#this one goes for the bisexuals let me hear you roar

[cyaerandom]

[litwitlady]

Send Me Home (1/?)

Read on AO3.

‘The Braves are down to their last at bat, Jeff. And it’s Michael Guerin in the on-deck circle. What’s Ramon’s strategy here? Does he try to jam him up inside or keep firing fastballs and hope Guerin can’t catch up?’

It’s September in Atlanta and the Braves are playing the Marlins. Every game counts as both teams vy for a spot in October baseball. Michael Guerin is a lead candidate for MVP, and he’s always a threat in the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the bases loaded. The sellout crowd roars as his walk-up music begins to play.

I was born to the desert And to the desert I’ll return Sun-soaked and leathered Tattered and tethered Send me home, send me home, send me home

‘Ramon’s got that curveball, Chip. I’m not sure Guerin’s ever met a fastball he couldn’t hit. Especially in the bottom of the ninth. So, I think Ramon starts with the curveball even if that’s exactly what Guerin’s expecting.’

Michael steps into the batter’s box and takes a couple of quick practice swings, eyes wide and watching Ramon’s every move. He squares his hips and lowers his hands on the bat just a touch. It’s an adjustment he’s been working on for the past month or so with great success. Ramon lets loose his first pitch. As expected, it’s a nasty curveball and a pitch Michael has struck out on more than once during his twelve year career. But this time he’s prepared and anticipates perfectly where the bottom of the curve will land. He shoots a laser to shallow right field, and it drops in for a walk-off single. The dugout empties and everyone tackles him as he crosses home plate, one game closer to October.

--------

Later that night, Michael sits on the tailgate of his Chevy, beer in hand and staring up at the stars like so many nights before. Several of the guys had harassed him about going out to celebrate, but he’s not in the mood. He’s never in the mood these days. The winning still feels good and the possibility of the MVP is a dream. But for a long time now, he’s felt like there’s something missing in his life. Something essential, something elusive, something just out of his reach.

The truth is that he’s lonely. It’s a truth he can admit to himself when he’s alone underneath the cosmos watching the stars blink down at him against the wide expanse of space.

There have been relationships along the way. Women he’s dated earnestly. Once upon a time, maybe even a couple he could have loved. When he was younger, there had also been a few men. But none recently. The deeply rooted homophobia of baseball to blame. Mostly anyway. It’s strange now - everyone knows he’s bisexual, a simple Google search is all it takes. But he’s fairly certain baseball collectively decided to ignore his sexuality altogether after he got called up to the majors all those years ago.

He wants to believe he’s not afraid to be seen with men. He tells himself it’s just simpler this way, less complicated. Fewer awkward questions and the focus remaining on his athletic abilities rather than his sex life. Besides, only two major league players have ever come out and they both only did so after they’d retired. He supposes maybe he counts as the third. It’s not the stuff of fairytales, and Michael had learned that lesson during his brief stint in Double-A ball.

That feels like a lifetime ago.

Alex Manes’ new album drifts through the truck’s windows. His low, throaty voice practically purring into Michael’s ears. He’s been a big fan of Alex and his music for several years now. They’re both from New Mexico and the way he sings about the desert rings true enough to Michael that listening to one of his songs sends him right back home. Despite their many issues, he misses his brother and sister so badly sometimes he can barely breathe. Alex’s music reminds him of all the things and all the people he’s left behind - for better or worse. A couple of years ago, he’d had the opportunity to see Alex perform live but he’d turned it down. He still can’t explain why.

The night stretches out before him. Beer and music lulling him into a peaceful sleep until a bright light flashes in his face and startles him awake. He sits up and raises his hands peacefully. ‘Hey, Ernie.’

‘Oh, Mr. Guerin. I didn’t recognize you. What are you still doing here? It’s past midnight.’ He clicks the flashlight off and clips it back onto his belt. ‘Congrats on the walk-off!’

Michael shrugs. ‘Thanks. Didn’t want to go home just yet. Like watching the stars at night. But I haven’t seen you in a while. The grandkids still running circles around you?’

‘You know it! Caleb just turned five and is a holy terror. Michelle is eight going on eighteen. I can barely get a word in edgewise between the two of them.’ His eyes shine even in the darkness, crinkling at the edges.

Michael’s heart aches at Ernie’s easy, simple joy, but he manages a genuine smile thanks to the night’s shadows softening the edges of his jaw. ‘That sounds nice.’ He hops off his tailgate. ‘I’ll get out of your hair. Got an early game anyway. Need to get some sleep.’

‘Well, now, don’t let me chase you off. I don’t mind the company. It gets a little spooky at night. You can always come knock on my door if you ever need anything.’ Ernie opens the Chevy’s door for Michael and shuts it behind him. ‘All these other guys with their flashy sports cars and you in this old rust bucket. You’re a weird one, Mr. Guerin. But I like that about you.’

Michael runs his hands around the cracked steering wheel. ‘Most days this truck is about the closest thing to home I’ve got. There’s still desert dirt in the bed and an engine I rebuilt myself. What the fuck would I do with a Ferrari?’

They both laugh and Michael waves and honks his horn as he pulls out of the player’s lot. The streets are mostly empty, cars keeping to the well-lit interstate at night. He decides to stay on surface roads and take the long way home, radio softly playing old country songs. His thoughts drift to tomorrow’s game and the rookie pitcher the Marlins are starting. His own rookie year had been tough, and he makes a mental note to speak to the kid at some point during the game, ask him how he’s doing and if he’s being treated well.

The streetlights along Peachtree illuminate his path through Brookhaven. He crosses into Atlanta city limits and enters Buckhead just as ‘Lay Me Down’ by Loretta Lynn and Willie Nelson starts to play through his speakers. And all too soon, he turns down his street and opens the cedar gate at the end of his driveway, parking his truck and sitting in the darkness until the song comes to an end.

Climbing out of his truck, he unlocks the front door with his telekinesis, slipping inside quietly and deactivating his alarm system. He’d bought the house in foreclosure, spending most of his money on remodeling the mid-century ranch. It’s not extravagant, but it’s the most expensive thing he owns. He’d even let Isobel fly out to decorate the place within a very strict budget, and he’d had to admit she’d done a great job - one side of his front door Atlanta, the other side New Mexico.

But even so, it has never felt like home.

The first few nights he’d spent in the house had been rough. It was too quiet and too soft and too much. More than once he’d grabbed his ancient, worn sleeping bag and crawled into the bed of his truck. Sleeping hard on the uncomfortable. ribbed metal but beneath the stars he loved so much. The morning dew waking him with the sun each morning.

These days he manages to sleep in bed at night, but only because he’d installed two skylights overhead so that the stars would always be his. And only his. He rarely brings anyone home anymore, preferring their house to his. But when he does, he takes them to a guest bedroom. None of them ever seem to mind how empty the space is or how devoid of personality. Four blank walls and a lone bed filling the room. Why would they? It’s not Michael the foster kid from the desert they’re sleeping with. It’s Michael Guerin the multi-millionaire first baseman with the single-season home run record and the aw-shucks, good boy smile.

Tonight he doesn’t bother turning on any lights. He just pads through the kitchen to grab an apple and a bottle of water, undresses and climbs into bed. He takes a large bite of the granny smith and pulls out his phone, calling Isobel.

‘Congrats on the walk-off!’ He can hear another game in the background. Isobel had never watched a baseball game in her life - including any of his - until the day he’d gotten drafted right out of high school. But now she watches all of them. Or as many of them as possible. Her scouting reports are better than anything stamped official and readily available in the team clubhouse.

‘Thanks. Didn’t really see the ball that well tonight, though. Is Max there?’ It’s stupid to ask when he already knows the answer.

‘Out with Liz. They’ve been inseparable ever since she moved back to Roswell. It’s gross and I miss you.’ The sound on her tv goes silent and he knows she’s settling in for a long conversation. ‘Tell me about tomorrow. Any surprises?’

‘No. New kid on the mound just called up. Got a mean slider. Torres has some pain in his wrist so he’ll be benched.’ Michael finishes his apple in two large bites and guzzles his water, listening to Isobel pound away at her keyboard already deep in research mode. ‘Might get me moved up to the number two slot.’

They spend fifteen minutes strategizing. It’s what they do most nights. Isobel critiquing the numbers based on intuition and her own database of knowledge concerning the human psyche, while he runs statistical analyses and probabilities in his head faster than humanly possible. Michael suggests more than once that she’d make a great scout and that maybe when he retires they can go into business together. He’s told her this a million times, but she only laughs him off and reminds him that she already has a job.

‘A worthless job that doesn’t pay you what you deserve.’ He reaches for the tv remote on his nightstand but can’t find it. Not that it matters. He switches the television on with his mind and nods his head through the channels, stopping on an old western and muting the volume.

‘Philanthropy is not worthless, Michael!’ She sighs loudly to punctuate her exasperation. ‘And my salary is not the point - the point is helping people. Besides, I have all of Noah’s money and can negotiate more pay any time I choose.’

That he believes. ‘How’d your date go last night?’ Asking Isobel about her date absolutely means she’ll push him to share something just as personal. But it was her first official date with a woman and he genuinely wants to know how it went. No matter the price he’ll pay.

‘Really, really, really well.’ He can hear the grin in her voice and it makes him smile. ‘She’s a cardiologist and very good with her hands. Valenti makes a pretty superb matchmaker. Maybe I’ll ship him your way because you could certainly use the help.’

Michael rolls his eyes and fakes a groan. ‘You can keep Valenti. Don’t you think it’s weird to have your ex setting you up on dates? Do you really think he’s the best judge of character?’

‘Kyle knows me better than most. He was my first relationship after Noah and he put up with a lot. I trust him implicitly with my heart and yours. Plus, I was the one who broke up with him.’

‘My heart is fine, thanks.’ He lies smoothly and knows exactly how she’s going to respond.

‘I can’t stand the thought of you all the way across the country in that foreign place with no one to go home to at night.’

He snorts. ‘It’s called Georgia, Iz. And I’m not home enough for a relationship to work right now.’

‘Half the guys on your team - on any team! - are married. So that’s a pisspoor excuse. You keep pushing everyone away. Don’t forget who you’re talking to. I know you, Michael. As soon as you start to feel something, the doors slam shut and you become another stereotypical lonewolf cowboy.’ Her voice is loud now, vehement and self-righteous. They’ve reenacted this scene so many times it feels very paint by number at this point. ‘I hardly ever hear a smile in your voice anymore.’

She’s right and she knows it. He used to love dating, meeting new people. First kisses and first fucks. Last kisses and farewell fucks. He lived for those moments and now he hardly ever looks anyone in the eye. ‘We have this conversation at least once a month. And nothing has changed. It’s too hard right now, Iz. I’m too known to ever really be known. Not the way I would want to be. Not in any way that I would trust.’

There’s no use arguing so they move on to easier topics. Max and LIz’s ongoing romance, details of Isobel’s date, Maria’s remodel of the Pony thanks to a very generous anonymous donation. Every word out of her mouth squeezes his heart a little bit tighter until it’s too much and he says goodnight.

Flipping onto his side, he reaches his arm out to the other side of the bed, running his hand over the cold, unwrinkled sheet. His eyes land on the empty pillow no head ever touches and tries to imagine a face looking back at him. A face that might smile suggestively or quietly murmur goodnight. But he’s unable to conjure anything beyond a blank, shapeless outline. It makes him feel pathetic so he yanks the pillow underneath his own head and forces his eyes shut, trying in vain to quiet his mind. Despite his best efforts, sleep takes its sweet time finding him.

The next morning he’s exhausted but gets to the field early. He’d woken up to a cryptic message from Isobel. There’s a surprise waiting for you after the game! Stick around this time, Michael. Don’t make me get on a plane. He’s sure that can’t mean anything good, but he attempts to put it out of his mind for now.

The ballpark is already bustling with activity. Michael heads into the clubhouse to change. He stops and asks Stan, their hitting coach, for some extra work before the rest of the team arrives. He’s worried about how he’s been shifting his wrists recently and wants someone else’s opinion. The adjustments he’d made last night seem to be working, but he’s worried about straining a muscle or tweaking the wrong tendon. Two of his teammates are already on the IL with wrist pain. He doesn’t want to be next, especially with the postseason race and his run at MVP on the line.

Michael finds Danny Marks asleep in one of the clubhouse’s leather chairs. He swats him on the head on the way to his locker, laughing at Danny’s loud yelp. ‘Fuck, man, you’re always asleep. How did you manage to stay awake on the mound long enough to put together two Cy Young seasons?’

‘Talent, Guerin. Talent. You should try it sometime. Maybe then you’ll win MVP.’ Danny yawns and stretches his arms over his head. Michael glares at him. ‘Don’t worry. You’re still the favorite. Our very own diamond darling. No one else is getting their own personal concert any time soon.’

‘What?’ He sits on the chair at his locker, blinking at Danny in confusion. ‘Personal concert?’ Isobel’s strange text message flashes through his head again while he inwardly groans.

‘Oh, yeah.’ Danny grins and crosses his ankles on the table in front of him, brashly enjoying the way Michael squirms. ‘Alex Manes is traveling down from Nashville just for you - baseball’s most beloved first baseman.’ He throws a toy football at Michael’s head, chuckling when it bounces off his curls. ‘He’s not bad looking, you know.’

‘Stop.’ Danny is Michael’s best friend on the team and the only one he feels comfortable enough to have this conversation with. ‘Whose idea was this? Did Isobel do something? Or was this you?’

Michael doesn’t want this. Not at all. And he can’t exactly explain why. Music is personal to him - profoundly personal. Always has been since he was nothing but an unloved kid trapped in various violent foster homes. It was music that had kept him warm at night and music that had loved him best. The only escape available to him during most of his darkest hours.

Over the years, there have been many artists he’s considered favorites. Most of them old country crooners or folk song heroes. Much like Alex Manes. But with Alex, it’s something more. Something he has a hard time vocalizing. They are both from New Mexico. Both spent a chunk of their formative years in Roswell. Michael has read or watched multiple interviews with Alex where he’s alluded heavily to an abusive father. His lyrics certainly do the same. Lots of kids grow up that way - Michael knows he’s not alone in that particular fate - but the way Alex puts that pain to music settles something inside his chest that has never been settled before.

So the thought of meeting Alex worries Michael. They say don’t meet your heroes for a reason. In his head, Alex represents a sense of safety, a sense of home. What happens when they meet and that’s taken from him? Because maybe Alex is a liar. Or maybe he’s a dick. Either possibility is very real. He’s also a vet, and Michael hates, hates, hates the military. And he doesn’t want to hate Alex. Doesn’t want to lose his music. Cannot emotionally afford to lose his music if he’s being honest.

‘Isobel apparently knows someone who knows someone who knows someone. I just didn’t try and stop her. Or Lena.’ Danny’s wife is Isobel’s favorite human. It’s the worst thing that’s happened to Michael since meeting Danny. The two of them have done nothing but make his life one unasked for surprise after another. ‘Besides, even if you hate it, the team could really use some fun before heading into the postseason. Some good old-fashioned team bonding, my friend. And this time, you don’t get to run away. The guys need to see their captain smile every once in a while.’

Michael sighs and changes into his warmups. Danny’s phone rings and he grins one last time at Michael before disappearing for some privacy. Michael decides to push Alex Manes to the back of his mind and concentrate on the game ahead of him. Stan is waiting, anyway. So he’ll focus on his wrists for now and worry about everything else later. The one thing he does do, however, is pull out his phone and send Isobel a very pointed text.

You should have gotten my permission first.

Isobel’s text response is nothing but the angel halo emoji. Michael wishes his telekinesis was strong enough to travel across state lines because he’d like to throw her phone into the wall. Since that option is not available to him, he sends Max a text instead.

Your sister is a menace.

He pockets his phone, not bothering to wait on an answer. Max tends to be too busy these days. Not that that’s anything new really. Unless your name is Liz Ortecho or Isobel Evans, he doesn’t have much time for you.

The morning stretches by as gametime approaches. Batting practice goes well and Michael works with Stan on keeping his wrists from turning too much when he swings. His teammates have all found out about the concert by the time the first pitch is thrown and none of them will let him forget it. Each time his walk-up music begins to play, Danny leads a small group of particularly bad vocalists in a sing-a-long. All of them belting out the lyrics at the top of their lungs. Michael tries to keep the stupid grin off his face and almost suceeds.

He won’t admit it, but he actually begins to get excited. Doesn’t even mind when Max only ends up responding with a snarky text.

Try living less than five miles from her.

