, he joined Port Cassandra’s Police Department under the condition that he would always have another Officer, capable of running, with him when he was on duty outside of the Station.  

Miles Crawford, 24, male(he/him); gentle & compassionate, capable & confident, prone to singing, whistling and humming, a big picture man, the runner of the pair, can be too willing to forgive and lacks skepticism. 

5′8″, white man with a sturdy, thick build, bit of a belly, wide through the shoulders, short, curly brown hair, clean-shaven, wide-set dark brown eyes, slightly freckled, round face, thick, tapered eyebrows, small ears, nose small & rather rounded, standing stature usually squared but relaxed through the shoulders, expression open and relaxed on average, smiles often.  

Miles grew up in Port Cassandra, in one of the cabins in the woods by the beach on the outskirts of Port Cassandra.  He never knew his mother, and his father was neglectful, at best, physically abusive, at worst.  He left home at 15 and spent the rest of his childhood living with the PCPD’s second-in-command, Joseph Sawtelle, and his family.  He joined the city’s Police Department as soon as he was able, and Sawtelle acted as his mentor throughout the first few years of his service.  

➤ Links:

Port Cassandra Location Intro Valentine’s Day Special Playlist & Excerpt Excerpt - Startled FFF: The Move Character Aesthetic - Alistair Sheep Character Aesthetic - Tobias Rigby Character Aesthetic - Daniel Morrin Character Aesthetic - Alistair Sheep - by Farrradays Art & Playlist - Alistair Sheep - by cr0wfood Worst Tag Game Intro - Alistair Sheep Miles Crawford Character Intro Alistair Sheep Character Intro

Excerpt, Cont. Character List, and Taglist below the cut!

Content Warnings:  Sexual content, physical violence, gun & weapon violence, police violence (mostly cop on cop), unhealthy coping mechanisms re: abuse of cigarettes and alcohol, avoidance, repression.  Homophobic language & violence.  Abuse re: neglect, physical abuse, bad dads in general.  Also war imagery & mentions.  Murder, blood, and gore, of course. Fire, as well.  

➤ Excerpt:

Alistair rotated the wheel and pulled into the thin dirt driveway to the left of the shack of a house they had been called to.  The house  appeared to sink into the forest that surrounded it, the look of it was so raw, wooden, and narrow.  It looked like it belonged there, except for the glaring lights in the windows that cut through the twilight gloom.

It would almost be a peaceful sight, worthy of a postcard, if there weren't first responders hanging out on the front porch.  An ambulance in the driveway.  And now, the police cruiser he sat behind the wheel of.  In the passenger seat, Officer Crawford, Miles, was looking at him again.  Alistair straightened his back and cleared his throat.

"What?"

"Nothing.  You just, you know, you looked like you had something on your mind."

"I assure you nothing is ever on my mind," Alistair said without thinking, and scowled when Miles immediately looked amused.

"Sure.  Why don't we head in before they come looking to see whether we've died, too?"  He said, tilting his head in the direction of the house.

"That joke is in extremely poor taste, Officer Crawford," Alistair drawled as he cut the engine and popped the car door open.

➤ Cont. Character List:

Emily Castaldi, 28, female(she/her), Alistair’s ex-wife, and childhood friend, with whom he still maintains an awkward and erratic relationship. perceptive, clever/witty, independent, works as a housekeeper at one of Port Cassandra’s struggling hotels.

Arthur Pimento, old(60′s?), male(he/him), Captain of the Port Cassandra Police Department, he was a very successful, heroic officer as a young man and won’t admit those days are gone. proud, strict, close-minded, sophisticated, unwilling to admit he’s not as capable as he used to be, married with adult children.

Joseph Sawtelle, mid-40′s, male(he/him), PCPD’s second-in-command, doesn’t feel as if he has as much of a sway over the department as he should. tired, resigned/reluctant, quiet, bitter, married with two feisty teenage daughters, mentor and parental figure to Miles.

Gentry Sinclair, late 30′s, male(he/him), PCPD Officer, family man who just wants to be friends with everybody. bright/cheerful, asks a lot of questions, wants to know the people around him well, Ken doll attractive, married with three young children, he will show people pictures of his family and babble about them.

Daniel Morrin, early 30′s, male(he/him), PCPD Officer, cocky with an ego the size of Texas and not above bullying behavior to get things his way. selfish/self-absorbed, very big and knows it(loves it), takes up way too much space and gets way too close, kind of an asshole all around, picks on everybody(”jokes”), gets along best with Rigby and Sinclair. 

Tobias Rigby, late 20′s, male(he/him), PCPD Officer, served in the war and has never been seen with a woman he wasn’t related to.   extremely reserved/quiet, says very little, very blunt and straightforward when he does open his mouth, short/small but can definitely kick your ass, frowny & mysterious.

Conrad Fitzgerald, early to mid-30′s, male(he/him), PCPD Officer, served in the war but was a Prisoner of War for most of it. a bit erratic, brazen, talks a lot, boxes in his spare time, has been seen by Alistair entering and leaving underground gay bars yet to be raided, charismatic in a relaxed way, married without kids.

Rosemary Fitzgerald, mid 30′s, female(she/her), Conrad’s wife. like her husband, considered a bit odd, smiles too much and talks too fast, paints skulls, only seen wearing dark colors, stubborn, comes to the Station too much.  

➤ Taglist:  @livingdeadwriteblr -  @cawolters - @agnesfagen - @the-real-rg - @balletshoe-punk - @lie-hart - @phloxxiing - @teacupwriter - @newdivinities - @omgbrekkerkaz - @soul-write - @elisabethrosewrites - @cirianne - @ladywithalamp (ask to be added or removed!)

➤ Tagged: #Between His Fingers, #bhf, #bhf:wip

[scrollingkingfisher]

Shipping it like the Titanic

Sam secretly writes fanfiction between killing monsters and fending off the apocalypse-of-the-day. In heaven, a newly recovered Gabriel discovers smut and decides to try his hand. Because that's all sabriel will ever be for either of them, obviously- a far-off fantasy.

There's no way what they're writing about could ever find its way into their real lives. No way whatsoever.

AO3

Rating: E for Lemon                                                                                                Pairings: Sabriel                                                                                                    Words: too many (10k and growing)

Written for the @gabriel-monthly-challenge and encompassing not one, not two, but three of the prompts! Woohoo! A record for me! 

This is only half of it, because, as usual, the prompt grew out of proportion, so there will me more. It’ll be posted chapter-wise on AO3, because I know me- there’ll be more details I want to add in!

tagging @warlockwriter, @archangelgabriellives, @archangel-with-a-shotgun, @archangelsanonymous, @ttttrickster and @revwinchester!

It started with the play.

Sam had almost forgotten about the Supernatural books- their lives went crazy on such a regular basis that any form of insanity that wasn’t directly threatening their lives tended to be quickly pushed into the background. But it all came back to him in vivid detail as he watched a fifteen-year-old with yellow contacts gleefully daub red paint onto the face of a plastic doll that he was fairly sure was meant to be representing him.

It had been a surreal experience, seeing those schoolgirls play out their various adventures. There was something almost… freeing about it, he realised as he watched the recording again on the way back to the bunker. It really put some of the crazy crap they went through into perspective.

