#this of course is a product of my brain worms and should not be a thought process that someone has. it is just very late right now and i

[candyfloss-esophagus]

it's been one slutty slutty month since i last put up a noirpunk fic but rest assured that we got a couple in the works rn

[ewingstan]

This should be a simple and expected thing—the kid thinks an older teen in a leather jacket looks cool, no surprise there—except its the product of so much going on. The kid has his idea of "cool" from the supervillains he's raised by.Of course Aiden thinks the guy in the leather jacket is cool—he's been hearing stories about his legendarily cool Uncle Brian all his life. His idea of cool is passed down from the aesthetic sensibilities of a dude who thinks being mature and intimidating means dressing like what you'd see on the back of a Hells Angels jacket.

Kids always think supervillains look cool, but they think that about the ones in the cartoons they watch, not ones their interacting with. It scratches the metafiction-loving part of my brain that a kid who's living in a world written to have the aesthetics of those cartoons, and is living with people modeled after and skewering those cartoon villains, sees them and thinks "wow, they look cool!" in the same way a child watching the cartoons would. Except it comes from him seeing them as his pseudo-parents with the cool jobs.

There's also the fact that those cartoon characters worm/ward is commenting on are all incredible exaggerations of the idea of cool, designed in an escalating armsrace of looking radical to ten-year-olds. The Undersiders come from a fashion tradition whose main priority is selling action figures. And they all designed their costumes when they were teenagers! They barely updated them! And Victoria isn't giving them shit for having childish costumes, they're the norm! The idea of cool in parahumans just is what a seven-year-old's idea of cool is in the real world!

[theriverbeyond]

if you don’t mind, could you please elaborate on your ideas for a tlt stage musical? i too am musical theatre scum and this idea totally took me by surprise- your ideas for it are so fun and creative 😭 i am dying to know more about how you would arrange gideon as a musical (songs, motifs, just general tidbits of any kind) for entirely selfish reasons- it feeds the little worm in the back of my mind that wants to imagine everything as a musical.

thank you!! i did theater lighting for like, 6 years (and regular theater tech for a few more years before that) so i am just envisioning it... it could be so cool especially if they lean into the more rock musical visual style. there was this one specific local community theater production of next to normal I saw once in a theater that could seat maybe 100 people, that just went balls to the ball with ridiculous atmospheric lighting and just.. visceral acting/singing etc and I have been thinking about it ever since. hugely influential on my personal tastes. the broadway next 2 normal wishes it could capture even one shred of the intimate intensity and i have been chasing that specific high ever since.

for a gtn stage musical i have a few scattered ideas, in no particular order:

a "getting ready for canaan house"/gideon's rapier training montage & group song -- specifically, this would feature all the house heirs and specifically the real dulcinea. she would, of course, be played by a different actress for the whole rest of the play, but the audience wouldn't know because after that scene her face is never clearly shown. OR, in the first "getting ready" montage, you only see her back. regardless, the show would pull the ol' switcheroo. also this would be a fun scene where we get a glimpse of all the cav/necro pairs. there would be colored lighting corresponding to house colors

i think act 1 ending with the pool scene would be cool thematically (a shift in the gideon and harrow relationship) and leave the opportunity for an act 1 closing ballad (whose tune is then of course repeated when gideon dies). i don't think there is quite enough post-pool scene material for the acts to then be totally balanced, but, luckily this musical exists in the brain only and therefore i can do whatever i want forever <3 also the big battle scenes could be enough to fill the meat of the 2nd act

I think all the duels should be songs or at least done to music. Specifically i think the marta v. cam duel should be cam & marta dueling in the middle while palamades and judith stand to the side each lit with toplight in their corresponding colors (blue-gray and red). they would sing dueling verses of an "i am" song that reveal their own relationships with their cavalier and personal motives etc. maybe naberius gets his own pompous little verse

The fight against the lab 2 construct should be a song monologue thing and after harrow and gideon win, the tune changes to some kind of little victory thing etc but when they stumble across abigail & mangus' bodies the music just. stops.

I think it would be cool if the musical really leaned into the horror of things that are unseen. Like, gideon (and the audience by proxy) being frozen on stage while palamades confronts camilla. the explosion is either silhouetted on the scrim or done entirely offstage.

Ianthe only ever gets directly lit after she has become a lyctor. She still doesn't really get a song-- she tries to monologue it, but the music doesnt get going for her.

The avulsion trial would be a song sung by Dulcinea, that sounds sweet on first pass and is absolutely sinister when looking back. i am not a songwriter which means I can simply imagine it being awesome

the final gideon and harrow scene would be like. yelling and shouting. great big puppets used as the construct. gideon falls on a rail and then everything goes totally black. silence, or maybe crying. harrow screams gideon’s name. then lights up on gideon standing behind harrow, holding the sword together, under a narrow beam light. they fight cytherea together and say the wedding vows and everyone in the audience bursts into tears. gideon slowly exists the stage and by the end of the fight harrow is standing alone

gideon and harrow should have complimentary instrumental themes. after gideon sacrifices herself, the themes combine into one theme. this could be cool if this theoretical musical had a theoretical htn sequel, bc the same instrumental theme could come back *minus* the gideon part

there should be visually symbolic rails or other sorts of death flags for gideon the entire show.

camilla does a backflip

fog machine

"dulcie's theme" will be a sweet & soft instrumental track that plays when she's on stage that goes to a minor key and becomes dramatic and sinister when cytherea's identity is revealed

lighting would play a big role in symbolizing soul siphoning. I am personally envisioning this musical as having like highly saturated and emotional lighting (bc that is the kinda stuff that was fun for me when i did it lmao)or w/e SO that when soul siphoning happens everything can gray out and desaturate. it would look so cool. also, there should be a "the river" or something theme instrumental that plays whenever siphoning occurs, especially at the end when silas siphons colum vs ianthe.

the gideon v. coronabeth scene (right before everything goes to shit) would be a reprise of the song that happens when gideon duels naberius, and also, it would NOT be included on the official soundtrack

also for a theoretical sequel htn musical, the mattias nonius v. wake battle would start out with just ortus and then harrow takes over and then abigail adds to it, overlapping, and then mattias and wake have like an dueling chorus like the argument in le mis.

when gideon comes back, the harrow actress and gideon actress are both on stage at the same time. the harrow actress does all the body things that gideon-in-harrow does, wheras the gideon body is the one talking/singing. the music in the river bubble is all minor key or otherwise symbolized as wrong. mercymorn gets her own song of course. in the AU river scenes, gideon is there but we never see her face. the gideon actress could play The Body (with a costume change of course), so there is ambiguity on what is going on and who the body is just as in the books. idk i havent thought as much about post-gtn musical ideas but i think it would be very weird and experimental

would absolutely love to hear other people's ideas on this also!!

[summer-lantern]

⭐️Virtual Angel’s diary, leading up to now⭐️

(Mod Note 1: will definitely make this a series as days go by)

WARNINGS: abuse, cursing, slight descriptions of physical abuse, Winter being Winter, lmk if I missed anything!

Man… I guess I should actually fill in my diary in case my actual self gets lost in a Hollow or something.. so let me introduce myself. Hi, hello, Привет!~ 

My name is Snezhana Volkova, or Winter. Just call me ‘Winter’, only people I’m close to can call me Snezhana, and even that’s debatable.

I saw some other Hollow Guides filling out full details of their lives in case humanity gets almost completely wiped out because of the Hollows, so here I am doing it myself, let me start from the beginning…

The date was 7/12/insert the year here idek

I was created in a laboratory as part of a project, I don’t know the name of it.. I don’t know a lot about what happened in the lab. I just know that I was created as a test,  I remember waking up and the first thing I saw was Aster, my.. “brother”. I remember that he said “Hey, your name is Snezhana Volkova. And you’re my sister, okay?”

A long while after that, I grew up fast, like.. really, REAAAALLY fast, in like 5 months, I was 15, and Aster and my “father” were teaching me things, how to fight, how to shoot a gun, teaching me all about these things called “Hollow Sites”.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to know this or not, but I was made from a Hollow. Or— a Hollow Core. The things that power a Hollow Site, where all that Hollow Energy comes from. I guess that’s enough angsty teen backstory stuff now, let’s get to the good stuff!

————————

~Prestige Academy~

Virtual Angel Note; I’m not gonna put dates here cause I don’t even remember, all the days I spent at the Academy just blended together.

I had just turned like… 17? And my “father” sent me to the base of this organization called “Anti-Entropy”, for “training”, as if I haven’t been through enough training at home.. ugh. 

Of course I went anyways cause like.. the flip am I gonna do otherwise? Max out my avatar in games I’ve played a million times? Overdose on banana milk? Lmao, naurrr!~

I regret it. I should have stayed back, said no, run away, anything. 

At this place, the training was flippin’ HORRIFIC. Like I’ve played games like Resident Evil, watched anime like “Higurashi: When they Cry”, and this was worse. They forced up to swallow these pill things, I still don’t know what they did it what they were for, but we- everyone there did it without question, we’d be shot dead if we didn’t. 

They put us in shooting training, and hand to hand combat, technology stuff, as if I didn’t know how to use a Personal Computer or a handheld gun already.. 

And the highlight of it all, it was never safe. They ENCOURAGED shooting and killing your “classmates” in order to proceed up the ranks and eventually graduate. They starved us too, it was kinda scary, always having to be alert, but fr tho, COME AT ME BRO. Sorry the brainrot got to me, anyways, we got any food and our sleeping quarters was like a jail, like seriously if you want us to be productive then maybe give us an actual room?? Tf??

The food I could eat, I had to be really careful, another classmate could have poisoned it or something with hopes of offing me so they would be one point up the leaderboard, so I just didn’t eat, I ate like.. a thing or two that I was 10000% sure was safe. That’s about it. 

They sent us to these.. surgeries? Yeah, surgeries, one person would get certain things implanted or removed, like I remember seeing some string-like thing being removed from a classmate’s brain, maybe a worm?? I dunno, but like.. brother euuugghhhhhhhh.

 While a classmate was operated on, the rest of us watched. I remember people dropping like flies during the procedures, only to be dragged off and never seen or heard from again..

I’ll spare you, and myself because I don’t think I wanna talk about it anymore. 

————

~MEETING KARINA~

I will say that there was this girl, uhh… Karina Siling, she had already graduated from the academy, I guess that what you could call it. She was already like a teacher, I remember the first time I had a solo class with her, whenever I saw her around the academy, like passed by her, I always got such a weird vibe about her, like she was some anime villain or something, maybe it’s just because she’d been through a lot. Or maybe it was my head telling me to stay the hell away from her, either way, we met. Tbh, I was gonna say I was injured or sick or something so I couldn’t go, but I went anyways, and honestly, I’m glad I did!~ 

Karina was actually SHOCKINGLY kind, drastically different from the other instructors. She was in charge of one on one combat training, she was really good at her job, no wonder she already had a callsign, “Black Swan” is what they called her. But she said I could just call her “Karina” when around other people, and “unnie*” when it was just us. When I went to her class injured or malnourished or something, she’d give me a break and when asked about it, she’d tell the higher ups that I had been helping her.

Karina made my time at Prestige Academy much more bearable.. until she just.. disappeared???? Like what the flip Karina where did you go?? If you didn’t wanna teach me anymore you coulda just said so lmaoooo‼️‼️‼️

———-

~graduation~

KABOOM. I FUCKIN’ SURVIVED‼️‼️

Insert several years later, when was 18, I finally graduated from that hellhole, I still didn’t know what happened to Karina, but I didn’t have time to worry about that, I was FREE!-

Until I was assigned to literally LEAVE my HOME UNIVERSE and go to some place called “Yokohama”, in Japan, in a completely different universe! Like what the fuck man, you’re gonna send a 18 year old who only knows a lab and a shitty learning environment to a different universe??? Alone??? No wonder most of the instructors ain’t got families, they were fucking idiots! 

Anyways, since I didn’t have a choice because free will? What’s that? I was sent to Japan. I was supposed to like… scout the area for other LITERAL CHILDREN to bring back to Prestige Academy. 

Jokes on them because I just faked my death, found a video of some poor dude dying in a explosion and used some AI to replace the dude with myself and sent it back to base with a fake “Yo if you’re seeing this I fucking DIED because of a damn unsafe work environment. THIS IS ON YALL FRFR.”

Very convincing, right? AND YAY GOD IS REAL THEY FELL FOR IT‼️‼️

I was officially signed off as dead in Anti-Entropy’s eyes and I moved locations and decided to do whatever the heck I wanted in order to get money and such. I made my own new identity, and hacked government files in order to make myself a “actual person” in Japan, an Immigrant I guess you could say lmaoooo-

My government file had stuff like my name “Winter Volkova”, yes, my real name “Snezhana” is NON-EXISTENT BRO. I don’t want ANYONEEE to call me that name. You better address me as Winter or I’m leaving you on delivered lol

————

~Life in Yokohama~

Aight, so time skip a while, I set up a place for myself in an old warehouse on a part of town no one ever goes to and set up my PC, some RGBY lights and made the warehouse into a slay asf gaming/living place for myself. 

I made money by doing a bunch of jobs for people like making better filing softwares for some “Armed Detective Agency” and straight up faking or destroying government files or tracking down targets for a certain mafia.

One day, I was walking through the city headed back from buying my usual several gallons of banana milk and ramyeon and other foods, when I bumped into someone…

FUCKING KARINA SILING?? WTF ARE YOU DOING HERE?? OMGGG-

It was Karina‼️‼️ Turns out she had faked her death too and left Anti-Entropy, but she wasn’t able to tell me, she had joined some organization called the “World Serpent”, and she wanted me to join her, claiming that I could do whatever I wanted, like I’ve always been doing, but instead of living in a warehouse, I’d get to have my own room in a place where I’d get to come and go as I wanted, whenever I wanted. Seemed like a pretty sweet deal to be honest.. 

It was a pretty sweet deal, but giiiirrrll-

I’ve been living fine on my own, why would I WANT to tie myself down to a single organization? 

Karina said I could have some time to think about it, then I could call her. 

Throughout that week, she kept visiting me and bringing other members of this World Serpent to meet me, a young dude named Yuta Maus Sakuya, he was originally from where I am too, where he was a level 7 Hollow Guide with the callsign “Helix”, and then Karina brought a man named Vega Chase. He was the leader of the Yokohama branch of the World Serpent, and a Hollow Guide himself, he didn’t have a callsign though, he just called himself “Vega”, I guess because no one in their right mind would think a guy with a name like that was ACTUALLY named like that. 

A week after all that, I was like “yk what, YOLO.” And I joined the World Serpent!!! Yay‼️‼️‼️

As promised, I was allowed to come and go whenever I want, I did have to go through Hollow Guide training, but it was fun— and EASY. I got my own callsign, ‘Virtual Angel’ literally so slay, right? 

I guess that’s everything up to now. Damn, looking back, I only have one thing to say… Miss Creator, WHAT THE FLIP MAN?? WHO HURT YOU????

(@pleasepress1forfrontdesk WHABOOM)

[gamesbyalbie]

The Cursed Journey

PART 8: MOTIVE

"What does this even mean?" Michael's face scrunches up. "To Kelly with the cool bangs?" 

I snort. "It's exactly what it says."

"But who is Kelly? Is this a reference? Am I missing something? Is there anything—or anyone—you need to tell me about?"

I look away from the hologram and roll my eyes. Hopefully, he still hasn't upgraded his phone and the projection's too blurry for him to tell. "Just print it, Michael. It's non-negotiable."

"Okay." His shoulders appear as he makes an exaggerated shrug. "But you know people are going to talk when we release this. Right?"

"Sure. People will theorize. Let them." I can hear exasperation seeping into my voice. The tremor is back in my hands and I can feel a cluster headache gathering like storm clouds. "My private life is public property. I'm a character as much as I am a writer." I shake a small white pill out of an orange bottle. "You should be happy if people are talking," I grumble before tossing the pill into my mouth, swallowing it dry—a decision I immediately regret. "That's what you want. Isn't it?"

"I suppose. But that's not all they're gonna talk about. Tobi and the Brain Worm isn't exactly what people have been waiting for. I need you to be prepared for that."

I wince internally. "I know." People are gonna be pissed, disappointed, confused. But I'm not a machine, and it's these weird little experiments that keep me going. I'm doing all I can to hold the curse at bay.

"You're gonna have to do press for this."

I sigh. "Do I?"

"Yes! Of course. Ody, people are losing faith. It's been over a year since Neo Olympus dropped." I grimace. He doesn't have to constantly remind me of that. I don't think he'd spontaneously combust if he went a whole day without mentioning it. "You're lucky you write so well. People give you a lot more patience than normal." He means I'm lucky bots still can't replicate my work. "But your fans aren't gonna be satisfied with some quirky little sci-fi novel about Tobi and her brain worm unless they know something bigger is coming. I need you to reassure them of that."

"Well, if I spend time reassuring them, I won't have time to produce it." 

"How much more time do you need?" Michael squeals. "You just wrote a novel in three days. That sequel should be finished by now! Hell, the series should be finished by now."

I look away. "It—it nearly is."

"Ody Specter... tell me you aren't writing Act 3 again."

I'm silent for a moment too long. "I just—"

"Unbelievable! Do you need me to come over and watch you? Like a child doing their homework? Cause I'll do it."

"No! No. I'll get it done."

"Tonight. You will get it done tonight."

"Fine."

"Fine, what?"

"Fine, I'll finish it tonight."

"Okay. You better. And Ody, you know I'm only doing this because I care about you, right?"

"Yes." No, I don't know that. How could I be sure of that? I'm your source of income. I'm a product you sell.

"Good." Michael sighs. "Good."

"But—" Anxiety gnaws at my stomach. "What if it isn't good?"

"Pardon?"

"The sequel. What if it isn't what they've been waiting for? People have already waited ages for this, if I then release something that's disappointing—"

"Stop. Ody, Listen to me." Michael interrupts. I allow it. I don't really want to finish my sentence. "Do not worry about that. Okay? Two things. Number one: I believe in you. You are your own worst critic and you're never gonna be fully satisfied with what you create. That's the burden of being an artist. Trust me, I've worked with enough of you to know that." I brush a tear off my cheek. "Number two: people are going to be assholes. There's no avoiding that. Either they're shitty trolls or people so invested in your story and characters that they treat them like they own them. You'll never give those people what they want, and you don't have to. You can't let your fear of disappointing strangers keep you from creating something you love. And I know how much you love this—how much you care. Just... get it out there. Share it. And remember, there's always more people who silently appreciate you than who vocally critique you. However it turns out, people will love it—and those who don't love it, don't matter."

"Thanks, Michael." Warm calm settles over me. "I needed to hear that."

"Don't mention it. It's my job to be here for you. While I have you here, they also want you to do press for Min-joon's book."

"You're shitting me, right?" The calm is yanked away, exposing my back to harsh cold. "That is not Min-joon's book. There's no way I'm going to show support for that factory produced, plagiarized crap. You should be grateful I'm not publicly denouncing it!"

Recently, that's all I've wanted to do. It aggravates me so much to see people praising it on every platform. It's a lie. A scam. A forgery.

Michael sent me a copy last week. I ripped it apart and set it on fire.

Apparently, it's a solarpunk love story about a robot tea farmer and a human antiquarian. I don't know. I only skimmed through parts of it before the nausea turned unbearable and my urge to destroy it became all-consuming.

What I do know is that everyone else in the world seems to be wet with anticipation. Every major news outlet has been calling it, "the ultimate friends to lovers story." Or, "a revolutionary tale with intoxicating worldbuilding." My old boss at Biblio called it, "the most serenely beautiful work of fiction she's ever read."