He’d give anything to live five miles from Isobel. Michael loves his teammates. He really does. Atlanta has one of the best team dynamics in baseball. Maybe the best. They support each other, love one another, and when they say family, they mean it. Team dinners and family outings are normal even during the off season. Michael doesn’t avoid spending time with them because he dislikes anyone - although there have been various tiffs in the past but nothing long lasting. He avoids them because he loves them enough to let his mouth loosen too much, all his secrets threatening to tumble out with no regard for his safety or the safety of his siblings.

He knows this because it has happened on more than one occasion. Years ago during his rookie years when living hard and drinker harder were his nightly norm. On any given night you’d find him at the bar, four fingers deep into a bottle of bourbon, mouthing off about moving things with his mind. It wasn’t the booze talking; it was his loneliness. The throbbing homesick ache in his chest that only Max and Isobel could smooth away. Once he knew his teammates were shitfaced, he’d let some little comment slip about his abilities. Half of them never paid any attention to the things he said and the other half merely laughed at him.

He’d told Isobel one night about the things he said and she’d yelled at him solidly for an hour. The next day he’d gotten a nasty phone call from Max and has kept his mouth shut ever since that conversation.

Keeping their secret is important. Michael understands that, but the lying exhausts him. He loves Danny and hates that the most important part of himself Danny and Lena can never know. He loves his other teammates, and he doesn’t want to hide this huge part of himself from them forever. The lying has always made him feel unclean - distant and deceptive. Back in Roswell, it had been easier. He hadn’t had many friends and the people closest to him shared the same secret. But now, the people he sees every single day aren’t allowed to know the real him. It breaks his heart in a way he could never have anticipated, making him feel truly alien.

Michael and Isobel had jumped through enormous hoops to keep his DNA secret from team doctors and drug testers. It’s the only reason he’d ever agreed to her mind influence.

A major league baseball player cannot have telekinetic superpowers, alien or not. The cheating accusations would be immediate and relentless - his career over and his name shamed forever. Regardless of the fact that he would never dream of cheating to advance his career. Besides, he’s self-aware enough - or perhaps cocky enough - to understand that his level of talent doesn’t require any telekinetic assistance. Michael Guerin is just that fucking good.

During his last at bat in the eighth inning, Alex Manes’ face flashes on the digital scoreboard high above centerfield advertising the aftergame concert. Michael concentrates on keeping his wrists tight and imagines that Alex is somewhere in the stadium watching him. He swings at the first pitch - a fastball left too high over the plate - and knows he’s gotten every piece of it by the cracking sound his bat makes. He starts a slow run to first base and watches the ball sail over the leftfield wall. With his signature two claps, he rounds first and enjoys the cheering crowd chanting his name. Stepping on the bag at home plate, his eyes glance back up at the scoreboard, but Alex’s face has disappeared. And suddenly his nerves have returned tenfold at the realization that soon he’ll be face to face with a man he has no idea how to talk to - what to say or even if he’ll get a chance to say anything at all.

Despite the cheers and happy butt slaps from his teammates, the pit in Michael’s stomach stretches wide. In the clubhouse, he checks his phone again and one last final message from Isobel lights up his screen.

He wants to meet you first.

[cocos-cocoapuffsarenotforsale]

Not Him~~Part 4

MASTERLIST

Part 3

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Stark!Reader

Warnings: Protective!Bucky, Protective!Tony, Dad!Tony, Takes place during Captain America: Civil Ware, Use of the Word Whore, Little Angsty, Pregnant!Reader, violence, swearing, CANON DIVERGENCE!

Taglist: @chewymoustachio

A/N: Hey guys, I finally updated Not Him! Let me know if anyone wants to be added to the taglist (or removed). Sorry if you have already asked, it’s been a while and I’m having some difficulties with finding it. Hope you all enjoy the update! Xoxo

————————————————————————

It was a long and grueling flight, and to make matters worse apparently, your baby was no fan of flying. You had lost count of how many times you had to puke during the flight. But finally, you were landing in Siberia, you had been nervous that you had gotten the coordinates wrong until you saw the Quinjet. You let out a sigh of relief, you were going to see Bucky soon. After spending practically 24/7 with him in little apartments all over Europe it was really hard to not be with him.

“Dad?” You say after you landed the helicopter but before he could vacate the aircraft.

“Yes, Princess?” He asked letting out a small huff of annoyance.

“Remember your promise,” you command before opening the helicopter door. Goosebumps immediately cover your skin and you're unsure if it’s due to the cold, windy weather or if it’s because of the eerie calm outside the HYDRA facility.

“Stay behind me,” your father ordered as he took the lead entering the building.

The two of you remain silent until you walk into the main chamber and see Bucky and Steve standing in the middle of the room. Both of them look on edge and bewildered. 

“Buck?” You call, approaching the men carefully and quietly.

“Y/n?” He asks, turning around to look at you. His face goes from confused to shocked to angry, all in a matter of seconds.

“You were supposed to go home! He was supposed to take you home!” Bucky shouts accusingly, as he points a finger at your father.

“We did. She explained the Super Soldier dilemma to me. I wanted to help. I couldn’t bring the others, Team Cap is in prison, Nat’s on the run, Peter’s just a kid. I don’t know how to get in touch with T’Challa, Vision is inconsolable right now, and Rhodey-Rhodey-” Your father’s voice broke off. 

“Tony, what happened to Rhodey?” Steve asks, taking a step closer to Tony.

“He’s paralyzed, he almost died. He’s still in critical condition.” You explained for your dad, knowing it was too hard for him to vocalize right now. Rhodey was your dad’s best friend, through everything he was there. When your mom ran out on the two of you, only after getting as much as possible from your dad financially, leaving him with full custody of a newborn. Rhodey was there to help your dad adjust to single parenthood. After your dad was kidnapped, Rhodey was there, when Pepper dumped him after finding out his bisexuality, Rhodey was there. Through all the turmoil with Steve and your dad, Rhodey was there. He was there through it all, and the thought that Tony had almost lost him was too much for your dad to bear.

“Tony-I-I’m so sorry,” Steve said, pulling your dad into a Super Soldier sized hug.

“Where are the other super soldiers?” You asked, trying to bring everyone back to more pressing matters.

“Dead,” Bucky replied stiffly. You looked at him, bewildered by his hostile attitude and saw the fury still raging in his eyes. Fuck, looks like you were going to be getting quite the lecture later.

“Dead?” You repeated incredulously. 

“I’m not sure why he wanted to bring us here but apparently he wasn’t interested in the other Soldiers,” Bucky explained, walking closer to you, he pulled you into a tight embrace and buried his face into your hair. He took a deep breath, inhaling your familiar scent.

“So what does he want us here for?” Your dad asked looking around, the tension in the room was overwhelming. What could this man have in store for you?

“Hello Avengers,” you hear a cold voice answer. “Really Mr. Barnes, did you think I wanted more of you? I hate you, all of you. Earth’s defenders, that’s how you Avengers like to think of yourselves, right? Well, I’m sorry to inform you that you actually are Earth’s destroyers. You cause devastation and pain wherever you go.”

“Where are you?!” You shout looking around trying to find the man.

“Don’t worry about that. Why don’t we watch a little video?” He replies, the computer turns on and a video begins to play.

“I know that road,” your dad mutters. No! Why would this man want to show him this?

“Let’s get out of here,” you say trying to tug your father away from the screen, but he doesn’t budge.

“Why not let your father find out the truth Y/n?” The voice taunts and you feel your blood run cold. He wanted to destroy your family. That was his goal. To tear the Avengers apart.

“Dad, let’s go. Now!” You demand, giving his arm a harsh pull, but his feet remain firmly planted in front of the screen.

“What does he mean, ‘the truth’?” Your dad questions, an unfamiliar edge in his voice.

“It doesn’t matter.” You argue trying in vain to get him away from the video. But it’s too late, the car drives past the camera and the motorcycle follows quickly. You freeze, knowing exactly what was about to happen. The look on your dad’s face makes your knees go weak, you had never seen him look so...destroyed.

“You killed them?” He growled, turning to Bucky, who instinctively raised his gun in response. Steve steps between them quickly, before they can hurt each other.

“You knew?” Your dad chokes out looking at Steve, the betrayal clear in his eyes. Steve’s lack of reply is all the confirmation Tony needs.

“You knew what he did. And you never told me?! How-how could you?! You defended him!” He roars at Steve.

“Daddy-” You start but are cut off when your dad whirls around to stare at you. 

“What about you? Did you know? Did you know what that monster did to our family?!” He spats before shoving Steve out of his way and blasting one of his Repulsors off at Bucky. Luckily, Bucky is able to dodge that blast and the following ones.

“ENOUGH!” You shout, using your powers you pin your father to the wall, with his arms stuck at his side.

“I will not let any of you harm the others. Yes, I did know. Steve told me before I accepted the mission. I decided not to tell you because I knew all it would do was hurt you. I was trying to protect you.” You explain pacing around in front of your father.

“That’s not your job. You should’ve told me.” Your dad argued.

“Why? What good would it have done? Well?” You demand, feeling the frustration bubbling up in you.

“I would have known the truth! How could you be with him? The monster that killed your grandparents, tore our family apart!” He shouts back.

“He is not a monster! You raised me to be open-minded and to forgive. Bucky didn’t do those things. He was tortured for years and had his mind fucked with! HYDRA created the Soldier, the Soldier did those things, NOT BUCKY! HYDRA is the enemy! Not Bucky! He is just as much a victim as we are!” You insisted.

“I raised you to be a good person! I don’t even recognize you anymore! I raised you to be better than a whore for a terrorist!” He yells and all of a sudden you see the color drain out of his face when he realizes what he said. But it’s too late, he already said it. You feel your knees buckle and the tears are streaming down your face as you sink to the ground. Bucky is by your side in an instant, while Steve stares on shocked. Bucky quickly scoops you up in his arms, fighting his natural impulse to beat your dad to a pulp for what he said to you. Bucky rushes out of the building towards the Quinjet, Steve hot on his trail after finally snapping out of his shock.

“Y/n, I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!” Your dad calls after you, but you ignore him, instead curling into Bucky’s side.

“T’Challa?” You hear Steve ask in shock, causing you to turn your face from Bucky’s chest to see what’s going on.

“Captain,” the Prince greets. “I must apologize, Sergeant Barnes. I was wrong to try and harm you. I just discovered the truth. My actions were despicable, not the actions of a king. I hope to learn from my mistakes.”

“Apology accepted,” Bucky replies, shocked that he was even receiving one in the first place.

“I have dealt with the organizer of these events. May I offer my assistance to the three of you?” T’Challa offers.

“Got somewhere we can hide out for a while?” Steve asks, half-joking, half-serious.

“I know just the place,” T’Challa replies with a small smirk, motioning the three of you into his aircraft.

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Part 5

[mattzerella-sticks]

Supernatural Crack🩹tober

Day 6: Bi Bi Bi - Generations

1957

           Henry asks him to detail his encounter, again. “I – I didn’t have my, uh… my pen.” He shakes it, awkwardly chuckling.

           The other man – Paul – whistles a sad note at having to repeat his story but does so anyway. “Like I said, I was minding my business – taking a walk through the park…”

           Nodding, Henry scribbles over the little notepad what he should have been writing from the start. If he hadn’t been distracted. By disheveled hair, five o’clock shadows, blue eyes and broad shoulders under a too-tight t-shirt. Paul describes his encounter with the shifter in full detail. Henry barely collects enough information for his investigation. When their meeting ends, Paul ushering him out the door, Henry almost cries in relief. Still, there’s a routine to this. Rules he, a Men of Letters, must follow.

           “If you see anything else,” Henry says, handing Paul a business card, “you can reach me, here.”

           Not really. Henry rarely spends time in the Bunker, unlike his fellow colleagues who skulk around like the very ghosts they study. They’d more than likely answer the phone. Why he told Paul that, he cannot explain. Neither the rush Henry felt when Paul grabbed the card, and for a few scant seconds, they both held it. Thumbs inches apart from one another. Until Henry let go, stepping past the threshold and breathing deep from clean air not tainted by aftershave and loose cigarettes. Confusion flies from his mind like the birds overhead in the sky. Cawing while he walked the short distance from Paul’s trailer towards his car.

           That’s all he would need. A simple trek would send those queer thoughts heavenward, never to bother him again. Paul’s face stayed with him, though, when he entered the car. How his lips moved when asking simple questions, like if he wanted a drink. His fingers on the bottle while he poured, somehow maintaining eye contact with him. That damned business card.

           Henry tightens his grip on the steering wheel, shuddering as it all replays in his mind, frame by frame through his mental projector.

           Luckily, pinned on the rearview, was a picture of his beloved. Millie. Smiling like a ray of sunshine, parting those awful clouds. She gives him strength, and with one final push, shoves those thoughts far away. Paul’s strong fingers were replaced with her delicate ones, and the only lip he thinks about is her soft, pink ones. Her face is all he ever needs. With Millie, he can overpower any temptation.

           “And that’s normal,” he mutters, starting the engine, “we all have temptations… as long as I never give in.”

           On the roads, it’s hard. But that’s why, wherever he goes, he carries a piece of Millie with him. To make it easy.

1989

           John wakes up with a sharp knife cleaving his head in twain, and a dull ache low near his stomach. Gurgling, he rubs a tired hand through his hair. Blocks intrusive sun rays with a calloused paw, mumbling all the while about extinguishing the sun.

           “Yeah,” someone chuckles nearby, sheets rustling as he moves. A heavy arm wraps around him. “The sun’s a fuckin’ loser.”

           Despite the monster-sized hangover he nurses, John sprung from the bed. “What the –“ He bites hard on his tongue, enough to draw blood, as he fully takes in the bed’s other occupant. Bronzed skin, chestnut hair fanning out behind him on the pillow. Bloodshot, blue eyes squinting up at him. Chest bare, the rest thankfully hidden under the blanket. But judging by his own state, and that of the room with clothes strung about, he saw enough. Blissfully forgotten, lost when he sobered.

           “Hey,” the stranger drawls, sitting. Watching John with a furrowed brow. “What’s wrong?”

           He twitches, telegraphing his next moves with blaring sirens. John barks a quick order, “No!” in time, startling the other back into bed.

           “What?”

           “No,” he continues, growling. Reaching for a pair of pants, one leg inside. “No, you… you stay there –“

           “What?” he says again, angrier, “John, what the hell is going –“

           “No!” he roars, whipping around. Jeans still unbuttoned, unzippered. “Do not address me, you –“ Like a gunshot, he hurls the insult and watches all the life drain from the other man. Paler than earlier, his lips thin. “I am going to get dressed,” John says, shoulders quaking with rage. At the stranger. At himself. At what happened last night. “And I will leave. You will wait exactly ten minutes. Not nine, not eleven – ten. After that you can do whatever the hell you want as long as we never see each other again. Because if we do I…” John advances, snagging his button down on the way. Strangles the fabric in his grip. “I promise you will not like it.”

           Learning from his earlier missteps, the stranger wordlessly nods, drawing up the covers around his waist.

           “Good.”

           He throws the shirt on, hastily buttoning it. Tucks it into his now-fastened pants, and finds his stained jacket. Then, he grabs his shoes. Exiting barefoot, no care to waste time putting them on. More important that he create distance between him and his mistake.

           It won’t be far. First, he notices his Baby. Parked haphazardly but in one piece. The relief that ballooned in his chest bursts as his gaze trails from that towards the overhead motel sign. A familiar one. The same he saw when driving in three weeks ago, checking in while he skulked about for hunts.

           John looks behind him, at the room he left. Even in a stupor, he found a room on the other side. Far from his kids, his secret safe another day. He slams a boot against his head, ringing increasing from the blow. “Stupid, stupid…” he mutters, walking, “You promised… after the last time, you promised -!”

           This happened before. More than the standard one time – because every boy practiced kissing with their best friend. At least, that’s what Marty told him in the eighth grade. Once isn’t a big deal. Repeat performances and… and other lewd acts, that crosses over into queer territory. Dangerous territory. For him as a man, and a father.

           If only Mary… she stopped it, for a while. Woman or man, there wasn’t a person alive who stole his breath quite like her. Who made his heart skip a beat in a normal way. When she died, normality went with her.

           He hoped at least some of it would stay. But with enough drink, anything is possible.

           Standing outside his door, shifting on his feet, John promises to be better. Resist falling into old habits, into men’s arms. Otherwise, one day, he won’t be as lucky. And where would his boys be…

           “Whatever,” he sighs, opening the door, “women’re better anyway.”

           John expected, with how low the sun was, he’d find a quiet room. Two children fast asleep, and a table John can sit at and consider his life choices. The table’s there, and at least one child lay unmoving on the bed.

           Dean, however, sits on the edge of his bed. Bowl of cereal on his lap, he barely flinched at John’s entrance. Mesmerized by the television screen.