And then Dean had to go and make a big deal out of the… interpretations of the supernatural books. And Sam got curious, okay?

So the next time he had a few hours to himself while Dean was out doing god knew what, Sam got himself a beer from the fridge, sat himself down at the library table, flicked open his laptop and opened a browser tab.

A quick search was more than enough to find what he was looking for. It wasn’t exactly well hidden. The first result in google was the official website for Chuck’s books- it hadn’t aged well. Even back in 2007 when the books were being published Sam would have said it looked outdated. Whoever had designed it obviously wasn’t being paid much. Who ever made official graphics in comic sans? He shook his head, backtracking.

But the link below that led to a rather better curated fan site. Sam narrowed his eyes as he scrolled down. There were the links to the publishers, but also PDFs of the later, unpublished books. There were dates for conventions along with links to get tickets. And at the bottom, there was a series of links to other websites, presumably places to chat with other fans.

He hovered his cursor over the link simply entitled tumblr and clicked.

There was so much. More than Sam had even thought possible for a tiny series of books with a cult following.

He ended spending most of the afternoon falling into the apparently bottomless pit of online fandom. The raft of empty beer bottles at his elbow grew as he roamed his way through the understorey of the internet. He scrolled with fascination through blogs full of pictures edited to look like them, through fan theories of what they were like, and then speculation about things the books didn’t show. Continuations, ‘missing scenes’, and… other things. If Sam never had to accidentally read another poorly-written full-frontal account of Cas and Dean’s fictitious sex life, it would be too soon.

And, well, there were so many things they’d got wrong. Or not quite right. But Sam didn’t feel right about commenting on people’s stories; they didn’t want some randomer coming along and critiquing their characterisation.

So the only way to correct it, he thought with tipsy confidence, was to write it how it had actually happened. He started off small; wrote a few of their more recent hunts, made a blog, and before he could think about it too much, pressed that ‘post’ button.

When he woke up in the morning, he was surprised to find all the notes and comments. Apparently, people liked his writing. A lot.

So he wrote more. And more. Soon Sam was pretty sure he had an addiction. It wasn’t like he had any lack of free time in which to write- Dean was always so stubborn about which of them got to drive, so he had hours and hours of sitting in the passenger seat to fill, and there was only so long he could spend researching.

So his blog quickly grew.

At first, it was strictly real life that he wrote; hunts they’d recently been on, anecdotes, slices of their lives. It helped him to cope, to get all of his thoughts and emotions out of his head and onto paper. But soon, he was branching out into ‘fix it fic’- for him, it was wistful thoughts about possibilities of what could have been if they’d taken different roads. If they’d just managed to save a person here, trusted someone else there. One or two about what might happen if Cas and Dean ever pulled their heads out of their asses.

So he was pretty deep already by the time he stumbled across the Sabriel.

He had just woken up when he found it. He was sitting at the bunker kitchen table, scrolling through his feed over a cup of coffee. Gifset, meta analysis, pictures, art, gif-

Wait.

He got the the end of the post and just stopped scrolling for a second, blinking. Had that art been of him and Gabriel? He scrolled back up.

It was. They were hugging- the artist had got the height difference right, he distantly noted. It was a good likeness even. It was quite chaste compared to a lot of the things that crossed his screen, but there was… something about it. He blinked some more, feeling his forehead scrunch a little as he narrowed his eyes at the screen.

He wasn’t offended by it or anything. Mostly, he was just confused.

Him and Gabriel? Really?

Why?

He and Gabriel had barely known each other. The archangel had hardly talked to him. Even when he had, those words had more often than not been angry. They had started off hunting him after all. And they hadn’t parted mystery spot as friends. Hell, on top of that, Gabriel was dead! Long dead!

Sam clicked on the artist’s profile and scrolled further down, a huff of amused disbelief breaking out of him. The art definitely wasn’t a one-off, and judging from all the reblogs, they were far from the only shipper. No matter what had really happened, these people seemed to think that they had potential.

He sat back, resting his phone down on the table and considering. Huh. What would that even be called? Samiel? Sambriel?

He checked the tags. Sabriel, apparently.

It was impossible. Totally and utterly implausible. Maybe that was what drew him to it. There was no way any of this could work its way into Sam’s real life. He didn’t see any harm in it.

At first it just amused him. But gradually, over time, he found himself starting to seek it out. The ‘incorrect quotes’ made him laugh, either because they were hilariously out of character or (more often than not) hilariously in character. The mood boards made him smile. The art sometimes tugged too-tight at his heart, but it was always amazing. And the fic was something else.

Before he knew it, he was following a whole host of sabriel blogs, reblogging their content to his own. He even made a few friends.

And, gradually? He was starting to see it too. The books had been more revealing about Gabriel than he ever had been in real life. Meta posts pointed out the similarities between their characters, between their stories, and it made Sam realise that they really hadn’t been that different after all. Gabriel had been just as desperate and afraid as he was back then, he’d just had different ways of hiding it. And if the scant number of scenes from Gabriel’s point of view were as accurate as the rest of the books, it certainly looked like he’d had a soft spot for Sam, much as Sam thought he’d never showed it.

Just how many of their interpretations were true? he wondered as he stared at his dimmed computer screen while the streetlamps flashed past on another midnight road. Was there a possibility that, if Gabriel was alive, they could have got along?

He felt a little pang at the thought that they’d never talked at all, really, before he died. Sam felt he knew the archangel better now than he ever had back then. Knowing what he knew now, he wished that he’d at least been friends with him.

In a way, fictional Sam had it better than real him did. The more he read, the more he realised he was craving what his fictional self had; stability, a partner. Someone to come back home to, someone to wrap his arms around at night. It wasn’t like there could ever be any permanent lovers in his real life. He could never keep what he did a secret, or drag someone into this life. And after Eileen, he didn’t have the heart to date anyone within the business. The mortality rate for hunters was just too high.

He looked out the window, shaking his head at himself as they rushed through the night. How sad had his life become? A little voice at the back of his head whispered maliciously. Was he really sitting here daydreaming wistfully about a normal life like some kind of caricature of himself?

Well maybe I am, he retaliated almost angrily. He had few enough permanent good things in his life, and his writing was a lifeline that kept him afloat. It was an escape from the violence and monotony of their lives. It wasn’t hurting anyone. If he wanted to fantasise about having somebody who cared about him, then what the hell, he was gonna do it.

With renewed determination, he opened a new document and started to type.

                                                            ...

So it went on. He wrote when Amara rose. He wrote then their Mom came back from the dead. He wrote to forget his torture at the hands of the British Men of Letters. He wrote when Cas died, when he lost their Mom, when they found Jack, when Cas returned from the Empty. It was his crutch; whenever things got bad, out came a fresh google doc and onto the page it all went. By the time they were trying to get their Mom back from the apocalypse world, his little blog had over two thousand followers all eagerly awaiting his updates.

So obviously, because this was the Winchester’s luck, that was when Gabriel came back to life.

                                                           .o0o.

Gabriel would like it noted down that it was Cas’ fault. For the record.

“Brother. You need to take a break.”

Gabriel looked down at him from heaven’s throne and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. It was a look he’d been perfecting these last few weeks since he’d come back upstairs to reclaim what was left of his birthright and discovered how almost frighteningly easily the other angels fell into line- the first time he’d done it, a cupid had actually keeled over.

