#took me a while to figure out ink's fashion sense but I think I *kind of* grasp it now

[soaked-ghost]

best part of having a blorbo is playing dress up with them :}

[isshuns]

the progression of things - discarded scenes

this is a dump post for scenes that were in the original draft, but never made it to final version of the fic. they bear no connection to the final version of "the progression of things”, but i liked them enough that i couldn’t bear just deleting these scenes (TPOT underwent a lot of editing and rewrites) ;_; they were part of the original premise where I wrote Miyano as ace/demisexual, but in the end it didn’t work out ;_;

click on the “read more” link if you’d like to read them, but take note, they’re were part of the rough draft, hence are extremely unpolished. 

Miyano remembers being fifteen, his school bag heavy on his shoulders, but his heart heavier in his chest. Every day he looks at the mirror in his bathroom and wonders why he was cursed with such feminine features, a smaller build than the rest of the boys in his school; everything on his face seemed wrong as though nature forgot to switch its genetic code back to “MASCULINE, MALE” when constructing his face.

He couldn’t blame his parents, they never had any say in what he’d look like when he was born, and his mother would be heartbroken to hear that her son, bearing such resemblance to her looks, actually hated his own.

But as slightly estranged as he was from his middle school classmates when his looks came up as a topic of conversation, Miyano still heard Things whispered amongst his peers, seen Things even, when his classmates included him in their weekly get-together to ogle at printed materials meant for a demographic way beyond their age.

In the flush of youth, where the boys in his class pondered over their body anatomy, fascinated with nature, and looked to adult magazines (stolen from their older sibling’s stash) for enjoyment, Miyano pondered over the harsh reality of his feminine features, upset but resigned with nature, and looked to fashion magazines (taken with permission from his mother’s collection) for pointers on how Not to appear even more like a girl.

(His father’s copies of Business Weekly helped a little too, even if only to remind Miyano how top businessmen in the country dressed for a business photoshoot with the press – suit, tie and expensive watch peeking from the cuffs.)

When the passage of time came and went and Miyano entered high school, he discovered the world of Boys Love manga and dedicated his free time to understanding the intricacies of this fascinating genre. Being a minor, the type of print he could obtain were fairly sweet and innocent, nothing too explicit save for some scenes that took place on a bed, the protagonists’ modesty preserved with a flimsily drawn blanket over their nude bodies.

Occasionally, a book or two with explicit content would make their way to his collection. The internet was also a place full of wonders and possibility, and once or twice Miyano would (secretly) look up the famous series promised with rave reviews, but somehow, Porn Without Plot never really stuck to his repertoire.

Even after becoming of age, Miyano still finds himself gravitating towards the safety that comes with the PG-13 books. There is a strange sort of comfort in consuming fiction that depicts love as something simple and uncomplicated, straightforward and representation that love– intimacy did not necessarily come hand in hand with sexual acts. Intimacy could exist with or without sexual acts and vice versa, whatever floats your boat, really.

For Miyano, it was always the build up leading to that ultimate confession scene (at the rooftop, under the cherry blossom tree by the school yard, the back of the school gym, endless options) that grabbed him by the feels and punted him into the sun. That’s where the highlight is!! He once told Sasaki, unable to hold back on his excitement that twinkled in his eyes.

And identifying all the event flags leading up to that very moment of their first kiss? Unparalleled. Truly the best of all scenes there is. Peak romance. The bedroom scenes (few and rare in his possession) are really just a bonus.

So, while his peers continued to chat about going through the motions in bed, the closest miyano could ever try to relate to during those conversations was the intimacy that came along with the idea of sexual intercourse.

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

The moment Miyano is done with the last of his midterms and bids his notes goodbye (for now), Sasaki magically appears beside him and whisks him away to the nearby izakaya for a celebratory dinner.

“For getting through the first midterm week of your life~” His giant baby boyfriend coos, ever so sweet like the cakes he bakes.

Miyano pretends to be exasperated, shoulders dramatically slumping over the sticky izakaya table, but his heart knows better. It’s been one month since he’s started college (the one Sasaki also so happens to attend, not a coincidence at all), and the privilege of having more time to spend with one another makes Miyano giddy with happiness.

Gone are the days Miyano can only meet his favourite senpai for a handful of hours after club activities until the reality of their courseload slaps them in the face; gone are the days they have to rely on telephone calls and text messages, where the minutes and seconds flashing across the screen serve as an unforgiving reminder of the time they have left before they have to part ways.

It’s all gone now. Sasaki sits before him, in the flesh, and Miyano has always felt that seeing Sasaki’s smile in person would always be different from seeing it on screen. The grainy pixels on his phone can never do those handsome features justice, nor can it the warmth blooming behind his breastbone whenever Sasaki threads their fingers together and walks him all the way back to his dorm.

The freshmen all share a common dormitory block separate from the rest of the college students, something about building connections and getting to know each other better, so Sasaki insists on walking Miyano back to his room before he makes the trek all the way back to his own. The night is young, the dorms are peacefully quiet, and everyone is probably still out in town having a good time.

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

Loathe as he is to do so, Miyano makes the executive decision to drop by the bookstore one afternoon to try and consult a few adult BL manga. It’s the worst idea he could ever come up with, he hates comparing his own relationship to silly BL manga tropes, but nothing short of an apocalypse would push him to ask the people around him whether it’s normal to… not think about sex in a romantic relationship. While the internet is a wondrous place full of answers and possibilities, Miyano figures it probably wouldn’t hurt to take a peek at how society tackles his questions through the lens of BL manga.

Hurriedly, just before his date with Sasaki, he randomly picks up one of the highly rated R-18 series, heads over to the payment counter quickly, and bolts out of the store the moment the cashier bags his purchases. He makes sure to stuff the damned volumes deep beneath his bag, out of sight, before he heads over to the café to meet Sasaki for lunch.

And when he’s finally back in his own dorm later that night, his roommate blissfully unaware and asleep, Miyano retrieves the book from his bag, cautiously peels away the plastic wrap before he settles down for the night to take notes.

His efforts are all for naught. Halfway through the series – one Junjou Romantica –, it takes Miyano all but 3 volumes before he calls it quits and and promptly closes the book. Guess there’s no way he can redeem his money now, unless Sasaki is into dubcon…? Well, that’s a thought for future Miyano to ponder on. Current Miyano just wants to sleep and wash the images out of his mind with bleach.

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

he has no care for sex, but nothing compares to the tender happiness that comes along with partaking in something sasaki enjoys and yearns for. sasaki’s language of love has always been touch and spending time partaking in activities of common interest.

today, sasaki has picked a soothing lo-fi playlist as their background music. they’re seated on the bed, warmly nestled against each other as they browse through their respective manga

his eyes may be on inked pages, but his heart is long gone. he discreetly observes his boyfriend, the curve of his jaw, long lashes almost curling against the high of his cheekbones as his honey-gold eyes flit across pages and pages of content.

the fingers flipping through each page is steady, long, and miyano suddenly wonders how it would feel to have them splayed across his body, touching him in places his own hands have never ventured before.

“what’s wrong, myaa-chan?” sasaki smiles at him, eyes impossibly fond and kind.

well, fuck it, there’s no going back now.

“senpai, what do you think… about… BL with explicit content?”

sasaki blinks. miyano tampers down the urge to kiss those parted lips.

“you mean books with sex scenes in them?”

“yeah.”

“oh.” sasaki turns away, the hand that’s not rested on miyano’s shoulder has found a place on top of sasaki’s mouth. he’s embarrassed, miyano realizes, and somehow that makes him feel ten times more endearing than usual.

sensing that this was a topic his boyfriend wasn’t going to let go any time soon, sasaki clears his throat and returns miyano’s gaze head on.

“i’m fine with it. why do you ask?”

“i… well.” while miyano struggles for words, sasaki hand starts moving up and down his arm, soothing him.

“are you starting to read rated manga? it’s normal, at least, ogasawara’s girlfriend says so. so there’s no need to be shy, myaa-chan! if you want to recommend any, you know I’ll read anything you lend me. no judgment here.”

it should have been reassuring, but the thought that ogasawara’s girlfriend discussed with sasaki about explicit BL manga like it’s the fucking weather has miyano choking on his spit. what the actual fuck.

do people actually talk about these things? is miyano the abnormal one instead for never entertaining the thought of doing things with his significant other?! has he been missing out on some code of relationship couples ought to follow?! the BL mangas he read never said so!

“myaa-chan? are you okay?”

“you- you talk with ogasawara senpai about these things?”

sasaki’s cheeks colour a lovely shade of red. from his looks, he’s starting to catch up with where miyano wants the conversation to go. that’s a relief, because miyano honestly doesn’t know how to tactfully broach the topic without sounding like a dumb dumb about these things.

“yeah, i do.” sasaki admits, “but only once or twice, because ogasawara needed to vent about things. sorry, does that weird you out? i can stop. i don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“no, no, it’s fine. totally fine, senpai.” it must be a common boys topic that somehow eluded miyano and friends during high school. at this point, miyano’s face must be burning with the hot flames of embarrassment and shame, he’s pretty sure sasaki’s fingers can feel the heat all the way from where they are, stroking his cheek absently.

“what brought this on, if you don’t mind me asking?” sasaki asks a moment later, when the weight of silence in the room gets a little too much to bear.

“just… some friends talking about it the other day.”

“friends.”

“yeah… fine, classmates.”

“are you… thinking about it?”

at miyano’s surprised expression, sasaki backtracks immediately.

“forget i asked.”

“to be honest, i don’t know what to feel about it.”

“it’s okay, we don’t have to do what you don’t want to do.”

it’s so painfully awkward yet endearing at the same time.

“do you think about it, senpai? about us… doing those things?”

sasaki’s lack of an answer is extremely telling. the shade of red coloring his cheeks is probably bright enough to rival miyano’s own face.

“does it matter? i am happy with doing whatever myaa-chan wants to do.” sasaki finally says, but his eyes have shied away from miyano’s gaze, and something within miyano snaps.

“of course it matters. it’s you, sasaki-senpai. i want you to be happy too. i want to do things that you want to do too.”

something akin to hope blooms across sasaki’s eyes (surprisingly moist).

“thank you, myaa-chan. that thought alone makes me happy enough. let’s leave it here for now and let things progress as they naturally would, how about that? we don’t need to rush into anything. i’m really happy with where we are now.”

he knows that sasaki has caught on to his sexual orientation, no doubt. it’s been a year since he became of age, and yet the BL manga he still buys have never ventured into the explicit genre. briefly, he wonders if sasaki actually keeps his own stash of porn somewhere below his bed, like normal boys would do.

they aren’t in high school anymore. it’s been years, and yet until this point, the thought of doing something more than kissing and cuddling has never crossed miyano’s mind. he wants to cry at how respectful his boyfriend has been all this while.

“myaa-chan? myaa-chan? oh no, yoshikazu, don’t cry. i’m sorry if i said something wrong-”

oh fuck.

miyano has always been uncomfortable with displays of affection and attention, preferring to bask in the comforting arms of his daydreams and fantasies, but his love for sasaki burns greater and he will do anything he can to ensure that sasaki receives equal, if not more, affection and care than the amount his boyfriend showers him in.

scene ends with sasaki hugging miyano tightly, reassuring him and planting a kiss at the side of miyano’s temple. but it does nothing to seep away the frustration gnawing at his bones.

END

[ninjakitty15]

Hair Today, Gone Tonight (Loki Oneshot)

It was not uncommon for Loki to take his time in his bathroom preparing himself for the day, he was a prince of Asgard after all and had to keep up appearance in every aspect. It was also not uncommon for him to stare long and hard at himself in the mirror to make sure every detail was perfect about himself, especially when he was always beside his perfect older brother the crown prince who could do nor look no wrong and constantly demanded all eyes to be on him. It was then slightly more uncommon for Loki to linger at his reflection as only once in a grand while would he actually find an imperfection or flaw that needed his utmost attention and time to fix or magic away. So in theory it was normal for Loki to take an awfully long time glaring at his reflection once more before he greeted the rest of the royal court of Asgard. Today was however an exception to all these things as it was a very rare occurrence for him to be cursing the Norns and growling in frustration during his daily preparations. The reason for this of course was because what was staring back at him in the mirror between his keen nose and his snarling, thin upper lip wasn’t just an imperfection but an impossibility. 

Loki had come to accept early on in his long life that he would never sport such an eyesore of a facial feature as was seen mocking his otherwise perfect appearance. It wasn’t even a dashing looking mark like Fandral had, that suave blond bastard. He had long since come to take pride in his smooth, hairless appearance though as Volstagg and Thor were proof that with great hair comes great irresponsibility. Whenever there was a great feast within the palace walls, and there was always a feast for some reason or another, between the two of those bilgesnipes there would be a massacre that started at the dining table and end on their face. And Frigga wondered why Loki wasn’t gorging himself during the feasts like everyone else was. It wasn’t that hard to figure out when you’re stuck sitting between the beast with two beards, you either grow a stronger stomach or lose your appetite quite quick.

It also wasn’t hard to figure out that because it was impossible for Loki to grow face fuzz that not only was the one he had now not natural, but it wasn’t his doing at all and thus someone had to answer for that crime. No amount of scrubbing, potions, illusions, shapeshifting, or even old fashioned makeup could get rid of it either which further irked him but also narrowed down his list of suspects to one person. just the one, that had both access to his personal chambers within the palace walls but more importantly was foolish enough to prank the trickster god while he was taking a much needed nap after sparring against his brute of an older brother. Just one royal resident in fact besides Loki himself had inherited Frigga’s gift for magic as was clearly the source of this monstrosity of a moustache as if the mere sight of it didn’t irritate him enough. That fool was toast.

Loki threw open his bedchamber doors with vengeance in his eyes, already knowing his prey wouldn’t be too far, wanting to see his reaction to what transpired before running off. Right on cue as the door banged open, Loki could hear not too distant wicked giggling and the quickened pace of hasty foosteps fleeing from him. The telltale signs of a brat about to be caught that was too troublesome and young to master a decent gambling face, especially when they’re enjoying their troublemaking entirely too much. Loki easily started gaining on the little gremlin before their rounded a corner and disappeared into the nearest room with a squeal of, “save meeee!” Loki wasted no time blasting open the doors the brat was hiding behind with a wave of his hand which was still glowing green with his own magic to see Thor standing between him and his prey unsurprisingly, arms crossed and attempting to look imposing to someone that grew up with his own shenanigans. 

“Step aside, brother, I have a pesky little bug to squash,” growled Loki, his gaze fixed on the twerp hiding behind Thor.

“I know you don’t mean my son but as I don’t see any other living thing here besides us, I think you must be mistaken on there being anything here to squish,” Thor challenged back.

Loki rolled his eyes at Thor’s attempt at diplomacy. “The only mistake here besides your attempt to stop me is your son’s current choice in free time activities and that is why I’m here to see that he fixes it before I fix him.”

“What are you prattling on about?” demanded Thor defensively.

Loki had also long since mastered the art of deception and redirecting people’s attention from an issue thanks entirely to his brother’s baffoonery as younger adults so he had been keeping his face turned away from his brother’s gaze to keep an eye on his prey. Till now when he actually met Thor’s eyes whose widened in surprise and mirth.

“Can’t you just wash that off?” Thor suggested, trying hard to suppress his laughter.

“That’s brilliant, Thor, I wish I thought of that first! Oh what a great help you are!” snapped Loki before he snapped his glowing fingers and a green ring appeared around Thor before the elder brother fell through the floor, leaving his son, Loki’s nephew wide open.

The little brat had the audacity to stand his ground as his father had taught him after fleeing initially and put up his fists in a fighting stance, even less imposing looking than his father was being less than half Thor’s size and not remotely as strong either.

“Who will save you now, I wonder?” growled Loki as he advanced on the cornered kid, a million different versions of vengeance dancing through his mind.

“You wouldn’t hurt your own nephew, would you?” the child had the balls to ask innocently.

“You are aware of our family’s long history of deception and betrayals, aren’t you?” Loki asked incredulously. “Why would I be exempt from that rule after you just followed that trait yourself, enchanting this disgusting feature on me? Get it off and I might consider a more merciful fate for you than what I’m currently planning.”

“And what are you planning?”

“Try my patience stalling the inevitable and you may have your answer soon enough. Off. Now.” To emphasize Loki’s point, he summoned a dagger in one hand while his other still glowed with magic.

The child reluctantly magically erased the enchanted ink scribbled on Loki’s face before a dagger was hurled at his head as Thor returned to the scene through the window behind him. The child however vanished as an illusion projection, the dagger at the same time disappearing as well as Loki clearly wasn’t actually going to stab him with it, it took years for Thor to get used Loki’s points, his child had a ways to go. Despite both child and weapon not being present in the room, Thor still had a sense to confront Loki after being literally dropped by him earlier. Loki however had other thoughts and a vast majority of them were still vengeance before dishonor, he too disappeared from the room before Thor could have a few choice words with him. 

Thor’s son was very much like his dad in that he thought he had become pretty clever and believed he knew Loki fairly well. Well enough to trick the trickster at least. He also knew that anything and everything within Loki’s room was something secretive, powerful, and valuable and he wanted in on that. So that’s where he was, trying to sense with his quickly growing magical abilities where Loki kept those special artifacts. Finally, he managed to find something tugging on his magic from under Loki’s massive kingsized bed and eagerly scrambled under it in hopes of some kind of cool treasure to show off to his peers later. His hands brushed against a small wooden chest that seemed to be locked but he easily magicked the lock to open for him. He could barely contain his excitement as he grasped the lid of the chest with both hands eagerly and the faintest of green glows came from the box before he popped it open. He barely had time to scream as a large green snake sprang from the chest and wrapped itself around his hands and arms, effectively restraining him while its head was stationed next to his and poised to bite his neck, baring its fangs as if to strike. As he writhed and struggled against the snake’s hold, his ankles were suddenly seized by an icy cold grip and he was yanked out from under the bed and lifted upside down to face a lean, gold and green adorned abdomen.

“You think you were the first to try this tactic on me? Where do you think you got that idea from?” 

The snake still wrapped around the brat seemed to laugh at his captive while the owner of the snake let go of his ankle, keeping the kid afloat before he was turned right side up to face the bemused god of mischief he was caught by properly.

“Perhaps you should ask your father what actually happened anytime he tried his little attempts at tricking a master trickster, his mistakes could be your lessons.”

“Or my triumphs,” snarked the kid back.

“And how is that working in your favor thus far?” Loki asked him slyly. “Your father has had centuries to try that on me, how old are you again?” He let the kid go and the snake melted into a large toy snake the kid was quick to escape from. “If I see you in my room without my permission, if you ruin a nap for me again, you’ll find your worst fear under your bed.”

“I don’t fear anything.” The kid held onto the toy snake, hoping to at least impress his peers with its realistic though rubber look.

“Your father said the same thing when I gave him that warning and he didn’t stop checking under his bed till he he had women in it.” Loki snapped his fingers and the kid was sent out of his room and back to his father for good this time.

Loki stalked back to his bathroom once more and looked at himself in the mirror just to be sure it was gone for good before sticking out a forked tongue at his reflection and smirking. He wondered if fears were a hereditary thing as that would make this whole “uncle” thing that much easier though he always liked a challenge in the end and his nephew having magic did have its merits. Let the prank wars begin...

[bookandcranny]

Little Angels

One]

It is dark inside a wolf’s belly, but up here the air is clear and bright. Atop the tower of Paradiso, above the city of mist and gray. The roof is all caved in and shattered, scattering brilliant prisms through the fragmented skylight and across the floor. A man stands alone in the wreckage, inside the skeletal remains of this holy animal. He sifts through the books that were left behind until he finds one with a red cover and no title, but the letters A-D embossed along its spine. He flips to a certain chapter, and begins to read.

It was in another kind of tower that it happened. The Detective entered into the penthouse apartment of the Deeds family, a couple from the upper crust who were in a state of panic over their missing teenage daughter. From that first frantic phone call with the grief-ridden Gloria Deeds, Sacha knew the shape of this case inside out, backwards, and upside down. It was a classic. 

Teenage girl from a wealthy family, sheltered her whole life, the type who could do no wrong in the eyes of her doting, overbearing parents. One night she leaves without warning, to chase some guy or some band or some misplaced sense of adventure. The reasons didn’t matter as much as what they were willing to pay for the reassurance that their precious little angel would be home safe and sound.

There were just a couple of details he hadn’t counted on.

Sacha sat idling on the side of the road, looking down at the photo the Deeds’ had given him. It was a little roughed up at the edges and faded at the crease where he’d folded it. He’d forgotten how fragile these old-fashioned print photographs were. Despite the damage, the face of thirteen year old Renee Deeds still looked up at him with those same gentle brown eyes and private smile. 

The girl in the photo, however accurate it was to real life, had her hair pulled back in a crowd of twin braids that crested over thick dark curls. She wore what Sacha presumed to be church clothes-- tidy blouse and long skirt, an heirloom brooch-- and a pair of crutches braced to her forearms. Her ankles were crossed and tucked limply to one side, away from the camera’s focus.

The girl’s disability put a complication in the narrative he’d been concocting. According to the Deedses, Renee could only go so far on foot without intense pain and she disliked using her chair. It remained in the hall closet, untouched since her disappearance. Mr Deeds worked from home most days so rather than send her off to school, she was homeschooled by a well-vetted private tutor under her father’s occasional supervision. She had few friends, being a reserved child, they said. Sacha thought it probably had more to do with the gilded cage she lived in, lined with bubblewrap and goose down lest she ever bruise her precious knees. But it wasn’t his place to say.

Regardless, this left him with a very limited pool of suspects. And suspects they were indeed, since the Deeds were certain Renee had been kidnapped. Such a good girl would never have just wandered off on her own. 

If that was indeed the case, the culprit had done a remarkable job of covering their tracks. Renee was last seen by her mother who had put her to bed at 9 'o'clock on the dot. The security system had been armed all night and there were no signs of tampering. Besides which, the only way out of the penthouse that didn’t involve a several story drop to a very unhappy ending was through the front lobby and the cameras in and outside it didn’t detect anyone unusual, coming or going. 

The parents’ first move, naturally, was to call the police. The cops questioned the other residents and scanned the security tapes but turned up empty handed and after a few weeks of daily calls the officers on the case all but told Mr and Mrs Deeds that their hands were tied. For once, even money and social standing couldn’t hasten the hand of justice. That was when they had called on private investigator Sacha Ferro to get the job done.

All these facts laid out before him, Sacha found himself no closer to the answer than he had been at the start. The difference between then and now was not information but desperation, the heights of which had brought him here. Orphan’s Hollow.

The last few years had hit this city hard, same as it did all of them. It wasn’t a single sudden thing, but rather a combination of natural disasters, a virulent epidemic, and the consequential economic collapse that left entire districts barren, now inhabited only by clustered communities of the homeless. The handful of city blocks now known as Orphan’s Hollow was one such district, named so because it was, if stories were to be believed, populated entirely by children. Hollowed out department stores and office buildings and, most notably, the abandoned fairgrounds of Fun Town West became a tragic Neverland for runaways and other parentless youth in hiding from the overburdened childcare system.

Recently, there had been an epidemic of another kind in many of the nearby boroughs. Kids were going missing, just like Renee Deeds had, except most families weren’t fortunate enough to be able to hire someone to track them down. From what Sacha could pick up, most of them-- those that were reported-- were girls between the ages of six and sixteen. Other than that, the demographics were all over the map: black, white, rich, poor, healthy, sick. Missing posters spawned and spread like mold across the billboards and telephone poles, while the local government processed statistics with dead eyes and shrugging shoulders.