           Creeping forward, he curiously spies on the cartoon Dean watches. He recognizes the explosions and music, glad his son enjoyed a perfect boys’ show like G.I. Joe. Still, freaked by his morning, John sees the cartoon with new eyes. Were the men on the show always that jacked? Abnormally so? And men don’t hug, why are they? John only hugged his fellow soldiers for select reasons, and those nights ended in hushed whispers and regret.

           He strides across the room and clicks the television off.

           “Hey!” Dean cries, “I was watching –“

           “You won’t ever watch that show again, you hear me?” he says, sternly wagging his finger. “Do you hear me?”

           Dean whines, kicking his legs. “Why? What’s so bad about it?”

           “Because,” he splutters, cheeks flushed, “because, you don’t want people to think you’re a fairy, do you?” His oldest frowns, clearly confused. Unused to the term. John, reticent, turns from him. “Besides, you’re too old for cartoons anyway. Men don’t watch cartoons.” At Dean’s silence, John heads for the bathroom. “Wake Sammy, tell him we’re leaving –“

           “What?”

           “Your things better be packed by the time I finish showering.” He shuts the door, blocking any response.

           Hidden from his kids, John bleeds every ounce of tension from his body. Shoes drop, booming in the small space. Shuffling further, John braces himself against the sink. Stares at his reflection, hating every sinful inch. “Never again,” he whispers, “you’re stronger than your mistakes.”

2020

           Dean watches his reflection mouth the words, easy without sound. But when he tries voicing those thoughts, his voice crackles and cuts out. Plug pulled before anything happens, too frightened by what might be.

           “You can do this,” he mutters, splashing some water on his face. “You can do this.” He’s had how many years? Of figuring things out. Of lying. Of acceptance. It’s three words. There are scarier things than that, and Dean has taken them all down.

        ��  But this?

           Sam knocks on the door, “Dean? You finished in there?”

           “Give me a sec, Sam!” he calls, wiping his hands on a nearby towel. His brother drumming continuing behind him, testing his patience. “Seriously!”

           “Come on… I want to shower!” Scoffing. Sam slams a heavy hand on the door. “Can you please come out already?”

           Dean swings it open, Sam’s brows jumping in surprise. “Fine!” he shouts, flailing, “I’m bisexual. Are you happy?”

           Sam scowls, looking unimpressed. “Is that all?”

           “…Yeah?”

           “Good,” Sam says, offering a tiny smile. Only momentarily, as in the next second it flattens into a frown. “Now, if you're done, can you please exit the bathroom so I can wash the witch gunk from my hair?”

           “Sure, sure…” Dean stumbles out, Sam rushing in after. Chest lighter, as was his mood. He giggles from the absurdity of it all, raking shaking fingers through his hair. “I’m bisexual,” he repeats, “I’m bi – I’m bi!”

           A hurricane of thoughts whip through is mind. Many of them a variation of what he’s already announced. In the eye of that storm, however, is a crystal-clear lake of blue. A comfort, that makes his heart swell and feel safe. The same color as a very, important person’s eyes.

           Dean dials his number, holding the phone to his ear. He answers on the third ring, Dean speaking over him. “Hey, Cas! I – I have something to tell you. I’m –“

(Day 5 - Now That’s an Angel Blade)

[wolvesofinnistrad]

Soulmarks AU part 1

Everyone get’s their soul mark around 16, it’s just common fact.

When Alec turns 16 he scours his body for anything, a small blemish, anything to let him know where his soul mate will first touch him but he can’t find anything.

He’s always feared this day, but before he was worried that it’d be a large handprint or something else that let others know he was gay.

Now he worries he doesn’t have a soul mate at all.

His family tries to console him, that maybe he’s a late bloomer, that maybe his mate isn’t born yet and that’s why he hasn’t gotten one.

That idea is almost worse that he’d be that much older than his mate.

It’s almost 3 months before he realizes he does have a soul mark, it’s just in a place he’s been studiously avoiding.

He’s in the shower, trying to block out the thoughts that always come to him there when he happens to glance down and something looks, strange.

Trembling fingers reach down and brush away the thick hair before he gasps.

He tells himself its just water from the shower streaming down his cheeks, but even he can’t believe that.

It’s hard to see, and afterwards he has to go steal a mirror from Izzy just to be able to see it better, but once he can see more he realizes what it is.

Most people’s marks show up on their hands, handshakes, high fives, things like that being first touches.

Next most common are things like arms, face and back, then less common legs, feet, chest, etc.

Least common are what are called the sexual marks, when your soul mates first touch is somewhere like a breast, your ass, your genitals.

Alec would have never guessed his soul mark would be the shape of lips around the base of his cock.

The moment it fully hits him he finally gives in to the urges he’s fought so long, because he can’t stop thinking about what it means, who it means.

of course he also wonders how in the world the first touch of his soul mate is him being blown.

He can’t imagine any future where he’s confident enough that his first touch with someone is like that.

Some nights he wonders how it’s going to happen and it both scares and thrills him.

It’s barely two weeks before Jace can’t take noticing Alec’s shy, private smiles when he thinks no one is looking and corners him about it.

Alec doesn’t want to admit it at first, but finally he tells Jace, who as usual is incredulous.

“There’s no WAY your soul mark is a stage 3.  NO way!”

Alec, feeling the need to reassure himself it’s real, show just the very hint of it to Jace who promptly loses his mind.

“Your soul mark is LIPS around your COCK!”

Unfortunately his parents happen to hear Jace shouting this which leads to some absolutely mortifying discussions.

After that things slip back to normal, although he always feels the weight of it in others gazes if they know, wondering if he’s going to be some kind of slut that he has a mark like that.

Alec waits and waits, hoping that somehow his mate will find him without any outward mark and his own closeted status, but by the time he’s 24 he’s still a virgin and not out to anyone but his sister so he’s kind of given up hope.

And then Jace begins dating a girl named Clary and starts dragging Alec with him to meet her friends.

They aren’t soul mates, and Alec feels like it’s a waste to get that invested, but he’s trying to be supportive for his brother.

Clary’s best friend, Simon, has just recently met his soulmate Raphael and the group, consisting of them, Alec, Clary, Jace, and then Raphael’s friends Magnus and Meliorn sit around talking when the topic of soul mark comes up.

Jace’s mark is a hand print on his face, which everyone thinks is hilarious and, knowing Jace, seems fitting that his mate would slap him.

Clary’s is the more common hand mark from a greeting.

Simon and Raphael had SImon’s wrist and Raphael’s neck.

Melliorn also has his entire hand marked.

Only Magnus and Alec are left and before Magnus can say anything Jace buts in.

“If we’re really talking interesting soul marks Alec has-”

Alec roughly shoves Jace “Shut up.”

“Oh come on.  It’s the best soul makr I’ve ever seen.  Well, half seen since you won’t let me see the rest of it.”

“I’m nto showing my brother my...” Alec starts before stopping himself, groaning as he’s already given too much away.

“Show your brother what exactly?  Alexander, do you have a sexual mark?” Magnus asks, voice playfully coy.

Alec tries to deny it, but Jace is grinning and nodding like a madman and Alec tosses a pillow at his head.

“Oh I HAVE to know what it is now Alec!”  Simon is practically rabid to find out and Alec is pretty sure he’d rather die than discuss this.

“If you don’t tell them I will.”

“You’re a horrible brother.”

“My mark is me being slapped, and yours is what yours is, tell me who got the rough end?”

Sighing Alec finally gives in.  He dutifully avoids everyone’s gaze as he begins.  “My mark is...  A pair of lips...”

“Where?” Magnus asks.  

Magnus himself has his mark on his lips, but it’s covered up by lipstick at the moment, so it piques his interest.

Not that he thinks Alec is his soul mate, the man is so stuffy that he has to be straight.

Alec groans, glancing to Jace who is on the verge of tears with silent laughter.

“It’s a pair of lips around...  Around my cock.  Like my mate is giving me a blowjob...”

There’s a roar of laughter as the entire group breaks out over this revelation.

“And she must be really good too, because I’ve seen Alec in underwear, he’s a big boy to be lips at the base.”

Jace actually gets punched in the arm at that by Alec, but Magnus doesn’t miss the weird twitch Alec gives off when Jace says “she”

“Laugh it up, at least I’m getting sucked off by my mate...” Alec finally says, trying to salvage some of his reputation, even if he can’t believe he’s just said that.

Once everyone calms down Clary turns to Magnus, “So what is yours Magnus?”

All eyes turn to him before Magnus smiles and grabs a napkin.

“Funny enough, mine is also lip related,” he says with a smirk.  Slowly he wipes away his bright purple lipstick to reveal dark soul marks covering his entire lips.

Alec can’t help but gulp and cough, because while he could clearly just be kissing his mate, there’s no mistaking that Alec has always known his own soul mate would have to have their soul mark covering their lips.

And, well, Magnus is the most gorgeous man he’s ever met, evne if he’s done his best to barely look at him.

Except now that he’s heard that he can’t do anyhting but look at him, having to pry his eyes away.

Magnus eventually catches him and he looks away, feeling heat creep into his cheeks, but when he glances back Magnus is still staring at him.

Alec is thankful that Raphael says he needs to go soon after, and since he drove most of them here, that means they have to leave.

Everyone exchanges pleasantries as they prepare to leave.

IN an attempt to be a little shit, Meliorn gently pats Jace on his cheek as he leaves  with a playful “see you around blondie.”

It’s only a moment later when Jace and Meliorn both freeze as Meliorn walks away that everyone stops to stare at them.

Jace is touching his face with just his fingertips, right over his soul mark.

As they watch the mark begins to fade.

Meliorn turns around looking confused, his hand raised as his mark is fading at the same rate.

“I’m not even gay, what the fuck?!” Jace shouts as he turns to Meliorn.

Meliorn just smirks, “Wouldn’t be the first straight boy I’ve turned.”

Alec is, not surprisingly, the most shocked of anyone that isn’t Jace, since he’s never even heard Jace mention another man was attractive as a joke.

“This...  Cannot be happening,” Jace says, looking from Meliorn to Clary

“Like, it has to be a mistake right, right Alec?”

Alec just stares at Jace, then to Meliorn and back to Jace.  “Uh, I’ve never heard of a soul mark disappearing without meeting your mate and having it touched.”

“If its any consolation, plenty of people don’t realize their latent bisexual tendencies until later in life,” Magnus says, “I mean I’ve always known I was a raging bisexual, but it’s not as easy for others.”

Hearing that definitely make Alec’s stomach flip, but he tries to ignore it.

“But, if I was gay I could do so much better...” Jace says, let down..

“Like I’d have picked a puny blond white fucboi as my mate?” Meliorn says, but he’s grinning.

“Shut it you asshole!”

“Make me.”

“Oh I’ll make you I’ll shut your entire mouth up I’ll...” Jace stops, realizing he’s gotten right in Meliorn’s face.

“Uh... I, what I meant was, um,” Jace panics, but before he can do anything to back away Meliorn grabs him and kisses him hard.

For about 3 seconds Jace seems like he’s going to bolt, then he very clearly moans and grips Meliorn’s arm and kisses back.

Alec’s jaw drops, Clary looks like she’s about to cry, Magnus and SImon are both cheering and Raphael looks bored.

When they finally break apart Jace looks dazed, it takes him a minute to process before he turns to the group and simply says “Well, I’m definitely Bi.”

Clary actually starts crying then, running off and Magnus gives one last lingering look at Alec that makes Alec’s heart beat faster before running after her.

Alec goes home alone, laying in bed wondering how both he and Jace didn’t realize this.  He tells Izzy only enough that she knows Jace broke up with Clary at the party and that Clary, who she still hasn’t met, was inconsolable.

The next day he sees Jace trying to sneak in the house before breakfast and he opens the door for him and hands him some coffee.

“Really?  The first night Jace?  Yesterday you didn’t even think you were attracted to guys.”

Jace has hickies all over his neck, along with what look like bite marks.

“What can I say, I’m a fast learner.”  He winks at Alec and takes a long swig of coffee..

“Besides, like you can talk Mr. my girl is gonna suck me off the first time we meet.”

“Not my girl.”

“I mean she’ll be your girl after it happens.”

“No, I mean.  It’d be my guy.  My soulmate has to be a guy, I’m gay Jace.”

“WHAT?!”

“Why do you sound more shocked to find out I’m gay than you did to find out you yourself were bi?”

“Because you’re...  You!  You're like, the straightest person I know!”

Alec grimaces at that.

“I’m not sure how to respond to that”

“YOu know what I mean, most gay guys are all sparkly and fun and sexually liberated and shit.”

“Way to stereotype Jace.”

“I’m just saying you don’t seem gay.”

“Well I’m sorry Im not constantly sucking a cock Jace but I mean... I am gay.”

“What in the world did I just walk in on?” Izzy asks, rounding the corner into the kitchen.

“uh, Alec was just, um” Jace stammers, trying to cover for his older brother.

“She knows I’m gay JAce, its fine.”

“Oh thank God,” Jace sighs. Then, “Wait, you told her and not me!”

“I figured it out, it’s not that hard.”

“Funny since Jace just called me the straightest person he’s ever met.”

“Well, I mean, if you just took everything you did at face value, sure, he’s right.”

Alec turns to Izzy with a stern look.

“I’m just saying, it’s a very convincing façade you’ve created Alec.”

“Well anyway, I guess that means we’re down to only one straight sibling,” Jace says, laughing.

“Yes, it’s a pity only women have to deal with you Jace.”

Alec and Jace both share a look then turn back to Izzy.

“Wait...”

“Iz?”

“Oh come on, please tell me you both didn’t think I was straight!”

“Gaydar machine really, really broken,” Alec says, patting himself down like he’s lost it.

“Hey at least you knew you were gay Alec, you should have caught this, I’m new to this shit.”

That makes Izzy turn to Jace, “What does THAT mean?”

Jace smirks, and it’s only then Izzy realizes his soulmate mark is gone.

“Oh my god, your mark is gone!  When, who?”

“Last night.  His name’s Meliorn.  I call him Mel.”

“HIS name!  You’re Bi?”

“Apparently.”

“You didn’t know?”

Jace laughs, “I mean I always said I was everyone’s type, I just didn’t know everyone was my type.”

Alec groans along with Izzy at that joke before he realizes.  “Wait, so none of us are straight?”

“No.”

“Clearly not.”

“Wow, our parents are REALLY going to be angry when they find out.” Alec says.

“Totally unfair I’m going to take the brunt of it since I met my guy first.”

“Please, you literally got to find out you were Bi the moment it happened, I’ve had internalized homophobia since I was 11,” Alec deadpans.  “Get on my level.”

“I mean we can just all, tell them together?  They still have one shot at a straight kid with Max I guess.”  Izzy looks both nervous and excited about the prospect.

“The odds aren’t looking good for Max,” Jace says, and they all crack up before hugging.

[midastouches]

why i love long live (2010)

i really could break this down line by line but i will not micha this is for u honey enjoy <3

Long Live

I had this best guy friend, since like sixth grade. We really only became friends because he started dating my best girl friend and i actually dated his best friend for like a solid two weeks because well, sixth grade relationships :) ANYwho, me and this bgf would talk a lot because we spent a lot of time together because of my bff/his girlfriend. Anywho, eventaully our conversations got really deep and I developed a huge huge crush on him that I couldn’t admit because well, he was dating my best friend.

flash forward a few years later when i finally actually have my own phone and can talk to him, he and my best friend go through this huge messy breakup that essentially means I have to pick a side and can never talk to the other one. I pick the boy that this point i’ve had a crush on for four? years at this point of my best friend (this is actually one of my biggest regrets, and yes, me and girl bff made up later that year on valentines day wow im so bisexual woo)

we end up getting super close, and we talk a lot. i learn that he used to cut himself, except he would do it on his back so no one could see. i would tell him about how much i hate my body, how uncomfortable it makes me and how much i hate eating and gaining weight. we would talk about our depression and the things we hated about high school, and I really though he would fall for me, I did. 

He didn’t. 

I learned about his new girlfriend later that day at a winter strength and speed session. She was blonde, blue eyes, and i somehow convinced myself that she was essentially going to be someone he dated until I turned sixteen and would be able to date him. I recognize now how utterly stupid that was of me just to assume that, assume someone’s feeling were only a placeholder. 

Anyway, high school goes on, and we’re still super close, but there’s now a buffer. I turn sixteen, he and this girl still date. He turns sixteen. They still date. My anorexia gets even worse and my junior years goes to shit. I find it in myself that I can’t talk to him, I can’t be that girl who obsesses over someone elses. So, I simply start to remove myself from him for my own well-being. I put my feelings for in a denial mode and I start to flirt with other people, other boys that make me think I’m moving on, but I’m not. 