Castiel, on the other hand, didn’t back down even half an inch. That seraph had balls of steel. It was one of the things Gabriel liked best about his brother- he had no fear of calling Gabriel out on his bullshit, unlike the rest of the cowardly sycophants up here.

“You have been snapping at the seraphim all week. I believe you need to, as Dean would put it, ‘take a load off’.”

He even crooked his fingers to make the air quotation marks. Adorable.

Gabriel heaved a sigh. “And what do you suggest I do? A zumba class? Go out and commune with nature?”

Castiel was undeterred by his prickly demeanor. “What did you used to do to relax?”

“Mess with dickheads until they died,” Gabriel answered. Cas stared at him blankly, waiting.

“... Make amateur porn?” he suggested.

Cas sighed, rolling his eyes and turning with a swish of trench coat. “Just… go and find something to do, Gabriel. Something productive. Read a book,” he called over his shoulder as he strode out of heaven’s throne room.

Gabriel scoffed to himself, slouching back on the throne to sulk. Read a book? Like literature could hold his attention at the moment. What he needed to do was get outta here and stop wallowing in his own juices!

But if he was being honest with himself (not something he made a habit of), he really didn’t know what he wanted to do once he did manage to get out. He was… aimless. And the longer he sat here with nothing to distract him, the more those memories lurking at the back of his mind dragged their fingernails against his consciousness.

You know what? Maybe he would read that book.

He stood and snapped himself to the nearest bookstore before he had any more time to chew it over. Walking over to the fiction section, he perused along the shelves. Yes, escapism, that was what he needed!

But nothing appealed. Every damn book he picked up seemed to be either a cheap Game of Thrones knock-off or vampire erotica, and he’d already had his fun with Stephanie Meyer.

He was about to snap himself away again in frustration when he paused. There was something poking out of the discount book bin. That cover looked strangely familiar…

He picked it up, smirking at the hunks on the cover, and turned it over to read the blurb. His eyes widened. Holy guacamole. He couldn’t believe it!

He started laughing, uncontrollable whole-body-shaking hoots that quickly turned into constricted wheezing, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. People started backing away from him, but he didn’t care. Oh, this was great! Of all the books that had to catch his eye, it had to be this one. If he didn’t know better, he’d say this was Dad-ordained fate.

He nearly skipped up to the counter, slapping the book down next to the cash register. “Hey, you got any more of these?”

The guy behind it eyed him with concern. “Yeah, should be more if you dig in the bottom of the bin. You like them?”

“Oh yeah,” Gabriel grinned like a slightly manic shark. “I’m a big fan.”

                                                                 ...

“Father above, their lives are depressing.”  

Gabriel tossed the last book off the dais with a sigh, lobbing it neatly through a wormhole. Well, that had helped pass a few hours, at least. But after binging his way through two entire lifetimes’ worth of tragedy and man-tears, he was outta reading material.

What now?

Idly, Gabriel pulled out the phone that Sam had given him the last time he popped down to update them. Installing WiFi in heaven had been the first thing he did when he limped back. His siblings would thank him. Eventually.

He typed ‘supernatural’ into google.

And, wow. His eyes widened. That was a lot of porn. Ah, humanity at their finest- it didn’t matter how angst-soaked the source material was, in his experience, there was always at least one fan who would say, “hmmm this needs more nudity!” And, apparently, this fandom had more than one fan who thought Sam and Dean needed more hanky panky in their lives.

He chuckled, scrolling down the entries. Damn, he liked these people already!

“Bingo.” He clicked on a link.

The site flashed up before his eyes, summaries and ratings in their colourful boxes catching his attention. Now this was more like it! He snapped himself up a big tub of popcorn and dug in.

                                                            …

He was half way through the tag when he started finding the sabriel.

For the first time since he’d started reading four days ago, his finger paused on the touchpad. His grin faded a little.

So they’d noticed that, had they? He’d thought it wasn’t too obvious from the books, but humans were intuitive.

Tentatively, he clicked. He read, getting more and more wound up the further down he got.

He snorted to himself as he reached the bottom of the page. Where was the danger? The drama? The strippers? He didn’t belong in a coffee shop AU! He pressed the back button, scowling. He searched the tag itself, and wasn’t much more impressed. Why was there so much domesticity? He was a maverick! A rolling stone!

Hey, maybe he should start writing? Show them all where they were going wrong? Because somewhere along the line they’d clearly got the completely wrong impression of his character.

And okay, he thought as he set himself up an account, so maybe they’d been right about him nursing a little crush on the younger Winchester from afar. That was fine! Nobody in real life needed to know! He could just bury that one at the bottom of the ocean in a mental curse box with all the other things he deliberately didn’t think about. As far as Gabriel was concerned, he would keep all his feelings right here in his chest, and then one day Sam would die, and that would be the end of it. And Gabriel’s heart would shatter into a million tiny shards and he would never be quite right again.

But whatever! Not like that was gonna spillover into what he wrote or anything. No, this work of creative genius was gonna be one-hundred-percent SEX, as many chapters of raunchy, kinky, personal-fantasy-fulfilling porn as he could get out onto paper. No feelings here. None whatsoever.

So he conjured a laptop, opened up a playlist for inspiration, and started to write.

                                                             .o0o.

The first time that Sam ever really paid any attention to Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets was when he reblogged the call-out post:

Fandoms-forevr: I don’t care what they say, Sam is always the worst character. No matter what else he’s done, the stans can’t deny the facts; he opened a portal to hell. He opened the cage and started the apocalypse. He’s a selfish, manipulative asshole. Tbh if Sam wasn’t in the books, Dean could be retired by now and not be dragged around cleaning up after Sam’s sorry ass. 

Sam apologists, don’t interact.

It had been nearly 3am and most of the way through a bottle of whisky, and Sam had reblogged it as an act of drunken self-flagellation. Then he had flicked his phone off, rolled over, and fallen asleep like a baby seal that had been clubbed over the head with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

He woke up to online carnage.

He thought that the notifications were a hallucination from his raging hangover for a second, but when he blinked they didn’t disappear. His eyes widened as he scrolled down the long list of angry reblogs. Some seemed to be arguing for him, some against him. Who the hell had started all this drama?

He scrolled down to the first reblog.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets reblogged: I’m sorry, but Sam? A ‘selfish, manipulative asshole’? What have you been smoking? Whatever it is, put that blunt down, cos it’s making you delusional.

First off, I know this post is about Sam, but you really think Dean would stop hunting without having to be literally chained to the floor? Puh-lease, that boy isn’t gonna stop moving until he gets hitched to Castiel.

Anyway, back to Sam. You’re wrong. Don’t know how you can’t see that, but here, let me take you to the character optometrist...

And then they went off.

The post kept going, a whole list of passionate arguments. Sam felt a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. He might not agree with their points, but whoever they were, they had style.

Sam had seen people defending him before. He tended to avoid those sorts of posts; it made him uncomfortable for some reason. He knew he didn’t deserve these people’s praise. But for some reason, those usual feelings of guilt and inadequacy weren’t surfacing

The good feelings faded when he opened up his personal messages.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets said: Call yourself a Sam fan? I thought you were meant to be on his side?