The unspoken truth seemed to be that if they were anywhere, if they were alive, the missing girls were somewhere in here. But the kids of Orphan’s Hollow were protective of their own and wouldn’t likely allow any cops to sift through their ranks even if they did trust their motives. It became one of those open secrets that everyone knew about but no one wanted to touch. 

On top of that, not every orphan was some scrawny Dickens novel side character; there were rumors of gang activity and even some sort of cult that made the teenagers who ended up in this part of town vicious towards outsiders. Orphan’s Row was a name with more than one meaning, they said, because if you took those kids lightly they’d turn yours into orphans as well. None of that mattered to Sacha though. At this point, he had little left to lose.

There was a gun in the glovebox of the Detective’s hatchback, unloaded, and he hoped it would stay that way. The idea of turning any weapon on a kid, no matter their alleged viciousness, turned his stomach. He would bring it with him to be used, in only the most absolutely dire circumstances, as a threat. Leverage. If it came down to it, he could rationalize that.

As he turned down another vacant street into the ghost town, the weather began to turn as well. It had been drizzling steadily since the evening prior, making the humidity all the more unbearable, but now the rain relented and in its place a clotted mist settled low over the city, like ink diffusing in water. Sacha kept his lights low and foot barely pressing on the gas pedal. Though it was irrational he felt uneasy at the idea of making himself any more noticeable than he was already.

When the car jolted it was like being shaken awake from a dream. At first he thought it was another pothole-- the roads were a wreck after so long untended-- but then there was an audible crunch and a lurch as his front-left tire burst. Without bothering to pull over he got out and found the problem right away. Deep in the tire, lodged between the wheel and its socket, was a doll. Or at least, something that was trying to be a doll.

The body was made out of metal; scraps from perhaps an aluminum can worked together with screws and painted to give it the look of a hoop-skirted dress. Its head was a christmas ornament. He recognized the pink painted cherub cheeks and curling synthetic hair. Some broken edge of the makeshift toy had punctured the tire, and of course Sacha didn’t have a spare on hand, even if he could figure out how to rip the damn thing out of the wheel well. 

He muttered a curse to himself. He’d have to leave it here and keep going on foot. At least there wasn’t anything in the car worth stealing, and he didn’t exactly have to worry about getting a ticket.

A sudden shriek made Sacha jump, hand going blindly to the holster under his shirt.

“My doll!” the child cried again. “You killed Jessika! My dolly!”

Sacha turned around and saw a young girl, barefoot and wearing what looked like an old halloween costume, standing across the street from him like a specter out of the fog. Appropriate, since she was so keen on howling like a banshee.

“Hey, I’m so sorry about your dolly,” he gentled, crossing to meet her. 

The girl seemed to be considering running away from the strange man, as would well be her right, but stood her ground instead as her face grew redder.

“You killed her,” she said again. “She was a person and you killed her.”

Sacha dropped to one knee. “ I’m sorry about your Jessica--” 

“Jessika!”

He chewed the inside of his cheek. “I am sorry, but it was an accident, really. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

She sniffled. “I’m Princess Ladybird,” she said, as though it should have been obvious. She gestured at her costume, a pink sparkly dress studded with plastic gems around the collar. “Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here.”

“My name is Sacha. I’m a private investigator-- a detective,” he corrected, seeing her confused expression. “I’m looking for someone. They’re not in any trouble, I just need to make sure they’re safe. Do you think you could help me, your highness?”

He kept his voice low and comforting. Dealing with kids wasn’t exactly his specialty, but he knew what he was doing well enough.

“No! No!” the girl cried, more agitated than ever. “No grownups allowed! You’ll just hurt them, just like Jessika!”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he insisted, growing frustrated. “And I told you didn’t mean to break your doll. I could buy you a new doll? A nicer doll.”

She shook her head adamantly. “The store dolls aren’t alive. I only play with alive dolls.”

Play along, Sacha. “Okay, where can I get you a new ‘alive’ doll?”

“You can’t make an alive doll, you’re too old,” she huffed. 

Sacha was not going to let himself be offended by a six year old. He wasn’t. “If your dolls are so precious, maybe you shouldn’t leave them in the street!”

“Maybe you should look where you’re going!” With that, she stomped on his foot and ran away. Sacha barely felt it through his shoes, but that was a small consolation. In a blink the princess was gone again.

He sighed. It was no less than he expected, but it still didn’t feel good. With the world they’d been living in, it wasn’t any surprise that the kids here were a bit strange. At least this one had seemed healthy enough, certainly energetic. That meant there was probably someone making sure she was kept fed. 

He reminded himself that there was nothing he could do for these kids. Better to focus on what he was here for.

Two]

Sacha walked along the sidewalk without any real sense of where he was going. He occasionally saw clusters of children playing games or jumping in puddles in the street, but most were inside keeping out of the weather. When he looked up he sometimes saw tiny faces peering down at him from high windows or crouched on fire escapes. The ones on the ground didn’t spare him a look except in fleeting disgust. There was a girl reading fortunes for her friends from a dented pack of playing cards who went abruptly silent when he passed by, and Sacha came to realize that they were deliberately ignoring him, hoping to shun him into leaving the way he came. 

When he tried to approach a pair of tweens doing some sort of craft project in a sheltered doorway, they quickly picked up their things and scampered away, leaving only a trail of paint droplets behind them. They didn’t look too terribly hard-off; their clothes were sometimes dirty but they were all in one piece and their eyes were bright and lively. It was sort of amazing, Sacha thought, how they’d really managed to build something of a community here, away from adults. Part of him almost envied them.

“Excuse me,” he tried again with a girl who was a bit older than the last. Her age didn’t make her look any more mature really, only sharper, as if she were growing but growing into the wrong shape. “I’m looking for--”

“Everyone knows what you’re looking for,” the young woman said. “You’re loud enough about it.”

This one wasn’t exactly friendly but at least she hadn’t run away yet. Sacha went to pull out a photo. 

“Put that away, man,” she hissed. “You’re not going to find any girls who look like that here, and the wrong fledgling might just eat you alive for having it.”

“For having a photograph?” He didn’t bother to ask what a “fledgling” was supposed to be. Some sort of weird slang he was too dated to recognize, he guessed.

“For keeping another girl’s face! All you need is a face and a real-name and you can make that person do and say whatever you want.”

“Is this some kind of game you kids play? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s not a game,” she said gravely. “You don’t understand anything. Walking into this world when you don’t know the rules is as good digging your own grave.”

“Help me catch up, then. Level with me,” Sacha pressed. “I can make it worth your while.”

He didn’t have much money on hand, but he had medicine credits set aside for emergencies and that should be worth its bytes in gold in a place like this. Or if not, she could pawn it and buy some earrings or animal crackers or whatever kids liked.

“Save it, I don’t have an account. Legally, most of the kids here don’t even exist. You’ll have to trade for what you want the old fashioned way, outsider.”

Exasperated, Sacha rooted around in his pockets and came up with a protein bar and a keychain that doubled as a bottle opener. The girl didn’t look impressed.

“Okay look, hand over the picture and the rest of it and I’ll tell you where you need to go, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. Outsiders don’t survive long here.”

Sacha wasn’t convinced this wasn’t all some intimidation game, but he folded up the photo of Renee and handed it to her anyway. If he really needed the visuals he had pictures on his phone. He’d turned it off shortly after setting out, when the calls and texts from his sister started pouring in, but couldn’t quite bring himself to leave it behind in the car. He could just picture Maria pacing around the house scowling at his number as another message failed to go through. 

I’ll make it up to you, he promised her silently.

“There’s a spot two blocks that way,” She pointed. “Left, left, right, down some steps, and you’ll see a sign for The Love Nest. It’s hard to miss.”

Something about the name said through her lips made him want to recoil. The girl scoffed at his unease.

“Relax, it’s just the name left from the old owners. It belongs to the brood now. It’s a good place, a sacred place.” She sighed, looking up and around as if projecting to an imaginary audience. “Not that someone like you would get any of that, I guess. A lot of fledglings hang around there. If your girl can be found, you’ll find her there. If not, she’s already gone.”

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” he demanded.

“I mean gone.” she held up the photograph, still folded. “Gone like this.”

She tore the square neatly in two and let the halves flutter to the ground.

“I’m not even supposed to tell you this much, so if you missed your window don’t even think about hanging around here trying to dig out more information. You’re pushing your luck as it is.”

What an angry kid, Sacha thought to himself as he departed. He wasn’t too different when he was that age, but outright threatening someone who was only trying to do good seemed a bit extreme, especially when that someone had a good head of height on you as well. Was it the conditions they lived in that made them so temperamental here? Or just adolescent angst? Hopefully he wouldn’t be staying long enough to find out.

And just how was he planning to leave, even if he was successful, he wondered. He’d have to drive them out on three tires. Ruining his car would be well worth it though if it meant ending this.

Angry girl’s directions turned out to be sound and soon enough Sacha found himself at the door of a closed down club that proudly announced itself as “The Love Nest” in faded pink letters above the door. The windows were boarded up but there were still some old posters for the upcoming live entertainment pinned to the plywood. It appeared the place had been at least marginally more legitimate than Sacha had guessed by the name, while it had been in operation.

Pushing through the double doors the Detective found himself in a gloomy ballroom, styled vaguely like a vintage cabaret club or perhaps someone’s romanticized idea of a 1920s speakeasy. There were a few tables-- standing only by virtue of the bolts that held them to the hardwood-- a bar, and a large circular stage in the middle of it all. Sacha toed aside what he’d thought was a trash bag only to hear a grumbled complaint and find another of the hollow’s orphans crawling out of a sleeping bag on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” the kid asked, with such pointed accusation you’d think he’d personally wronged them. They were wearing an oversized “Fun Town” t-shirt and flannel bottoms with a paw print pattern.

Roused by the noise, some other children began emerging from their own napping spots to investigate.

“Are you a cop?” one asked.

“No, I’m more of a detective,” he replied.

“Sounds like a cop to me. And you look like a cop.”

Sacha frowned. “How so?”

“You’re old,” the kid said. “And you have blood on you.”

He looked down at his hands, his clothes. He saw brown khakis, dusty black loafers, pale patterned button-up shirt. No tie; he’d spilled coffee on it on the drive, hands already shaky from the ill-advised extra caffeine. To his embarrassment, he noticed a faint dampness where the weather and his own nerves had painted sweat across his collar, but no blood.

“It’s okay,” said the first child, yawning. “Snowy sees blood on everyone.”

“I don’t see it, I smell it,” challenged Snowy. She took a deep breath through her nose. “And you stink of it. Dirty blood, blood that wasn’t ready to be shed. Have you ever killed anybody, Mr Detective?”

Sacha fought the urge to roll his eyes. “Have you been talking to a girl in a princess dress?”

“You mean Princess Ladybird?”

“Never mind,” he said quickly, as if simply mentioning that ridiculous name might conjure up her horrible wailing. “I’m looking for someone. Two someones actually.”

He considered taking out his phone but, remembering how Angry Girl had reacted to the photo, decided to try a different approach. 

“I was told I might find them here. One is named Renee Deeds and the other is Ana Ferro-Silver, eighteen and fifteen years old. Anything you can tell me about either of them would be a huge help. I’m sort of hoping one will lead me to the other.” He forced a smile. 

Kid in the pajamas frowned. “There’s no one with names like that here. You woke us up over something as dumb as that?”

“I don’t think it’s dumb to want to find two girls who might be in a lot of trouble,” he said tersely. “And why were you asleep anyway? It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Growing makes us tired,” Pajamas shot back. They rolled their shoulders. “And sore.”

“And hungry!” added a third child. “Did you bring us any food?”

“Why would I have any food?”

“I heard the gargoyles say you gave Singing Finch a candy bar.”

“It was a protein bar,” he said before he could think to deny it. “What kind of name is ‘Singing Finch’ anyway?”

“It would’ve been Evening Finch, but she tattled so now she’s Singing Finch,” they explained patiently. “She tattled on us and then she tattled on you to the gargoyles and the kestrels. She can’t help it though. She’s a songbird, it’s what they do.”

“So you don’t have any candy?” the other cut in. Sacha put out his empty hands so she could verify and she bit him.

Pajamas laughed as he pulled away with a curse and a cry. “You are dumb. There aren’t any girls in trouble here. You’re the only one in trouble, but that’s because you’re an outsider and a cop, so you probably deserve it.”

Sacha felt a muscle in his jaw tense. He was beginning to think this had all been a huge waste of time. These kids operated on their own kind of logic, their own language, one which was foreign to him. 

“Please,” he said. “Please. I know a lot of you are without families, but these girls still have people who care for them, who are looking for them. I have to bring them home.”

The children looked at him, and then a few of them looked at each other, huddling together in hushed conference. The one called Snowy, who was sitting on top of the bar, glared at him, tilting her head as if she were trying to read something written on the side of his head in very small print. He caught himself raising a hand to touch his neck and let it drop self-consciously back to his side.

“If you keep going like this, you might die,” she told him innocently. “Did you know that?”

The presence of the gun against his stomach, empty though it was, made his skin tingle. “I considered the possibility,” he said, and it was the honest truth. 

“When you die, will you go to paradise?”

“You’re too young to be thinking this much about blood and death.”

“I’ve seen death.” Her voice was without intonation, no defensiveness or accusation anywhere in her tone. She couldn’t have been any older than ten. “My mom died in front of me. She had a fever, but I stayed cold. That’s why they call me Snowy.” She paused, shrugged one shoulder. “Also because I can eat a whole mouse in one bite, like a snowy owl.”

“Oh,” Sacha said lamely. “I’m- I’m so sorry.”

She gave another shrug. “S’okay, I’m with the brood now and they take care of me just as good as mom would. I’m just saying, you don’t really seem like a guy who’s ready to die for anyone.”

Amongst all the riddles and nonsense, this at least was something he could understand. 

“I promise you, I am.”

Pajamas tugged at his sleeve. “Hey, hey Detective, have you ever been to Fun Town?”

He blinked, reeling from the non sequitur. “Excuse me?”

They pointed at the garish logo on their shirt. “‘Fun Town: It’s the funnest place on earth!’ Maybe your friends are there.”

“You’re not going to tell me I should just turn back now? That I’m dumb and the kids I’m looking for are gone forever?” he couldn’t help but snark.

“Don’t listen to Finch, she’s a liar. Nobody’s gone. Different, but not gone.”

Fun Town was an amusement park franchise with a handful of locations all over North America. Had been, that is. They’d had to shut down all their locations more than ten years ago, due in part to the outbreak at the time as well as some unsettling information about the eccentric late founder that came out after his death. Something about swaying elections and pouring company funds into an illicit genetic engineering project. Another day, another megalomaniac billionaire exposé. It had been big news at the time but now it was just another piece of pop culture trivia.

The Fun Town West fairgrounds were now little more than a fancy animatronics graveyard. The rides-- what of them hadn’t been torn down and picked clean by opportunistic scavengers-- were sparkling rusted monuments. Any sense of childhood wonder that remained had long since been siphoned off and sold. The kids didn’t seem to mind though, for how they’d congregated around the place. Maybe Pajamas had a point. It was a big, bright landmark, impossible to miss, and as good a place to search as any.

Three]

The Detective left Snowy and Pajamas and the other strange flock of The Love Nest behind, feeling a grim sense of determination The puckered bite mark on his hand throbbed; the little creep had managed to break skin! 

As he navigated his way to the outskirts of the district, Sacha mulled over the interactions he’d had so far. Reluctantly he pulled out his phone to take some notes, ignoring the voicemail notifications cluttering the screen.

The kids call themselves “brood”-- some sort of gang name? The younger ones and/or newcomers to their group seem to be called fledglings. Everyone has a nickname; real names and pictures of faces have some sort of negative significance. And what of the “songbirds”, “kestrels”, etc? Songbirds: spread information. Kestrels: Unknown.

He huffed. None of this was bringing him anywhere closer to the truth about the missing girls. None of it was helping him find Ana.

By the time he power-walked to the long neglected fairgrounds, the hazy sky was becoming downright dour. The clouds had turned the color of smoke. Combine that with the stench of burnt plastic wafting from some of the attractions, it made for an unpleasant effect. He felt that a storm was brewing, and hoped that whatever came he’d be able to find shelter before the sky opened up around him.

He’d been here only twice while it was still in operation; once just him and his parents and once with Maria. By the second visit he’d already lost his sense of wonderment when it came to a day at the fair. The weather was hot and the crowds were annoying and all the games were rigged. Yet there was still a part of him that felt deeply sad to see what Fun Town had become. This was the sort of place that should’ve been beautiful forever, even as the children grew up and out of their love for it.

As he wove through the rows of darkened kiosks, the fairgrounds suddenly erupted into light. Sacha startled and shielded his eyes. The tired bulbs cracked and fizzled and when he looked up again the desiccated corpse of Fun Town had been revived in a great pulse of electricity. Against the backdrop of perpetual gloom the friendly colors were all the more headache-inducing, and somewhere a tinny recording of calliope music began to play. It all made Sacha’s skin crawl.

Against his every instinct, he let the music lead him to a shack next to the arcade with a mounted loudspeaker, the door marked with a firm “employees only”. To his surprise, the door was unlocked. Inside, another brood girl in coveralls was fiddling with a fuse box and leaning her hip against a desk with an old CCTV. The security system was so antiquated that it didn’t look like it should turn on at all, yet there upon the pixelated screen Sacha could still make out the shape of himself entering the park on a loop. 

The girl turned around, flipping a frizzy head of hair over her shoulder. Although, it turned out she wasn’t so much a girl as a young woman, pushing against the line between teenage and adulthood. His gut reaction was relief. This might be the closest thing to a rational adult he would find around here. Hopefully she’d be of more help than the others.

Come to think of it, he realized, he’d never considered what happened to the Orphan’s Hollow kids once they grew up. Surely there must be some adults here, somewhere. But then, everyone who’d met him so far had treated him as a foreign invader. Were all adults so unwelcome, as he’d assumed, or was there something about him in particular? 

The most rational assumption was that the homeless kids simply became homeless adults. No need for any additional fanfare. They would graduate from the Hollows and go on to squat in other parts of the city. There was certainly no shortage of slums these days, he thought glumly.

Did any ex-runaways ever try to go home, those that still had them? Did that Renee ever think about home? 

“What ho, outsider!” the teen greeted. Sacha felt himself relax despite himself, so glad to be met with at least one friendly face.

“‘What ho’?” he parroted lamely.

“It’s theatre-speak for ‘wassup’. As in, what the hell are you doing in brood territory?”

She moved quickly. He didn’t notice the knife until it was tucked under his chin, pointed at his throat. 

Sacha’s back hit the wall and he put up his hands in surrender. “Hold on, I’m not looking for a fight.”

“Oh yeah?” she giggled. She wrenched up the front of his shirt. “What’s this then? A prop? If I shoot it, will a little flag come out that says ‘bang’?”

She un-holstered the pistol and pointed it at his forehead.

“That’s not a toy,” he said slowly. “Just a little insurance. Like your knife there, I’m sure. I don’t think either of us wants anybody to get hurt.”

“This?” She tossed it in the air and caught it. “Nah, this is part of the act. Tonight, I’m a knife thrower. I’ve never been a knife thrower before. I hope it goes well.”

Sacha tried to speak, but the girl pressed the cold flat of the blade to his lips.

“The older girls put on shows for the fledglings. Sometimes here in Fun Town, sometimes over in the Nest, or up on the rooftops when the weather is nice. I’d invite you, but I don’t think you’d be welcome.” She adjusted her grip again so that the knife was touching the tip of his nose. “All day there’ve been whispers about some kind of detective guy putting his nose in our business.”

“I don’t care about you brood kids do here.”

“Liar.”

“I swear, I don’t. I’m just trying to find someone. I’m not even a real detective anymore,” he confessed. “I wouldn’t tell anyone what you’re doing here. Even if I did, no one would believe me. I’m nobody.”

The knife thrower gave a big, hearty laugh, and Sacha’s throat tightened with fear. He didn’t consider himself a violent person, but over his career he’d come to blows with enough unruly targets and bitter clients alike that he knew when someone was posturing, and when someone was really out for blood. Normally there was a clear indicator of one kind or another; a tightening of the jaw, a certain nervous tick, a look in their eyes. 

But this girl he couldn’t get a read on at all. He hoped that meant she was still on the fence about the subject.

Struggling to keep his voice level he said, “You don’t have to do this. Something like this will haunt you your whole life, you know, and you’ve got so much life left. You’re still just a kid--”

She reared her hand back and struck at his head with the butt of the pistol. Sacha dodged. It slammed into the fuse box she’d been working on instead and the lights went out. Taking advantage of the darkness, he shoved past her and in a stroke of blind fortune found the door. There was a sound then, like the rush of wind in his ears. Then a sharp flash of pain as a flying knife split the cartilage of one ear.

He stumbled and hit the pavement. When Sacha turned around, hand clutched to his head, he saw the young woman’s silhouette bracketed by two iridescent black wings. Again that sound, ferocious wingbeats stirring the air. All he saw were two but it sounded like hundreds, a massive flock taking off in perfect synchronicity. 

“It’s really frustrating when people don’t take me seriously,” said the winged creature as she approached him. Maybe it was an effect of the many colored lights, but her skin appeared to have a glossy sheen to it, like an oil painting in motion. “But you look like you’re starting to get it now.”

“What the hell are you?” Sacha asked with a mix of horror and feverish reverence.

“What do you think I am?”

The thought came to him unbidden. It was an insane thought, one he didn’t even truly believe in, yet this was an insane situation. “The angel of death.”

That gave her pause. “You’re not right, but you’re not really wrong either I guess. Truth be told, I’m heaven on earth. Maybe I’ll cut you some slack if you worship me”

A wing brushed over his skin, however faintly, and it felt warm and real as the blood cooling on his skin. Not ethereal or dreamlike as he might’ve expected but so real, and all the more hideous for it. He shuddered and said nothing.

The false angel, this predatory animal, took a step back. She spun the pistol around one long finger until it slipped and fell to the ground. She looked at it for a moment, as if surprised.

“Huh. It was lighter than I expected,” she said. Then she kicked it aside. “You win this one I guess. I’ll let you go.”

He stared at her, mouth agape, sure it was some trick.

“What? You don’t believe me. I put it in fate’s hand, and for some reason it looks like fate wants to keep you alive a little longer. It’s not how I saw this going, but I can roll with some improv.” She put up her hands. “Don’t bother groveling. I won’t kill you even if you beg. I know guys like you love punishment. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Here… in Fun Town? Or, are you asking why I’m alive?”

She laughed. She so loved laughing. “Morbid! You’re morbid, man. I mean, why are you here among the brood? At… what do the outsiders call it? The Orphan Hole?” she snickered. “You kind of stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I’m trying to find someone,” Sacha repeated quietly. He’d said the line so many times he felt it was starting to lose its meaning. “And to make up for something I did.”

“Well you should’ve said so in the first place! If you’re looking to atone you need to meet with the broodmother. If you hurry, you might still be able to catch her. Tonight’s going to be kind of a crazy night once it kicks off, but if you plead your case I’m sure she’ll hear you out. 

“I have to keep setting up here. You go on ahead.” She pointed out in the direction he’d come from. “It’s a straight shot to Paradiso. You can tell her the angel of death sent you.”

She spared him one last smirk and then shot up into the air like an arrow loosed from a taut bowstring.