Because everytime I get a text or a snapchat from him, my whole face lights up and I know I’m fucked. 

And to my credit, I was not othe only one trying to convince myself he felt something for me. Countless other people in my high school shipped us, countless other people could tell I had a crush on him and they would tell me all the ways they could tell he secretly liked me. It made the narrative continue and my feelings for him were still buried. I couldn’t tell him, I wouldn’t tell him. I was not going to jeopardize our friendship, his relationship with his girlfriend all because I had a dumb crush on him. I just kept thinking it’ll go away, it’ll go away. 

It didn’t, but again, let’s go into the denial phase. 

Hit senior year. We barely talk now except for in person stuff, mainly because I’m trying to convince myself that he doen’t care about me at all. We’re both in cross country though so August hits and I see him eevery day. Except that I think the crush has faded a bit, and I’ve got this other guy I’m talking to, one who makes me feel seen and compliments me and is just overall an amazing guy. Septemeber passes by, now I have a boyfriend and there’s homecing nominations coming up. He gets nominated, I get nominated. I joke to my boyfriend that I’m not going to win, I’m not part of the popular crowd. He bets that I will win. 

This boy texts me in class later that month, after everyone’s voted and now the boy and girl our paired. He send a photo with the pairings and oh look, we’re paired together. All I can think is fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. There’s a ton of homecoming events, lots of pictures, and we’ll be in every single one of them together. 

(also one of the dress up days for homecoming that week is goth day and he gets smudged eyeliner put on him and i just about lose it)

spring forward to the pep rally and we’re all down there, facing eachother, me holding a rose covered in foil and tape with about a dozen other couples surrounding us. I’m looking at him, he’s looking at me. 

They finally tell us to unravel the roses and i can’t. i’m struggling. just about every other girl has their rose unwrapped  but I don’t hear any screaming yet, no winner has been declared. I’m looking at him and he’s got a damn smirk on his face watching me struggle when I finally get. The homecoming queen is announced when she is holding a red rose. 

As I finally get the foil off and stare at the rose in shock, I realize it’s as red as sin. The whole gymansium goes up in a roar of celebration and all the sudden he’s hugging me so tight tight tight and I’m hugging him back just as tight but we’re being pulled from eachother and the other girls who lost are hugging me and I glance back and he’s just go this huge smile on my face and 

holy shit we won. holy fuck shit. we aren’t popular in the way the others were. we were just a rag tag team of a girl and boy and we fucking won. 

we’re crowned king and queen and the entire time long live by taylor swift is stuck in my head. 

the photos of us are gorgeous. the candids, the staged. our crowns. 

and everytime i look back at them i just think of this: 

I said remember this moment In the back of my mind The time we stood with our shaking hands The crowds in stands went wild We were the kings and the queens And they read off our names The night you danced like you knew our lives Would never be the same You held your head like a hero On a history book page It was the end of a decade But the start of an age

flash foward to today. We don’t really talk at all. Occasionally I see him on a run, or at his work. Occasionally we’ll see eachother around, but it’s never awkward. He always brings the same grin to my face that makes me wonder if he ever knew. 

I still love to look at the photos. Every smile, every laugh. 

I think I’ll be in love with him forever. I think that a part of my heart will always belong to him, and I don’t think he’ll ever know. But I hope that sometimes, just sometimes I linger a bit too long in his mind as well. 

Hold on to spinning around Confetti falls to the ground May these memories break our fallCan you take a moment Promise me this: That you'll stand by me forever But if God forbid fate should step in And force us into a goodbye If you have children someday When they point to the pictures Please tell them my name Tell them how the crowds went wild Tell them how I hope they shine

Long live the walls we crashed through I had the time of my life with you

This is why Long Live is one of my favorite songs. It provides this amazing narrative for me to relate one of the greatest people who have ever touched my life. As far as I’m aware, he doesn’t have tumblr, so he’ll never actually see this, but yeah, that’s kinda it. if you read this far, tysm and I hope you have an amazing day <3

and for one moment a band of thieves and ripped up jeans got to rule the world. 

[almaasi]

reaction post typed while watching SPN 15x04 “Atomic Monsters”

in which Jensen’s directing blows my mind a little bit?? holy shit. also Dean is only eating phallic things... and the writer in me is reeling. SOMEONE TELL ME THAT WAS JENSEN SINGING THAT SONG PLEASE

--

07:01pm

mostly what i wanna do right now is eat and watch queer eye buuuut i guess i should watch this first. hopefully it’s fun?? i do not want my heart ripped out or to be squicked right now

-

07:04

oh no........ becky

i like her as a character but ew ew ew all of her life choices and the way she treats sam

fingers crossed for character development

PLEASE DON’T DIE

i mean .....i don’t LIKE her but still

-

07:08

i can’t tell if the audio on my video file is fucked up or whether there’s supposed to be a voiceover here while dean’s shooting people while wearing a very nice beard

because it’s very much drowned out

-

07:10

oh hey benny

soooo this is some kind of au fic maybe

-

i uh.... fully expected dean to kiss benny right then

-

07:13 

definitely a voiceover drowned out on purpose

vaguely heard “title” as the titlecard came up

okay, interesting

-

07:15

DEAN GOT VEGGIE BACON

yee

-

sam: YOU GOTTA STOP CALLING YOURSELF THE MEAT MAN, IT DOESN’T MEAN WHAT YOU THINK IT MEANS

OHHHHH SAMMY No i think he knows exactly what it means, and what it sounds like

-

dean: yeah it does

TOLD YOU. bi baby

-

07:18

real bacon

DEAN YOU VEGETABLE-HATING ASSHOLE

-

07:22

dean and his flask this season..... guess he’s gone back to quiet alcoholism

-

07:23

wow........ becky has not aged a DAY

-

07:27

becky: they just sit around and do laundry and talk

okay NOW i relate to becky

thank youuuu davy perez for letting her grow and recognize her awful awful awful mistakes

-

chuck: eeeeeeh, people like monsters

becky: meh

HELL YEAH

i mean i love monster stories but i love laundry more

-

07:29

there’s a tall cas doll in becky’s bookshelf, yay~

which.... honestly looks like a white tennis ball on a roll of paper with wings attached but still

-

07:33

cas is gone and dean is eating SO MUCH

> meat man bacon (textual penis euphemism)

> pretzels (twisted, salty rather than sweet, metaphor for Not Straight)

> alcohol (DESPAIR)

> hot dog (phallic)

-

i can’t put screenshots on my posts anymore bc tumblr sucks BUT

as dean’s sitting with the hot dog, in the shot that contains sam, there’s BISEXUAL BICYCLES

-

07:40

sam holds a hyponeedle behind his back

i’m wondering if they’d become a little out of character if chuck is writing them again

-

07:42

i’d say the orchid is significant

there’s a pink one in the house of the dad/mom/son, and the speech-making cheerleader mentioned ghost orchids

edit: nah

-

07:44

aww there’s a lil cas pop figure thingy!!! yay team free will!!!

-

07:45

chuck: fan..fic. it’s not really the same

becky: writing’s writing!!

YES BECKY

-

07:52

becky: no-one even mentions cas

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAS BECKY

-

07:54

flashback to the son biting the girl’s neck, the music kind of halfway there

the directing of this is fascinating

like a music video, it’s ethereal

and... you know when you hear JUST enough of a good chord from a song but you don’t hear the rest and it’s like MMM but just an inch away from satisfying but not in a bad way?? like breathing in a meal you’re not going to eat. like walking past a bakery and not going inside. you want it but you can’t have it, IT TEASES

AND I JUST LOOKED UP THE DIRECTOR AND IT’S JENSEN

WOW. OKAY DUDE 3000 KUDOS TO YOU

this isn’t a tv show, it’s art. like. he just made art. wow 

wowow

-

there are SO MANY LAYERS HERe, particularly in the audio

the kid talking, chuck’s voiceover, the music in the truck, the heartbeat and roaring sound effects, the kid and the girl breathing and grunting in the flashback

it’s like... sensory overload but at the same time it’s delicious

.....you know what?? this scene is beyond incredible, because not only is is beautiful for what it is, but also for what it represents

because i was just thinking that this feeling, this blast and blur of ALL THE THINGS ALL AT ONCE AT THE APEX OF EMOTION feels exactly like the part where i’m writing a story and everything’s happening so fast and i gotta type AS THINGS ARE HAPPENING and words just flood from my fingertips and my heart is pounding and the world no longer exists, i’m kind of out of my body but no longer have a body

and

like

that’s literally what’s happening. all of this. is chuck writing in that exact moment, unresponsive to becky, WRITING THINGS INTO EXISTENCE

i told my family a while ago, there are some stories only a Writer can write. when they write about being a Writer and you can tell it’s so personal and would be related to the most by other writers. and davy perez has done exactly this here, with becky being us, the fandom, but then there’s THIS

that flood of Everything All At Once is illustrated PERFECTLY, not just in the text, but the way jensen obviously understood the feeling and illustrated it in such a way that i didn’t even remember the layer of this story where chuck’s writing until i was all “hey this feels like that writer thing” and IT’S EXACTLY THAT

this is mind-blowing a little bit??? i really really love this

goddamn

-

08:09

ooooooh a vampire trying to save the winchesters from humans

-

08:11

.....who’s singing this song? kind of?? sounds like jensen???

it’s probably not jensen but 100% chance he picked the song

that long note as the girl’s taken out on the stretcher. oh man it REALLY sounds like jensen

....i listened again and....... the word “SOUnds”

no, yeah, that’s jensen. the way he kind of hurls a big note up through his chest yet it comes out soft with just that teeeeny touch of huskiness?? that’s gotta be jensen

if it’s not jensen i’ll be v surprised. might be a friend of his maybe. but there’s a personal connection there definitely

edit: NO IT HAS TO BE JENSEN. IT IS RIGHT??? SOMEONE TELL ME IT IS

*misha at jibcon voice* we get a tingly feeling when we hear it so we know it’s you

-

08:17

becky: it’s AWFUL. HOPELESS. you can’t do this to the fans

i can’t tell if that textual awareness combined with my dread about the upcoming ending of the show makes me glad the writers understand, or worried that they understand but are gonna give us a dark, hopeless ending anyway

-

08:20

did the voiceover just say “bexy becky”

-

08:23

dean: now that chuck’s gone... we are..... finally free

oh no baby

oh no

-

08:26

laughing bc the ending was just “next to him sit dean and sam bobbleheads”

the end

guess it’s kind of a cause-and-effect thing. chuck types, they wobble

-

OHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH MAN

at least becky’s not dead right?? at least according to chuck talking about her family

CHUCK IS THE ABSOLUTE WORST.

i’m so glad becky is a stable, healthily creative human who obeys consent now and is repulsed by what she did to sam

i probably don’t need to say it again but the directing in this was phenomenal, if highly unusual compared to other episodes. there was a lot of... force in it? actually now i think it about it, it had jensen’s energy. smooth and flowing with smacks of Hell Yeah and some twangs of discomfort thrown in.

also dean’s food was phallic, fight me

i think the bicycles thing probably meant less than the food did, jensen’s way more straightforward with his dick jokes. like, if he’s gonna be gay, he goes for it, doesn’t hide it in the background. someone else put those bicycles there, and he was probably like “ok sure”.

(also? dean’s “nice beaver” quip, followed by the fact that THE PERSON INSIDE THE BEAVER FURSUIT IS A GUY)

i bet i’m gonna get on tumblr after this and someone’s gonna be like “hey here’s the song that was in this episode and yeah it’s off jensen’s new album”

i’m interested to see where this story goes next. but also WOW, i’m not into the fact chuck is manipulating the storyline again and the winchesters aren’t aware of it. curious flip regarding consent issues, with chuck and becky. now chuck’s the violator and becky’s the voice of reason

anyway this was 10/10, and i’m happy to report that after i got past the scene with the red lights in the bunker, and made it to the brothers eating bacon, i’d completely forgotten i wanted to be watching something else and began to fully enjoy this episode~ yay

[soft-boy-stefan]

Sins of a Priest (Part 2) [a poly readerXShawn MendesXCamila fic]

Warning: priest, demons, poly relationship, sex dreams, hints to sex, swearing, daddy kink, spanking

a/n: if you don’t like anything above in the warnings or Camila, don’t read it. I don’t want any hate. Also, I do not know if Camila and Shawn are together, this is purely bisexual fanfic because I’m a slut for the both of them. Have fun reading! Feedback appreciated!

Part 1

Shawn was hoping that last night in the church was a dream. Two beautiful people were just in his head, not demons, right? Demons couldn’t be in a church, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Humming softly, Shawn opens his hazel eyes slowly, the warm plush mattress shifting underneath his large body. He needed a good nights sleep. With a little yawn, the curly haired man goes to sit up, stopping when he feels weighed down.

He blinks his eyes into focus, narrowing in on a mop of dark brown hair on one of his sides and a Y/H/C on his other. Shawn’s mouth goes dry at the realization that last night really did happen. After all, he didn’t drink that much, so he definitely isn’t hung over.

You shift on his chest, rubbing your eyes as he stares at you. “Good morning, handsome.” You smirk, rubbing his chest hair.

A cute little yawn comes from Camila when she looks at him, smiling tiredly. “Are you ready for our threesome yet?” She hums in a sleepy way.

Shawn’s normally pink cheeks turn a red color, making you chuckle, playing with his chest hair with Camila. “I-I need to get to the church, I-I have a service in two hours.” He makes the excuse as he sits up, looking at the clock. Technically, he isn’t making it up.

Camila gets up, watching him head to the bathroom. “We’ll go with you!” She beams. “Unless you’re up for a quickie-“

“In the shower?” You finish her sentence, smirking and leaning on the doorframe, playing with her long hair.

His honey colored eyes widen and he shakes his head. “No, no, we are not doing either of those things!” Shawn says sternly, gripping the door. “I am going to shower alone and go to church ALONE.” He slams the door, stripping and climbing into the shower.

You hum softly, changing into a white see through dress, covering your breasts and private area with thick fabric with a snap of your fingers. You make a pair of matching earrings and heels appear on you. “Now you!”

Camila giggles, snapping her fingers and changing into a tight yellow leather dress with heels. “And our rings.” She makes wedding rings appear on your finger and hers as you both go wait in Shawn’s Jeep.

After a few minutes, Shawn pulls on his black and white suit, putting a little gel in his curls. He hums when he sees you’re both gone, hurrying to his car. Climbing in, Shawn frowns, rubbing his head.

“What are you two doing in my car?” Shawn sighs, starting the engine and driving.

You hum softly. “Well, we can’t leave you. We need to have sex.” You purr as Camila nods.

Shawn shakes his head, pulling into the church’s parking lot. “Just sit down and no funny business.” He parks, climbing out.

Camila giggles, grabbing one of his hands as you grab the other. Shawn bites his lip, blushing and walking into the church with the both of you. God, the church is gonna talk, he thinks to himself.

And sure enough, he’s right. A middle aged woman, Pam, comes up with her eyes wide. “Father Shawn, who are these girls?”

“We’re his wives.” Camila purrs, smirking. “I’m Camila.”

Shawn’s eyes widen, staring at the two rings on both of his hands. Shit. “I’m Y/N.” You smirk.

The woman gasps. “You have two wives?!” She looks up at him.

Shawn needs to think fast. “Yes.” He blurts out, figuring it would be better than the truth. “These are my wives. I was keeping them a secret, since I knew the church would gossip. But they wanted to come today, so… a-and god says love thy neighbor!”

Camila and you giggle, keeping up with him as he drags you both towards the alter. A huff leaves Shawn’s lips. “Sit here.” He sits both of you in one of the pews in the front. “I have to go set up.”

“Okay, daddy.” You purr just as he starts walking away.

Camila smirks when Shawn stops, turning on his heel. “Yes, daddy?”

Shawn squats down in front of you both, his jaw set. “Listen here, I am sick and tired of these games you’re playing. It’s not sexy, it’s not funny, it’s aggravating. If you even want me to consider your threesome, you’ll behave like nice Christian girls so I don’t have another problem on my hands. Do you understand me?” He growls lowly.

You hum, looking at his pants. “If it’s not sexy, then why are you hard?” You ask, smirking. Camila giggles, raising an eyebrow at him.

Shawn growls, making sure nobody’s watching before gripping your jaw in one hand and Camila’s jaw in the other. “Don’t test my patience. You will sit here for the entire service and not make a sound, understand?”

Camila nods, kissing his lips and catching him off guard. “Yes, daddy.”

You kiss him right after her. “Okay, daddy.”