I could slap every single one of them. Right in the face. Just slap the shit out of them. Maybe then they'd come to their senses and see that nothing has been created. This book, as good as it may be, is manufactured bullshit hiding under Min-joon's name—wearing his style, tone, themes, etc. as camouflage.

"Listen, Ody, I know you've felt that way, but—"

"But what, Michael? There's no past tense. I do feel this way."

"I know, I get it. Trust me... but Mr. Steel called me today. Literally, he called me. He wants to speak with you, to see if you'll reconsider."

"Well, next time he honors you with a call, tell him to eat fucking glass. That'll be less painful than trying to convince me to support him and his despicable actions."

"But you just send them the unfinished work. Or just the ideas! They'll write it for you. They'll even make it sound like you if you give them enough. There's no risk. No danger! You barely have to lift a finger—"

"Never, Michael. Never."

"Fine. I'll tell them it's a no."

"And don't bring it up again."

"I won't. But remember, this means you have to work. You have to write. You have to finish this story, then do it all over again. You turn Steel down and that's your only option. It doesn't have to be perfect—that's what editing is for—just... do it. You make this harder than it has to be. And if you need to," he stops for a moment. I can see debate in his eyes even through the hologram. "Think about Min-joon. If nothing else, do it for him."

A visceral snarl rips from my throat. "Do you think I'm not doing that? Every second, of every fucking day?"

"No. Ody, that's not—I'm just trying to motivate you."

"I don't need motivation! Surprisingly, the threat of death and need to support my loved one is more than enough. And, for the record, I'm not making this hard. This is hard. Really fucking hard!" A cauldron of rage starts to boil over, searing and charring my insides.

It's unproductive. Everything about this. This has been a massive waste of time and—the more I get worked up—the more time I'll continue to waste. I need to get out. Fast.

"I'll call you in the morning."

"Okay, g—"

I toss my phone on my bed and walk over to the windows. My hands fly to my face and neck, rubbing the overwhelming emotion from my tense muscles. I look out at the urban landscape, doing my best to cool my furious blood—to quiet the string of violent obscenities parading through my head.

The sun hangs low in the sky. Dark brushstrokes of clouds cross the vast expanse. It's almost a perfect rainbow—dark purple overhead gradually turning to fiery crimson along the horizon. The lit windows and labyrinthine streets are equally beautiful, creating a tapestry of electric life.

It's distracting. Hopefully calming. Perhaps even inspiring.

Hmm, maybe... I look back at my office door. No. Being generous, it would take me at least thirty minutes of strained grunting and heaving to get my desk out here. By that time, the sunset would be long gone. There's no time, you worthless piece—

I force myself to turn away and drag my body back to the study. Michael is right, as much as I loathe to admit it.

I have work to do.

End of Part 8 of ? • LAST PART • NEXT PART (coming soon)

More Cursed Journey • More by Albie • Image Source

The amazing music video that inspired this:

[valleyofthe-lily]

Short Story

Hello all,

Below is a short story I wrote a few years ago. I thought that it would be a good introduction to my blog. I hope that it might resonate with some of you <3

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

There is no certainty in life except that nothingness will follow you everywhere. No matter how much better you think you are or how good you feel, that familiar emptiness will one day return to ruin everything you’ve worked so hard for. Feelings of elation and motivation will be followed not by sorrow, but by a raw eating emptiness. I feel nothing. I am nothing. All I want to do is go to sleep, to stop everything, but I’m not tired. All there is for me to do is sit and wallow. No matter what I try, I can’t seem to do anything– anything but exist. Existence becomes a terrible prison this way, keeping me hostage as I pry at bars ten times taller than me, trying my hardest to escape. Life has a way of tricking us into comfort only to turn things upside down with no notice. 

Sometimes pain makes things better. The void can be so powerfully consuming, making me believe that I might explode without an immediate outlet. The chaos of thoughts in my brain becomes a physical force, and the pressure of the unrest begins to build internally. I’ve found that gentle pain, a residual stinging, allows me to better focus my mental energy. It allows me to feel. Instead of sitting, consumed by the abyss, I sit and feel my wrists throb. Now I don’t have to think about my veins exploding or about the electric worms crawling in my skin because I’ve focused my energy elsewhere. It’s recentering, transforming your pain into a physical thing. After all, physical pain is all psychological. You can choose to hurt or choose not to. Whatever you decide, you still feel something. And so if you choose not to hurt, you feel better. I always feel better. I’m free to browse Etsy for vintage furniture or shop for makeup on Dior.com. I’m free to sit and read, finally doing something productive, because I’ve bled out all the craziness in my head and can stand to focus. 

I know that when I shower tonight it will be done sitting on the shower floor, and I will struggle to get up, to be without an ice-cold stream down my face. Talking myself into the shower was difficult enough, and now that I’m comfortable on the floor with water rushing down my face, it is difficult to talk myself into standing up.  It feels like drowning, the water. It feels good. I can’t stay sitting there for too long, though, or else my roommate will think I’m up to something. Wait, why would she think I was up to something, I’m taking a shower? What’s there to be suspicious about? No, she’d definitely be suspicious. I know this as sure as I’ve ever known everything. I’ll just enjoy the water while I can. Maybe I’ll turn the water hot, just to mix things up.

Maybe when I wake up I’ll be okay again. Well, okay by my standards, anyway. Should this be the case, I’ll awake at 5:45 or 6:30 specifically, teeming with energy. I’ll get out of bed and curse my roommate for taking up space and sleeping peacefully so that I can’t blast music and dance around. My immediate solution is to put on the most abrasive music I can find and blast it through my headphones. It’s not seven yet, so I can’t go to Opus down the street. Instead, I’ll try on outfit after outfit and do my makeup a few times. Once seven comes, I’ll go to Opus for breakfast, convinced I’ll have a productive morning and read outside. I have a favorite spot picked out outside, and I like to get there before anyone can take it. Of course, I get distracted easily and can’t sit still enough to process anything I’ve read. It takes time to convince myself of this fact, so I spend much time sitting and staring at the sky. I’ll eventually decide that I’m better suited for a walk and will start to wander around the Innovation District. It’s hot outside, but I don’t care because the act of walking is better than the feeling of air conditioning. The thought of feeling that recycled air in my dorm room makes my skin crawl. I walk in a square around the same four blocks for hours listening to “All Too Well (10 minute version) (Taylor’s version)” on repeat. Maybe I’ll throw in a little “Lovergirl” by Teena Marie for variety. Never on repeat, though, because the beat makes me want to jump up and down and skip and twirl around 4th Avenue, and I don’t want to look like a crazy person. I’m not a crazy person! Crazy people live in facilities, receiving the help they need through medications and psychiatrists and therapists. I receive my medications from my psychiatrist monthly, and I’ve forgotten to schedule an appointment with my therapist for the past three months. My psychiatrist never listens to me, anyway, so I’m obviously of a different caliber than actual crazy people. He doesn’t even talk to me about diagnoses! I think he thinks I go to see him for fun. This must mean he’s positive there’s no possibility of anything too terribly bad. Right?

Eventually, the heat becomes too much, and I am forced to retreat back to my room. When I get back from my walk, I decide that everything in my dorm is wrong, and, even though I’ve been walking for hours, I’m still full of energy. I decide that a fort would fit nicely with the ambiance of the space and get to work building as best I can with my twin xl sheet. Of course, it’s too small. Of course! Why would I think I could build a fort with a twin xl sheet? I’d need a full, at least! There’s no use ordering one, it won’t come for a few days and the fort needs assembling now. Damnit! Now I feel like I might explode again. No, just breathe. That’s it, deep breath. Take a step back. Reassess fort. If I drape it from the ceiling over my bed it’ll work. Let’s do that, instead. I get to work with tacks attaching the sheet to the tip tops of the wall and fashioning it over the side of my bed. It’s very difficult to get in and out of as the bed is lofted, but it’s built! I did it! This is the best use of my time and energy to date, I’m completely convinced. I get down to gaze upon my creation. It looks good. What to do now? No, don’t think about that! Thinking about what’s next always leads to bad things if I can’t come up with anything to do. Quick, think of something to do! But I already did everything, I walked and spent an hour and a half making the coolest fort that ever was! There’s nothing to do now… don’t look, but my roommate is giving me weird looks from her bed as I pace all around the room. I should probably sit down to avoid arousing further suspicion. 

I should talk to someone, I can’t be alone right now. Being alone means that bad things come out, and I need an outlet. Maybe call a friend? And say what, that my brain is filled with electricity that’s controlling my impulses and I can’t escape its influence and it’s driving me mad? Yeah right, some friend I’d be to tell another person something like that. Then they’d actually think I was crazy! I’ll just imagine calling a friend instead, it’ll give me something to focus on without making people I care about think that I’ve lost it. Ring… ring… ring…

“Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey, nothing much, just convinced that I’ve been filled with a malevolent energy while I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Oh? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, I feel like I’m filled with static or electric worms or that I’m a puddle of mud or a piece of chocolate melting on the sidewalk. You know what I mean?”

“No, I don’t know what you mean, why don’t you explain further?”

Wait, stop! It’s a trap, I must choose my next words carefully. This imaginary friend wants information pertaining to the inner workings of my brain. That’s confidential information, what if they try to use it against me? What if they think I’m crazy after all? I didn’t appreciate their tone, either. Fuck! I knew I shouldn’t have called a friend. Wait, that was all fake, I made it up. It’s okay. Well, now I know for sure I can never call a friend, the ones inside my head think I’m batty, too. God, now there really is nothing to do. I know! Why don’t I put on Tchaikovsky on max volume and close my eyes? That always makes me feel better.

 Het, thanks! You’re right, I do enjoy Tchaikovsky. I’ll lay on the floor and stare out the window and watch the clouds move by while the music plays. It’s calming. I need to calm down. Just listen and absorb. Wow, it’s really dark out. The day went by fast. I’m still not tired, though. That’s okay, I can just sit here and enjoy the music. Focus on the music. The clouds sure are pretty tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The days are starting to be the same. Each morning I wake up and think of all the things I’m going to do, but it just ends up being the same day as yesterday. And the one before. And for as long as I can remember at this point. It’s hard to keep track of the date, the weeks mush together in my mind and I can’t recall anything. Today is Tuesday, which means I have class. Upon awakening, it’s the first thing on my mind. I have class at six o’clock and I cannot miss it. I’ve missed class three weeks in a row at this point, and I’m in danger of failing if I don’t show up. It weighs heavy on my mind: class is happening today and I must go. I don’t want to go to anything. I want to continue to lay here, in my bed where I haven’t moved since I opened my eyes, and not do or think about anything. The thought of any obligation makes my face get hot and my eyes water, a pit of dread building in my stomach. The more I think about having to do something, the more hysterical I feel. If I don’t think of something else soon, I’ll start genuinely sobbing, and then I’ll think about how pathetic I am, and how pointless this is, and how annoying crying is, and how I wish I wasn’t alive in the first place. So I think of something different– class isn’t until six, I don’t have to think about it until at least five. I set an alarm on my phone and go back to what I was doing previously.

I sleep on the right side of the bed, which faces the windows in my room. Since I’m on the second floor, I can’t really see anything out of the window when lying down, but I like to look at the wall between the windows, too. The walls are a kind of stucco and have been painted over many times, so it's entertaining enough to examine all the discrepancies. I usually perform the task of staring at the wall for at least an hour after I wake up. Part of this activity is spent thinking about what I have to do that day, and once I dispel any commitment from my mind I let it wander away. I’m actually much better at clearing my mind than I thought; it’s surprisingly easy to not move for a long period of time and think about nothing. So, I stare at the wall for a while and drift away. 

The next time I think about moving is probably to refill my water bottle. Of course, I drank all the water the night before and couldn’t be bothered to refill it. This task requires going downstairs, which I don’t like to do more than thrice daily. While I’m up, I’ll go to the bathroom and brush my teeth and take my meds. I’ve only been on the meds for two weeks, so nothing in my life has really changed. Except, actually brushing my teeth immediately after getting up is an improvement from the last few weeks. Once I’m done performing whatever menial task I feel capable of doing, I’ll sit on the edge of my bed. I’m paralyzed with the thought of what to do next. I can’t just lay back down again, I was going to do things today. Today was going to be different. I need to think of something to do. I can’t come up with anything, so I end up sitting, staring at my hands for a long time. With nothing to do, my mind is blank again, and time passes me by. When I realize that I’ve been sitting in the same place for so long, I’ll lay back down anyway. I’ve been doing nothing for forty-five minutes, might as well do nothing a little longer. 

Eventually, I’ll get comfortable and get out my phone or laptop. Watching movies has been my favorite form of time-wasting recently. Today I ended up catching up on the new Game of Thrones TV show. I’m at the part where there’s a lot of sexual tension between Rhaenyra and her uncle. The episodes are pretty long, so the day passes by quickly. I get a notification in the top right corner of my screen that my laptop will die if I don’t plug it in soon. I can’t find the energy to plug it in, or even to move my hand to the trackpad and exit out of the notification. I watch about fifteen more minutes of the show before I find the will to get up. I plug my laptop in, automatically removing the notification for me. I make note of the time and realize that the alarm I set for five-thirty will go off soon. I’d been so distracted by the show that I’d forgotten to worry about class later that evening. Anxiety suddenly washes over me, and I begin to make peace with the fact that I probably won’t be going to class that day. I take the time to worry and debate with myself a bit more before concluding that I, in fact, would not be attending class in half an hour. I resume my position in bed with my laptop and continue to watch the show.

It’s hard to keep track of how time is spent in the in-between moments. I remember doing nothing, because I felt nothing, but it’s hard to recall the tasks I might do or what happens when I get up and walk around. Anything I might do would be of little consequence, anyway. I probably didn’t get up to eat anything. Last week, I accidentally only consumed Iced Chai Lattes from Starbucks three days in a row. It’s easy to forget to eat because your body adapts when you start mistreating it. It won’t bother to let you know that you’re hungry if you ignore the feeling when it’s there. I won’t think about how this will negatively affect my body for months to come. I don’t think about anything because nothing matters. Absolutely nothing. For some reason, I can’t feel anything except burning contempt toward the fact that I have to exist at all. I wouldn’t have to worry about eating or going to class if I just didn’t exist. Then, I will start to feel very angry that I’ve been forced to be alive and that I must feel this way. The anger builds the more I think about it, and then my thoughts get kind of violent. All I want, more than anything, is to not be alive. It’s hard to derail your train of thought when you start thinking things like that. The thoughts spiral, and suddenly you're talking yourself of acting on your impulses. I’ll spend the rest of the night coming up with reasons I shouldn’t do the things I think about. 

I feel like all I’ve been doing these days is distracting myself. I distract myself from bad thoughts, from good thoughts, from any thoughts at all. I’ve spent three weeks staring at the wall. I feel like I’ll be laying here forever, staring at this wall. I don’t even care enough to do anything about it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I think a lot about what the word perseverance means to me. I first learned the word in pre-kindergarten; it was my teacher’s favorite word. She thought that every day should be lived with perseverance and that we should always try our hardest, no matter what. I didn’t hear the word very often growing up after leaving her classroom. I might have had it on a spelling test, but no one around me used it regularly in their vocabulary. I thought about what perseverance meant to me for the first time in a while about a year ago. You know how sometimes teachers or professors or clubs will make you come up with words that define who you are? As a sort of self-building, self-discovery activity? I guess I had been tasked with doing this because I remember having to come up with three words I felt really connected to. I’d never felt a connection to a word before, I thought that was weird. I’d never felt so strongly about anything, let alone a single word, to feel as if it described me very being. So, it took me a while to come up with anything at all. I wanted to respect the integrity of the assignment and find words I really thought defined who I was, though, so I was thinking very strongly about this. 

The word perseverance popped into my head, and it felt like something clicked. I thought, I do persevere. I persevere more than I do anything else. I’ve been carrying on every day of my life since the seventh grade. And I’ve done it all alone. Persevering wasn’t very hard throughout high school because I didn’t feel strongly about things then. In the past few years, though, I’ve felt things more acutely than I ever thought possible. I didn’t think myself capable of feeling things in such a way, good or bad. All the turbulence is really exhausting, and carrying on is a lot easier said than done. Sometimes, it’s the hardest thing in the world. I do it anyway, though, every day. And I go to the doctor and the psychiatrist and the therapist, and I try my hardest to make my life better in any way I can. It’s all felt very pointless for a very long time, all the work I’ve put into things, but I’m starting to understand that perseverance pays off. It turns out that telling yourself you believe something over and over, no matter how you really feel about it, does eventually change your outlook. 

I’ve been practicing empathy for years. It was difficult for me to feel things when I was younger, I was so apathetic toward life. I could apply my empathy to people I didn’t know and systems that I thought were fucked up, but it was hard for me to feel towards people and things I really knew. I was capable of it in the abstract, but it was hard to ground myself in situations that actually affected me. It wasn’t that I didn’t care about people, I just didn’t care much for anything. It was uncontrollable, too. I didn’t have a bad attitude, I just couldn’t feel. Eventually, I got to a point where I was sick of this incapability holding me back from enjoying my life. My therapist recommended talking myself through different situations through the eyes of the most sympathetic person I know. I felt very deceitful for a long time doing this; I didn’t feel like I was being my authentic self. My therapist said it was necessary if I wanted to change, though. I guess she was right because this thought process has rewired my brain. I think about how things affect other people before I think about anything else. I’ve become the biggest crybaby on the planet, too. I’m tearing up at the first mention of hardship everywhere I go. I'm sobbing by the end of every episode of The Last of Us now, too. At first, I was very unsettled, because I never cried about anything unless I was unstable. It made me feel unstable then, not having control of my emotions. My psychiatrist said that it was the manifestation of the progress I’d made and that it was good I was feeling things. I stopped being so scared of the crying as I realized that crying, that feeling things deeply, was something I didn’t think myself capable of at all. It still unsettles me a little bit, feeling so strongly about everything, but I’ve come to enjoy it far more than the alternative. 

Feeling happiness is still hard, I don’t remember what that emotion is like anymore. I used to count the days in high school I thought were good, and I remember doing that twice. My days weren’t bad or anything, but nothing made me celebratory, nothing made me joyful. I think that most people live like this on the day-to-day, just sort of moving along through life. My therapist has told me this is not normal, though, so it’s another thing we’re working on. I’m also trying to be more participatory in my social life as I’ve found that I’m most content around my friends. I’m thinking of trying the forceful method again, and start consciously associating happiness with things I enjoy. I’m trying to find joy in little things, too, since I don’t really do much. I think it’s important to have those associations anyway as they give you a greater appreciation for life. It’s still difficult for me to enjoy living as I’ve done the opposite for nearly half my life, but at least now I see the purpose in trying. 

College has definitely made things feel more real. Once I graduate, it’s time to really face the music. I never made any plans for my future growing up because I didn’t think I’d have one. I always lived my life anticipating when it would end. I’m starting to think I’ll make it, though, which is a really refreshing change. Coming up with a feasible career is a little stressful to think about, but I’m determined to do whatever I want with my life. I’m not sure what that is exactly, but I’ll stick it out once I come up with something. 

My days are sort of monotonous now. I follow a loose routine of getting out of bed immediately after I wake up, taking my meds, doing any chores or tasks I have to do, going to class, getting lunch, spending the afternoon doing something I enjoy, getting dinner, doing homework, and smoking outside. I’ve found I live my best life when I have a routine as it helps with structure. I thought that doing the same things over and over every day would get boring, but I’ve started to appreciate what I do. I enjoy the walk I have to take to go get food, I enjoy the fact that I eat food at all, I enjoy reading or talking to my friends in the evening, and I enjoy hanging out with my cat. I have found that I can enjoy anything I like to do and that I can like to do whatever I want. I feel like there is potential for me to like more things, too. I’m starting to enjoy so many parts of the day that I’m beginning to like the whole thing. Maybe one day I’ll enjoy life, too. I’m beginning to like the thought.