Sam frowned at his phone. The reblogs, okay, but personal messaging? Really? His fingers poised over the keys to write an acerbic response, but he restrained himself. He didn’t owe random dickheads on the internet any explanations!

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets… why was that familiar? He’d seen them around once or twice before, he realised; sabriel wasn’t the biggest ship ever, so chances were if someone was on board then Sam would have at least heard of them.

But recently, Gabriel’s real life return had put a bit of a damper on his reading and writing. It was one thing writing yourself into a relationship with someone who was, to all intents and purposes, not real- it was quite another to write yourself sharing a loving embrace with someone who regularly popped in to give you updates on how heaven was doing under new management. He was surprised he could even look Gabriel in the face after some of the things he’d read about them.

That was it! Sam nodded to himself as he realised where he’d seen them before. The kinkmeme. Of course.

He opened up their A03 profile. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing in there less explicit than an E. Half of their fics made Sam blush down to his scalp just by looking at the summaries. There were some… colourful entries in there.

Sam hovered his cursor over the latest fic. With trepidation, he clicked.

“Spank me. It’s the only way I learn.”

Sam waved his cute patootie in the air, already marked with several cherry-red handprints like the naughty boy he was.

“Oh, you’re gonna learn, sweet-cheeks. And you’re gonna enjoy it.”

Gabriel ran his fingers across the array of toys before him, and as he glanced up, a sharp smirk tugging at his lips, he had never looked more dangerous. Dangerous, powerful and sexy. He picked out the biggest dildo, the one as long as Sam’s arm and twice as shiny, and in one swift thrust he rammed it into his tight little-

“Oh my god,” Sam choked, turning the laptop screen away a little. He needed a moment. That was… that wasn’t physically possible. Or at least, not pleasurable at all. It couldn’t be.

Was it?

He glanced back at the text. It was just morbid curiosity, that was all, he told himself. Just morbid... curiosity…

He read the whole thing. And then another one. And another one.

Sam surreptitiously adjusted his pants. Okay, so they could write, he thought to himself. That didn’t make them any less of an asshole. But he did decide to message them back.

Moose-of-Letters- Look, we’ve got different opinions. Could you just stay in your lane and stop bothering me?

It took a surprisingly short length of time before a reply to pop up.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets- I’ll stop bothering you when you aren’t reblogging hate posts

Sam scowled, feeling his temper rise. Who did they think they were, telling him what he could and couldn’t have on his blog? Like their own wasn’t a dumpster fire of discourse posts!

“What you looking at?”

Sam nearly jumped out of his seat, hiding his phone in reflex. Dean was standing behind him, grey robe on, steaming mug of coffee in hand.

“Selkie lore,” Sam grunted defensively.

Dean snorted. “What have selkies ever done to you?” Sam looked up again, frowning in confusion. Dean plonked himself down in the seat opposite, pulling the toast towards himself. “You look like you’re ready to open up a can of whoop-ass. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Sam muttered. “Late night, that’s all.” Dean raised his eyebrows but stayed silent, accepting his answer. Sam angled his phone away from his brother and typed furiously.

Moose-Of-Letters Commented: I’m not going to even bother arguing with you. If we can’t have a conversation like adults, then just fuck off.

He brought up their profile, his finger hovering over the ‘block’ button, but he paused. They were one of his followers.

Maybe… maybe he was being a little harsh. It had been a hate post, and he usually tried to be positive about all the ‘characters’, while he was sober at least- he didn’t normally put up with character hate. He’d been pretty vocal about it in the past. No wonder people had been taken aback, even if this one had dealt with it rudely. Slowly, he took his finger off the button, going back to the chat. How should he phrase this?

Moose-Of-Letters Commented: Look, some of the stuff with Sam is kind of personal for me, it’s a bit too close to home. I’m sorry if I got snappy with you.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets- Oops. Too late for that

What did that mean? As soon as Sam thought that, his feed updated. And there it was, right at the top.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets posted- The great battle for Sam’s dignity begins. Who woulda thought it but Moose-of-Letters is officially the enemy of the people. I declare war!! 

The text was followed by a gif of a pair or armoured knights facing off while brandishing rubber dildos. Already there had been another flurry of reblogs and arguments. Sam rolled his eyes, turning off is phone. Why did he even bother?

                                                              …

Gabriel was scrolling down his feed idly. Honestly, as much as he moaned about ruling heaven, there wasn’t that much to do. The most difficult thing he’d solved this morning was a disagreement between the Virtues as to whether the lesser cherubs should be classified using a tiered system or not. Who cared! It didn’t matter!! After that, the inane squabbles of tumblr discourse looked almost sensible.

Almost.

But then, he did enjoy causing chaos and then sitting back and watching everyone fall over themselves in indignation. That was just funny.

And what was even better were the increasingly frustrated and snarky reblogs he’d been getting from an account he’d decided to target after they reblogged that Dad-awful Sam hate post. They’d totally deserved it. He was amazed they hadn’t blocked him yet, but he was taking advantage of having someone to rile up while it lasted. Their replies had been getting progressively more pointed and it gave Gabriel a vicious sort of satisfaction. He was planning another volley of posts this afternoon, and he had some scorching insults lined up.

He reblogged some excellent fanart of Dean in a pair of pink panties (must remember to leave that somewhere for him to find), skipped over another post about the latest tumblr scandal (someone was making earrings out of human bones!?), but then he paused. He felt a flash of excitement- his nemesis was posting again.

Moose-of-Letters posted: Ugh, it annoys me so much when people try to pass Gabriel off as someone who just has loads of sex and eats candy and does nothing else. Like whatever, you want an outlet for your kinks, but it’s just bad characterisation.

Oh, he knew who this was aimed at. He felt his feathers fluff in annoyance. They were vagueing about him? And for all the things they could go for, they decided to take aim at writing. He quickly batted away a twinge of insecurity. It was his aesthetic! Who were they to judge his style? He could write Gabriel however the hell he liked!

He had a strange moment of dissociation where he realised he’d been thinking of himself in the third person, but he brushed it off. Obviously they thought they were just judging a character, but there was no way he couldn’t take this personally. Gabriel was offended on behalf of his fictional self. He opened up a direct message window again.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets- Look, if you’ve got a problem with my fics, just come into my comments and flame me like a normal person.

It didn’t take long for a reply to come in.

Moose-of-Letters- What makes you think that post’s about your fics? Hmm it’s almost as though you know it’s a flaw in your writing

And then, before Gabriel could do more than gape at his screen in disbelieving insult,

Moose-of-Letters- And it’s not that I don’t enjoy your writing, but I find your characterisation of Gabriel is off. You write him as though he’s just this candy-addicted nymphomaniac when it’s obvious that those things are shields. I was just trying to get people to appreciate that he’s clearly a much more complex character with deeper motivations!

Shields!? Where were they getting this stuff? Gabriel liked sex! He loved sex! All hot people all the time!

Well, the best defence was a good offence.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: Well if you’re so high and mighty, how would you characterise Gabriel? Sensitive with a side of Single Man Tears?

The jumping dots appeared under his reply. Then they stopped.

Gabriel smirked. Ha! Come back to that, dickweed!

