#the first two were good and the interviewers told me outright about the pay and benefits packages

[yardsards]

fuck any job interviewer that's like "so how much money do you expect to be paid for this position"

idk dawg??? as much as you're willing to give me??? don't make me play "do i lowball it and risk getting underpaid or highball it and risk not getting hired" mind games. i did not come here to play the fucking price is right. you're the one writing the paychecks here.

[yamanorakuen]

HC: MC finds an abandoned baby [Demon Brothers]

Sorry for my absence. I've written some things but haven't published anything as they're all incomplete or I'm not happy enough with them. I've also been really busy, and it seems like I'll keep being busy for the rest of the school year.

Backstory: MC finds a baby in a basket in front of the House of Lamentetion with a note asking someone to take care of it. MC decides to take the baby in.. But how will the brothers react?

[Side Characters vers.]

Here's a little headcanon/imagine though. Read below the line.

Lucifer lets out a deep sigh when he finds out about the baby. How was he the last one of his brothers to find out about this? Shouldn't he be the first you confide to in matters as serious as this?

... Wait. Why did Satan just scoff and say that there's an obvious reason he was kept in the dark about this?

No one dares to outright tell the reason to him, though.

Lucifer rolls his eyes and commands you to get rid of the baby. Jut straight up, do whatever with it, as long as it's gone.

Cue loud protests from MC and some of his brothers, already attached to the child. If it was only the brothers, Lucifer could handle it, but seeing you fix a puppy eye look on him is embarrassingly effective on Lucifer..

So, the baby is staying. At least until Lucifer can sort out the situation and find it a good home.

Lucifer's workload was just doubled by this little menace. So he's mostly swamped with work, barely having time to look after the baby, but occasionally he runs into the baby and you or one of his brothers playing with it, feeding it or rocking it to sleep.

Luficer would never admit it, but he found the sights adorable. It reminded him of the times his brothers were young.

One night, after a very busy and stressful day, he walks into the living room and sees you cuddling with the baby, telling it about the human world with a high-pitched voice.

Lucifer nearly tears up at the sight, transfixedly staring at you two, until a camera flash disturbed his trance.

"Quick! Let's scram!" Mammon yelled at Leviathan as they made their hasty escape. But Lucifer didn't run after them. Instead, he sighed and shook his head, before walking up to you and sitting next to you on the sofa.

".. Mind if I hold the kid?" He asks quietly and you nod, beaming at him, handing over the sleepy baby. Lucifer holds it gently yet with experience. He feels all of his previous stress just diminishing while cuddling with the kid.

When the baby has been found a good home, he's conflicted; he's both relieved as this means less stress and work for him, but also sad to say goodbye and that he didn't get to spend as much time with the little one as he had hoped to.

Mammon is the first person you run to after you found the baby. You didn't know what in the world possessed you to do so, but you did it anyway.

Mammon freaks out after seeing the baby. He's also slightly red in the face. "Is that our baby?! I didn't know ya were pregnant! Ya should've told me!"

You felt like facepalming, but alas, you were holding a small child in your arms. You had to explain to Mammon that no, it's not your baby and no, you were not pregnant.

After Mammon finally understood the situation, he started thinking about how to make money with the baby. Perhaps he could auction the baby..

Now you felt like hitting Mammon. Perhaps while holding the child. "Mammon, we are NOT going to auction off a child!"

Fear not, Mammon had other ideas how to get rich with the abandoned baby: Raise it as your own and turn it into a star, a circus freak or anything profitable. Write a book about it. Make a movie. Only accept interviews if they pay for you. Start a family blog about it. Scam people, saying that the baby is going to die if they don't pay up..

Safe to say, you rejected all those ideas.

At first, Mammon was annoyed with the baby. It was loud, whiny, stinky and worst of all, it hogged all your attention that belonged rightfully to him!

Mammon started to sulk every time he saw you with the baby, not wanting to do anything with the kid, not even if you asked.

Until literally the third day with the baby, the baby started to play with this feathery keychain and babble away happily. That was seemingly enough to melt him.

After that, he was inseperable with the baby, claiming that 'he was the first brother to meet the baby', so he had every right to hog the baby to himself.

Grew to be really protective over the little one. Territorial even. Especially if you were holding the baby. He wouldn't let any of his brothers near if he was around. His human, his baby.

When the baby was found a good home, Mammon was trying his best to hold back tears (He failed miserably). He didn't want to let the baby go, even asked Lucifer if they could keep it, but eventually understood that the family found for it would offer a better home for the kid.

Leviathan was the second last of the brothers to find out about the baby, as he rarely left his room.

He only found out about it when you had texted him if you could stay in his room to hide from Lucifer, which he complied to.

And soon enough, you snuck to his room.. Holding a pile of clothes in your arms??? We're you planning to have a sleepover, or-?

Then he heard the pile of clothes crying! Leviathan just froze, staring at the pile of clothes with wide eyes.

Then you revealed to him what was buried inside the pile of clothes; a real, living and breathing baby.

Leviathan nearly fainted at the sight! Don't scare him like that! He needed an explanation asap!

After your explanation to the poor avatar of envy, he felt conflicted; at the same time this was beyond weird and Levi didn't have much experience with babies (other than virtual), but this also reminded him of this anime he saw called My Crush Found An Orphan Child In Front Of Their Front Door And That Child Turned Out To Be A Mermaid Who Was Cursed By An Evil Seawitch Who Ate Her Entire Family And The Last Mermaid Had To Disguise Herself As A Human Baby But The Seawitch Is Also Disguised As The Neighbor's Old Man Named Steven.

What if this baby was a mermaid too? C-Can Leviathan test it? He has an aquarium is his room so-

Levi don't drown the child!

Levi grumbles but agrees that testing the theory is too dangerous.

Anyway, he doesn't know what to do with the kid. It probably can't live off of soda and chips, so staying in Levi's room can't be a long-term solution.

Leviathan doesn't dare to hold the baby (He's just a yucky otaku after all!) so when you leave for bathroom, he just stares at the little baby, lying in the bathtub.

He must admit, the baby is kinda cute.. He can kinda remember some of his brother being this young, too..

When you come back, you find Levi just staring at the kid from slightly closer than he was before. Progress..?

Anyway, Leviathan slowly warms up to the baby. He's not the most helpful with the baby, but he tries.

The real shift in his attitude happens one time when he finds the baby staring at the television screen intently - then Levi realizes that an anime is playing on-screen! So the baby and Levi watch it together, and Levi is completely melting at the baby's big and sparkling eyes whenever something cool happens onscreen.

When it's the baby's time to leave, Leviathan is pretty sulky, but he doesn't outright complain about it. He knows he could not offer the baby as good of a home as those adoptive parents could. And he still has Henry 2.0, so he's still good to go, right..?

Satan finds out about the baby quickly. It's hard to hide anything from him as he is rather observant. Also, he's smart, so you'll probably ask for his help at some point.

"Satan, I have something to show you.." You mumble, entering the library, holding something in your arms.

"Is it a cat? Please tell me it's a cat.." Satan gets his hopes up but they're all crushed when he notices it's a baby.. Boo!

Much to your disappointment, Satan doesn't really know all that much about babies as he has the least experience with them out of the brothers. He promises to research it though.

At first he doesn't spend much time with the kid as he's catching up on some books on pareting, occasionally messaging the group chat with some useful baby trivia he found.

Actually becomes quickly quite well-read on anything to do with babies. He even learns how to tell what the baby wants just from it's cry.

"Beel, the baby's not hungry. It's clearly sleepy. How can you not hear it? Get Belphie to put it to sleep."

Satan in rather analytical with the baby; reading it as a machine that follows the same patterns and never changes. And that might be his biggest downfall.

His ego gets a blow when one time one his crying predictions was wrong. Afterwards, he is sulking. That cry had always meant the baby's diaper was full, not that it was looking for attention!

He knows it's dumb, but he's kinda mad at the baby. And he stayed mad, until one day..

Lucifer changes the kid's diaper for the first time, and the baby.. Pees on him! Some even goes into Lucifer's mouth! The shocked and disgusted expression on Lucifer's face was MARVELOUS.

Satan can't help but cackle, suddenly finding himself not hating the baby anymore.

Wonders if he can use the baby to grind or prank Lucifer some more..

Likes to read to the baby.

After the baby had found a home, Satan's slightly sad, but doesn't dwell on it. However, he tries to use his knowledge and experience with the baby as an excuse to get a cat.

Lucifer still says no much to Satan's disappointment.

Asmodeus also finds out about the baby among the first of the brothers. He literally squeals in delight when he lays his eyes on the little one.

"Sooo cute! Where did you get it? Can I hold it?!" Asmo was beyond excited, taking the baby from you without any shred of worry in his mind.

"Pretty cute, but not as cute as me though!" Asmo chuckles as he gazes down at the baby, "We need to get you some new clothes though, these ones just won't do!"

And so, in less than five hours, the baby has a completely new wardrobe and Asmodeus puts on a fashion show, taking selfies with the baby in all the cute outfits!

Asmodeus is just smitten with the baby! He's getting so many likes on Devilgram thanks to it's help, people stop him on the street to coo over them both, and who doesn't love the smell of a baby?

.. Talking about the smell.. What is that smell..? Is that..? EW!

Asmo quickly pushes the baby to you, telling you to take care of the source of the smell. He needs to bathe as soon as possible, he can't risk stenching!

Asmodeus generally does well with the baby and likes to hang out with it, as long as he doesn't have to 'do the icky parts', i.e. change the diapers.

Other than that, he's wonderful with the baby. Having the baby around reveals a more nurturing side of him, one that is usually hidden behind his flamboyance and narcissism.

His Devilgram page is suddenly transformed into a baby page. Asmo also loves to spoil the little one.

When the baby has to leave, Asmo is heartbroken, just wailing dramatically, and no one is sure whether his reaction is real or just an act or maybe an overexaggeration.

Mammon wants to sell the baby clothes Asmo brought, now useless to the brothers, but Asmodeus instead gives them to the family that adopted the baby, making the new parets to swear that they will always make sure the baby is looking stylish and cute.

Unbeknownst to everyone, Asmodeus actually keeps one article of baby clothing to himself, not daring to get rid of it. It was his favorite one, and seeing it always reminded him of the baby.

He secretly hopes he one day has some use for the baby outfit again..

Beelzebub is another one that is very excited about the newcomer! He is naturally a nurturing and caring person, so caring for the weak and vulnerable baby comes to him naturally.

Although at the same time, he is scared that he will break or hurt the baby with his sheer size, so he refuses to hold the baby at first.

He's also slightly worried that he'll mistake the baby for a big potato, so he keeps a respectful distance to the child at first.

But even so, you often find Beel just cooing at the baby or looking at it longingly and with love.

After a while, you just sit Beel down and tell him that you trust him and that you know that Beel won't hurt or eat the baby. After much encouragement, Beel asks if he can hold the baby.

You give the child to Beelzebub, who looks like a kid at Christmas. His eyes are just shining, there's a wide yet soft smile on his face and he's visibly happy and ecstatic.

After that, Beel wants nothing more than to be around the baby. 'I've had this baby for a day, but if anything happened to them, I would kill everyone in this house and then myself.' -attitude.

Wants to name the kid Lilith or a variation of it, no matter the gender.

Beelzebub is such a good caretaker: He's willing to do anything and everything for the baby; feed it (even if it's hard for him to resist eating the food), change it, bathe it, put it to sleep, play with it, calm it down.. He's down with anything, as long as he can be around the baby.

He was one of the louder complainers after Lucifer tried to get rid of the baby, and that struck Lucifer; Beel rarely ever stood up against him. But Beelzebub was visibly attached to the kid.

When the baby was adopted, he was really down for a while. He sobbed as he saying his goodbyes to the kid, looking like a kicked puppy. He even lost some of his appetite for some weeks.

One evening you even found him cooing at the air, pretending he was cooing at the baby. It was heartbreaking.

Might just straight up ask you if you were open to having a child with him, especially if you two were in an established relationship.

If you say yes, you better prepare yourself; Beel won't waste any time getting the project started.

Belphegor would've probably been the last one to find out about the baby if Beelzebub wouldn't have ran straight into the attic after finding out about the baby himself.

While Beelzebub was excited about the baby, Belphegor was mostly inconvenienced.

Babies were loud. They cried and they screamed. And loud noises such as those make it harder for Belphie to sleep. Less sleep = grumpy avatar of sloth.

So he mostly stays out of the child's way, unless you really asked him or he happened to feel somewhat energized.

But you better pay him back for his services with some sleepy cuddles. Belphie's babysitting services aren't for free, you know?

There's one job he's amazing at, though: at putting the baby to sleep. And doing that is something he won't grumble about. He kinda likes it, even if he doesn't admit it.

Almost every time you find them both sound asleep afterwards.

One morning he wakes up, finding that there's a party in his bed; Beelzebub had pushed his bed right next to his, and now he was in the middle of a sandwich, consisting of you, Belphie the baby and Beel.

The baby's in this box so it won't get crushed. The baby seemingly likes the box.

At that moment Belphie realizes that maybe.. Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe the baby isn't so bad.

Well, he has deamt of moving out with you and Beel before, so maybe adding a baby to the mix isn't the worst idea?

Starts to dream about what kind of family you guys would make, even if he doesn't speak about it.

When the baby is gone, he's saddened but mostly just doing his best to comfort Beelzebub, who is absolutely distraught, hiding his own sorrow and masking it with concern for his twin brother.

~*~

A/N: Thank you for reading if you made it this far! Sorry if these ones aren't that good, I didn't have a lot of time to think about these or write them.. But I hope it offered someone some happiness! I might proofread this later again when I have time, but I just really wanted to publish something now.

[appropriatelystupid]

So obviously there’s Supercorp in medieval times AUs

(trust and believe I’ve read and loved every single one they never get old)

But what about a Supercorp at Medieval Times AU…

Lena, is the reigning Queen:

She started working there in high school because she needed an excuse to get out of the house and because she knew Lillian would frown upon such an establishment

(She stayed because the joy of the kids that come through is just too sweet a high)

Lena started as a serving girl, entry level and easy enough, but quickly set her eyes on the prize: The Throne

The Queen at the time, an undeniably irritating woman, Siobhan, makes it almost too easy for Lena to usurp her

Siobhan has multiple reviews from guests for her lackluster performance, as well as numerous complaints from coworkers for being a menace to work with

In the end, Siobhan all but hands Lena everything she needs

Siobhan is late for the start of the dinner show, on a busy Friday

Lena isn’t the one to find her, but, if pressed, she’ll admit to making sure the manager was

The show needs to get started but they absolutely will be having a conversation later about the fact that she was just caught fucking one of the squires in her changing room

(It does not go her way)

Suddenly the Throne is open and there’s another show tomorrow and the manager is scrambling because how will we find a queen in less than a day

And so Lena makes her move; stops by the manager’s office and offers to cover the role until they can find someone permanent; she knows the show from watching it everyday and, best of all, she already fits the current wardrobe

And so her reign begins

Kara, is determined to be a Knight:

She starts about a month after Lena becomes Queen

Her best friend, Winn, a jester who does a pre-show act as people are being seated, gets her an interview to be a stable hand

A lifetime of riding horses makes her more than qualified

Kara is feeding one of the horses the first time she sees Lena, already dressed for the dinner show

(She almost loses a finger in her distraction)

They don’t get a chance to talk for a few days, as far as Kara can tell Lena is pretty aloof and unsociable

It’s two days later when Kara finds Lena grooming one of the horses after a show and she finds out that it’s just been a bad week for Lena

In addition to some personal family stuff, the knights in the show have all, at one time or another, tried to ask her out and a couple really don’t know how to take “no” for an answer

After seeing her work with the horse, Kara tells her she’s always welcome in the stables with her

She wields her broom like a sword, promises to protect her from any and all unsavory knights, and finishes with a deep bow in hopes of making her crack a smile

She gets a deep belly laugh, head thrown back and cheeks dusted pink, and a smile that almost blinds her instead

She feels her heart trip over itself in her chest and knows she must become a knight so she can at least pretend to fight for the love of this incredible woman

A few months into working there, Lena catches her practicing with a sword between shows

A few too many call outs meant someone was needed to polish the gear and Kara got distracted™️

Lena just picks up a sword of her own, with an elaborate flourish, and they spend half of their lunch break having a duel

Both are very impressed by the others swordsmanship and also very turned on by the whole thing

They both keep that bit to themselves

Lena starts plotting her next show shake up

A few months later, there’s drama™️ in the arena during the knights practice jousts, which is to say, Morgan is in a huff because Lena turned him down, again, and Maxwell can’t help but taunt him by bragging that she’ll “totally say yes" to him when he asks again

Mike and James try to calm them both down but Morgan’s horse gets spooked and throws him off

He doesn’t break anything but the way he’s whimpering you’d think he did; either way he can’t perform that night

Before the manager can start to panic, Lena suggests Kara take Morgan’s spot for the night

He’s hesitant about putting a female in the role but his options are limited with their back up on vacation

Kara is shocked that Lena suggests her but quickly jumps to her own defense

It’s already known she’s great on a horse, and her time working with them (and in the gym) mean that Morgan’s gear will work well enough for her to be comfortable and still in control

It’s too close to the doors opening for anything else so Kara dons the armor (and if she can’t stop smiling well then that’s just too bad for everyone else because she’s ecstatic)

As they gather to determine the winner for that night’s show, Lena looks almost as excited for her as Kara is

The Queen and her four Knights gather around and Lena blindly draws a beanbag from the dark box in front of them: Red will be winning tonight

She replaces the bag and mixes them up a bit before the knights all draw their own

Kara draws blue; Lena thinks it’s fitting for her first show, considering how bright her blue eyes are shining in excitement, even if it means she’ll be coming in second that night

Mike gets red and all Lena can think is at least it’s not Maxwell again

The show goes better than most have in weeks

Kara’s joy is palpable and the Blue section is, at times, deafening

Even though she comes in second, when Kara removes her helmet and reveals herself to the crowd, the entire arena erupts

Lena, from her place on the throne, can see little kids all over the crowd in awe of her

(Shortly after Lena had become Queen, she had suggested adding a sort of meet and greet after the shows, a chance for the younger kids to meet their heroes of the night

As is her own custom, Lena is with the winning Knight, seeing as they had just fought for her hand, after all)

Most nights the knights are greeted by kids from their own section, but tonight, from where Lena is standing with Mike, she can see kids in crowns from all the sections eager to meet Kara

Kara, absolutely cannot stop beaming and is told more than a few times that she needs to make her interactions quicker

(She does not go quicker)

When she finally does get through all the guests waiting for her, the manager offers Kara the role permanently

Morgan had quit when he heard Kara was replacing him and there’s no denying the popularity of her as a knight

It feels like an eternity (it’s been two weeks) before Kara finally draws the winning color for the night: Green

She thinks it’s fitting, just like Lena’s eyes as it were

Lena, for her part tries desperately to not show how excited she is that Kara will finally be her winning Knight

The show goes exactly as it always does, everything running without a hitch, but Kara can’t help but be a nervous wreck as they get to the end

She has the flower crown in hand, she knows what comes next but she can’t help but feel jittery in her saddle

She knows she needs to trot past her section in victory

She knows she needs to ride to Lena in the Royal Box

She knows she needs to place the flowers on her head and crown her the “Queen of Love and Beauty”

She knows Lena thanks her winning Knight with a kiss on the cheek

She knows all of this but she didn’t know ya know

She finds she’s distinctly unprepared for Lena’s face to be anywhere near her face

All Kara can do as she approaches Lena is hope desperately that she doesn’t look as nervous about a kiss on the cheek as she feels

(Alex never let’s her live it down after she hears the story)

Kara stops her horse next to the Royal Box as Lena rises to greet her

She’s sure it’s a trick of the lights that showed a flash of nerves across Lena’s face as well

Kara can feel her hands shaking as she places the crown on Lena’s head; she’s shocked her horse hasn’t picked up on her nerves as well

It’s only when Lena’s lips finally make contact with her cheek, close enough to the corner of her mouth to be felt, that Kara realizes she hasn’t been breathing

Kara sees the nerves clearly now, as Lena straightens back up to finish the show, so she does the only thing she can think to do in front of a packed arena

She catches Lena’s hand off the railing that separates them and plants her lips firmly to the back of it, blue eyes locked on Lena’s own green

The smiles they send each other would outshine the sun if given the chance before Lena shakes herself out of her daze to finally actually finish the show

After the show, after greeting the guests with their hands as good as glued together, they finally get back to their shared changing room

(An unexpected blessing and curse once there were two females needing a place to change for the shows)

Lena is barely in the door before she’s very much pinned against it by her very happy and very beautiful knight

They don’t outright tell anyone about the shift between them

James is the first to realize that when Kara wins, the kisses get closer and closer to real; he catches them both after a show and gives them a quick “congrats” and a wink before heading to change

Mike doesn’t clock onto the difference for when Kara wins but when he eventually finds out they’re dating he gives them a “right on” and high fives them both

Maxwell doesn’t notice anything because he doesn’t pay attention to parts of the show that don’t involve him; they very pointedly tell him absolutely nothing about themselves

If this was a real story and not me stream-of-consciousness-ing then Nia and Brainy would work at the gift shop

Also this is how I pictured Lena for the entirety of this:

[bakugohoex]

“probably married to this dumbass”

pairing: katsuki bakugo x female reader

cw: pro hero (aged up) fluff, language, implied 18+ and kissing 

word count: 2600+

a/n: i was in the mood to write some bakugo i have three requests atm so if you guys want to send in more i’ll write someee

summary: in which you and bakugo get interviewed on a talk show on what it’s like being pro hero, what turns into a simple where do you see yourself in five years leads to your relationship being announced on live tv

↞ back to my hero academia masterlist

You and Bakugo were in love, you knew it, your friends knew it. The people of Japan however had no idea, you were seen just as partners on patrols when out and about. They had no idea of the lewd things Bakugo whispered in your ear as you tried to make sure there was no crime going on. His aim of being the number one hero was becoming a reality, his personality from UA had changed, he may still be the loud explosive man, but he was sometimes kind to civilians. You stress the sometimes.