[horseshoe-bay-ledger]

Bail Me Out?

Okay, so this post ( @naceistruelove ) wormed its way into my brain, so I had to write it just to get it out of my head.

...

“Really?” Nancy asked, exasperated.

“Hi,” Ace said, like he hadn’t just walked into the cell he was supposed to bail Nancy out of. 

He had said ‘hi’ in that casual way he did when he wanted his tone to distract from what was going on so he wouldn’t have to address it immediately. Nancy was having absolutely none of it. She had been sitting on this hard bench for far too long.

“Ace,” Nancy said, “How is it that I asked you to bail me out—and only that—and now you’re sitting in here with me?”

“Well,” Ace shrugged, “I may have done more than that.” 

Of course he was being all mysterious and vague. He sat down next to her on the bench bumping her shoulder with his.

Nancy scoffed admonishingly. “Do I want to know?”

Ace turned his whole body to face her, raised his eyebrows slightly. He repeated her question back to her, “Do you want to know?”

Avoidance really was Ace’s strong suit.

She didn’t, but she did. Nancy answered his question by not answering his question, “I knew I should’ve called Carson.” 

Avoidance was also one of her skills, particularly when it came to Ace.

“Can’t,” Ace said simply, “he had to drive up to New York for a client, won’t be back until tomorrow morning. Ryan went with him as well I think.”

Nancy thought Carson would probably come immediately if he knew she was in trouble and asked for his help—it was part of the reason why she called Ace, he was basically the same—but she didn’t want to have to worry him.

It was when she was thinking about Carson she remembered the time he had asked Ace for help when he was behind bars. She wished she remembered that sooner. She really shouldn’t be surprised Ace ended up in here with her. She probably should be thankful things didn’t end up worse. She didn’t even want to begin to imagine what trouble he had gotten himself into over her.

To stop herself spiralling into the depths of blaming herself for the misfortunes of all the people around her she tried to think of who else they could call. You know, to bail them both out.

“Well, what about George? She might be able to leave The Claw for a little bit—”

Aces eyes widened slowly and shook his head. “No, she’s in one of her scary moods at the moment. Also I already owe her like eight times over at last count.”

Nancy sighed. Of course he did. But they were also both currently in jail so they really couldn’t be all that picky, George’s temperament aside.

“That’s gone up by two since I last heard, you might want to get a hold on that.” 

Ace just looked at her witheringly like he already knew that but that was just the way it was with George and him. 

“Okay, what about Nick then?” Nancy suggested.

Ace shook his head again. Nancy knew asking Nick to do something like this was basically indirectly asking George to come pick them up as well but they were running out of options.

“I couldn’t get a hold of Bess earlier when I was…” Ace trailed off, reluctant to disclose what exactly he had been doing and why he got arrested. 

“Okay well when you can suggest something more productive get back to me,” Nancy said slightly frustrated. She continued sarcastically, “You can find me in the same police holding cell that you are also currently locked up in.”

There was silence for a moment. Ace just tilted his head looking at her, considering her. 

“I’m sorry,” he finally said. He said it so genuinely Nancy was half surprised by it and half ashamed for snapping at him. Ace only ever tried to help, she knew that. Even if it didn’t always turn out well, he was always well intentioned. She couldn’t blame Ace for being, well, Ace. She sighed, collapsing back onto the wall and closed her eyes. 

There was quiet between them for a bit then a sudden burst of laughter came out of Nancy. Her reaction was not what Ace nor Nancy herself expected. She must have been more tired than she thought. But once she started laughing she couldn’t stop. Ace just looked at her with half a smile on his face like he couldn’t help it.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to get out between gasps, “it’s just how do we always end up like this? I mean… it’s just so us.”

“If it helps,” Ace said, still smiling, “I got arrested for trying to steal a traffic cone.”

Oh, Ace. 

This just sent Nancy, who had almost got herself under control, into further fits of laughter. Of course he did. She didn’t even want to know why he was doing that. Okay, she did but it was enough to know that was how Ace ended up beside her in his misguided chivalrous attempt to get her out here.

“Did that have anything to do with what you were actually doing?” She asked.

“Nope,” Ace said succinctly and immediately, popping the ‘p’ at the end. 

“So what were you doing?” Nancy asked. It was like an itch she couldn’t help but scratch. She couldn’t deal with not knowing—her mind went to dark places.

Ace hesitated. “You’re just going to get mad…” he trailed off, scratching the back of his neck and looking guiltily up at Nancy.

“I promise I won’t,” Nancy said only partly lying.

“Okay, well, I might have been investigating the scary house you were arrested for breaking into—you know the one you told me to avoid—in, ah, not the most legal of ways.”

That was, actually less dramatic and worrisome—well by their standards at least—than she was imagining, but still. Then she remembered what he said about Bess.

“Alone?” She asked, alarmed, “that place is probably haunted.”

“Woah, hold on. Pot. Kettle. Black.” Ace pointed out. “Also you promised not to get mad.”

It was her turn to look guilty then. “Hmm, touché,” she said. 

Something in her head didn’t quite add up so she asked, “but then why were you stealing a traffic cone?”

Ace just shrugged.

“Fine, keep your secrets. But we still need a lifeline out of here,” Nancy pointed out.

“It’s going to have to be George, isn’t it?” Ace said, resigned.

Nancy just looked at him, giving him her tight, grimace-like smile of sympathy. 

When George finally arrived to bail them out (Nick in tow) she stood waiting for them arms crossed and an angry expression on her face. Her foot was tapping the ground ominously. Ace had been right she was in one of her scary moods.

“Can you guys go one day without getting yourselves into trouble, I have a restaurant to run, you know? And a life to live outside your antics.”

Ace opted for silence and Nancy knew not to make some sarcastic comment about her mothering them. Especially after all the time George had spent here bailing out Victoria, her own mother. Nancy began to feel even more guilty. Also Nancy and Ace had both just been bailed out of jail after all, they didn’t really have much ground to stand on.

“I’ll call you first next time so you don’t have to put up two sets of bail,” Nancy tried to placate.

“Wait you two didn’t get arrested together?” Nick asked.

“Ace, did you not tell them I was here?” Nancy asked turning to him.

“Well, I…” Ace started. He finished that sentence with, “No.” He seemed to have found a spot on the floor particularly interesting.

“I got arrested and asked Ace to bail me out,” Nancy explained. “He told me he was on his way and then next I heard from him he had been arrested and was being locked up in there with me.”

“I thought I had it under control,” Ace added.

“Clearly,” Nancy said sarcastically.

“Okay that’s enough of that. You two owe me big time. That’s nine for you now Ace,” George said, her index finger poking into Ace’s chest. 

Ace’s mouth opened like a goldfish, and closed similarly. He just looked at George sheepishly, accepting his fate. 

“Okay,” Nick intervened, “we can talk about this later, why don’t we head back to The Claw for now?”

As they went to walk out Nancy whispered to Ace, “want to help me break into that house later? You know, not in broad daylight this time?”

“Thought you’d never ask,” Ace replied. Glancing ahead of him he quickly added, “just don’t tell George.”

[softluci]

hello yes can i just say i l o v e d your gen z hcs and may i acquire more

for starters, i am not religious, but i am PRAYING you don’t think i was ignoring your ask. i’ve been thinking about it since i got it, it’s just that i’m a college student with worms for brains, so hopefully you understand. this is something that i’ve had on my mind for a long time [i’ve been at this on and off for months], and it most definitely can be associated with/attributed to gen z. 

for a fleeting, wonderful period of time, there was a trend on tiktok that went, “buss it, buss it…” are you familiar? 

that should be enough of a summary, right? ah—for future reference, “o7” is like a saluting emote, for anyone who might not know. reader is g/n as usual, enjoy!

[a/n: so because this is so long, this part is going to be, like, the lore, and then the actual headcanons will be right here]

trendy 

the two things most corrosive to the human spirit are easily named—capitalism and boredom. while it would be easier and less taxing to explain the former, the latter was the problem at hand. it’s not that there was nothing to do in the devildom—quite the opposite, actually—it was just that you wanted some time to yourself every now and again. the trouble with trying to take time for yourself in a completely new location, the residents of which are always enamored with you in one way or another, is that there isn’t anything to do. the house was full of adventures for you to take—the trap door under the rug in the library, the other trap door under the dining room table, the small door behind the couch in the living room, and whatever other poorly hidden doors your seven roommates thought you didn’t know about. 

trouble was, you didn’t want to leave your room. you, intelligent creature that you are, knew that the chances of you running into mammon or satan or beel or asmo were all too high, and even higher were the chances of you agreeing to spend time with them if they asked, and you knew they would. what were you to do? 

you stared at your ceiling from your bed, d.d.d. resting on your stomach as you let your mind wander. your d.d.d. was full of things for you to do, the devildom’s ethernet at your fingertips, but you weren’t interested in finding new things right now. you wanted something familiar, like—like your phone. 

what was the point of lucifer taking your phone, anyway? it’s not like you could use it—being here rendered it a useless brick of glass and metal, so it wouldn’t have been a big deal if you still had it. it was funny, though, that you couldn’t use your actual phone when it was still possible to access the human internet from down here. 

at least, you assumed so. 

how else would levi be able to keep up with his human idols, get tickets for their shows—the works, you know? luckily, you were fully capable of asking. 

d.d.d. now in your hand, you rolled onto your stomach and found your messages with levi, nails clacking against the glass as you tried to reach him.

hey, you texted, can you help me with something?

his reply came faster than you expected: ?? what do you need 

how do i access human websites and apps, you asked, rolling onto your side. you know how to, right?

lololol, it’s not possible :p

a grunt, more aggravated than you’d care to admit, escaped from the back of your throat.

don’t lie. 

a few minutes passed with no response, and you wondered if you were too harsh. 

“he’s a sensitive guy,” you mumbled, inhaling deeply. “i probably came on too strong or something.” 

just as you started typing out an apology and a, “forget i ever said anything,” you got a response. 

a vpn and a proxy site. 

a smile crept onto your face as air came out of your nose, the closest thing to a laugh you could muster. 

can you set it up for me? 

after another few minutes of no response, you sit up, wondering how you could’ve possibly fucked up a second time, your d.d.d. buzzed. 

levi sent you a file and a link, with a host of instructions. 

click on the file and it’ll take you to the vpn you need to download. don’t worry about bugs or anything, i made it myself. 

you let out a low whistle, flopping onto your back once more. 

“this guy gets up to more than i thought,” you said, eyebrows raised. “someone get this man some physical affection.” 

you continued to read, growing more fond of him with each sentence.

once you install it, pick the country whose network you want access to. from there, you’ll have a list of that country’s most used applications available for you. again, don’t worry about bugs. 

what’s the link for? you asked, excitement getting the better of you. 

for when you download internet applications. it’s added security, paste the link in before you search anything or you’ll trigger the firewall alarm. 

you blinked. 

you’ll trigger the what? 

i’ll trigger the fucking What? 

levi’s response was the fastest one yet: the Fucking Firewall Alarm. barbatos’ design. he has no idea i know how to bypass it. just do what i said. don’t try to solve any potential issues on your own, come to me for everything.

roger that o7, you replied, thanks levi ^_^

yeah, yeah. come to my room for a hxh binge tomorrow night.

you snorted. what a fucking nerd—in the greatest way possible. 

of course bestie :] ily

ily2 normie -_- 

in his room, unbeknownst to you, levi felt like he made a mistake of some kind. it’s not that he didn’t trust you, it’s just that you had a tendency to end up in undesirable situations, even if it wasn’t always on purpose. he was probably just worried over nothing, or so he tried to tell himself, but whatever. this isn’t even about him.

you sat up once more, this time leaning against your pillows as you started setting everything up. everything went so quickly that you barely wondered if all of this—subverting hell’s firewall, personally designed by a man eerily similar to a 2D crush from when you were in middle school—was worth accessing a few silly apps from the human world. 

a few minutes later, your d.d.d. now a much, much cooler copy of your phone, any and all thoughts of regret and hesitation were absent from your mind. 

your first order of business on your upgraded d.d.d. was logging into your tiktok account, however surprising it was that you even remembered the password. you put your headphones in and adjusted your volume, going back into the dumpster fire that is your for-you page with open arms. 

after around half an hour of stifled laughter and small, offended gasps from being targeted by the algorithm, you came across a rare dancing video. the person on your screen was in casual clothes, making minor, silly dance movements as the music dwindled, only for them to drop into a squat in time with the music, suddenly dolled up. you shot forward, taken aback by their transformation and by their dancing post beat drop. did you watch it on a loop for a few minutes? well, that’s nobody’s business but yours. you clicked on the sound in hopes of finding similar videos, and much to your relief, there were plenty. about ten videos in, a smile still on your face, you got an idea. 

you slipped your headphones out, arbitrarily looking around your room, before whispering to yourself, “i could—i could do that. i could totally do that.” 

and you were right. you had nice clothes and makeup from various shopping occasions with asmo. your room had led strips, courtesy of levi ordering the wrong ones and being so kind as to give them to you. you could do it. 

levi was the only person you’d spoken to since you retreated to your room a few hours ago, and the lights have been off the entire time, which meant that if you worked quietly enough, everyone else had reason enough to assume you were asleep. good! how could you possibly explain what you were doing getting all dolled up at, like, 11:00 on a wednesday night? you couldn’t, even a little bit—not in a way that convinced anyone, anyway. 

come midnight, you were sitting cross legged on your bed, watching your final product. not to be vain or anything, but you were looking very respectfully at yourself. since when could you move like that, anyway? the wonders of being alone, you supposed. 

you didn’t post it publicly, electing to save it as a draft just so it would save to your d.d.d. maybe you’d post it once you were back in the human world, when your friends wouldn’t swarm your comments asking where the fuck you were. 

yeah, lucifer told you, “everything was taken care of,” but regardless of whether or not you believed him, you knew it wasn’t a good idea to risk finding out if he missed something. 

boredom creeping up on you again, you elected to go through the messages on your d.d.d. it would be better to make yourself laugh before you were fully bored again, right? you stood up and stretched, opening the group text with the adults. luke doesn’t know about it; he thinks the one with everyone is the main one, and everyone lets him think that so he feels included. 

walking around your room in small circles, you scrolled up to the older conversations and read through them, rolling your eyes and chuckling to yourself. very rarely did they talk about anything of importance. it was mostly diavolo, barbatos, and simeon making quips and jokes at lucifer’s expense for everyone to see. it was gold in its purest form. 

you contemplated sending one of the many cursed things sitting in your camera roll, just to keep them on their toes, but just after opening your gallery, you resigned not to, figuring it would be best to leave him alone. 

you stretched again, the hold on your d.d.d. a bit looser this time. it nearly slipped out of your hands, but you caught it, tossing it onto your bed. as soon as you resigned to start getting ready for bed, you turned back around and picked it up. 

there was no rhyme or reason to your actions; if someone in that moment were to ask you why you did it, you would’ve said, “just ‘cause.”

human intuition is a wonderful thing.

your d.d.d. was still on, still open to the group chat. you’d sent something, evidently a second ago, as indicated by the time stamp. the thumbnail was of you, in casual clothing—the casual clothing you were wearing before you got dolled up, actually. huh. 

huh. 

the weight of your mistake came crashing down on you in full force, a chill sinking into your skin and running up your spine.

you were suddenly acutely aware of the concept of time, how it was of the essence and you had absolutely none to waste.

what were you to do? it wouldn’t be long before your favorite person saw it. you had to do something. 

you could say nothing. you could tell the truth and say it was an accident and that you were embarrassed, but that was even worse than saying nothing because it meant you were set to be the target of teasing you didn’t even wanna try to imagine. you could say it was an accident and be confident about it, telling them, “enjoy!” but that was a dangerous game to play, and you knew it. 

well, i do admire you for taking time to think, but, unfortunately, there was a checkmark next to your message. oh, a number as well—eleven. you just can’t catch a break. what were they all doing up at this time, anyway? it was a school night🤨. 

[breynekai-tfc]

Threw all my stories into picker wheel, and it told me to write “Hunger”, so I said, “Okay, mysterious forces of the universe, I’ll write that first chapter.”  

Not even one page in, and I’ve made myself cry.  

That’s how you know it’s good.  👍

---------

Here’s some insights.  Welcome to the Parasite AU.   Let’s meet the Armageddon Worm.  

In this AU, Danny Fenton is living in Amity Park, which is one of the last civilizations on the planet.  About 20 years earlier, a parasite appeared.

This parasite is carried by animals but does not affect them in any way.  Mammals, birds, fish, reptiles, amphibians; there is nothing that does not become a carrier.  Soon, the entire ecosystem is infected, across the globe.  

Animals carry the parasite, but it thrives in humans.  It enters the human body when humans ingest meat.  The parasite is a nasty little guy, too; like the tardigrade, they can withstand extreme temperatures, radiation, vast amounts of pressure, and can go for ten years (or more) without food or water and still be able to bounce back and reproduce.  In the human body, they can utilize blood and energy to rapidly heal their hosts.  Really, the only way to kill a human infested with the parasite is to destroy the brain (thus rendering the nervous system useless) and then destroy the body by incineration at a high temperature.  Cutting out the parasite is ineffective, because it has infected the blood and will simply grow back.  Also, removing it from the nervous system is almost always fatal to the host. 

Once inside a human, it begins growing in their stomachs and hijacks their nervous system.  It eats and replaces the majority of their internal organs, leaving only the heart and lungs behind.  The host gains heightened senses and physical abilities and miraculous regenerative abilities, but they become ruled by hunger and lose most of their cognitive function.  

In the final stage of its development, the parasite processes the consumed organs, expands its size, attaches itself to the severed blood vessels, and finishes developing the iconic “devouring arm”.  The arm sits at the base of the throat, and during feeding/hunting, can extend from the host’s mouth and use its sharp masticators to cut food and the internal teeth to move it into the main body of the parasite.  There, the food is processed for energy, and anything the body can’t use is hacked up.  Very soon after ejecting the waste, high levels of ghrelin are produced, and the host is once again stimulated to hunt.

(Think Guillermo del Toro’s ���The Strain”, except they’re not vampires.)  

Anyhow, about 20 years ago, this parasite appeared.  It can infect humans through bites from one to another, contact with infected blood, or ingesting an infected animal; so for some time, people did not know where it was coming from.  Birds, insects, fish, and international shipping methods helped to infect the whole world within a few weeks.  Chaos and violence ensued, and even when people had no contact with the infected, cases continued.  

Scientists had conflicting reports of what carried the parasite.  Certain insects.  Rodents.  Birds.  Biologist Maddie Fenton, working with her husband Jack, made the connection.  They tested a number of species, and realized that ALL non-human animal species larger than houseflies were carriers.  

At this point, civilization had already broken down.  But they spread the word, and soon, strongholds were able to develop, including Amity Park, the stronghold of the Midwest.  It consists of two concentric structures; the center is a bubble-city, with artificial atmosphere, weather, and farming techniques.  Anyone who goes in is sterilized before entry, so that they can’t bring insects inside.  The second layer is a mile-thick area of suburban ruin, which has been cleared of Eaters.  It is surrounded by a wall, for defense.  If there is a breach, the hope is that this inner region will allow a barrier against the main city, a safe zone to hunt the Biters while the wall is repaired.  This ruin is called the Outskirts of Amity Park.   