But then the dots were back, the person on the other end obviously typing furiously. Gabriel watched, waiting for the answer to appear. What the hell were they writing, an essay? A novel? An epic?

Moose-of-Letters- Of course not. He’s an archangel, a warrior. But I think that Gabriel cares a lot more than he lets on. He’s got a huge heart, even though he tries his best to hide it because he’s been hurt by people he cares about. And I think that he feels a lot of hurt about his family. I think that’s why he gets so mad at Sam and Dean in TV land, because they remind him of his brothers, but he knows that he can’t yell at them directly so Sam and Dean get the brunt of his anger instead.

Gabriel winced. Not one of his better moments.

Moose-of-Letters- But I think that even more than loving his brothers, Gabriel loves humanity. In the Elysian Fields motel I think it’s clear that he feels guilty that he wasn’t strong enough to protect the humans from the apocalypse, even though that was never his fault. The Winchesters should have never guilted him into it, because every time he tries to help them he ends up dead.

Well, Moose wasn’t wrong.

The worst part was that he did seem to have Gabriel right so far. The guy had him bang on, whoopie for him. It wasn’t even like they were using that knowledge to insult him- they were defending him, even! But there was something painfully vulnerable about somebody laying out his character like that. Something violating. Like ripping off a scab and leaving the stinging, raw emotions underneath open to the elements.

And it made Gabriel angry. Suddenly, he realised that was what this feeling brewing in his chest and prickling behind his eyes was. His blood was boiling; who were these people to Know him? He hadn’t given out any of this information voluntarily!! It had been ripped from his control, the most intimate workings of his mind printed on pulp and handed out for people on the internet to pick over, like vultures at a carcass.  

Suddenly, the books didn’t seem so funny any more. He was starting to realise why the Winchesters had wanted them gone for all these years

Screw his Dad, seriously. A+ parenting all round.

He was about to angrily snap the laptop shut when another message popped up.

Moose-of-Letters- I think all the characters tend to underestimate Gabriel, in different ways, and I think that the writer did too. I just have a lot of admiration for his character because I can relate to a lot of what he’s gone through.

Gabriel deflated. These people didn’t know. They hadn’t got a clue that any of this was real. And this person in particular had obviously seen his character, him, for who he was, but they hadn’t run screaming. They were… defending him?

He stared at the screen, nonplussed. Why?

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: You really like Gabriel, huh?

Moose-of-Letters: I think it’s impossible to spend all this time getting to know about someone and not care about them.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: and you think you know him? The real him?

Moose-of-Letters: I’d like to think so. Hey, sorry I came off as an asshole. And I’m sorry if I’ve been an asshole about other things as well. It’s just something I’m really passionate about.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: That makes two of us.

Gabriel quirked an ironic little smile to himself. Even here, in the underbelly of the internet, people were still reminding him why he’d always defended humanity. Their ability for change and forgiveness was something he wished angels had a hang of. He kept typing.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: I guess I should apologise for the insults, even if they were super creative. And you’re not a bad writer yourself. My dad was a writer once, and you’re definitely better than him. I’m pretty new to it.

Moose-of-Letters: I’d be happy to give you some pointers if you’ll give me some! your smut is hot as hell ;)

Gabriel laughed, properly this time. Oh, he could already tell this was going to be a very fruitful alliance.

                                                          .o0o.

Goldenhorns posted- There’s nothing weirder than seeing Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets and Moose-of-Letters getting along. It’s like watching God and Satan getting pally.

Vatican-came0s commented: Correction; there’s only one thing weirder than seeing Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets and Moose-of-Letters getting along, and it’s seeing them give each other fic suggestions. How the hell is that even happening!?

Gabes-hoe commented: I have no idea, but they will have the most gorgeous plotty-smutty literature babies together

Guess_who_lost_a_shoe commented: I for one welcome our new fic creating overlords!

Gabriel smirked as he saw the post crop up on his dash. It was definitely more entertaining watching everyone’s sudden confusion at them getting along than it ever had been when he was trying to make them angry.

It was the strangest friendship he’d ever made, and coming from someone who’d spent several centuries as a trickster god, that was saying something.

But he and Moose (as he’d insisted on calling him) had started talking more and more over the last three weeks, and the more they talked, the more Gabriel was realising that they had in common. Seeing his own character through someone else’s eyes was fascinating. And Moose was great once he’d got to know him- they might have different approaches to writing fic, but he was kind, level-headed, and an amazing writer with some awesome ideas. Gabriel was writing more now than he had in months-

“Gabriel, are you even listening?” Cas’ deep voice interrupted his thoughts. Gabriel’s head jerked up to where he was standing in front of the throne.

“Hmm yeah. Uh. What?”

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You are distracted again, brother. At least pretend to pay attention.”

But it was no use, not when his new favourite commenter popped up in his notifications. Gabriel snatched a glance at his notes between appointments. Oooh, Moose was commenting on his WIPs.

Moose-of-Letters- Love the descriptions! Maybe put a short bridging scene between them meeting in the club and getting to the shibari, though? The transition feels a little abrupt.

Gabriel nodded to himself. Moose was right, it did need another scene in there before it got to the bondage part- he’d do that later. But working on his ever-growing library would have to wait. He turned his phone to silent, stowing it in a pocket. It was almost time for the weekly appointment he looked forward to and dreaded in equal measure; going to visit Sam.

                                                         .o0o.

Sam had spent most of the morning alternating between frantically researching or repeatedly checking his phone, trying to keep himself busy enough with making protective hex bags for the new hunters that he could stay calm and prepare himself for Gabriel's weekly visit. But he still didn’t feel either calm or prepared when the beating of wings filled the kitchen.

Gabriel appeared with a pop in front of him, tugging the collar of that leather jacket he favoured these days back into place. The archangel nodded at him, looking him up and down. “Sam.”

“Gabe.” Internally, Sam winced. Was ‘Gabe’ too informal? It felt too informal. Was it something he’d picked up from everything he’d been reading? He didn’t know any more! Fanfiction wasn't reality, he knew that damnit, but sometimes it just slipped out-

Gabriel, thankfully, didn’t seem to have noticed his internal struggle. He bounced on the balls of his feet, his arms swinging stiffly at his sides as he looked around the kitchen like he felt the awkwardness as keenly as Sam did.

The silence stretched out painfully. Sam had to say something. Anything.

“How are you?” he blurted, at the same time as Gabriel said, “So, wotcha been doing down here?” Sam snapped his mouth shut. Gabriel smirked, mischief twinkling in his eyes. “Ladies first.”

Normally, this would be where Sam would fire back something witty before they got down to business. But some fanart Sam had seen of Gabriel posing in an extremely short skirt and silky, lacy lingerie under it appeared behind his eyes like a goddamn real life pop-up. Sam cleared his throat, shaking it off.

They managed to get through most of Sam’s updates on the new hunters without him embarrassing himself, which Sam thought was a serious achievement. At some point they moved to sit at the kitchen table, Sam with his hands clasped in front of him. Gabriel was fiddling absentmindedly with one of the pieces of string Sam had been using to make the hex bags while Sam talked. “So yeah, we managed to get that demon nest cleared up before they could kill anyone else. I was worried we might have something more powerful on our hands, but it looks like it was just a very charismatic leader. I think he was running for candidacy for the king of hell.”