Or a bullet from a gun, even. Sacha considered the discarded pistol for a moment. It seemed so useless now, just a hunk of metal and plastic, just a prop. He walked away without it, pain pulsing dully from his ear. His journey was nearly over.

Time dragged on as he walked, but not enough for him to find the space to contend with what he’d seen. That girl, that creature. She was no angel, that much he was certain of. Angels didn’t attack strangers with a knife, he didn’t think. 

What he wasn’t certain of was… just about everything else. Was he meant to understand that all these girls, these brood, were some kind of bird-beasts taking human shape? Was everyone he’d met an imposter masquerading in the form of a child? Or did they start out as ordinary children and then transform somehow?

He half hated himself for even entertaining such wild ideas, but he had little other choice. “When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth” wasn’t that so? In any case, speculation did him little good at this point. He could only hope that this paradise and “broodmother” the girl had spoken of could give him some answers.

Four]

Just when Sacha was beginning to wonder if the knife throwing angel imposter was fully fucking with him, he found his destination: The Paradiso Hotel, although the damaged neon sign now read only PRDIO. 

The building was tall and narrow, so wedged between its neighbors that it looked like any moment it might be crushed. The brickwork was crumbling as it was. Creeping plant life climbed the sides and snuck in through broken windows. The ominous, weathered shape of gargoyles watched from above, jutting strangely out of high corners. This place must have been in dire straits long before it had been taken over by the brood. At the same time, looking at it Sacha got the impression that it had been something glorious in its heyday. 

There was something almost inviting about the faint glow that came from the topmost windows, filtering pink light through heavy red curtains, and yet Sacha was terrified. His hands trembled on the railing as he climbed the winding stairway. 

The higher he went, the more his surroundings began to change. The carpet beneath his feet grew soft, damp, dipping slightly with his weight, and when he looked down he found it thick with patchy moss. Mushrooms sprouted from the junction where the floor met the wall. Sacha tore his foot from a tangle of roots he’d caught himself in and wondered, when was the last time he’d seen so much wild living plantlife in person? 

Finally he reached the top of the tower and opened the door not onto identical hallways and bland hotel decor, but onto a sprawling private library.

The detective could hardly see the walls for the shelves, lined top to bottom with books upon books upon books. There was a desk against the far wall piled high with precarious stacks of paper. They overflowed and spilled onto the loamy floor, whispering under his every step.

Beyond a towering skylight, storm clouds billowed, but that wasn’t of any concern to the flock of brood congregated in their wake. The scene looked like something rendered from stained glass, at least a dozen girls with wings of all colors stretched out and fluttering idly behind them as they sat around some sort of shrub or young sapling that was, quite impossibly, growing out of the floor. Its tender boughs bore tiny fruit, several perfectly round red orbs plump and shiny with juice.

The room smelled like a greenhouse, like heat and green growth, flowers and fruit. Intrigue drew Sacha nearer and he detected an undercurrent of something metallic as well. He rounded the desk and his stomach plummeted. The tree was not growing out of the floor. It was growing out of a human corpse nested in a bed of soil.

The Detective choked on a gasp and the brood children looked up. Their hands and knees were dark from their work. A flash of gore passed before Sacha’s eyes and he flinched, expecting to be struck down where he stood. When no killing blow came, morbid desire took hold of him and he took a second look. The tree was still there, and the body, but the body was not as he’d thought. It looked dry, mummified, more root than rot. Still staring, one of the brood girls plucked a berry and crushed it between her teeth. The smell intensified, iron and something sweet, heady as any wine.

One of the girl-beasts stood, and she seemed older than the rest somehow, not just in body but in her eyes, gray as the growing storm and so clear that Sacha feared if he looked too long he would fall through them. Her face was smooth and free of wrinkles or worry, but the long hair that fell about her shoulders was white as bone. She wore something like a shawl that hung lazily off her shoulders and down past her knees. Unlike the others, she had no wings.

“So you’re the one all my girls have been making such a fuss about,” she said, and her voice was a choir, her words an indictment.

Sacha felt a strange spike of anger at this creature that looked like a woman and talked like a mystic and was neither. “And you’re the broodmother, whatever that means! Your girls make you out to some kind of god. But you’re not a god, and you’re not their mother. I don’t know what you are and I don’t care. I just want to know why you’re doing this.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re- you’re taking them!” he stammered furiously. The pieces were coming together, albeit in a hectic jumble. “All the missing girls! You abduct them, or call them to you, or something! It changes them!” He flung his hand out towards the body. “You’re a killer! You're some kind of crazy death cultist and you turn these kids into killers!”

The broodmother quirked her head to the side, not quite smiling. “You talk with a lot of confidence for a man with only half the story.”

“Then explain it to me,” he demanded. “Make it make sense. Because I’ve been running around this madhouse all day and so far, nothing does.”

She hummed to herself, considering. “If you’re so eager for a tale, let’s start with yours.”

One of the other little brood leapt up and wrapped her arms around her waist. “Is it time for a story, Nightingale?”

“Yes, I think so. Do you know which book to get?”

“D for Detective!” she cheered.

“Very good.” 

The girl scampered off and returned with a big book bound in red. Nightingale took it and ran her thumb over the pages, flipping it open with a calm certainty that boiled Sacha’s blood.

“Let’s see… Detective Sacha Ferro. You were born in this very city, had a fairly normal childhood until,” She traced the tip of her finger along the page and Sacha noticed for the first time how it curled, a ghastly hook-like talon. “Oh, that’s right. There was an accident. Your parents… Tragic. Just terrible.”

Astonishingly, she sounded as though she meant it.

“You were in high school at the time. But your sister, Maria, she was still just a kid. You always struggled to relate to her as a brother, with her being so much younger than you, but after that day you had to become like a parent too. You really stepped up, it looks like. That didn’t change the fact that you were still a kid yourself. You made mistakes, and the two of you grew apart.”

Shame curdled in Sacha’s gut. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. The most he was capable of was curling his hands into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

“Get out of my head.”

“I’m not in it. Frankly, I’m not that interested in your editorializing. This is the truth. Now, where was I?

“You’d always dreamed of being a police detective, like the ones on TV,” she continued. “But became disillusioned with the idea once you grew older. So you became a private eye, but that too got old. You were tired of acquiring blackmail material for shady characters and helping angry wives catch their cheating husbands and so on. Meanwhile little Maria had grown up and moved on and the neighborhood you’d lived in all your life was going more and more downhill by the year. You wanted out.

“Then you got a call from a Mrs Gloria Deeds.” Her eyes widened dramatically. “She wanted you to track down her poor missing daughter. The Deedses were wealthy, desperate, and just perfect. You requested an advance payment, a big one, big enough for a down payment on a new life and the gas to get you there. They didn’t even blink as they pulled out the checkbook. It was all so easy.

“You took the Deedses money and you ran away. Forget the kid, chances were she’d turn up on her own in a week or two after getting whatever rebellious phase out of her system. That’s not what happened though, is it? More and more girls started disappearing. Renee wasn’t the first though, or was she? Could she have been the catalyst for all this? You’d never know for certain. The wondering ate you up inside, but not enough to make you turn back.

“You got yourself a new apartment and a regular nine-to-five job. You quit smoking. You adopted a dog. You started letting people in. You even called up Maria begging to be a part of her life again and shockingly, she agreed! You started spending weekends with her and her wife Kara and their sweet little girl Ana. Your mother’s name, wasn’t it? Well, anyway.

“Everything was all going so terribly well until just a few days ago. Nearly five years on the dot since you took the Deeds case and Maria calls you in tears, tells you that Ana has gone missing. You drop the phone, your blood running cold. She’s fifteen. Just a year or two and she’d be out of the target demographic. Neither you or your sister has set foot in this city in years. What are the odds she got taken? But you can’t let it go until you know for sure.

“Feeling frantic, you pull up the stuff from the Deeds case for the first time in what feels like an eternity. You do some digging. Renee Deeds was never found, nor were any of the others who vanished after her. The cops are still as apathetic and incompetent as you left them. They’re blaming it all on an epidemic of gang activity stemming from somewhere the locals have started calling ‘Orphan’s Hollow’. It didn’t used to be called that though, did it? Do you remember? How gutted you were when you found out? No way you could tell Maria where you were going. Back home, back to where it all started.”

“Stop.” Sacha found his voice at last, though to what end?

Nightingale looked up at him, feigning shock. “But don’t you want to know how it ends? Whatever does happen to the guilt-ridden detective trying to right a wrong? Hoping against hope that if he can fulfill the promise he broke that all of this will be set to rights, and little Ana will return home with him safe and sound.”

“Please, please, stop.” He covered his ears and felt the cut throb against his fingers.

“You’re not really in any position to be making demands, Detective. You came to me. You followed my song. It doesn’t usually work on grown-ups, you know, but you were always sort of a special case I think. I’m glad I kept an eye on you. This has turned out more interesting than I thought.” 

She crossed the room to stand before him, cupping his hands with her own. “You never really stopped being that kid, did you Sacha? You run and run and just keep him right there, locked away in your chest. Look at me Sacha. Look at me. You need to be a grown-up now. I don’t have her, Sacha. I don’t have Ana.”

Slowly Sacha’s hands dropped to his sides, his eyes wide and wet. “What?”

“That’s right,” the broodmother said cheerily. “Ana isn’t here. In fact, she’s at home with her moms right now. Maria’s been trying to call you for days now. You were too ashamed to pick up, couldn’t tell her how this was all your fault. It’s not actually, by the way. You were a self-serving bastard, but not enough to bring down that kind of karmic wrath.

“Although I’d’ve been happy to have her, Ana already has two loving mothers, and an uncle that… has his moments.” She patted him on the shoulder. “The children who follow my song aren’t like that. They come willingly, and they change because change is what they need. I won’t pretend it’s not a messy process. Sometimes blood needs to be spilled to create a paradise. But ‘be not afraid’, Detective. I would never let my little angels get hurt.”

“I still don’t understand,” he all but wept. “What about Renee Deeds?”

“You’re never going to let that go, are you?” Nightingale groaned. “‘What are you? What are you? Where’s the girl? Pow! Blam! I’m a big scary action hero and I’m here to save you or kill you trying!’” 

She shook her head. “You’re not the hero of this story, Detective. The girl you knew as Renee doesn’t exist anymore, but she’s alive, not because of your intervention, or lack thereof. Not even in spite of it. What am I? What is she? And what are we when we’re together? A thing that lives without your permission. You need to understand for it to be true.”

She looked at him then with all the sympathy of a mother comforting a crying child. She handed off the storybook to one of her young attendants, and as she turned around she swept aside the cover of her shawl to reveal her bare back. Her skin was twisted with badly healed scars, the flesh raised in the shape of two jagged cuts curving around the shape of her scapula.

“Here’s another story for you. Once upon a time,” she said. “A ship of men was cast from its course and lost at sea. Just when it seemed all hope was lost, they found themselves on the shores of a mysterious island full of the tallest, greenest trees they’d ever seen. The people there had wings like a bird, and they were so beautiful and kind that the men decided they must be angels, and this was paradise.

“The angels let them stay there a while and lick their wounds, but warned them that they couldn't remain forever. At first they accepted this, but as the time to leave for home grew nearer they became obsessed with the wonders of the island and couldn’t bear to go without taking a piece with them. 

“So enamoured by the beauty of the angels, yet fearing their heavenly wrath, they lured away the smallest one and imprisoned her in the lower decks of the ship. When she realized what had happened, she tried to escape, so they broke her wings until just moving them caused her horrible pain. She did get free in the end, but only once the ship returned to port and by then she was far, far from home and knew not how to find her way back. 

“She knew she wasn’t safe among the wingless people, so she hid herself away until nightfall, singing her song by the light of the moon in hopes that one day someone would return her call. When someone finally did, it wasn’t at all who she expected. It was a young human girl, a daughter of man, who recognized her song of pain and loneliness because these were things she knew well herself. When the angel and the girl finally found each other, the angel bid her to cut her useless wings and drink her blood, and together they escaped on new wings.”

As she spoke, the storm outside grew stronger until the wind rattled the very walls, knocking books loose from their shelves. The brood, with their many colored wings and many sweet voices, began to sing in wordless harmony, a hymn from such unfathomable depths and dizzying heights that Sacha’s legs nearly gave out beneath him. 

“Don’t be sad, my mourning dove. This is a happy story. The Nightingale fell in love with the Swiftlet, the song and the storm, and they carried each other to a place where they could make a new paradise, a garden of their own.”

That was when the ceiling began to cave in. Sacha fell to his knees and covered his head with his hands, blinded by what he was sure was a bolt of lightning. When he looks back on it later, he won’t be so sure.

Again came that sound, the torrent of wind and a hundred wings beating within it. Sacha forced himself to raise his head, squinting against the light, and there he saw dancing in the open air above the wreckage-- for dancing was the only way he could think to describe it-- a girl he once knew. Though they were less than strangers, especially now, he recognized her kind dark eyes, her secretive smile. 

Her hair was loose, a halo of electrified black curls, and her wings a dusky brown with the sharp, precise plumage of a swift. Her legs still didn’t move so freely as the rest of her, but she wasn’t bothered. She didn’t need them.

Nightingale ran and leapt and took her in her arms with a lover’s embrace. Off a ways behind them, their brood took flight as well, swooping and shrieking their delight as if they were a single entity, metamorphosing into something new, something so nearly divine.

Sacha did weep then. His vision blurred with the shape of his grief, then his longing, a child and a man and a hair’s width away from paradise. Eventually the storm subsided, but he didn’t see the angel and her love again after that. He thought perhaps that was for the better.

The sky cleared. The sun came out. Elsewhere, young girls planted gardens and played games and put on shows. The world went on, however changed.

This is where past and present collide. In the aftermath of a mystery, a man named Sacha Ferro picks up a book from in amidst the rubble and holds it up to the light. He flips to D for Detective and begins to read, anxious to find out what happens next.

Epilogue]

“Everyone settle down. Places! Starling, for the last time, ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ doesn’t call for a knife thrower.”

“And why not?” She wiggles the blade in her direction. “This show’s so boring. Everyone already knows how it goes. Let me spice it up a bit.”

Finch rolls her eyes. “Whatever. Just, don’t jump ahead of your cue this time. And stop making up extra lines. You almost blew it last time.”

Starling sticks her tongue out but she has a skip in her step when she returns backstage. On the other side of the curtain, the audience is starting to take their seats. There aren’t enough chairs-- and most of the “chairs” are actually old boxes and things to begin with-- so some of them have to stand. An older brood allows Pajamas to climb up onto her shoulders, reminding her to be mindful of her wings, which are still fairly fresh and tender where they join with her back.

“Greetings, Princess,” says the fortune teller Resplendent, dressed in her good theatre clothes, as she sits down beside her. “Who’s this?”

Princess Ladybird holds up the dented ornament head. “This is Jessika. The doctors managed to save her but she needs an emergency body transplant, stat! I’m going to find her a new one after the show.”

She nods. “Greetings, Lady Jessika. I hope you have a speedy recovery.”

Ladybird holds the doll head up to her ear and hums as if in response to something.

“Can I hear too?”

She obliges, and Resplendent listens. There’s a quiet buzzing from inside the hollow tin skull and it echoes hauntingly in the emptiness.

She whispers, “There’s a bug inside of Jessika’s brain keeping her alive. That’s why she can still talk without a body. If Jessika dies, the bug will get out. Ick!”

The other girl chuckles. “Your name is a kind of bug, you know.”

“No! It’s a bird! Lady-bird!”

She bites back another laugh and points towards the stage. “Shh, the show’s starting.”

Sure enough, the songbird choir starts up, bidding the chattering spectators to quiet down and listen up. A girl comes out on stage wearing a corner of the curtain as a makeshift hood. She says,

“It is dark inside a wolf’s belly.”

[avengemebuckyy]

Be Careful

Summary: 

You tell Bucky to be careful with your heart. Too late he realizes you should have been careful with his.

or:

You’re awkward,odd, and not the most conventionally attractive yet you’re the only woman that Bucky sees

Warnings: manipulation 

Authors note: Back from the dead lmao. This is probably trash but I just needed to force myself to finish something it order to try to get back in the groove! Feedback is more than greatly appreciated, it’s what keeps me writing tbh...

PS. You ain’t shit in this lmao

---

You weren’t the most eye-catching. You didn’t look like the girls Bucky used to chase after in his younger years, or the girls on the internet he’d find himself staring at once he’d discovered Instagram, endlessly scrolling through picture after picture, lost in a sea of beautiful bodies and faces. You didn’t look like the tall slim blonde agent he’d always make a point to hold open the door for, or his neighbor’s daughter in Wakanda, who had had dark skin so smooth and a face so perfect he’d never managed to say more than two words to her.

You were slightly awkward, with a slightly odd sense of humor, always cracking jokes that sometimes no one laughed at but you. But you didn’t care, you would laugh at them all the same. You wore baggy clothes, and not the fashionable baggy kind either. Your favorite outfit was baggy camo print cargo pants and an old grey band t-shirt, logo so faded it was almost impossible to decipher.

At first Bucky didn’t pay you much attention. He wasn’t rude, but he treated you with the same gruff stoicism he treated everyone with. Well everyone besides Sam, Steve, and Natasha. Besides he only saw you rarely, you were a high level agent thanks to your skill, but you didn’t work closely with the team very often. Until you did.

One mission with Clint was all it took to have your name thrust forward when Fury was looking to fill a coordinator position. Suddenly you were everywhere. Coordinating their positions on missions, even going on missions with different members of the team. You fit in well with the team, your corny jokes and generally happy disposition make you easy to like. Your apartment was five minutes away, thanks to Tony, so you would often eat breakfast with the team and stay at the Tower well into the night, often crashing in a room designated for you, also thanks to Tony.

You were like a deceptively shallow river Bucky would think after. One minute he was wading through your shallows, next moment he was being taken under by your currents, realizing too late that he was in deeper than he thought possible.

It started slowly, you would make an effort to make conversation with Bucky, never seeming off put by his non answers. Bucky found himself coming to you with numerous questions on how to work social media, you would give such long winded explanations he wouldn’t have to embarrass himself with asking questions. Soon he found himself seeking you out for more than explanations. Funny thing is you were the one who introduced him to Instagram, to the  beautiful women on the app but eventually he found himself unable to see any woman but you.

Bucky found himself sitting with you at lunch, looking out the window in the mornings waiting to catch sight of your army green jacket. He’d sit with you in the afternoons as you did your paperwork, steal glances at you ,your forehead always shiny by midday with an almost ever-present patch of acne, eyebrows scrunched together as you filled out mission reports. He loved those quiet moments the most. Bucky wasn’t good with words, not anymore. But he would help carry the 10 pound boxes of paperwork, always bring an extra pen in case yours ran out of ink, and constantly would bring you your favorite Starbucks order. He secretly hoped that you would read the affection behind his actions.

You didn’t usually go to Stark’s parties, you’d rather go to bars and clubs with your friends.

“The crowd at Stark’s parties just aren’t my crowd,” you’d explained with a shrug, toeing the floor with your scuffed sneakers. Bucky had nodded in understanding. They usually weren’t his crowd either, but he’d always go to support Steve, who was pretty much expected to show face.

But for some reason you show up to this party. Four months into your blossoming friendship (and Bucky’s crush). Bucky wasn’t prepared for what you were wearing. When he heard the agents whispering about your unexpected appearance at the party he half expected to see you in jeans and a t- shirt. Or even your cargo pants. At the sound of your name Bucky zeros into the muttered conversation.

“Did you see her?”

“Yeah, damn.”

“Was not expecting that. Or her to even show up. Who knew?”

“She’s kinda hot, not gonna lie. In a weird way”

Bucky turns his head scanning the crowd, heart rate already picking up, fully expecting to see your sweat-pant clad form. He sees you alright. But not in sweatpants. A red dress barely covers your figure. Hemline way above the halfway mark of your thighs and twin slits in the skirt reaching up to your hips. A draping halter neck ties at your neck and completely exposes your back and gives a generous view of your tits. He catches flashes of the curve of your ass as you walk.

In hindsight the dress was totally in line with your character. You didn’t dress the way you did because you were ashamed of your body but rather because you didn’t give a fuck. Your hair is pinned up, one perfect curl escaping your updo and kissing your neck. Bucky feels his heart stop. He spies numerous heads turning as you languidly weave through the crowd in dangerously thin stilettos. You cozy up to one of your agent friends and the two of you drink, giggle, and dance. Bucky can’t take his eyes off of you.

When you head to the balcony he follows.

“Hey,” you say when you spy his shadow darkening the entrance to the balcony. 

“Hey,” he gruffs, in a tone he fears is too quiet. But looking at the curve of your exposed back suddenly has his voice dying in his throat. You turn back to looking at the city skyline. Bucky steps forward next to you. Close. Closer than he’s ever been to you, painfully aware of your arms brushing. He can’t fully feel your skin through the long sleeve button down he’s wearing but the touch sets him on fire all the same.

“Needed some air. “ He eventually grumbles. Trying not to stare at your profile. You look at him then, wearing a sly expression he had never seen on you.

“I’m sure you did,”

--

After that it doesn’t take long for Bucky to gather up the courage after that. Maybe it’s the way you had looked at him on the balcony or the way both male and female agents were sniffing around you at the party. All the same about a week later Bucky finds himself heading to your office in the afternoon as usual, but this time holding a bouquet of flowers.

Afterwards Bucky falls in love with you hard and fast. He finds himself doting on you, taking you out, bringing you flowers and other tokens of his affection. He hears the whispers, it’s almost impossible not to with his super soldier hearing.

“How’d she’d get him,”

“What an odd couple,”

“The Winter Soldier’s with cargo pants?”

But he still holds your hand in public all the same. Stops in the middle of training recruits to kiss you whenever you happen to cut across the gym all the same. Keeps a picture of you in his wallet all the same.

Bucky has never felt this amount of care and comfort from a person since...ever, even before, in his other life. You put his boots by the heater in the winter when he sleeps over so his feet won’t freeze when he walks to the compound. You listen to him, even when he’s angry, raging at nothing, or when he’s sad and sullen, taking minute long pauses in between sentences. Or even when he wants to do nothing but sit in silence and hold you. You especially listen when his words come fast, tinged with self hatred. You reassure him, holding him like he’s fine china. After many late night musings you give him with the best present he’s ever gotten, an impossibly soft kitten who’s uncharacteristically loud purr always grounds him. Bucky finds himself able to open up with you in a way he can’t with anyone else, even Steve. Bucky’s not good with words anymore, but with you he’s amazing. He can’t stop singing your praises, lavishing you with sweet words and adoration.

In hindsight it was a warning.

“Sweetheart, your wallet must be screamin’ for mercy, with you buying this cake nearly everyday,” Bucky says pinching off a piece of the lemon pound cake which is almost always at the corner of your desk. He recognizes the cake from a bakery across the street, and knows its nearly four dollars a slice. You stretch cracking your back, nipples poking through your shirt. Your ever present band shirt had breathed its last breath, and this new shirt is thinner and cropped, and hugs your body closer.

“Not really, I don’t buy it, Tommy hooks me up” you say, shooting him a smile and then returning back to your paperwork.

“Tommy?” Bucky says, and unbidden hot jealousy sears through his chest at the mention of your coworker “He’s always buying you these?”

“Yeah,” you answer, not looking up, and Bucky tells himself to remain calm, unbothered. 

He doesn’t.

Later after the subsequent fight and make up Bucky holds you as the two of you sit on his bed.

“I’m sorry,” He says again.