Jack and Maddie Fenton developed the city’s defenses, while Damon Gray leads the community in food production for a safe and vegan lifestyle.  The Fentons continue to produce weapons against the infected and are trying to find a way to eradicate the parasite from the ecosystem.  So far, 20 years have passed, and they have made little progress.

Enter Danny, Sam, and Tucker.  Despite the world having gone to hell in a handbasket, they are teenagers who are going to school.  While some of their lessons are traditional, many involve science and technology, and P.E. supplements a soldier training period for those who wish to battle against the Biters on the outside.  They train in high school, run missions outside the wall for one year, guard the wall for one year, patrol the Outskirts for one year, and those who are still alive move to the inner city to become guards there or decide where to be stationed as a general.  (I imagine Jazz training to be a psychiatrist for PTSD sufferers.)  A certain number of people have to apply for the program when they enter high school.  If they don’t, there is a mandatory draft.    

Danny lives under the shadow of his parents’ great success and subsequent frustrations.  He feels like he should doing something useful to help the town, but he’s a bit of a dreamer instead.  He is really interested in the world from before he was born and spends much of his time looking into it.  Researching at the library – watching old news reports and movies – exploring ruins in the inner-wall region.  He thinks it’s amazing that people once went to outer space.  Now, they’ll never leave Amity Park.  

Tucker and Sam are his friends, of course.  Tucker is really interested in technology and is training to enter the weapons and communication development field.  Sam is into plant sciences and wants to enter the field of food science.  Danny – well, he honestly doesn’t know.  He figured he would train to be a soldier, but then his parents forbid it.  No big loss there – he isn’t the most physically adept person.  But, he doesn’t seem to have a calling, besides history.  Mr. Lancer thinks he should be a teacher. 

But of course, he wouldn’t be Danny Fenton if he didn’t somehow lose his humanity.  

🙈 

That’s as much as I’ll share for the premise without getting into any important spoilers.  Inspiration for this au from:  The Strain, Attack on Titan, Ao no Exorcist, D.Gray Man, and a fanfic I was writing for Heinlein’s The Puppet Masters back in college.  

[igotbulletproof-insomnia]

Adopting Bangtan 08

01 previous

Supermarket Sweep

You were never going grocery shopping with seven kids ever again in your life.

The chaos. The absolute chaos was something that you somehow never expected. You actually thought that shopping with all seven kids would be the most efficient way to accomplish the task. Sit Kookie in the cart and let him “help” you by picking out the area to shop and hold the bags while you pick the vegetables. Send Yoongi and Namjoon to buy the snacks because they were the most sensible of all of the children and wouldn't have you spending way more money than necessary. Let Taehyung and Jimin retrieve the bread and the milk. Let Seokjin pick the meat because he was surprisingly talented at the job. And then everyone was supposed to meet you back at the shopping cart, still located in produce, so that you could pay and you all could go home. It should have taken thirty minutes, tops.

Instead, you found yourself chasing Taehyung around the store while Jimin kept an eye on Jungkook and you really, really hoped that he didn’t grab the most expensive apples on display, but you have the feeling that he would — because of course, he would. Prices didn’t seem to exist to any of the younger kids.

Instead, Jin was throwing a fit because all of the meats on display were apparently complete rubbish and he refused to let you spend money on anything but the most expensive cuts of beef so you “just have to” make another stop at the actual butcher’s shop. Granted, if Jimin spent all of your money on asparagus, your family would be eating vegetarian this week.

Instead, as soon as you managed to grab Taehyung, who apparently just wanted to replace Jungkook as your shopping partner, Namjoon appeared with a reasonable request for more variety in tea for the house. Which opened up a whole new can of worms as Taehyung realized he can ask for things too. This had him running back to Jimin and the shopping cart with a grin on his face, demanding that they find the snack aisle because you were going to buy them extra snacks if they asked, and Jimin’s face lit up with a smile so bright that dammit, it was going to be hard to explain what a budget was and why it wasn’t a good idea to exceed it.

(and yeah, you checked. Jimin grabbed the most expensive radish and lettuce he could find, and you were going to have to break out the vegetarian cookbook.)

(except for the bananas. It seemed Jungkook picked up the bananas)

Thankfully, Yoongi — lovely, beautiful, blessed Yoongi — had been returning to the shopping cart with his arms full of a variety of snacks, all low in price but high in popularity at home. He took one look at the chaos of whining and fussing children, rolled his eyes heavenwards, and took control.

“You get one.”

His tone left no room for argument; even you stood straight and stopped making a scene. Yoongi led the group back to the snack aisle and replaced everything he picked and let the others run wild. Together, you watched the others pick out snacks and place them, one by one, into the shopping cart.

“... They’re going to blow the snack budget like this,” you commented idly.

“I know.”

“That’s why you put the rest back, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And these snacks aren’t going to last as long as they usually do, will they?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank goodness you’re so smart,” you ruffled his hair. “This is why I keep you around.”

“You keep me around because you don’t want me living by myself and I save you from going broke.” Yoongi’s tone was as matter of fact as ever and you couldn’t help but grin.

“Like I said, smart kid.”

Yoongi grinned back. You liked the fact that these kids didn’t take you too seriously. You had a good balance of deference, respect, and playfulness with all of them, even if you weren’t sure who actually ran the household most of the time. “Go pick you something, Yoon. You don’t have anything for yourself.”

“You can’t afford what I want.”

“I probably can’t afford what anyone wants, they aren’t paying attention to the prices.” And indeed, Taehyung and Jimin, your babies with the most expensive tastes, were debating the merits of two snacks that were way outside of the price range you would normally consider. But again, Jimin’s smile was so broad that you were reluctant to tell him no and watch that fearful, nervous look fall back into place. You would talk to him about budgets and restrictions another time. “I’ll make it work, don’t worry about it right now.”

With a grateful smile, Yoongi asked you to grab the snack he wanted, placed just out of his reach on a top shelf. It wasn’t priced too far out of budget, but it was different from the things he normally selected for your busy household of eight. You made a mental note to pay attention to how much Yoongi enjoyed the snack and check the stores for similar ones. The kid did so much and asked for so little, it would be nice to do this one thing for him.

“Wait a moment…” you frowned, counting off. “Where’s Hoseok?” Immediately all of the children quieted down, looking to each other as if to confirm that yes, someone was missing.

“Wasn’t he supposed to go with Jin-hyung?” asked Namjoon.

“No, I thought he was keeping Jimin and Taetae company?”

“Oh my God, you lost Hoseok.” That accusing tone came from Taehyung, and you watched Jimin’s face go from lightweight confused to completely devastated. You hated it, had suspicion that he was wondering if you would eventually do the same thing to him, if you would get bored or disappointed or angry and cast him off, lose him in a store or at a park like Hoseok explained happened to him, like all of Jimin’s previous parents did to him.

“Okay, boys,” you shouted, uncaring of the stares you attracted. The boys startled, but gave you their full attention, which was one hundred percent more than you’d had the entire grocery trip. You continued to speak firmly, and could tell the show of authority did more to calm their panic than the shouting. You decided that they needed to focus on something other than their lost brother. “This is what we’re going to do: Namjoon, you’re going to take Taetae and Jimin and get the bread, milk, and all the dairy stuff like I told you before, okay? Add eggs to that list. Yoongi, go get the paper products. Get the brands we used to get, not the ones we used last time, they’re cheaper and sturdier. Seokjin, we’ll go to the butcher’s if we have the budget when we finish here, but I promised we could have meat for dinner, so take Kookie and find something, okay?” All of the boys nodded at their assignment. “Good. Yoongi, Joonie, find Jin when you’ve got your things. Seokjin, when you’ve finished, wait for me in produce. You all understand? I’m going to go find Hoseok. He probably got distracted and can’t find us.” Hoseok had a habit of doing that. He often got lost among the chaos, because while everyone was being loud and boisterous, Hoseok was often quiet and did the things that went unnoticed. If you assigned dairy, meat, and snacks, then Hoseok probably went off to grab paper towels or rice or something you needed at home but forgot about. You wouldn’t be surprised if he came to the store with the list Yoongi and Jin never felt the need to write.

So the kids separated, worried and mumbling to each other, but occupied with their tasks. They were trusting in your ability, in your promise to locate their missing brother before you all went home. Whether these kids were abandoned by their parents (or maybe ran away from home, Seokjin never discussed why he chose to stay with his former teacher) , you found them and chose to take care of them. It was understandable that they would be worried. Up until now you had probably seemed like some sort of savior to them. Maybe not infallible, and definitely not… whatever it was that made other adults seem parental, but you had taken care of them, kept track of them, and protected them. Losing one of them had probably shaken their hearts.

It didn’t take long before you Hoseok as you predicted, standing in the frozen section, a piece of paper and pen in his hands. He bit his tongue as he read through it, humming to himself and ticking off items. A hand basket sat at his feet, overfilled with supplies.

“I’m pretty sure you should have an actual shopping cart for that,” you told him. Hoseok startled, jumping nearly a foot in the air and shouting in surprise. The petty, upset parent part of you feels satisfied for it, like Hoseok got what he deserved for scaring you the way he did. The more rational part of your brain is just glad that you were right and he hadn’t been kidnapped. Casually, you looked over the basket. “I didn’t even think about checking the spice cabinet. You’re a clever kid.”

“I just wanted to be helpful,” Hoseok replied with a shrug.

“It would have been helpful if you told me where you were going.”

“... I didn’t do that?” Hoseok’s eyes went big and wandered left and right. He seemed to be making himself smaller, pulling his arms close and leaning away from you.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I… oh.”

“We got very scared,” you explained. “We thought you got lost. The other boys were panicking.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you, I just… everyone else got an assignment and I didn’t, so…”

“So you thought I wouldn’t notice if you disappeared for a bit.” You nodded and ignored Hoseok’s flinch when you crouched down to his level. He wasn’t terribly short, he was actually almost as tall as your shoulder, but it was always easier to have these sorts of talks when you weren’t looming over him. “It’s okay, I’m not mad about you shopping on your own. I’m actually really glad that you took initiative to do something helpful. But you did scare me. I didn’t know what happened to you. I didn’t know if you got lost or ran away or if someone stole you from me. I’m glad I know you well enough to assume you brought your own list, but I was still afraid of being wrong. I really, really don’t know what I would do if you went missing, Hoseok. I haven’t had you for long, but my heart would hurt. I care about you that much, okay? So please, communicate. Tell me when you’re going to wander away, and tell me where you’re going so that I know you are safe.” Hoseok nodded fervently, most likely an effort to convince you he was sincere and wouldn’t disappear on you again. You opened your arms for a hug, You opened your arms for a hug, partially to comfort yourself, but mostly to soothe Hoseok. He looked like he might burst into tears and needed the comfort.

“Okay, good.” You squeezed the kid tight, your hold unrelenting until you felt the kid push away. “Alright, let me see that list of yours.” Together, you and Hoseok went through his list, and you were amazed that he was so thorough. Apparently the kid started taking stock as soon as you mentioned the intent to go to the grocery store earlier in the week. Hoseok noticed that you had a habit of leaving something out and he thought that making a list would be helpful. When you decided that you were going to take all of the kids with you, he decided to just hold on to the list himself.

“From now on, you’re making grocery lists,” you decided as you made your way back to Jin. “Maybe even all of the lists if you’re this organized. What do you think of that?”

Hoseok grinned, obviously proud of himself. “I think that sounds awesome!” He cheered. “Is this like how Yoongi gets to be in charge of the budget and Jin is in charge of the kitchen and Joonie is in charge of all of us?”

“Kind of yes, something like that,” you said. “Because obviously I’ll lose my head otherwise.”

“I’m sure we’ll keep track of your head too if you want.”

“Ah, why are all of my kids so snarky? I don’t deserve this,” you cried, hugging Hoseok more tightly to your waist. “All I do is give them love and a home, and they pay me back in sass.”

“But you love us, right?” Hoseok asked. His voice was a little softer than before, and you saw it for the genuine question that it was, not the joke that it would have been had it come from Jin, Joon, or Yoon.

“Of course,” you told him. “Don’t you doubt that for a second.”

When you went searching for the rest of the kids, you found them standing by Jin with the shopping cart, all lined up on the side of the aisle and eerily quiet. Even Jungkook in the shopping cart was holding his hands in his lap, eyes down cast.

“Do I want to know what happened here?”

“No,” was the resounding answer.

“Okay, good.” You shake off your curiosity. Whether that was because you trusted Seokjin or because you were afraid of the answer, you were undecided. “Hoseok, do you want to delegate tasks? We have a few more things on your list, right?” Hoseok noded, and set about sending his brothers off in pairs to retrieve the remaining items on his checklist. After the two sets had wandered off, Hoseok looked up again.

“Could you…?”

“Seokjinnie, you good by yourself?”

“I’ll have Kookie with me, it will be great.” Jin shrugged and you rolled your eyes.

“We’ll still meet over in produce when you’re finished, okay?”

Jin huffed his frustration at the meat selection. “I think we’re just having fish tonight. Is that fine with you?”

“If it’s okay with your brothers, it’s okay with me.”

“They’ll be fine with it,” Seokjin declared. His tone said he was still very irritated with whatever happened while you were gone.

“Get some cheaper produce when you’re finished, please.”

“Sure thing,” Seokjin agreed absently, wandering further up the aisle.

“Holler if you need me,”

“I will.”

“Just don’t scare everyone when you do.”

“Now you’re just taking away my fun.”

After all of that, you spent another fifteen minutes in the store. The trip to the butcher’s shop was put off for the following night, and you all made the unanimous decision to eat ramen and kimchi for dinner. You were also very loud about never bringing seven kids grocery shopping ever again.

That was, until two weeks later when Jimin’s adorable pout convinced you that they would be on their absolute bestest behavior (spoiler alert: they weren’t).

To find more of my child-bangtan fics, select the "Collecting Strays" tag at the bottom of this page ^_^

[quentineliot]

Country music. Everybody's favorite. Right? ;P

I grew up in the Southern US. "The South" people from the area would more affectionately call it. I've moved, and done a lot to separate myself from not only the so called culture there, but also it's music.

And I LOVE music. Sang in the car to every song that came on the radio from the age I could make sound, to 21. My mom always tells this story about how I would cry as a baby unless Vince Gill was playing on cassette.

It's been around 7 years since I've turned on a country radio station. But because I grew up on the music (and classic rock like zztop) occasionally a country ear worm will stop by. And being a fully realized transman, it makes sense looking back at the lyrics of many of these songs, why I didn't notice sooner. And why telling my parents was incredibly terrifying.

Not EVERY song uses the "sweet girl with an overprotective dad that just a good ol boy wants to marry and raise a family with" formula. But it's a Lot of them. And if it's not a song about a guy just wanted to settle down with a pretty girl who can cook a good meal, it's about jealousy. And how (typically) women act in these songs is sung at the top of your lungs, about how she'll fuck up his car, steal his dog, or murder him and his mistress.

Miranda Lambert has a song about burning everything down and lighting it on fire. Which, is honestly a mood. But having been In The South, people don't think it's hyperbolic. There are a LOT of people that, if they were willing to bring Dixie Chicks back into their hearts, would be doing some Goodbye Earl's of their own. (Though, this song is a better example of justice taken, and of all the references so far, I think I'm most comfortable with this one.)

Take a look at these lyrics from Shania Twain's "Any Man of Mine"

"Any man of mine better be proud of me

Even when I'm ugly, he still better love me

And I can be late for a date that's fine

But he better be on time"

Okay so I'm with you on the first two lines. Great start. But you're saying you don't want your man to be late but You* can be late. Double standard and not okay. This was music I absorbed as like, idk, a 6 years old? I'd need math and Google and I don't feel like it. Moving on.

"Any man of mine'll say it fits just right

When last year's dress is just a little too tight

And anything I do or say better be okay

When I have a bad hair day"

First two lines, personal preference I suppose. I'd rather be told if I don't look good and change my clothes. Not everyone is me, a lot of people would much rather get "yes baby you look amazing!" always. Top two lines, good.

But ANYTHING YOU DO OR SAY BETTER BE OKAY WHEN YOU HAVE A BAD HAIR DAY?!!! Excuse me???!!! Absolutely not.

-------

I mentioned Carrie Underwood's Before He Cheats earlier. All you really need is the chorus. I don't need Google for this one.

And I dug my key in to the side of his pretty little suped up four wheel drive

Carved my name into his leather seats

I took a Louisville slugger to both headlights

Slashed a hole in all four tires

Maybe next time he'll think before he cheats

TLDR: he cheated on me so I destroyed his car. And while this song was a fucking Anthem when it came out, any woman who exhibited even slightly agressive behavior was Shut the fuck Down. Make it make sense. The song is about criminal activity so, clearly, anyone who does this should be charged. So why wouldn't people let women and girls show anger in a productive way?

Trisha Yearwoods "She's in Love with the Boy"

Is literally just romanticizing getting married at 16 or 18 or to your first love.

Faith Hill's "This Kiss" gets a pass but only because of "Cinderella said to Snow White, how does love get so off course?" And I thought they were in love with each other 😂

I can't even begin to unpack Fancy by Reba McEntire. And Reba is legendary, she's been making music since before I was born and I love her. It's just, that song.. Eugh. Yikes.

I've been trying to find other songs that absolutely put "go find a nice boy and have babies" into my brain at an early age, and I stumbled on George Strait and I know a few of his songs by heart. Oceanfront Property. All my exes live in Texas. Check yes or no. Amarillo by morning. I can't find anything wrong with any of his music. So it CAN be done.

I'm just salty about the amount of redneck inspiration porn I was made to sing as a child. (my mother made me sing at parties. I preferred singing alone) No other genre of music does this. Rock music isn't over here all "look pretty, shut up, and find a good husband" 🤨

I feel I should mention that there have been recent songs that defy this formula. ",This ain't my momma's broken heart" by Miranda Lambert. Taylor Swift has a unique writing style so I'm sure she's written SOMEthing that's not just trucks beer women muddin or whatever else today country is about? There's a couple about whiskey I think. It's always whiskey or beer..

Country music is like all about family, or something sad and mourning that loss. Heaven, angels, wings, gods watching over you, memaw is watching over you, you're not alone I'm there with you even tho I'm on a truck 100 miles away, think of me when you hear the wind blow kiddo🙃

Finally, to be clear, I don't hate any of the songs Ive referenced or pulled lyrics from. They were my entire childhood. Lonestar was my shit, I choreographed a dance to Shania Twain's "Man I feel like a woman" and did it in front of an auditorium of people, I still know every word of Suds in the bucket by Sara Evans and anything Martina McBride I've sung hundreds of times. It's beautiful music. But dang does country music and the south know how to brainwash people. It's scary.

[jackyjango]

Perfection!

Cherik Week- Day 7: Free

Written for this glorious gifset! :D

I wanted to end this with a happy (and crack) fic, because they deserve to be happy ever after!

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If Erik were a poet, he would have written elaborate odes to Charles’ plush arse. Lines and lines of flowing poetry dedicated to the softness of the skin and the firmness of the flesh- the way the tender skin dimples sweetly under Erik’s possessive fingers. If Erik were an artist, he’d fill canvases with the round contours of Charles’ --glorious, might he add-- half globes and his thick, meaty thighs. He’d capture the rosy tint that rises to the skin under the press of Erik’s palm with masterful brush strokes and immortalise the constellation of freckles that dot his skin beautifully. If Erik were so spiritually inclined, he’d build an altar to the sweet flesh, kneel in front of it and apply his tongue to worship. But Erik, fortunately or unfortunately, is none of those things, so all he can do now is simply ogle the marvelous in front of him- Charles’ round ass and thick thighs, and the way it fills his jeans. The fact that it wiggles in the air now and then from where Charles is bent over to search something behind the mantle is only spurring on his endeavour. So he stares some more, mouth agape and throat dry, and marvels to himself, ‘Perfection!’