Gabriel nodded as he listened to Sam intently, twirling the string between his fingers, snapping it tight before letting it go slack again. “Good. As long as everyone downstairs is still distracted, we should be able to get established before they rally.” He glanced up. Was Sam imagining the way that tawny gaze softened when Gabriel looked at him? Was he searching for fondness that wasn’t there? He couldn’t tell any more.

Gabriel sat back with a dramatic sigh. “We’re nearly good to go up there, the souls and heavens are finally stable but I’m still trying to find another angel apart from Cassie with more personality than a banana skin…”

Sam found his attention trailing off, Gabriel’s hands holding his gaze, those clever fingers twisting and pulling at the string. A scene flashed past his eyes from Trickster’s latest fic that he’d read just that morning-

Gabriel gave one last tug on the ropes, pulling them tight. He looked down in satisfaction at the intricate series of loops holding his lover exactly where he wanted him- bent over the bed, legs slightly spread, back arched beautifully. An entire smorgasbord of skin, all laid out for him to enjoy.

Sam whined behind his gag. Gabriel could see him testing the knots, flexing his arms where they were tied behind his back, but he knew they would hold. Those tanned muscular thighs, gleaming with sweat, were straining against the ropes, but he was rocking against the silk sheets in a way that made it very clear he was still helplessly turned on.

Gabriel rested one hand against his back, stilling him. Slowly, he soothed the hand  upwards, and Sam melted at the contact. Finally he relaxed into the ropes’ embrace. The sight of Sam so willingly submitting himself to Gabriel’s complete control fanned the hunger burning in his gut flare into a roar-

“Sam? Hey, gigantor! Anybody home?”

Sam jerked, his eyes flashing guiltily to Gabriel’s. Gabriel raised a questioning eyebrow. Sam, to his mortification, felt himself flush scarlet. Gabriel’s eyebrow nearly disappeared into his hair.

Damn it, Sam, get it together! “Just… uh…” Sam cleared his throat. “Just thinking about demons. Uuuh, about going back to look for any we missed. Just in case. And we’re going to hunt wha I’m pretty sure is a chupacabra later, so… yeah. That as well.”

“Okay,” Gabriel still looked dubious. “Aaanyway, I gotta be getting back. The cherubs get jittery without someone telling them what to do every second of every day. But I should be back same time next week. What day is it again?”

Sam felt a lead weight form in his gut. He had to know, didn’t he? But time ran differently in heaven.

“It’s… it’s a Tuesday.” He couldn’t help the way his voice stuttered on that last word. Even after all these years, Dean still had to change the station whenever Asia came on the radio.

Sam saw Gabriel’s eyes widen. He froze awkwardly, his usual confident smirk slipping. Sam had no doubt that they were both thinking of the same thing- the six months that Sam had spent trapped in that time loop. The silence thickened.

Gabriel opened his mouth as though he was going to say something, grimaced, and Sam waited, his breath catching for a drawn-out second. Were they finally going to talk about this?

Then Gabriel closed it again in a huff. Sam tried not to show his slump of disappointment.

“So, same time next week?”

“Yeah, see you-” there was a flurry of flapping and Gabriel disappeared, “-next week,” Sam sighed.

He rubbed his face tiredly with one hand. Well, that could have gone better. Time to drown his sorrows in fanfiction.

                                                              .o0o.

Gabriel was in too deep, and he knew it.

He scowled at his latest WIP. He’d retreated to his favourite spot in the Garden and pulled up the kinkmeme prompt as soon as he got back from his little trip earth-side in the hopes that it would drive any residual anxiety out of his brain. No luck there. This was supposed to be porn, dad-damn it!  So why were they still talking? Why were they having a meaningful conversation instead of getting down and dirty? Where the hell had all these feelings come from?

He leaned back against the trunk of the nearest tree, staring out moodily across the sunlit clearing and the vast forest beyond. The problem, he grumped to himself, was what had happened that afternoon. He had put his foot in his mouth, again. Which wasn’t an unusual occurrence. There weren’t that many safe topics outside of work when it came to Sam.

And he had wanted to talk to Sam about Mystery Spot this time, he had! He wanted to move past this. He’d tried to get the words out. But as usual, he’d frozen, and his cowardice had won out. And then he’d run away. What the hell had he been thinking!?

Sam was his friend. Probably his last friend outside of heaven (well, apart from Moose). Sam had seen him at his lowest, cleaned him up and taken out those damn stitches, brought him back from being locked within his own mind, hell, even jumped in front of him to deflect Michael’s blade during that last desperate battle in the apocalypse world. Gabriel had hurt him and he wanted to fix it, but he just couldn’t get the words out.

A gentle breeze stirred around him. He took a deep breath of the sweet air, looking out into the once-busy emptiness of heaven.

Well, if he couldn’t apologise to Sam, at least fictional him could. Maybe it was time to take a leaf out of Moose’s book.

                                                         .o0o.

Sam bolted up the stairs, flinging himself into the nearest room and looking around wildly. Unfortunately it looked like it was a dead end- the window of the deserted shack was too small to squeeze through. Should he go and try another room?

But he was too late. The sound of the chupacabra they were hunting climbing it’s way up the stairs reached him. Shit! He’d have to hide.

Sam looked around, spotting a cupboard in the corner. He grimaced, climbing in. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do. Silently, he pulled the doors shut behind himself.

The creature reached the top of the stairs. There was a muted clicking of claws on wood. The overloaded groan of a floorboard.

The chupacabra stopped. It sniffed the air. Through the tiny gap between the doors, Sam could see its forked tongue flickering out to taste the air, bulging eyes peering around the room. Sam held his breath and hoped that its hearing wasn’t sharp enough to pick up his heart thumping against his ribs.

It hitched in a breath, and sneezed violently. Sam flinched. His grip on his machete was so tight that he was sure his knuckles were turning white. It snorted, shaking itself with a rattle of spines.

With another grunt, it turned to leave. Sam dared to take the thinnest breath. His muscles relaxed just slightly.

PING!

The monster whirled. It’s lamplight eyes pinpointed the cupboard. Sam felt his phone vibrate in his pocket with the notification and had a moment to screw his eyes shut. Fuck! Why hadn’t he turned it off when they started!?

Luckily, at that moment, Dean’s war cry split the air. Sam leapt from the cupboard, machete already swinging. He could berate himself later. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry.

                                                             …

“Was the flamethrower really necessary?”

Dean looked back in satisfaction at the smoking remains of the shack. “The flamethrower is always necessary.”

Sam rolled his eyes, sliding into the front seat. He hoped he got soot on the upholstery.

Pulling his phone out of his pocket, he was relieved to see that it didn’t appear to have been damaged in the fight. The screen was still whole. He powered it on, and there it was, the notification that had nearly got him killed.

Archive Of Our Own

[AO3] Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets just posted a new work :)

Sam groaned. Fanfiction was literally going to be the death of him.

                                                        .o0o.

Moose-of-Letters commented: Hey, I like the new fic, it’s different from your usual. Sorry I didn’t comment earlier, I was a bit distracted.