He would help people get up and tell them off for falling, his logic made sense, but you still loved him even if half the time he was screaming. You had both been asked to be on a talk show that aired at night so nothing you and Bakugo ever saw as you spent many hours at your shared apartment fucking.

It was a love language for the shouty man, and you wouldn’t lie and say you didn’t love coming home to be pinned against a wall. Feeling ever so small under his gaze filled with lust and love.

“You’re telling me, me and Y/n have to be on a fucking show.” He hollered at one of the girls who was currently interning.

“Don’t shout Katsuki.” You mutter giving a more sympathetic look to the poor girl. “It might be fun.”

“Fun.” He raised as eyebrow shouting, as he dragged you to a secluded area of the hero agency. “Fun would be making you beg for my dick; this is not my idea of fun princess.”

You rolled your eyes at his comment as his arm rested on the wall, he leaned further and further towards you. “If we go then tomorrow we get the day off.” You move your finger up his arm to his shoulder, “we can do whatever you want to do.”

You were taunting him; he gave a smirk however falling right into it. You couldn’t lie you wanted to get dressed up and gain some attention. “Whatever I want yeah.”

“Whatever you want baby.” You cooed as he smirked, he watches as your hands moved to his hero costume, his exposed neck as you brushed your finger across it about to move it to his lip to brush against.

He quickly walks away as you huff as the lack of contact, not even a kiss goodbye. You followed as you saw him storm to the girl who looked scared for her life, he must’ve said an okay as she gave a small smile to you. You smiled back before Bakugo came back.

“It’s at 7, they want us to look nice for the reputation of the agency or whatever.” He crosses his arms leaning against the desk you had leant against.

You were all giddy now, happy that you were able to look pretty, even with your very much exposed hero costume due to your quirk needing more skin contact, you still wanted to feel pretty in something that you didn’t associate with hero work. “I know you’re happy to look all amazing, but even if you turned up in a bin bag you’d still be the prettiest girl in the room, dumbass”

When Bakugo spoke you instantly blushed at his comment, he was never one to outright praise you with hero work, but as soon as it came to your relationship and making you happy he was always one to compliment you, even with it ended with him calling you dumbass. But at least you were his dumbass.

You had been made to choose from a couple dresses as they wanted you to look drop dead gorgeous, you chose a red one that matched Bakugo’s eyes as it hugged your body and went to the ground, it had thin straps and you couldn’t lie and say that if Bakugo saw you in this he would want to tear it right off.

You had been told someone would do your make up at the show’s base, and to Bakugo’s dismay the two of you had been separated. Being guided to the base, you sat down eagerly as you saw women and men surrounding you, they did your hair and your make up effortlessly making you look like an absolute goodness. 

They were really pulling out the stops for this one thing, it was rare for you to do talk shows as you were more into interviews that were pre recorded and edited. Live ones were more Deku’s and Bakugo’s thing though.

“You look gorgeous.” The same girl who had told you about the talk show spoke as she held the dress out.

“Thank you.” You smiled back as you put the dress on, you had worn the necklace that Katsuki had got you which had the letter K on it assuming people would think it was anybody’s name and not the man who in a couple minutes would walk out with you.

A red bracelet wrapped around your wrist as you wore a couple rings on your fingers, the promise one encasing your ring finger, it had a small gem in the middle of the gold band and you had refused to take it and your necklace off as it meant so much to you.

Before you knew it was nearly time to go and you saw as Bakugo huffed walking in with a man, Bakugo was for sure not paying attention as the red button up adorned his chest and black trousers clinged to his legs. He had left the top two buttons open, wearing similar rings to you with the black ring you had gotten him around his own ring finger. It was small and thin but inside had your name inscribed in it, he loved it and would wear it with anything, the feeling of it around your throat always sent shivers down your spine.

As soon as he noticed you standing in front of him, he was dumbfounded, he couldn’t even speak, looking at you up and down. He walked towards you putting his arms around your waist, “You’re too gorgeous to resist princess.” You blush as he turns you around so he can get a better view of you.

He loved the sight in front of him, your confident nature was brought out through the dress, everything about the way you looked defined you and it made him fall even more in love with you.

The girl from earlier had gestured for the both of you to go in, Bakugo let go of your waist, missing the touch of your hips on his ever-irritated cock. You both smiled as you saw that there was even a live audience. Bakugo walked in like he owned the place as you just kept straight not wanting to trip in the heels they had made you wear.

“Welcome both of you, come sit, sit.” She gestured as there was a long couch waiting for the two of you, Bakugo let you go first as you sat closest to the host and Bakugo sat beside you, your legs touching as his arm wrapped to the back of the couch, ever so relaxed. “So, we have Pro Heroes Dynamight and (your hero name), better known as Katsuki Bakugo and Y/n Y/L/N.”

You smiled at her as Bakugo didn’t speak or look at her, he had been dragged in this due to thinking with his downstairs brain at the heat of the moment. But seeing how happy you looked in the dress how could he ever have said no to you?

“So, first off we need to know what got you to want to become heroes.”

“Katsuki.” You mutter if he wanted to talk first, you noticed that in a lot of these live stuff he liked talking a lot, but his normal chatty nature had changed as if he was in a trace and the cause was most definitely you. “Okay well, it’s probably the most basic reason but I saw a hero save someone and I instantly fell in love with the idea of saving and helping people.”

You knew it was common for many heroes to have this sort of epiphany, you heard Bakugo speak as he sat up right, “All Might of course, from seeing him I knew I wanted to be number one hero.”

He had a calmer demeanour trying not to shout or get as pissed off as he usually did, you smiled at him as he looked down at your body again. “Do you have any advice to any kids out there who want to be heroes?”

“Work hard and even if it doesn’t work out at first you’ll still be a hero in your own way.” You smile out.

Bakugo laughs at the comment, he knew you were being nice for the show as he knew what you’d have really said, “If you suck, you suck, get strong or you’ll die.” Your eyes grow wide at his bluntness.

“Katsuki.” You scowled at him as the host and the audience laugh, you hit his chest feeling his hard muscles underneath.

“It’s the truth Y/n, you started to sugar-coat stuff.” He raises an eyebrow as he leans back again.

The host continues to ask questions as you answer enticingly as Bakugo makes remarks that lift the comfort of the room, you had finally becoming comfortable, the host asking about UA. “So, we heard that you two went to UA together, were you two friends, did you get along?”

Bakugo was the first one to speak, you two had been dating since UA and had kept it a secret from everyone except for Class 1A, as soon as the dorm system had been implemented it made it a lot easier to be around each other and one by one the class found out. Even with continuing dating after graduating they all knew you had remained strong together and it was a surprise nobody had found out on the amount of dates you two went on.

“Yeah we were friends I guess; we were in the same class and spent time with the class together.” He smiled as he thought of the days were you’d both sneak into each other’s rooms to be able to cuddle at night. His taller frame always encasing you in love. “She was a pain back then though.”

You glare at the boy before you interrupt up him, “me a pain, I distinctly remember you pissing off everybody.”

You laughed as he glared back at you, “seems like you two really are the best friends everybody talks about.” You nodded as to try and not blow your secret relationship. “Now for the finally question of the night, where do both of you see each other in five years?”

You had never been asked something like this, you were only in your early twenties and five years is a substantial difference now then it was in your teens. Where would you be? Would you and Bakugo remain strong with you still be partners would Bakugo be the number one hero. You carefully thought trying to get a satisfactory answer out.

Well you had clearly been thinking because Bakugo blurted out the words nobody had expected, “probably married to this dumbass.”

Your head shot as he had his arm around the couch still, his legs spread as if he was waiting for you to sit on his lap. “K…Katsuki.” Realisation hit him as it made his mouth went dry.

The host looked before the two of you noticing, how Bakugo’s arm moved to behind your back, your legs touching, the K necklace around your neck and the look of love that surrounded the two of you.

“You two are dating?” She asks.

He gives a look to you as you nod at the idiot, “Yeah since our UA days, isn’t that right princess, you were always obsessed with me.” The nickname rolling off his tongue as your face flushed a bright pink.

“Katsuki you liar.” You mutter, the mic still picking up on it as you could hear it play on the speakers.

“That is adorable, you two are such a cute couple.” The host coos as you smile at her.

“Yeah we might be cute but dating his is like dating a kid.” You laugh as you were trying to get back at Bakugo for embarrassing you.

“I expect it would be” The host smiles as the audience still hadn’t said anything only watching at you two. She wrapped the show up as you could almost hear your phone go off in the other room.

The host said goodbye to you both as the audience watched intensively as they walked out, “you and your big mouth.” You mutter to Bakugo as he grabs your hand walking you to the side.

“But now we can go on dates anytime we want now, idiot.” He laughs.

You shrug as he still held your hand, not bothering to change he grabs your bag and clothes as he takes his own, passing you your phone as he remained holding hands with you. “Twitter has gone mad.”

“Yeah cause two sex god’s have been dating and they never knew.” He smirks as you push into his side.

“Mr and Mrs Bakugo, there’s a car waiting outside for you.” You almost choke on the name as you look at one of the producers.

“It’s Miss Y/L/N.” You spoke softly but she hadn’t heard as Bakugo grinned at the thought.

“Come on Mrs Bakugo, our cars waiting.” You wanted to rip his throat out, as you both walked outside.

Fans around the both of you as Bakugo put an arm tightly around you, he didn’t want this to happen, but he basked in all the attention. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

He grins looking down at you as he goes to you ear, “It’s because tomorrow you won’t be doing any walking at all.”

Your face reddens at what he said, the sex addicted Bakugo was too comfortable and having said that in front of fan only made your face blush even more. He opened the door for you as you got in, he followed as he sat right beside you, the driver taking you to your apartment.

“We could always have some fun here.” You watching his hands move across your thigh, slowly getting higher and higher at every touch.

“You’re such a perv Bakugo.” You hissed slapping his hand, his quirk created little sparkles as he lifted your dress up, putting his hand inside as he grabbed your thigh. The hotness making your legs shuffle at the closeness it had to your pussy.

“Your perv though princess.” His antics continued and before you knew it you were inside the elevator to your apartment, his hands around your waist as his chin rested on top of your head. “I love you.”

He spoke calmly for once without any snideness or ulterior motive. “I love you too.” You reply back as you turned to face him, your hands wrapping around his neck as you leant in and kissed him, his arms wrapping around your waist, the kiss deepening as he pulled you closer towards his body, he groped at your hips as he moves to your ass, squeezing it through the thin material. The elevator opened up as his teeth bit into your bottom lip as you retracted, the feeling of him remaining on you.

You knew what was going to occur for the next day and you knew you certainly weren’t prepared for losing the ability to walk for the next week. But as he watched you look gorgeous in the dress you watched over him with the same love and lust. You were perfect for each other and nothing would ever change that.

If you guys want to be a part of a tag list, just reply to any post and I’ll add you xx

@samusimp @alaina-rose13

[getinthehandbasket]

Personal stuff

It's been a long time since I've written anything here about myself. There's.. a lot going on.

I recently got laid off from my job of nearly 8 years. I have a decent amount in the bank thanks to YNAB, but because of childhood trauma it feels like I am deadass broke. I mean, it keeps me from buying things I don't need to buy, but it causes me stress, too.

My partner has, until very recently, been unemployed since April 2020 - laid off from her WebDev job at [insert nationally recognized company here] because of the pandemic. Now, this was her first job out of coding bootcamp. She'd only worked there for 3 or 4 months before the layoff. And NO ONE was hiring junior engineers until just a couple of months ago at the end of 2021. So that means she's got nearly a 2 year gap in her employment history, 4 months of professional coding experience, no formal degree, and a hunger to work in her field and get more experience and on-the-job learning. Right now she's in the middle of the interview process with another globally recognized company who is notorious for taking months to complete the interview process. In the mean time, she's taken a retail job to help keep us going. She's hoping for a promotion but it's not guaranteed. (I'm not naming companies because that's how you jinx it.)

Me? I don't really know what I'm doing. Since my partner isn't making engineer money (yet), I really should be looking for a new job. Problem is.. I've been severely burnt out for at LEAST the last 2 years if not longer. Because my former manager wouldn't fucking take me seriously when I told him I and the other person in our department doing a certain task were so overwhelmed it was affecting our mental health. Luckily, the manager after him did, but it was - by then - too little, too late. So now I'm unemployed and doing my best to try to relax and live a little off of my savings and my upcoming unemployment insurance $. So, that's what's going on money- and employment-wise in my household.

In personal news... SURPRISE! Both of us are trans! Well.. technically I fall under the trans umbrella because I'm nonbinary, but I feel weird using the label for myself. My partner, though, is a trans woman. She's about a year into her transition and she is BEAUTIFUL. She's happier than I've ever seen her. She's gentler than she was. She's calmer than she ever was with testosterone in her. She's more caring, more emotional, more everything that is good. I can't wait to marry her and call her my wife. (But, yknow, that also takes money - even if we just go down to the courthouse it still costs several hundred dollars.)

Me, I'm.. existing. I'm dealing with mild depression symptoms, but the worst of it is held off by the three (3) antidepressants I'm taking for various reasons: 1 is also a sleep aid and 2 are for my ADHD. Which I was diagnosed with in mid-2020. So yay? I spend my time either cleaning, playing World of Warcraft (we are SO CLOSE to killing Heroic Sylvanas!), or hand-sewing a queen-sized La Passacaglia quilt. I can't quite bring myself to think about job hunting right now. Like, the idea makes me want to cry. I'm also learning to zentangle. zendoodle. Whatever it's called.

I've paid off all of my debt but two student loans. Technically I could pull 2/3 of my bank account and completely pay them off, but that would leave my partner and I very little to live on and vastly increase the pressure to find a job. So I'm not going to do that. I still consider having paid off as much as I have a massive life win. Including my car (which I now own outright), I had $80k of debt - and none of it consumer debt, just student loans and my car, which was one of the cheapest brand new cars I could find at the time I bought it. So I'm in a fairly good position.

I don't know where I'm going with any of this. I'm mostly just rambling.

But... yeah. That's my life right now.

[iloveyou3thousand]

peter has taken a job as a phone sex operator to make some more money and they end up talking to tony.

This was so much fun to write and tbh I have many more ideas for this AU. Enjoy!

CW: phone sex, bottom Peter/top Tony & praise kink? maybe?

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Peter always knew that the option was there, he just figured it would be a last resort type of thing. Something for when his savings ran completely dry and he’d start to feel guilty for showing up at his aunt’s so often just so he wouldn’t have to worry about what he’d have for dinner.

He always got a lot of spam in the mail, flyers for new restaurants or other businesses and pamphlets from the closest church. He never really looked through the piles that were shoved in his mailbox but the one time he actually did and came across a very specific flyer, he felt persuaded just to give it a shot, for the sheer coincidence of it all.

It just happened that he’d been driving around on a bike with a wheel that kept going flat no matter how many times Peter looked for the leak and patched up the tire, and he was starting to grow frustrated with it – but he knew that a new tire would set him back about thirty bucks. In his situation, that wasn’t something he could really afford if the bike still technically worked.

But maybe with a new job…

Peter had no idea if he’d be good at it, or if he’d get hired at all, but he gave it a shot. The interview went much more smoothly than he had expected. The lady on the phone didn’t ask for any kind of demo or previous experiences, but just went through the contract with him and how their company operated. Peter had expected it to be much…shadier. And Peter didn’t lose his cool once. Well, except for when the lady asked if he could do any accents, but luckily she couldn’t see his face as he tried to answer as truthfully as he could.

In the week after, once the contract was agreed upon and signed, Peter got a setup sent to his home.

He was nervous to try it out the first few times. His very first conversation only lasted ten minutes, and Peter saw bright red by the end of it, sitting on the edge of his bed with his heart in his throat – but the thought that he’d just made 30 bucks just from one conversation alone kept him going. That was his tire, sorted.

After a while, he got used to things more and more. He did his reading, practiced new accents while working one of his other jobs, studied kinks he never even knew existed during his time off. As a matter of fact, he was having more fun with his new job than he thought he ever had delivering pizzas. Even if he sometimes had to pretend he was into things that he definitely wasn’t into at all.

One customer had asked him if he was new to the job. He didn’t know how to respond at first, fudging for a moment, but then coming clean because what else was he supposed to say? It was a nice man, very polite in their conversation, with a lovely, low voice, and he’d been very courteous about the fact that Peter hadn’t done this very often. Peter kind of expected to be given pointers or something, like he’d been doing it all wrong, but their conversation ended with the man bidding him a very good night, and saying he’d be back for more some time.

And he was.

The next week on the same night and around the same time, the man called again. Peter recognized his voice immediately.

“It’s nice to hear you again, sir,” he said, finding himself smiling, for whatever reason.

“It’s nice to hear you too, sweetheart. I have to admit I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”

Peter was used to some clients flirting with him by now, but this one made him smile.

Usually, clients either wanted to explore kinks they couldn’t explore in real life for ethical reasons, or they wanted to just have someone to talk to, to connect with, and it didn’t always end in sex.

This man seemed like he wanted that connection rather than the sex, although Peter wasn’t about to rule anything out just yet.

They talked about the man’s day for a little while, and although Peter often wondered if the people he was talking to actually enjoyed this, the stranger didn’t seem like he was ready to wrap up at any point. He mentioned a project he was working on and Peter got a little curious, asking about it with the other revealing more and more information which Peter eagerly absorbed and reciprocated with interests of his own, until the client fell quiet for a moment.

“I don’t mean to be rude,” he said after a few moments of silence, and Peter made an encouraging little sound, “I’ve never had someone like you keep up with me like that.”

Peter chuckled and teased his client about it. They talked for a little while more until the man once again bid him a good night, and left Peter to get through the rest of his calls. The next week was the same.

Peter was… a little disappointed when the next Friday night after that rolled around and no call came. But hey, maybe his client had been impacted by the latest alien attack in New York one way or another. He hoped he was alright, at least.

Instead, Peter received a call on Saturday afternoon, the second he started his shift. He was tired from an afternoon of work, but he was committed to this job and to the hours he made, and the pay was proving to help out a great deal. He wasn’t about to drop it.

“My name is Tony,” he said before Peter could even greet him. He immediately recognized the voice.

“Hi Tony. I missed you yesterday. How are you?” Peter asked politely. Something about the way Tony sighed in response didn’t sit right with him. He sounded tired. Like he hadn’t slept. Like he was hurt, maybe, too, one way or another. Peter hoped he hadn’t gotten hurt during the attack. He knew from their previous conversations that Tony lived somewhere in New York City, just like he did.

“I want you to pretend like you’re sitting in my lap,” Tony replied, and it was a change of pace, but not something that Peter couldn’t work with. He hummed his affirmative, and sat up a little straighter where he’d draped himself across his bed, suddenly feeling a little more awake than before. “With my hands on your hips.”

“I love it when you put your hands on my hips,” Peter said almost a little cautiously. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Tony yet. Or from this. “Like the way they’re warm. Will you put them up my shirt?”

Tony gave a quiet grunt of approval, to which Peter sighed, eyes closing and pretending like he was sitting in someone’s lap and their hands pushed his shirt up to skim softly up over his ribs. He didn’t have much experience to draw from, but he had a vivid imagination, and imagining this for Tony came almost entirely naturally.

“Here, I’ll sit a little closer ‘til our chests touch. You like that, Tony? Like to be close to me?”

Peter was testing the waters to try and see what it was that Tony needed right now, but it was hard to tell if he didn’t outright say it. Usually when clients wanted something specific they went ahead and started their conversation with that, and they were usually pretty detailed too, so that Peter could act out their fantasy just the way they liked it. But all Tony had wanted was for him to sit in his lap.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Tony breathed into the phone. Peter wondered if he had his eyes closed and tried to imagine it like he was, or if he sounded so quiet because he was touching himself. Maybe both.

Peter continued to describe how he felt his hands up Tony’s chest, put his fingers through his hair, kissed down his jaw and toward his shoulder until he could bury his face into the crook of his neck as he slowly ground his hips down into Tony’s lap.

He could hear Tony take in a quiet, shuddery breath.