‘What was that?’ Charles asks, turning sideways towards Erik.

Erik doesn’t find the need or mood to answer that question, so he goes back to ogling his boyfriend’s arse.

Charles turns to him after a minute or two of searching. He’s panting, hair beautifully tousled, cheeks deeply coloured and eyes twinkling bright in the golden candlelight. For a moment Erik’s breath catches. Now, Erik’s not a poet, but if were-

‘I couldn’t find any more candles,’ Charles says, cutting Erik’s musings short. ‘What about the generator, were you able to fix it?’

‘No,’ Erik shrugs. ‘The battery inside the generator has corroded and the plastic coating has melted into the canisters. It’ll take me at least a day to repair it.’

‘Okay.’ Charles drawls, no doubt weighing in their options. ‘How far is the nearest town? Maybe we could get some help.’

Erik had already considered that option. The nearest town is a three-hour trek downhill. A three-hour trek which is a waste of time and energy. Time and energy which can be spent in more… productive endeavours. 

Charles overhears that thought. ‘What are our other options here, Erik?’ He asks, sighing heavily, ‘The wires are out, so is the generator, and we can’t even get help.’ He looks around the small space of the cabin that is lighted in patches by the three candles they were able to unearth earlier. The candles will last them till daybreak at best. ‘Did you have a plan for the evening?’ Charles asks hesitantly.

‘Plan?’

‘Yes,’ Charles says slowly now, his eyes widening with every word. ‘I thought this was meant to be a surprise for me, so I didn’t pry earlier. But I thought you had a plan for the evening.’

Why would Erik have a plan for the evening when the whole point was to have no plans at all? 

The last three weeks had been extremely difficult for all of them, between the mid-terms and the festivities and the birthday celebrations, both of them had been extremely busy-- Charles with teaching and grading, and Erik, well, with… everything else. Erik hadn’t been able to hold a proper conversation with Charles without one of the brats dragging Charles away. Erik hadn’t been able to take a quiet smoke break without one of the younger ones pulling on his trouser legs. It had been tolerable in the beginning, adorable even, but it had begun to lose its charm sometime during the second week. And Erik was sure to go ballistic by the end of the third. All he wanted was to get away for a day or two from the brats, have a quiet night away from the kids and the mayhem of the mansion. He’d all but kissed Raven when she’d mentioned a cabin upstate that could be rented this time of the year. Of course, he’d expected the said cabin to have a working electrical system and dry logs resting in the fireplace, but that isn’t a huge setback as far as Erik is considered. He’s lived worse.

Of course Charles overhears that thought. His jaw drops and his eyes go wide as saucers. ‘You made me trek three hours and brought me here just so you could get away from the kids?’

Erik doesn’t see what’s wrong with that. 

Charles is all but glaring him down now, his sharp, blue eyes throwing daggers at Erik. Erik should be intimidated by the look, but Charles’ overall appearance doesn’t support him all that much. He’s panting lightly with pinked cheeks and hair sticking out in places. If anything, he looks extremely adorable. Now, Erik’s not an artist, but if he were-

‘I thought you brought me here to celebrate our anniversary,’ Charles says finally, glaring intensified.

‘Anniversary?’ Erik asks dumbly. ‘What anniversary?’

Apparently, it’s the wrong thing to ask, because Charles is practically seething now. ‘Our third year anniversary. Since when we began dating.’

‘Oh, has it been three years already?’ Erik asks, and it only serves in adding fuel to the fire. 

In Erik’s defense, though, the period between the time they met, and they settled into a relationship is all very hazy. Erik doesn’t know exactly when he’d been charmed by Charles to call him his friend, he doesn’t know exactly when Charles had wormed his way into Erik’s heart, he doesn’t know exactly when the school they’d started with a few students began to feel like family, and he doesn’t know exactly when he’d begun falling in love with Charles. Though Charles terms them as thus, all those chess matches played every night for months on end and taking private dinners away from the congregation of the students hadn’t felt like ‘dates’ to Erik. Partly because he didn’t know or have experience with dating and partly because he’d had no clue what love felt like before Charles. Besides, he’d no idea whether or how they’d celebrated the first two-year anniversaries.

Of course, Charles overhears his thought, for his anger abates slowly. ‘Oh, what do I do with you, Erik?’ he asks, tone exasperated and fond; like he does when one of his younger students refuses to eat their greens.

‘Marry me.’ Erik shrugs casually. ‘Simple.’

Charles gapes at him like a fish while his mental fingers rummages through Erik’s brain for signs of a joke or a prank. But Erik isn’t joking or pranking. Granted that he was slow to realise that he loved Charles, but there was no doubt in his mind that he’d marry anyone else once he did. He’d end up marrying Charles one way or another. So it doesn’t really matter when or how that happens. Does it?

And of course, Charles hears all of it.

‘We don’t even have a ring,’ Charles says at last, a little lost.

No. Erik doesn’t. He could always fashion a ring out of one of the nails holding the wood planks in place, but Erik doesn’t want to make a ring out of rusted and cheap metal. Charles deserves only the best. 

‘No,’ Erik agrees. ‘We don’t. But we do have this.’ He removes the silver chain that permanently resides in the pocket of his trousers and moves towards Charles, cupping the chain and the locket in his palm. Each curve of the locket bears a black and white photo of his father and Mother. Erik falls to one knee in front of Charles and holds out the chain in one hand. If Erik were a poet, he’d write elaborate love poems describing his love and affection for Charles, but he isn’t. So he simply says, ‘I promise to make you tea just the way you like it and give you scalp massages every day for the rest of our lives.’

‘Yes, you idiot. I’ll marry you,’ Charles chokes out and throws himself into Erik’s arms.

Later when they’ve dragged in all the ragged cushions and rugs from all parts of the cabin and made love in a warm nest (and after Erik worships Charles’ and his arse with all the reverence he deserves) surrounded by three grand candles that Erik asks Charles, ‘This is not so bad as anniversaries go, is it?��

‘No, my love’ Charles says, gazing adoringly at the silver locket on his chest and looks up at Erik. ‘It’s perfect!’ he says, kissing Erik sweetly on the lips.

-

[marvelousimagines]

I Wish I Never

Lena Luthor x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3,003

Summary:

Warnings: Angst

Note: I hope this is what you were looking for.

You close your eyes against the incessant pounding of your head. Trying to abate the oncoming migraine before it began. You know that you should just call her but you couldn’t bring yourself to. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel that heart break again. Even if it meant that you would feel better in the long run. You know that you should at least talk to someone, but every time you tried you retreated back into yourself. 

No one would be able to understand what happened. Not without someone being the bad guy and you refused to have her be the villain in this. Not when she was the villain in so many other narratives already. 

Though that didn’t stop your heart from breaking every time you remembered the green of her eyes. The almost childlike innocence that had appeared in those emerald orbs when you offered for her to spend the night. You had been working on a new proposal for her company and hadn’t even noticed the hours slip by; until it was almost midnight. She had been adamant that it was okay and that she could just call her driver, but you had refused. You didn’t want her going out at night when she was clearly tired, but you know that she would never care about her own personal welfare. So you had gone with the driver’s. 

You remember the moment she caved because she didn’t want to make the man get out of bed so late. 

You still remember the triumph that you had felt worm its way into your chest at the sight. 

You only wish that feeling could have lasted. 

I know that I'm better off on my own

I wish I never let you sleep in my room

Been thinking 'bout a way that I could take back

The night I lost myself in you

You know that your guest bedroom’s bed wasn’t the most comfortable so you had offered her yours. Knowing just how much she had worked that day, and not wanting her to sleep on something that could keep her up all night. She had refused, of course, because she was Lena Luthor, and she wouldn’t be a Luthor if she wasn’t stubborn. (Really the only thing that she had in common with that namesake.) 

You had made a compromise instead. You would share the bed, which shouldn’t be that awkward because she was one of your best friends even if she was your boss. So, slipping underneath the covers, you turned off the lights and got ready to fall asleep. Very much aware of the warm body that was laying next to you. The warm puffs of air that were hitting the side of your neck, because Lena had shifted closer to you. Wanting to conserve body heat in the middle of National City’s winter. 

You wish that it didn’t affect you that way that it had. Maybe none of this would have happened if it hadn’t.

You know that everytime I hear your name I replay

Your fingertips against my frame and lose faith

Been praying for a way that I could feel saved

But I'll never get over you

Wish that I had never let you love me although you said you never did

Closing your eyes you try to forget the feeling of Lena’s hands on your body. You try to forget the feeling of her lips working their way down. You try to forget the love and warmth you had felt in her embrace. 

You try to forget the pain that followed in the morning. Even though you know it was impossible because one does not simply forget Lena Luthor. You know that you will always remember the sight of her retreating into herself. Her walls coming back up and scathing words leaving her lips. 

“It was a fun time and that was it. Why do you have to make it so complicated? We shared a bed and a few good hours together, nothing more. All right?”

You remember the numbness that had spread through your body at those words. Only allowing yourself to nod before retreating back into your room. Closing the door and ignoring the sight of the normally neat and orderly bed in a state of disarray. Because, if it meant nothing to her why should it mean anything to you?

The answer to that question was simple. It meant everything to you because you love her.

I wish you would've slept in the guest room

'Cause maybe I'd still feel alive without you

I'm pretty sure that all of this was my fault

I'm the one who kissed you first and took my clothes off

You know how to make me feel all alone

Ever since that day you had done your best to avoid her. Desperately wanting things to return to the way they were, but you know that they never would. There was nothing you could that would change what happened. Not that you would change anything in the first place. Because, at least, you got Lena in some way, and even though you weren’t able to keep her you were still able to have her.  

Which probably made everything worse in the long run, because you just couldn’t let her go. No matter how much your brain pleaded with your heart. It was like a dog with its favorite toy, refusing to give it up for even a moment. With each beat of your it you’re constantly reminded of what you gained that night.

And everything that you lost. 

Pressing your head against the pane of glass in front of you, you try to ignore everything. Your brow crinkling with the effort of the act, but you know it would be for naught. Everything reminded you of her. Your apartment was riddled with the memories of her. The phantom of her presence haunting every inch of the place. 

And it’s not like I can go outside to forget all my troubles either, you think bitterly as you stare out across the expanse of National City. She’s tainted everything.

Every safe place that you used to have would remind you of her presence, and the subsequent heartbreak she had thrust upon you. You were truly all alone in a city of millions. A feat that only Lena Luthor could have ever accomplished. 

But when I'm underneath your teeth it feels just like home

You said that we shouldn't make love and just fucking

Find another way to heal

You know you drain me of myself 'til I can't see straight

Been thinking 'bout your body in the worst way

Wish that I could remove you from my veins

'Cause I'm sick of feeling so betrayed

You know that the healthy thing to do would be to forget about her. To stop moping about your apartment and actually do something productive, but every time you tried something withered in you even more. It was like your body didn’t want to get rid of Lena and the memories you shared. 

Every time you started to move on your mind started replaying memories of past events. When you were about to throw away the coffee maker Lena had given you. Your brain provided you the image of her large smile as she presented it to you. Her emerald green eyes shining with excitement that she was able to get something for you. The first of many gifts that now littered your apartment, and only served to worsen your heart ache. 

When you were about to take down the many pictures that hung on your walls. Your brain reminded you of the happy moments that had happened to create such beautiful images. The happy memory of the picnic you both had shared in the park. Lena wrapping herself in her coat trying not to show you how cold she actually was. The short laugh you had given as you pulled her into your side. Your words were filled with genuine exasperation and affection. “You Luthor’s truly are stubborn aren’t you?” The glare Lena had sent towards, no heat actually behind it, and feeling of warmth you had felt when she only snuggled further into your side.

Yes, your mind liked to play tricks with you. One moment it was trying to convince you to get rid of Lena, and everything that you had shared, but the next, when you were actually doing, it desperately clung on to her memory. Maybe it wasn’t ready to give her up either. Wasn’t able to give up the memories that you both had made, and the happiness that had always been a constant.  Just like your heart wasn’t willing to give up the love you had started to feel for her. Love that was never given the chance to grow. 

Sighing, you drop your head into your hands. Rubbing your temples in agitation at your inaction. It was driving you mad that you couldn’t do anything. You couldn’t go outside because everything reminded you of Lena. You couldn’t go into your bedroom for longer than a few minutes because that reminded you of Lena. You couldn’t sit still in your apartment because everything within it reminded you of Lena. No matter how hard you tried nothing you could ever do would make you forget her.

Lena Luthor was in your veins and there was nothing you could do to get her out. Every time your heartbeat it was with the song of her laugh. Causing your entire body to thrum with life, because Lena was everything you could ever want. 

It wasn’t a surprise that she didn’t want you in return. 

And I thought I'd mean something to you

More than skin to put your skin on

And I thought I'd mean something to you

Hearing a sudden rapping on your day causes your body to stiffen. Your eyes staring at the door with something akin to suspicion. You were half convinced it was either Kara or Alex coming to check on you, but you quickly rule them out. Kara would have announced her presence all ready, and Alex would have just waltzed in like she owned the place. Then who could it be? 

You don’t think any of your other friends would have noticed your sudden lack in social interaction. After all you had done it countless times before when you were working on a project. The only exceptions being the Danver sisters, because they were freakishly perceptive when they wanted to be. 

Another set of knocking rouses you from your thoughts and, not wanting to keep whoever’s on the other side waiting, you stand. Making your way to the door you try to think of anyone it could possibly be. Maybe Winn? 

However, when you open the door your eyes widen at the person you see. Your back stiffening and your arm tensing on the doorknob. Lena Luthor in all of her glory stood before you. Out of its usual updo her hair spills across her shoulders. The raven locks shining underneath the hallway lights of your building. Though none of that truly surprises you, not even the fact that Lena was in casual wear. Having become fairly familiarized with her in such attire. 

What does surprise you, and causes you to pause, were her eyes. Eyes that you could let yourself drown in if you were allowed to. Eyes that were normally so stoic with a hint of adoration and mischief, were now completely open. All of the emotions that would have previously been hidden were laid bare for you to see. In a beautiful display of heat break and agony, all standing out against the green of her eyes. The beautiful emerald color standing out against the red rim surrounding them. 

Finally, after a moment, you clear your throat to speak. “Lena? What are you doing here?” You don’t mean for your tone to come out harsh, but it does, and you wince slightly at it. Though it had no comparison when in regards to Lena’s reaction. You don’t think you’ve ever seen Lena Luthor look so defeated before. 

“I know I’m probably the last person you want to see,” a short scoff interrupts her words. Her eyes flashing with annoyance, but you know that it wasn’t directed at you. “No. I know I’m the last person you want to see, but you’re the first for me. And I need to apologize to you. I need to make things right between us.”

Shifting slightly you aren’t sure exactly what to do. You know what your heart wanted you to do, but it wasn’t that simple. You couldn’t just bring Lena into your arms and forgive her. She had hurt you more than anyone ever has, but that also doesn’t mean you would leave her out on your threshold. So you square your shoulders and step to the side, permeating the CEO entrance. 

You watch silently as Lena moves through your apartment. The door closes softly behind her, but you stay next to it. Keeping the distance between the both of you. You know that if you get any closer you’ll fold faster than Kara does when you’re playing poker. 

Lena, noticing the distance between your bodies, moves closer to you. Not stopping until she’s standing in front of you. Until she’s practically touching you, and you have to fight every urge in your body from reaching for her hand. 

“What do you have to say, Lena?” you ask, trying to keep your voice unaffected. She didn’t need to know how much power she still held over you. Her being this close was already painful enough. 

“Oh, darling, I have so much to say but I will never be able to say it all in this lifetime,” she responds, a brief smile flashing across her face. Before her face becomes serious again, and you automatically miss the smile. It had been so long since you had seen it. “But one of the most important things I have to tell you is how sorry I am. The way I treated you after our night together is inexcusable, and I don’t think I will ever forgive myself for it. I have never felt more like a villain than when you turned away from me. I have never felt more like a Luthor than when I let you walk away from me. I pushed you away because I thought that was best. I thought you would be better without me, because of my name and everything that it brings. But I forgot one innate thing that every Luthor shares.” There Lena pauses to catch her breath. Her eyes search your face as she does, but you can’t do anything but stare. Trying to process her words as best as you can. Taking your silence as your confirmation that you were still listening she begins to speak once more. Her words came out almost cynical. “Luthor’s are selfish beings, and I will be the first to admit that what I’m doing is selfish. I tried to do the honorable thing and let you go, but I can’t. I can’t let the one person who looks at me like I’m there whole world slip away. I can’t, and I won’t, let you go, and if that makes me selfish? Well then I don’t want to be anything else.” 

You were pretty sure your brain wasn’t working anymore, and that you were about to have a heart attack. “What was the other thing?” Lena’s confused look at your question prompts you to keep speaking. “You said that saying sorry was one of the things you came here to tell me. What is the other?”

You aren’t sure what you’re expecting but Lena stepping forward and taking your hands certainly wasn’t it. Her soft gaze leveled onto your own, and you feel like you can’t breathe. Not when she was looking at you like you were the most important thing in the world. You watch, with bated breath, as Lena seems to prepare herself for what she’s about to say. But, after a moment, her smile grows into a breathtaking grin. Her eyes shimmering in the light because of her happiness. “Something that I should have told you long ago, but I was never brave enough to. I’m so sorry these are the circumstances in which I’m telling you this, darling, but I do not regret saying these words,” she says, her voice unwavering with its conviction. “I love you. More than I have ever loved anything.”

You didn’t know what you were doing but soon your lips were on hers, and it was so much different than the last time you had kissed. This time it wasn’t hurried nor was it with a frenzied passion. It was slow and it was the feeling of coming after a hard journey back. It was reacquainting two beings that were never supposed to be apart to begin with. 

It was everything and more you could have ever hoped for, and you weren’t surprised that Lena Luthor was the one to give it to you. 

I'm pretty sure that all of this was my fault

I'm the one who kissed you first and took my clothes off

Yes, it may have been your fault that all the heartbreak had begun. Maybe, not necessarily for it to have continued in the first place, but your decision definitely did have a part in the entire thing. If you hadn’t offered Lena your bed you weren’t sure you would be currently sharing hers. If you hadn’t kissed her first you weren’t sure her lips would be on yours ever again. If you had let her sleep in the guest room you weren’t sure you would have the love of your life in your arms. 

So, yes, it may have been your fault, but you are more than happy to take the blame. After all you were the one that kissed her first. 

So it’s only fair. 

[whatareyousearchingfordean]

Shut Up

Summary: A celebratory drink after a hunt gone well leads to something she least expected. 

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female Reader

Word Count: 3K+

Warnings: Language, excessive alcohol consumption, nausea, vomiting, unwanted advances, angst

Square Filled: Accidental Confession

Authors Note: This is written for @spngenrebingo as well as @winchester-fantasies 1000 Followers challenge. I picked the phrase “Please shut up. I can’t stand how appealing your voice is.”. For some reason I couldn’t get it out of my head as a drunken confession, thus this was spawned. Let me know what you thought, xo Alex. 

The crowd that greeted the three of them as they entered the dingy, dark bar was no surprise to any of them. It was the only bar nestled on the south end of the main road of the no-name small midwestern town that they had just finished up a vampire hunt at. Besides the small market, a few kitschy stores and a bank, the town mostly consisted of farms nestled on the outskirts of the one block of downtown. That was the lot of them that graced the worn out furniture of the place advertising a cold beer; farmers. Most of them were graying men in dirty, worn jeans sprinkled with a few women and brighter, younger men that hadn’t yet been hunched over by the weight of a lifetime of manual labor. 