Huffing and fixing his suit jacket, Shawn stands up, heading onto the small stage. “Good morning, everyone.” He starts, putting on a smile and beginning the service.

Camila licks her lip, deciding to tease him. You smirk, watching her rub herself through her panties, spreading her legs wide enough for him to see. With a quiet hum, you discretely cup your breasts, squeezing and rubbing them to make your nipples hard. Camila gasps softly, catching his attention.

His hazel eyes flick over, seeing the both of you playing with yourselves and he loses it. That is certainly not what good girls do. Shawn’s voice wavers slightly during the service and he avoids looking at you again, keeping the podium in front of his lower area, his hands curled into fists at the sides.

When the service comes to an end after nearly two hours, enough for you and Camila to cum discretely multiple times, only having him hear and see. To everyone else, the two of you looked like saints. The magic of being a demon.

Shawn dismisses everyone, talking to a few people afterwards as you and Camila go to hold his hands. Instead of holding hands, Shawn wraps both of his arms around yours and Camila’s waist, holding you to his sides. You smirk at Camila, winking at her. He’s falling into the trap perfectly.

“Excuse me, I have to take care of something in my office.” Shawn flashes his charming smile.

“You have such beautiful wives!” A younger woman beams. “Why haven’t you ever brought them before? You two are the sweetest!”

Shawn furrows his eyebrows, blinking and blushing. “Oh, Shawnie boy, here, didn’t know how people would react. But we were tired of hiding.” Camila hums, laying on his chest.

You nod in agreement, laying your head next to hers.

Shawn drags you both towards his office, going inside and slamming the door behind him. “What the hel-heck was that?” He fumes as you and Camila giggle. “I’m not laughing.” He growls.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, daddy.” You tease.

Shawn’s face turns bright red. “You made a mockery of my whole congregation! You were touching yourselves during prayer! You-you!” He fumes, huffing.

“We know you liked it. You were hard.” Camila shrugs. You hum, nodding in agreement.

That does it. Shawn finally snaps. Clearing his desk with one quick swoop of his arm, Shawn bends you and Camila over his desk, ass’s up. “That’s enough!” He roars. “You have been thorns in my sides for two days and I’m tired of it! You want sex?”

Camila groans softly. “Yes! Yes, daddy!”

“Fuck, daddy, yes!” You moan.

Shawn smacks your ass and then Camila’s. “Then earn it.” He growls loudly. Both of you moan quietly. Shawn stops, backing up and straightening his suit, blushing brightly. “I… wow. Um, I’m sorry. I don’t know…” he swallows nervously.

You giggle, looking up at him with lust filled with eyes. “I knew you were kinky!”

Camila grins, poking your cheek. “I guess I owe you five souls.” She hums softly.

Rubbing his temples, Shawn sighs softly, looking at the two of you. He can’t deny that you’re beautiful. He surely is not falling in love with you both. No. “Are you two hungry?” Shawn asks, his stomach growling.

You pucker your lips. “It’s our first time being in the real world… so we’ve never eaten.”

“Let’s do it!” Camila beams, dark brown hair fluttering around.

He will never admit it, but Shawn’s heart clenches when you and Camila smile. Swallowing, he helps you up. “Come on, I’ll take you to my favorite restaurant.” Shawn grins, wrapping his arms around yours and Camila’s waists. Maybe he’ll hold off on the sex just a little longer.

[rawbiredbest]

It’s All in Your Head

Contains: Fluff, Angst, Unconventional Relationships, Telepathy, Demons Fandom: Marvel (comics) Relationships: Stephen Strange/Victor von Doom Characters: Stephen Strange, Victor von Doom, Wong, Boris Word Count: 6103

Out of the blue, Stephen Strange and Victor von Doom find themselves telepathically connected.

No squealing, remember that......

Content warning for canon typical violence, profanity, implied sexual activity, and a single usage of homophobic language by a very bad individual.

Graciously commissioned by @osheets! Wanna do the same? Check my info!

Read here or on AO3!

- - -

The breakthrough comes with rapturous spontaneity. It’s like Victor von Doom has been standing on the shore of a Latverian loch, and in the blink of an eye, the grains of sand have become an orchestra, the surf their masterful conductor, and he the sole audience. He has captured their forms in glass and steel, multiplied ten million fold in the casings of complex machinery, and the entire laboratory sings the path to a bolder, brighter future. In all of his years of experimentation, innovation, desperation, he has never heard this music before. It pours from every screw and bolt, vibrates along every copper wire, thunders out of every piston and valve. The engineers below him, controlling and monitoring the device, are Gods of melody and time. Doom himself has transcended divinity, rising high on sublime notes of praise. He is Emperor, Encapsulated Universe, and his feet do not touch the floor as he glides to the heart of his machine, his veins coursing with silver beauty. Hydrogen atoms dance into the arms of their palladium partners, and their heat is love, love for each other, love for nature, love for him, and it is a primordial force unlocked from decades of ridicule and shame, and he has set it free. Genius. Monarch. Ultimate.

And then it goes. Slowly, a receding tide. It slides from his bones, leaving them aching. He braces himself against a panel, cold sweat sticking to his brow. His heart hammers in his chest, a lone drum holding a marching beat long after the band has departed into the moonless night. The engineers gape at him, oblivious to the miracle that has deafened their ruler.

Doom touches the shielding glass of the operating CMNS reactor, and its vibrations are an idiot hum. He blinks salt from his eyes, breath condensing on the machine.

Four thousand, five hundred and six miles away, a doctor and his best friend leave Madison Square Garden, wearing concert merch, beaming like loons.

- - -

To Stephen, it’s a tsunami.

He’s watching TV. The nightly news. He could tap into the Eye and view the entire world as it turns, but he doesn’t want to. It isn’t very often he feels human, let alone vegetable, so any opportunity to vegetate he takes with gusto. Stretched across his couch, he tugs down the hem of his shirt, leans his head on his hand, and waits to absorb the country’s woes.

He gets a sharp pain on the nape of his neck instead. He swats at the spot, looks at his palm. “Ow.”

Wong looks up from the email he’s writing. “Are you okay?”

Strange frowns, settles back down. “I think there’s a mosquito in here.” They’re talking about the Amazon fires. Stephen’s heart aches for the birds who will drop from the sky, their lungs full of smoke, voices forever silenced.

And then pain rips down his back, like his spine is torn out by an iron hand from his neck to his waist.

He can’t help but yell then, clutching the cushions. A heavy ache lingers in his vertebrae. Gingerly he sits up, breathing hard, eyes clenched shut. Something a bit like petrichor, a bit medicinal, a bit hot fills his nose.

Wong runs to him, but Strange raises a hand. “I’m fine,” he says, though he already braces against the thick lump rising next to his heart. As it crests, it dissipates throughout his body. He forces his eyes open, expecting to see the black trails of tiny spiders beneath his skin. Nothing but unmarked flesh.

“Should I call Doctor Carter?” Wong asks, thumbing toward the antique phone. It’s enchanted to call anywhere, anytime, any-plane.

“No, no.” Stephen leans on his knees, rubbing his temples. The pain is moving, changing. “This isn’t exactly her--”

--forte, he wants to say, but he is cut off by trees. Huge trees. Trees that consume the sky in fractal tangles of evergreen. Primordial, pristine trees, the definition of trees. The little things that crawl beneath and flit between, some carrying light, some with rigid jaws.

It’s a psychic attack. Strange has weathered them before. This one is weird. As he waves for Wong to get the Eye, he endures the spikes of pain that impale his senses to grab a closer look. This entity is lumbering, gigantic in scope yet wet around the edges.

It’s being born, he realizes. It’s waking up.

It hurts, it hurts but he’s curious. He sees New York now, its spires and streets lined up like so much circuitry. He feels the rough brush of concrete, hears the car horn concerto, smells the burn of rubber, and all throughout are rules, parameters, reasons. The thing is learning, feasting on information, and gathering more at an exponential rate. A tidal wave of green descends on the city, picking and plucking at this imaginary world.

And as it eats, thousands and thousands of hungry mouths devouring America, it hates. It hates the excess, the cruelty, the inefficiencies. It roars, barreling down the Sanctum, thousands upon thousands of tons of incomparable loathing.

Wong presses the Eye into Stephen’s hand.

“Pardon my French, dear friend,” Strange says.

The Eye bursts open, and the Sorcerer Supreme throws every ounce of his mystic might at the slavering invader. The living room cascades with dancing whorls of light as he raises his arms, funneling a solar flare, and cries a spell that every New Yorker knows by heart.

“FUCK OFF!”

Utter obliteration. When he opens his eyes, glittering motes trickle from the ceiling. The pain is gone. The TV has gone to commercial.

The phone is ringing.

Wong answers it as Stephen sinks to the couch. He slips the Eye around his neck, and its weight comforts. He thinks he’ll sleep with it tonight.

“It’s for you.”

Strange massages his ear. Vulgarity is embarrassing, but faced with an immaterial infant in the depths of an unholy tantrum doing everything in its power to cram a fork in a magic electrical socket, seemed like a good idea at the time. He takes the phone. “Hello?”

“Doctor! The master -- Victor -- something has happened, I do not know-- I--”

“Boris?” Stephen sits up. “Boris, it’s all right. Slow down. What’s going on?”

Behind the old retainer’s words, a siren wails. “The master--” He hesitates. “His newest Doombot. He turned it on for the first time. All was well, and then it exploded! And now Victor -- he is breathing this flame, this plasma! It burned through his mask! Doctor, what do I do!?”

Strange inhales deep. Counts to three. Lets it go. “He’ll be fine.”

“Are you sure? I do not mean to doubt you, but--”

“It will pass. Give him an ice pack and put him somewhere dark and quiet for a few hours.”

“I trust you, doctor, but please, when you can, come and see him. The violence of it, it scares me.”

“I know. It’s fine. Just something he ate.”

Boris thanks him and hangs up.

Stephen wishes the couch would eat him as he heaves a sigh. “Wong,” he asks, “Is it too late to rescind discovering my bisexuality at the ripe age of however old I am now?”

“I don’t know,” Wong replies, “To both parts of your question. I lost count in the five hundreds.”

Strange curses again.

- - -

“So. We have a telepathic link. Any idea how it got there?”

He may as well be speaking to a wall of granite. Doom, arms folded, sneers at him across the table.

Stephen links his fingers together. “I have nothing. It’s rather disconcerting. I don’t believe it’s malevolent, which is always a plus, but it’s unremarkable, which isn’t. So I’d appreciate any insight, Victor. Whatever you’d like to...you know. Get off your chest.”

Doom’s eyes are cold.

“Anything at all. Need to vent? I know you can get heated.”

The table weighs over three hundred pounds, yet Doom flings it at him like a feather. Strange cuts it in half with a bolt of solid light as Crimson Bands constrict around his other arm. They serpentine and splinter into smaller tendrils, their tips unhinging into fanged blooms, and a thought comes to Stephen as the king charges him: he was born in a forest. It’s nature’s fury that fills his head, a cacophony of hellish noise, the wild hunt calling for his spilled blood. Doom’s rage in concentrated, psychic form, howling down their link.

The Daggers of Denak, blades spinning, do an admirable job trimming the vines, their severed heads still snapping, and Strange summons the Winds of Watoomb to push Doom away. The gale staggers him yet he presses forward, arcane runes flashing a ice blue aegis on his gauntlet. Step by step, forcing him back towards the wall.

He lunges. Strange is ready for it. Doom’s arm comes up, Stephen’s arms fan out. Before the king grasps his throat, he calls a pair of razors into his palms. Victor’s grip is suffocating. Strange holds his head between two guillotine blades. An impasse.

Doom’s voice rasps, thin and scorched. “That. Hurt.”

Stephen sips the tiny breaths he can. Something’s pressing into his belly. Sweat beads on his brow. It’s a gun. It’s the stupid gun Doom carries in the stupid pouch on his stupid belt. Why does he even have it? For shooting idiot sorcerers, he thinks. He swallows hard, knows Doom can feel it through the metal. Not so evenly matched as he thought.

And then he notices it. Hiding deep under the screams is a layer of fire. Reaching through the link, he touches it. Color rushes to his cheeks.

“Seriously?” he ekes out, “This is turning you on?”

Doom’s grip loosens. A minuscule amount, enough for Strange to squeeze a few more words. The fire leaps into his psychic palm, eager, aggressive.

“There’s no shame in it. You’re good at what you do, Victor. Very few people can put me in check. Look at you. You’ve pinned me to a wall like a butterfly. That’s impressive. I--”

The king leans closer. Stephen smells ashes on his breath.

“Hoary hosts.”

The gun is holstered. A steel thumb strokes his cheek.

“Reap what you sow,” Doom mutters.

- - -

The aches and bruises will last for days, but the coolness of Doom’s armor against the carpet burn on his back is soothing. He rests a hand in the king’s own. Anything else feels too strenuous. “Was that your first time having telepathic sex? It’s intense, isn’t it?”

Victor takes in the state of the room. Paintings smashed, furniture so much firewood, stone walls fractured and cratered. How much destruction is his? He has no idea. One or the other had to have held back. The castle is still standing, after all.

Neither man speaks. Stephen ventures a glimpse down their link and gets only an image of black curtains. Doom’s already set up defenses. Though some of his own are raised, he lets some satisfaction flow between them. An olive branch.

A quiet, amused huff. “At times, Strange,” Doom says, and already his voice sounds better, “Your physical merits outweigh the strenuous mental exertions you put me through.”

“I never much cared for the medieval aesthetic myself, yet here we are.” He grunts as he looks over his shoulder, thighs twinging. “How drunk were we that night?”

“Doom was sober.”

“Oh no, your golden goblet saw plenty of refills. You were, at the very least, tipsy.”

“You question Doom’s memory?”

Stephen cups his chin, looks deep into dark brown eyes. “I question, my lord, why you claim to remember, with crystal clarity, a night you could have easily decreed never happened at all.”

Nothing comes. No biting remark, no caustic humiliation. Doom only holds his gaze, and under the black curtains flashes something bright, something strong. It lasts for only half a second before the king gets up, using Strange’s shoulder for support. “This link shall be insufferable. Do your part to get rid of it.”

Stephen frowns, annoyed that his legs work. He wonders if Victor left any of his clothing intact. “Right. Ground rules. Stay out of my head, and I won’t make you cough up another star. Deal?”

“Stay out of Doom’s head, and you shall not know pain unending. You have a deal.”

- - -

This lasts for two months.

- - -

On Day 51, a current of malicious satisfaction slithers through Strange’s mind. Gooseflesh rises up his back. The half-chewed wad of pastrami and egg in his mouth goes sour. He spits it out, bracing himself on the dinner table, and without thinking of thinking, he thinks: what have you done now?

The smirk on Doom’s face reminds him of the crocodiles at the Bronx Zoo. The thing Victor is smiling at reminds him of shop class. He can’t begin to make heads or tails of it. Like many of the king’s devices, it could have come off the set of a sci-fi movie. Sleek and chrome, rigged with multicolored wires, pumps, and gauges, a porthole reveals the heart of the machine, a vile purple light. Stephen’s gut tells him that color would eat him alive if it could, tear into his flesh and drip his blood from its teeth. Stephen trusts his gut.

Strange, Doom replies, smile quickly fading into a scowl, We had an agreement.

You broke first. I felt you. My spidey sense tingled.

Victor’s gauntlets ball into fists, and he sends a wave of serrated anger barreling toward the magician. A chained wolf, barking and snarling. An executioner waiting for the condemned to dig his own grave deeper.

Stephen curses. He didn’t mean to think that out loud. Look. Just tell me what it is and I’ll leave you alone.

The black curtains rustle, then lift like a wing. Swimming in the purple light are mathematical equations, coiling around metal rods. It makes perfect sense to Doom, but to Strange it’s a form of gibberish undecipherable by any eldritch tome.

Then he hears it. It’s not coming from the machine. It’s from Doom. Subvocalized lyrics. A silent song. He could recognize the tune anywhere.

He bought its album at the concert.

This is cold fusion.

Stephen snaps back to attention. Cold fusion. Should I be worried?

Victor folds his arms. That I built a safe, eternal form of energy for myself and my people? Yes, Strange, cower and quake. Your country shall never have it so long as I draw breath.

There are many dangerous rebuttals to that he could say. Names he could drop. Yet Doom promised pain unending. Fifty-one days into their connection, Strange has no leads into its inner workings. Finding out if he could make good on his word is a risk Stephen is unwilling to take.

I don’t like this, the sorcerer thinks, but I have to believe you. Don’t misbehave.

His own mental defense is a never-ending subway express train, its doors and windows a veil of golden thorns. Sighing, he sits back down. What’s left of his sandwich has the appeal of wet newspaper.