“It’s alright,” you say and somehow your simple words draw the truth out of him.

“I’m just...I- I’m afraid of losing you.”

“I’m afraid of losing you too,” you confess, then pause “Bucky, please be careful with me,”

Your relationship was easy, comforting. The two of you almost never fought, and never grew tired of being with each other. One blissful year turned into two and then five. It was like a dream and Bucky never wanted to wake up.

But reality eventually did.

How closely you guarded your phone should have tipped him off. How you’d constantly declined calls while the two of you were together. The way you almost always got ‘too drunk’ on girls night and would end up crashing at your friend’s place.

The first time it’s sixth months into your relationship on a lazy Saturday. The two of you had ordered pizza and planned to cuddle on the couch and have a movie marathon. You were in the bathroom when your phone had vibrated. Knowing that you would get a notification when the pizza arrived Bucky had looked at your phone. Bucky had felt surprised to see the name Dominos instead of an unsaved number pop up on your screen. Your phone didn’t show the preview of the text like his did. Your phone was still unlocked since you had headed to the bathroom but a few seconds ago, so Bucky tapped to open  the text.

Dominos: [Can’t wait to see you again, beautiful]

Bucky’s blood had run cold. He froze, only unfreezing when he realized you were standing next to him.

“We aren’t exclusive!” you had defended.

“What the hell do you mean?” Bucky had growled. At that your face had crumbled, eyes filling with tears.

“You never asked me to be your girl.” you had looked away “We never talked about what we are,”

“Whaddya think we’ve been doing these past months?!” Bucky had yelled back,

“ I don't know. I don’t assume Bucky. Because guys always seem to want to date me, treat me like their girlfriend and then turn around and throw it in my face that they never said I was.” your voice breaks and so does Bucky's anger.  He hadn’t been very verbal with you so far. It’s true he never asked you to be his girl, or even verbally on a date. He just thought you both knew. Guilt fills him at the sight of your tear stained face.

“I’m sorry I was just preparing for the inevitable,” you say and turn away. Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you towards him.

“Well, let me make it clear. I want you to be my girl. I want you to be mine and mine alone.”

Your expression is unfathomable as you wind your arms around his neck.

“I am yours.”

That night you stand in front of Bucky and  wordlessly slip out of your sweatpants and t shirt, rendering him speechless. With reverence Bucky’s hands trace your frame and his mouth follows. That night he worships you.

Later, you wrap your arms around him and whisper 

“I love you,”

 And Bucky knows that he’s done for.

“I love you too sweetheart.” he says, and later still when you’ve fallen asleep Bucky lies awake, stroking the soft contours of your back. He’s done for. And he knows it.

“I’ll be careful,” he whispers.

--

Reality had tried to wake Bucky gently. Through warning signs that should have been loud and clear especially to an ex assassin. But Bucky had accepted your half baked truths and excuses. He was too far gone off of the drug that was your love to heed the warning signs until reality slapped him- no choked him, awake.

His awakening came in the form of the sight of you on your kitchen counter, a man kneeling in between your spread thighs. The flowers he had bought you on his way back from his mission that had ended early drop to the floor. Bucky freezes. But at the sight of Tommy’s face, cheeks slick with you he loses it. Next thing he realizes that he has his hands around your coworkers throat. But your hand on his shoulder drains the fight out of him, and as Tommy scrambles out of the apartment Bucky crumples to the floor and sobs. 

“Why?” He asks and he realizes he’s not just asking about now, but about all the times he’s caught you cheating but didn’t have the strength to leave you. 

“Baby” you say and gather him into your arms. He wants to pull away, thrash, yell, but he doesn’t. He just melts into your touch. You make him weak. And at night when he thinks about your excuses and half truths he hates himself for it.

“Why do you keep doing this to me?” he says, sobs wracking his frame “Five years-did they mean nothing to you?”

“I’m sorry,” you say “I love you,” 

At this Bucky pulls away, standing. “Don’t fucking lie to me.” he hisses.

“I’m not,” you say standing “I might lie all the time but I’m not lying about this.” your eyes go soft at the corners, and start to water.

“No. I love you. I adore you. I’d give you anything-everything and you treat me like shit” Bucky spits, there’s a pain in his chest, his heart is breaking “And I just fucking take it, because you make me so fucking weak- and I hate it” another sob ribs from his chest. A part of him thinks  that this is his punishment. For all of the terrible things he’s done. Cursed to be in love with someone who will never truly love him back. He looks at you, your hair is in disarray, baggy t shirt, those fucking cargo pants around your ankles. He gives a bitter laugh “Who woulda thought that you would’ve been the one to make me weak.”

“Why? Because I’m not pretty?” hurt flashes across your face then your eyes go hard. Usually Bucky would have been quick to refute any self deprecating words, reassuring you how beautiful he found you, how gorgeous you were. But now he just lifts his chin and looks back at you with the same hard eyes.

“Well I know I’m not pretty.” you shrug, face going strangely expressionless “But you still fell for me all the same. More fool you.” you say, and after a moment continue. “We should break up.”

At this Bucky shatters. Because he knows deep down that even after all of this he still would have taken you back. He still wants to grovel at your feet and plead to try to fix your relationship. But instead he decides to finally choose himself and turns and walks out of the door and out of your life.

Year later he still finds himself looking at your picture in his wallet, the one remnant  of you he has left, that he can’t bear to get rid of. On lonely nights where he can’t sleep and can’t stand the coldness of his bed  he’ll trace the curve of your smile and wish that you had cared enough to have been careful with him.

Tags:@stephie-senpai@ayeputita@pixierox101@iamwarrenspeace@ dreamgirljere  @ufffg@pietrotheavenger @trinityjadec@abbytagg@wastedsummerss@turdblossommm@jimmyisfab@sev7en@hottrashformarvel @superbuckytrash@waidewilson@abbytagg @awkwardfangirl2014 @desir-ae

Bucky only @chamongangae@callmebucky-doll

[buirbaby]

The Wardens: A New Wind Blows

Notes:  Please note that this fanfic is entirely self-indulgent and warps a bit of the plotting/history. I thought it'd be fun to do a reincarnation insert, but also add rules to it to make it more difficult for the protagonist to be successful in saving canon characters. I've also added lore about the Wardens and griffins, because why not. Might not make sense (though I am trying to be as canonical as I can), but it's fun to write!

Rating: M + Mature themes, language, and violence

Masterlist | First | Next

Cold. Everything was so blasted cold.

Shuddering, Tabitha rolled over and opened her eyes, enough light in front of her for her breath to stream through the air. It had been early summer, why was it cold as balls here? Groaning, she sat up and rubbed the back of her head. Wherever she'd been laid down, it was lumpy, hard, and uncomfortable. Her bare palm scrabbled against stone and confusion ripped through her. Fire. There had been a fire in her home and Balerion had woken her up.

"Balerion?" she called, her hoarse voice echoing through the cave. None of this made sense. One moment she had been passing out from suffocating on smoke and now she was in some icy cave? Maybe this was hell. That's what she got for her years of service, somehow avowing that killing for her country was somehow not murder. God seemed to think not and thus this was his version of purgatory or hell. Who would've thought that hell was frosty? Grumbling, she clambered to her feet and glanced around, uncertain which direction was deeper into the cave and which was out. Either way, she needed to get moving because she was going to freeze her tits off at this rate.

Trailing into the abyss, she continued along the only path set before her, curious if some demon or spectre would greet her in the afterlife. Would they tell her she was an idiot for not taking the offer of money? Or that somehow that condo company had a hand in her death?

There was a light up ahead, brightening the shadows that she was having difficulty glaring through. Did all cats go to heaven and she was damned? At least death hadn't been that painful, just like going to sleep before the tidal waves of fire consumed them. Out of all the things that Tabitha could be thinking, she thought about how crappy it was that this fire had to happen right before the trip of a lifetime she'd been waiting for. Iceland had been the most anticipated trip, even bigger than Denali. So much for celebrating her big 3-0 in the fjords and ice. Now she'd rot in the ground at eternally 29.

The mouth widened in front of her and a chill breeze swept right through her, making her shudder, as she drew her arms closer. Shafts of grey light filtered in through slats in the stone, the cavern dome-shaped and wide open. Dried grass and leaf litter was scattered against the ground, almost in the shape of nests, but they were long abandoned. In front of her, she thought she saw a fleeting bit of moment, a dark shadow slinking along the perimeter of the room, but doubted herself. It wasn't until the pool of darkness flew across, pouncing on her, that her heart leapt up into her throat and her body collided back with the hard stone flooring. Gasping, trying to flounder for air that had been driven from her lungs, she was eye to eye was a behemoth creature.

Brilliant fiery orange eyes blinked at her, set into a raptor's face, only the head of the bird was larger than her own. Obsidian feathers encircled its face, a wickedly sharp beak preening close to her face, a set of long tufted ears twitching. Undoubtedly a demon of hell, Tabitha was convinced, wondering if she'd screwed up her descent into the layers or if she should have tried running. She need only wait for it to disembowl her to begin her eternal torture in this frigid wasteland, but it was acting strangely. Tilting its head to the side before a soft murmur, almost like a huffing trill-similar to that of a cat caught between a purr and meow-blew her hair back. No, she knew those eyes. She hadn't thought of them like fire before, but more like pumpkins.

"Balerion?" she whispered, afraid that speaking any louder would enrage the creature.

The raptor pushed its face into hers, nuzzling the shiny ink black beak into her cheek, before clambering off to allow her to sit up. Tabitha was startled by what she saw, her cat's feline form condensed to only the frame of which he now possessed, his bottle brush tail sweeping behind him, a thick mane of feathers and fur clustered around his neck and throat, akin to a lion. But his front paws were talons, sharper than knives, fashioned for killing. Yet, the griffin's mannerisms bespoke of her soul mate.

"What the fuck is going on?" she managed, pushing herself to her feet to trot toward him, burying her fingers in the warmth of his feathers. Damn, it was cold here and Balerion was radiating heat. "Man, we're definitely not in Kansas anymore, are we bud? You're... huge." Trying to fathom how it was possible her house cat had turned into a griffin, Tabitha continued to puzzle as she kept close to him.

Another trill of agreement before the feline pulled away, ear tufts twitching, before he let out a low growl, beak parting in fury. Suddenly, she was thrust behind him, barely able to glance over the broad set of wings he was unfurling to challenge the person approaching them. However, the initial reaction simmered down, the heat dialed back as a voice spoke in a soothing language that she did not comprehend.

"Please. Warden. Come out," the voice was youthful, childish, but within the timbre of the tone there was a great weight, almost as if there was a deep ancient wisdom contained within. A shiver lanced down her spine as she stepped out, pressing her palm against Balerion's muzz-er-beak to quell him. Despite the young voice, the small being in front of her was not inherently child-looking aside from the short stature. Just as she'd been startled with the griffin, the nut-brown skin dappled with spots like a baby deer caught her off guard. Its ears were also reminiscent of a doe, large and prominent as their slitted eyes.

He wore a cloak of leaves, his dark hair intertwined with vines and lichen.

"What... are you?" Part of her recalled the descriptors deep down, but it seemed too farfetched just along with the rest of this queer world.

"The humans call us the Children of the Forest. We call ourselves those who sing the song of the earth in our True Tongue," he answered cryptically, confirming what her heart had suspected. The revelation stole her breath away, the shock of falling into the depths of a book she'd had on her nightstand the evening of her death bone chilling. "I am called Fang."

"How are we here? This should be impossible," Tabitha muttered, convinced this was a coma dream. Still, it felt so real. Maybe they had survived the fire and her dying brain had concocted this dream state to float in while she healed. Whatever it was, being dropped into the realm of A Song of Ice and Fire without any blood ties to nobility was real shitty.

"I didn't think that another of your kind would awaken. I've stayed here a long time, protecting the Roost . The last of its kind after men hunted the griffins to extinction," Fang explained, gesturing to the nests, in which Tabitha could see were more figures. However, upon scrutiny she realized that they were stone, trapped eternally in their slumber. "But it was told that for every griffin here, there is one Warden, another half to their soul, waiting to rejoin them in this life."

"Excuse me for not being aware of what my sacred, foretold destiny is, but can you enlighten me? What exactly is a warden?"

Fang was more than keen to oblige, the years of solitude in this cold cavern grating on him. "Wardens are keepers of knowledge. Wargs in their own right. Warriors and guides during times of extreme strife."

"Never heard of them," Tabitha remarked, racking her brain for any lore on Wardens, but had never recalled seeing them in the books. Maybe they hadn't been recorded for a reason, a loophole that could change the tide of what had been written, never quite taking on a form themselves since they weren't nobles or remarkable characters aside from trying to subvert plotlines they knew were going to happen. Griffin-wielding-wargs. That's what she was now. "Then... Are we north of the Wall?" Where else would a Child of the Forest be? Unless this was well before when the books she'd known were set, this was the last frontier the Children had left.

"Yes, we are... You are familiar with Westeros' geography?"

"I am," Tabitha admitted grudgingly. "So, Fang, what's the plan? I mount up on Balerion and we fly off to try and change the world?" That was a fanciful way to put it and putting way too much hope in the fact that they wouldn't get shot right out of the sky while flying over the Wall.

"No," Fang shook his head. "You are not ready. You are not equipped for the journey. And unless you'd like to perish before your quest has even begun, you'd be wise not to just show up at any doorstep and hope for safe harbor, especially as a woman."

So Fang wasn't stupid. Tabitha's lips quirked up. "Then what do we do?"

This question would soon be answered, as Fang led them out of the cumbersome room that had wind ripping through it with icy, gnashing teeth. The cave went deeper, illuminated by strange blue lights contained within gnarled tree branches, more for her than it was for Fang, so that she might see where she placed her foot as they descended. Still, she wondered how any of this was real. How such a thing existed. Quietly, she amassed a collection of questions to ask Fang once they arrived at their destination.

The caverns grew warmer, the heat of a primordial hearth burning deep within the heart of the mountain. It took Tabitha a moment, staring at the grooves of the stone, the purposeful counter set in front of it, to realize that this was a forge. Fang paused, cocking his head and tilting his feline eyes back up toward her.

"This forge only lights when a Warden has awoken," he told her.

"When's the last time you saw it lit?" she asked.

"I have never, but before me, the time of dragons and conquerers came with the forge was bright and hot," Fang replied, skirting the room to place small hands on slate slabs that had been hewn into the wall, similar to a tomb.

"Lot a good a griffin must have been against dragons," Tabitha spoke her thought aloud, wondering how that would have sufficed. Balerion was large, perhaps even big enough to ride, but in comparison to the real Balerion? He was a pup, a mite without scales to protect him. Depending on when they were, dragons might fly again and be creatures that she'd have to be wary of. The thought of the flying reptilians made her shudder, Balerion pushing his head into her side as he noticed that she was disturbed.

"Griffins are fast," Fang countered, pushing the stone slab with a shocking amount of strength. "Faster than dragons perhaps. But they're not here to serve the same purpose. Balerion is here as a partner and an escort, not to raze cities or conquer empires."

"Good, I don't think that was on my bucket list," Tabitha quipped. "What year is it? Do you know?"

"If I've been keeping good enough record, 294 AC," the stone had been removed entirely and in its place was the hollowed out tomb filled with items.

294? That was a few years before the events of the first book. While she might not have been ready to embark on any crusade to change the ill fate of many characters, she realized now that she had time to figure out what the hell she was doing. "Well that's a relief. Would've sucked to show up after-" but the words didn't form, her tongue twisting in her mouth and becoming slow and dumb. She tried again, trying to explain the situation that would play out in a few years time, only to find that she could not speak it aloud at all.

Fang turned, his lips curving up in a smile. "Ah, so it is true," he commented, looking more his age than childish as he crossed his arms. "Legend says that for all the knowledge the Wardens might have, they cannot speak it to another."

Tabitha wanted to dash her brains against the stone. She knew all of this shit and she couldn't tell anyone? Couldn't write it down? Now this threw a bigger wrench in her plans. For if she came to a situation where she could save someone by simply saying 'hey look out for the Freys', she could not. "How am I supposed to do anything?" she hissed irritably.

"You'll know. Just as the forge beats with the life in your heart, you will know when it is time to make yourself known and to help change the tides of fate. Actions speak louder than words," Fang retorted, pulling out a thick, padded doublet that was within the stone storage. "Here, these should fit you. It is cold outside the forge and eventually, you will have to brave it."

Accepting the attire that had been stolen away for centuries, Tabitha was more than eager to put it on in place of her own thin clothing. Things could not be simple. She could not have the power over death in words, she would have to be clever, strong, resilient and work her way into politics without the cushion of a title or lands. Christ, that was going to be hard and even having Balerion beside her seemed more like a burden than a saving grace. No, she was thankful he was there, her dark star amidst the turmoil and confusion that was the world she'd suddenly been thrust into, but she felt daunted.

While Fang continued to rummage through the ancient artifacts of Wardens passed, she sat on a bench made of rock, hewn into the wall, and stared into the dancing flames of the hearth. Fire had taken her from her past life and now a new fire was ignited. Her fingertips swirled along her open palm, feeling the strange new mark that had found its way there, that hadn't been there. A swirl shaped like a griffin's head, rough around the edges, and akin to a burn--as if it had been branded into her skin. It did not hurt, but she wondered if this was her boon as a Warden.

To save Westeros. Obviously, the Night King would be the largest priority. Given that she was north of the Wall, she had to assume that her 'in' would be with the wildlings or the Night's Watch. Again, her head throbbed in worry, wondering how she'd manage to convince others that she was worthy of their time and not just a good lay, rape, or twat. She could not speak of what she knew, so she had to count on her actions and the cleverness of her tongue to aid those that she knew Westeros would be better with. Could she make it to Winterfell before Ned Stark left for King's Landing? Could she stop Bran from falling from the broken tower? Did she want to stop him? So many questions that had no answers and yet the fire danced madly in front of her, beckoning with flaming fingers, whispering into her ears.

"We shall guide you."

Through fire there had been rebirth. Not in the same manner as Dondarrian when he had a priest bless and revive him, but in another ancient method. Between worlds and veils. The fire had claimed the Warden and then spat her out into the arctic mountain that would suffice to become her home for the next few years as she gained her feet. A modern woman in a dark, twisted medieval fantasy. Not once had Tabitha yearned to be tossed amongst the pages she read with delight, because she knew that life was fickle, dangerous, and uncertain. No one was favored, even the main characters could die.

"Here," Fang interrupted her train of thoughts, breaking her line of sight with the fire that she had fallen into a trans with. He held up a scabbard before her, the sheathe a dark midnight blue, enameled with white gold detailing. Not too much, simple and clean, just enough that it wasn't utterly nondescript. The weight felt heavy on her lap, her fingers turning around the straps of the belt before she gripped the handle and pulled part of the blade out.

For a sword that had been collecting dust for more than a hundred years, it was honed and sharp. No, that was not right. There was a reason for that. Tabitha pulled it out entirely, the rippling waves in the folded steel catching the light of the fire and throwing refractions around the space like a mirror held to the sun. This was Valyrian steel, with no need to be taken to a whetstone.

"Fuck, I don't know how to use a sword."

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Eccentricity [Chapter 2: You Can Run Around Infinite In My Head]

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. 

Potentially a better love story than Twilight (we’ll let @killer-queen-xo​ decide when it’s all said and done 😉).

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: Rome by Dermot Kennedy.

Chapter Warnings: Language, mentions of violence. 

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Tagging: @queen-turtle-boiii​ @bramblesforbreakfast​​  @killer-queen-xo​​ @maggieroseevans​​ @culturefiendtrashqueen​​ @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark​​ @escabell​​ @im-an-adult-ish​​ ​ @queenlover05​​ @someforeigntragedy​​ @imtheinvisiblequeen​​ ​ @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye​​ @deacyblues​​ ​ @tensecondvacation​​ ​ @brianssixpence​​ 

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you! 💜

Missing In Action

I wish she would stop staring at me.

Lucille sat at the Lees’ usual table and apathetically picked through a heaping salad. (Friday was salad bar day, which I appreciated considerably more than the chicken finger obsession that marred Mondays at Calawah University.) Every once in a while, Rami nudged her and Lucille would spear a cherry tomato with her fork and bite it in half with perfectly even, white teeth. But her large blue-green eyes—they reminded me of webs of seaweed tumbling in the cold, frothing La Push waves—always found their way back to me, strangely focused, inquisitive, perhaps accusatory.

Ben probably told them how much he hates me for whatever nebulous reason and now they all hate me too and I’m going to spend the next two years being death-glared by five ridiculously attractive and somewhat incestuous foster kids.

Chemistry was a three times a week class. Ben hadn’t shown on Wednesday, and I was 99% sure he would skip again today. I spotted him around campus periodically, always from a distance: dropping quarters into a vending machine, clandestinely vaping behind dorm buildings (what self-respecting pre-med student VAPES?!!), browsing YouTube videos in the library next to a tower of unopened textbooks, biology and chem and physics and calculus. He wasn’t home, he wasn’t sick; there was no attempt made to construct any sort of pretext. He was patently avoiding me.

I stabbed moodily at the serrated disks of cucumber in my salad. Jessica was blathering away about the latest season of The Bachelor and ranking the contestants’ eyebrows from best to worst. “...Like seriously, has she never heard of microblading?!”

“For real,” Angela offered, not especially invested but forever a good sport.

Lucille’s eyes settled on me again as she sipped a cup of steaming tea, staring until her forehead crinkled with the effort, staring hard, almost leering.

“What’s her problem?” I muttered.

Jessica shot a glance towards the Lee table and slurped her Sprite. The great mystery surrounding her potential Mormon-ness persisted. “Who? Lucy?”

Only Lucille’s friends called her Lucy. Jessica, a shameless aspiring socialite, presumed she was everybody’s friend unless they explicitly informed her otherwise, which of course no one ever did.

“Yeah,” I answered glumly.

“Maybe it’s your dress.”

“My dress? What’s wrong with my dress?”

Jessica wrinkled her nose and surveyed me as if I were a bug, and not a cute bug like a roly-poly bug or The Very Hungry Caterpillar or whatever. Like a really hideous bug. Like one of those spider-cricket hybrid things that hopped straight out of a hell dimension and into the dark, drippy corners of your basement. “It’s, like, very 1960s. But not in a sexy Woodstock way. In a ‘I’m about to join a hippie murder cult’ way.”

“I got it at TJ Maxx. It was on sale.”

Jessica snorted. “Probably for a reason.”

“That’s it. I’m giving all the hippies in my new murder cult your address.”

She and Angela laughed. Mike and Eric, the missing pieces of our daily lunch puzzle, were preoccupied with a campus protest to convert fried fish day (Thursdays) into tacos day. I sympathized with their efforts, but didn’t feel that my one-week tenure as a Calawah University student gave me much right to go around overhauling the dining hall schedule.

“I doubt she’s actually offended by a dress,” Angela said, nibbling on French fries that shed grains of salt like snowflakes.

Jessica sighed dreamily. “But Lucy’s just so fashionable...and that accent...” She drifted off into some daydream which began—I could only assume—with Lucy’s invitation to go shopping together and concluded with marrying Ben on some lush tropical island in the South Pacific.