“Grab us a seat?” Dean raised an eyebrow at her and his brother. Sam tilted his chin in acknowledgement and guided her to one of the only empty booths in the whole place. The old leather cracked under her weight as she slid in across from Sam, not that she noticed. 

Places like these had become commonplace in her life since becoming a hunter. It was not a life of luxury, it was one of blood, declined credit cards, stain motels, and self-stitched wounds. She didn’t regret it, as stupid as it all may sound, because it was the most free she had ever felt. It was proof that you didn’t need to surround yourself in material things for your life to have meaning. She got to save people, the one thing that her heart seemed more drawn to than anything. That’s also why she guessed she had been so drawn to the hunter leaning over the splintered bar. 

Both of their lives had been defined by being a hunter. No matter how much the notion of living that apple pie wormed its way into their heads, somewhere deep down, they have always understood this is where they belonged. Dean was her in male form in so many ways, self-sacrificing, intelligent, beautiful, and a major idiot. Dean just happened to possess the bravado to put on a front, to be the macho ladies man that he thought he was supposed to be. She knew better than that. The late nights spent in motel after motel, with more whiskey than any human should consume, and witnessing the love and the loss. It was in these moments, when the shell came down, that she was able to see that the man that every monster feared was just a soft boy who wanted nothing more than to do a little good in this fucked up world. It was in these moments that she stupidly fell in love with Dean Winchester.

“Looks like there might be a case up in Maine, sounds witchy.” Sam’s nose scrunched and drew in his brows as he read what was sure to be some news article on his phone. 

“Seriously Sam? I just rinsed the vampire blood from my jeans, can’t you at least have one beer before you are looking for a new case?” She mocked his signature scowl, but Sam only rolled his eyes. Folding her arms on the table top, she leaned into the stained wood. 

“I like to keep moving.”

“You’re exhausting is what you are.” Movement in her peripheral had her turning her gaze onto the incoming Winchester. Dean handed off a beer to his brother and to her, her signature old fashioned. With a lick of her lips, she took an eager sip. The alcohol settled low in her empty stomach, hitting her brain with an instant warmth. Dean nudged her elbow, urging her to scoot into the booth. She obliged, allowing the man to scoot in next to her. 

“Why is Sammy exhausting?” Dean cast his glance between her and his brother as he took a pull from his own beer. 

“Your little brother has already found us another case.” She admonished with an accusing gaze towards the man across from her. 

“Come on, man. We haven’t even had our celebratory drink.”

“That’s what I said!” Her jaw dropped in excitement at their shared thinking.

“Besides, I haven’t even had a chance to engage with the fruits of the local’s labor.” Dean smirked as though he had made the most clever innuendo, his elbow digging into her side as he sought her encouragement, only to jostle her enough to spill the sugary liquid down her leggings. Setting the drink down, she grabbed some napkins from the dispenser on the table, blotting up the wetness on her thigh and trying to hide the way her jaw was now clenching. 

“Classy.” The huff left her lips as she tossed the now torn napkins onto the table. Sam shared her same annoyed expression, though you’d think by now they would be used to Dean and his antics. 

“Aw come on, kid. You can’t tell me there isn’t at least one guy in here you have your eye on.” Dean turned his narrowed eyes onto her as the heat rose in her cheeks. Of course there was one guy, not that she would ever say his name aloud. Thankfully, working as a hunter had given her a chance to refine her acting capabilities. Sitting up a little straighter, she mocked scanning over the men in the bar, though she had already done so when they had first walked in. 

Casting a disgusted yet thoughtful look on her face, she shook her head. “Nah, not really anybody my type in here.” 

“Well, that bartender is just my type.” Dean shrugged and pulled his car keys from his pocket before tossing them at Sam. “Don’t wait up?” 

Sam and her watched as he sauntered over to the bar, no doubt flashing his pearly whites and giving the unsuspecting women some truly awful pick up line. She pointed her thumb at his retreating figure as she turned back to Sam. “Why do we take him out?” 

“I think it’s usually him taking us out and then ditching us.” Sam clarified. 

“Ah, yes. How could I forget?” The alcohol still in her glass was now offending her, as it was not yet in her stomach. She tipped the glass back and swallowed the rest of the amber liquid in one go, knowing it would only be the start of many. Sam’s nose was already stuck back in his phone and she knew that she was officially on her own for the rest of the night. 

With a huff, she slid back out of the booth and made her way to the bar. The beautiful woman who had caught Dean’s eye was currently preoccupied, soaking up whatever compliments Dean was surely throwing her way. Y/n’s waving hand caught the bartender’s eye, and she knew that the woman had seen her, but she instead chose to stay leaned over the bar, accentuating her assets for the tall hunter. 

Trying again, she called out. “Excuse me?” The bartender turned her head finally, her eyes rolling slightly and the interruption before heading over to Y/n. 

“Yeah?” She sighed, the gum in her mouth popping as she chewed. Y/n ordered two more drinks, much to the bartender's dismay. The woman nodded and moved off to make the drinks. As she came back with the finished product, Y/n could feel Dean’s gaze on her. When she turned her head to him, he was grinning from ear to ear. Dean tossed her a wink as the bartender came back to him, only to elicit a groan from his friend. 

“I’m gonna need a lot more of these if I’m going to make it through tonight.” She grumbled to herself. This was not the first time that Dean has hooked up with a woman, lord knows he was doing it long before they ever met, and it would not be the last time either. Usually, she was good at letting it roll off her back. Dean wasn’t hers to claim and she has had her fair share of hookups, but tonight she was just pissed. As her best friends, she just wanted to celebrate a successful hunt with the Winchester brothers. She wanted to let loose and have a few laughs, but both went and smashed that dream. Sam was already focused on the next monster hunt and Dean was focused on his next woman hunt. 

With her first drink already warming her body, she downs the second in two gulps. Her head shakes as the liquid burns all the way to her stomach. Fuzziness begins to cloud her brain, the exact feeling she was looking for to get her through the night. 

After a number, that of which she could not articulate, of drinks later, she was twiddling with the bowl of empty nut shells in front of her. The anger and sadness that she was trying to drown from her gut was still there. She should have known that with the man she stupidly let herself fall for, shamelessly flirting away with another woman only feet from her, it was a feat she could not conquer. 

“You’ve been sitting here all by yourself for quite some time. Whoever you are waiting on has really made a mistake.” A gruff voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Her head rolled towards the man now leaning against the bar next to her. She could only grunt out a response at the irony. 

“Luckily for you, I’m here now.” The words left a nasty taste in her mouth. The guy reached out and moved her hair back over her shoulder, the action sending a chill through her body that stoked the anger in her belly. This time she really looked at the man. He was probably around her age, though it was hard to tell underneath the unkept beard and dirty trucker hat. The skin she could see where his sleeves were rolled up was tan, telling her he most likely worked on one of the many farms nestled around the town. 

“Don’t see how that makes me lucky.” She chided as she did her best to convey to this man that she was not in the mood. The guy did not take the hint though, and even through the cloud enveloping her mind, her hunter instincts were on high alert.

“Baby, you don’t even-” His words were cut short as her hand flew to his wrist when he reached out for her face. His head slammed against the bar as she twisted his arm behind his back. The slamming of his weight against the wood echoed throughout the bar, gaining the attention of everyone inside. 

With venom dripping from her tongue, she leaned in by his ear and whispered, “Never, put your hands on a woman without her consent.” She pushed his head again for effect before releasing him and heading for the door. Adrenaline was now pumping through her body, but she needed the cool air of the night for some clarity as the reality of the situation began to sink in. She heard the stomp of his boots before she heard his words.

“Fucking bitch!” The expletive had her spinning on her heels, the action making the room spin far after her body ceased moving. As her vision focused, Dean and Sam stepped in between her and the stranger. 

“Uh, uh. I’d think twice about that buddy. She could still put you on your ass even with the amount of alcohol she consumed.” Dean shrugged on his jacket and lowered his shoulders, making himself somehow seem taller than he already was. She watched as Sam copied the action as the guy stepped up to Dean, again not all deterred by the two huge men in front of him. 

“Oh yeah, so why don’t you let her?” He challenged, his eyes darting to where she was standing over Dean’s shoulder. Dean laughed in his cocky, I-could-give-a-fuck, way and looked over his should to glance into the eyes of the inebretaed woman behind him. 

“Nah, I think I’ll save you the embarrassment.” The guy reeled at Dean’s comment, his fist flying out straight for Dean’s face. Dean dodged the action easily, ready to return the favor only to be stopped by his little brother. The two shared a silent conversation before Dean relaxed and darted off towards her. He put his hand against her back to guide her out of the bar, only to switch tactics when he realized she was wobbly on her feet. Tossing the keys for the impala to Sam, he slung her arm over his shoulder and helped support her weight on the walk to the car. 

“I was fine.” Her argument was slurred as he opened the back seat for her. 

“I know you were, kid.” Dean promised with a small chuckle as he slid in the backseat beside her. He answered her quizzical look with a pat of his thigh, inviting her to rest her head on his lap. Without hesitation, she obliged his offer, snuggling up to the warmth of his body. 

“Not drivin’?” 

“Gotta make sure you don’t ruin the upholstery back here.” One of Dean’s hands began a gentle stroke up and down her arm as his other brushed her hair away from her face. The last thing she remembered before slipping into darkness was the feeling of his fingers running through her hair

~

One nuisance after another kept tugging her back into consciousness. The sahara inside her mouth was the first thing she noticed, followed quickly after by the pounding inside her head. She rolled onto her stomach and shoved her face into the musty motel pillow, only for her movement to cause her stomach to roll. With the bile rising in her stomach, she leapt from the bed and made a beeline to the bathroom. She made it to the toilet in just enough time to lift the seat before she was emptying her stomach into the creme colored basin. Once the damn had opened, it couldn’t be stopped. Her stomach was hell bent on keeping up this whole fiasco until it had nothing left to give. Even when a hand met her shoulder and pulled her hair back from her face, she couldn’t do more than weakly swat at whoever it was behind her. 

“Shh, that’s it, get it out.” Dean’s soothing voice filled the small bathroom as he rubbed her back. At least she knew who it was behind her now, though that didn’t make it any better. This was the last thing she wanted him witnessing. No person ever needed to witness the horror show that was currently happening. 

When it seemed that she had nothing left to give, she left out a low groan and collapsed against the bathtub. It was then she noticed the coolness of the tile against her legs and her subsequent lack of pants. 

“Here, kid.” Dean offered her a wet washcloth and she took it, washing away the saliva from her chin and sweat from her forehead. “I’ve got some pain killers here and a sports drink.” He handed them over as well. “But just go slow, you don’t want it all coming back up again. Been there, done th-”

“Please shut up. I can’t stand how appealing your voice is.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them. It’s just that he was using his concerned and deep rumble, the one that always got her heart racing a little bit and she so did not want to deal with that on top of everything else at the moment. Not to mention she wasn’t one hundred percent sure she wasn’t still a little drunk. 

“What was that?” Dean chuckled softly and she didn’t have to look up at him to know he was smirking. There was no way she was ever going to live this down, so she might as well just throw caution to the wind. 

“I’m just… my head hurts and I’m trying to figure out why I don’t have pants on and you just keep going on with that voice of yours.” She gestured her hands in his face, only causing him to laugh again at her. “Don’t laugh.” She pouted at him.

“You took your own pants off once I got you into your bed. I had to stop you from taking off the rest of it.” Heat rose up on her cheeks, knowing fully well that he was not lying. Her clothes tended to come off the more she drank because she always got hot. Dean moved to sit beside her, their shoulders touching as his back hit the tub.

“Yeah, that’s not surprising.” She mumbled. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” There was a pause as he took a deep breath. “So, you think my voice is appealing…” 

“Ugh, Dean please forget I said that.” She let her head fall back and her eyes close in her embarrassment. 

“No way, kid.”

“Dean, I-” Dean put a finger in front of her lips, shutting her up and confusing her still muddled brain. His hand trailed across her jaw, the large span of his fingers enveloping her neck as he pulled her to him. Her eyes fluttered closed as he leaned into her, his lips hesitant against her own. As the shock of his action subsided, she melted into him, allowing everything Dean to invade her senses. The feeling of his chapped lips against hers, the faint smell leftover from his cologne last night, and even the soft groan that emanated from his throat as she gripped the back of his neck and pulled him closer to her. 

As she pulled back when her lungs began screaming for oxygen, the realization hit her. “Oh my god, I just puked!” She squealed in disgust, only for Dean to laugh at her again. As much as she used to love the sound of his laughter, it was really beginning to tick her off now. 

“Trust me, not the first time I’ve made out with a girl who just puked.” 

“I really don’t want to know.” She took another sip of her sports drink as she mumbled under her breath. 

“No, you probably don’t. But it doesn’t matter anyway, cause you’re the only hungover, vomiting chick, I ever want to make out with again.” Dean shrugged with a soft smile gracing his lips. 

You shook your head, laughing at the cheesy, soft hunter sitting beside you. “God, I hate you.”

___________________

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[whindsor]

gbbo au pt 2

wellp, here we go! i’m technically not back on my bullshit cause i was never actually off of it.

p.s. would it be weird to actually name the judges/hosts of the show as paul/prue/noel/matt? or should i just keep it generic? or does it not matter and i should do whatever i want?

week 1: cake week

week 2: biscuit week

No matter how many years he lived in the UK, it still took Bucky a minute to remember that the biscuits were not the same as they were when he was growing up. They weren’t exactly a staple in his New York diet - they had bagels for that - but he did manage to stumble into a southern style diner or two and order a plate of biscuits and gravy. The biscuits were thick, and light, and tender, and tasted so good after a bit too much whiskey. 

But those weren’t the biscuits he was dealing with this week. Well, except for his showstopper.

Florentines were an absolute beast. Sure, it sounded easy enough: a thin, lacy “biscuit” (cookie) with nuts and fruit and a base of some sort of caramel. But here was the kicker: they weren’t supposed to bend, they were supposed to snap. And that was the part that was going to send him home. 

It was the day before the competition was set to begin. He’d woken up even earlier than usual, intent on getting in one last attempt at his Signature and one last practice run of his Showstopper. Plus, it helped that he got a nice PTSD-induced nightmare to get the blood pumping first thing, where he was back on the battlefield, except the battlefield was the tent, and he had no cover except for the flimsy benches. 

He ran further and faster than usual that morning, his lungs and legs burning when he slowed to a walk outside the building. He’d been trying to solve his problem the whole run, and thought he might have a fix...if it didn’t work, he’d be out of options. He was distracted by the sound of a door opening, and looked up to see Mika on her balcony, a baggy flannel thrown over her pajamas and a cup in her hands. She looked half asleep still, her hair tousled all around. She was still pretty...not that he’d ever say anything, of course. 

“You’re up earlier than usual.” she said in Romanian. The few encounters they had over the week, she always spoke to him in the other language; it was probably a comfort for her, and he didn’t mind the distraction. 

“Early bird gets the worm.” he replied in English, knowing the phrase didn’t quite translate. He switched after that, since she looked like her brain wasn’t ready for a second language. “You’re up early too.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Want some coffee?” she asked, jerking her head back toward her apartment. He checked his watch; breakfast wouldn’t be open for another hour, and coffee did sound good. 

“Thank you. Let me shower and I’ll be over.” he said. She nodded, telling him the flat number before going back inside. He supposed he should feel nervous about visiting a new friend in her apartment, but with all the other anxiety-inducing activities going on, this one was actually a relief. By the time he made it to her door, she had managed to get out of her pajamas and wrap her hair into a braid. He thought she might have put on a bit of mascara, but couldn’t be sure.

“Milk? Sugar?” she asked, going to the (beautifully full) coffee pot and pouring some into a mug with flowers painted around the outside. He went to the stools on one side of the island, taking a seat.

“Just black.” he said, earning a suspicious look from her. It fell a second later, as if something dawned on her.

“Right. No sweets.” she said, filling the cup a little more before handing it to him. Her kitchen wasn’t quite as neat as his was, and had the appearance of quickly being cleaned a few moments before. Not that he minded; it almost made it more comfortable, knowing that the space was lived in. “So tell me. How does someone who doesn’t like sweets end up a baker?”

“It was something to concentrate on.” he said with a shrug, taking a sip of coffee. Her question was definitely more loaded than she realized, and he had to try and figure out how to answer without making things more somber than they needed to be. “After I got back, the therapist recommended I find an activity that gave me a physical product at the end of it. I’ve never been good at art, and I wasn’t about to try and figure out sewing, so baking was the next best thing.”

“What’s your favorite thing to bake then?” she said, leaning her elbows onto the counter of her kitchen island. He could see a little white trail of flour on her sleeve.

“You’re just trying to figure out my strengths.” he teased. 

“I am not!” she said. “I’m making conversation, like a normal human.”

“Uh huh.” he said, as if he didn’t believe her. “You have to promise to keep it a secret.”

“Of course. What happens in the back row stays in the back row.” she said, leaning in a bit closer. He couldn’t help but lean slightly away; it wasn’t that she made him uncomfortable, he’d just gotten used to people being a certain distance away from him during the pandemic. She seemed to realize this discomfort, and quietly slid back again.

“Patisserie.” he admitted, making the conversation go on and hoping he hadn’t made her feel bad. Luckily the answer was enough to distract her, her eyebrows shooting towards her hairline.

“I did not expect that.” she admitted. “Patisserie? Really?”

“I like the details. And I have a steady hand.” he said, realizing the unintended joke a moment later. Mika pressed her lips together, as if determined not to laugh. “See? I told you it happens all the time.” 

“I never realized how often hands get talked about.” she said, humor in her tone. “Well, you’ll kick my ass if I make it that far. I’m terrible when it comes to things that require artistry.”

“I thought you did fine last week.” he offered. She scoffed.

“You saw my peak last week.” she said. 

“What’s your specialty then? Don’t tell me biscuits, my pride isn’t ready for that.” he said, making her laugh.

“No, no I’ll be scraping through this week as well.” she said, and he realized that she genuinely meant it. Did she not realize how good she was? “But bread is my favorite. So as long as I can make it to bread week, I’ll be happy with whatever outcome.”

Bucky gave a low, appreciative whistle. He was decent as bread, but could never get the texture just right. “Well, you’ll beat me there for sure.”

She blushed deeply, shrugging her shoulders. “I don’t know about that.” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. Hers was a nice caramel color, lightened by the milk. Speaking of which...

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to pick her brain a little bit, to see if she could solve the bending problem. 

“Almost, but not quite. The Showstopper is giving me problems.” she said with a sigh. “I’m probably trying to be too ambitious.”

“Not always an issue.” he said, though there was one contestant that got that feedback on both of his bakes the week prior. “If you get a snappy florentine, you’re already ahead of me.” 

She looked surprised at that. “What’s your ratio of sugar to cream?” she asked. When he told her, she shook her head. “Less cream. More butter.” she said confidently. He let out a sigh of relief; that had been his last (and only) idea. 

“That’s what I was thinking.” he nodded. “What’s your meal for the showstopper?”

“Hmm. Trying to get ideas?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

“Of course. I have no idea what I’m doing.” he said. He sounded a bit more serious than he meant to, so she looked at him for a long time before shaking her head. 

“Full of shit.” she muttered. “I wanted to actually put beer into the pitcher or the glass, but I don’t think it’s going to work.”

“Make it a mousse.” he said. She looked surprised for a minute, the looked away into the great beyond.

“Beer mousse...so crazy, it just might work.” she said. “Are you doing something similar?”

“Me? No. Whipped cream as gravy, that’s about it.” he said, and she nodded again. 