Doom was right. The link is awful.

- - -

On Day 60, despite the blazing fire in the hearth, Victor’s feet send ripples through a puddle.

He regards it from his antique armchair throne with indifferent curiosity. Through the filters in his mask, he smells the green, pungent scent of foliage rot and seawater. In the puddle itself swim millions of plankton. A frenzy of eating, fucking, dying, and birthing unfolds beneath his alloy soles.

From the corner of his eye, he watches the puddle extend an arm of water across the floor. Sliding under a wall, a line of slithering damp turns the paint a moldy gray. Moisture fans across the entire side of the room in a pattern like falling stars, like skeletal hands trailing through a river. The scent grows stronger as the puddle expands. He rises before it consumes his chair. The leather sinks until it is a speck of mahogany in the brine. Gloom washes over it and it is gone.

Doom folds his arms. A breeze teases the tail of his cloak. Murmuring a quiet word, he puts out the fire with an arc of a finger, and turns around into another world.

It is eternal night. It has no sun, and what few stars can be seen are lucky glimpses through a lush canopy of branches and black, web-like leaves many hundreds of feet above. The grass under him has a sticky grip, but gentle. If grass could want for anything, it would like to give the king safe passage on his journey. He isn���t the sustenance it’s looking for. That comes on the wind, in the form of tiny shards of detritus falling from forest layers high overhead. It shimmers as it tumbles down, the only source of light in this hadal garden.

He doesn’t need to go far. Half-concealed behind a root far taller than he, Doom watches himself and Stephen Strange on the next mound over.

The magician talks with grand gestures, sweeping an arm over trees as dark as ink. Doom remembers himself speaking little, allowing Strange to tell him the highlights of the world. No recorded examples of predation. Negligible changes in evolution for millennia. A slow world. A place of peace.

Stephen steps into the water. Waist deep, he holds out his arm. His garb drips off him, revealing pale skin. He smiles, bare and inviting.

The other Victor undoes his belt.

“And you complain when I get you out of the house.”

Doom peers at the Stephen Strange sitting in lotus position beside him. “You drag me into your affairs with no concern for my well-being or sanity.”

“Please. The times you dig your heels in are cursory, at best. And then we end up doing things like this.”

Across the mound, the other king’s armor sits in a neat pile, and the two doctors stand in each other’s arms, their lips meeting and parting only to inhale.

Victor kneels on the grass. “Even you are capable of stumbling onto a good idea.”

Stephen’s lip curls upward. “I think about this often. This place is beautiful. This memory pleasant. I took effort not to broadcast this to you. My apologies if I disturbed you.”

Doom looks away. “You did not.”

“Oh? Your Royal Highness, we had an agreement.”

“Am I not allowed to reminisce myself?”

“Ssh. Meditate with me.”

He closes his eyes. Strange’s hand creeps into his own, and he lets it stay.

Perhaps he was wrong. The link isn’t so bad.

- - -

Wake up! Wake up, wake up, wake up!

Stephen rolls molasses slow toward awareness. The bedroom is pitch black, swimming in unholy hour of the morning disorientation.

Your wife is in trouble!

He cracks an eye open, shifting in the sheets. “Clea?”

No! Your big green wife! Get up, right now!

Those aren’t his thoughts. It’s a voice he’s never heard before, coming from inside his head. He holds very still and feels something slither over his brain.

He snaps wide awake.

I’m sorry we have to meet like this, the voice says, but we must hurry. The whole world is at stake!

In any other circumstance, Strange would interrogate the voice within an inch of its life, but its fear is genuine. Swinging out of bed, he yanks some pants on, startles the Cloak of Levitation from of its own sleep, and pulls open a portal to Latveria.

Curse me for a novice! the voice squeaks, That can’t be good!

Enormous rends in reality drape over the castle. Shimmering in the air, some bisect the stone in clean, monomolecular cuts. One vomits a steady stream of magma, causing a massive fire in the castle courtyard. Through each of them Stephen sees other dimensions. Another hole fans out from the keep itself and drops a mass of red crystals that crush an entire rampart.

Please! Hurry!

Stephen slams the portal shut, imagines his destination, and wrenches open a new one directly to Doom’s lab. The room is bathed in sunset colors and thick, acrid smoke. At its heart lies the fusion reactor, which is now anything but cold. The purple light pounds waves of energy, reverberating off its containment and magnifying a new tear in the world.

Victor stands in front of the machine. His motions are jerky, abrupt, a marionette controlled by a mob of children. He lifts a twitching hand and the tear throws itself through the castle to join the others outside.

Sister-Brother! the voice cries, Stop!

Doom’s arms drop, strings cut. The voice that comes from his mind is higher than the other.

No, I don’t think so, it says, I think I’m going to continue. You’re more than welcome to burn.

“You’re the link,” Strange says.

Just figured that out now? Sister-Brother asks, Wow, Brother-Sister. You sure drew the short straw. My host is incredible. I’ve mapped every gyri and sulci in here and it’s gorgeous. I’d stay forever if I could. It’s almost a shame he has to die.

Stephen glares, raising his hands, fingers glowing with magic. “As Sorcerer Supreme, I command you to release Doctor Doom!”

The laugh that echoes down the link is nails on a chalkboard. You have no idea what we are.

“You’re playing with fire. You’re threatening the dimensional stability of all of Doomstadt. And when I find you, you’ll have hell to pay.”

This host has already seen hell, Sister-Brother chides, What better place to grow up than in a body demon-touched? Have you considered that I’m doing him a favor? This is how it plays out. This is fate.

Doom turns around without his mask.

A bloodcurdling shriek ricochets across Strange’s mind, his hand thrusts forward with a will not his own, and a thunderbolt connects with the king’s head. Victor flies against a control panel, smashing it with the weight of his impact. Groaning and creaking, the reactor starts to power down, sprinklers in the ceiling damping the flames.

His face, Brother-Sister whispers, Gods, oh gods, what’s wrong with his face...

Stephen contains his screams until he kneels at Doom’s side, hefting his body into his arms. The scent of burning meat fills his nose. He howls for someone, anyone, to help him, royal blood seeping onto his chest.

- - -

He awakens to the beeping of the heart monitor.

Doom feels like mountainsides have taken residence on his eyelids. Slowly sliding them open, he takes inventory. The room is bright, sterile, no windows. He’s propped up in a bed. His hands are bare yet weigh like continents. He looks to his left.

“Hello,” Stephen says.

The sorcerer looks terrible. Ashen skin, reddened eyes, a frown threatening to rip his mouth off. The clothes he wears belong to any servant of the castle. The hands clasped together between his knees shake worse than Doom has ever seen.

“You’re on a morphine drip. You’ve been unconscious for the past twelve hours. You’re in the castle. We set up a makeshift triage room. For a while...” He takes a deep breath, steeling his voice. “We didn’t know if you would make it.”

Doom thinks, and his head is wonderfully quiet.

“Thank every deity you know that your skull is almost as hard as your armor. You’re going to be in a lot of pain for the next few days, but the alternative...I don’t want to think about. And I got rid of the link.” Strange picks up a jar from a nearby stand. “Meet Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother.”

Floating in cerebrospinal fluid are two worms. One is storm cloud gray bracketed by navy blue. The other is dark yellow-green with flecks of red. Flat as ribbons and only an inch long, they give each other a wide berth.

“Pineal parasites,” Stephen continues, “Stuck to the undercarriage of our minds, learning how to be through our eyes. They talked together through us. Saw magic through us. Deciphered grand machines through us. And now they’re ready to go home. That’s what yours was trying to do. They were looking for a place where nothing changes and nothing happens because all who go there are hijacked and killed. Not such a good idea after all, was it?”

Doom blinks.

Putting the worms down, Strange digs his wrists into his eyes. “Victor, I swear to you on everything I am I had no idea. I thought you’d like it. I thought you could forget being so angry, forget the Four if only for an hour, and be happy. Now you--”

He stares at the door, fist to his mouth. Swallowing his heart, he says, “I’m bringing them back. They’re not at fault. They’re just following their life cycle. Despite what they’ve done, they deserve to live.”

Birds that will choke on ashes, he thinks, Countless trees turned to dust. No more. No more death.

“The best doctors in your kingdom are here for you. I’ll be back.”

“Doom will go with you.”

Victor’s voice is quiet but steady. Stephen shakes his head. “No. You’re in no shape to get out of bed, let alone travel dimensions.”

The monarch shuts his eyes. Heavy footsteps pass through the door. A doppelganger in emerald and steel, the Doombot bows its head to its ruler.

“Doom will go with you,” Victor repeats.

Strange blows a ragged breath. By Doom’s creased brow, that wasn’t easy. “Okay. Rest now. Don’t do anything until I return.”

Victor says nothing. Stephen waits until he drifts to sleep, presses a kiss to rough lips, and departs, robot in tow.

- - -

Q-4301 is indistinguishable from the real deal, from its ramrod straight spine to its folded arms, yet there’s no look of wonder in its lenses, no human, if royally restrained, sense of adventure in its copper and silicon heart. It doesn’t care about the bits and pieces of gold falling from the alien canopy, the grass patting its boots. It stares at Strange, emotionless, and that very lack of feeling gnaws at the pit of the sorcerer’s stomach.

They’re on the same black water island mound as before. He can pick out the tree Victor pressed him against from all the rest. Had the microscopic eggs that birthed the parasite twins been attracted to their sex, or had it been sheer luck? He doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know.

In his hand is a candle made from the blood of priests. “Do you have them?” Stephen asks.

Q-4301 lifts a corner of its cloak. Sewn into the cloth is a glass vial. Brother-Sister and Sister-Brother are inside.

Strange nods. “I don’t know if Doom programmed you to feel fear. Either way, let me do the talking. If all goes well, you won’t have to do anything.”

The Doombot says nothing. Taking a deep breath, Stephen snaps a spark between his fingers and lights the candle.

The world goes silent. The wind ceases, and so does the steady fall of golden bits and bobs. The grass curls into tight nubs. The only indication that time has not stopped entirely is the gleam of flame like an undulating eel on the surface of the water. Stephen’s breath is deafening in his own ears.

The voice that speaks is low and obsidian slick. “Well, well, well. Look what the fags dragged in.”

The demon, descending from the trees, blends perfectly into the dark. Its teeth are yellowed and pitted from a diet of rot. It moves on long, soundless talons. Its eyes are cherry red, pupils like mouths.

“Doctor Strange,” the khat murmurs, “You honor me with your presence. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re a cautionary tale among khat-kind, you know. A warning about too much power in frail, mortal meat. Like stuffing a sun into a stomach, it’s only a matter of time till it bursts.”

Stephen purses his lips. “Cut the shit. I have something for you.”

The khat’s grin splits up to its ears. “A gift? Is it your heart? Your humanity? Your soul? Please tell me it’s your soul. I would so like your soul.”

“Come closer and I’ll show you.”

The demon pads on water, leaving no ripples in its path. “Is it the thing beside you?” Nostrils flaring, it sizes up the Doombot. “Not the usual breed of lost lambs you lead to slaughter. What sort of lies did you tell it to follow you? An offer of redemption, perhaps? Anything desperate enough to flaunt about in a green skirt would listen to you.”

“Desperation is for the weak,” Q-4301 snaps.

Strange swallows the ball of curses on his tongue and hopes it doesn’t show. Doombots fall for bait. Exactly like the original.

The khat stops. “Everything has weaknesses. You were once a babe in your mother’s arms, no? Look at your companion. The Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme, can barely keep a friend around, let alone alive. No, no, no, there has to be a reason he wants you here.” It lies on all fours, rests its cheek on its fist. “What sort of gift was it again?”

Stephen starts to speak. Q-4301 beats him. “The only gift a demon like you deserves.”

Red eyes narrow in amusement. “Oh, it’s too much for a single khat to bear! Let me call my brothers. We shall find out together.” Rising into a crouch, it takes a deep breath.

There’s still time to salvage the plan. Strange shouts, “Do it!”

Q-4301 lunges into the water, tears the vial from its cloak, and thrusts its arm out. As predicted, the khat opens its toothy jaws and swallows the punch up to the Doombot’s shoulder. Payload delivered, they need to flee.

The portal spell is halfway done when Stephen spots Q-4301 motionless.

For a second, the khat too is still. Then, beaming around the steel in its mouth, it bites, and tears Q-4301′s arm off.

No robot could replicate the spray of blood and scream in agonized terror.

Strange doesn’t realize he’s also screaming. The khat snatches Q-4301′s shoulder and slams it beneath the surface. The water boils in the struggle. Shadows like hellish stalagmites reach for the leaf-choked sky as the sorcerer calls his magic. Black muck splatters the trees, the grass, Stephen’s legs as he gathers flame in his shaking palms.

The blast turns the water to steam as the garden sees more light than it has in billions of years. He looks for a target, finds nothing but the bare riverbed quickly flooding to fill the void.

The khat geysers up behind him, grabs his leg, and wrenches him into the water. The Cloak of Levitation has enough time to flip him face up before a heavy paw pins it down. Eyes stinging, heart hammering, Strange fends off the khat’s snapping jaws with novas in his palms. It takes all his training to anticipate where the teeth will be, vision obscured by plumes of bubbles, and not lose a limb.

Claws curl in his suit and drag him through the brine. His head connects with a tree root and all of reality goes sideways. His breath whooshes free, and sour liquid fills his throat.

The demon hauls him out, shoves him against a tree. Three blurry khats grin in Stephen’s eyes. Dozens of fangs.

“The gift is all three,” it says, “Your heart, humanity, and soul. Why were we ever warned about you? You’re nothing.”

It opens its mouth.

LEAVE HIM ALONE!

Stephen shakes water and blood from his eyes. The khat is frozen save its eyes, which widen in shock. Two voices erupt from its gullet. One, higher-pitched, screeches an incoherent string of profanity.

By the hoary hosts of Hoggoth, the other cries, I demand you let him go!

If he squints, Strange can see two ribbons in the khat’s belly. One yellow-green and red, the other gray and blue.

“What have you done,” the demon barks, “What have you done to me!?”

The claws pry open. Stephen beats a hasty retreat, flying to the unfinished portal. As he works to complete it, something moves at his feet. The grass scuttles bits and pieces of shattered human along pathways only it knows. He reaches down, grabs a fragment, and rage flows through him hot enough to make his skin glow, heat radiating from him in convection circles.

The khat breaks free of the parasites’ control, smashing its head against the tree for good measure. Screaming, it leaps for him. Strange sidesteps into another world -- home -- closes the portal, and waits until his ears stop ringing.

His anger he keeps. He storms through castle halls, eager to strike while the iron is hot.

- - -

Doom must really try this relaxation thing more often. It isn’t bad. Balcony doors open, letting in sunshine and a floral breeze, he reclines in his seat, sips his tea, and listens to the vinyl spinning on the antique phonograph.

I’m coming down, coming down like a monkey, but it’s all right Like a load on your back that you can’t see, oooh but it’s all right

The song has been in his head for months. It’s nice to hear it in the open. Doom smiles. Stephen has good taste in music.

“Bastard!”

The chair spins around and Doom is confronted by a feral magician. Strange notes the king’s simple garb: no steel in sight, just a cotton shirt and pants. He aims for Victor’s face but his quaking hands botch the throw. It bounces off his chest and lands in his teacup. “You’re not white!”

Doom looks at his tea. The blue eye in the tea looks back. “About time someone noticed,” he deadpans, extracting the orb by its optic nerve and setting it on a napkin.

The chair bucks like a bronco and Victor spills out. Stephen catches him with magic, hangs him in the air. The cup breaks into a thousand pieces and the king’s disappointed frown makes Strange want to throttle him. “Who was in the Doombot?”

“A nuclear engineer working on the CMNS reactor.” Doom sounds bored. “He tweeted about the parasite-induced euphoria I experienced. Called it an episode. Implications of weakness are illegal. Justice -- and the parasites -- were served. Two birds with one stone.”

“You killed a man for a tweet.”

“Whatever creature you encountered in the garden slew him, not I.”

Stephen drops him, relishing Victor’s grunt as a shard of teacup cuts his foot. It’s a slimy pleasure, and his face contracts. “Bastard. There isn’t an ounce of goodness in you.”

The king pulls the porcelain out of his flesh and points the bloodied end of it. “I have my ways just as you have yours. Until you grasp this concept, we shall always be at odds.”

“Be at odds? I saved your life!”

Doom brushes back his hair. Black stitches stretch from one ear across his head to the other. “You scarred me.”

They’re on thin ice. Strange dials back his fury, fists clenched. Monstrous tyrant or not, Victor is recovering from brain surgery. “You had a worm in your head.”