Now that was something he could work with.

As Peter continued to describe what he was ‘doing’, he took careful note of the things Tony seemed to enjoy, jotting them down on a pad on his bedside table. It was valuable information for a potential next time, which Peter had the feeling would likely happen. Tony sounded like he was enjoying himself as Peter described how he slid down to the floor and opened Tony’s jeans.

If he just wanted a blowjob then that’s exactly what he’d get.

But when Peter thought that Tony must have been getting close about ten minutes into their conversation, the man suddenly took the reins.

“Stop,” he said firmly, and Peter went quiet in an instant, eyes a little wide. He’d been so quiet that Peter had had to pry some kind of response out of him sometimes. But Tony was definitely still there.

He told Peter how he grabbed him and pulled him back up into his lap, how Peter was naked and had to be hard by now, and how lovely he looked with his cock standing at attention like that, chest flushed and face hot. Peter swallowed, and dutifully made the appropriate noise, although he found that it came a little…too naturally.

“I’ve got some lube right here,” Tony purred into the phone, “I want you to spread yourself open for me. Right here in my lap. Show me.”

While Peter described how he took the lube and coated his fingers, Tony only interrupted to turn him around so he was facing away from him. “So I can see exactly how well you’re doing.” Peter didn’t protest. In fact, the more he pictured himself in an older man’s lap with two fingers twisting inside of himself he couldn’t deny that his sweats were starting to feel a little too tight for comfort. He trapped the phone between his shoulder and cheek so that he could shimmy out of them, and after a moment’s hesitation, out of his underwear too.

It was probably fine, right? Not like Tony would know. And he only needed one hand to keep the phone to his ear. Or none, if he kept it like it was now, so who cared?

Peter reddened as he wrapped a tentative hand around himself at the same time as he told Tony how he took his cock and lined him up, and as he sank down slowly to swallow him down, the sound that Peter made was genuine. He could only hope that Tony wouldn’t notice.

“God, you feel so good, Tony…” He let out softly, and Tony made a sound that told Peter he was touching himself, too. He had to be.

Peter sat up on his knees on the bed so he could pretend to be rocking back on Tony’s cock, making breathy little noises into the receiver and moaning Tony’s name with every other stroke of his hand. Shamelessly, he thought next time he should have a toy ready so he had something real to sit on. But what if there wouldn’t be a next time?

“Fuck, baby,” Tony keened, “You look so fucking good on my cock like that. You’re beautiful. Stunning, sweetheart. C’mon, go a little faster.”

Peter’s hand on himself sped up. He almost forgot he was supposed to pretend.

“Are you touching yourself?” Tony asked. Peter bit his lip before another moan betrayed him.

“Y-Yes. Yeah. I am.”

Tony was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again his voice was lower, darker, all in a way that sent every word he said right to Peter’s cock.

“Good,” was all Tony said at first, and then, “I want to hear you come. Think you can do that for me, baby boy?”

Peter shivered and nearly doubled over where he sat on his knees, his thighs going tight in his attempt at staving off the orgasm that was now approaching rapidly.

“I said do you think you can do that for me?” Tony repeated.

Peter whimpered, and nodded, before scrambling to say yes.

“That’s a good boy. I knew you could do it for me. Go on then. I’m waiting. I want to hear you, loud and clear. Show me what you sound like when you fall apart.”

And Peter did. He didn’t spare a single thought to what he was doing when he squeezed his cock and spilled across his bedsheets with an unfiltered moan, thighs quivering as he stroked himself through his orgasm, panting into the phone. He distantly registered that Tony sounded equally breathless when he praised him so softly, voice almost reverting back to a sweeter version of the polite way in which they’d talked before.

Peter felt boneless, knelt on the bed with his hand still around his softening cock, catching his breath.

“Wonderful,” Tony sighed into his ear, “That was wonderful. I knew you’d be good at this.”

He was at a loss for words. Tony chuckled.

“Speechless, sweetheart? That’s fine by me. I had a lovely time. Talk to you next week?”

And with that, Tony ended their call.

Peter slowly took the phone away from his ear before he allowed himself to drop back against the pillows on his bed. His heart was still beating quickly in the aftermath of what had just happened, and he dropped a hand to his chest, feeling his heart thud against his fingertips. He couldn’t believe he just did that. And he couldn’t believe that Tony, who was definitely his absolutely favorite client now if he hadn’t already been, had reacted so positively. He wasn’t sure when he’d last gotten off so damn well.

Holy shit.

He loved his job.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

okay but can we get more on Oliver Branch playing games, the creep

CW: Stress torture, emotional manipulation, creepy whumper, internalized abliesm, some outright ableism - actually this torture method is actually pretty fucking ableist in and of itself, whump of a minor (character is 17), noncon touching - not sexual

Tagging Chris’s crew:  @burtlederp , @finder-of-rings , @endless-whump , @whumpfigure , @stxckfxck , @slaintetowhump, @astrobly, @newandfiguringitout, @doveotions

“A little longer, darlin’. Just... a little longer.”

The metronome on Sir’s desk click-click-click-clicks, a constant even ticking as the little wand swipe back and forth, and Baldur stares at it with his entire body quivering to look do think about literally anything else.

The reed mat under his knees digs in, little flashes of pain that he tries desperately to focus on because it’s something else, a different thought, something that isn’t click-click-click-click-click-click-click-

He doesn’t know how long it’s been. He’s never allowed to know what the time limit is, only told if he made it or he didn’t. He kneels in Position Two, hands laid out with fingers spread across his own thighs, resting against the soft fabric of his pants and they twitch constantly, they want to move he wants to move so badly.

He can’t move.

If he moves he loses the game, and the game has high stakes tonight, he can’t lose the game.

The games are always rigged for him to lose, but Baldur has been working so hard to learn how to be still and he knows, he just knows he’s going to win this time, whether Sir wants him to or not.

The rebellious little thought terrifies him, he sends that train right off a cliff into the dark pool of the person that might have been there once before the drugs and the white room and not sleeping and not sleeping and not sleeping-

His knees ache, his legs below the knee have gone numb from kneeling for so long, his mind is racing in horrible anxious circles of click click click-

is that a bird outside the window

not allowed to look that way look at the metronome

click click click

click

Sir had a bad interview today that’s why the game is happening they asked questions he couldn’t answer so he has to be punished

Click click click

because journalists keep asking questions

click

too many questions

Someone is laughing out in the hall maybe Miss Nancy it sounds like her laugh she laughs sometimes a nicer laugh

Click click

pay attention

don’t look away

pay attention pay attention focus be good be still focus focus focus

FOCUS

The more he thinks about focusing, the harder it is to do. Everything else crowds in until he would almost beg for the pill, now, if it meant he could play the game better, if it meant his mind would stop this constant swirl he can’t quiet down.

He wants to rock, just a little - just to get a second of thought out into the motion of muscles instead - and when Sir looks briefly down at the newspaper and holds it up before his face, Baldur hitches in a breath and rocks his body forward and back, soundlessly as he can be. He keeps his eyes locked on the metronome, full of tears, scared of what happens if he’s caught but he doesn’t move something he’s going to lose his mind-

He stops just before Sir looks up.

Baldur’s heart freezes along with his body, staring up into Sir’s eyes, the hint of a smile on his face no giveaway as to his feelings. Sir likes it when Baldur loses the games. He is always smiling when they play. There are little crinkles at the corners, wrinkles growing bit by bit, and Sir says that they’re a sign of a life well-lived because they mean that Sir has always been full of laughter and the laugh from outside the hall comes again and Baldur’s breath comes heavier, harder.

He has to move he has to move he has to move he can’t move.

“The metronome, darlin’,” Sir reminds him, gently. His oil-slick smooth voice and smile a balm, they mean safe, but the game is nearly over and Baldur has very nearly lost. He jerks his eyes back to the metronome, the maddening, boring click click click click click

Please let me stop, he mouths the words but doesn’t dare say them. This isn’t a game where he has to beg. Sir hasn’t said so, anyway, but he’s going to lose his mind, he can’t do this he can’t he’s going to lose he can’t can’t can’t can’t-

“You’re so close, beautiful boy,” Sir soothes without looking up from his paper this time, underlining something. The interview must have been terrible, for the game to take so long. Some kind of scandal about a Senate seat, Baldur barely understands what any of it means because he’s not meant to, he is supposed to be pretty and empty and calm and still, so still, even as his knees ache and he can’t feel his toes and he’s going to, to go insane, to go crazy if he isn’t allowed to move.

Tears sting at his eyes, heat behind them, awful little whimpers he can’t push back building in his throat. 

Click click click click click click

cheep-cheep sings a bird

don’t move don’t move

stillness is better than what you do

silence is better than stammering

remember the rules

the rules keep you safe

the rules keep you still

still is safe being still is safe be still be still be still

click click

miss nancy’s voice in the hallway and a man talking back is it someone who knows he exists or not if he screamed right now would they both ignore him or would someone want to know who was the boy behind the locked office door who is the boy

click

who is he

he doesn’t know

he’s baldur and a number but what was he before that was there a before that was there a

cheep cheep cheep

sing

click click click

if you don’t get glasses but you need them do you think that tree leaves are just one big blob of leaf or do you still know they’re separate if you’re too small to reach the tree and

click

what are the books in Sir’s study what do they say

click click

are there books about boys like him do people write books about box boys are there books

click

has he ever read a book?

He can’t do it anymore. Baldur jerks forward, bending himself nearly entirely in half, and lets out a hoarse cry of frustration as he just can’t be still any longer, beating his hands in fists against his thighs.

Sir looks up from his paper, mildly surprised, his smile widening slightly on his handsome made-for-TV face.

“Oh, no, darlin’,” He says, with a hint of sympathy edging the amusement in his voice. “You broke, hm?”

Baldur nods, miserably. “I, I, I’m sorry,” He whispers, and the tears bubble up and he digs his fingernails into his thighs through his pants until it hurts, letting out a choked-off sob. “I’m sorry, I can’t, I can’t do it, I-I-I, I, I can’t, Sir, I can’t be still for so long, I’m so sorry-”

“Oh, beautiful boy.” Sir clicks his tongue, almost in time with the metronome, and reaches over to turn it off. The clicking goes mercifully silent but it’s no better because now he’s in trouble, he’s lost the game. “You had less than thirty seconds to go, and you lost. How sad.” He lays down the newspaper and stands, walking around his desk to crouch just to Baldur’s side. “Less than thirty seconds, can you believe you held out so long only to lose in the last thirty seconds, Baldur, darlin’?” 

Baldur looks up, tear-streaked face with wide green eyes, and Sir reaches out to cup the side of his face in his palm. Baldur leans into the touch heavily, shuddering.

He was so close.

How could he have lost when he was so so close to winning?

He pushes himself forwards to wrap his arms around his Sir, to find comfort in his scent and the soft rich fabrics of his clothing, only to have Sir chuckle and push him back and away. “No, no, darlin’, I won’t have you tryin’ to manipulate me.” Sir stands, leaving Baldur bereft and untouched, and he turns, watching Sir walk away.

“I, I, I wasn’t manipulating-”

I just need you to remind me that I’m yours, that I’m safe, that you care

“Hush.” Sir snaps his fingers and Baldur’s words cut off mid-sentence. “I know exactly what you’re doing, trying to get out of punishment by bein’ cuddly, hm? Oh, I know you, darlin’. I know what you do to fix things.” There’s a heavy judgement to his words, and Baldur shrinks into himself, feeling the first tingles of pain as blood rushes back to his feet, turning his eyes back to the ground. 

but this is all he is, all he knows how to do

Had he been trying to manipulate? He’d just wanted comfort, but-... but Sir knows him better than anyone else, Sir would know... 

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, to the floor. “I’m, I’m sorry, sorry for, for, for trying to manipulate you-”

He had just wanted comfort but maybe he was wrong, maybe he had been the wrong person, the one trying to be manipulative and Sir would know better than he would, Sir would know... 

Sir hears him, though. A moment later his hand rests on Baldur’s head, carding through the strawberry blond strands, rubbing the softness between his fingers. “It’s not your fault. You can only be what y’are, hm? True of us all. We can only be what we were made for, and that’s all you are, isn’t it, beautiful boy?”

Baldur doesn’t speak. Only nods, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Well. You’ve lost our little game for today.” Sir pets him a moment longer and then moves back to sit in his padded desk chair, a deep brown leather and wood that Baldur loves to curl up in and nap when Sir is gone on long days. “Too bad. I was really rooting for you, darlin’. But that’s all right.”

He snaps his fingers and Baldur moves immediately, shifting around the desk to sit beside him, breathing fast at the tingles and static of pain in his feet and legs, rubbing at them with his hands to try to get the blood flowing faster. 

“Just think, Baldur,” Sir says, almost idly, as he picks the newspaper up again. “Just thirty more seconds of focus and you couldn’t do it. How disappointing.”

He chuckles, snaps the paper open. He doesn’t see the devastation on Baldur’s face, but he doesn’t have to. He knows it’s there. 

“That means no sleep for you tonight, doesn’t it?”

Baldur is silent, staring towards the window, wistfully listening to the cheep-cheep-cheep outside.

He knows not sleeping and not sleeping and not sleeping. The bone-deep exhaustion and the way his brain melts apart underneath it is something he knows deeper than memory, better than his own thoughts.

Thirty seconds.

“Well, in the end, my sweet boy,” Sir says from behind the paper. “What matters is that you tried your best, hm? That’s all I can really ask of you. But perhaps you can try a little harder when we play again tomorrow.”

Baldur closes his eyes so no more tears will escape.

“Now, beautiful boy.” Sir’s hand rests on the top of his head again. “Let’s try to be still while I finish my paper, hm? No moving. No talking. Stillness-”

“-is better than, than what I do,” Baldur whispers, despair nearly overwhelming him. He forces himself, with every molecule of strength left inside him, to be very, very still.

Again.

[spaceskam]

The Road You Didn’t Take (5/7)

day 5 of @michaelguerinweek : “Just trust me.”

ao3

1 | 2 | 3 | 4 |

warning: shitty childhood talk

They checked out of the motel room around three and Alex got into the passenger seat instead of the back.

“So, we’ll probably get to Mississippi sometime around 10 or 11, but we could stop for dinner before that?” Michael suggested. Alex nodded.

“Sounds good to me,” he said, grabbing the aux cord like he owned the place and plugging in his phone. Michael said nothing as he backed out of the parking space.

Smooth, lo-fi music started to play through the speakers as he made his way towards the interstate. Alex hummed along to it and Michael didn’t bother him, listening to him. He wasn’t outright singing, but it still sounded nice. He wondered how many times he’d heard Alex’s music and just didn’t know it was him.

“What happens if you want to go back to music?” Michael asked even though he knew it was probably pushier than he meant it. Alex took a deep breath.

“Music is my favorite thing in the world, but I don’t want to make it where it controls and ruins my life. I’m not sacrificing my love for it just so I can be famous, you know?” Alex said, “When we were small and no one knew my face, but I still did well enough to pay my rent, it was best. Maybe in a few years I’ll go back to making solo music under a different name, but right now... Right now I’m not interested in doing it for more than myself.”

“Fair enough,” Michael answered, “Maybe we’ll go to some local karaoke bar and bang out some country tunes together.”

“You sing?” Alex asked, a smile on his face.

“I mean, of course, but I didn’t say I do it well,” he said. Alex laughed. It was a nice sound.

“We’ll definitely have to go sometime.”

They fell silent again as Alex played song after song that he felt like listening to. Michael made a mental note to ask him about some of the bands later. 

"So, tell me something embarassing that you've done," Alex said as they crossed into Louisiana. Michael laughed.

"Uh, I don't know?" Michael said, but he saw an opportunity to get a feel for his chances with Alex and took it, "I didn't go on my first date until I was 23. That's embarassing, I guess."

"No, it's not, I was 24," Alex said. Michael scoffed.

"I don't believe that."

"Why not?"

"Have you seen you?" Michael pointed out, "I find it hard to believe people aren't flirting with you every day of your life." 

"It took me a long time to come to terms with my sexuality," Alex admitted. Michael nearly jumped for joy, but he managed to keep it under control. 

"I feel that," Michael said, "Didn't date my first guy until last year."

Alex smiled, "How'd that go?"

"Well, I'm single now, aren't I?" Michael joked.

"Yeah, you got a point," Alex said. 

They talked more, telling stories of bad dates and hook-ups gone wrong. Michael told a story of getting a nose bleed while going down on someone, Alex told a story of dislocating his knee and needing his one night stand to pop it back into place. By the time Michael begrudgingly told a story of going on a date with someone and then two days later finding her making out with his sister on the couch, Alex was laughing so hard he snorted and Michael was pretty sure he was already in love.

They ended up getting off a Baton Rouge exit to find a place to eat, settling on a Chili's since that felt like a safe option. They sat for longer than they should've, eating and talking and joking. It wasn't a date, but, if it was, it was the best first date Michael had ever been on.

"No, stop, I'm paying," Michael said as Alex tried to take the ticket.

"No, you paid for gas and you're going to have to pay for gas to drive back to get your shit after you kill that interview," Alex said, twisting away so Michael couldn't reach the ticket.

"You paid for the motel," Michael argued, standing up and reaching across the table. Alex let out a downright adorable giggle as he held it away from him, swatting at his arm.

"And I'm paying for tonight's too, get over it," he said.

",No, that's not fair."

"Michael," Alex said, grabbing his hand and looking at him with intoxicating eyes, "I'm paying. Just trust me, okay?" 

Michael glared and slowly sat down. Alex just laughed as he put his card down and gave it to the waitress as she walked past.

"You can pay the tip," Alex suggested. Michael rolled his eyes. "Oh, stop pouting."

"Make me," Michael shot back. Alex smiled at him, his cheeks turning a shad of red as he shook his head.

"Maybe later," he said. That shut Michael up.

They got back in the car and the air seemed to change. They were full and a little tired and Alex started playing something nice and slow. Alex hummed along again, adding to the soothing air. It was crazy that this man was the same as the one from yesterday, even crazier that it was the same as the boy from high school.

"What's in your ring?" Alex asked softly. Michael glanced down and then held his hand out closer to Alex. He grabbed his hand, his thumb tracing over the ring.

"I was in foster care as a kid and that's the only thing I have left from my mom. I hid it every time they took all my shit away so I wouldn't lose it," Michael admitted.

"Oh," Alex breathed, "It's pretty."

"Thank you."

Alex kept his hand, playing with his fingers and his ring mindlessly. Michael smiled to himself when he realized he'd only asked to get ahold of his hand. He didn't try to take it back.

"Do you know why your parents gave you up?" Alex asked, "If you don't mind me asking."

"Uh, I looked into it when I got older. My dad died before I was born and I think my mom just didn't have a good support system. She kept me for a few days, but she gave me up hoping I'd have a better life. Didn't really work that way, but it's the thought that counts," Michael said, shrugging, "She died before I could find her though, so."

"I'm sorry," Alex told him. Michael shrugged his shoulders. 

"I'm good."

"If it helps, my parents sucked too. My mom left when I was young and my dad was an abusive piece of shit," Alex said. Michael frowned.

"I'm sorry," he said, twisting his hand a little to squeeze Alex's. Alex pressed his thumb into his palm and slowly traced up his middle finger. 

"I got away, so I'm fine. Therapy helps," Alex admitted. Michael hummed.

"I want to eventually."

"It's worth it."

They sat in silence for awhile, Alex playing with his fingers as they drove. Soon, they were crossing over into Mississippi and Michael started looking for motels to stay for the night. 

"I can't wait to take a shower," Alex said, "It's been a couple days."

"Yeah, I can't tell," Michael teased.

"Hey!" Alex laughed.

They eventually found a place with a vacancy and they went up to the desk. A younger guy was manning it, his chin in his palm and clearly bored out of his mind.

"Do you guys have an open room with two beds?" Alex asked. The front desk guy nodded, eyeing Alex a little oddly as he stood up straight.

"Yeah," he said slowly. When Alex gave him his name and his card, though, his eyes widened. "You're–"

"Don't say anything, please? Trying to keep it under wraps if that's okay," Alex said, smiling kindly. The kid nodded.

"Yeah, man, sure," he said, "I love your music."

"Thank you," Alex said. A few minutes later, they grabbed the key and started walking towards the room. "They're gonna know I'm in Mississippi by the morning."

"Well, good thing we'll be on a farm an hour away tomorrow," Michael said. Alex grinned.

"We?"

"Yeah, dude, you can't leave me yet," Michael insisted. Alex smiled and.unlocked the motel room door.

"Okay."

Alex called taking a shower first and Michael let him. After the shower turned on, Michael took the opportunity to call Isobel. She picked up on the second ring.

"Where are you?" she asked.

"Mississippi," he answered, "And I'm gonna say something but don't freak out."

"That's not comforting, Michael."

"No, it's not like that," he said, lowering his voice, "I'm sharing a motel room with Alex Manes. Remember? From high school?"

She was quiet for a few seconds,. "How the fuck did that happen?"

"I don't know," he said, "But I think he might be into me."