Gabriel smiled as he opened his email. His new favourite commenter had picked up on it, because of course they had.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: Yeah, guess this fic is your influence ;)

It had stuck with him, that conversation with Sam. Or rather, the parts of it that hadn’t happened. He’d been thinking about it, really thinking about it, in the times between his heavenly appointments.

Re-reading the book featuring Mystery Spot from Sam’s point of view had been quite an eye-opener. He’d been so focused, the first time, on getting Sam to stop that he hadn’t truly realised what he was doing to him in his desperation. It had made him wonder- what would he do, if he could go back and change it all? Knowing what he did now, would he have been able to make a difference? He thought he might.

And if he were to talk to Sam about it now, what could he ever say to apologise to Sam for what he’d done to him?

A lot of that had made it onto the page. It was heavier than what he usually wrote, but somehow Gabriel felt lighter for it.

Moose-of-Letters: About the Mystery Spot, do you really think that Gabriel was doing any of that for Sam?

Gabriel sighed. He should have known that Moose would want to talk characterisation. What should he say?

Well, there was nothing stopping him from telling the truth.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: I think he was doing that all for Sam. Gabriel was just trying to prepare Sam for Dean’s inevitable death- he knew the apocalypse was about to go down, remember? He knew what was coming, and he was trying to avert it.

Gabriel bit his lip, his fingers pausing over the keyboard. Was he really gonna pour his heart out to random strangers on the internet? Really?

But now he started, he just couldn’t seem to stop his fingers. And anyway, Moose wasn’t really a stranger at this point.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: Gabriel couldn’t go to Sam directly because he’s got a soft spot for him. He likes him. He doesn’t like seeing humans get hurt who don’t deserve it, and the fact that his brothers are gonna cause so much destruction and he can’t do a thing to stop it is breaking his heart. That bit at the end where he gives in? He just couldn’t do it anymore, Sam out-stubborns him. He knows he wouldn’t be able to stand to see Sam hurting, and in the end? That’s why he failed. His love for humans is his weakness, the way he cares for Sam in particular.

There. It was out.

Gabriel pushed his laptop away, closing his eyes and resting his face in his hands. He needed a moment.

                                                        .o0o.

Sam sat back. Huh.

He honestly hadn’t expected Trickster’s first foray into more serious fics to be much good. Not because he couldn’t write- obviously he could, his work had been featuring heavily in Sam’s spank bank (as Dean would call it) for months now. Heavy-hitting just wasn’t his speciality, that was all.

But he had written it. And it was good.

It was emotional, and raw, and almost painfully in-character. Gabriel’s confession, his betrayal and his grief and anger and guilt were all so real that Sam wondered if Trickster had gone through something similar in his own life. He hadn’t been able to resist asking what Trickster thought Gabriel’s motivations were. He wished he could be as sure as Trickster was that Mystery Spot had been about Gabriel trying to save him. And he secretly doubted that Gabriel had given up his attempt because he cared for him. Not in real life.

But he could let himself live this fantasy for just a little longer, couldn’t he? He felt a pang in his heart that he was never going to have this conversation with Gabriel himself. This was probably as close as he was ever gonna get.  

Slowly, Sam started typing.

Moose-of-Letters- Well, I think you’re right about Sam being stubborn. But it wasn’t Gabriel’s fault that Sam didn’t learn that lesson- I don’t think he ever would have. He was in too deep to ever realise what Gabriel was trying to say.

Sam hesitated, biting his lip. He started typing again.

Moose-of-Letters- I think they would both have been a lot happier if Gabriel had been able to get through to him. I wish it had gone like your fic in canon.

Angel_In_the_Streets_Trickster_In_the_Sheets: You and me both, Moose.

Sam smiled sadly. If only.

Moose-of-Letters- I’m not sure you’re right about Gabriel’s mercy being his weakness though. His love for humanity is what makes him different from his brothers. It’s what makes him human- it’s the thing that really drew me to his character in the first place. His love for humans might put him in the firing line, but I think it’s one of his greatest strengths as well. And I think his incredible empathy is one of the reasons why Sam would love him, as well as everything else they have in common. When it comes down to it, he’s ready to lay down everything for humanity too. They’re really kindred spirits.

Moose-of-Letters- Maybe if you’re trying angst I should give smut a go :P

And really, everything went downhill from there.

Part 2, coming soon!

[rachello344]

A glossary of fandom terms that have either been taken from literary criticism (incorrectly) or that I use that are either no longer in use or have... different definitions now.

If anyone has any terms they’d like to see added or words you come across that have confused you, please drop me a line.  I’d be happy to add to this whenever.  It’ll all be under a readmore so that I can edit it when needed.  ^^

Discourse--Literally a discussion, like, the act of discussing.  That’s it.  More specifically, people will say, “the novel here participates in one of the many discourses on gender” or something like that.  Essentially linking one occurrence to a wider conversation.  Literature and Media do not exist in a vacuum, but neither can one work make a trend, but I’ll get to that. Just call it wank or meta.  Use the words we have, don’t take words from academia, especially when you don’t understand their context.

Romance--One of many genres of fiction.  This is a story that centers around a romantic relationship between two or more characters.  I could tell you about how all genres are crutches and constructs we assign to make ourselves feel better, but that might be moving too fast.  For now, what’s important is what a romance isn’t.  A romance is NOT some kind of idealist model that must serve as a positive example for the Youth.  That would be Utopian Romance fiction (which is boring because stories need conflict, but that’s my own opinion on the matter).  A romance only needs the major plot conflicts to hinge around the romantic (as in not platonic, this could be love or lust or some combination thereof) relationships between its characters.  Pride and Prejudice is a romance.  Captive Prince is a romance.  The Foxhole Court, while containing a romantic subplot, is not a romance.  Harry Potter is not a romance.  A story can have romance without being a romance.  Compare romantic comedies with action movies, as an example.  But, don’t think that a romance can’t be tense or unhealthy or whatever.  Fifty Shades is also a romance, remember.  If you wrote out the Joker and Harley Quinn’s story, only focusing on them, their story would be a romance.  It’s more complicated than that, obviously, and there’s nuance, but I think you get the picture.  Regardless of your moral views on the love depicted, a romance is nothing more or less than a story about the development of a romantic relationship.

Fetishization--I hate seeing this word thrown around.  This literally means that something has been made into a fetish object on a cultural level.  You can have the fetishization of purity in American culture, for example.  And you can have the fetishization of homosexual relationships in pornography intended for heterosexual audiences.  However.  A single work of fiction is not fetishizing anything.  It may contribute to an overall trend, but this is not a word to use for single entities.  This is a cultural trend word.  Sure, it can be used for subcultures, but whenever I see this word used, it’s used to mean that some work of fiction or other is bad for displaying a queer sexual relationship in any kind of (perceived) perverse way.  Please stop using this word incorrectly.  As a kind of burgeoning critical theorist (i.e. English grad student), it is incredibly frustrating.  You’re using words you don’t understand in ways that undermine the hard work being done by people in my field.  Unless you’re going to read Marx and Lukacs and learn what the word “reification” means, I think you should use another word. In most cases, what is meant is that some group people don’t like are showing an interest in something perceived as not belonging to them, whether that’s true or not.  I think if we unpack that a little, we can all find better ways to phrase things.  Fetishization is an accusation thrown around, not the analysis it’s meant to be.  And, frankly, it needs to stop.