Tossing the shard aside, Doom sinks back in the chair in a position Stephen calls the regal slouch. “The sentence for weakness implications is community service. The engineer served his community. The sentence for injury to the royal person is death.” A scowl darkens his face. “I have half a mind to not let you leave this room alive.”

The sorcerer shuts his eyes.

“However.” Doom thinks, picking his words. “The extraneous circumstances surrounding the crime cannot be ignored. A different punishment is called for. It shall be made at a later time.” He draws a holographic display before him. A tigress pants in her den, lozenges squirming at her belly. “Three cubs were born at the Latverian Zoo this morning.” He looks at Stephen. “I find myself preoccupied with some wildlife conservation of my own.”

The sigh comes from the bottom of his heart. One day Victor will come out and thank him. Today is not that day. It will have to do. Strange rubs his eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”

“Speak.”

“Exile. A break. Another two months, or two years, or two hundred years. I’m not picky. I just don’t want to see you for a while.”

Doom looks back at the panel. “Your suggestion carries weight. So be it. Begone.”

That’s that. Another story concluded. Feeling empty, feeling light, Stephen turns to go.

“Strange.”

Fuck, so close. The sorcerer looks over his shoulder. “What?”

“When next we sojourn, for Doom knows we shall--” Victor’s lip turns up, the smallest hint of a smirk. “--I shall pick our destination.”

[brittysaucefanfic]

Acting is Easy, Loving is Harder

Summary: 

A new live action sci-fi/ fantasy show has been cast, Voltron. 

Included in the cast is the famous actresses Allura and Pidge, the famous actors Takashi ‘Shiro’ Shirogane and Keith Kogane, the famous chef Hunk Garrett, and the famous music artist Lance McClain. Throwing these five A-list celebrities onto one show can only come to one of three things. Beautiful Chaos, Painful Chaos, or Both. 

Throw in a romance, and a bad first meeting for some(two), and now you just spell out trouble.

Part 1 

(Next)(AU)(AO3)

VOLTRON CHAT ROOM

anon1: Did you guys hear about the cast for Voltron!? 

anon2: Uh duh!!! Allura, my queen, is in THE HOUSE BABY!

anon3: What about that mysterious guy, Keith? He’s so hot!

anon1: Nah, Lance is where the money is at! 

anon4: Do you think they’ll really show LGBT rep??? 

anon2: God I hope so! Coran hasn’t let us down yet!

anon3: Not to mention half the cast is somewhere on the LGBTQ+ spectrum.

anon1: Like our favorite soldier Shiro! I can’t wait to see the show! 

anon4: Gah can you imagine!??? Allura, Pidge and Lance in one show!!!!!?????? The sheer feminine power in one place, I’m

anon2: You know you put Lance in that group too right?

anon4: Tell me you can’t take one look at McClain and NOT see absolute female power?

anon2: You right tho

~~~~

INTERVIEW EXCERPT

Interviewer: Voltron has taken over social media, and the cast has only just been announced! I’m here today with one of said cast members. Welcome Lance!

Lance: Thanks, glad to be here. 

Interviewer: Is there anything you can reveal to us about the show?

Lance: *chuckles* Sorry darling, my lips are sealed on that front. 

Interviewer: Oh surely there must be something you can share? How about one of the most posed questions in the media? Will there truly be LGBT representation?

Lance: I can’t say much, but as far as we know for the time being, there will be a side romance for sure.

Interviewer: How about your costars? How do you feel about working with so many powerful stars?

Lance: I’m excited, I think we all are. Hunk and I know each other already, and I practically worship Shiro and Allura. I haven’t had the chance to meet Pidge or Keith, and I met Coran once, at auditions, but I have a good feeling about this show.

~~~~

Lance is in his element, soaking up the love of his fans.

Ever since the cast reveal, his popularity had skyrocketed. It's now the last show of his world tour, and then he's off to the set to start filming. Technically, the filming started two weeks ago, but he worked things out with Coran, his cast director. The others are only shooting scenes Lance isn't in, or are unimportant.

Lance smiles to the mirror.

He's really made it. No more will he be struggling to get by on his music doing covers and party performances. He's hit the big time, even getting to do his own world tour! And at every concert, his crowds just keep getting bigger and bigger.

He just has to do one last show.

Lance is pumped, ready to make this the best concert ever. He's going all in on this one, and he owes all of his help to his manager, Plaxum. Weird name, yes, but she's good at what she does. Lance checks his outfit one last time as he tries to settle his nerves. 

His eyes are done with a dramatic eyeliner, and he’s dressed in a fancy metallic suit jacket, blue with silver stars sparkling across the fabric. His shirt is a simple black button up, with the top three buttons open and loose. His pants are just a simple pair of black skinny jeans, the stretchy kind.

Lance dances out his nerves, stretching his body and getting his heart pumping. He’ll be doing a lot of dancing and moving tonight, because he wanted this show to be perfect. Don’t want to pull a muscle. 

There’s a knock at the door, and with a rush of chaos, he’s on the platform that’ll raise him to the stage. They give him a pair of earplugs and a wireless microphone, then Plaxum squeezes between the stage hands to pat him on the back and wish him luck. He barely hears it over the roar of the crowd, and they aren’t even screaming yet. 

With one last thumbs up, the above lights shut off. 

Lance stands into his beginning pose, his back to the crowd and head up. His shoulders roll back naturally and his feet spread apart to stabilize him. The lights above ease back on as his band starts with his first song, something upbeat and slightly repetitive. 

The roar of the crowd turns into a deafening scream and Lance eases in his second earpiece with a smile. 

The first song goes off without a hitch, and his adrenaline is pumping. His lips ache from how much he’s smiling as he takes a moment to address the crowd before song number two. It’s a full set for him, eighteen songs with two encores planned. His voice is sure to be wrecked on his way to the Voltron set. 

He does four songs in a row after song two, and with each one the crowd screams louder at him.

He pauses to talk some and get his breath back. And get some water, because the stage is burning up from all the lights. He catches sight of himself on one of the big screens and he almost winces at his sweaty face. His eyeliner is still on point though, thank God. 

“Thank you guys! Wow! There’s so many people here, it’s crazy!” Lance says, giving a little squeal for the crowd, who are screaming right back at him. He runs a hand through his hair, smiling as he waves at the fans. He reads out a few posters, and laughs as he sees one that calls him ‘daddy’, his face red. When his breath is back to normal, he starts singing once more. 

It’s crazy.

The crowd is huge, bigger than he’s ever seen at his own concerts. He does a slow song and the darkness beyond the stage lights up like the night sky. It’s breathtaking really, exhilarating. Who knew he would be here, with such a big turn out? Who knew those grueling years trying hard just find a gig at a sleazy bar would bring him here? Who knew he would be so famous? He stops to talk again after song eleven.

“You guys have been wonderful! This next song, it hits home for me, so forgive me if my voice breaks. When it came out, it helped me through my bisexual crises-” He’s cut off by another roaring scream and he laughs. “Hell yeah! Power to the gays! Anyways, it helped me in my rough times, so I hope it helps you too. I know it’s hard to accept yourself sometimes, but I’m here for you all.” And then he starts singing This is Me from The Greatest Showman. 

He throws everything into it. 

Lance starts out the song soft, soulful, his eyes closed as the words seem to rip themselves from his very core, standing still for the first time since he started the concert. Then on the first chorus he starts gliding slowly forward to the end of the stage. When the second verse starts, he freezes again, one hand gripping his shirt tight. 

His backup dancers, who have all been standing in various crouched poses, like they’re in critical pain, stand up and starts doing the exact dance from the show. Lance backs up as the chorus starts again and joins them, dancing with harsh enthusiasm. He and the dancers do the entire routine, and then when the beat drops after ‘I make no apologies’ he launches himself off the stage in a frontflip. 

Plaxum hated that part in rehearsals. 

He starts dancing the routine through the crowd, who are all screaming in his face and reaching out to touch him. He kisses the hand of a pretty girl before starting in on the bridge.

He makes it back to the stage when the music stops, hopping up with the help of a backup dancer. The rest are all frozen, reaching for the ground in a high crouch. Lance walks through them as he sings the slow part, his voice cracking on ‘this is brave’. When the first beat drops his dancers hit their knees, and when the music starts they all stand and throw their arms out like they’re going to embrace someone, Lance whipping around to match them. 

They finish the song with a proverbial bang as the lights go out. 

He does two more of his own songs, then does an onstage costume change while the lights are out. He changes into a sparkly blue tank top, with knee high leather boots and a fedora. It’s a small relief on his skin to change. 

When the lights go up again, he lets the crowd do their screaming. Then jumps into a cover of Shakira’s She-Wolf, changing all the female pronouns to male, and making the cover extremely gay. The fans went wild when he showed the world he had Shakira’s hips. 

On his last song, before the encores, he trips. 

Lance rolls with it, literally, using the forward momentum to go into a roll and then pops back up on his feet. All without missing a single beat or lyric. After the song he talks to the fans.

“Did anyone see me trip? No? Good let’s keep it that way, because it didn’t happen. Whatsoever.” Lance says and the entire crowd erupts into a roar of laughter. Lance smiles as he thanks the fans for coming to see him. When the lights go out, he does another quick on stage costume change. He forgoes a shirt all together. 

He also kicks off his shoes, and just does his last two songs barefoot and shirtless. 

In other words, his concert was amazing. Plus, he’s trending on twitter, with a very nice picture of him mid song of an encore. He’s barely clothed, in nothing but a pair of tight skinny jeans, and a fedora. Right before he walks off stage he thanks the fans one last time and then tells them to look out for him in a new show called Voltron.

******

(Next)(AU)(AO3)

[hollowedrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, ELLE! — You’ve been accepted for the role of Lily Potter. When I wrote Lily’s bio, I was truly terrified people respond well to the way she’s portrayed in this roleplay (a widow, a struggling mother stuck in the midst of a war) but you truly captured who she is. She’s kind but not soft, stubborn but not unwilling to change. The war has thrown her curveball after curveball, and she hasn’t been able to catch them all, and you beautifully conveyed how it has affected her. I’m so excited to see where you take her character. 

Thank you so much for applying. Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the follow list. Welcome to Hollowed Souls!

ooc.

name: elle

age: 27

preferred pronouns: she/her

timezone: gmt

activity: 6/10. i do keep a full-time job and am currently studying a course in data privacy as well hence the 6/10 on activity. however, even if i have a few must’s in life i would keep it as a priority to keep updated on the group and what was going on the dash. for me, it’s important to keep up and post a reply at least every 3rd day.

are you applying for more than one character?: (if so, list your preference in order) not this time. i think.

how do you feel about your character dying?: (in a roleplay centered on war, death is always a possibility. as an admin, it’s best to know ahead of time which players are comfortable with playing it out.)  if it furthers the plot i’m all for it.

anything else?: (questions, concerns, etc.) only that this is a very beautiful and well-made group. i love the innovative thinking!

ic details.

full name: lily magdalene evans potter

few know that lily didn’t let go of her maiden name, that she only added potter at the end. most only assumed, automatically calling her lily potter and barely noting that if she signed something it’d be in lily evans potter. it was a small homage to her muggle heritage, a memory she didn’t want to eradicate and forget. a tiny act of defiance and a finger towards a society that assumes that the woman takes the man’s surname upon marriage.

date of birth: 30 Jan. 1958 ( aquarius )

former hogwarts house: gryffindor

sexuality: bisexual

gender/pronouns: cis-female, she/her

face claim change: no way josé. i’m keeping laura harrier, should i get chosen.

more.

how do you interpret this character’s personality? how will you play them? include two weaknesses & two strengths.

PERSONALITY. kind but honest, it shows itself in her ability to dare questioning people for their belief, but only after she has listened to their concerns. & when she questions its with softness in her voice and wide eyes filled with a will to understand BUT only insofar that there is no offensive words or a string of slurs –– then she bites back, hard. straightforward and honest, lies has always been something lily finds difficult unless they are important, necessary even, and even if she is kind she won’t be able to lie for someone’s feelings not to be hurt. hand in hand with this goes the fact that she cannot stand when people lies to her. she needs the truth, otherwise she doesn’t know if she can trust or what she should believe. this is also where lily can be judgmental. especially when she was younger and didn’t understand why people lied, or rather –– didn’t want to understand why people lied. with age came understanding, however, but only for whitelies. lies with meaning. lily was always smart, quick-witted, and at hogwarts, people believed her top grades came from a gift and whereas lily is intelligent her grades came from hard work. many hours spent in the library with her hair in a messy bun and mascara only put on one pair of eyelashes rather than both.

( + ) kind, honest, hard-working, loyal, brave, quick-witted, resourceful     ( - ) judgmental, stubborn, detached, rigid, defiant

how has the war affected this character, emotionally and otherwise?

before. the war was always there, staring into her eyes & waiting to snap its fangs around her neck. being muggleborn, lily never had the luxury to ignore the divide in society and the cruelty it brought simply because she was the very thing the other side hated. back then, she tried to reason ( she did up until that day )  and understand where their hatred for her & her kind came from but once slurs left their lips she would become fire, scorching earth with her tongue. to be hated simply for what you were born causes anger within, even if lily didn’t let it consume her the flames licked her veins always present, never far. this is where the anger came from when james hadn’t told her of the order. even if the reason was evident ( protection ) she was hardly someone to sit idly by. lily wanted to be part of something, a resistance, and the fact that he had lied ( kept something from her ) hurt. as the war carried on, lily kept her hope that some on voldemort’s side could be reasoned with even if her friend’s would protest. she kept that hope up until it all changes.

after. every night when she goes to bed lily sees him. those eyes that could see through the act of bravery she held up. the last moments she had with him play on repeat in her mind keeping her up at night. in a sense james had been what kept her her even in the midst of war, and with him g o n e she has become more detached from the people around her. not even marlene is here to keep her steady now, to drag her back when her mind spins away or when her edges become too sharp. less smiles are seen on lily’s features and the hair that used to be flowing down her shoulders is most often tied up in a bun. these days she, instead of heated discussions, listens in on the order meetings. suddenly the girl who always had something to say has become quiet. it’s not that she doesn’t have anything to say but she doesn’t have the strength, doesn’t see the point. now she needs to put her son first, and it wouldn’t do him good if she snapped at people sneering at her or putting herself in danger. but underneath the calm surface there is something brewing, a red hot anger that never truly left.

where does this character currently stand? with those who wish to hide in godric’s hollow until the war ends, with those who wish to rebuild the order and continue fighting the war, or on neither side? why?

lily stands on neither side, simply because she currently cannot muster up the strength to continue fighting whole-heartedly nor can she let herself hide in godric’s hollow until the war is over. she has never been a by-stander, even if she is acting like one as she reels from the loss of her husband & marlene, and she knows she can’t be one because she needs to fight for her son & those she’s lost. thus, with harry in her arms she will attend order meetings and listen in, but she won’t speak up ( not yet ). by instinct she does what she believes is best for harry, as any mother would do, and currently it is to remain calm, even if the fire within her shouts for a different solution. there is an anger growing within her, waiting to get out, and for each day the fires roar more loudly –– soon she won’t be able to contain them.

extra.

here you can list or add any extras you created to get a sense of this character. that can include graphics, writing samples, mock blogs, etc. apps that have extras won’t have an advantage over apps that don’t, although it can help me further understand your grasp of the character.

style.

hogwarts. dr martens peeked out under her robes and on days where the uniform was not required she’d be seen in highwaisted denims shorts, fishnet tights and a band t-shirt. sometimes she’d wear highwaisted jeans and a t-shirt. a leather jacket thrown over her shoulders. a camera in her shoulder bag always ready to be taken out and capture a moment. she was never seen without that camera.

now. highwaisted jeans with wide legs.  still dr martens on her feet. white or black t-shirt and a leather jacket. sometimes one of james’ old shirts thrown over her shoulders and tied at the waist. never seen without the golden ring with a ruby stone in it that she was given by marlene on their graduation. it hangs from a golden chain around her neck. on her wedding finger she still wears the wedding bands. not even taking it off when she showers.

tag.

here.

what’s in a name?

( L i l y |flower ) ; the name derives from a flower, which is a symbol for purity. lilies are also linked to the greek goddess hera. lily’s parents named both their daughters after flowers – indicating their view of the purity in them both.

( M a g d a l e n e | cleaned of evil spirits ) ; a pastor, her father, wished to give his daughter a godly name. thus, Magdalene, sprung to his mind. she was to be cleaned of evil spirits, the sun in his eyes.

( E v a n s | young warrior / god is gracious & merciful) ; welsh or gnglish surname deriving from the name evan meaning “young warrior”; it can also mean “god is gracious and merciful” if one follows the interpretation of evans being a form of the name John.