"Then why are you calling me instead of trying to hook up with your childhood crush?" Isobel scoffed.

"He's in the shower."

"Are you gonna try when he gets out?" 

"No," Michael said, "I mean, that's too fast and I don't wanna make him feel pressured or uncomfortable."

"And if he makes the first move?" 

"Then I will die " 

"Alright," she laughed. The shower soon shut off and Michael felt giddy all over again.

"I gotta go."

"Be safe, I love you," she said.

"Love you too."

The call ended and Michael went to plug his phone into the wall to pretend he was doing something as the bathroom door opened. He casually looked over to see Alex standing there, damp and surrounded in a cloud of steam as he had a towel wrapped around his hips.

And Michael was fucked.

[pitviperofdoom]

It’s impossible for me to get into a fandom without coming up with an AU or two. Or ten. I’ve got several for TMA, and I’ve written for a few of them already. 

Under the cut is the beginning scene of the one that I’ve developed the most. I’ve been sitting on it for a while, and I don’t have enough to start posting on AO3, but I thought I’d share this here at least. 

Hope you guys like Head Archivist Martin!

***

When Martin received the e-mail summoning him to Elias Bouchard’s office at his earliest convenience, he thought, Well, that’s it then.

It was only a matter of time. Honestly, it was a miracle he’d made it this long. It was a miracle he’d made it in at all; he’d applied to the Magnus Institute almost on a desperate whim, because surely an academic institution would take the time to run basic background checks on new hires. But then he’d gotten a call back, and then he’d gotten a second interview, and then he’d been called in to fill out all the necessary paperwork, and that had been years ago, now.

And now here he was, staring at a formal message from his boss, requesting his presence for a meeting to discuss “his future with the institute”. And that could only mean one thing.

Of course, Martin thought distantly as he typed out some generically polite response. All things come to an end eventually. It might be a stretch to say all good things come to an end, because sometimes he wondered if this job really was a good thing, if the stress of waiting to be caught in his lie was worth it when he still had to stretch his funds to cover rent and food and Mum’s care and scrape together a rainy-day fund for any inevitable disasters.

Martin got up from his desk, half-heard Hannah’s greeting as he passed her on the way out of the library, and numbly pointed himself in the direction of Elias’s office. Already his mind was racing through the math, calculating how long he could afford to hunt for a new job.

At some point he shook himself. It was no good to walk in panicking. He just had to stay calm, somehow. Be polite. Hope like hell that he’d made himself useful enough to at least broach the topic of listing someone as a reference.

…Yeah, right.

He was lost deep in thought—so deep, in fact, that he didn’t notice his coworker until he was already colliding into them.

Luckily, he was walking slowly enough that the crash wasn’t terrible, even if the other employee seemed to be in a hurry. It was more surprising than painful, and they both kept their footing, so… could have been worse, really.

“Sorry, so sorry—” Martin stammered out, stumbling back, and froze when his eyes landed on his coworker’s face. “O-oh. Morning, Jon.”

The look he got in return could have split rock. “Do try to watch where you’re going.”

Martin couldn’t help but wilt under the glare, for all that Jonathan Sims was nearly a head shorter than him. “Sorry, again,” he said. “Are… you alright?”

“Obviously I’m alright,” Jon retorted, already storming away.

“No, I know, I didn’t mean us crashing into each other, it’s just, I was wondering if…” Martin hesitated, with the growing dread of someone stepping into a minefield. Jon had paused but was looking increasingly impatient, so Martin ripped the bandage off. “I mean, are you alright, work-wise?” Jon’s scowl deepened. “It’s just, if you ever need—I dunno, an extra set of hands, or—” Jon left without a word.

“Guess not,” he muttered, mentally kicking himself. It was stupid to offer anyway, when he was probably minutes away from being let go.

Something about literally running into Jon had knocked his growing nervousness off balance, and he was almost paradoxically calm when he knocked on Elias’s office door. It was mostly open already, but it seemed the polite thing to do.

“Ah, hello, Martin.” Elias’s voice, calm and clipped though it was, brought the nervousness rushing back. “Close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.”

Martin did as he was bade, then took the chair that Elias indicated for him and tried not to fidget. “You, er, wanted to see me?”

“Yes, of course.” Across from him, Elias shuffled papers that Martin was too nervous to look at. “It’s a matter of some urgency, so thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Of course,” Martin said, trying not to fidget. He opened his mouth to say something else, couldn’t think of anything, and closed it again.

“You’ve been with the institute for about six years now, haven’t you?” Elias went on.

“A-almost, yes.” Martin replied, heart pounding in his throat. Distantly he wondered if Elias could hear it.

“Good, good. As I said in the e-mail, I was hoping to discuss your future with—”

“Have I done something wrong?” Martin blurted out, and immediately regretted it. For a moment he longingly imagined vanishing into thin air just to escape the situation. Or a hole opening up underneath him, maybe.

Elias raised an eyebrow at him. “If there’s anything you can think of…?”

“I mean, the wording was a bit ominous,” Martin stammered out. “So I was just wondering if—if there was something wrong… with how I was doing things?”

“Hardly, Martin,” Elias replied, and the relief that flooded through Martin made him light-headed. “Quite the opposite, actually. I was more than satisfied during your last performance review, and you’ve yet to give me any reason to change my mind.” Elias leaned forward, hands clasped neatly in front of him. “I’m sure you’ve heard about… recent developments, with Gertrude Robinson.”

“The head archivist? Y-yes.” Against all odds, he did know about recent developments with Gertrude Robinson, namely that no one had seen her in a while. She was already a reclusive woman—Martin had only met her twice and seen her from afar a few times besides that—but lately she seemed to have vanished outright.

Martin wasn’t close with anyone at the institute, either in the library or elsewhere, but that didn’t mean he didn’t hear the gossip. It didn’t mean he didn’t notice things, like the lack of people coming in to give statements. Or how dark and still the Archives had been over the past week or so.

Or how sullen and angry Jon had been, for about as long.

“Well, work in the Archives is never done, and unfortunately she was already somewhat… understaffed,” Elias went on. “Since the beginning of her absence, I’ve been reviewing employee files in the hopes of finding a replacement.”

“Oh,” Martin replied. In the back of his mind he thought, No, absolutely not, he can’t possibly mean…

“Simply put, Martin, I think it would be best for the position to go to you.”

“Oh,” Martin repeated. “M-me? Really?”

“I can think of no one better for the job,” Elias said with a thin smile.

“Really.” Martin struggled to keep most of the disbelief out of his tone. “No one better? Not… I-I don’t know, the person who’s already been working in the Archives for the past year?” He swallowed, with some difficulty thanks to his dry throat. “I… sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful? But I thought… I thought Jon would replace her, as her assistant… since he’s already been working under her, a-and he’d know the archives better, and…” His voice trailed off.

“I understand,” Elias assured him, his smile turning almost friendly. “And you’re right, I did strongly consider him for a time. But, his duties were largely research and clerical work for Gertrude, and he unfortunately lacks a background in library and information science.” He indicated one of the papers in front of him—a familiar CV, Martin realized. His CV. “You, on the other hand, have been working in our library for the past six years, and you listed a previous job at a records repository.”

“Oh, right,” Martin said faintly. What his CV didn’t say was that he’d been in the night cleaning crew, not the accessions department.

“I understand if it feels a bit daunting, but don’t worry,” Elias went on. “I have great faith in you, Martin. And as you said, Jon’s familiar with Gertrude’s system, so you’ll have his expertise to fall back on.”

Oh God. Oh God, if he took this job then he’d be Jon’s boss. Unqualified, clueless, and living a lie, and Jon—with actual experience and competence and an existing predisposition to dislike him—would be his subordinate.

Oh, the thought made him ill.

Martin took a deep breath. He’d just have to turn it down. There was no upside to taking it; he was technically unfit for the job he already had, and he certainly wasn’t prepared to be anyone’s boss, especially not Jonathan Sims in the archives of the Magnus Institute. If he took this job, they’d find him out for sure.

“So, if that’s settled, we may as well discuss a pay raise and expanding your benefits,” Elias went on lightly. “These things come with a promotion, of course.”

Martin froze in his seat, uncomfortable and stiff in spite of its padding.

He thought of the bills on his kitchen counter, and the perpetually empty rainy-day fund. He thought of his mother, in that care home in Devon that wasn’t going to pay for itself.

“A-alright,” he said quietly, slumping a little in defeat. His eyes were fixed on that damned CV, and because of that he almost missed the look of calm satisfaction in Elias’s eyes.

Twenty minutes later, Martin wandered back out of Elias’s office in a daze. His feet carried him not back to the library, but down to the archives where the air turned dusty and stale. He wasn’t sure what he was there for. Maybe to apologize? Jon must have heard. Elias must have told him first, and that was why Jon was so irritated with him when they ran into each other.

Not that it mattered, in the end. Jon was nowhere to be found down there, and Martin could only search for so long before the air of the place got to him and he fled back to the library.

Even down there, away from the rest of his coworkers and well away from Elias Bouchard’s office, Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that every eye in the institute was on him, just waiting for him to screw up.

[seanhtaylor]

Cherry Hill

“Ain't never been a day like it," the old man said, "and ain't never gonna be one."

He sat rocking in a rickety chair while a calm November wind whistled through the chimes that hung above his paint chipped steps. Nearly eighty six, his hair was grayed and thin, and his scalp showed through in frequent, scattered patches. He spoke clearly and thoughtfully, a trait common to the Southern elderly I'd interviewed.

"You sure you want to hear 'bout this? 'Cuz it might take a while. I still get really choked up when I think on it even though it happened sixty some odd years ago."

I nodded. "Take all the time you need, sir."

"Alright..." he said, and shifted in the rocker, bringing it to a stop. The quiet squeaking died, and all was silent save the whistle of the breeze through the wind chimes. "Suppose it's best. This old county's got its ghosts lying around, and this one's probably due for a resurrection."

* * * * * *

William Emmett Johnson was sheriff then...Will, all us deputies called him. He was a real card, not a lick like the old sheriff. Will always used to win the Liar's Club's gold cup every Saturday night. That man could tell the most outrageous, but just barely believable untruths out of the whole Liar's Club. Heck, even at the jailhouse, we weren't ever really sure when he was giving it to us straight or just pulling our legs.

And he had this old confederate shirt he used to wear all the time. He said his grandmother gave it to him, and that it was sent back to her from General Lee with a letter saying how his granddaddy had been killed by a Yankee Negro. I guess because of that, you could say old Will had his teeth sorta set on edge toward colored people. He wasn't mean outright to them, but he sure didn't take a liking to them either. Will, Joseph, and I were the only ones at the jail, usually, so it was just the three of us who were there when it all happened. July twenty third, nineteen hundred and twenty six, I marked that day on a calendar in my head, and I'll never forget it. Jimmie Baker from the drug store came running into the jailhouse, shouting like Gabriel's trumpet was blowing outside and the good Lord was coming back.

"They gonna string him, Will."

"Who they gonna string up, Jimmie?"

"That little Jenkins boy, the youngest one."

"Albert Jenkins..." Joseph always did his thinking out loud. "Why, he ain't never been in no kind of trouble before."

"Well, he's gone and done it now. Lee Dunsten says he's the one what raped his little girl, Winnie."

Will just stared like he always did when he was thinking. "They got any proof, witnesses or personal things found at the site?"

"I don't think so, Will, but I don't think the lack's gonna slow 'em down any."

Joseph and I had already got our gun belts on, and were getting ready to go arrest the Jenkins boy, when Will gave us the call to arms, "Well boys, negro or no, ain't nobody getting lynched in Cherry Hill without Will Johnson looking it over first."

So we all packed into the new car the town had just bought for us, and rode out to the Dunstens' farm.

That Lee Dunsten and his boys done had the Jenkins boy down and bleeding all over God's green earth. They had a rope 'round his neck, and were jerking him here and there like a wild dog on a first leash. Cussing and whipping out his arms and legs, the boy was fighting the rope for all he was worth, but he just wasn't a match for Lee Dunsten mounted on his horse holding the other end. He never could get more than two or three steps before the rope would yank him to the ground and drag him 'round the farm some more. The Dunstens were making darn sure the boy didn't have any fight in him for when they got ready to dangle him in the wind.

Sheriff Will just stepped out of the car, and walked right up to Lee Dunsten's horse. He jerked the reins right out of Lee's hands, and brought the animal to a stop.

"What's going on here, Lee?"

"Now sherf, this here ain't none of the law's business. This boy's the one raped Winnie, and I'm gonna see he pays for it. You boys can get back in your fancy automobile the good people done bought for you, and go back to the jailhouse. There ain't no kinda trouble here for you to pay a mind to."

"Rape's a right strong accusation, Lee. I sure hope you got some proof the boy's guilty."

"Proof! What in Hell! Will? Since when do you need proof to string up a nigger boy?"

"Since we lost the war, Lee." Will was a lawman through and through.

"Well, Sherf Johnson," Lee said to him, "I don't see that it's so all fired important, but if it'll get you off my farm, we found the boy in the back of the house, half in and half out of Winnie's window, just like he hadda do the other night to get to her."

"Now Lee, you know there ain't no love lost 'tween me and colored folks, but laws are laws, and I got to enforce them. If this boy's the one what did that vile sin against the Lord and your girl, he'll pay for it...but through the courts, not s winging from a rafter in your barn."

About then, one of Lee's boys spoke up, "Sheriff Will, I ain't no fancy lawyer or nothing, but laws or no laws, there ain't nobody gonna tell me that courts are for anybody but white folks."

Will just ignored the boy, and walked over to Albert Jenkins. He was scared, that boy, half to death, and shaking like he was freezing in the summer. I guess being on the wrong end of a hanging rope will do it to a fella. Blood was everywhere he wasn't nothing but a dark open sore by this time, a sixteen year old blood and puss sore. His clothes were torn into rags from being drug over the farm, and he might as well have been stark naked for all the covering they gave him.

"Boy."

"Yessir."

"Tell me the truth, boy. What was you doing coming out of Miss Winnie's window like you was?"

"I didn't do nothing to Miss Winnie, sir. She always been good to me, treatin' me nice and all.

"What was you doing coming out of the window, boy?

"I weren't coming out her window, sheriff. I was jes' pokin' my head in to smell the chocolates she's been getting."

Dunsten's oldest boy blurted out then, "You calling me a liar, boy? Sheriff, you ain't gonna take no word of a dark boy over me, are you?"

"Shut up, Lewis," his daddy told him, then back handed him hard across the jaw.

"Will, my boy said he found him coming out Winnie's window, and I believe that's what happened. My boy's word's all the proof I need."

"You ain't the court, Lee."

"You know what the court'll say, Will. There ain't never been a negro jury in this county yet, and ain't no white jury gonna listen to this malarky you've been giving me about laws."

"Maybe so, but you folks pay me to do a job, and by the good Lord, I'm gonna do it the best I can."

Joseph and I got Albert Jenkins, and put him in the car. Will told Dunsten and his boys to get back to the house and stop fooling with the "little nigra boy," and they went, but not without the last word.

"This ain't the end, Will," Dunsten yelled, as he let the screen door slam shut behind him.

You know how some folks just can't leave well enough alone. Well, Lee Dunsten was one of them folks. The whole time we had Albert locked up, Lee and his friends were out raising all kinds of cain 'round and 'round the courthouse and the jail. I still think to this day that old Will put the boy in jail as much to protect him from the Dunstens as for the accusation of rape.

Lee was a deacon down at the Baptist church, but you wouldn't have ever known it by the way he was cussing and carrying on outside. "It's a right fine day for a hanging, sherf," he'd shout 'bout every half hour or so.

Little scrawny Albert was still scared half to death sitting in the cell where we'd put him. So, I'd gone over to help the boy calm down while Will was outside trying to get rid of the Dunstens and their hundred or so friends that had gathered.

"Mr. Deputy, sir."

"Yeah."

"I ain't ready to be no merter yet."

"A merter?"

"Yessir...One of them folks that gets killed for doing nothin' wrong, just mindin' they own business, then right out of the blue somebody wants to kill them for one fool reason or another."

"There's a lot of good company with the martyrs, Albert, but don't you worry none...you ain't gonna die today."

"He's right, that Mr. Dunsten. Ain't no jury gonna believe me over a white boy."

All I could do was nod in agreement with him. Albert Jenkins' eyes were as brown as his skin, maybe browner, and big as baseballs, but when he looked at me full in the face, I saw how pretty they gleamed when they glazed over with the starting of a little tear.

"How come you and the sheriff trying to keep me from 'em, if I'm gonna die anyhow?"

"Boy," I said, "There ain't nobody on God's earth deserves to go out like them Dunstens want to send you."

By now 'bout half the town was outside shouting for the boy to hang. Lee Dunsten had almost started himself an all out riot. Will came back in sometime 'round then wearing a big look of misery.

"Joseph...Get the boy."

"Excuse me, sheriff?"

"Get the boy."

"But they gonna kill him, and he ain't even gone to trial yet."

"I ain't got no time for this, Joseph. Get the boy, now!" Will looked like a man whose whole family had just passed on all at once.

Joseph got up and fetched Albert from the cell, and brought him right up to where Will was.

"Albert, I got something to say to you, and I want you to be a man about it."

"Yessir."

"I don't know if you was the one what raped the girl or no, but out there they say you did. They want you to hang."

"Yessir, I know."

"I tried my best, good Lord have mercy, to keep you safe 'til you could get a trial and a chance."

"Yessir."

"But Heaven above, boy, they just threatened to burn down my jailhouse to get you, even if it means they have to kill me and all my deputies."

Albert didn't say "yessir" then. No, he didn't say nothing. All he did was to spit right in Will Johnson's face. I wanted to spit in Will's face, too.

We tried to talk him out of it, Joseph and I, but in the end, he had his mind all made up. He told us not to get in the way none, else the town would fire us both as deputies.

I ain't never felt so small in all my life, as I did looking on as Albert Jenkins stood there all by himself, 'bout to be strung up an untried man. He didn't cry, but he sure cussed and hollered and kicked and punched and bit when the two oldest Dunsten boys, Lewis and Vincent, came in to fetch him out. They fought with him a good five minutes or so before they could wrestle him to the ground for a chance to tie up his hands and feet. For a scrawny sixteen year old kid, that boy could throw his fist like a trained fighter, and none of us interfered while Lewis and Vincent got a few bruises to carry out with them. But Albert knew he couldn't fight them all day long, and even if he did, there were more than a hundred others waiting outside to come in all at once, so he quit. He just gave up licking them Dunsten boys, and lay there on the floor gawking for breath. Lewis Dunsten came up then and kicked him hard in the stomach. Albert Jenkins coughed and spit blood, then fainted dead away.

The crowd had their fun with the boy, slapping and kicking at him, and taunting with no end of horrible names. I guess they just wanted to make sure he was good and awake before they killed him.

"Devil boy," somebody yelled out, "Black as soot from the Hell pits."

"Ain't never known nothing but stealin' and hurtin' good people."

"Primitive heathens."

Lee Dunsten just took up on that, and sounded like he was making church out of it. "We know, all of us here, that this little Negro had every opportunity to do right." He took care to drag the word Negro out real clear and loud. "He knows what the rules have always been: Don't no black folks associate with no white folks. He was born knowing it, even if we never hadda told 'em. It's inborn, the natural order." People were whooping and hollering like they were at a tent meeting, all stirred up by what Lee was saying. "But now this boy done stepped way over the dividing line. He's gone and done the unthinkable. No self respecting nigger with a brain in his head would force his affection on a tender, young white girl. But let me tell you...this ain't no self respecting boy."

You could have heard that crowd three towns away. Lee's accusation was all the proof they needed that the boy was Winnie's attacker, and they got thirsty for blood. It made you wonder who was really primitive, hearing a whole town yelling out a death chant like they were.

Next thing I knew, they had Albert standing under the oak tree across from the courthouse, and Lewis Dunsten was slipping the rope 'round his neck one more time. It was happening too far away to know for sure, but I swear that the Dunsten boy was grinning from ear to ear as he tightened the rope.

Then, "Crack!" The explosion of gunpowder stood everybody as still as if death had frozen all of them right where they were standing. Sheriff William Emmett Johnson was standing on the front steps of the courthouse with his rifle pointing up at the clouds.

"This ain't court," he shouted to the crowd, "and you ain't the jury what's gonna decide whether or not the boy hangs."

That yelling and screaming lynch mob got quiet right quick, waiting on Lee Dunsten's reaction.

"Sherf, me and all the good folks here aim to see this boy hang, and ain't you or nobody gonna stop us."

"I can't let that happen, Lee."

"Since when have you gone out of your way to protect a..."

Will cut him off with another rifle blast. "Since I believed in the boy's innocence."

"You ain't callin' my boy a liar, are ya, Will?"

"Nope. Just saying he misunderstood the situation as he saw it. It just ain't evidence enough for a hanging."

"We think it is, sherf."

"I'm right sorry to hear that, but I don't reckon it matters much since the police from Pineville are waiting on him to show up at their big, new jailhouse. I just called them, and they said they had plenty of room to hold him 'til his trial."