Normalization--This is thrown around so often I hardly know where to begin.  This is not a word that can be used for a single object, again.  This is a word meant for trends.  For example, we could talk about the fact that male violence in our culture is normalized and so no longer taken as seriously as it should be.  A fictional work depicting something you don’t like in a way you perceive as positive and uncritical does not mean that it’s normalizing it.  A single crime procedural does not normalize crime.  You could say that the trend of always showing cops to be in the right, no matter the extreme actions they take, normalizes the liberties they take in the real world, making it difficult to speak out against police brutality and other such abuses.  But again, that’s the genre as a whole--procedural cop dramas could all contribute, but one of them is not going to be normalizing on its own.  That isn’t how that works. Just say that you find whatever it is unpleasant to read because of X or Y trope.  Or talk about how the TROPE is normalizing something.  That’s totally legitimate.  The trope of X normalizes Y behavior in Z culture/situation/etc. and this is harmful because W.

Romanticization--This does not mean that something bad is shown in a romantic light.  This is another big trend word.  Cultural myths about heterosexual marriage and related gender roles contribute to the romanticization of domestic abuse.  A single work of fiction depicting an abusive relationship in any kind of perceive positive light is not romanticizing abuse.  Cultural narratives about women needing to be convinced can romanticize the act of rape, especially from the male perspective.  One work of fiction cannot do this.  It has to be on at least a genre level, if not cultural or societal.  Again, subcultural too, but you have to make the argument apply outward. The BL/Yaoi trope of having a Seme character force an openly reluctant Uke character into sex romanticizes sexual assault.  One BL using the trope can contribute to it, but it isn’t romanticizing anything on its own.  It’s not powerful enough to be capable of that.

Wank--The word once used to describe what is now called “discourse.”  It’s usually a circle jerk of complaints about some fandom or another or the people in it.  Every example of so called discourse I have ever seen was actually just wank wearing a new hat.  Don’t put on airs or borrow credibility.  Call a spade a spade.

Meta--Analysis on a series or character.  Some of these are better reasoned than others, but the only way to truly rate them is in how well they use their evidence (and how much evidence they have) to support whatever claim they make.  These are often essays, but can be a couple paragraphs, sometimes with pictures as evidence along with quotes from the source.  Some “discourse” falls into this, but only very rarely.  Most people call meta either meta or analysis instead.

BNF--Big Name Fan.  This is THE person in your fandom, generally an artist, occasionally a fic writer or other content creator.  You’ll know them when you see them.  This is the person everyone follows.  Their headcanons are so widely accepted that they almost always become fanon (whether you like it or not).  Some of these people are super nice and use their powers for good.  Others can become divas, mad with the power the fandom has given them.  Regardless, there is almost always drama brewing around them (whether they like it or not, unfortunately). I recently saw some commenting on people actually asking other fans for permission to hold certain headcanons.  Someone with that power is a BNF.  That is a TRADEMARK of a BNF.  Their fandom credibility and respect is so high that people see them as some kind of authority figure.  Be wary of people who go along with this.  They’re not to be trifled with, and frankly, it’s safer not to engage.

TPTB--The Powers That Be, otherwise known as the writers/producers/creators of any given series.  These are the people that create Canon and produce Word of God.

Canon--Anything that explicitly happened in the confines of a series.  Basically, the events of any given series in whatever form the standard is.  I.E. episodes of a TV show, books in a book series, etc.

Fringe Canon--Works that are connected to the series in question, but not part of the standard form.  Often includes movies, novelizations, guide books, etc.  Can be considered canon, but isn’t something every fan will see/have access to, so can’t really be considered The Canon.  Can also includes things that are implicit in the text, so something that can be argued in meta but that not everyone will agree on.

Word of God--Something said by TPTB that remains outside of canon.  I.E. interviews, panels, and other things said at conventions or for PR.  Common mantra, “PR is not showrunning” meaning that Word of God often has little to do with what happens within the series. Example:  Some sub-textual evidence of Dumbledore being gay does not make his being gay canon (it makes it fringe canon, imo).  Rowling saying that he was gay in an interview is here considered Word of God.  You can take it or leave it, because no one in the series says the words “Dumbledore was gay” or any other variation that would make it explicit canon.

Headcanon--Something that you decide about a character.  This isn’t canon and often has no strong basis in canon.  It can include sexuality, gender, religion, favorite color, anything not covered by canon.  You can also have headcanons that contradict canon.

Fanon--Headcanons that have become Too Powerful.  These are things, good or bad, that have been accepted by a probably absurd number of people.  Some of these can be great, especially when the series has some seriously bad writing, but if you find yourself disagreeing, this can be the worst thing you ever have to deal with.  Especially when people who subscribe to it insist on its being canon...

Ship--Any feasible romantic relationship, canon or non-canon.  There are of course platonic variants, but those are usually specified (broship, brotp, etc.).  Most often two people, but more recently polyshipping has come into vogue. To Ship (v.)--For me, this does not apply to canon ships no matter if I like them or not.  Shipping is transformative.  To me, more than anything, shipping (as a verb) means you consume or create transformative media centered around that relationship (most often non-canon or not explicit canon, but could include canon, it just needs to be an active not passive interest in the relationship).

Canon Ship--The series endgame, usually (but not always!) straight.  This is an explicit couple.  They are in a relationship.  They kiss (or something) on screen.  You can still take it or leave it, but that doesn’t stop it from being canon.

Rare Pair--This is a ship that has some basis in canon, but is extremely unpopular.  Some people include anything with less than a certain number of fic on Ao3, but it varies by fandom.  I’ve been into rare pairs with less than 10 fic written for them, so anything around 500 still seems like quite a bit in comparison.  Your Mileage May Vary (YMMV), but you’ll know it when you see it.

Crack Ship--These people have probably never spoken.  There is no reason for them to be in a relationship other than the fan’s preference (often aesthetic or story-related).  A crack ship is often random and completely baseless.  A crack ship is not simply a ship that won’t be canon.  Most ships will never be canon.  This goes beyond that into the ridiculous.  As a recent example, Keith x Zarkon would be a crack ship, while Keith x Hunk is perfectly reasonable (if rare).

Multi-shipping--Shipping characters together without a strong preference for one combination over another.  For example, shipping your fave with every possible romantic partner, not just one (or more in a polyship).  This includes Everyone x Character type things, not just “I could ship them with literally anyone.”  Both count.

OTP--One True Pairing.  The ship you love above all others, canon or not.  For me, I have exactly one of these per fandom, but I know other people use it differently now.  This used to mean that you ship the thing exclusively.  You might like art for other ships with the characters in this OTP, but you’re not that into it.  This used to be THE ship.  The characters in this OTP were not shipped with others, and other relationships were used for jealousy or plot reasons, not usually because you enjoy the other ships.  This is the ship you go to war about.

OT#--Same as above, but there are more than two people involved.  So, the one polyship you hold above all other ships (poly or not).

BrOTP--Platonic version of the above.  These are the ride or die friendships of the series.  You don’t see them as in love, but they absolutely love each other.  There’s devotion and loyalty and affection--or you just think their friendship is the best/greatest/funniest and you don’t see them ever ending up together romantically.  You want these characters to be BFFs, not lovers.