How is Lily coping with being a new mother in the midst of a war?

she’s not. the truth is there in the details, how she gives harry to anyone ( she trusts ) to hold him if they so much as offers and how she sometimes doesn’t hear his cries in the night until they have reached a higher pitch. it’s not as much that she is neglectful as she is tired. lily would never intentionally neglect her son but sometimes when she looks at him she sees how much like him harry is, that she needs to look away because the wound from the loss is still too raw. on the other hand, there is nothing lily wouldn’t do for harry. he is the reason why she leaves her bed in the morning and he is the reason why they are here. there is nothing she wouldn’t do for him, even if she currently needs time to settle into their new circumstances.

[cyarikryze]

broken mirror; chapter 2

trigger warning for abuse here! --- Ian’s already unpacking by the time I get home. There are boxes littered everywhere, clothes scattered across the floor, possessions and keepsakes in an unkempt pile on the table. He doesn’t even seem aware of my presence until I close the door behind me. Then he looks up at me, beams. “Hey, babe!” he meanders his way through the mess on the floor towards me, grabbing my waist and kissing me. I smile now, and kiss him back. “Where’ve you been? I was getting worried.” The last few months with him have been a whirlwind. He’s seemed to spend every waking moment trying to make me fall for him. And I have, hard. He’d constantly surprise me with gifts, jewellery, flowers. He must’ve spent so much on me. When he asked me to move in, it just felt right. Felt like this was where I was meant to be. “Oh, I was just seeing some friends to tell them about us,” I explain lightly, pulling away and kneeling down on the floor to start folding his clothes. “God, you don’t half make a mess, don’t you?” “Friends, huh?” I sense a slight shift in his tone - he suddenly sounds a little more intimidating. I bite my lip and shake it off - I’m sure it’s nothing, just my mind overthinking it. “What friends would that be, Melissa?” “Oh, you know…” I trail off for a moment, try to busy myself in tidying his clothes so I don’t need to look him in the eye. “Sarah, so, of course, Natalie was there… Julian, too.” I can remember their reactions so clearly to what I’d told them. Sarah tried to act as though she was just purely happy for me, but I could see the weariness and suspicion in her eyes. Natalie voiced concerns of how soon it was, and even when I told her I was sure that this was right for me, she seemed a little reluctant. And Julian, Julian didn’t even say anything. I made eye contact with him - he just smiled at me. I know he doesn’t agree with this. But I know he wouldn’t want it to seem as though he didn’t support me. And he wouldn’t want to lie to me, either. “Hm,” he grunts, and I hear him walk over to the other side of the room. My palms are sweating. I’m finding it a little hard to breathe again. “I, um - I know you don’t like it when I go out without telling you, especially when Julian’s involved,” I admit quietly, standing and walking over to where he stands, by the table at the end of a room. He’s pouring a drink. I swallow. “But I’m over him now. I love you. That’s… that’s what matters, right?” “I’ve told you I don’t want you seeing him anymore,” he growls, his voice a low hum. I can’t breathe. I can’t even find my words for a moment. “Y-yeah, I know…” I trail off again, finding myself at a loss. Everything I can think of sounds like an excuse, a defence; something I’m sure he’ll use against me in the future. Even an apology sounds as though it would be pathetic. “And you fucking lied to me.” I feel as though the wind has been knocked out of me. I hold my stomach, which is starting to fip and churn. I’m starting to feel nauseous. “I - he’s my best friend, Ian-” “I don’t want to hear it!” he roars, taking me by surprise. He whirls around and glares at me, his eyes flaming, his breath heavy and laboured. My own breaths are irregular and shallow. “Get out. I don’t want to look at you right now.” I open my mouth to try to protest, wanting nothing more than to just make it right. “Get out!” I gasp and scamper towards the door. My hands are shaking so violently that I struggle to open it, but as soon as I do, I rush out into the crisp, cold air, breathing it in, trying to regulate myself. I pull my phone out, and once again, find my finger hovering over Julian’s contact. But no, I can’t call him. Not after that. He’d know. I come away from his contact, and choose to call Sarah instead. Each beat causes another flip in my stomach, causes my heart rate to increase. I think it’s to go to voicemail - and then - “Hey girl,” Sarah greets cheerily, and my heart already starts to slow down just at the sound of her voice, “what’s up? I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon - I thought you’d be busy, if you know what I mean.” I can almost see her wriggling her eyebrows as she says it. I smile slightly. “No, we, um - we got in a fight. Well, he did. He did a - a lot of yelling. I did a lot of - being yelled at.” “Oh God, no! What happened?” I bite my lip and sigh gently. “The usual. He didn’t like that I went out and didn’t tell him. Especially since Julian was there. Which I understand, I guess…” “I mean, I kinda get where he’s coming from with that,” Sarah admits thoughtfully, “but at the same time, it’s your life. He shouldn’t be able to stop you from seeing people you want to see.” “I… I really don’t want to stop seeing Julian. S,” I swallow, tears burning my eyes. Just the thought of a life without him in it makes me feel nauseous. “I know you don’t, and you don’t have to… maybe just keep it a little more on the quiet from Ian. I know you probably won’t like lying to him, but if it comes down to it, would you rather that or not see Julian?” “Yeah. You’re right.” I tuck a hair behind my ear and sigh. “He was just so mad, Sarah. He was yelling so much - he’s drinking again.” “Honey, do you think you’re safe with him?” I pause a moment, breath catching in my throat. “Y-yeah. Of course. He wouldn’t lay a finger on me like that.” *** I tentatively open the door and step in - for a moment, everything’s quiet, and I think maybe he’s gone upstairs to calm down. But something suddenly hits the wall by my head, shattering. I leap backwards, almost crashing into the door. My heart thuds, my breath getting caught in my throat. “What the fuck were you thinking, going out without telling me?” Ian snarls, coming at me from the darkness of the room. I look down at the floor - what is shattered beside me is the now empty - and broken - bottle of scotch he’d been drinking. I swallow. “You can’t trust the people out there, Melissa.” “I was with friends…” I protest quietly, “nothing was going to happen…” “Right, sure, you were with friends,” he sneers the last word, coming so close to me that I can smell the alcohol on his breath. I can’t breathe. “I don’t like these friends of yours. That Julian is just the tip of the iceberg.” “Seriously…? What the hell is the problem with Sarah and Natalie?” Anger is starting to bubble inside me now - I wonder why the hell he has the right to talk to me like that. What makes him so much better. “Oh, don’t get me started on that slut Sarah. She’s a bad influence on you. I don’t like to think what she’d persuade you to do. Being… as she is. The same goes for that other one. I don’t like you hanging around with people like that.” “You mean lesbians?” I laugh shortly, crossing my arms across my chest. “My sister’s bisexual. You know that, right?” “It’s unnatural. I don’t want that influence around you.” “You’re hardly the boss of me, Ian. You can’t talk, anyhow.” He moves even closer to me, his eyes narrowing into slits. When he speaks next, his voice is so soft, dangerous, that it sends a shiver down my spine, and I almost regret speaking. “What do you mean by that, Melissa?” I fall silent for a moment. “Y-you’re always with that co-worker. Chantelle. I - I don’t think it’s fair for you to be like this over Julian and Sarah when you’re blatantly flirting with her in front of me.” He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, completely still, staring at me. My heart’s thudding, and that’s all I can head. I’ve messed up. I’ve messed up. I’ve messed up. “You - you stupid fucking bitch,” he breaks the silence, pushing even further against me. I’m entirely trapped between him and the wall now. I have no way out. “How dare you talk to me like that?!” I look down. “Well? Aren’t you going to apologise?” I bite my lip, and stay silent. He grabs my hair suddenly. Yanks my head back so hard that it hits the wall behind me. My head throbs with pain, and I heave, dazed, shocked. He puts a hand around my neck and squeezes, squeezes, until I can’t breathe. Tighter and tighter by the second. I struggle against him, but it’s helpless. “You’ll learn your place someday, I can promise you that.” He lets go of me, and I half collapse, gasping for the breath I’ve lost. He starts to walk away - I think, maybe, I’ve gotten away with it, that he’s done. But then, in a flash, he whirls around, brings his fist to my cheek with such a force it knocks me down. “See what you’ve made me do now?” He spits on me before storming out, slamming the door behind him. I’m left on the floor, unable to move. I bring a hand to my throbbing cheek, trying to comprehend whether what just happened actually happened, whether he meant it, or whether he was drunk, unaware of what he was doing. I whimper quietly, and then my eyes fill with tears so suddenly that I find myself incapable of stopping them from falling.

[adisneybucketlist]

Confession #11

“Know the War within Yourself Before waging war or Before going to battle in any War with another. Engaging in such battles is Sure Defeat, Painful, inflicting Harm and Wounds on others. In doing this, they too must deal with your personal war, making it part of their own. You never know the enemy you engage until you know the enemy within first. Find that source, and the battle is Won!” -TeeHee

So, originally, I had planned on writing this particular blog post in a much different tone and topic. But as it works, divine intervention stepped in, once again, and sent me in a different direction.

I will be the first to admit, there are times I get frustrated with people who “don’t get it”. That continue to want to keep their blind spots hidden. That continue to say they create their reality, but when the rubber meets the road, they fall back into victimization and old programs. They forget they have all the power inside themselves…..not in anything outside of them. Which is exactly what I had planned on writing about.

So it seems, I got reminded of how truly difficult it really is at times to take FULL responsibility for your life. That can be a big burden to bear. And while it is also so freeing and liberating, it can be a mental challenge. I for one experienced this to a huge degree just recently. There is a common theme of a situation that has presented itself in my life in different ways since I was a little girl. My old program is to want to blame. To be a victim. To want to scream and yell at the top of my lungs while nobody seems to hear me. The difference now is I am completely aware it is a program. I know what is happening in my mind and in my body (my body always gets hit hard in these situations) and I can observe it. But….and this is a big but….it does not make it any easier in those moments when these programs try to sneak back up. In some ways it is worse because you are fighting against yourself. You can’t be the victim. You know what is happening, but your body is so use to being in control of your emotions, it is sometimes a moment to moment struggle. To continue to stay aware and try to gently let it move through you without getting attached to it.

I’m a strong-willed person. I put myself through complete opiate withdrawal on my own for God’s sake. I can usually let go of things fairly easily. Which is why I decided to write this post. As much pain mentally and physically as I experienced in the last couple days, I think about the people, whom I’ve had the pleasure to start interviewing, that were carrying a much bigger burden. And yet still had the strength and courage to not let the body win, to not let convention win. To listen to that inner voice deep inside even when everything around them was showing them not to.

I have started my pre Supernatural Tour with zoom interviews. They have all been with people I have met through doing the work of Dr. Joe Dispenza. And while his work has changed my life, I’m in no way saying that is the only way. It’s finding something, anything, that empowers you. That allows you to take back the control in your own life instead of letting everyone and everything consume you.

I have had the honor of interviewing four people so far. I got to listen as they bared their souls to me and to the whole world. That alone is a feat in and of itself. I know personally how scary it can be to share your insides with the world, even when you know some, or a lot, of people will not accept it….or you. These people have blown my mind and inspired me on such a new level. I realized just how brave they really are. And all of those people out there that finally decided to take their life back into their own hands. Going against what many have been taught their whole lives.

From laying in a hospital bed, not being able to move one single part of their body and yet still knowing they put themselves there with their thoughts. To having a spine so broken and weak it can no longer hold up your body….and given really no hope for recovery. Because of course no one can rebuild bone right? Wrong. A woman given a cancer diagnosis that immediately refused any kind of chemo or radiation because she always had a feeling her healing would only come from working on her emotions and fixing herself within. Doesn’t sound like something they teach in medical school! And yet another that struggled with depression her whole life and most recently very severe….in fact, suicidal. But she had the fight to say I cannot choose that option until I choose to truly live first. To finally put myself first. Doesn’t sound like an antidepressant remedy to me.

These people have every reason to be a victim. To feel sorry for themselves and have others do the same. To blame God or whomever for the situation that was surely put on them. It is so much easier to play small. Which is exactly why I call this tour, Supernatural. Because there are hundreds, thousands, more out there that have also decided to not be normal anymore. In fact, being “normal” is what got them there. As my teacher once said, it is normal to be a victim and to blame. It is most definitely Supernatural to decide to do otherwise. Instead of blaming something outside of them, they decided they actually had the power inside all along. And there is no shame in that. We don’t know what we don’t know! But it’s in finally choosing yourself, in listening to that inner voice we all have, that starts to unwind the fear little by little. Just in asking the question, what if, they are braver than most people I have known my whole life.

The only reason I can get frustrated at times, and tell people to do the things I tell them to do with such passion is because I’ve seen it over and over again in my own life. I know first-hand the struggle of going against convention, of going against many who you love at times. To decide to not be a normal part of society. To not buy into any of it. It honestly makes me sad at times to watch commercials (on the very few occasions I have to!) or drive by huge billboards and think about all the millions of people that are “asleep” and all that information just goes straight to the back of their brain without any filter. They are so stuck in programs they have lost all control in their life. It really is like robots sometimes!

But these people had their lives on the line and STILL chose a different way. When fear was all they were presented with, they chose something else. And not just in a moment. But moment after moment after moment for years, some of them. To say, I am 100% responsible for everything in my life, is more courageous than I think most even realize. And many of these people had never been exposed to things like meditation or quantum physics or living a spiritual life. I know I was one of them. But yet that nagging voice inside just kept whispering until we decided to listen. Until that whisper became a roar.

To light a match in a dark space. I have heard that many times from Dr.Joe. But I never really understood it to the depth I do now. To go within is a very scary thing to do. To really put a mirror in front of yourself and to be truly honest with all the good and bad. To go to those places that you have kept hidden so far inside you didn’t even know they were there. It’s like wandering into a pitch-black cave not knowing the way out and having no lifeline but yourself. Those are the dark and scary places we have nightmares about. There are no such things as monsters except for the ones we hide in ourselves. And to be brave enough to stand up to those monsters and say no more? And to battle once and for all, all of your demons. That sounds like a superhero to me. That sounds Supernatural to me.

This tour also represents not just going into that cave once, but continuing to go back in. And each time you get a little smarter and you bring a small flashlight to leave there. And every time you go in, it gets a little less scary. You know your way around a little more with each expedition. Some of the cave is now fully lit. But, that cave will never fully go away, and it will never be all the way lit up. It is an evolution, a lifetime. Lifetimes.

Yes, it is so very brave and courageous to stand against convention and choose yourself. It’s even braver to continue to make that choice every day. I was reminded of this first hand just two nights ago. I watched the love of my life talk to a young kid that just admitted he was bisexual and was terrified to tell his dad. In fact, he had made the decision to not ever tell him. He felt it would do more damage than good. To hide himself. To hide who he really is. And as I watched my partner empower this young kid, to give him the permission to be who he is in the face of anyone, I watched exactly why this kid is afraid. Three men sat at the end of the bar (yes, we were in a bar) just behind Scott and I watched and listened as they whispered to each other such hate filled judgements about the conversation Scott was having with this young man. Fear. And for the first time in my life I really stood up to fear. I’m not so sure I did it with complete love…there may have been the word assholes thrown out…but I stopped their programs in their tracks. Surely, they weren’t used to a woman, let alone a 120 pound sweet lady, standing up to them. They mumbled something along the lines of they were just talking about the hockey game that was on, but they knew I knew exactly what they were talking about. Those 3 men are the reason that young, sweet, kind, young men have to live in fear. And hopefully I took a little bit away in those moments. Hopefully I shook them awake just a little to disrupt their programs…I know it did mine.

I was proud of myself at that moment. But I was even prouder of my partner, for speaking his truth and reaching out to help someone he just met to feel a little more love for himself. But mostly proud of this kid for being afraid to even utter the word, bisexual, but being open enough and brave enough to share with us. To not hide in those moments. And taking a small step into that cave.

People have called me brave for some of things I have done in the last year or year and a half. And maybe there is some of that there. But mostly I feel humbled. Humbled by the ones who have been and continue to be courageous. They aren’t movie stars or world renowned scientist or New York best-selling authors. They are big strong men, and introverts, and caretakers. They are you and me. They give me hope. They show me as hard as it may sometimes be going into that cave every day, the second you take a step out on the other side, into the light, it truly is a freedom and joy that I have never known in my life until now.

So be brave today. Stare fear in the face and choose love. Be courageous. Wake someone out of their program…or your own. You can live normal every other day. Today, be Supernatural…

source https://thefreedomproject222.com/confession-11/ source https://thefreedomproject222.blogspot.com/2020/07/confession-11.html