Lee turned every shade of red in the book, and stormed right up to Will on the front steps. "Will, the boy ain't gonna make it to Pineville..."

"That's obstructing justice, Lee, and that's against the law."

"Fine." He turned and yelled out to Lewis, "Go ahead, boy. This fine lawman of ours wouldn't shoot no white man for giving out justice to a Negro."

Lewis once again tightened the rope, and got ready to dangle Albert. A bullet whizzed by about two feet above his head, and he flinched, but only for a moment.

"You almost scared me, sheriff. I almost thought you were really gunning for me."

He put on a smirk, stepped off of the box, and raised his foot to send Albert swinging out into the air, when the rifle thundered one last time, and Lewis Dunsten fell to the ground like a dove over a hunter's field.

About half the mob screamed while the other half ran off in all different directions. Lee Dunsten didn't do nothing but drop to his knees crying like a newborn. In the confusion, Will picked up the shaken Lee Dunsten, and took him into the jailhouse for being a public nuisance.

Joseph and I made over to where Albert was still standing on the box, terrified. We took the rope off from his neck, and cut it down from the tree as a safeguard. Albert was bleeding pretty bad from the licking he'd taken, and his wrists were cut deep and rubbed raw down to the muscle from the coarse rope. After we cut his wrists loose, and he tried to bring his arms 'round front again, there was a loud scraping noise like bone rubbing bone. The boy was a sore mess with his body covered in blood and bruises and his right arm broken, but he was still breathing, and he wasn't swinging from an oak tree in front of the Cherry Hill Court House.

That, at least, was something.

We carried the poor kid over to the new police car, and then Will Johnson did something I'll never forget. He took off his granddaddy's old confederate shirt, and standing there before God and everybody all bare chested and sweaty, he tore it into three long strips to make a sling for Albert Jenkins' broken right arm. As soon as we'd put him in the car, it wasn't forty seconds before the boy fell straight off to sleep, right peaceful even, all things considered.

Will told us to get in the car, and drive him up to Charleston.

"Charleston, sheriff?"

"Yeah, Charleston. Even if a jury was to find him innocent, folks 'round here wouldn't care a bit. He'd still be in as much danger of hanging as he was before the trial. But in Charleston, he can live...land a job on a ship...sail off a few years. Nobody ever recognizes a man after the sea gets a hold of him. Heck! He don't even have to come back. No, he can make a whole new life. Anything's better than what he'll have waiting here."

"Sheriff, what about them folks up at Pineville? Ain't they gonna be sorely put out when he don't show up?"

"Naw," Will drawled, and started laughing himself sick to tears. "I lied." And he kept on laughing 'til long after we'd headed on up to Charleston.

* * * * * *

"We got Albert a job two days later, broken right arm and all. We waved good bye from the dock as he sailed off to be a cook's assistant aboard Elizabeth's Dream. It was a right odd name for a boat, so we just called it Jenkin's Dream, because of the chance it meant for Albert `cept he wasn't Albert Jenkins no more. Start over, we told him, fresh and clean. And he did. Grover Calvert Williams was the signature he left on the ship's work list.

"He even wrote once or twice, and said he'd married a little French girl, and that they'd moved back to the States...somewhere up North with lots of land and room for a family.

"You know, the Dunstens moved on right after the sheriff let Lee out of Jail. Rumor said they'd moved up to Pineville for a few weeks, then just moved on from there to nobody knows where. Old Will Johnson never got a gold cup for that one, but he sure should've."

I chuckled, and began packing my recorder and notebook away, all the while fighting November's breath as it sought to close the flap of my pack. "Thanks for your time and the story."

"Anytime, anytime at all."

He turned and entered the big screen door going from his porch to the inside of the small house, and I headed for my VW. But before either of us made it to our destinations, he stopped, the door half open, and looked over toward me again.

"Say...Nobody much cares for the old stories anymore. How come you're so interested?"

"Research for my doctorate...race relations in the rural South," I partially lied, and traced the G, C, and W of my grandfather's pocketwatch inside my windbreaker's front pocket.

© Sean Taylor

[mxstyassasxin]

Every Year I Tried, Every Year I Lied (T, 3k)

In the three years immediately following the war, Harry and Draco find themselves witholding the truth about their own feelings but as they begin to work together, they find it harder to keep lying.

on AO3

The parchment stayed blank for a long time after Potter had returned his wand. It had been there on his desk since the evening of his own birthday, a few hours after Potter had approached him in the Apothecary of all places and held his wand out; the wand that Potter had snatched from his grip in his own home – not that it had been any home to him at that moment in time. Draco had stared at it a moment, held comfortably between the calloused fingers of The Saviour, before snatching it himself. A perfunctory nod at Potter and a quick turn on his heel and he was gone, wand back in hand.

The fact that he hadn’t said anything grated on him, because he knew there was much to be said between the two of them. So he had laid a piece of parchment down on his desk, in his bedroom, waiting for him to write the words down. It had taken the arrival of Potter’s own birthday for that to finally happen.

He used his words, first and foremost, to thank Potter for returning his wand, but then the thankfulness continued to spill onto the page. Thankful that he and his mother were not in Azkaban. Thankful that his father was. Thankful for coming back for him in the Room of Hidden Things. Thankful that Potter had lived so he was able to save them all, to save everything, from the Dark Lord.

But that was a lie. Not a total lie, because he was thankful that Potter had saved them. Except, Draco knew there were other reasons that he was thankful for Potter’s individual survival, reasons that he refused to delve into. He was quite content with them bubbling away beneath the surface.

X - X - X

Was that really… Harry had to do a double take. Because strolling through the Ministry corridors towards him was Draco Sodding Malfoy who, for all Harry knew, should have been at Hogwarts revising for his NEWTs like Hermione.

As they passed each other with equal nods of acknowledgement, Harry remembered what date it was, and that on this day last year, he had returned Draco his wand. He turned to look after the retreating blonde, hair looking much softer than it had at school, and opened his mouth to shout. He faltered a moment, closing his mouth again as he thought whether it was appropriate to shout Happy Birthday in the Ministry corridors, and then opened it once more when he decided it would be best just to get his attention first.

“Malfoy!” Draco turned slowly with a tilt to his head and a quirked eyebrow as if to say, “Me?”.

Yes, you, Harry thought with a roll of his eyes as he jogged up to him.

“I just, well, I wanted to… How’s your day going?” Harry tried to smile normally at him but felt the gesture had failed by the look on Draco’s face. “And Happy Birthday, by the way. At least I hope it’s happy.” What was he saying? He wished the floor would open up beneath him.

“Thank you, Potter,” Draco said formally after clearing his throat. “It is quite a pleasant one this year. I’ve just finished interviewing with your department and they don’t see why I can’t begin training at the end of July. Depending on my exam results of course.”

“Of course,” Harry nodded numbly, still trying to take in the news that he would be working in the same department as Draco Malfoy. “I mean, congratulations! I’ll be pleased to work alongside you.”

“I hope you’re not just saying that, Potter,” Draco scowled at him.

“No! God, no. Of course not! I will be pleased. You’ve got a good way of thinking for it. You’re creative and strategic as well as logical. And I know you can be quick with your wand.”

Harry told himself it wasn’t a lie as he smiled at Draco. Not really. Because all that was true about Draco. It just wasn’t the most important reason why Harry would be pleased to work alongside him.

X - X - X

Draco stepped out of the shower, much needed after a long training session, and wrapped a towel around his waist before rolling the knots out of his shoulders that the hot water had missed. His wet hair was dripping down over his eyes as he rolled his neck, but he knew the way by now from the shower across the room to his locker.

What he didn’t count on was the voice that spoke from the direction of another locker slightly to his right. His sure steps faltered but he couldn’t stop lest the git pay any particular attention to his chest.

“Oh, Draco. Sorry, didn’t know you were in here.” At least it sounded as though one of them had a smile on their face.

He carried on quickly towards his locker and his clothes, his skin feeling flusher than it had in the heat of the shower.

“It’s alright, Potter. We’ll get used to bumping into one another, I’m sure,” he drawled, praising Merlin, Circe and Morgana when his voice sounded unaffected.

He kept his back to Potter while he buttoned up a crisp white shirt and pulled on a pair of black briefs, then turned around only to see Potter pulling on a polo shirt. His eyes grew wide and he shut them quickly, gaining a hold on himself. Since when did the man have abs!

He shook himself lightly from his sudden stupor when he realised that Potter had started speaking again and pulled his eyes up from the now-cotton-covered muscles.

“So I’m meeting a few people at the Leaky. You want to come?” Potter was saying and Draco had the feeling that he had missed something somewhere. He felt his brow furrow and saw Potter roll his eyes. “You know, birthday and all that? Drinks. Leaky. Would you like to join us?”

“Um, no. Thank you, Potter, but I probably shouldn’t, and I have a prior engagement anyway. Best wishes though.” He tried to smile but the outright lie he’d just told had settled painfully in the pit of his stomach. He was surprised it hadn’t gotten stuck in his throat because there definitely was no prior engagement, and no one usually cared either way. But here was Harry Potter looking at him like he cared and Salazar, that didn’t help with the guilt.

How could he, in good conscience, go with Potter and be around his friends without ruining their fun. Without ruining his birthday. Especially when he wouldn’t be able to get the image of some well-toned abs out of his mind.

X - X - X

Harry stared at the prone form in the hospital bed as he had been doing every day for the past week. “Asleep,” the healers kept telling him. “He’s just sleeping and he’ll wake up when he feels ready. That was a pretty intense curse he took.”

Yeah, Harry kept berating himself. A pretty intense curse that was meant for me. And it was Draco’s bloody birthday. If he wasn’t going to wake up today, when else would he.

Deep down he knew he was being petty and that Draco being alive after saving his life was much more important to focus on than the fact that he wouldn’t bloody wake up on his own birthday. But Harry needed him to wake up. His own recovery from the ambush was over and he was being sent on another case, with Ron this time, and it sounded like a long one.

He couldn’t leave without speaking to Draco, without thanking him, without saying… Well, he hadn’t quite figured out what to say, but it was Draco’s birthday for crying out loud and he couldn’t just disappear without letting Draco know.

Realising that he would have to try and put it down in writing, Harry summoned a self-inking quill and a piece of parchment, one that ended up with too many lines through it to even bother leaving for Draco to read. He summoned parchment after parchment, never quite getting the wording right. Being unable to express himself properly; frustrating himself until he gave up and lied.

He told Draco, thank you. That he wished he could have told him in person, but he had to go away on a case. That he hoped Draco would wake up soon and that he hoped to be able to see him awake when he gets back. There was more. Harry knew that there was, but it didn’t make it onto the page.

Not being very practised at writing letters that important, Harry reverted to something he remembered being taught about letter writing in primary school, signing the letter off with Yours, gratefully. Those two words felt right. More right than any other two words written on that pitiful piece of parchment, so he left it at that.

Folding it up and placing it in Draco’s hand with a whispered Happy Birthday, Harry squeezed the long, pale fingers once and walked out of the room

X - X - X

“Sir, tell me where he is,” Draco, a junior Auror of one year, demanded from Robards. He had kept his mouth shut the first week, then the second week, even the first month went by without Draco saying anything. But they had been gone far too long for everything to be going right, and Draco was worried, panicked even.

“You already know I can’t do that Auror Malfoy. I’ve told you all that I can.”

“You’ve told me shit.”

“Malfoy,” Robards warned.

“We work well together, Sir. We both know how the other works and it allows us to see the different parts of the puzzle. There could be something missing that only I can see. A link that they haven’t noticed in their observations. It will be beneficial to the department to let me join them.”

Draco told himself that it wasn’t a lie, that Potter was right about his way of thinking when they bumped into each other just over a year ago. But he knew it wasn’t the reason for demanding that Robards send him wherever they are, and he was pretty sure that Robards knew it too. But Draco just stared him down until he got what he wanted. He had yet to relinquish all his pretentiousness.

“You haven’t long been cleared for service again, Malfoy.”

“I am aware, Sir,” Draco acknowledged without removing his gaze and, a few moments later, it paid off because Robards gave a long sigh.

“You will have to read the briefing first, in here so I know you’ve done so. It has all the initial intelligence as well as the updates sent in by Aurors Potter and Weasley. Last contact was ten days ago.”

“Ten days!” Draco practically exploded but closed his eyes and took five deep, steadying breaths. “Alright. Assuming intel is ten days out of date.”

Robards nodded at him with an impressed smirk on his face before handing him a red docket.

“You’re heading to Serbia. The international Wizarding community has been keeping an eye on the situation out there following the breakup of Yugoslavia. It recently came to our attention that there are some magical influences at play interfering with the decisions of the muggle armies. Some dangerous magical influences. Considering their experiences, the European Coalition agreed that Aurors Potter and Weasley were best suited to infiltrate the situation, lay low, identify the target and extract them.”

“You sent them into another war?” Draco blinked incredulously. “Their experiences,” he hissed, “are those of child soldiers in a fight that the responsible adults ignored until it was too late.”

Robards narrowed his eyes but didn’t say anything as Draco went back to reading the entirely useless docket. He was still seething when he finished and slapped it down on Robards’ desk.

“Get me a portkey. Now.”

The portkey sent him straight to the initial safe house which Draco already knew would be empty because they wouldn’t have gone quiet ten days ago if they were still there. It wasn’t anything fabulous – a three room, bare brick building on a rather barren hillside. He quickly set about searching for the warded compartment that housed maps and photographs of all the other safe houses in the area.

He could only hope that it would be this easy.

After studying the photos and locations carefully, Draco held one in his hands along with his wand and shoved the rest in a pocket on his left side before spinning away to the first safe house he’d chosen at random.

After a successful apparition, he put the information of that safe house in a pocket on his right side and cast a useful spell to reveal any recent magical signatures. Nothing.

Sighing, he took another random location out of his pocket and disapparated, casting the spell again when he landed in the correct place. Still nothing.

He tried again, and again until the fifth time, the spell caught something. The remains of some household magic; the ancient kind of family magic that you can only learn by owning a magical house. He scanned again for the trace and held it in his mind, expanding the signature not just for the type of spell, but specifically what it had been used for.

He saw it physically expanding. Someone acquainted with ancient household magic had literally expanded this safe house. Following that revelation, Draco covered every inch of the space, running his palms over the walls and floors and ceilings. Over the tops of cupboards and around doorways and window frames, seeking a particular tingle that he had felt in rooms throughout the Manor, left there from years of expansions and additions using this type of magic.

Eventually, he felt it, in the bottom of the bathtub of all places. Feeling very unlike himself, he climbed into the empty bathtub and sat cross-legged, bent forwards at the hips with his palms pressed against the cold surface; his face as close to it as he could manage.

“Potter?” He spoke quietly after a few deep breaths. “Potter, please. If you can hear me, let me in. Are you even in there? I don’t even know what house you own to be able to do this kind of magic. Some magical building must have let you in on this secret somehow. Or was it Weasley? Very possible with the way his place looks. Obviously, his parents know about it, but Weasley technically shouldn’t as the fifth, sixth, however many-eth child.

“No, I’m sure it’s not him so it has to be you, and you need to open up for me. It’s your birthday for Merlin’s sake, and I know I look utterly ridiculous right now but my Healer said that you sat waiting for me to wake up uttering complete nonsense all the time too, so I’m going to keep on talking until you come out of there because you wrote Yours. Why did you write Yours? And with a comma after it too? You must be aware of how that reads. Potter? Harry?”

After running out of air, Draco sat in silence for a moment, listening for the slightest sound. When he didn’t hear anything, he carried on speaking because he knew that this had to be it. He refused to give up hope. Especially when it came to Potter.

“I wouldn’t mind, you know. Being yours. So Happy Birthday!” Draco laughed drily. “You get me of all things, if you want.”

He lifted his cold hands from the floor of the tub to cover his face and sighed, but it soon turned into a gasp as he felt the tub give way below him and he fell, landing on his knees with warm, calloused hands frantically checking him over.

“Draco? Draco? I couldn’t figure out how to undo the damn spell to let me out. I wanted a hiding place and the damn thing gave me a bloody good place to hide but then I couldn’t un-hide.” Draco uncovered his face and stared up at the green eyes smiling down at him.

“Potter?”

“And Ron’s the sixth child, just so you know,” the git chuckled, and Draco scrambled off his knees to pull him into a hug.

“You disappeared,” Draco pointlessly pointed out.

“I know,” Potter mumbled into Draco’s chest.

“They didn’t know where you were.”

“Well I’ve been stuck beneath a bathtub for however long it’s been. Wait? You said it was my birthday? It’s been that long?”

Draco pulled back and stared shocked into Harry’s face.

“You heard what I was saying? You heard everything I said?”

“Yes, Draco. I heard everything you said,” Potter smiled warmly and looked down at their hands which had, at some point, joined together.

“And did you?” he swallowed before continuing, nervous for the answer. “Did you mean it like that?”

“Yes,” he began stroking his thumbs over Draco knuckles. “I meant it like that. I wouldn’t mind being yours either.”

And then Potter was leaning forwards, his eyes on Draco’s lips, his tongue darting out to wet his own. Draco took in a sharp breath and surged forwards, meeting Potter’s lips and sighing as they parted for him. His knees felt weak and for once, nothing felt like a lie. He wouldn’t have to lie about Potter, to himself, to others, to the man himself, ever again.

Too soon, Potter was pulling away, leaving a chaste kiss behind, his thumbs still stroking over Draco’s knuckles. He smiled, and Draco couldn’t help but smile back.

“Can we go and find Ron now? We had to split up and I have no idea where he went.”

“Sure, that’s why I’m here,” Draco smirked, allowing himself just one more lie.

[zinaidas]

HER EYES, HER LARGE DARK EYES, WERE AMBIGUOUS — 

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄: zinaida petrovna sabitova

𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐄: the sacred

𝐀𝐆𝐄: twenty-five

𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: principal dancer at the bolshoi ballet

𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓: here.

—a delicate nose tucked into a fur collar, the flashing of camera bulbs white-cold and relentless as the snow, perfume no one can identify, a knife hanging from the ceiling; thread fraying, the slow undoing of a velvet bow, walking into the sea in an evening dress, the bargains made in folktales, smiling without showing teeth, heat from a spotlight, a striking figure in a black dress, blood in pointe shoes, unopened gifts, kissing a cold statue, balancing atop the balcony railing, straining muscles, lying naked atop the bedspread, a rose pushed to bowing under the weight of snowdrift, a crown that mysteriously fits, swans on the morning lake, lipstick stains, pulling death from the tarot deck, the gaze of a room sweeping in one direction, a glass throne, flowers being thrown on stage, grainy black and white footage of far-away figures, the cold draft through a window purposefully left open, the scent of perfume lingering in an empty room, perfect posture, the shot that puts down a lame horse.

𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘, 𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐀 & 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐔𝐓 !

trigger warnings for: implied sex work, sexual assault, drowning, suicide, & attempted suicide.

𝘏𝘐𝘚𝘛𝘖𝘙𝘠 !

i swear this is abbreviated compared to her app... i swear...