“Beer mousse.” she said again, more to herself this time. She stood up suddenly, going back to the coffee pot. “Going to need more of this. You?”

He glanced at his watch; he really needed to get a move on if he was going to get everything done today. He gave her an apologetic look. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid I have to go practice. Less cream, more butter.”

“And beer mousse!” she said, holding her mug up in a cheers. He laughed, saluting with his empty one.

“And beer mousse. Thank you, for the coffee and the company.” he said. They said their goodbyes, and he made his way back to his own flat to get to work, definitely more calm now than when he first awoke. Maybe, just maybe, he could make it through this. 

The next morning, he made sure to get up early enough to get his run in, though he was definitely a little sore from the morning before. It was also a little chilly that morning, making the stump of his arm ache. When getting dressed, he thought about how hot it felt last week working in the tent, and decided to go ahead and just wear a tshirt with his jeans. Of course, after the tshirt, he put on his special shoulder cap, which would help the sensitive nerves that still gave him trouble sometimes if they spent too much time in open air. He then grabbed the little spiral hair tie, tipping his head over so that he could pull the majority of his hair into a little bun away from his face. 

The interviews were still uncomfortable, but he was good at pretending to be at ease. “I’m a little nervous this week, but at least now I kind of know what to expect.” he said when the interviewer asked. “Does that mean I’ll make it out the weekend? That still remains to be seen.” Across the grass, Mika was laughing and smiling. She’d seemed nervous last week, but was much more relaxed this week. Impressive, really, how she adapted. 

They went into the tent, and while they weren’t at the back of the class this time (which added another layer of nerves), at least they were still across the aisle from each other. Mika made a dramatic pout at their bench assignments, giving Bucky a wink before paying wrapt attention to the hosts and judges. Bucky tried not to think about how that little sign of affection made him feel. He’d been honest about his last relationship - how it ended amicably, how they were just in different places - but he had failed to mention that it had happened before he lost his arm. His best friend Steve constantly tried to get him to go out, but considering a friendly wink from a cute girl just threw him for a loop, Bucky reckoned he needed to remember how to be friends with people first. 

“Bake!” the host said, startling Bucky into action. He started organizing his bench, putting everything exactly where he needed it before getting to work on the caramel. Almonds went into the food processor, and when that was done, he started making quick work of the sour cherries, which was of course the best moment for the judges and hosts to come to him.

“Florentines, James. What have you got for us?” the male judge asked. It was still weird that technically he was James for the show, but he would have to get used to it. Or maybe he would be sent home before then, who knew. 

“Well, I’m not big on sweets, so today I’m combining almonds and sour cherries with star anise and some really dark chocolate.” he said, not looking up from where he was working with a very, very sharp knife. 

“Now that’s not something I expected. But you do like to try different spices, don’t you?” the female judge asked.

“Spicy James. That has a good ring to it. Like a bar drink.” the host commented, making them laugh.

“Just remember not to overdo it.” the male judge commented, and Bucky nodded. 

“I’ve practiced it a lot. It should be right this time.” he said. The judges smiled and nodded, moving on to the next bench, but the host and cameras stayed for just a moment.

“A Spicy James. What kind of drink would that be?” he asked, making Bucky laugh. He put the knife down to think.

“Probably whiskey with hot sauce in it.” he said, the grossest thing he could think of. The host took it in stride, nodding philosophically. 

“Just burn everything. Really warm you from the inside out, just like the sight of your man bun.” he said, making Bucky laugh again before he took up his knife. “And now that you’re holding that, I’m going to fly away. Goodbye!”

Bucky shook his head, not minding the brief reprieve as he got back to work. He wetted a tea towel, rolling it up and nestling his mixing bowl full of ingredients into it. Then he was able to add his caramel, the towel (and his stomach) holding the bowl in place as he stirred the thick mixture. From there, he used an ice cream scoop so that he could place perfectly portioned cookies onto the baking sheets, making sure to leave enough space for them to spread in the oven. 

He took a deep breath and let it out before checking his watch. So far, he was right on time. He chanced a glance over to his accomplice, who looked a bit stressed but overall handling things. She was also pretty from this angle. Dammit, Barnes, focus. It was time to temper chocolate.

Even though it would have been some sort of illegal not to let him bring his adaptive equipment, he was still very thankful to have his clip thermometer. Usually he could make the whole one-hand thing work, but stirring chocolate and monitoring the temperature was definitely a two-handed ordeal, and he had to make do. The timer for the cookies went off just as the chocolate almost reached temperature, which left him caught between the two. Finally, he had to make the choice, putting down the spatula to pull the cookies out of the oven. He nearly threw them onto the counter, quickly going back to the chocolate and barely pulling it off the heat before it went over the temp. He lost a few pieces of the seed chocolate when he dumped it in, but it was a welcome sacrifice to keep things under control. Cool it down, heat it up, cool it down, and then let it stay at a working temperature. Easy, right?

He held his breath as he moved to the florentines. They were cooled enough to work with...but would they bend, or would they hold? He carefully peeled one from the silpat; so far, it was holding, and the caramel underneath felt more solid than his other attempts. He pulled the rest, laying them out so he could go through the messy business of coating one side in chocolate. He pulled out his secret weapon - chopsticks - and thanked chef David Chang before getting to work. The camera men, noticing his odd tools, of course came to ask about it.

“It’s hard to keep the chocolate on one side if I use my fat fingers.” he said, hoping to earn a laugh and distract from any unwarranted pity at his situation. “I stole the idea from an American chef, who made the point that these are much better than tweezers or tongs.” 

Mika apparently had noticed his chopsticks as well. “Can you teach me how to use those?” she asked, making him almost drop the florentine he was coating. He looked up in surprise.

“You don’t know how to use chopsticks?” 

“No! That wasn’t a thing where I’m from!” she said, laughing. Romania had probably changed since she’d been there last, but her family had never been ones to invest in the skill. 

“Fine, fine, I’ll teach you later.” he said, not noticing the grins between the producers. 

“Thank you!” she sang, going back to her bake. After all, they only had five minutes left. Bucky swore under his breath in Russian, deciding that was the safest language for the British viewers, and quickly went to make a piping bag. He made a mess dumping the chocolate into it, and an even bigger mess trying to cut the smallest corner from it. Then, it was on to the small concentric circles on each of the biscuits. Bucky was glad he had a steady hand; it made this work significantly easier. 

He technically finished the last circle after the time call, but no one seemed to notice. He tossed the pastry bag back into the cup, the chocolate oozing out of the bottom of it. He wasn’t sure if this was going to be good, but he hoped it was good enough. 

His back ached already as he left the tent, his forearm definitely feeling like he worked it. Next week, he’d have to remember not to practice too much leading up to the competition days, lest he fatigue again. If he even made it to next week. Mika immediately walked up to him, her eyebrows already up in a question.

“So? How do you think it went?” she asked. She crossed her arms over her stomach, apparently cold underneath the shade of a tree. Bucky wished he hadn’t left his jacket back in the tent, otherwise he could give it to her. 

“So far it was my best one,” he said with a shrug, “but whether or not it snaps remains to be seen.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” she said, waving his concern off. “They looked beautiful. I can’t wait to try them.”

“It may not be sweet enough for you.”

“It’s food, I’ll enjoy it.” she replied.

“What flavors did you end up going with?” he said, changing the subject. He didn’t want her to think that he only cared about his own bakes, plus he was curious. He’d caught her in the communal kitchen a couple times, always trying a new combination.

“Pistachio and apricot. It felt right.” she said, as if that was something that people came up with every day. “Even though it doesn’t look particularly appealing. Hopefully that doesn’t count too much against me.”

“Just mention ‘jewel tones’ and they’ll praise you for it.” he replied, earning a surprised look from her.

“And where does a man like you hear about ‘jewel tones,’ hm?” she asked. “Let me guess: another ex?”

“Actually, asshole best friend is an artist.” he said, referring to their earlier conversation. Mika put a hand on his arm, and though the movement initially startled him, he found he really didn’t want her to pull away.

“You’re joking.” she said. “Asshole sister is an artist too.” 

“Oh my God they were made for each other.” Bucky said, a little more dramatic than he’d been in a long time. He was suddenly glad that Steve made him sign up for this; at the very least, he got to have fun and act like a human again after slowly becoming more and more hermit-like after his accident. They were denied further socializing by the producers calling them in, instructing them to return to their now clean benches and wait for their judging.

Judging maybe made him antsy, but he wouldn’t go so far as to say he was nervous. He was nervous about making a fool of himself, about saying the wrong thing or being too candid about the trauma he’d been through. He was nervous that he would disappoint his friend. But getting critique from people that knew baking much better than he did? He’d gotten an arm blown off. A couple judges did not make him nervous. 

“Alright, James, let’s see how this goes.” the male judge said, rubbing his hands together and picking up two florentines from the plate. The female judge turned it over, admiring the dark chocolate along the bottom.

“Beautifully tempered. Look at that shine.” she said, impressed. He felt like he could breathe a little easier after that praise. The male judge went to bend the biscuit; the chocolate gave with a satisfying crack, but unfortunately the rest of the cookie bent like a green tree branch.

“Ah, no snap.” he said, shaking his head.

“Damn.” Bucky agreed, making them laugh. To further ease the tension, one of the hosts grabbed a florentine, and immediately tried to fit the whole thing in his mouth. 

“Something snapped.” he said around the mouthful.

“Your molars, likely. Or your brain.” the male judge said, though he was clearly amused by the joke. He then took a bite of the florentine, chewing thoughtfully. “I was hesitant about your flavors, but you have managed to make something with a lot of bitter elements, and balance those out with the right amount of sweetness.”

“It tastes like the last of winter, just before the turn of spring.” the female judge said, earning a hearty “oooooh” from the host. “I enjoy those flavors a lot.”

“Thank you.” Bucky said with a nod, turning back to the male judge.

“Shame about the snap, though.” he said, wincing appreciatively.

“Shame indeed.” Bucky agreed, bidding them goodbye as they moved on. He let out a breath and let go of that part of the competition; there was nothing he could do about it now. He glanced over at Mika, who looked like she thought that went rather well. He wasn’t sure he agreed, but he’d pretend to for now. 

She was much more relaxed when the judges arrived compared to last week, but he could tell by the tightness in her shoulders and the tapping of her thumb that she was still anxious. And of course, it didn’t help when the male judge said, “That looks a bit like what the dog coughed up.”

“That’s just cruel.” Mika cried, covering her face with her hands. The female judge smacked him and the host chastised him, and Mika laughed, though a blush was covering her neck and chest. 

“Honestly. You’re terrible.” the female judge muttered, picking up florentines for the both of them. “The chocolate looks good, and despite the unfortunate coloring, you do seem to have a good spread of fruit and nuts.”

“I was going for a jewel tone.” she said, her eyes flicking over to Bucky for a split second. 

“Don’t know many jewels like that.” the male judge remarked. He was still clearly joking, but Bucky could see Mika chipping away at her nail polish underneath the edge of the bench. The judges went to break the biscuit in half, and it broke with a satisfying crack.

“Now there’s a snap.” the female judge said, and Mika’s smile became more genuine, the blush receding slightly. They bit into it, and even from here Bucky could tell she’d gotten the texture spot on. “That is...exquisite.”

“It isn’t something I would’ve attempted.” the male judge started. “And I’m not sure it’s something I’d pick out if I saw it on a menu. But the ratios of your ingredients, and the way you’ve mixed them and have the perfect caramel...yea, that’s well done, that.” he said with a decisive nod. “Perhaps just needs a bit more thought on presentation.”

“Right, yea,” Mika agreed. “Thank you.” 

The judges nodded and moved on to the next person. Mika looked to Bucky, making an exaggerated face and wiping imaginary sweat off her brow. He mimed for her to take a deep breath; besides the look of it, they’d given her a glowing review. Considering some of the other things he’d heard, even in his own judging, he didn’t think she had anything to worry about. 

He was itching to get out of the tent by the time lunch came around. Like the week before, they had a sandwich spread for them, and he collected his food and his book before going out to the fire pit. He didn’t know if Mika would join him this time, but he certainly hoped for it. He sat and got himself arranged, getting a few pages in before he heard boots on the gravel, looking up to see his new friend smile at him and settle into the next chair over, content to sit on her phone while he sat with his book. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. So far, he’d managed to have multiple conversations with her without doing something completely off-putting, and the more he could stay silent, the better his record would be. Plus, it was just nice to sit with someone besides Steve and not have to stress about conversation. 

They passed lunch in silence, only acknowledging each other once they were called back into the tent for the technical challenge. If he was honest, technical challenges were the part that made him most uneasy; everyone got the same ingredients, and the same tools. He didn’t want the judges to make any special arrangements for him, but just the nature of the challenge put him at a bit of a disadvantage. Of course, that also made him get a little riled up, wanting to prove that he could do anything with one arm that the other bakers did with two.

When the hosts announced that macaroons (not to be confused with macarons) would be the challenge, he figured that it would be easy, that he would totally have this in the bag like he did with the last technical challenge. Then he read the instructions, and everything promptly fell to shit. 

First, cutting out circles? Why on earth did they need to cut out circles of parchment? Why not just outline the circles like an efficient person?

Then, make a curd. Fine. He could make a curd. He just couldn’t do anything else while he was making the curd because of the whole “continuous stirring” thing. They had hand mixers, but apparently they were only supposed to use that for the egg whites. Well, it was implied, not explicitly stated, so he was going to bend the rules a little bit.

Getting the coconut mixture right and in the pastry bag wasn’t the hardest part, except that he was currently low on time because of the whole parchment circle thing. So he had to try to rush, not knock the air out of the egg whites, and also manage to pipe perfect little coconut discs. Easy. So easy.

Oh, and chocolate! They had to make chocolate too! Fine! Easy! So easy!

Far too much time had gone by the time he actually got the macaroons into the oven, and he cursed himself a little bit. When he baked at home, he had all the time in the world and all the information he could need to set himself up for success. When applying, he hadn’t thought about the time constraints as much as he should have. Well, he was thinking about it now, and he was definitely going to start working on that for next week. If he made it through to next week.

The macaroons took even longer in the oven than he thought they would, and when he finally gave in a pulled them out, they still seemed too pale. He’d seen pictures of these things before, but he’d never tasted one, let alone made one. 

“Those don’t look quite right, huh?” he asked the camera man filming him. He rested his hand on his hip, trying to decide if he had enough time to put them back in the oven or if he should just let them cool so he could put the curd in the little welled ones. 

“Five minutes left!” the host yelled, making a couple of the bakers jump. Mika was definitely calmer than she was the week before, peeling the parchment layer from her cooled macaroons. Bucky sighed; the time call answered his question for him. He carefully turned his macaroons and tried to quickly and carefully peel the parchment from the bottom; since they were still warm, they were all too willing to lose their shape or leave coconut bits on the paper. He didn’t have time to worry about it, he just had to get something presentable on the plate. His wells were a little shallow and he had some chocolate leaking from the bottom of some, but when the host called one more minute! he was at least working on spooning the curd into them. They might be the worst macaroons the judges had ever seen, but at least they’d be finished. 

Mika claimed the seat next to him, which was a welcome comfort. They’d only known each other for a week, but it still felt good to know that someone was in his corner. He eyed the biscuits behind her picture, noticing that they were perfect golden brown with bright yellow curd and no chocolate smudges in sight. Ugh, she was the worst.

“This one got away from me.” he murmured before the judges came in.

“I’m sure you did just fine.” she said, patting his hand. The judges eyed the plates, questions on their faces that they didn’t quite dare to say out loud. Bucky noticed, with some relief, that his didn’t look the absolute worst.

“Right. Let’s get started.” the male judge said, going to the end of the table and picking up the first one. One by one they went down the line, the same process that they did last week and all the other weeks in the seasons before this one. And yet, there was still something foreboding about it. With no one staring directly at them, the judges were free to be more ruthless in their assessments.

“Oh dear,” the female judge said as the male judge picked up one of Bucky’s macaroons, the biscuit breaking in half before he could set it down. “Not a good start.”

“No, this one needed more time in the oven, and more time to cool.” the male judge agreed, licking chocolate off his thumb where it escaped. Luckily, one of the mango curd ones stayed together as he moved it. They took their bites and chewed, the female judge making a noise of surprise.

“It’s further baked than I thought.” she said. “And the flavor is very good.”

“It’s barely baked, a few more minutes would have done it well to get that golden brown layer. But the curd is perfect.” the male judge said. Bucky relaxed slightly, and Mika looked like she wanted to pat his hand again, but held herself back. The reviews for her macaroons were far brighter, their only complaint being that she hadn’t ground the coconut as fine as she needed to. But at least hers stayed in one piece when they put it on the plate. 

In the end, Bucky got eighth out of eleven, which was a big downturn compared to the previous week. Mika, the cheeky knave, smiled her way into second. He didn’t particularly want to do the end of the day interview, but that was part of what they signed up for, so he put on his blank face and waited until they set up the camera and got their warm up questions out. 

“No, today didn’t really go the way I wanted it to.” he said, adding a self deprecating laugh so that he didn’t sound so bitter. He’d forgotten how competitive he could be - actually wasn’t really sure he had a competitive nature anymore - and the two losses today awoke a part of him that had been asleep for a long time. “But that just means I have to come back with a vengeance tomorrow, right?” He should have stopped there, and almost did, but then had to be a little bit of a turd and add, “But those parchment circles. That was nonsense.”

Luckily they ended the interview quickly so he didn’t have time to make any more Salty Disabled Veteran comments, which was probably for the best. He’d signed up for all this, and he’d made it through the preliminary rounds, so clearly he was good enough to be here. Like every other time in his life, it was time to adapt and overcome. 

But first, he was hoping Mika would meet him for another drink. 

“Fire pit?” she asked as they walked out, as if she read his mind. 

“It might be a two glass night.” he sighed. She tossed an arm around his shoulders, giving him a comforting squeeze. He was very proud of himself for not flinching, and borderline enjoying the affection.

“Cheer up, daisy. You did fine today.” she said, making him smile.

“I think you mean, ‘cheer up, buttercup’.” 

“All flowers look the same to me. See you soon!” she sang, going towards her wing of the building. He shook his head, going to scarf down some food and shower before heading back outside, whiskey and glasses in hand. The fire was going again, a welcome source of warmth now that the sun was down. He’d brought his book in his back pocket just in case, but Mika was already waiting for him, a blanket around her shoulders. He handed the glasses to her, and she held them so he could fill them.

“Well, start digging my grave. Dead man walking.” he said, leaning into the chair and sighing heavily.

“Don’t be so dramatic.” she said, waving him off. “You’re going to be fine. You’re not going to get star baker, but you’re not going home.”

“You have much more confidence in me than I have in myself.”

“Well the first challenge wasn’t as bad as you thought. And the technical was bullshit.” she said. “Your flavors are spectacular, and tomorrow you’ll wow them with whatever you make.”

“And what about you? Did you get beer mousse figured out?” he said, switching the attention to her. He was used to having his one cheerleader (Steve) and he wasn’t sure how to handle another one. She barked out a laugh.

“Not in the slightest. I’m just going to try tomorrow, but not tell them about it, in case it doesn’t work out.” she said with a shrug.

“Tricky tricky. I think that’s cheating of some sort.” he teased. His glass was only half empty, but he wanted to refill it already. He pushed down that desire, knowing that it would not end well. 

“It is not! It’s just...equivocating.” she said with a wry grin. 

“So full of shit.” he laughed, shaking his head. “Have you talked to your sister since last weekend?”

She nearly choked on her drink, her cheeks coloring for some reason. He patted her back as she coughed, clearing her airway. “Yea, yea I have. She was very impressed by you.”

“And what about you?”