Lucille was definitely fashionable, especially today: short black dress with sheer sleeves that ran to her fragile wrists, black polka dot tights, black heeled oxfords, dangling ruby earrings like beads of blood. She would have blended in perfectly at Paris Fashion Week. Rami was wearing a cardigan and khakis, per usual; Joe was in dark fitted jeans and a roomy U Chicago hoodie despite the fact that Forks was at minimum a thirty-four hour drive from the Windy City. What did Angela say his major was? Finance? No, Mathematical Economics. So he’s probably aiming at Chicago for an MBA or Econ PhD someday. Angela had told me that Joe was wicked smart. He better be if he’s entertaining fantasies of grad school at the University of Chicago.

Scarlett had come straight from Fencing Club and was wearing bright pink yoga pants and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut out, sprinkling Hot Cheetos into her open mouth, her blonde hair secured in a tight French braid. You know those girls who are so irrationally, gluttonously, unfairly beautiful that it doesn’t seem possible the genetic lottery could spit out so many winning numbers at once, and you comfort yourself with the certainty that there must be some set of circumstances that would level the playing field—I bet she looks like anyone else without all that makeup, she just has a really good sense of style and knows how to maximize her assets, there are definitely some goofy oversized ears hiding beneath that hair and that’s why she always wears it down—and then one day you run into them wearing sweatpants and a ponytail in the tampon aisle at Walmart and they’re still so perfect it stings you, baffles you, makes you feel like there must have been some divergence in the evolutionary chain because there’s no freaking way you’re the same species? Yeah, Scarlett was one of those girls. Scarlett was the queen of those girls.  

Ben was conspicuously absent from the table.

Scarlett’s pink leopard-print iPhone rang and she answered. “Hello?” She turned to Joe. “Dad says you left your phone at home. Do you need it?”

Joe was gnawing his way through his third slice of pepperoni pizza. “No, I’m good, thanks though.”

Scarlett relayed the message. “Dad says he’s going to bring it by just in case.”

“Oh my god, ScarJo, I’m fine! Tell him not to!”

“Dad says he doesn’t trust you and he’s going to be here in fifteen minutes. He’s also bringing the Game Theory homework you left by the hot tub.”

Joe groaned and rolled his lively dark eyes as Rami grinned at him; Lucille was still watching me and entirely oblivious.

“Isn’t it weird that Ben and Lucille have accents?” I asked Jessica. “That they’re from the U.K.? I didn’t think fostering kids was an international thing.”

“It’s not that weird. Dr. Lee is British too. Maybe there’s some kind of exchange system, I don’t know. But you know what I do know?”

“What?” Now my interest was piqued.

She smiled. “That the British accents are hot.”

“Ugh,” I exhaled involuntarily.

“Please get a hobby,” Angela begged Jessica. “Start a YouTube channel. Make care packages for orphans. Grow marijuana. Adopt a cat. I have a shift at the animal shelter this Sunday morning, you want to come with me?”

“Sorry, can’t. I have a temple thing.”

Temple on Sunday. The mystery is solved. She’s a Mormon for sure. I mentally resolved not to let her set me up with anyone unless I was still single on Valentine’s Day. Which, obviously, assuming I’m not dead in a ditch somewhere, I will be.

I gathered up my trash and slung my backpack over my shoulder. “Okay, well this has been a bizarre lunch to be completely honest, and now I have to go to Chemistry so I’ll see you later and hopefully we can brainstorm some more alternatives to Jessica’s current life trajectory on Monday. Because I am not looking forward to being a bridesmaid in these impending Lee nuptials.”

“Oh please!” Jessica lamented. “He doesn’t even know I exist. You, on the other hand...”

I scoffed. “Yeah, he wants to kill me. I truly have a gift.”

They waved as I left. I could feel Lucille’s eyes on me until I reached the door.

Sure enough, Ben wasn’t in Chemistry. I tried not to notice. I drew my atoms, wrote my equations, took my notes diligently and in my favorite sky blue ink. But I felt the emptiness in the chair next to me like a black hole, like an immense and dragging weight, like a snag in the fabric of all those interwoven strands of physics that orchestrate the universe like an immortal puppeteer. Why can’t I forget this guy? Why do I still feel like I’ve met him before?

Halfway through class, I hauled my emergency sweatshirt out of my backpack and pulled it on over my dress, floral and flowing and golden yellow like the sun, the sun that never shines here in Forks. I had liked it plenty under the florescent lights of the fitting room at TJ Maxx, and I had still liked it this morning; but Jessica’s words hummed around in my skull like wasps. The zipper of the sweatshirt was broken, but it accomplished the task of obscuring my dress well enough.

After Chemistry, I journeyed to the campus library to find a book I was supposed to read and present for a different class. I looked it up in the computer catalogue, spent an embarrassingly long time trying to figure out how the Dewey Decimal System works, eventually wound up finding the book on the highest floor of the library...and, to add a little extra peril to the mission, on the highest shelf. The book mocked me from its lofty, unattainable stronghold. The title was embossed in gold letters down the crimson spine. The Walruses And Me: A Transformative Experience. Idiotic title, I’m aware. It’s about some marine biologist who spent months alone in the Arctic studying the lifecycles of walruses. A noble pursuit, sure, but still a terrible title.

There wasn’t a chair or stepstool in sight. I tested my weight by stepping up onto the second-lowest shelf. The metal immediately squealed and shifted in protest. I retreated back down to the carpet, defeated by gravity. I scowled up at the book and sighed melodramatically. Ugh.

“Need something?”  

I spun around to see Joe in his University of Chicago hoodie and pale flawless skin and intangible magnetism, that bewildering trademark Lee ethereality. I instinctively crossed my arms, clutching the sleeves of my sweatshirt, shrinking inwards like a startled armadillo in the Arizona desert.

“Are you, uh, anemic...?” he ventured.

“Oh no, I’m not cold. I’m just trying to hide my dress. My friend said it was too hippie-murder-cult 1960s.”

I figured he’d laugh, make a snide comment, maybe just blink in confusion. Instead, he glimpsed down at my dress—what could still be seen of it, anyway—and shook his head. “The neckline isn’t right for the 60s. And you seem like you’ve showered at least once in the past two weeks, so definitely not a hippie.”

I smiled, completely unexpectedly. “I didn’t realize Econ majors knew anything about leftist counterculture.”

“Disparaging it is our favorite pastime. Are you trying to get a book or are you just disrespecting university property for entertainment?”

I pointed. “The big red one.”

“The Walruses And Me...?”

“I know, it’s a horrible title. Not my personal preference. It’s for a class.”

“Bestiality 101?”

“Good guess. Marine Mammals.”

“Ahhh.” He glanced up and down the aisle, tapped his chin with agile fingers, pondered something I wasn’t privy to. “Turn around for a second.”

“What? Why?”

He waved his hand mysteriously in front of his grinning face. “It’s a magic trick. I’m going to make your problem disappear.”

“You can’t climb that,” I warned. “You’ll fall and break your neck. Or you’ll knock the whole shelf over and cause a tragic domino effect and the university will withhold your diploma until you pay them restitution.”

“I’m extremely athletic.”

“Are you sure?” I appraised him with exaggerated skepticism for comedic effect. “My dad refers to you only as the spindly annoying Lee.”

Oh my god, WHY did I say that?

Now he would definitely hate me. Now I’d have two mortal enemies on one campus. I mentally calculated how humiliating it would be to transfer to some Florida college, any Florida college, after only one week at Calawah. Hi mom, yeah I’m coming to live with you and Paul, a gang of hot pasty foster kids wants to slaughter me.

Instead, Joe threw back his head and cackled wildly. A librarian—mid-fifties, angry red hair from out of a box, fuzzy cat sweater—glared into the aisle and shushed him.

“Chief Swan...he actually...he calls me that? Really?!” Joe managed, wiping his leaking eyes. “That’s hilarious. I’m so glad my life is in his hands. Okay seriously, turn around.”

“Why would you help me?” I asked suspiciously.

“That’s just what I do. I’m a friendly guy.”

“This friendliness must not run in the family.”

Again, Joe’s cheerful demeanor didn’t falter. “You mean Ben? Forget about Ben, he hates everyone. Don’t take it personally.” Then he added: “Plus, as I’m sure you know, we’re not biologically related. No overlapping genetic material whatsoever. I didn’t get the male supermodel gene, he didn’t get the irresistibly charming gene, life’s not fair but the world keeps spinning.”

“It sure does,” I agreed softly. Unexpected wisdom from my new favorite Lee. I turned away from him. “Fine, I’m not looking, go ahead and dazzle me with your supernatural friendliness—”

“Done.”

“What?” I whirled around. Joe held The Walruses And Me in his hand. “How...did you...?!”

He passed me the book as I sputtered incoherently. “I told you. Magic trick.”

“I don’t....?!” I gawked up at the top shelf, at Joe, back to the top shelf. Sure enough, the space where The Walruses And Me once lived was now just a vacant slit in the row of dusty books. How could he have climbed up there that quickly? How could I not have heard anything? “The shelves didn’t even creak,” I murmured shakily.

“Yes, well, that’s due to my conveniently spindly physique.” Joe winked. “Any other problems I can help you solve at the moment, Baby Swan?”

“No. And don’t call me Baby Swan, or I’ll push this whole bookshelf over and tell the feisty librarian lady you did it.”

“That’s cold, ma’am.”

I liked that Joe didn’t make me feel like Ben did: unworthy, unloved, infuriating. Joe made me feel something else, something lighthearted, casual, buoyant; like the world didn’t have anything in it worth worrying about, regretting, agonizing over. Like unadulteratedly myself was all I ever needed to be.

I heard a muted buzz and Joe slid his iPhone out of his jeans pocket. Dr. Lee must have successfully delivered it. “Whoops, I forgot that Ordinary Differential Equations existed. Got to go. See ya.”

“Bye,” I replied. And then Joseph Lee was gone, very quickly, a little too quickly, the same way that Ben had vanished on that first afternoon after Chemistry.

Forks is weird. Calawah University is weird. And the Lee kids are super fucking weird.

Long Walks On The Beach

“Can I ask you a random question?”

“You just paid me $100 for an oil change that took fifteen minutes. You can ask me anything you want.” He grinned, flashing bright teeth and deep dimples.

It was Saturday afternoon. I had shoveled down a Chipotle veggie bowl as Archer changed the 1999 Accord’s oil in a small garage with a cracked concrete floor and the searing pungency of gasoline fumes thick in the air. He had apprenticed all through high school and rented his own shop after graduation. Archer now had a loyal clientele that encompassed virtually the entire Quileute reservation and a growing chunk of Forks...including Charlie and me, of course. Archer was the only child of Larry Foxchild—Charlie’s best friend since they worked together at Dairy Queen as teenagers—and the closest thing to a son my dad would ever have. I guess that made him like a brother to me, something that seemed intuitive now that I’d thought of it.

After the Accord was serviced we drove it down to La Push to walk on the beach, climb the salt-lashed rocks, toss pebbles into the roiling surf, reprise our childhood enthusiasm for poking dead washed-up marine creatures with shards of driftwood.

“Do you know anything about the Lees?” I asked Archer, investigating a deceased green shore crab.

His brow furrowed. He looked so serious like that, suddenly so much like Larry: the same tan skin, jet black hair, umbral eyes like oil wells, strong jaw overlaid with the stubbled shadow of a beard. We really aren’t kids anymore, are we? “The doctor and his kids?”

“Yeah. The foster kids. They’re really pale and strange and half of them are British.”

Archer chuckled. “I know who you mean. They’re hard to miss.”

“Are they...” Just eccentric rich people? Traumatized from abusive childhoods? Government experiments? CIA agents? Secret murderers? The image of Ben in that first Chemistry class came roaring back to me, including the adjective that had flashed red behind my eyes like an emergency exit sign: fierce. Finally, I decided: “Dangerous?”

Now Archer full-on laughed, gripping his belly, shaking his head. Drops of saltwater flew from his short hair. “Seriously?!” he exclaimed. “Come on, they’re freaks but they’re not, like...that kind of freaks.”

“Are you sure?” I was starting to feel better already. Of course they’re not actual demons, you fucking idiot. This is Washington, not The Twilight Zone or Black Mirror. Not goddamn American Horror Story.

“Yeah.” Archer skipped a grey pebble over the water, something I’d never been able to do. “I’ll be honest, I don’t know them all that well. They usually keep to themselves. But I’ve never heard anything bad about any of the kids. And everyone respects Dr. Lee and appreciates him for taking the pay cut to come to some bumblefuck town like Forks. He’s insanely highly credentialed, has degrees from Harvard or Yale or somewhere like that. Super impressive. We’re lucky to have him. I definitely sleep better at night knowing he’ll be the one to fix me up if I ever get a few fingers ripped off on the job.”

“Don’t even say that. Then who would I grossly overpay for oil changes?”

Archer smiled, then sobered as he peered out over the Pacific Ocean.

“What?” I asked, feeling a plummeting in my guts like primal fear.

“Well...okay, so there is one thing that’s always bothered me. You remember Grandpa Foxchild?”

“Yeah, of course.” He had been an impossibly ancient man with long grey braided hair, a low rumbly voice, gnarled arthritic hands, ceaseless wrinkles. I remembered Charlie calling me when he passed away last spring. Renee and I had picked out a flower arrangement to send to the funeral.

“So,” Archer said slowly, like he was still puzzling it out himself. “Grandpa used to say things like ‘That Dr. Lee has been around a long time.’ Which of course makes no sense, the Lees moved here like two years ago. And I’d tell Grandpa that, but he completely ignored me. He would just keep repeating it. ‘That Dr. Lee shouldn’t still be here.’ ‘That Dr. Lee should go on home to where he came from.’ ‘That Dr. Lee isn’t right.’ Creepy shit like that. My dad and I always assumed it was the dementia talking, but...I don’t know. It just bothered me. Because Grandpa...he wasn’t just being gossipy or suspicious. He was angry. And he was afraid. Grandpa was at Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima and he would talk about that no problem, mention landmines or flesh melting off a soldier’s face like it was nothing. He was a tough guy. Immeasurably tough, I’ll never be half the man he was. But if you mentioned the Lees, Grandpa got scared. Why the hell would he be so scared of them?”

I didn’t have an answer for him, not a single word. I just stared at Archer, my eyes growing huge, my heart sprinting, blood pounding in my ears. He knew. Grandpa Foxchild knew there was something off about them, and now I know it too. I don’t know how I know, but I do.

Archer tittered nervously. “Anyway, that was genuinely disturbing. But like I said. It was probably just the dementia.”

“What if it wasn’t?”

“It had to be,” he insisted. “There’s no other logical explanation.”

“I guess,” I agreed, scooping up the green shore crab corpse with my bare hands. I hurled it out into the waves, imagined it sinking through murky water and suspended grains of sand, the body settling into prehistoric silt, the scavengers descending upon it, the inescapable wheel of birth and death and resurrection through those who unwittingly carry our atoms with them into the next generation, into the perpetual future.

That night my dreams were full of pale skin and scorching eyes, Ben and Joe and Rami, Lucille and Scarlett, crashing waves, cold water and bleached bones; and Grandpa Foxchild’s mistrustful refrain: That Dr. Lee has been around a long time.

Benjamin

I soared down the staircase and through the dining room. Gwil was working late at the hospital, Mercy outside tending the animals, everyone else presumably scattered throughout the house. I had to get out before anyone noticed me. I had to get out without Rami or Lucy knowing.

I yanked open the door to the back porch. Rami was waiting there.

“Good evening,” he greeted me in that slow, thoughtful drawl.

“Stay the fuck out of my head.”

“You know how it works, Benny Boy. I can’t ignore the loud thoughts. And you’ve been having some very loud thoughts lately.”

I stared down at my shoes, all black Adidas. Black is good. It doesn’t show stains. For example, purely hypothetically, splatters of human blood and organs. “I can make it quick. I can make it painless.”

Rami’s aura flared maroon; not enraged, no, not quite that, but certainly revolted. I was always finding new and horrifying ways to revolt them, whether I was trying to or not. “She has a family, Ben. A father. You know Chief Swan, you’ve seen him around town. He’s a good person. She’s a good person. You really want to do this? You really want to relapse like this?”

I didn’t reply. I didn’t have to. Hearing thoughts is a tricky thing, and not a gift that I would ever want; unspoken words are rarely a steam and usually a storm, disjointed and twisting, interrupting each other, bottomless layers of whispers and screams. But I was sure Rami could catch the important parts: that I didn’t know the difference between good and bad people, that I didn’t know what to think of people at all, that for me her blood was not a desire but a compulsion. I couldn’t stop envisioning it spilling over my tongue and teeth, down my throat, hot and pulsing erratically and fading. “Why can’t you hear her? Why can’t I see what she’s feeling?”

Rami shrugged, characteristically placid and restrained. It was maddening. “There are seven and a half billion people on this planet. So maybe every once in a while you get one that lives in our blind spots, there’s something chromosomal or psychological that puts them on a different frequency. I don’t know. How the hell should I know? All I know is that you definitely shouldn’t be seriously considering...well. What you’re considering.”  

“Have you ever met someone whose thoughts you couldn’t hear before?”

“No,” Rami admitted; and was that a ghost of unease that crossed his face?

“Please, Rami. Let me go. Pretend you never saw me.” My words come out strained, hushed, like a spilled secret, like a confession. I’ve never wanted anyone’s blood like I want hers.

He heard that; I could see the dismay in his eyes. Now his aura is dark grey, almost black. Disappointment. Resignation. Mourning. “I told you what Lucy saw.”

“What she saw is impossible and you know it.”

Again, Rami shrugged. That blind, mindless faith. I wished I knew what it felt like. “She’s never wrong.”

“Have you told him?”

“Who, Joe?! Of course I haven’t told Joe. He...”

“He wouldn’t believe it either?” I snapped, like it was a victory.

“No,” Rami amended carefully. “No, he would believe anything Lucy saw.” Lucy had visions: flashes of the future, the past, the present. They were rare and unpredictable, often fragmented, snapshots rather than arcs. But they were always true. Or, rather, the other Lees claimed they were. The real Lees. “I don’t know what he would do about it,” Rami said finally. “So I’m waiting it out. And killing one of the primary participants is definitely not waiting it out.”

I seethed as I glared at him, hating him in that moment, hating myself only slightly more; and he heard that too. But then that wispy, fleeting haze around him was a pink like the last threads of sunlight sinking into the Western horizon. Forgiveness. Attachment. Love.

“Come with me, Ben,” Rami said gently, opening the door. “Come back inside. You can beat this. You’re better than this. You’re a good soul. You wouldn’t be with us if you weren’t.”

I tried to laugh. It came out like a snarl. “I haven’t had a soul in a long time.”

[hpdabbles]

Brother Dearest

“Are you sure about this Harry? Once you go through with it, you’ll be stuck for a month or longer.” Dean warns one last time. His friend had gone over the runes nine times, given the same warning ten times and was still worried.  “I’m not even one hundred percent sure I can pull you back.”

Harry smiled at him “You have a good theory that you can”

“Yes but it’s still just a theory. We haven’t tested it yet” Dean counters

“You’ve been able to bring back the portraits spirts you sent”

“Those weren’t conclusive” Dean huffs “We have no idea what the effect it can have on a person and not magical paint.”

Shrugging his shoulders The-Man-Who-Conquered leans back into his pillows making sure medical robes don’t accidentally flash his school friend. He glances down at the glowing runes, carefully crafted around his bed and humming with magic.

Maybe this was a crazy idea. Maybe it wouldn’t work. But maybe Harry didn’t care.

“Look, Dean, you’re an amazing magical researcher. You’ve been studying and developing this for three years, have been able to rebuild a time tuner and done a full year of testing. It’s ready for a live one. Besides, I trust you.” Harry says, grinning when it makes the ex-Gryffindor blush. “Now, we aren’t getting any younger, let’s get to it yeah? Pull the lever, Kronk.”

Dean throws his hands into the air.  “Not you too. I took Seamus to watch that movie a month ago and he still runs around quoting it. He’s my husband so I have to put up with it but I am not going to listen to you quote that ridiculous rubbish.”

“Aw, Dean comes on. It’s a great movie!” Harry laughs, as the other rolls his eyes “It has potions and referenced amimagus what’s not to like?”

“It’s a kid’s movie”

“It’s art.”

Dean sighs like Harry’s appreciation for Disney was a sign of a huge failure. Harry didn’t care. Some may call him odd for being excited about the latest releases but he spent his whole childhood wishing he could enjoy the cinema like his classmates could and then spent his teenage years fighting off a mad man.

He may be twenty, but he had the right to enjoy what he couldn’t then. He’s earned it.

“Pull the lever, Kronk!” Harry repeats pleased as a peach when Dean’s face sours.

“Fine, I will!” The other man snaps then somber up as his wand touches the outline of the runes. Harry feels his skin rise with goosebumps as the wave of power washes over him. “Remember, I’m going to aim for a timeline similar to ours but I can’t guarantee it will be the same year or that I will actually land you in one that is alike. You’ll take over the body of whoever you are in that timeline and they won’t feel a thing. Once I pull you back, they will be fine. Hopefully. Maybe. You can still say no.”

Harry shakes his head. “I want to help. Take care of my body while I’m gone.”

Dean sighs then nod his head to a notebook he had a place in a runes circle a little further away from Harry’s bed. The two runes circles were connected with smaller inscriptions laid out like a spider web between them. “That is design to bring back the ink from the other timelines. You need to write in it every day as part of the research and so I know you’re doing okay. In the worst-case, I can pull you out if needed once you write for help.”

“Not to worry beautiful, I remember my safe word.” Harry jokes 

Dean's face goes amusingly red. “I hate the fact your sense of humor has turned to this. I still remember a boy who chocked anytime  someone even mentioned kissing.”

“I bet your husband would have a laugh” 

“It’s a one-way form of communication” Dean hurries on blush still lingering on his cheeks. Harry can’t help but grin, unable to explain why flustering others was so much fun. It’s fine anyway, he only does it with his friends and they all know his flirting is in jest. “I won’t be able to speak to you. But you can’t forget to write at a set time. If you miss any day at that time I will drag you back. Understand?”

“Yes Daddy”

“Harry!”

“Okay! Okay!” Harry laughs hands held in front of him as if though to plead innocence. “I’m sorry. Yes, I understand. And yes I still want to go through with it.”

Dean levels a hard stare on him before nodding. He goes down on one knee and casts the starting spell, incantations falling from his lips with practiced ease. Harry quickly settles into the pile of pillows and tries to relax, wondering what the sensation of having his soul thrown across dimensions would feel like. 

Probably like death. Good thing he’s done that already.

The runes grow brighter and brighter, forcing him to close his eyes as Dean is suddenly impossible to look at. Magic reaches under his skin, clamps down on his soul and starts to tug. Just as Harry feels himself descend he makes out Dean’s words  “Of course I will. Good luck Harry.”

With one last flash of light, he’s gone.

Next thing Harry knows he’s laying in a softer bigger bed, with multiple pillows piled around him. He blinks his eyes open trying to figure out where and when he is but everything is fuzzy seeing as the body he’s just taken over also seems to need glasses.

Next to his bed he thinks is a stand and, assuming The-he-of-this-timeline would put his glass wear there, he fumbles a hand over the surface wincing when dull pain runs up and down his spine. A thumping in the back of his skull is killing him, making him wonder if had woken up after a wild drunken night. A flash of red enters his eyesight blurry like the rest of the world but it worries him that he’s seeing it out of the corner of his eye.

Did the body owner do something worse than getting blackout drunk? 

It’s when his finger finally touches metal and glass, that he realizes something is wrong. For one his hand is smaller and the flash of red is actually hair. He tugs on it with his other hand wincing as it makes the pain on his head worse and confirms that the red hair is his.