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈: 𝐀 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐑𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐒.

she’s raised by her mother in an apartment with red walls, a colour she remembers not as blood-red or rose-red but heart-red. her mother is beautiful in the way no single individual should be and charming in a way that borders on symptomatic of terror. as a woman she excels, captivating hearts around her without intention and outright pilfering those she aims for, but as a mother she knows little. it is never a secret to little zinaida that she was an unplanned child — the absence of a father is evidence enough.

her childhood is blurred and full of a great deal of whirring colour; the red walls, the churning silhouettes cast by light of a candle, the twirl of her mother’s skirt before she leaves for the night. girlhood is always full of this motion and little stillness — the solid, rectangular parts of life such as school and full meals are of little importance to zinaida’s mother, and sometimes forgotten altogether. she learns to be a quiet, undisruptive girl who does not whine when her stomach grumbles or the scent of smoke stains her clothes; she is educated on the value of trading rations for pure silk stockings when the war comes in place of the missed lessons. there is no time beauty is required more, mother says, than in duress. always, it prevails.

at night she sits on the edge of mother’s bed and watches as she applies makeup at the vanity, setting her face with rouge and powder in flaking gilt packages. it’s like magic those hours, watching her mother transform into a proud creature even more beautiful and untouchable than the one in the beginning, and how it is that extraordinary demi-being that returns home with beautiful trinkets or thick handfuls of paper bills. each morning she comes home, until the one she does not.

the man in the dark suit arrives at her front door and tells little zinaida, whose height only reaches his hip, one thing she knows to be a half-truth and one thing that she does not know of at all: that her mother is a prostitute, and a traitor to the soviet union. these things are explained to her as both independent facts and contingent clauses, like the two angular pieces of a door hinge.

her mother is accused, she is told, of blackmailing one of the state council. young zinaida blinks, still gripping the doorknob. it is not news to her that her mother associates with rich and powerful men, but it is news to hear that this is a crime. blackmailing? she asks. yes, he says. it means to threaten with a piece of information. only, in this case, the information is false. she is lying, and she has been arrested. oh. the girl says. it seems very odd to her that her mother, who so often lessoned zinaida on the truths of the world as she saw them (for instance, that men were only afraid of the two things they could not control: beauty, and death), would be caught lying. what is the information? the man looks down at her from under his hat. it begins to rain behind him. you. she says you are his daughter. everyone has a father. she answers. why is this so bad? for the first time, the stranger in the doorway looks uncomfortable, lifting a hand to scratch the midday shadow along his jaw. she claims it is by force.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐆𝐄.

driven out from stalingrad into the surrounding country by the man in the dark hat, zinaida is taken to an estate with wrought iron gate, overrun with weeds and the sensation of time passed and left embittered for it. there she finds a half-dozen other girls, all bastards of important and high-sat men. she and the other girls call it the birdcage: for their imposed home gleamed like one, and because it housed a half-dozen little sparrows of young women, each of them trapped, fluttering at windows, waiting to get out and touch the world.

despite its size, the estate has few staff, and those who do cook and clean within the walls keep their silence like a photograph tucked in their pocket. uncle vanya, as they are told to call him, is the only one who speaks to the girls — though his speech is always stunted and harsh as a candle burned halfway down. he stands as both the head of household and, as zinaida would learn, the ballet master. dance, he says, is how they will occupy their days — ballet the medium which would instill discipline and self-control into their lives, things they will then carry into life as young women released back into the city.

the war feels so distant in the countryside, wrapped as they are in their strange, repetitious daily life. dance occupies both the time & intention of each day; if they are not practicing they are stretching, and if they are not stretching all that there is schoolwork, sleep, or chores.

zinaida, tall for her age and with a body made lean by intermittent poverty, is objectively made for the stage in ways she has no control over — but her skill, too, is preternatural. already accustomed to suffering, she has no wide eyes when uncle vanya chastises her, nor wobbling lip when her pointe shoes graft sections of skin from her toes and heels. she merely persists. more than that, she begins to exist. she has found what her mother told her about all that time ago: a beauty that survives even dread. even the end of the world.

her skill over the others — and perhaps even moreso, her desire to dance — is quickly noticed by the uncle and the girls both. her peers grow cold, irritated by what makes her different — what makes her special in a world where all must be communal. uncle vanya, however, pays closer attention. after dinner on her eighth birthday, he bends to one knee and looks zinaida in the eye, one hand on her shoulder. you can go to leningrad to dance, if you wish. they will teach you, and I can arrange it. will you go? she, with her raven-hair and bright, solemn little eyes looks back with a very simple answer: what else would I do?

( and she thinks, she thinks: if only i am good enough, perhaps they will take me to mother again. perhaps i will not be alone. )

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈𝐈: 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐃.

she comes of age in the breeding grounds of race and rivalry. zinaida is found, as uncle vanya has expected, a prodigal dancer with bodily proportions meant for the stage. her peers resent or flock to her, hoping to find a queen to please or a star to hitch to. so long without true companions, she is desperate for the affection of those around her — for friends, for lovers — but the demand of ballet, the pull of a future with the bolshoi, usurps the ability to make connection. still, she dreams. she imagines loving every individual who shows her kindness.

innessa anisimova is another vaganova pupil with great promise, and perhaps zinaida’s singular dearest friend. both seventeen and dark-haired, they are often mistaken for sisters, and take their places next to one another at the barre. though the academy and its tutors were brutal to all who entered, innessa is picked on by the school’s faculty, often critiqued by comparison to zinaida. they accuse her of having a leaden body, criticizing her footwork by saying it looked as though she had bricks tied to her feet. the stress of the training coupled with increasingly personal attacks, innessa’s mental health suffers until reaching a point of no return. on a cold november night, innessa looks to the verbal attacks of her instructors and takes her own life, lashing cinderblocks to her shoes and jumping into the nearby lake.

several months later, zinaida makes an attempt on her own life before a handful of instructors in a fit of mania. the knife is wrenched from her hand, but the motion leaves a 2-inch scar across her delicate neck. zinaida is given a brief reprieve from lessons, and the academy, unwilling to release their star, covers up the incident. still, rumours persist.

at eighteen, after graduation from vaganova and weeks prior to her debut with the bolshoi, zinaida goes the ‘60s version of viral after her measurements are taken in several national newspapers, put out as proof that she has the “perfect” ballet body printed along with interviews & articles. the image of her at 18, extended in fourth position while a journalist holds a measuring tape down her leg, along with subsequent video footage, has been widely circulated.

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐕: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐖𝐄𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐎𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐖.

her debut is remarkable, her place as a celebrated figure quickly evolving into celebrity as she rises from the corpse to soloist and principal in a thin handful of years, two meteoric ascents. but the fame is not wholly naturally: instead, it is in part carefully cultivated. having sought an effigy for the general populace to rally behind and support — a face more personal than authority figures, and less frivolous than america’s movie stars — the soviet government decide on zinaida. she, with her generation-defining talent, exemplified a human excellence that could be strained into a narrative of natural soviet supremacy — a thing so potent, they want you to believe, that it manifested in the body itself.

she attends high profile events; she’s dressed in foreign clothes; her personal life is gossip; she’s seen on the arms of extremely important men. the glamour is muted but still there, meant to showcase what any soviet could attain through hard work and excellence; she is a celebrity, but of a different kind. much like her skeleton title, her reputation is carefully cultivated to be exactly that — sacred. the brand of her image is one meant to mark a certain exclusivity, a sanctity that cannot be broached by things unworthy. her absences are as important as her attendances, as it’s within these blank spaces that the general public can imagine what the government desires them to: that she resists parties for practice, dismisses romance for work. of all she has, all that zinaida knows as earned in truth is her position at the bolshoi — but even this remains at the discretion of the soviet government, as everything in her life does.

𝘙𝘜𝘔𝘖𝘜𝘙𝘚 & 𝘗𝘜𝘉𝘓𝘐𝘊 𝘗𝘌𝘙𝘊𝘌𝘗𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕 !

... ONLY ATTENDS EVENTS FOR A LARGE APPEARANCE FEE / half-true. she occasionally receives payment through the government for attending events they dictate to her, but she doesn’t have much of a choice anyway lol.

... WAS ENGAGED TO A YOUNG COUNCIL MEMBER, HAVING BEEN WON OVER BY HIS PURSUIT: ATTENDING EVERY SHOW OF THE 1960 SEASON / false. the councilman did attend every show, but the romance (and subsequent rumour) was contrived. this was largely done to unite a “people’s” figure with one of authority. zinaida and artyom mikhailov would have a brief and genuine relationship during this time, but it ended prematurely.

... WILL BE NAMED PRIMA BALLERINA AT THE END OF THE SEASON / ?? it’s considered an ill-kept secret and all-but-verified fact by the public, but we’ll see.

... CAUSED THE OVERSEERS OF HER VAGANOVA AUDITION TO CRY WITH HER PERFORMANCE / false. similar things have been said of her bolshoi audition, but it’s untrue.

... IS RELATED TO XYZ. / who knows. not zinaida. there are a handful of random rumours as to her parentage, but largely this is due to the fact that her life before vaganova is unknown. unwilling to have their figurehead linked to a scandalous birth or mother, the soviet gov has scrubbed and hid her records.

𝘛𝘙𝘐𝘝𝘐𝘈 !

to hide the scar on her neck, zinaida constantly wears necklaces and scarves - she’s known for wearing a black velvet choker even during rehearsals.

knows how to read palms and tarot cards by heart, skills remembered from her childhood with an unusual mother who came from a crooked house in the black woods. zin carries that little bit of witchiness quietly with her, between occasional occult practices and the mental ritualizing of her modern habits. superstitious, though she doesn’t like to show it.

frequently after performances, zinaida rushes from the fallen curtain to her dressing room, not stopping to speak to cast or crew. this likely incurs opinions of snobbish or diva behaviour, but it’s emotion rather than apathy that has her take to the private room. the emotions of a role, when not allowed to move and expel through performance, tend to overwhelm her once she stills -- leading to tears, tremors, and other vulnerabilities she doesn’t wish her peers to see.

the media and general populace have several nicknames for her, most prevalently the jewel of moscow (stalingrad? idk) and the tsarina (graduated from the tsarevna, her pre-principal nickname).

obsessive over preventative beauty and bodily measures -- even moreso than the average ballerina. there are lengthy morning and nighttime routines for both, with everything from face creams/serums to stretching, and the ritual of it soothes her.

she has no idea who her father is, but frequently thinks about the fact that any of the old men in authority she poses with for the papers could be Him. her patronymic was assigned to her before debut.

terrified of her own mortality, and subsequently dislikes being around the elderly.

contrary to what was told to her so many years ago, her mother was never arrested for attempting to blackmail a politician. she was, conversely, offered a large sum of money to send her illegitimate child to the estate in the country. though i’m still working through how she discovered this, zinaida is aware of at least part of this truth by now. 

has the awfully fatalistic habit of practicing choreography and positions on the edge of a high building, particularly when overcome with guilt, anger, or melancholy. to her, this is a resolute test -- either she is strong and agile enough to uphold herself, to balance with utter perfection, or she is not. and if she is not -- is life not ruined regardless?

applauded for the depth and intensity of her characterizations on stage and the ability to embody a role, removing the audience’s view from one of technical steps to that of a character and a story. her talent, generally speaking, is considered a once-in-a-generation -- along the lines of the anna pavlovas and margot fonteyns; a name that goes down in both russian and ballet history. 

𝘊𝘖𝘕𝘕𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚 !

tbd. i just need to post this already gdi.

[d2kvirus]

Dickheads of the Month: March 2021

As it seems that there are people who say or do things that are remarkably dickheaded yet somehow people try to make excuses for them or pretend it never happened, here is a collection of some of the dickheaded actions we saw in the month of March 2021 to make sure that they are never forgotten.

It was brainless enough when the Metropolitan Police suggested that Sarah Everard’s death could be blamed on her for walking home alone at night - but when it turned out that it was a police officer who murdered her, who had also been previously let off at least one case of publicly exposing himself entirely because he was a police officer, brainless left the table and instead we found ourselves noticing they were trying to blame the victim while had covered up for the eventual perpetrator

...while we also had the angry men of Twitter respond to Janie Jones’ clearly not serious suggestion that if a 6pm curfew for women were to be introduced then she would call for a 6pm curfew for men with all manner of bile, shouting, finger-pointing, and comments which the police might just so happen to want to look into

...while smirking bully Priti Patel also managed to get her oar in, as various Reclaim The Streets Vigils were shut down by the police (which is a good look, all things considered...) using the legislation that Patel rushed through a few days earlier to combat BLM protests several months after the BLM protests happened

...but then the Metropolitan Police managed to pivot the focus back onto themselves with their heavy-handed tackling of a vigil on Clapham Common that ended up with them handcuffing various women who were there - which they weren’t so keen to do when Kate Middleton was there - before releasing a statement that boiled down to “Look what you made us do” and then rushing to protect a statue of Winston Churchill for no reason whatsoever but making sure to have lots of photos of them protecting their precious statue anyway

...but then the Tory government demanded they get the last word by bulldozing through their boot stamping on a human face forever policing bill that bans all forms of protests due to it causing “annoyance” as if protesting against the ills of society is the same thing as somebody cutting in front of you in the supermarket queue or not holding open a door

...although the Metropolitan Police did try and regain their title as Biggest Dickheads the following week when an anti-lockdown march featuring professional victim Lawrence Fox and fecal enthusiast Gillian McKeith was met by the police letting them walk in a large, huddled mass without a mask between them and didn't lift a single finger

...and there’s nothing sinister about how the BBC failed to broadcast a single item saying the bill had been bulldozed through, while the piece on their website was buried instead of being on the front page

...and then at the buzzer Her Majesty's Inspectorate of Constabulary and Fire & Rescue Services published a report saying that the police acted appropriately at the vigil, in spite of a wealth of evidence and eyewitness testimony saying they absolutely fucking didn’t

Of course we can trust the Tory government when they publish a report stating that racism isn't a systemic issue in the United Kingdom, even when various people cited as experts for this report were very surprised to hear that they were part of it given they were never asked for their input

So it has been found that proven liar Boris Johnson misled parliament over the Covid contracts being doled out by the Tories, which I’m sure will lead to widespread calls in the media for his resignation - or are we to believe that the real reason for the British media calling for Nicola Sturgeon’s resignation is down to something different?

To sum up the British press completely losing their minds about the Meghan Markle interview, we had various royal correspondents responding to some of the more serious allegations with a combination of vicious smears that don’t debunk a single thing she said or outright misrepresenting what she said to try and tip the narrative in the Royals’ favour, while the Press Gazette issued a statement rejected her claims of bigotry in the British media that can easily be disproved in seconds with photos of various front pages of The Sun, the Daily Mail and the Daily Express on whichever subject you wish to choose - which was supported unintentionally by Ian Murray trying to shout down criticism having been presented with examples of such bigotry live on air - and in response to Murray’s hapless showing, the Society of Editors put out a mealy-mouthed nonpology that pretended that nobody ever said anything about bigotry...before suggesting Murray bugger off

...although Piers Moron Morgan picked up the baton for nastiness by first accusing Meghan of making up that she had suicidal thoughts and immediately after the interview aired it was announced that Meghan’s estranged father was lined up for an interview, although it does have to be said he was far from the only person to respond by throwing that at Meghan like a rock - only to then flounce out of the Good Morning Britain studio when called out for his bullshit, shortly before being told to hand in his resignation or else

So after Keir Starmer tore up the ballot for the Liverpool mayoral election last months, you would expect him to name a new list of candidates that was more to his liking - which is cynical enough - right?  Wrong, instead he backed the government's plans to seize control of the city, meaning that Keir Starmer handed over the Labour stronghold of Liverpool to the Tories with no fucking questions asked

Further enhancing public trust in the police was Andy Marsh of Avon and Somerset Police claiming that several of his officers suffered broken bones and one a punctured lung dealing with the protests in Bristol - which turned out to be a complete lie, a lie told by the Chief Constable of Avon and Somerset Police, as not a single officer was treated for any of those injuries

...and a few days later Avon and Somerset Police apparently had to deal with mindless thugs attacking police batons with their faces and seated protesters holding up their hand throwing themselves into their riot shields.  Oh wait, that isn't what happened, instead they waded in swinging batons and using blading tactics with their shields

Nice to know that the Tory government are so in control of the Covid pandemic that somebody with the Brazilian variant got through the tough measures of testing people on arrival by simply not filling out the form - and it was three weeks before the Tory government admitted this had happened

...and the main response appeared to be Chris Philp posting a lot of tweets pointing the finger at Croydon council for something completely unrelated the same day it emerged the person with the Brazilian variant was in Croydon, which looked like a blatant attempt to game Twitter’s search algorithm

Smirking bully Priti Patel ended up having to pay off Sir Philip Rutnam to make his claims against her go away after an expensive court case with the taxpayer footing the bill, which I’m sure will lead to widespread calls in the media for his resignation - or are we to believe that the real reason for the British media calling for Nicola Sturgeon’s resignation is down to something different?   

Nice guy Rishi Sunak wowed people with his Budget, where he gave NHS staff a 1% pay raise that, in some cases, amounts to £3.50 a week which won’t even cover the fees to park at their place of work, claims that he wouldn’t raise taxes while sneaking in tax hikes, bunging an additional £15bn to Serco for their woeful Test & Trace system, and also pretending that the UK could pursue freeports now that they're out of the EU in spite the UK having seven freeports between 1998-2012 - but we’re supposed to ignore all of that because he paid to have ludicrously self-aggrandising videos of himself made

Smirking bully Priti Patel not only somehow managed to pay £5400 in a single trip to Primark, nearly £7000 in two trips to a restaurant, and £700 on cupcakes,  but also claimed the lot on her expenses - however she most certainly did not spend £77,000 on having her eyebrows done, as that business was wound up  2018, meaning she spend £77,000 somewhere - which of course led to widespread calls in the media that she resign

So nice of proven liar Boris Johnson to say how glad he is to hear that Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe is being released from prison in Iran.  Yes, that would be the same Nazanin Zaghari-Ratcliffe who was imprisoned in Iranian prison due to proven liar Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, who was then Foreign Secretary, not reading his brief and then blurting out of she was guilty of the charges she was being held under which then led to her being given the prison sentence she has just been released from

In response to the Georgia shooting Fox News really read the mood of the nation when the debate was about anti-Asian hate and incel terrorism by doing their damndest to make sure the message told everyone who the real victim was: the shooter, that poor white boy that he is

It was so nice of proven liar Boris Johnson to arrange a charity gala to...hang on, let me check my notes, raise funds so that Carrie Symonds could redecorate her Downing Street flat

According to Andrew Pierce he doesn't see Meghan Markle as black.  Apparently it didn’t occur to Andrew Pierce how that sounds, a.) Really fucking bad, and b.) Like Andrew Pierce has reached the next level of Whitesplaining, which shall henceforth be called Whitekeeping

There’s something definitely sinister about the BBC seeing a clip where Charlie Stayt made a quip about known swindler Robert Jenrick having a huge photo of The Queen and an (upside down) union flag in his office, yet their response was to demand that Naga Munchetty publicly apologise for giggling

As if David Cameron fucking up the country in a failed bid to gain political advantage isn’t enough reason for him to be banned from going within five miles of Westminster, him calling up Rishi Sunak to see if he could get some people in the Treasury make the financial problems that Greensill Capital, who Cameron just so happens to have a stake in, certainly counts as another very good reason

Fish fetishist John Redwood reacted to the US removing trade tariffs on British cheese and British Scottish whisky by proudly crowed from the rooftops that this would not happen if we were still in the EU.  Three hours later the US removed trade tariffs on all EU cheese and alcohol exports

In another bout of Keir Starmer uniting the Labour party he decided that Anneliese Dodds would be removed as Shadow Chancellor for failing to effectively communicate the party’s vision as if it was Dodds’ fault for the poor poll results - only to do a quick 180 and back Dodds when the main response to this reason was “What the hell?”

The only surprise about The Core being exposed as a dodgy grift that was being secretly bankrolled by the deep pockets of Tim Rutherford-Browne is that it actually took so long for somebody to expose this - because it sure as hell wasn’t a surprise that Twitter account for The Core, plus the accounts and sock puppets run by Rutherford-Browne, very quickly vanished

Of course The Daily Mail and The Sun would both devote far more time and column inches to Angela Rayner claiming expenses for her air pods and rile their readership into an all too predictable frenzy than they would ever devote to, say, tens of billions of pounds worth of taxpayer’s money being siphoned off into the pockets of various Tory MPs’ mates no matter how unqualified or ill-equipped those people happen to be to fulfill those contracts

Clag peddler Gilson B Pontes demonstrated how ill-equipped they are to deal with fair criticism of their god-awful games (which Sony somehow keeps allowing on their store) by abusing Youtube’s copyright system to try and get Jim Sterling’s account terminated - and failed, thus drawing far more attention to Pontes trying to abuse the system, and Youtube doing fuck all about it even though this issue has persisted for years by this point

Are we going to hear about how Andrew Beattie is the latest victim of “cancel culture” or are we going to hear that Beattie could have started his message about how inclusive Beattie Communications in a better way than literally saying “At Beattie Communications, we don’t hire blacks, gays or Catholics”?  Gee, let me guess which one...

...and then Burger King make the exact same error by trying to tweet out a message of inclusivity on International Women’s Day, which was doomed when the first tweet of the chain said just five words: “Women belong in the kitchen”

There’s something perverse about Electronic Arts being hit with a scandal involving FUT cards from the FIFA series not because they’re clearly a form of gambling that the company have gotten away with for many years outside of a few countries who call it what it is, but because it turns out an EA employee has been selling the rarest FUT cards on the black market for several hundred pounds per bundle to many willing players who want to cheat the system.  The system of gambling.  Which is what FUT cards are

The Tories reached peak flag shagger when James Wild posed a series of questions about the lack of union flags in the BBC Annual Report, as if that means a goddamn thing

Sleazebag and alleged wrestler Joey Ryan thought he could pull a fast one and just so happen to improve his image for when the next round of SLAPP suits goes before the judge by organising an event called Wrestling For Women’s Charity - only for the entire grift to fall apart due to it being held by the company he owns, the charity itself having more than questionable backing, and the fact that Ryan was dumb enough that he tried to sneak his own face onto the poster and thought nobody would notice.  Coincidentally, once the poster was out, a lot of people noticed and the event was rapidly shut down.  Funny, that...

In the latest attempt by Gab to try and make themselves seem relevant they tweeted out some intense batshittery about preserving our way of life featuring a heavily-armed family (including the dog, which was also packing) around the barbeque.  There was one teeny tiny issue with this image: it was stolen art from the indie game The American Dream which actively satirises America’s obsession with guns, and all gab did was remove the watermarks from the picture (which they took without permission) for their rallying cry of “remember us?  We used to be where all the edgelords hung out before they went to Parler”

Once again Manchester United fans responded to a loss not by suggesting that the opponents played better but with racially abusing one of their players on social media, with Fred bearing the brunt of it this time in the wake of being knocked out of the FA Cup by Leicester

Forgotten 90s comedian Lee Hurst continued to be the face of angry white men on Twitter who think they’re funny by posting a tweet about Greta Thunberg that managed to be creepy, misogynistic, showing a remarkable failure to understand what condoms are made of, and worked out so well for him that Twitter promptly suspended his account 

And finally, irritatingly, we have Donald Trump and his proclamation that he won’t be creating a new political party for the 2024 election as he worries that he’ll split the Republican vote.  But Donald, you told us you were so popular, so surely both Republican and Democrat supporters will flock to your new party?  Or are you worried at losing two elections in a row?