“She was glad I didn’t get sent home. Mum was mad that I wore a leather jacket and said I need to get my nails done, which is her way of saying I didn’t completely shame the family.” she said. “What about you? Did you talk to your friend...?”

“Steve. Yea, he said I needed to loosen up a little.”

“You? No.”

“Hush, not you too.” he said, finishing his drink. If he’d drank it a little faster, perhaps he would loosen up, but he and Mika were still just acquaintances, and they were in a massive competition. He could self medicate better tomorrow. Mika wasn’t close to finishing hers. so he simply put his glass down.

“I thought it was a two glass night?”

“Nah.” he shook his head. “Two glasses leads to the whole bottle leads to things I’ll regret in the morning.”

“Oh, that sounds like it has a story.” she said, leaning towards him. “Spill.”

“Not so much a story as multiple data points.” he said. “After...well, you know...I uh, didn’t handle things so great. There was a lot of poor choices trying to put myself back together.”

“But you did.”

“Huh?”

“You did put yourself back together. You fought through it all. And you’re amazing for it.” she said. Something in her tone made him think something - or someone - particular was on her mind, but when she didn’t offer the information, he didn’t pry.

“Thank you. That’s very kind of you to say.” he said softly. Sure, Steve had told him the same thing a thousand times, but it was different hearing it from someone else. 

“You’re welcome.” she said with a smile, reaching out and patting his hand. “Now, chin up. I can’t have my bench buddy leaving so soon. You haven’t even gotten to the best one yet!”

“Patisserie? I know.”

“No! Bread!”

“Bread is only the best to you.” 

“...Maybe.” she said, smiling and laughing. He couldn’t help but join in; God, he had an honest-to-goodness friend in her. Perhaps he should have done this whole “socializing” thing sooner. Either way, he was glad to have her in his corner. 

The next day, they all scarfed down a nervous breakfast and made their way down to the tent, the sunny weather laughing at their anxiety. This challenge was going to be tough; but before they started, Mika threw a wink and a thumbs up his way, helping to bolster his confidence. She was right, he could do this. He didn’t need to be star baker, he just needed to not be the worst. He’d been thinking about what to do for this week’s Showstopper challenge, and after having a mess of a time the day before, he decided to just go all out. The judges wanted a table setting from a memorable meal, but made out of biscuit. And that’s what they were going to get. 

He went to work quickly, knowing that it was going to take him longer to shape his biscuits than the other contestants, and that he had probably given himself a little too much to do.

“Right, James, what shall we expect from your place setting?” the male judge asked as the crew sidled up to his bench. Bucky couldn’t afford to stop and chat to them, so he continued measuring and mixing as he spoke.

“I’m making the setting of a traditional New York diner. It reminds me of the times we used to stay out too late and partake a little too much.” he said, grinning at the judges. 

“Oh, what’s the best meal for that? A big burger?” the host asked, getting excited. Bucky shook his head.

“Oh no, burger’s too heavy. Today it’ll be biscuits and gravy.” Bucky replied. The male judge laughed, but the female judge paused.

“Not real gravy, I hope.” she said, so suspicious he almost said that it was. But he didn’t think he needed to lose any points right from the get-go.

“No, no. I’ll be making American-style buttermilk biscuits, but with lemon zest, and vanilla whipped cream for the gravy.” he explained. The male judge raised his eyebrows.

“And what will the rest of the display be made out of?”

“Homemade graham crackers, which is really just left of gingerbread.” he said with a shrug. He’d struggled with how to make his display different than the others, and that was the best he could come up with. “They’ll be flavored with honey and a pinch of cinnamon, with a very, very thin layer of white chocolate to make it that diner-ceramic.”

“Just a pinch of cinnamon, eh?” the female judge asked, looking over the rims of her glasses.

“Scouts honor.” he said, acutely aware that they had told him multiple times that his bakes were overspiced. “And then we’ll also have a coffee flavored biscuit for the carafe and mug.”

“So you’re making two types of biscuit?” the male judge asked, one grey eyebrow raised.

“Yes.”

“And American-style biscuits?” he continued.

“...Yes.”

“That’s a lot to do. We’ll let you get to it.” the female judge said, patting his hand and shepherding the male judge away. The host stopped for a moment, leaning towards Bucky.

“What’s in an American-style biscuit?”

“A lot of butter.”

“Excellent!” he said, pumping his fist once before following the judges to the next bench. Bucky took a deep breath to center himself. He knew that he’d probably done too much, but he needed to go all out if he was going to stay in the competition. His performance yesterday was not what he wanted. 

And so he got to work. The dough was easy enough to pull together, though rolling it out and shaping it on the molds was tougher. He had to be very careful, because if he used too much of his strength, he’d rip the dough and have to start all over. So he carefully rolled it onto the back of a pie plate, trimming the excess and setting it aside. That was the easy one. The hard one was the coffee mug, which went around the outside of a single serve cake tin. He’d purposefully chosen one with rounded corners even if it wasn’t visually accurate, and when he was able to shape it the first try (and nearly pass out from holding his breath) he found he had no regrets. The carafe was easy enough; he’d just do the hexagonal percolator that diner’s used ages and ages ago. Then, after awkwardly fumbling with some foil to make molds for the handles, everything went into the oven. He now had sixteen minutes to make biscuits.

Biscuits themselves weren’t difficult to make, but when one had to rub butter into the flour with only one hand, it tended to take a little longer. Then, when one had to zest a lemon with only one hand, that added some time too. There was a minute left on his timer when he went to add the buttermilk, and he decided he just had to wait for that part so that the rising reaction didn’t take place too soon. 

That’s when he remembered the chocolate. He muttered a curse, in what language he didn’t know, and started weighing out white chocolate to temper. He should have done this earlier, so that as soon as the other biscuits went into the oven he could get started on it. Shit. He didn’t bother chopping the chocolate to weigh it, instead breaking off bits with his hand until he had the right weight. He tossed it in a bowl just as the timer went off, and he plumb forgot to put a mitt on to grab the tray out of the oven. Turns out, things in a 350 degree oven were also 350 degrees, and he had to force himself not to drop it despite the fact that he was probably burning his whole hand off. He nearly pushed the tray off the back side of the bench in his haste to put it down, and he had to step back and shake his hand, red welts already appearing on his fingers. 

And the plate was still in the oven.

Mika was by his side in an instant, her own oven mitts on as she reached into the oven and pulled the plate out, setting it much more carefully on the bench. “Are you alright?” she asked, her brows pinched. She reached out, her hands still covered, and took in the damage. The pads of his fingers were bright red and raw; that was going to suck this week. Unless he got eliminated, then the pain in his pride would probably eclipse it. 

“I’m okay. Thank you, for saving that.” he said, gesturing to the plate.

“Do you need anything? How can I help?” she asked, tenderly touching his hand. It looked silly with her big oven mitts, but the sentiment was the same. The medic in the white polo was weaving his way through the tent, carrying the tackle box full of supplies.

“I’ll be fine. I just need a quick clean and a glove. You need to finish your bake.” he said. She looked doubtful for a moment, but the medic pushed his way between them, and she had no choice but to go back to work. She kept glancing his way ever so often, and after the medic patched him up, he sent a quick smile her way before going back at it. He was now way, way behind. 

His tunnel vision returned as he mixed the buttermilk biscuits, cutting out two of them and throwing them in the oven. From there he started tempering the white chocolate, which was finicky even at the best of times. He wouldn’t know until he coated everything if it was tempered correctly, and between now and then he had to pull the biscuits from the oven and make his whipped cream. 

“Fifteen minutes left, bakers!” one of the hosts called, and Bucky let out a low noise of frustration, quiet enough that the cameras and the other competitors didn’t pick up on it. His hair was starting to slip from its tie, but he couldn’t pay attention to it. He had fifteen minutes to put literally everything together. 

Paintbrush for coating with chocolate. He didn’t have time to make it perfectly smooth, but at least it was all covered, and shiny, and looked like it was right.

Caramel, to start sticking together the pieces. This was the most difficult part, and if Mika wasn’t bent over her bench with a piping bag of royal icing and an intense look of concentration he might have asked for help. But now it was just him and the biscuits.

“One minute left!”

The whipped cream!

He poured it into the mixer and turned it on high, splashing in some vanilla paste and sugar as it mixed. He got everything on the tray just in time, and as the hosts counted down the last ten seconds, he managed to stop the mixer, grab a huge spoon and add a few dollops of whipped cream on top.

Through some kind of miracle, he finished. 

“Take a break, bakers!” the producers called, shepherding everyone out so they could get the benches clean and set up for the judging. Mika’s plates and cups were expertly decorated in a mismatched way, and he saw that she was able to come up with something that resembled beer mousse. Damn, she was quickly becoming his biggest competition (and his biggest ally). Bucky schooled his face back to neutral as he exited, the sun feeling just a little too warm. He grabbed the edge of the rubber glove with his teeth and peeled it off, his hand disgustingly sweaty underneath it. He was just stuffing it into his pocket when Mika came up, grabbing his wrist.

“How is it?” she asked, looking at his hand as if she could see through the bandaids.

“Just stings a little.” he said. It was the truth, but he’d admit he was putting on a little more bravado than necessary. “Not the worst I’ve ever been through.”

Mika gave him a dark look, clearly not amused. “Well, good thing is, your bake looked amazing.”

“Not as good as yours.” he said with a raised eyebrow. This time it was her turn to shrug.

“I’ll admit, it turned out better than I thought it would.”

“I sense a star baker in your future.” 

“Oh absolutely not. I just need to make it through.”

“I think I’m the one living on a prayer at this point.”

“You’ll be fine.” she said, waving him off. But uncertainty was their constant companion in the tent, and even Mika couldn’t completely hide the doubt of possibility in her voice. She was saved from overexplaining anything by the producers calling them in, sending them back to the now-clean benches. Bucky eyed his set up, letting out a breath of relief just at the fact that it was still standing. The judges followed soon after, their eyes drifting over each and every showstopper before the male judge clapped his hands together.

“Alright, let’s get started.” he said. He called the first person up and immediately ripped them to shreds, harshly judging their design, their execution, and how overworked the biscuits were. Bucky took a deep breath and reminded himself that no matter what, he’d been through worse. He glanced over to Mika, how seemed a little pale after the first display, and when he finally caught her eye he gave her a smile. Hers really did look good, and he had no doubt that she would get at least a little praise for it. 

“James, let’s see yours.” the judge said a few times later, gesturing for him to come front and center. One of the hosts came to his bench, holding one end as Bucky carried the other. He could have managed if he needed to, but he’d learned approximately three months into his recovery that it was not deadly to ask for help. They placed the setting in front of the judges and he stepped back, slipping his hand into his pocket.

“American biscuits, hm?” the female judge said, looking at him over her bright blue glasses. He couldn’t help but giver her a grin.

“Cheeky, I know.” he said. 

The judge laughed appreciatively, then gestured to the sculptures. “And the rest is graham, yes?” he asked, gesturing to the sculptures.

“Yes.” he said with a nod. They slid the edges of a fork along the chocolate, and Bucky was supremely happy to see that it held.

“Excellent chocolate work.” the female judge said as the male judge broke pieces off for them to try. They took delicate bites of the various biscuits, the silence thick as they tasted it.

“That’s good, that.” the male judge finally relented. They took their forks and tried the buttermilk biscuit, the female judge laughing as she did.

“It’s rather like a cake, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’ve had them before, but this is different. The layers and the butter...I might think they’re pretty good.”

“This was a good execution. Well done.” the male judge said, nodding towards him. Bucky gave them another smile and a nod.

“Thank you.” he said, glad to finally hear something good this weekend. The host, before grabbing his end of the tray, made sure to take the rest of the buttermilk biscuit and shove it into his mouth.

“I like that.” he said, mouth full. The room tittered with laughs, and Bucky just gave him one of his flirtier smiles.

“They’re even better when you’re hungover.” he murmured, keeping his voice low enough that the cameras couldn’t pick it up. The host made an intrigued sound.

“Do you often cook for your guests the morning after?” he asked, and Bucky did not miss the insinuation - or Mika looking at them with a quizzical look as they walked by.

“Every time.” he said, not minding if she heard him. He definitely hadn’t performed as well as he wanted to this weekend, but he was hoping that he’d done well enough to stay. Mika gave him a brilliant smile once he was settled on his stool - one that quickly dropped whenever they called her name. She brought her set up to the table, holding her hands behind her and chipping at her already very chipped nail polish.

“Tell us about this setting, Mika.” the female judge asked.

“It’s from my favorite pub back in Romania. They have the best drinks and atmosphere and is where I had my last birthday party before moving here.” she explained. They nodded, asking her questions about the biscuit flavors and construction. He was impressed that she’d managed to recreate the shape of a Guinness glass out of biscuit, and based on the reactions after their first bites, the judges were impressed with her flavors.

“This is good. You’ve definitely stepped up from last week.” the male judge said, acting as if the compliment pained him a little. Mika rose up on her toes a little, then rocked back on her heels.

“Thank you.” she said. She picked up her display and brought it back to her bench, giving Bucky an exaggerated face as she sat down. He waved off her dramatics; she was very clearly going to make it through. The rest of the contestants went with varying degrees of success, and in a blink they were back outside as the judges deliberated.

“I don’t know.” Bucky said, shaking his head and stuffing his hand in his pocket. Mika looped her arm through his, gently guiding him on a little stroll around the perimeter of their waiting area.

“You’re going to be fine. They gave you excellent feedback on your bake.” she said, rubbing his arm.

“But the first two were...subpar.” he said. “Not like yours. You’re in the clear.”

“Don’t say that, you’ll jinx me.” she said, pinching his elbow. “Trust me, it’s going to be fine. I matched your payment from last week so that they’d put you through.”

“I didn’t pay them anything last week.” he reminded her.

“Exactly.” she said, as if that solved the problem. It didn’t increase his chances of advancing, but it did make him laugh, which was almost better at that moment. “You’re not going home. I need to see your patisserie!”

“I better not, I still haven’t tasted your bread.” he said. She shrugged.

“You can try that any time. I’ve always got some.” she said. “I’ll give you coffee and breakfast after your run next time. Unrelated, I’m very impressed that you’ve managed to keep up your exercise routine.”

“Come with me in the morning.” he said, making the offer before he realized he was doing it.

“You still have to be there for that.” she pointed out. “So sure, I will. I’m slow, but I’ll go.” 

“Slow is fine.” he said. The producers called from the door of the tent, but Mika didn’t let go of his arm. She kept them linked all the way to the line of stools, even holding his arm as they announced star baker. He couldn’t help but clench his fist when they paused to announce the person going home, and even Mika grew still as the host paused dramatically. 

Bucky was a little surprised not to hear his own name. The only way he knew for sure it wasn’t him was because the other bakers were saying goodbye to the person who’d been cut. Mika collapsed against his shoulder for a moment before giving his hand a hearty pat, shaking her head.

“Dammit. Now I have to go running in the morning.”

[melonbread96]

💛 This is just something I'm writing on the side for fun, and idk where I'm taking it.

Please enjoy a sample of the Heroic au paperhat, with my own twist to it. This work isn't finished, but something I'm just playing around with.

~Angel

~~~

"Why Dr. Slug, White hat? I'm always curious on why you choose him over so many potential candidates," asked Celeste, a female super hero with celestial powers, as suggested by her name. Many people believed her to an angel in disguised, and was admired for her strength and beauty.

"He was the most qualified for the job. You should see some of his inventions, they are vastly more accomplished than most scientists," beamed White hat, as he enjoyed speaking highly of Slug. He seemed however clueless and naive by her intentions.

"There is no question that Slug's works are magnificent, but what about his intent? He seems like the type to create weapons for villains, than make any life saving ones for heroes," Celeste pointed out, try to make it seem like she was just concerned, "I just worry about your safety, you know? As a friend, he seems dangerous and dark. Just one glance at him and he looks like one of them."

It was in that moment Slug turned off his surveillance camera. He didn't need to hear more, and it made him want to destroy something in his lab. There were plenty of heroes to judge him for his appearance, thinking his dark image immediately made him a villain. This was his own style of choice, and no other person would take that from him. If he wanted to dress in a black lab coat and red turtleneck, then too hell with anyone's opinion other than his own. He wouldn't even care if his boss judged him either, as long as he was getting paid. A small part of his brain knew it was a lie. When White hat had offered him a job, he was surprised and ecstatic. It wasn't shown on his features, but he immediately discussed business, before they come to any terms. This was how they met, and he didn't even know how his boss knew of him.

At least White hat didn't seem like the stuck up hero, who needed to be around colorful people. Like any weirdo with a super in their name, or something that described their power. Examples like flame boy or expand girl would always make him cringe. Most people also thought Slug was an ex-villian and made rumors of it as well. If his boss knew of this, he didn't seem to address it. His personality also didn't fit any typical hero, not like his boss who always believed in goodness in people. He even thought his own brother could be good one day, though Slug didn't want to open that can of worms. There's no redemption for that kind of man, not that the infamous villain would want it. This left Slug to brood back on himself, and his fingers itching to go back to spying on them. It wasn't a very heroic thing, but he didn't particularly try to be anything special. He just wanted to be as himself and invent things without any hassles.

His lab door was suddenly opened, interrupting any of his former thoughts. Slug frowned at them, while he stood over his current experiment. Luckily the White hat bot was already put away, which would've displayed his spying ways. White hat was still the clueless fool, while Slug observed everything. Celeste also looked in his direction, as he glared at her, his arms folded in defiance. The atmosphere grew heavy, and then his eyes landed on the extra person in the room. Ever part of him was on high alert, as they walked into his territory. It might be White hat who funded everything and gave him this lab. He however run everything in this room, and nobody was going to scare him in his domain. Slug tried not to look too visibly upset in front of his employer.

"This is the lab, where you will be working," said White hat ecstatically, not knowing that his doctor immediately flinched and waltzed over to them.

"Excuse me, what do you mean by working here? In my lab?" questioned Slug angrily, though it was like White hat either didn't notice, or choose to ignore his current state.

"Oh hello Slug, I was introducing our new employee. Celeste suggested that maybe it would be helpful to have another set of hands," replied White hat gleefully, like it was the best idea ever.

"Oh did she now," seethed Slug, as every part of him wanted to smack that dumb look on his face, but decided against it.

"Why yes, I suggested that a lab assistant would help with production," added Celeste, her smile looked more like a smirk to him, and he knew better than anyone. She wanted someone to keep an eye on him.

"O-oh hi, my name is Clementia. I hope we can both get along," said Clementia in a nervous friendly voice, before raising her hand for a hand shake.

He stared at it for a moment, noticing how even more nervous she seemed, when he didn't reach out his hand. White hat chuckled, and then interrupted them, "you'll have to excuse Dr. Slug. He's not keen on touching."

It wasn't a lie, though Slug knew of most people's opinion. They would see it as something rude. This is when Slug decided to stubbornly reach his gloved hand out and shake hers. A part of him feels sick for playing along, but if this star shooting bitch wanted a spy within his lab. She will be utterly disappointed in finding any dirt on him. Celeste would not win this. Slug decided that he would play along, and maybe turn the tables around. White hat of course looked surprised, then immediately ecstatic that his doctor actually shook her hand. This caused Slug to snort and then withdrew his hand. He then proceeded to bring out some hand sanitizer, before wiping some on his gloves. This is when his boss started to escort them out, and continue his tour. The last words from his mouth hit hard for some reason, like it was set in stone.

"Allow me to show you your new living quarters, now that you're a official member of the White hat corporation for heroic devices," said White hat in an official and professional tone.

Slug glanced back at his invention, letting the sting settle in his chest. There was work still to do, and he couldn't be distracted, no matter how much it hurt.