Harry has red shoulder-length hair.  It’s soft as silk and straight as lines, falling gracefully into place when he lets go. 

Just as manages to get his glass onto his face- not the circle kind he’s used to. These are a fashionable rectangular style- a healer burst through the door. He pauses when he sees Harry staring back at him before grinning.

“Mr. Potter! How wonderful to you” The healer greets, and Harry can make out the St. Mungo’s crest in the healer’s uniform now that he can see. “Your parents are here to sign you out.”

“My parents?” Harry breathes confused and shock to his core. He regrets it because this experiment is meant to be a secret to the people of this timeline. Dean didn’t want to risk his research falling into the hands of someone dangerous- say the Death Eaters- and they use that to either follow him back to his world or wreak havoc in others. 

Everything right now is in just testing zones. 

 He’s supposed to sink into the skin of another version of him and record what is different about this place. He’s not doing a good job of blending in if mentioning his parents makes Harry react like this, however, and he wonders if he can pull out the notebook and bail right now.

Thankfully the healer offers the perfect cover.  “Yes, your parents. Lily and James Potter. I know you’re still missing a lot of your memories but don’t worry, they understand that you need time to adjust. I’ll let them in now”

Watching him cast a spell, which shoots out the open door, Harry gives a weary smile unsure if he’s ready for this or not. He’s going to meet his parents. He’s breathing, living parents! “Thank you sir.”

“They brought your brother as well-”

“Brother?” Harry has siblings here? He was a big brother? His heart starts to beat faster in his chest, he’s not sure if he’s nervous or excited. 

“ Your twin, Harry Potter.” The healer fills him in not missing a beat, his words not fulling registering in the overwhelm young man. It takes a beat for him to process the words, but when they do he throws a wide eye look at the man.

Harry Potter, his twin? He’s not Harry here then? Oh, Dean will be ever upset he missed his mark.

Suddenly Harry can’t breathe because in that second a mop of dark uncontrolled hair pops into the doorway, and he’s staring at the face of his fourteen-year-old self. 

This could explain why his hand was so small. He was younger, also missing the year. Dean is going to be really upset.

Wait if he wasn’t in Harry Potter’s body, then who the hell was he?

“Basil!” Other-Harry shouts looking like’s about to burst into tears. The boy rushes in, bypassing the healer that tries to get his attention, while a dark-haired man and a red-haired woman follow.

Harry doesn’t get a good look at them because he is suddenly in a tight hug from Other-Harry, who wraps himself around him like a koala.  “Basil I’m so glad you’re coming home today. I missed you!”

Harry finds his arms automatically returning the hug and he wonders if it’s the muscle memory of this body or just the fact he always returns hugs to children. “Um?”

“Harry sweetie, we talked about this” Lily says moving forward with pain in her eyes.  “Basil doesn’t remember. Please let him go.”

“oh sorry!” Other-Harry says pulling back, much to Harry’s relief. He finds himself staring into familiar green eyes, ones he’s used to seeing in a mirror and it’s jarring. 

“Is my name Basil?” He asks because really? Basil? They named him after a herb? 

“Yes, son” James answers stepping forward with worry in his hazel eyes. “Basil Potter.”

“Oh well that’s just fucking fantastic isn’t it?” Honestly! Basil! His parents may as well have tattooed “Come bully me” onto his forehead when this body was born.

Harry is only aware the words had been said out loud by the way his new family gains wide eye looks. Other-Harry seems to have gotten hit by a truck.  “Did you just swear? Basil, you never swear.”

Shit. 

It seemed like Dean’s experiment may be inconclusive again.  

[dippedanddripped]

It’s rare that it reaches 100 degrees in the suburbs of Portland, Oregon.

Even rarer still is the presence of an all-gold Dodge Challenger, its reflection giving the appearance of a bejeweled shooting star pulling into the parking lot.

This one also has a vanity license plate – “Sammyy” – that enhances the car’s extraterrestrial appearance.

The Challenger’s occupant exits and joins me at a table. As she takes a seat across from me, a group of 20-somethings not too far away becomes intrigued.

More stares start to accrue from the outdoor mall goers. Next up is a young couple pushing a stroller, followed by the employees at the coffee shop I had just exited.

A minute ago, neither myself nor the table I was at seemed to warrant much, if any, attention.

You can get the sense that “somebody” just entered the premises, even if they’re not quite sure who that somebody is.

I can tell that the attention phases me more than my recently-arrived guest. Despite the now fishbowl-like dynamic between the two of us and the mall-goers, she seems to barely notice.

Then again, when you have more than 2.5 million followers on instagram and nearly half a million more on Tik Tok, being recognized by random passerby doesn’t come as a surprise like it would for most.

Rockstar? No, influencer

I distinctly remember the plethora of classmates I graduated high school with who promised to one day grow up and become “rockstars.”

Unsurprisingly, I haven’t heard from any of those classmates since. What is surprising is how anachronistic the notion of being a “rockstar” has become.

The reality is that “rockstar” should probably be replaced with a new term – ”influencer.” Sure, it’s not quite as catchy, but it’s far more accurate when describing the world’s latest (and perhaps most enviable) celebrity class.

These days, very real rock stars have nothing on the modern day Influencer.

Influencing by the numbers

What little data on the subject tells us is that, in 2016, social media influencing was just under a $2 billion industry ($1.7B, for those with a penchant for exactness).

This figure grew to $3B in 2017, and $4.6B in 2018.

In 2020, estimates tell us that the sector is likely to surpass the $10B mark.

While that may not seem like a lot of money, think of it this way – in a little under 4 years, the size of the influencing industry grew 500%.

Should the industry continue on its current growth trajectory, it will become a $50B industry by 2024.

To put this in perspective, Goldman Sachs estimates that the total value of all recorded music streaming will grow to about $30B by 2030. That means that it will take some years for music to reach just half of what influencing brings in annually.

By some metrics, influencers have become more relevant as celebrities than their musical counterparts. It’s happened quickly; adults who use social media religiously often can’t see it.

But real professional influencers are out there. As a crowd begins forming near our table, I begin to witness firsthand what these ridiculous financial statistics truly mean.

Who is Sammyy02k?

Since 2014, Samantha Krieger has gone by a number of different names. These days, she’s known as Sammyy02k.

Despite her reluctance to do in-person interviews, she’s agreed to be the subject of an Artvoice feature on the rise of social media influence.

And while Krieger can exercise her massive reach with just a few taps of a smartphone, a lot of misinformation about her continues to circulate.

As part of her agreement to the interview, I offer to help clarify the basics about just who exactly she is.

Samantha Krieger, AKA Sammyy02k

Samantha Krieger was born in Portland, Oregon. For some years, she was no different than you or me, working tedious retail jobs and driving a non-gold car.

At Lakeridge high school, she was dealt with taunts from wealthy classmates. It’s likely these experiences would activate whatever latent stardom was already within her.

After graduating from Portland State University in 2014, Krieger had a vision.

She suspected, correctly, that it doesn’t take much to at least get started as an influencer.

You need photos and/or video, sure… but given the prevalence of acceptable cameras on the backs of phones, finding a suitable recording setup was simple.

The second ingredient Krieger inferred was something less tangible – the courage required to be exceptional.

Despite her natural shyness, she had ambitions that extended beyond what she thought her bachelors degree would help achieve. Then, one day, it clicked.

“You could say I decided to become an ‘antisocial social media star.’”

“I did what I wanted to do, and I knew there was going to be a way to make it work for me.”

From 0 to 60 (thousand followers)

Like any new profile, at one point, @Sammyy02k had 0 followers.

Constant content and connection with followers helped drive things quickly, however.

A few hundred followers within a month turned into one thousand, and one thousand turned into tens of thousands in less than a year.

While impressive to most, Krieger knew there was more to be gained.

“Once I hit 50 or 60 thousand, things started to snowball. I hit the gas.”

@Sammyy02k posted more content, becoming more aware of her developing voice with every post.

At 500k followers, the contracts rolled in.

Brand building, Sammyy02k style

Krieger’s first contract of note was in Spring 2018, a lucrative deal with clothing brand Fashion Nova.

Now, instead of developing a brand on her own money and time, Krieger had companies competing against one another for the privilege of paying her to do what she loved.

The Fashion Nova contract was quickly followed by others, and within just a matter of months, Krieger’s lifestyle had changed dramatically.

She quit her last remaining part-time gig and moved into a luxury 2-bedroom apartment in Portland’s famed Pearl District.

With newfound status, however, came the need for significant soul searching.

Overcoming obstacles, digital and personal

Not too long after inking the Fashion Nova deal, Sammyy02k was offered to do a paid appearance at a party in downtown Portland. While there, she got a call from the police.

A gray Dodge Charger registered in her name had crashed into a median in China Town. The driver had fled, and the car was totaled.

Krieger immediately had a suspect in mind: a reckless boyfriend who had started taking advantage of her recently-acquired celebrity status.

Boyfriends weren’t the only concerns that Krieger had to deal with – even some of her own friends had started to become jealous, the relationships turning toxic.

To her friends, Krieger was still known as just “Sam”. People in her circle had difficulty comprehending the controlled entrepreneurism required to run @Sammyy02k.

They’d ask for shoutouts or suggest off-brand posts, not understanding that the Instagram profile required attention to detail and discipline.

Old friends becoming enemies seems like an overplayed Hollywood trope.

For a young adult who now could command thousands of dollars for just a few minutes of work, it was reality.

The type of loneliness that hides in shadows of success began to stretch further and further into Krieger’s personal life. The totalled car was the last straw.

While on the phone with the police at her first paid party appearance, Krieger took a deep breath and decided that staying on her desired path would require serious changes.

“I saw this as an opportunity where I could come back, and make a statement.”

It turned out that ditching the car (and the boyfriend) would be one of her best career decisions yet.

A car is born

A few weeks after the incident, Sammyy02k returned from a luxurious all-paid overseas trip to the Seychelles with a new travel sponsor. Krieger decided that she “needed a new whip.”

By now, Krieger had registered an LLC in her name. Business was coming fast and steady, and it wasn’t uncommon for her to be recognized on the street – not only in Portland, but in Los Angeles and even cities as far away as Kansas City.

Krieger elaborates:

“At this point, I was really stepping into my role as an influencer. This is when I really refined my style, my brand, and my image.”

For you and me, “refining your style” might mean picking up a few shirts from a department store.

To Krieger, it meant buying a brand new custom Dodge Challenger R/T wrapped in metallic gold with scissor-doors, the kind you’ll find on a Lamborghini.

According to Krieger, the car represents the essence of her brand, and the luxury of travel. It’s now one of the most recognized facets of her style.

Sammyy02k all over the world

Sammyy02k’s influence, today, is international.

With sponsorship deals taking her to the Seychelles, Dubai, Abu Dhabi, and beyond, she is now recognized in 4 continents.

She prides herself on showing her fans different places around the world. The path less traveled, the freedom to be everywhere, the luxury lifestyle that many in our always-connected society dream of.

“I feel connected to the road, and traveling to exotic locations”

The opportunities that sudden stardom has afforded her seem almost surreal, even to her. Normalcy is a mirage in the rear view mirror.

Responding to criticism

In mid-2019, Krieger was the main guest on a Portland Fashion Week panel. Already an influencer to influencers, she insisted that whatever secret ingredients success exist come naturally.

During a Q&A, she fielded numerous questions regarding her chosen career path. Not all of the questions were softballs.

Some questioned the materialism and sexuality often used by influencers.

The response was simple:

“Your opinions don’t pay my bills.”

Always on the go

With more followers pouring in every day, Sammyy02k stays busy. She recounts tales of distant travels, and the types of perks that I thought were originally reserved for a few select people who orbited high above in the LA movie industry.

Thirty minutes into the interview, I notice that a distant crowd has accumulated around our table like rings around Saturn.

Krieger barely seems to notice. A reminder goes off on her phone, a notification about another engagement she has back in the city.

After a polite exchange of thank yous and goodbyes, she heads back to her car.

I hear the exhaust note of the Challenger float away from the parking lot as I gather my notes and get up from the table.

As I glance up, the crowd has already dispersed. The only people left pay me no mind as they stare at their phones.

[elistariel]

I'm bored off my ass, so here's what going on in my life as of Sunday, September 27, 2020 at 11:44 pm.

- Still working from "home." (Grandparents' house, but close enough 🤷🏻‍♀️).

- work finally picked back up, I had been working one to two days (3-6 hours) a week due to cancellations and whatever else. I managed to get 20 hours this week.

- Herman, my cat has been less than helpful. Nothing like being tethered to your laptop by your headset and your cat decides to start clawing the furniture and you cannot reach him. I'm pretty sure they call monitors that still have to listen to us are getting a great kick of me yelling at my cat between phone calls. "Stop licking the floor you weirdo!" must be a favorite by now. I'm still waiting for him to loudly MEOW right into the microphone as I'm doing a survey.

- one of my great aunts (in her 90s) passed away. She had been declining for a while for a while. Not to be Debbie Downer, but her husband and one of her sisters don't seem far behind. (Maybe a few years at best 🤷🏻‍♀️). It's weird, in a a way, to see people you saw as the grown-ups, those who knew how to handle everything and knew what was what - get OLD. It puts a certain perspective on where you and those closest to you are in life. One day, everyone you looked up to, everyone you looked to for advice, will be gone. (Not literally, there will technically be experts the same age and younger, but hopefully you get my meaning there).

- We had been cleaning out my great grandma's house. (She's still around, just old, nearly blind, dementia and in facility.) Still have a metric fuckton to go through. So. Many. Photos and cards and clothes and pens and buttons and porn and scarves and coat hangers and obituaries and notes in phone books from 1997...

- No, you didn't need to do the double take on that list. I said porn. Nothing like finding your great grandpa's VHS porn stash. I loved how he had his porn in the living room TV cabinet, but had the box of home movies (birthdays, beach trips and Christmas under the bed.) My Pa was a WWII vet who died in 2005.

- Been trying to finally organize Christmas photos from at least 1995 on up into albums. I have earlier, but with the amount of photos I have and the types of photo albums I have the 1995 ones were just a good place to start.

- Wasn't exactly sure what year some of the Christmas photos were taken, so I figured out some tricks to use when trying to date photos. Just so we are clear, this is for actual paper photos. I mean I guess this could work for digital photos too, but with this I was working with the actual paper photos like from the 35mm film that we used to use way back in the day. Also I have a large extended family.

1.) Babies. My older cousins had their babies between 1996 and 2003. I was looking to see which of my younger cousins were in the photos. One baby? 1996 or 1997. Two babies? 1998, 1999 or 2000, etc. 2.) Outfits / Pick one person, and pull out all of the photos of that one person in that particular outfit. Then look at a photo where they are in a group and pick another person, repeat. Soon you'll have a stack from that particular day. 3.) Presents can help date a photo. You aren't going to get the 1999 Christmas Barbie in 1997.

- Been binge watching Haven on Tubi TV. I watched it on Syfy when it originally came on back in 2010, but I didn't really keep up with it back then and I wasn't sure what was going on with the show entirely and I'm pretty sure I never finished it. While I moved into the house I'm in now in 2008, 2010 feels so long ago that it feels like I should have watched the show when I was in my last place I lived in (2006-2008).

- that last bit where it feels like it should have been longer ago than it was, is probably due to some like inadvertent furniture arranging. I've gotten newer couches over the years and I've also kind of moved from my living room to my like office area over the years. Basically, I sort of inherited a large iMac desktop and the only place it would go is in my living room or my old TV was. Then I got rid of cable and just started using my Roku. Because I had the Roku I was using it in my office, as that's where my flat screen TV was now. In a way (slightly), it's almost like I "moved", so it just feels different now than back in 2010? Does that make a lick of sense, I know what I mean, but I'm not sure how to word it exactly. Lol

- I honestly, can barely remember what it was like having to choose what I watch based on what's currently on TV, at this very moment. Bless streaming TV.

- This is random, but I don't even remember what month I started binge watching Time Trax to keep me entertained during the pandemic, but it feels so, SO long ago.

- A cousin had her third son this past Thursday. Had no clue she was expecting. Neither did anyone else at my great aunt's funeral. FYI she and baby did not come. We found out from her aunt. Many, many people did not come, which of course is understandable.

- Shit. I still need to write someone a thank you card for the birthday gift they actually took time to make me. My birthday was in August. 🤦🏻‍♀️

- Been cutting up really old gel pens and using them to make inkblot art. When I say old, I mean like from 2001 to 2003ish. Using a embroidery? needle to get the ink out and smear on the paper. if you're wondering why I've kept gel pens, from nearly 20 years that don't work ... Because hoarder. Actually I've just had them so long and that I've just gotten used to them being around and normally don't even think about them.

- Can masks still be a thing after the pandemic? I don't mean a required thing, but like we should be able to wear masks in public if we have the flu, just don't feel like doing makeup or whatever. I want to be able to voluntarily wear a mask and not get flack for it. Make it like a fashion accessory. Just so we're clear, this is coming from a person who wears glasses and can't see shit with her mask on.

-claimed (won for 75¢) a couch slipcover on Geek. I have absolutely no idea how to properly put it on the couch and my grandparents house, but my cat has claimed The wanted fabric as a bed. So, I'm calling it a win. I also claimed a pet bed through the limited quantity deal, I didn't think my cat would pay any attention to it, but he actually loves it. Epic win. Oh, and I b also claimed a cat tree. I did have to leave the little cat house off of the top of it as it was WAAAAAY too small for my cat.

[lemonietrinket]

What were you thinking? ||| Jongho x Reader

Summary: Maybe leaving you in charge of the most important part of a plan wasn’t the wisest decision. Then again, how were your friends supposed to know that you wouldn’t react well to accidentally kidnapping an idol?

Genre: Comedy, Action? A lil bit of fluff bc Christmas be comin’

Warning(s): Borderline criminal activity? PLEASE do not do what Y/N does in the story, just, there are better ways of surprising people dear lord--I repeat we DO NOT ENDORSE SASAENG BEHAVIOUR otherwise enjoy the fic