[pcttrailsidereader]

The Scariest Encounters Women Have on the Trail are with Men

One of the more chilling episodes in Wild was when Cheryl Strayed encountered two hunters in Central Oregon, one of whom made her rightfully uncomfortable . . . “She’s got a really nice figure, don’t she?” the sandy-haired man said. “Healthy, with some soft curves. Just the kind I like.”  And it got worse.  In the end, she was able to extricate herself but not without considerable anxiety.

Natasha Carver in “Walking Down a Dream” from The Pacific Crest Trailside Reader: California shares a story of camping near a road.  A car stops late at night.  Natasha and her hiking partner feel very exposed and very vulnerable. Indeed, the scariest encounters women have on the trail are with men.

This article, taken from the Daily Beast, focuses on the AT . . . but, in general, the issues are . . . sadly . . . the same.

By Melanie Hamlett, the Daily Beast

As a 30-year-old nurse who works with terminally ill patients, Julia (who prefers to remain anonymous) asked herself one day what she would be proud of doing if she too were given a diagnosis of only six months to live. Shortly after, she left Pittsburgh to start hiking the 2,190-mile Appalachian Trail—a highly coveted peacock feather in the cap of outdoor adventurers. But this epic odyssey from Georgia to Maine proved to be far more challenging for Julia and over a dozen women interviewed for this piece because of one factor.

Their being female.

It’s no surprise women experience annoyances like casual or even outright sexism in the outdoor adventure world, but on the Appalachian Trail some are facing more traumatizing problems like stalking, sexual harassment, and even assault. Last May, the unthinkable happened—a brutal murder.

People had been warning local officials for six weeks about James Jordan, a violent “fight angel” who is currently being tried for murder in Virginia. In April numerous hikers reported disturbing behavior, including being verbally assaulted by Jordan and even threatened with a machete. He was later arrested on multiple charges, including possession of weed, and was ordered to stay off the trail. In May he returned anyway and allegedly threatened to pour gasoline on four campers and burn them alive in their tents.

He later chased two of them down the trail before finally giving up. When he returned, he allegedly stabbed Richard S. Sanchez Jr. to death, then chased Sanchez’s female hiking partner down the trail and stabbed her. She only survived because she played dead, then ran down the trail for help once he left. Jordan was found and taken into custody early the next morning. This tragedy became a traumatizing reminder that even in a majestic wilderness sanctuary like the Appalachian Trail, America is a violent, scary country, especially for women.

As a frequent solo traveler and former professional wilderness guide, I’m a huge advocate of women exploring the world, especially alone. It’s empowering as hell. I’ve never let fear (or too many episodes of Law and Order SVU) deter me from solo adventures. The point of telling the following stories isn’t to scare anyone off the trail but rather to educate women on how to protect themselves and to ask should-be male allies to stop turning a blind eye. Until the outdoor industry, which prides itself on being quite woke-ish, is ready for its own #MeToo reckoning, women won’t feel safe.

“Women have no way of knowing who will be the next James Jordan versus who’s just an awkward dude or entitled asshole.”

The Appalachian Trail is a microcosm of American culture but with far higher stakes. Statistically, women are way safer on the trail than on college campuses or in even their own homes. There’s only one rape reported (....reported) every few years on the trail and the chance of getting murdered there is 1,000 times less than in America as a whole. And yet, the absence of deadbolts to lock oneself behind or of multiple witnesses around to deter violent men from attacking us means the occasional trail creeper can be a million times scarier and more dangerous. The only thing protecting a woman alone in a tent from that sketchy stranger she previously encountered on the trail or the seemingly cool one she’s been hiking with for weeks is a thin piece of nylon. “I physically ran into a bear,” says Julia, “and I’d take that over running into a crazy drunk dude any day.”

Despite having overwhelmingly great experiences with trail men, all of the women I spoke with encountered men, especially older white ones, who either made sexist, condescending comments or made them feel unsafe. “I even got ‘smile more,’” Julia says. “It’s exhausting.”

Surprisingly, even woke-ish/feminist-type men creeped many of these women out. Julia said one of her first hiking partners, who seemed progressive, asked to rub her legs. Later, another one repeatedly hit on her and made her feel unsafe. The other guys in her group eventually sided with her and ditched him, but only after she showed enough evidence, like his unnerving texts. The men just didn’t see it, she says. “I’m thinking, how the fuck do you not see this guy is a creep?” Later, while hiking alone, a random guy aggressively probed her about where she was going and who she was with, then found her 200 miles down the trail and threatened to come into the women’s tents while they slept.

Hilary York, a 30-year-old piano technician from Denver, felt a bit gaslit by should-be allies. There were only three men who made her really uncomfortable during her 2,190 mile trek, two of them sketchy enough to scare even the men away. But the third was “your standard hippie type” who undressed her with his eyes and was clearly looking to hook up. When she told her guy friends he made her uncomfortable, they thought she was being dramatic and overly sensitive. Her female friends, on the contrary, unanimously agreed he was creepy. “I think the most frustrating thing is having your intuition downplayed,” says York. Which is why she turned to Facebook.

Most people go into the woods hoping to escape the traps of modern life, especially social media, yet women on the trail don’t always have that luxury. York says an Appalachian Trail group for women on Facebook has become a priceless space that helps women feel as comfortable, safe, and empowered as possible. The moderators are careful not to allow any man-bashing or vague accusations.

As a woman who’s worked almost exclusively in male-dominated industries, namely the outdoors, comedy, and film, I too have relied on whisper networks to feel safe, which is what this women’s FB group does. York says this group was quite critical in getting important information out about James Jordan when rangers couldn't. Oddly enough, the FBI is in charge of crimes committed on the AT because it’s administered by the National Park Service. Some hikershave criticized the FBI for failing to warn or protect everyone from a man they knew was dangerous.

There are a lot of men out there scaring the shit out of women in other ways, which is why we need men to be more thoughtful, pay attention, and be better allies. The stakes are too high in the woods. Women have no way of knowing who will be the next James Jordan versus who’s just an awkward dude or entitled asshole and relatively harmless. Women have to assume the worst.

Since York hiked with a man and has a solid poker face, she felt lucky compared to the “kinder-faced, solo female hikes.” Kristin Forster, a 28-year-old pastry chef living in Hamburg, Germany, had previous experiences with a stalker on the PCT (Pacific Crest Trail), so she knew how to handle sketchy dudes—be nice and calm but don’t answer their questions. But stranger danger wasn’t her problem in the end.

“Other hikers along the way also promised to back Cowan up and help her. But when it came to actually doing anything, none stepped up.”

For eight weeks Forster hiked with a trail partner who seemed chill and supportive. Being on the trail, she says, means you get closer to people faster, especially during extreme weather situations. Like me and my coworkers when I guided on the trail, Forster and her hiking partner would have to snuggle to warm up on brutally cold, rainy days. During one of these times, she felt his dick in her back. “That’s when it got weird.” She doesn’t blame him for getting a boner at all. But when she casually reminded him that she had a boyfriend back home, he flipped a switch and started mocking her and being super mean. She eventually left him because he made the trail so intolerable for her.

Beth, a 39-year-old consultant who’d rather remain anonymous to protect her safety, hiked with a seemingly cool guy for 10 days before he started to attach himself to her “like glue,” hovering over her constantly, even when she needed alone time. She tried to hike ahead several times, but he’d always catch up. After Beth reminded him she was in a committed relationship with a guy back home, he started making comments on her appearance and how attractive she was.

One day he walked up on her changing clothes in one of the shelters, despite her warning him, saw her full frontal naked, then got defensive that she was upset. “I was completely humiliated yet I convinced myself it wasn’t a big deal,” she says. She eventually decided to ditch him for good. Afraid of his reaction to feeling rejected, Beth waited until they were at a hostel in town with the safety of people around to break the news. “His face literally blackened.”

She felt safe once the trail logs were showing him 2-3 days ahead of her. Then she ran into him. He admitted he’d seen her name registered at a hostel and had taken a “zero” day (zero miles) to wait for her. Panicked, she ran after another guy hiking by, told him she was being stalked, and asked if he’d let her hike with him for a bit. Her stalker passed them shortly thereafter and was never seen again. Beth and her new hiking partner, who became a dear friend, hiked all the way to Maine together.

“As women we are programmed to be nice and polite,” she says, “and I actually found it harder to advocate for myself because I had gotten to know this guy.” Other men have since tried to attach themselves to her on long-distance hikes, but she’s learned how to protect herself sooner. “A lot of men on the trail are desperately lonely and will prey on women who come across as sweet and compliant,” she says. Especially if you don’t set firm boundaries out of the gate.

Jessica Cowan, a 38-year-old freelancer from Ohio, set out on the AT alone, assuming she’d find a “tramily” (trail family) like everyone talks about. But she never quite fell in with a group hiking her pace. When she met her stalker, who we’ll call Doc, he seemed charming, generous, and cool. Although she made it clear she had a boyfriend and wasn’t looking for a trail fling or a relationship change, he eventually started to express interest and asked about her relationship. “I found his behaviors really, really creepy, but when I talk about it, nothing I say sounds incredibly creepy,” she says. “I don’t know if it's an overreaction on my part… or if I’m gaslighting myself.” She was even hesitant to use the word stalking when telling this horrific story.

When crashing in shelters, he’d try to scoot his mat next to hers to sleep, wouldn’t avert his eyes when she announced she was changing, and even got caught staring at her when she was using a privy one day. After seeing Doc go on some hostile rants over the smallest things, she knew he was truly unstable. It was another woman briefly hiking with them, a psychologist, who helped her realize he was obsessed with her and that she needed to get a lot of miles ahead of him.

After that, Cowan tried everything to keep distance from Doc. She “slack-packed” (paying someone to drive her gear up the road), pushed her body to the limit, day after day, and even bought a new tent with wildly different colors to camouflage herself. Whenever she thought she was far enough ahead of him, another hiker would say he was nearby. Doc eventually caught up to her at a hostel after paying someone to drive him up the road.

Cowan finally filed a police report so they’d at least have him on their radar. Hostel workers promised her not to welcome him, but in the end, only one kept his word. The rest gave him the benefit of the doubt. Cowan thinks it was just easier to take his money. Other hikers along the way also promised to back Cowan up and help her. But when it came to actually doing anything, none stepped up. Despite her having mostly pleasant encounters with men on the trail, their blind-eye approach was disappointing. “I think a lot of men are guilty of taking that path of least resistance.”

Cowan did keep her boyfriend, Cowboy Knueve, apprised of the situation the whole time. “You have no idea how much sleep I lost,” he says. “I was sitting home worrying about her and this asshat.” Right after Cowboy dropped her off at the beginning of her hike, James Jordan murdered one hiker and wounded another on the trail in Virginia. “I knew how important this whole thing was for her,” he says. “It just pissed me off that he ruined her trip.” Even though Cowan told him she had it handled, Knueve finally drove 700 miles to make sure.

Knueve stayed with Cowan at night and ran shuttles for fellow hikers during the day while she hiked. He says he met at least a half a dozen women who’d done a lot of night hiking and “busted their ass” to get away from this same guy. Cowan and Kneuve tried to warn everyone about Doc.

One day they actually saw him at a campsite, so Knueve decided to confront him. Having googled the guy, he knew he was a multiple felon and had been charged for unlawful imprisonment of a woman. “I wanted to spray the man and kick him until he’s tired…. but I didn’t want to go to jail.” Instead he told Doc he knew he was stalking women and harshly warned him to stay away.

“If anyone fucks with me on the trail this year, I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face and carry the fuck on.”

Before leaving to go home, Kneuve drove Cowan 200 miles up the road to give her a safe distance from Doc. Shortly after, though, they picked up another hitchhiker and she was running away from Doc. That’s when Cowan realized this just wasn’t fun anymore. “I should only have to worry about where I’m getting water and where I’m gonna sleep,” she says. “Not if he’s gonna turn up.” She made it a few hundred miles farther, but finally gave up. Instead of enjoying any hard-earned sense of accomplishment or pride for hiking one thousand miles, Cowan couldn't feel excited about her milestones. It all seemed pointless. “I felt like I was running for my life every day.”

“I encountered a lot of promises of support that didn’t really hold up. Except for my boyfriend, I didn’t see anyone else confronting him or calling him on his bullshit. I think they all just wanted to stay away,” she says. “Especially after the murder.” She’s still amazed that one man could affect hundreds of miles of hiking for so many people. More than anything, Cowan hopes this story will lead to men stepping up. Or at the very least, believing women.

Having solo hiked the Appalachian Trail before, Missy Barger went into her 2019 hike already prepared to play by different rules than men have to. “We have to be hyper aware, but also not jump to any conclusions,” says the 49-year-old photographer from Boston. She watches men closely but plays it cool, never giving them hugs or smiling too much. “And men?” she laughs “Well, they... just get to hike!” Being older, more experienced on the AT and more confident than a lot of her twentysomething female peers, she knows she’s regarded as “one tough motherfucker.” That usually “keeps guys off” her. And yet, despite all this, even Barger ended up with a stalker.

She’d been camping right down the road when the murder happened, so she was even more careful this year. “An odd person doesn’t strike me as different. We’re all odd… cuz we’re out here,” Barger says. But when a guy, who we’ll call Bear, started going on aggressive political rants and undressing in front of her, she knew it was time to bounce. The next day he popped up on her path and wouldn’t let her through. When he appeared a third time and started to verbally assault her, she and her “tramily” hiked four hours in the middle of the night in the pouring rain to get away. They later reported him to the Appalachian Trail Conservancy (ATC).

In the end, Barger had to skip the whole state of New Jersey and half of New York to get away from Bear, but she went back and completed that section later. This detour and return trip cost her nearly $600. Whether it’s the actual price of shuttles, extra nights in hostels, a new tent to camouflage yourself or the emotional burden of fearing for your life, the “female tax” is a hefty one, even in the woods.

Luckily, Barger found great male allies, like Eric Bellavance. This 51-year-old heavy equipment mechanic from Boston and trail vet waited to pursue a romantic relationship with Barger until after they completed the trail. One way he believes men can be supportive of women is to use more self-restraint than they might back home. “You want to be extra aware of being creepy. It’s that simple,” he says. “If they’re whipping off their clothes, just turn away and start doing stuff,” he says. Give them their privacy and space when they need it, keep your distance, and don’t touch them, he says. While Bellavance thinks most thru-hikers, by a certain point, become acclimated on how to interact with women and not freak them out, there are still those who do whatever they want because “it’s kinda lawless” on the trail. “They’re out here because society won’t tolerate their behavior back home,” he says. “We’re all out here because we don’t fit in society.” But this lack of social codes and rules is exactly why women need men to be more careful and step up.

Bellavance says some day-hikers and locals will hang out on the trail and wait for solo women to pass by, just to prey on them. Warning others or reporting them to authorities is one thing men can do. Sometimes he says hikers have to take trail justice into their own hands, though. Last year a section-hiker touched a woman in her sleep at one of the backpacker hostels, so Bellavance and his friend tracked him down and threatened to kick his ass if he did it again. When another male hiker exposed himself to a woman on the trail, Bellavance welcomed her to hike with them.

“We are asking men in the outdoor industry to listen, believe us, step up, and use your privilege to call out other men.”

“I look at it this way—it’s already hard enough, women don’t need any shit from men.” Bellavance lets spooked women latch onto him when they need to since women are way less likely to be approached by a guy when they’re already with one. He never asks women for their phone numbers, real names (most go by a trail name), or social media handles because he knows men are harassing and stalking women online too. When Barger hikes solo, a lot of men ask to be snapchat friends. “Fuck, I just want to hike,” she says. “I have to have extra guardrails up when I post on social media.”

In general, Barger has run out of patience for men’s bullshit. “If anyone fucks with me on the trail this year, I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face and carry the fuck on.” She refuses to be scared off by men and encourages other women not to be either. To help protect current and future female hikers, Barger is very active on FB groups.

Unfortunately, those groups aren’t always safe either.

Shilletha Curtis, a writer from Newark, New Jersey, plans to hike the entire Appalachian in 2021. As a Black woman and a lesbian, though, she’s not sure who will have her back out there, as she’s already faced harassment on her trail day hikes. In a co-ed AT Facebook group, white men have already been harassing her about her recent publication, some posting “Hikers Lives Matter.” The male FB administrators have accused her of race baiting when she talks about racism on the trail. “We need to make these groups a safe space for everyone, not just white members, as Black people do hike.” Latrina Graham’s powerful essay about being a Black woman just trying to hike goes even deeper into this huge problem.

Until white hikers, particularly white men, do more to make the trail safer for everyone, what do the rest of us do? Not hiking isn’t an option, nor should it be. Most women I spoke with agreed that the best way to stay safe is to trust your intuition and to avoid gaslighting yourself or being too “nice.” Always sign guest books as two people or use a male/ambiguous name, invent a “dude backstory” about a “friend” that’s nearby, and never post photos at recognizable spots on social media. Obviously it’s #notallATmen making women’s lives hard... but it only takes one.

We are asking men in the outdoor industry to listen, believe us, step up, and use your privilege to call out other men. That’s what will help us feel safe. We are tired. We need your help.

Because we belong here, too.

[sanders-sides-rebloger]

Sleep and Stress

Part 1

TW: Slight angst, mentions of bullying, stress, overworking oneself

Word count: 2860

Summary: Thomas has a big project to finish over the weekend. He’s stressed about it and loses sleep over it, determined to finish it no matter what. Remy lectures him about the importance of self care sleeping properly. Except... Anxiety is taking the wheel this time.

A/N: Inspired by real events that happened to me! Yep, ya girl got stress ridden, once, over a hw assignment and now here is where it lead. Some sweet sweet content. I’d say it was worth it for the amount of time itd been my wips folder. The intro sucks but I promise it gets better

In this world people have always had their own personas with them. Specifically they are two beings from a persons mindset that can appear in the real world physically.

In these categories, Anxiety can be placed almost anywhere in the combinations. Depending on someone's personality, that anxious trait is usually paired with The Left Brain or the Right Brain, or in some cases, Morale and Logic.

Many historians and scientists theorize their origins in many ways. It was already proven they weren’t biologically transferred from parents. A famous article on google talked about how a married couple by the names of Martha and Alan who’ve had their own personas. As their child grew they didn’t show any signs of having aspects of their own, and they didn’t.

Below that were many links to interviews with famous political leaders, scientists, and more about the subject. It of course leads to the topic of religion, in some comments and topics that just became all controversial and too confusing.

“They always take the exact form of their host with a few minor differences.” One article said. ”They dress differently based on what they represent, though their voices are alike it can vary based on tone and attitude. It makes them appear to be slightly separate. And they can also talk to their host from inside their head, either it’s for reminders or a plain conversation.”

“The type of personas that rises from someone can vary. They always come in pairs. The most common ones are Anxiety, the Left and Right Brain, the Brain and Heart, Morale and Logic. There are other aspects outside of this spectrum such as Creativity that can form, but those are very rare and is more directed towards someone’s personality.”

“When a persona sinks down, they go into the ‘mindscape’ or an alternate plane of reality that exists inside of the hosts head.“

“Since they don’t appear and disappear out of thin air, they need a place to live in order to maintain their half human functions. That’s why they have rooms each of them go to for the host to enhance that part of themselves, including a space for that persona to reside in. It’s sort of like the mindscape is a living area in the conscious level of the mind, where memories and stored knowledge is retained.”