Word Count: 3451 Theme Song: Emergency - Day6 

AN: Based off this prompt. This is not going to be the only time I use this song I know it. Stan Day6 my dudes, Entropy is just bop after jam after bop after jam. Please, do yourself a favour and give it a listen

~~~

It was meant to be a prank.

And an easy one at that.

You could hear the steps in your head as you drove, eyes flicking back to the monitor then back to the road. 

Step One: Find your best friend. He’ll have been out at a business meeting, and will be waiting for a night bus on Fehler Street. An empty street, with an empty bus, that always ran late. No one would be there to see and demand an explanation and thus ruin the surprise. This was, by far, the easiest part.

Step Two: Slip on the blindfold and quickly yeet him in your car (gently, no matter what the others said you should do, you were not going to throw him.)

Step Three: Bring him back to your house, put him in your room until the downstairs is surely decorated and then finally... 

Step Four: Surprise him with his early Christmas present by removing his blindfold to reveal his family, flown over after two years of living on the other side of the planet.

Simple really.

You spotted the road sign demanding 30 along the street and you cursed, applying the brakes a little bit too hard. A small grunt pricked your ears and you shot back an apology, before being forced to bring the car to a stop at a red light.

Your friends had encouraged you to be the one who did it. After all, he knew you best and wouldn’t freak him out as much if you were the one to apply the blindfold.

You’d had it all clear in your head. You'd calmed your nerves, but there wasn’t even many of them to begin with. What could have possibly gone wrong? You were clever and he was a calm guy, he’d see the funny side and then probably burst into tears as he saw his mother’s loving smile, after all that time of only seeing it digitally.

Heart-warming.

Easy.

God, how could you have been stupid enough to screw up on Step One?

The red haze continued to drift across the streams lacing the edges of the road, dashed methodically by the diligent attempts of windscreen wipers to chase away spatters of rain from the glass.

But the rain kept pouring. You figured it’d flood the streets at this rate. Perhaps a bonus, a mark in your favour. 

Truth be told, it had been excessively dark when you’d gotten into your car to make the drive and enact the plan in the first place. Blame the winter weather, it had banished the sun for weeks.

It was pitch black when you’d reached Fehler Street, the rain lulled into a silent drizzle, speckling the windshield like glitter. The bus stop was illuminated by a dull lamppost, its bulb clearly overdue for a change by months. You’d pulled up against the pavement where the bonnet just brushed the light, keeping a close eye on the lone figure, hunched to stare at his hand.

His back had been facing you, he was the same height and wore a long, fashionable trench coat, much like your best friend always did. You questioned the beret that became apparent the closer you drew, but he always kept with times, a close eye on the fashion trends and threading his own twists in them. Perhaps berets had finally become ironic. 

The issue here was, you hadn’t thought much of it, even if the signs were there. He seemed a little shorter than usual, wearing a pair of boots that seemed a lot heavier than he ever would have normally considered wearing. A broader shoulder too. And that beret.

Scarlet morphed into amber, setting you free. You accelerated round to the left, tipping your head to avoid the spotlights of an oncoming van.

Where you could you go?

Could you logistically catch a train?

A plane?

What were you thinking?

What were you even doing?

The blindfold had caught his nose slightly, and you hadn’t been able to halt an apology before it left your lips.

Luckily he didn’t fight back. You hadn’t worried about fighting then, your friend had the biceps of cooked tomatoes and a will as weak as them too.

But even as your hand enclosed around his arm and led him away and into the darkness, urging him into the backseat like a cat into a carrier, not a single thought of how your fingers no longer reached halfway round his arm crossed your mind.  Of course they did now, but what use was it now? You’d been too preoccupied with the frozen figure on the opposite side of the road, trying to calculate if they were looking at you or the other way.

It was too late.

“Where are we going now?”

You swerved, a yelp stuck in the back of your throat as you straightened your lines. He hadn’t said a word since your brief exit from your car, where the porch lights had made reality seem too cutting.

“D-Do you mind?” you clamoured, making the mistake of glancing into the rear-view mirror.

Your eyes met ink, a pair of black stars, catching the passing white of the headlights that briefly unveiled their true deep brown from the shadows.

You immediately shot your eyes back onto the road. You imagined he smirked a little. Not that you really knew. 

On the drive back to the house your roommate’s boyfriend offered freely as HQ, you’d said very little, and he had said nothing at all. It was a short journey, and your excitement had kept you preoccupied, away from glancing back at the man you’d ‘kidnapped’. 

It wasn’t really fair to even include apostrophes. You had kidnapped someone. 

Abducted. Snatched. Captured.

Mistakenly.

As you’d pulled up, you clambered excitedly out of the car and didn’t grace his face with a single glimpse, not even as you brought him up to the back door, outdoor lamp startlingly piercing, and knocked.

You didn’t look up even as you had a realisation while waiting for the door to be unlocked, “Ok, you don’t have to worry- wait, did I tell you that it’s me, Y/N?” 

You only raised your head when the voice you heard was not one you recognised, as the man replied, “No, you didn’t, and I wished that made all of this make more sense.”

It couldn’t really be described as a head-raise, really. More of a snap.

The face you saw bore no resemblance to your best friend.

His nose was pointed, jawline too broad and sharp to match his proportions, cheeks shallow and lips beautifully curved but thin.

This man, that you’d seized from the streets, with no knowledge of who you were, was the complete opposite of him. His nose was much rounder, his cheeks soft, lips full, and his whole stature in possession of a much more mature aura. Lord his skin tone was several shades darker than your best friend too.

He was also much higher on the social ladder.  Hell, he was actually on it.

You’d always admired that trait in your friend, actively going against the grain and commenting on the order that everyone merely followed without a second thought.  It rarely made him popular however, and he was not a celebrity by all means, even if he stood out in the crowd.

This man though, was. And wouldn’t stand out in a crowd, because the crowds were too big to let him be seen at all. 

Instead of your friend, you’d blindfolded and taken Jongho instead.  The main vocalist of Ateez, who could sing an entire stage away. A K-pop idol, who didn’t know you, and never should have.

.

.

He gazed somewhat absently at the back of your head, your hair obscuring much of your face from his angle in his seat.

He allowed his lips to spread into a tiny smile.

God, was this hilarious. It took an immense amount of strength to not burst into utter laughter. But he knew you wouldn’t appreciate it, so kept it under wraps.

You weren’t a sasaeng. It was obvious. They all possessed a strange glint in their eyes, the kind of gleam that he imagined the Victorian archaeologists had when they were presented with a new sarcophagus.  Deranged people going out of their way to steal treasure they were never destined to find.

But you, when you pulled down his blindfold and he found himself standing in front of the backdoor of a small but quaint house, and then peered down and looked you square in the eye.

It was clear there had been a mistake. 

Now, why you had planned to blindfold someone in the middle of a winter’s evening and take them to that house he had no idea, but you hadn’t been rough, nor did you seem unkind, and so he’d waited. 

After seeing an excitement quickly drain away from your features to be replaced with sheer terror, and after watching you interrogate yourself under your breath,  leading him back to your car, urgently clambering back inside and immediately driving the two of you away... 

He felt a kind of pity.

It was also evident you didn’t know where you were going, or what you were doing. You were too jumpy for that.

He lowered his voice, trying to avoid startling you again - lest it sent you off the road this time. 

“Look, Y/N? It’s ok, just drive me back to the bus stop, I doubt the bus will even be there yet.”

He didn’t receive a response. All he heard was the squeak of your hands as you tightened them around the wheel.

He tried again, a laugh lilted into his voice. “Hey, I won’t even say a word about what just happened, ok? We’ll go our separate ways. Sound good?”

You considered his offer, and dearly wanted to say something, only to find your voice stuck in your throat.  You resulted to a nod, though a part of you hoped he would ask something again, as if he took that as an answer, it meant he was looking at you.

“Good,” he responded, jolting your heart into an even faster beat.

As your head swam in a sea of churning thoughts, your subconscious took charge and managed to get your hands to take you back to the bus shelter. 

Taking the corner, you just about managed to steady your breathing.

Until your vision was slapped with coursing red and blue.

You slammed the brakes, body lurching until your ribs dug into the wheel. 

It was a single car, with two officers, one on the pavement talking to a woman, the other in the road, standing where you had previously parked.

Their heads flicked towards the origin of the screeches of tires, the woman’s hand flying up in an affirmative point. 

"Ah.” Jongho muttered. “I’m sure we can-”

He never got to finish, as you kicked the reverse pedal and spun the wheel, sending the car back up the road in a frenzy. He gripped onto the shotgun seat desperately, feeling his body being shoved into the footwell by momentum. 

The rear-view mirror depicted an officer running towards the vehicle, an open hand raised urgently, lips parted wide in a shout. 

You didn’t stop.

Another mistake.

.

.

Tearing out of the junction, blessed with clear roads, you sped away from the city, away from the house, the plans, the friends you had. 

Once he retrieved himself from the floor, eyes as wide as dinner plates, he exclaimed, “What the hell are you doing?”

“I don’t know!” you yelled back. “What am I doing?”

“Driving away from the police?! Making them think you’ve done something wrong!”

“But I did do something wrong!”

“Wasn’t this an accident?!”

“Yes but-”

“Well then you didn’t-”

“I abducted a K-pop idol!” you insisted. “Whether it was by accident or not, I don’t think the law cares!”

He sunk back into his seat. How did he even get into this situation.

“Why did you blindfold me and drive me to that house?” he asked as gently as he could muster.

You swallowed thickly. “I... I was supposed to bring my best friend to my roommate’s boyfriend’s house for his surprise Christmas present.”

“The boyfriend’s surprise present?”

“No! No my best friend’s present.”

“A Christmas present on the 1st of December-?”

“An early Christmas present,” you added indignantly, lips pursed and eyes narrowed into a scowl, almost boring a into the glass.

 “I...?” It was his turn to run out of words.

.

.

As you drove into the night, the number of other cars thinning one by one, you began to grow antsier by the second.

Jongho decided to break the silence. 

“Does this mean that we’re fugitives now?”

After a few seconds of silence, as you pondered his statement, you replied gruffly, “No, only I’m a fugitive.”

You glanced into the rear view mirror, not meeting his gaze, to you fortune, but rather watching his expression fill with... disappointment?

“What am I then in this scenario?”

His eyes flicked up. You pushed yours to look away.

“Uh, I don’t know,” you paused, “hostage?”

You cautiously peered into the glass, hoping not to run into his stare there.  You didn’t, instead finding him nodding, opting to look out of the window.

You managed to work up the courage to state, “You seem, really too calm about all of this.”

He didn’t look away from the window. 

“Do I?”

You hummed in affirmation.

“Oh, well,” he shrugged, “I guess it’ll just look funny on my KProfile page.”

You scoffed in horror.

“And Twitter is going be quite amusing when I get back.”

There was so much wrong with what he just said. Your thoughts were entrained on just one objection to it.

“Jongho! I could go to jail!”

You heard a chuckle, and you opened your mouth to call him out, when he leant forward, leaning against the back of the other chair. He was far enough forward that you could just about see the edges of his face in the corner of your eyes.

“Relax Y/N, I wouldn’t let you go to jail. Victims get a say in the punishment for criminals here. And you’re not even a criminal. You don’t deserve a prison sentence. You didn’t do anything wrong, just messed up.”

“A lot,” you interjected.

“Well, yeah, a lot, but it was a good intention.”

“You really believe my mess of a story?” you cried. You regretted your words immediately, it made you sound like it had all been a lie. 

“Should I not?” he asked lowly, almost reassuringly.

You shut your mouth, turning your head away so you didn’t have to catch a glimpse of his handsome face.

He smiled tiredly. He wasn’t sleepy, only that the adrenaline had worn off and left him a little low. Still, he wasn’t going to waste a minute. This was almost as exciting as his concerts. 

“Can we have some music on?” he enquired.

“Sure.” You pressed the stereo on without thinking. 

The playlist was the one you always used. It wasn’t all Ateez.

But of course the song you’d left it to start on was automatically an Ateez song.

As soon as the rousing horn of Pirate King played you wanted a sinkhole to swallow you whole. 

“Oh, you’re an Atiny?” 

The lilt of surprise shocked you to say the least.

He continued. “Sorry, you just don’t seem like the type.”

“I just,” you searched frantically for words, “listen to the songs sometimes.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. I-I think this playlist is the one with the most Ateez on it, though. The others don’t... they don’t have any where near as many on them. Uh, sorry.”

“So no bias then?”

You almost choked on your own saliva. “Nope. No bias at all. I actually only know you, and... what’s the other one? Min- Mongo?”

Jongho let a rise of laughter bubble from his lips. “Mongo? Yeah there’s Mongo too, I love Mongo. My favourite hyung, Mongo.” 

His laughter was slightly contagious, if you were honest. However it didn’t subside the horror that twisted your heart and gripped your vocal chords.

Truth be told, you’d been a fan of Ateez since the first unveils. Jongho had always stood out to you, with his soaring vocals and softer personality. He wasn’t the one everyone else went for, but they were always the more interesting people. 

You felt awful lying to him, but you weren’t sure you wanted him to know the truth either.

You heard him mumble, “I’m telling Mingi that that’s his name now. Mongo. Knowing him he’ll like it. Mongo-hyung. You know what, it’s got a little bit of a ring to it.”

You interrupted, knowing you would relive the moment before your eyes for as long as the song played, and asked, “Hey, do you mind if I skip? Not really... feeling the vibes right now.”

“Be my guest,” he answered, voice still tinged with amusement. 

You felt traitorous pressing skip. Never had you skipped Pirate King before, when it came on the stereo. The only thing you pressed when it came on would be the dial to turn the volume up.

Luckily, shuffle granted you a song by Day6, which was much more harmless. Though the lyrics were apt to say the least.

“Hey, I know this one,” Jongho mentioned, “what’s it called again?”

“Emergency.”

“That’s the one.” 

There was a brief silence. You knew what was coming.

“Hey that fits the situation quite-”

“Yeah I know.” You rolled your eyes. 

You tried to pay closer attention to the song rather than the feeling of Jongho’s presence. You relished in the familiarity Young K’s vocals, and the satisfying harmonies of Wonpil’s voice. Hearing the siren in the distant background of the song set you on edge a little bit, but listening to Dowoon’s part forced you to crack a smile. 

Until the sirens didn’t stop. 

You snapped your head up, eyes reaching the wing mirror instinctively.  Just as you did so, there was a flash of blue as headlights blinked aggressively, with two other cars careening round the corner you’d just passed.

“Oh sh-!”

Jongho, who quickly caught on, sat bolt upright in his seat. 

“What do I-?!”

“Well you can do two things,” he asserted, “you can either pull over and that’ll be that,” he hesitated dramatically, “or you could drive like a maniac and see if you could escape, drop me off and then burn the car.”

“I- what?!”

“I’m kidding, just pull over,” Jongho sighed. “It was nice meeting you though, Y/N. Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem,” you replied out of reflex, very much confused, stress evident in your voice, as you manoeuvred your hands to steer the vehicle into a stop by the side of the road.

As the engine puttered into a stop, you felt your breath get stuck in your throat, fear trembling through your veins.

.

.

You weren’t expecting what happened after to say the least.

The officers had questioned you, but Jongho did as he promised.

You weren’t even going to go to court. 

You’d never felt more relieved in your life after you heard the laughs from their mouths, as Jongho seemed to tell a tall tale of sorts, twisted to feature some of the events that had transpired.

You’d been completely zoned out, however, your thoughts whirling as your face showed nothing, reliving the conversation you and your bias had had.

It was short, and fleeting, as all these things were, but that meant it was all the harder to forget.

“Can we do this again sometime?”

“What?” you’d cried incredulously. 

“Though, with less blindfolds and more talking next time?” he continued, as if you’d understood his words fully.

What he’d said was barely tangible to you, but you nodded all the same.

Before he’d gotten out of the car, you’d met eyes again.  This time, you forced yourself to stare back, let yourself melt into that watchful, yet patient and welcoming gaze.

And then he was gone. Well, he was right outside your car, with the door left open so it let all the cold of the night in, but you barely noticed it swarming at your legs. 

Instead, you just stared at the torn piece of paper, twitching in the cool breeze upon the seat empty beside you. The scribbled number etched across its surface seemed to drift across the lines, and blurred in your eyes as you focused too intently on it. 

You’d gotten Jongho’s number? By accidentally abducting him? Why had he trusted you with it?

What was he thinking?

~~~

AN: This turned out to be way longer than expected. Who saw that coming, am I right

Masterlist

[dolphin-bouillabaisse]

GO-ctober Prompt, 18

Inktober except without the ink, and with drabbles instead.

Prompt #18 - Misfit

(previous | next | beginning)

(find it all on Ao3)

(Warning: this one deals with homophobia. It’s not that hurtful and overall the story is very positive, but please consider this a trigger-warning if you have trouble with that sort of thing.)

“We don't want that kind of stuff advertised here. Sorry.” The server behind the till did not look sorry in the least. The young girl in front, letting the stack of flyers sink down in her hands, whispering a quiet 'sorry' herself, seemed far more apologetic.

Aziraphale, two people down the line to order, was not one to eavesdrop or cause a scene at a coffee shop (or anywhere in particular). Especially not with a demon in tow who was known for causing quite some scenes if he wanted to.

But seeing the polite young girl turn away with such a defeated look in her face, feeling the pain and hurt and fear of her washing over his senses almost made his blood boil. He was sure Crowley'd felt it too, at least judging by the slight squeeze his hand gave, almost involuntarily. Demons were meant to enjoy such feelings from humans, but demons were meant to do a lot of things Crowley didn't.

“Whatcha got there?” He stopped the girl in her tracks, and Aziraphale silently thanked him for it.

“Maybe I can take some of your flyers for my shop.” He held out a friendly hand towards them, but the girl recoiled. His hand sank.

“No, uhm, it's fine, I wouldn't want to cause-” she stammered, looking the angel up and down, and for once he almost cursed his rather old-fashioned dress. Her flyers, covered in all kinds of colourful flags and symbols, had told him enough – her wary look towards what she probably considered a very conservative older gentleman only made it clearer.

“Don't worry, dear. I've got a lot of local pamphlets and flyers lying around, I'm sure there's space for some of yours.” He gave her what he hoped was a re-assuring smile while lifting a hand for the flyers again, but she barely saw it. Her eyes wandered down to his other hand instead, tightly locked with Crowley's.

Some of the tension in her shoulders disappeared.

“Oh, ok.” She took a stack of the flyers and pushed them into the angel's hand. A quick smile flashed across her face. “Thanks. Can I- may I ask which shop you own?”

“The antique bookshop on the corner.”

“Oh!” Her eyes lit up. “You're Mr. Fell!”

-*-

“I'm sorry, sir.” A quiet voice interrupted his reading, more fitting for a library than a bookshop, but then again, was his bookshop not more of a library anyway? “Do you have a bathroom I could use?”

Aziraphale's eyes barely lifted off of the book, staring at the person in front of him over the rim of his glasses. “Not one for customers, I'm afraid. I believe the cafe at the end of the street has facilities.”

“Oh. Sure.” The young man played with his shirtsleeve, long eyelashes batting down in a shy look. “I just don't think they'll want me to-”

“Second door behind the Ancient History bookshelf.”

A quick 'Thank you' before he darted down the pointed direction, and Aziraphale caught Crowley with one of his rare soft smiles across the front room.

“I thought you didn't like customers rifling around unobserved.”

“He's not a customer.” Aziraphale closed the book after marking his place, picking up some of the flyers from the till to place them next to the entrance. Maybe he'd see them while leaving. “He's just a kid who needs support.”

“And a non-judgemental toilet, I guess.”

Aziraphale stared out the door's window, down the street. “That cafe is troubling, though.”

“Nothing you can do, angel.” Crowley swept his legs over the chair's armrest. “Plenty I could do, though. Want me to get health inspectors in there? Still got some rat friends that owe me a favour.”

“No, no.” Aziraphale tutted as he heard the bathroom door that hadn't existed ten minutes prior open and close. “We'll simply have to be better.”

The boy awkwardly shuffled past the lounging demon, throwing a small smile towards the angel. “Thank you, Mr. Fell.”

“No trouble at all, my dear boy.” He watched his face light up at the words.

“Tell your friends.” Crowley said and almost managed not to sound nice. “Take a flyer.”

-*-

“You can ask him. Don't worry.”

“I can't!”

Aziraphale pretended not to hear the whispers. The two kids had come in almost an hour before, and were hiding one bookshelf over. And again, he wasn't one to eavesdrop.

“Do you want me to ask?”

A quiet pause. A tense feeling giving way to some relief.

“Please.”

“Mr. Fell?” The young girl he recognised from the cafe several weeks before, who'd come to visit once or twice, rounded past the bookshelves towards him. “Do you have any books about research into different sexualities? Just to read, sir. We'll be careful.” She'd spent several hours deep into a book about queer symbolism in poetry the last time she'd come by, and Aziraphale had noticed with quite some joy that she had indeed been very careful with the book and had shown no intention to buy it, either.

The other girl was hiding a few feet away, and he pretended not to see her shaking as he smiled.

“I certainly do! They're a bit hidden, I'm afraid, the sorting system is difficult to manoeuvre. Let me show you.”

He went down several rows, the two girls in tow, pulling out a few worn and faded hardcovers.

“These, and if you're interested, I have some more recent paperbacks I can get for you.”

“I thought you only had antiques.” The asking girl kept asking, as her shy companion took the books Aziraphale had offered her.

“My husband suggested I expand a little bit, and I have to agree with him. There've been some very interesting things coming out the past few years.”

He was met with a beaming smile.

-*-

“Help me with the flag, please, dearest.” Aziraphale balanced with one foot on the stepstool, holding on to the window's frame. Crowley took one step up on the windowsill, pulled the rainbow flag from his hands and hung it across the curtain rod without so much as needing to stretch.

“You've really gotten into this, haven't you?” He grinned as he patted the side of the new, old bookshelf that had wedged itself into the front room, filled with literature and research and informational booklets. The windowsill beside the entrance was overflowing with flyers, pamphlets, and more booklets. A poster from the local youth club was obscuring the window facing down the road, towards the cafe.

“I like to help out. They have so many questions I feel incapable of answering properly. No one should be afraid to ask questions.” Aziraphale pulled on the flag's edges, making sure it hung properly. “By the way, could you set up one of those wifi-things for me? With a password, maybe? Marsha said there was a lot of resources online.”

“You can just look it up on your computer, angel, it's been working without wifi for years.”

“Yes, but...” He fiddled with the edges of the flag some more, almost pulling it down again. “I was thinking of setting up some tables, you know, Marsha brought her portable computer last time, and I imagine some of the other kids might want to do some research, and it's difficult at home sometimes-”

“Sure.” Crowley gave him another one of those soft smiles, the ones he cherished the most. “But you know it's gonna cause more and more customers coming in here, right?”

“They're not customers.” Aziraphale protested yet again, and he was right. Marsha (the girl from the cafe had introduced herself two weeks ago, after several days spent reading pretty much everything the shop had to offer with even the slightest hint of LGBT+ in it), and her friends, and all the other young people they'd told about the safe haven that A.Z. Fell's Books had become, had never tried to buy even one of his beloved books. “They're just young people who need information. And they're all very polite.”

“What if you get some in that aren't polite? What if they're a bit angry?”

“Well, I figured I'd hand them over to you.” A small grin, a tiny bit of bastard showing through. “I think you could teach them a thing or two about proper protesting and rebelling.”

“What if you get people in who aren't happy about what you're doing?”

“Well.” Aziraphale patted his cheek with a smile. “I figured I'd still hand them over to you.”

-*-

“Do you think what you're doing here is proper?”

Crowley had tried to figure out where he recognised the lady that had come in minutes ago. As she stood beside the till now, a scowl on her face as she threw the question into Aziraphale's, he remembered with fiery hatred. He'd almost forgotten her face, considering they hadn't been back to the cafe ever since that day with Marsha and her flyers.

“I assure you my business is all set up and properly done, miss. Taxes and all.” Aziraphale smiled, but Crowley could tell it was fake, how it never entered his eyes. He was gearing up to interrupt, but the lady was faster.

“Not that.” She scoffed. “That.” Her hand pointed accusingly at the flag in the window, the bookshelf beside it, the layer of flyers. “You think it's proper to harbour these kind of ideas? To spread it to misinformed young people?”

“They're not misinformed. They're excellent at research.”

“You're leading them down a path of debauchery and self-destruction!”

Crowley's hand on her shoulder was ice-cold, and his glare even from behind sunglasses was not much better.

“You're getting it all wrong. Debauchery is my job, and I've been retired for a while now.” He smiled at her, teeth bared in the way a cat would smile at its prey before killing it. “And if I catch you yelling at my husband again, I will show you a thing or two about destruction.”

She stuttered and stammered, almost looking as if she was going to start a fight, before shoving his hand off her shoulder and practically running out of the shop. Crowley's stare followed her.

“I'm calling in the rats.”

Aziraphale sighed and nodded. “Please do.”

Aziraphale hadn't said a word all afternoon. He'd pretended to be engrossed by some book, hiding in the backroom after closing shop early (the doorbell was still on, however, hidden behind a rainbow sticker outside, installed just weeks before and quietly whispered about amongst the groups seeking refuge in the shops even when the door was locked. Mr. Fell never turned away anyone who rang the bell). Crowley could tell he was not reading. He'd barely turned twenty pages in the past two hours.

“It's still bothering you. I warned you.”

“I just don't understand.” He mumbled as Crowley handed him a cup of hot chocolate. “Why people have to be so judgemental and hateful.”

“Hate to say it, but the churches your lot started haven't really helped that particular topic.”

“They're supposed to be loving. Welcoming.” Aziraphale took a sip, and Crowley leaned against the desk next to him.

“When's the last time you saw someone connected to Upstairs in any way do the thing they're supposed to be doing? Including Upstairs themselves.”

Aziraphale sighed again, staring at the cup in his hands. Crowley waited beside him, patiently. The angel was not done, but he'd give him all the time in the world to formulate what he wanted to say.

“They just want to be. And find a place where they fit in.”

This wasn't just about the kids going in and out of the shop anymore, and they both knew it. Deep down, Aziraphale had always known, and was glad Crowley hadn't pointed out the obvious yet, even if he had probably realised long before him.

They'd never fit in anywhere. They'd had to fight tooth and nail for themselves to just be. For their own side.

“You've done a great job giving them that place, angel.” Crowley's voice, soft and quiet and full of love, finally broke the silence. His hand rested on Aziraphale's shoulder, far kinder than it had been hours ago on the cafe-owners. “Don't let one stuck-up, hateful bitch get you down and ruin it.”

“Oh, I won't.” Aziraphale sat up with a determined, small smile. “It's not the first time I've had to deal with people unhappy with what I do, and with whom I consort.”

Crowley grinned before Aziraphale took his hand and carefully kissed it.

“And if all else fails, I can always hand them off to you, with your debauchery and destruction.”

“Proud to help.”

“Proud to have you.”

[beyond-the-mirror]

Nocturnal Encounters - An Incubus! V x Reader story

Finally after a ver busy week, here’s the first chapter of Nocturnal Encounters. V finally makes his appearance! This chapter is mainly centered around his point of view. Also I think I made it a bit too long, hope it’s not a problem.

Not sure if I should put a warning though. Nothing explicit really happens, just V being a creep and watching reader sleep (he’s an incubus so it’s not surprising at all I guess).

Without any further ado, here it is:

First Night: Perfume

The chilly wind of the night flowed through the jet-black plumage of his wings, green eyes scanning the streets bellow thoroughly.

It had been a long time since he had been in Red Grave. Though he still recognized some of the buildings, the city had definitely changed a lot since his last visit. Hopefully the cozy coffee shop he frequented was still open, he wouldn’t mind a warm coffee and some pastries while reading a good novel. However that would come later, tonight he had a rather special hunger waiting to be sated.

He kept flying silently above the buildings, hoping to find an ideal meal. It wasn’t a particularly urgent issue, he was not starving per se. This would be more like a little snack, a self-indulgent treat for the night being.

Suddenly a soft breeze blowed gently, caressing his soft hair and face. His eyes widened in surprise, the wind was laced with a very subtle but enticing scent. The demon stopped in the middle of his flight.

“What is this? Hmm… ” he asked to no one in particular, intrigue audible in his voice.

Closing his eyes, he focused on the scent trying to identify it better. It smelled of delicate lavenders and roses, and a slight tint of chocolate and berries. A very pleasant aroma definitely, one that made him roll his head backwards and a mischievous smirk appear on the demon’s lips. He had found what he was looking for.

“Love seeketh only self to please, to bind another to its delight.” With a powerful movement of his wings, he followed his new lead.

The more he advanced, the stronger and more seductive the scent would become. Curiosity sparkled in his eyes, he pondered on who could be the bearer of such delicious aroma that strongly captivated his senses. The demon followed the trail to a small building, the delicious perfume coming from a balcony on the second floor. Summoning his cane, he landed onto the reduced space, careful not to step on any of the potted plants that decorated it. Now only a glass door and a curtain stood between him and his prey, and with a swift snap of his fingers, he dissolved into black wisps of smoke.