“It's like a Mind Palace.” Someone once said.

~~~

This leads us to Thomas Sanders, a senior in high school. He’s apart of that spectrum in which he too has personas of his own, Anxiety and Sleep.

For him, Anxiety appears when Thomas is going through something stressful. Often they talk together about certain situations that depend on the outcome, even if the reason is outright ridiculous. When it’s in public he usually summons him when he’s around a fair amount of people who also have their personas out with them, not wanting to look like the odd one out.

Sleep on the other hand..is an odd subject for him. When he grew up Sleep was the first to form during Thomas’ development and soon after, reveal himself. So he didn’t question him at first.

In middle school going into high school, students would make fun of him for being different. Thomas didn’t know what was different- he had personas just like everyone else so what made him so special? He was confused at first until he was able to see the bigger picture. He was one of the biggest targets the bullies chose as their prey and teased him over and over about it.

All because he had Sleep.

“What was Sleep? Why does it exist?” And so many other inappropriate comments. Thomas felt sick of it.

Of course when he told the staff about it, it shut them up for a while. His parents wanted to be more safe than sorry so he moved to a different school. Thomas agreed to himself that he would not show anyone publicly that he was different in any way, no matter how normal it may be for other students.

He met Joan and Talyn there. They never left him alone after quickly noticing how new he was with his closed off demeanor and shy attitude. They both really brought him out of his shell.

After becoming closer with the two he showed them eventually and he was pleasantly surprised by the result of their reactions as well. He still never really shows Sleep or Anxiety around in school to this day for fear of being seen as the odd one out, and he was content with that.

Now that Thomas has grown up a few years, he felt confident that he could be himself when he’s out in public. No one had ever seen a Sleep aspect before so he was bound to get a few questioning looks from people who walk past him. Maybe a few people from school would notice him outside, but he was beginning to accept that risk.

Besides, Joan and Talyn would make anyone regret whoever decides to talk behind Thomas’ back. They’d make them regret it.

Thomas was currently in his room, sitting in his desk. It’s Friday afternoon and he has two days left to finish this unholy project. Granted, being a senior in high school is great and all, however, Thomas would’ve gotten his history project done sooner if he was paying closer attention.

The problem was that Thomas messed up on the size of the project, subsequently making each square too big to fit on the entire front side on a sheet of paper. Immediately filled with regret, he began to erase the entire thing and start all over. Thomas had the chance to get a second one after school (just in case), but he’s terrified of confrontation.

Actually walk up to the teacher and talk to them? No thanks, he can do this on his own.

It sounds easy enough, but looking through his textbook, drawing the characters, and basically almost everything about it was difficult for him. The man had good talent in singing and is a darn great actor, but art was not his forte. He even had to color his poor excuse for an art project to get extra points. And as much as he did not want to do that, he was going to push himself today, he was gonna pass this class even if it killed him.

He checks the clock on his computer, 6:15pm. He just started about two hours ago nonstop and he got some stuff done, four squares were complete.

“If I’m being honest with you, it looks pretty good so far, but I bet you could do more if you worked a little longer.” Anxiety rises up beside Thomas, looking over his work. His voice was deeper than his host’s.

Anxiety wore a black hoodie, gray lines tracing all over it in a plaid pattern, a black t-shirt that read ‘Anxiety’ in bold letters to represent who he is, and wore dark black eyeshadow under his eyes.

The senior gets up and stretches his muscles in his arms and legs. Being glued to a chair for nearly two hours wasn’t the best idea, but he was gonna have to get used to it for a while.

“Today’s the day I’m really gonna pull myself through, Anxiety. No backing down this time!” Thomas says, his voice laced with determination.

While some students in Thomas’ class were fortunate enough to receive help from either friends or family, he was one of the unlucky souls in the group who he didn’t have much access to help. Both his parents were out on a business trip for the weekend, and Thomas has the house all to himself.

Joan and Talyn…? Well he didn’t want to bother them. Petty excuse, he knows, but what was he supposed to tell them if he asks for help? Even considering the fact they weren’t in the same class as him, they may just lecture him on getting enough sleep and he wasn’t in the mood for that.

Anxiety tucks his hands into the pockets of his dark hoodie and raises an eyebrow. Thomas was known to be a procrastinator at times which led to his grades dropping a few times in the past.

He was currently on his bed, scrolling through social media. He notices Anxiety’s suspicious gaze and looks beside him.

“What?” The senior asks in confusion, clearly not taking the hint.

“Let me just get to the point.” He pulls out Thomas’ wheeled chair and sits on it with the back side pressing against his chest. “You have a C- in the class, which is basically a failing grade, and you only have two days left until it’s due by Monday. It would be a shame if all that hard work went to waste.” He says in a taunting tone.

“What are you suggesting?” Thomas crosses his arms.

The darkly dressed boy drops his facade. “Basically the more you get done, the faster you’ll finish. And I really don’t need to be working overtime the sooner that due date approaches.” He groans, Anxiety droops his head slightly and massages his fingers through his scalp.

“I’ll just take a fifteen to twenty minute break in between each session. I have it all planned out.” Thomas waved his hand nonchalantly.

Anxiety looks towards Thomas, his expression falls.

“I’m being serious this time Thomas. You can’t let this one slip. If you don’t put all your effort on this project and you don’t get enough points, then something else in the way is just gonna bring you down. Maybe even worse than this one, and the cycle will just continue. Do you really want that?”

Thomas didn’t answer. Sure, he had the whole weekend. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t stay up late to finish if he wanted.

He glances at his project with a rush of determination flooding his system. It’s worth 150 points. He can do this, he just needed a little push.

Anxiety stands from the chair and leans against the wall nearby to allow room for Thomas to sit. The man stares down at his work with pure annoyance and desperation.

“God, I hate doing this.” He groans out and lays his head on the table.

The darker trait leans his head back against the wall, looking up blankly at the ceiling as if it had all the ceiling as if it had all the answers.

“Look, I’m not trying to be the bad guy here, but the faster you get this done the better it is for the both of us.”

“No, no. You’re right Anx.” He lifts his head back up. “I need to keep working… Plus I can’t even sleep anyway.” Thomas reaches for his phone and checks the time, seven-forty pm. He didn’t even realize how much time had passed. “Wherever he is.” He says with a sigh.

Thomas spent a good amount of time on his paper. He finished his tenth panel and is lightly underlining notes in his textbook to summarize for the next one. However the longer time went on, the more frequent the senior found himself massaging the aching tension from his neck and back more often.

He decided to call it quits for the night. He got ready and the second his lights went off Thomas flops to his bed immediately. Muffled yells, into his pillow, can be heard as Sleep rises up beside the bed.

Instead of his usual thick leather jacket, he wore a thin black cover up, pajama pants, his everyday white shirt that read ‘Sleep’ in bold letters with a bed and sleepy emoji. Adding to his style, and his trademark sunglasses were resting on top of his head.

“It’s about time you show up.” Remy says in his usual sassy tone.

“You can’t blame me for having a lot on my mind right now.” He groans, laying on his back.

“Jeez, how long did that guy keep you up for?” Remy slips himself underneath the covers with Thomas, taking off his sunglasses and setting them on the dresser.

“You mean Anxiety?”

“Yeah, him, whatever.”

“If you must know, I spent about another few hours trying to finish this project while your sorry butt was out partying at that concert.” He crosses his arms under his neck, staring up at the ceiling with a mocking tone.

Seeing personas going out and about on the streets is pretty normal. It wasn’t uncommon to see some of them roaming the streets on their own with or without their hosts.

Though as Thomas grew up, he saw a few of his classmates, who had some reveal themselves in the real world, would get bullied at schools because of how different they are. People made awful rumors how they would take over the world one day, call them names like ‘clones,’ and how they think they’re better than everyone else.

It made him sick to his stomach, it got so bad to the point there used to be places specifically like schools or restaurants that would ban people, with aspects from those places. It was horrible and a thing from the past.

Going off topic, some even befriend one another and go out just like what normal people do. It’s usually not for long, since people would need them back at some point.

It also takes the phrase ‘having some time for yourself’ to a whole new level in Thomas’ case. There have been so many movies nights that turned into popcorn throwing fights he’s had to break up between Remy and Anxiety.

“It was a My Chemical Romance concert!” Remy exclaims, dramatically putting a hand over his chest before he shifted, making himself more comfortable under the covers. “Girl, you know I couldn’t resist.”

Remy though, is a whole different story. He can be a pain at times, staying out for ungodly hours of the night. He can be unpredictable. Though he wouldn’t overdo it, unlike the incident they had a few years ago. Being the embodiment of Thomas’ nightly routine of proper rest, he physically can't sleep without Remy.

So when he’s out, sipping tea with his friends, Thomas can’t summon him like he usually can. Well, he can but its like a phone call. You can hear it but it’s your choice whether you want to answer it or not. Remy chooses to deliberately go out on his own, so he will have to just wait until he comes back.

Anxiety would go out too if he wanted, but he chooses to mostly stay in his room. Only coming out when Thomas needs him and such, to which Remy replies with as, ‘boring’ or ‘being a party pooper’.

He doesn’t mean to deny Remy’s invites as being rude, but the places he goes sometimes are...questionable in Anxiety’s point of view. Not bad, just odd. He’s way too outgoing for the dark traits style and just hates the crowds overall. It’s not for him.

He stuck with Remy like a leech after ten seconds with the overly boisterous crowd. He didn’t try to talk to anyone and was pretty much third wheeling. He did eventually find a decent hiding spot to hide away and blend in a bit. Although, Anxiety wanted to leave so badly but didn’t for the sake of not looking rude.

After a few tries of Remy trying to get him to go out again, he stopped eventually and never asked again. It faulted their friendship a bit with the mix of arguing over what’s best for Thomas.

Moving on, Remy has to either sleep in his room in the mindscape or in bed with Thomas himself. That way, theyThey would be connected, that way, so for the man couldto actually rest. It wouldn’t make much of a difference if Remy wasn’t sleeping next to Thomas but he chooses to do so anyway. Maybe it’s about proper communication in the morning. Remy does lecture Thomas at times when he forces himself to stay awake, he doesn’t know.

Plus it’s kinda nice to have someone to wake up to in the morning. Self love and all that.

“Thanks for making me stay up late again.” Thomas says in a low tired voice. He rolls over to the side, facing away from Remy. A smirk soon forms on his face from a familiar memory, unable to resist. “Unlike last time, where I was up until two pm.”

Remy huffs out a sigh. “That was one time, alright? Anxiety practically ingrained that lecture into my head. Plus, at least you finished something amiright?”

“I mean, I guess-“ He starts off.

“Also, you were able to finish your work and I was able to get something checked off my bucket list. Staying up a little late, if you need to, isn’t that bad ya know.”

“Ok, yeah, I see what you mean. Now let me sleep. I’ll need it for tomorrow, G’night Rem.”

“Night Thomas.”

Thomas shifted to a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. Allowing the darkness of his room to consume him.

[lildevyl]

Swap!AU Sneak Peak

Okay, so I’m having a little Writer’s Block on how to start this piece!  But I want to write something that goes with this AU for @weirdmixofweirdness Live Stream and yes, I know I’m putting pressure on myself with me only having two weeks to write it!  But I want to do it!  So, please don’t @ me with that!  Instead, feel free to @ me with any kinds of advice on dialog!  I completely suck at that and can use all the help I can get!

Okay, enough of my rambling that’s not what you came to here to read!  On with the show

Enjoy the Story!

@10th-no-name-person and @thebluehearted  Sorry, for the teaser, but here the Boss Villain is revealed!

@huffletrax, Hey Lou! If this is something that your not interested in, please let me know and I’ll tag ya for another series!

I can’t breathe!  It hurts so much!  Even now as I lie here and I’m going to die, my thoughts go to you, but why?  Why am I thinking of you?  I was never your favorite, was I?  Oh, now I see these   .   .   .   are my memories of when we first met.  I’ll admit, I was so arrogant, I actually thought there must’ve been some kind of a mistake!  How could you be my Creator?  You weren’t strong, you didn’t know what you were doing, didn’t know how to use your Creator Power.  But boy, was I wrong!  You were strong, just in a different way.  Your strength came from your spirit, your heart, your compassion, your empathy, your kindness towards others.

When I first came to Septic City, I thought I was invincible, that I was the one that could do no wrong.  I got sick of the Corruption, having to play by the rules, having to be the “Good Guy” All the time.  So, when one of the gangs wanted to start a war, I decided to take action.  I rounded them all up, all arrogant, cocky, reckless, not even caring what happens.  Then I was face to face with the gang’s Boss.  He was outright to kill me too.  But that’s not what happened, instead, I wound up killing him.  I was so confused.  I felt bad for killing him, glad that stopped him, relieved that he would no longer be around.  But this was not what a Superhero did.  I didn’t know what to think!  I came to you, late at night, bloodshot eyes, tear-stained face, you let me cry in private.  Telling you what had happened, wore a hole in your floor from my constant pacing.

You listened, you didn’t judge me, not once, didn’t kick me out or had me fade.  Instead, you took me in, held me, and told about some heroes who did kill.  They do it if they have too.  If it was a,  you or them, situation.  Where you will have to kill because there’s no other choice.  Deadpool, the Punisher, the heroes who did kill, the Antiheroes, the fans called them.  Anti-Hero.  I really liked that!

Then you made me brothers.  Jackie, who became my sidekick in fighting crime.  The one that I finally realized that I had to change my outlook, what I thought a Hero should be.  Jameson Jackson, the Magician.  The one that came about because you wanted to branch out, try something new, instead of just video games.  And the fans loved him!  Chase, again because you wanted to do something different, but at the same time, all those “Doctor Games” were the inspiration for him.  You wanted to make sure that I was well taken care of and Chase was the perfect fit.  Henrik, the eccentric Ego, but I soon started to like his outlook on life.  Always trying to find a theory and whether or not it was true.  Experimenting became his thing with his friend MatPat.  And then came Marvin.  You wanted to do something special for Halloween, and you loved the old-time movies.  But neither you nor I knew that Dark would show up.  Putting doubt in me and the Community,  maybe even you.

I failed them.  I failed them all!

I failed Jackie.  I couldn’t stop Dark from taking him.  Corrupting him.  Making him think that the Community had forgotten him, replace him.  I failed Henrik.  I should have been there.  I could’ve stopped him, could’ve stopped Dark from kidnapping Henrik.   I could’ve stopped MatPat from becoming Matmare and I could’ve stopped Henrik from ever paying the ultimate price in escaping Dark’s clutches.  I could’ve saved Marvin.   I could’ve stopped Dark from ever trying to puppet him.  From making the Community think that he was ever a puppet!  I could’ve saved them all!  But I was reckless, impatient, needing to prove that I am the Hero that you made me, to be.  That I am Septic City’s Anti-Hero.

Maybe, it’s a good thing that I failed, because now.  Now, Sean, you can make the right hero.  Now, Sean, you can make a better Ego.  A better Anti-Hero.  A better Superhero.  One that you and the others need and the one that the City depressedly needs.  I’m so sorry Sean.  I failed you.  I failed to be the Hero, you wanted me to be.  The Ego, you created me to be.  Maybe now, you finally have a chance to make a new one, and start again.  Make a new Hero Ego, a better hero, then me.  Save them, save my brothers and the City.

Sean   .   .   .   I’m - so   .   .   .  Sorry   .   .   .  That I  .   .   .  Failed   .   .    .   You.

(Sean’s Apartment)

“Aaahhhh!”  Sean screamed holding his chest.  Pain.  Sheer white-hot pain just coursed through him.  That only happens if one of the Egos is in trouble!  Sean closes his eyes, he can sense everyone.  Everyone but Anti.  Oh, God what did Anti get himself into this time?

“Sean?”  Evelyn called bursting through the door. “Are you alright?”

“No. Anti’s in trouble.”

Evelyn didn’t know what to do.  She was so new to the whole Ego thing, but Anti needed Sean’s help.  It was very rare that he ever called out especially to Sean, but Anti was one of her favorite Egos next to Jameson.  Anti might not know it but he is one of Sean’s favorites as well.  

Evelyn sat down across from Sean, and put her hands on his and concentrated on Septic City and focused all of her energy on finding Anti.

‘Anti, if you're out there.  Hang in there!  You’re still one of Sean’s favorites!  Please don’t leave us!  Don’t leave your brothers!  Don’t leave Sean!  We still love you!’

Sean sat Indian style constraining on Anti.  He needed his help, Sean just hoped and prayed that he wasn’t too late!

‘Connect with me!  Please, Anti.  Please connect with me.  I don't want to lose you. ANTONIO!’

(Dark’s Mansion)

Jackie woke not remembering a thing.  Head pounding, lights blinding, and the room began to spin.  It took Jackie a moment or two to get his bearings.  When he did though, that was when he noticed this wasn’t his room.  The walls were painted maroon, the silk sheets were a soft grey, the currents blocking out the sun were a heavy charcoal grey.  Oh, yeah he was not at the Septic House anymore!  But where was he?  The last thing Jackie remembered was the interview that he, Anti, and Game Girl were doing live.  He doesn’t remember anything after that.

The door clicked and swung open, grabbing Jackie’s attention, and instantly froze upon seeing who it was.  “Ah, I see that ̧͡you'̵r͘͟͢e awake.”

Jackie’s breath caught in his throat.  No, no, no, no!  This can’t be happening!  Jackie was in the house, staring at the Dark Ego, which caused all of this!  The one that kept going after Sean!  Trying to get rid of him!  Get rid of Anti!  Of him! All of them!  Not even thinking twice of actions, Jackie lunged forward.  Grabbing a feather and using what Anti taught him, morphed into a feather shape dagger. And went to stab this son of a bitch!

DarkSepticeye just sidestepped Jackie and grabbed his wrist with ease.  Twisting it and his entire arm, forcing Jackie to drop the dagger.  Jackie tried to punch, slap, anything with his free hand.  Only for Dark to easily grab that one too.  Jackie struggled with all his might to get DarkSepticeye to let go.  But to no avail.  He just gripped him tighter, waiting until Jackie tire himself out.

“Is that a͟ny̵̴͠wa̸y̴ to thank the E͜͝go̵͏̕ that s̸͝҉av̕͡ed ͞ y̸̷o̸͞u̕r l̛í̵f̸e?̛͘͜”  DarkSepticeye asked.

Jackie stopped struggling.  Save his life?  “What?”

“So, you d͟҉o̕͜͞n͡'t know?  Typical that ḩé͞ would keep̶͡ ş͘͡om͞e͘͟͝t͟h̷̶͞ing͠ like this from y̶͡͡o͞u͟,”  DarkSepticeye said

“What do you mean?  Who kept what from me?”  Jackie asked despite himself.  He knew not to trust DarkSepticeye.  Not to trust what this - this Ego has to say!  But Jackie couldn’t help himself.  What was being kept from him?  What did Dark mean that he saved Jackie’s life?

“Oh, Jackie,” Dark said in an almost sympathetic way and let go of his hands.  “You were fading, my friend.”

Fading?!  Fading?  FADING?!  No!  NO!  NO!!!  That - that can’t be true!  He’s still here!  The Community still believed in him?  Didn’t they?  Sean still cared about him!  Right?  Anti, wouldn’t keep that from him!  He wouldn’t!  NO!  Not Anti!  He - he  .  .  .

“I’m afraid, what your ę̶͠x̧͏p̴̧ȩ̸͟riȩ̕n̸ç̷̵e is, what we all E̛͡g҉͝o͞s̡̀͞ go through.  It’s called D̕͢e̢͜͡n͝ia҉̡l̵, Jackie.  But yes, you were f̧͞a̵̛d̛in̸̨͡g͘͞.̶”

Jackie furiously shook his head.  “No!  No, no, no!  No, that’s impossible!  Anti - he  .   .  . would have told me!  The - the Community still believes in me!  And Sean!  Sean - he - he s-still  .   .   .”

“If you don’t bę͡l̶̀͞i̵̶e̵̸̷ve̶̡҉  me, Jackie.  Feel f̷̡ŗ̀͝ee to look for y̶o҉͘u̢҉̡ŗ̀͜s̵eĺ̕f.̧͘͝”

Against his better judgment, Jackie did just that.  Grabbing the laptop that appeared out of nowhere and heading to the desk.  Jackie opened up the laptop and scoured the internet.  On several social media, the Community posted several, fanfictions, stories, fan art, theories, and fan comics all of Anti-Hero and Game Girl.  He checked Septic City in Egopocalpse and just like the Community. 

News stories, articles, videos, vines, and even YouTube Videos were popping up everywhere.  But only with Anti-Hero and Game Girl and some of the Egos, that Jackie once called brothers.  How could this have happened?  Anti told Jackie when he first started training him that he was one of the Community’s favorite but now?

“H-how did this h-happened?”  Jackie managed to choke out.

“It appeared that Àn̸͘t͝i-̷͡He̵̢͞ro was the C͏̧̨o҉͢mmu̕͝ni̶ţ͘͠y’̀ś͠͝ favorite aĺ͝l ͏̨̨t̶̛͠his͞ tim̷e̸̷. He just d̢id̸n̡͢’t want to share the s̡͢pot̕͏lí̸gḩ̷̡t nor did he want the g̢ui̶l̵͢t͏̸ a҉ņ͟͡d ̵sha̸̡m̷͢e of you f̧͟͜adi̵̸ng being on his c͏̡͘ơn̷̷͝sc̸̀͠iou̧͘s.̷”

Jackie just sat there staring at nothing.  His brain refused to comprehend what was going on.  He felt so numb.  Was Dark right?  Was Jackie really not their favorite anymore?  Was he ever their favorite?

“Oh, don’t waste your tears, J҉a͝ck̀͜҉i͝e̷̡͘.  I can heĺ̷p ̛͝y̵͠ou̢͟ get back at them.  Get back at Sean.  Get back at Anti.  Get back at t̸he ͘̕̕Ć̵o͠m̷͞͠m̛̀̕u̷͜n̴̕i҉ty,̢͝”  DarkSepticeye extended his hand.  “Fo̶҉ŗ҉ ̵̨́a ̵͡pr̴͠҉ice̷̸͜.̡”

Tagging:  @weirdmixofweirdness, @a-humble-narcissus, @juju-on-that-yeet, @m4delin, @marshmallowmischief, @dolphintreasureart, @reverseblackholeofwords, @dezzydynamite, @nightfuryobsessed