The creature found himself in a bedroom with pale light blue walls, cream-colored furniture decorated it in a minimalist fashion. He also noticed a short bookcase with stuffed toys placed on the top along with a bouquet of faux forget-me-nots inside a teapot shaped vase. Quite adorable and endearing.

His attention however, was focused on the woman sleeping peacefully in the bed before him. The covers had fallen to her waist, revealing her long-sleeved button-up pajamas, her soft hair was sprawled on the pillow forming a halo above her head, her plump lips were slightly parted in a ‘o’ shape that made her features look even softer than they already were. From where he was standing, he was able to see the gentle glow at the center of her chest that was her soul. He ran his long tongue over his lips, no wonder the aroma was so alluring to the point that it was making him delirious. For demons like him, there was nothing more tempting and seductive than an untouched woman.

The demon stepped closer silently as to not disturb the angel’s peaceful slumber, not even the tap of his cane or his sharp talons against the wooden floor could be heard. He took a seat on the bed at the girl’s side, admiring her sleeping form. He ever so gently ran his knuckles over the girl’s cheek after tucking a few hair strands behind her ear.

“Such a bright soul before me, full of beauty and innocence” he whispered in a deep voice that felt like the smoothest silk the world could offer. “A precious and rare jewel indeed, and to believe that such flower has remained completely untouched by another…” His green eyes were centered on her face and eventually he diverted them to her soul, its glow warm and rich in color.

“Now, shall we take a peek?” The creature raised a clawed finger towards her chest, tapping into her soul and exposing her true self. He often did this to the humans he found interesting, whether it was for obtaining critical information he needed or simply out of curiosity, this case being for the latter reasons. He could see some of her fondest memories, the times she spent with her best friend, her love for all animals and the great kindness she would give to others; he could see passion, perseverance, curiosity, wisdom, wonder… a whole spectrum of colors and hues that painted her bright spirit.

He kept watching with attention, until the sadness that lied in her heart started to come out. Insecurities, doubt, self-consciousness… all in the form of negative comments she had received from strangers, acquaintances and even close family members.

“Why do you keep wasting time on those books of yours?” “You want to study Literature? Arts? That’s ridiculous! You should take a more useful career” “With that uninteresting personality of yours, it’s no wonder you’ve never had a boyfriend” “You’re pretty and all, but… you’re just so boring and dull”

As the painful words poured out, a single tear ran down her cheek. The sight made his blackened heart ache, how could anyone dare to show cruelty towards a bright light? Humans were indeed foolish.

“What is this? Tears? Tsk tsk. Well we can’t have that now, can we?” Wiping her tears away, he shifted to lay down on his side next to her.

“Don’t cry my little one, for as long as I’m here, no more tears of sadness shall fall from your eyes. Allow me to take away all of your pain… and leave nothing but bliss and pleasure.”

And with those words, he placed a kiss on the girl’s forehead. Now that the dream had been planted, it was time to wait.

Opening your eyes, you expected to find your own bedroom, instead you were surprised to find yourself laying down in the middle of what appeared to be a gazebo, flowers of different shapes and colors surrounding it as well as a small pond next to it. You sit up trying to figure out how you got there, your pajamas replaced by a white silk dress. Maybe a dream? But then why did everything seem and felt so incredibly real?

Something fluffy grazed your hand, turning to look what it was, you find a small white rabbit suckling at your fingers. Smiling softly, you pet the little critter with your other hand, the rabbit leaning and nuzzling against your warmth. Suddenly the small rabbit raised its long ears, eyes widening and focusing on something behind you. You furrowed your brow in confusion, and just like that the rabbit sprinted away in fear.

Suddenly a pair of thin arms surrounded your form, making you jump and release a gasp os surprised. You noticed how the arms were completely covered in rivers of black ink that almost seemed to be alive, moving and flowing smoothly across pale skin.

“Sweet babe in thy face, soft desires I can trace”. A deep velvety male voice spoke into your ear in a murmur. Turning around, you lock eyes with the man who held you in his arms, he had chiseled features, his milky skin contrasting against soft jet black locks of hair, his enticing emerald eyes keeping you from looking away.

“Secret joys and secret smiles, little pretty infant wiles” The man kept whispering to you, his voice capturing and hypnotizing you. Not only he possessed an ethereal, almost supernatural beauty, but his smooth voice basically melted you, making you fall into a deep trance, leaving you completely at his mercy.

“As thy softest limbs I feel, smiles as of the morning steal, o'er thy cheek and o'er thy breast, where thy little heart doth rest.” Soft hands caressed your shoulders, and arms as he continued whispering sweet poetry. You could feel his full lips moving against your ear, eventually nipping at it, drawing a long moan from you.

A warm, fluttering feeling made its presence known inside you belly, growing and growing as the mysterious man kept going with his ministrations. Warmth coursed through your whole body, concentrating on your core. The man’s actions, the wind that flowed through the landscape, the fragrance of the flowers around you, the soft chirping of birds in the distance… everything summed up made you feel overwhelmed, but strangely enough, a sensation of peace engulfed you completely.

You closed your eyes, losing yourself to these wonderful sensations.

The girl squirmed and trembled on her bed, a pink blush tinted her cheeks while her lips let out sweet sighs and whimpers.

The demon was hovering over her sleeping form with his arms supporting his weight, admiring his prey beneath him with lustful eyes. Quite a sight she was indeed, he could even feel his own arousal waking up.

“Yes, my little rabbit. Let yourself go for me, allow me to taste your essence and relish in your pleasure”. He grinned in a malicious way, revealing his fangs.

Suddenly the woman let out a loud gasp, signaling she had finally reached her peak. Her soul glowed brighter than before, and he immediately proceeded to feed from the energy released from it.

His eyes snapped open in astonishment, his arms tense and his breath shaky.

“What- What is this?!” A powerful sensation overwhelmed him, making his skin burn in the most delightful way he had ever experienced in his long life. The energy he drank put all of his senses on overdrive, sweet ecstasy flowed and filled his entire being with life and light. The scent was now intoxicating him, making his feel drunk and light-headed, his arousal becoming stronger and unbearable. His eyes rolled back into his skull, and he let out a dark laugh.

“A single drop. I only took a single drop from you. And yet its effects were simply… extraordinaire. My child, you are indeed fascinating”.

If those were the effects of a single drop, he couldn’t fathom how would it feel like when he finally got to claim her fully.

Once both their breathes were regulated, the demon brought his hand to wipe away the sweat that had formed on the woman’s forehead, he reached for the covers and tucked her in, before giving her cheek one last caress.

A soft smile appeared on the girl’s lips.

“Little one, this won’t be the last you hear from me. I shall come back to you, and soon enough, the time for us to meet personally shall arrive. That is my promise to you”

With a clawed hand, the creature plucked one of his black feathers, imbuing it in with his essence and magic. Stepping out into the balcony, he placed a kiss on the feather before tucking it nearby one of the potted flowers, a gift for his precious little girl to keep her safe and protected.

The demon extended his wings and took off towards the night sky. Suddenly settling down for a while in Red Grave didn’t look like a terrible idea any longer.

[somethingironicallycool]

Predominate: Conquer your Other Half (an original spell created by the now deactivated popculturepagan)

*SINCE THE BLOG IS DEACTIVATED AND THE POSTS ARE NO LONGER READABLE IM TRANSFERRING THEM OVER IN FULL SO PEOPLE NOW CAN READ THEM! NO I AM NOT THEM

Cherubs are creatures rooted in duality. Every child cherub shares their body with an other half, a sibling with the opposite sense of morality to themselves. Cherubs learn to fight this half and eventually, dominate it in a process known as predomination. The creature changes from two beings sharing a single body to a single, unified and mature. creature

The purpose of this spell is to help humans to over come their other half. We might feel plagued by a defiant piece of our morality, who actively works against us, a piece of ourselves that is somehow, not us. Something we must fight— and hopefully through the course of this spell, conquer.  This is no easy process, for humans or for cherubs. I am writiing this in hopes that I can help the process to unify and mature ourselves.

You will need:

Green Paper (One or Multiple)

Red Paper (One of Multiple)

Pen/Writing Utensil (Black Ink Preferred)

Red Meat

Sugary Treat of your Choice

Green Candle

Red Paint

Green Paint or Make-Up

A Metronome or Ticking Clock

A Quiet/Special Place to Meditate

Predominating your other half is not going to happen in a single sitting. This is more of a process than a “just do it” spell.

First thing to do is to set up your place to meditate. If you already have one, great! If you don’t, try to find some place that is quiet and makes you feel comfortable. You also want to be alone and with minimal distractions that could interrupt you. You might even add an altar, or some kind of focal point. I won’t spend to long on this, there are a lot of other great books and posts about setting up meditation areas.

Take your green candle and red paint, and paint a spiraled stripes around the candle. It should look like this—

Now take your pen and pieces of paper. One of the most crucial steps to dominate over your other half is to recognize what that other half is. On the green piece of paper, write down traits that are you. These traits are good, they are positive, they are mature. They are the traits that help you to achieve your goals in the best fashion. Write these down. As you write each down in blank ink, take time to ruminate. Congratulate yourself for having these traits. Be proud and happy with yourself. Solidify them in your head.

On the red piece of paper, write down the traits of your other half. These traits are negative, they hurt your or others. They keep you away from your goals. For a while, you have known that these are not “you.” As you write them down, continue to remind yourself that these are not the true pieces of “you.” Push them away. Recognize how they are bad. Vilify them for what the are.  As you write these, build in your mind the image of your other half. Other them.

It doesn’t matter what order you write these traits down. You do not have to write any one list all at once, or take turns. Do whatever is comfortable.

Now you will meditate.

If you are in a place where you can safely light your candle, do so. If not, simply hold the candle in your hands. Turn on your metronome or ticking clock. Take deep breaths in from your nose, and out through your mouth. Try to have your breaths deep, feeling them rise in your chest and stomach. Your inhales should be as long as your exhales. Continue to breath like this, and focus on the ticking clock.

Once you become comfortable with this deep breaths, imagine in your head the depths of space. It is as vast as possible, and surrounds you on all sides. Except for the noise of the steady, ticking clock it is silent. Feel the nothingness on all your limbs. After you observe this space for a while, begin to travel through the space. Move forward, faster and faster. The stars blur around you. You are traveling through the vastness of space.

Before you, comes a black hole. It it turning, slowly, spiraling before you. Stop in front of this black hole. Watch it slowly turn now, slowly turning. Something is coming from the depths, it comes slowly. Do not try to speed its progress. Watch this green figure approach, and watch the black hole spin.

It may not even be in this sitting that the figure arrives. You might have to meditate on this visualizations multiple times before she arrives.

When the green figure finally arrives in front of you, it is Calliope. This is the Calliope that has predominated over her brother. She is in hiding, this is why it took her so long to come to you.  When she arrives, tell her what you plan to do. You have identified your other half, and you plan to predominate over them.  Ask for her blessing, and her help to do this for it will be hard. If she says yes, thank her. She might give you more advice, listen to it carefully.

Now, say goodbye and leave the black hole. Go back through space, and slowly feel the sensations in your limbs. Come out of your meditation.

Every time you come out of meditation, whether you were successful in contacting Calliope or not, try to eat either your special sugary snack or a piece of red meat.  You need to keep yourself full of energy.

Now, as it fits to your schedule, repeat this meditation. Try to do this frequently. Start these subsequent meditations by rereading the pieces of paper. Read the red paper first. As you read it, vilify these traits. Remind yourself how they are hurtful, how they are unhelpful. Then read the green piece of paper. As you do, remind yourself how these are great traits. How they help you, help others, and are good. Apply a gratuitous amount of self-love for these traits. You are awesome to have them!!

However, after you have contacted Calliope, you will not meet her again. When you approach the black hole, you will be visited by your other half. The other half will try to trick you into accepting them and recognizing that he/she is part of you. You tell him— you are part of me, but not for ever. Tell him you will conquer them. He will try to tell you you are weak. Remind him, and yourself, about the wonderful traits you just read and how they are wonderful and good and he is bad.

Do not fight him— he will want to fight. Do not take him up. Instead, keep away from him and remind him how he is bad and you are good. He should get smaller or appear weaker.

When you come out of meditation, eat your meat or sugar (or both.) This will strengthen your spirit.

While you are doing these meditations, in your life, you will feel the presence of your other half. They will try to fight their way into your life. Ignore them, and reward yourself for doing so.

Try to live with the principles of self-love, self-admiration, and self-worth. Do things that make you happy, do things that make you strong.

After each meditation, your other half should be getting weaker. When you finally think it is time to complete the spell, start your meditation by reading the green and red lists. Now, paint or apply the green make-up to your cheeks. it is time for you to dominate.

Eat your red meat, maybe even feel the juices on your lips. You are powerful.

Say to yourself:

We were once together- today we split.

You are not part of me.

I am stronger. I am better.

I am kinder. I am better.

I am helpful. I am better.

You are not part of me.

I will dominate.

Domination.

I will CONQUER.

Say it like a battle cry. Feel the words resonate in your chest.

Say this as many times as you need to, to yourself.

When you are ready, start the metronome, light the candle, and do your breathing. You are in space again. Do not move slowly— you are ready. Fly through the sky, to your black hole. You will see your other half  They are weak, and small, and of course dying.

This is now when you will fight them.

You will win.

At the end of the battle, you will feel…. strange. You might feel like something is missing. This is natural, and a sign of victory. Come out of meditation. Celebrate your victory— literally. Maybe even through a party.

Continue to live with the principles you have learned— self love, self- admiration, self-worth. These will continue to serve you. If you stop reminding yourself of how great your traits are, of your traits that help you, you might welcome back your other half. Do not do this.

It should become natural to live with a pride about yourself. Feel proud about yourself.

If you ever feel you are becoming weak, repeat the ritual and start by contacting Calliope again.

I hope this helps!

[bloodvvit]

[Wanted to write a little ‘slice of life’ look into how Kai was raised once the Boss took him on, as he was mostly looked after by a higher ranking kyodai named Izo. Kai idolizes the boss, but also takes a shine to Izo, seeing him as kind of a older brother/mentor figure.]

Kai’s long eyelashes fluttered against the high angle of his cheekbone as he roused, having not realized he’d dozed off while lounging at the foot of Izo’s mattress. Curled up with his knees to his chest and his skinny arms tangled around a pillow, the fifteen year old squinted against the light unhappily. With a slow stretch in place, he pushed himself to a sitting position and got smacked in the face with a discarded shirt.

“You’re still getting dressed?” the youth accused in an irritated tone. Huffing softly, the young yakuza heir jerked the colorful fabric from around his skull. Rather than throw it back at the preening, indecisive gangster pacing before his closet mirror, Kai expertly flapped the article of clothing out by the shoulder seams and carefully laid it down atop the length of the bed to join the rest of the kyodai’s wardrobe.

“We’re never going leave if you’re taking this long… Why does it matter, anyway? Is it a big meeting between the Bosses?” he asked, sounding miles more interested, if that was the case- rather than watch the man mull over more suits.

Izo held one shirt, then another over his chest as he inspected his reflection in his newly bought and installed full length mirror. Both looked equally good on his skinny frame. That was the one good thing about being built like a tall lamp post — it was easy finding clothing. Nearly anything he bought looked good when it was hanging off his bony shoulders.

“Nah, go back to sleep. I’ve got a hot date tonight,” Izo said as he turned sideways and tried yet another shirt. “Well, not really. I got a meet and greet with some of the guys at a hostess club. I might as well try not to look too shabby.”

The juvenile yakuza frowned even more at this revelation. And here, he’d been hoping for a fun and exciting evening out, not being abandoned at headquarters, when he could have been spending more time leaning how their business worked.

“And you’re wasting time on an outfit? You usually bring me along…” Kai frowned and narrowed his eyes, following the vivid lines of elaborate inkwork decorating Izo’s back, shoulders, and arms in a curious fashion. He’d seen them before, it wasn’t like his partner didn’t leap at the chance to show them off.

“Hey, aniki… Your tattoos. The last time I asked, you said they have certain meanings. Can you tell me more about them now?” he asked in a hopeful, but careful tone of voice. “We’ve been partners for the past three years, almost.”

Heh. Precocious boy slinging emotional words like ‘partners’ around. His devotion to hustling was adorable. Izo knew better, but the sweet way the brat went about saying it was like drinking down warm honey. It was a pleasant kind of warmth. 

“The outfit’s like a storefront window, it’s for convincing,” Izo said as he looked over his shoulder at Chisaki’s ward. He wasn’t looking so sleepy now, and his intense stare made Izo lift an arm to check out the black lines snaking about his rib cage. The ink work wasn’t done yet, just a series of outlines scattered about his shoulders and back. The goal was to eventually get a whole shirt done, but until that happened, Izo was content to only brave the parlors sporadically  It depended when his mood and tolerance for pain was highest.

“They mean a buncha stuff,” Izo hedged, “Sorta slogans like ‘I’m good at this sorta shit’, ‘I believe in that’. Some of it is because ‘a guy I respect has something like it’. Water’s obvious, you already know that one.” After a pause, Izo draped his shirt over the back of his chair. “They’re pretty nice, right?”

“I didn’t think there’d be so many… flowers,” Kai pointed out, unable to mask the wrinkling of his upturned nose at the thought. Eyelids lowering to half-mast, he quite visibly began mulling something over in his mind.

“I was wondering if the Boss was thinking I might have earned the right to get one yet. You think maybe that might happen sooner or later?”

Izo  twisted to look incredulously at the boy on his bed. “What’s wrong with flowers? The’re perfectly manly. Ain’t like they’re roses or nothing. They’re not on my back because they’re romantic.” 

They were there proclaiming his sense of duty, his loyalty and clear mind. They spoke of death and single-minded purpose. His skin was there for important stories and words. He’d sooner cut himself than get something like his girl’s name.

“They’re there for the things I don’t wanna say out loud. Anyone that knows about what ink means will know what they’re sayin’. As for you gettin’ yours…”

 Izo eyed Kai critically. Was he actually serious? He was already that enthusiastic about being a made man? Izo chuckled, “You’re a bit big for your britches already. Nah, it’ll be later. Boss don’t have much truck on taking kiddies on. You’ve got a few more years to go.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it, I just- The last meeting you took me to was the first time I’d even seen the Boss’ ink before and those were… you know, dragons,” Kai explained matter-of-factly. The last thing he wanted was Izo thinking he didn’t understand or respect the meaning behind the imagery.

The teen folded his lean arms beneath his chin, both sharp elbows jutting over the edge at the foot of the mattress. “I was just thinking if I’m gonna stay on, then I should start thinking about it now. Or learning what that stuff all means, like you. I’m not stupid, you know… Wasn’t like I wanted to get something just to flash it at the nearest person on the street.”

Kai rested his chin on his crossed arms and sighed loudly. “Even if the Boss thought I was ready, I guess I just want know what he’d pick. It wouldn’t mean the same thing if it were up to me, right…? That’d be no different than if any civvie waltzed into a parlor and got something done for bragging rights- they don’t earn that like we do,” Kai reflected, often failing to censor his own thoughts due to his familiarity with the gangster he worked with, or simply due to his age.

Izo turned around, folding his arms over his chest as he looked Kai over. Eyes still too big for his head, despite the roundness of his cheeks. Skinny, gawky limbs that were only going to get even gawkier once he started growing — which hadn’t happened yet (and likely wouldn’t any time soon, if he didn’t start eating more.) Izo hadn’t been much older when he’d started getting seriously in over his head, doing significantly more involved things than running messages. That’d been his own damn fault, though. He’d had too big a mouth, had been too smart for his own good and run in ahead right into things he should have steered clear of, if he’d only known better.

Kai had a good little schtick going. He liked to talk big, even going so far as to act like he was already willing to go whole hog into the sorta life Izo was leading. It was a pretty good life, Izo thought, it had its perks, he got pocket money. But talking big and going so far as to get an ill-advised tattoo while sober, well… those were two entirely different things.

Izo crossed his arms over his chest as he hunched over the bed, brows drawing together. “The boss doesn’t pick it. You do. Like I said, they tell a story and it’s the kinda stuff you wanna say but don’t have real good words for it, because saying it would be lame. Get it?” 

Izo turned to the side and twisted, pulling his arms up to show a spot on his rib cage where the outline of a crane was placed. It had yet to be colored in. 

“See this? Got this because of a guy I knew — real swell guy. He’s old now, so he’s sick and dying. Helped me out of  some tight spots and I owe him.  He always had a thing for those weird-ass birds, so I’m getting this put on there as a thank you. Hopefully it’ll get done and I can show it to him before he kicks the bucket.”

“It’s up to you what you wanna say. Most guys just stick with stuff like, ‘I’m strong and I can tear people’s heads off with my damn teeth like a pregnant bear.’ The boss’s dragon means he’s like the emperor. Getting the ink means you’re a made man, but you don’t wanna get a mark someone picks for you either because it makes you theirs. You pick it because it’s what you wanna say. Got it?” Izo hesitated, then added, “There’s some that do that — let someone put their mark on them. I hear some families are into that too, like branding farm animals. If anyone says they wanna do that with you, you tell ‘em no, kick ‘em real good and come and tell me.”  

Kai was far too young for those sorts of relationships and if anyone offered, that meant they were real creeps. Izo would cut bits off them in private somewhere.

The kid pushed his hands against the bed to get a better look, glancing from the silhouette of the bird coming to life on Izo’s darker skin, then back to the elder man’s face as he spoke. Kai had assumed the messages intended to be expressed through the tattoos were qualities others had to see and ‘confirm’ before making them yakuza language fact. To everyone else, he was just like any other middle school student in Tokyo. Now that he was officially partnered with a made man like his 'brother’, he felt… important. Not the way the Boss was important, but needed- Useful, like a part of the machine that was efficiently performing it’s role. In a strange way, Kai felt getting inked might confirm that- solidify his place within their ranks and as the heir to the Boss’ legacy.

“Yeah. I understand now,” he answered confidently, nodding once in affirmation. His gaze followed the swooping 'brushstroke’ of the bird’s neck as it melded to it’s back and folded wings curiously, frowning in silence as one of the notches of Izo’s ribs expanded with his breathing. “Does it hurt a lot? Especially places like these?” he asked, pointing at the thin layer of skin and muscle barely masking the bony landmark.

Izo shrugged, always a bit surprised how into medical stuff the kid was. He didn’t recall ever being like that at the same age. “Well, it always hurts when there’s not a lotta meat. I don’t have much all over, though. It’s not too bad.” 

Actually, it hurt like a bitch and Izo had let everyone up and down the street know he was getting his ink done just by all his screaming. But Kai’s wide-eyed look was laying it on a bit thick, wasn’t he? Izo had to give him props for consistency, though. The teen never let up with his schtick and he had to admit in his crusty, old-young heart that there were times he was quite warmed by it. Izo reached out to press down hard on Kai’s head, sending him tumbling. When he was down, Izo dug his knuckles into the teenager’s scalp for good measure. Straightening, he grunted, “What’s this about you wanting ink anyway? Why all a sudden?”

“Hey! Come on- Stop,” the kid half-laughed, half-ordered, trying to dodge the elder man’s hands until he’d lost his balance and tumbled from the bed. He rolled from the foot of the mattress and landed in a soft pile of discarded suits Izo had thrown, unceremoniously, to the floor- vibrantly dyed and patterned silks and sharkskin cushioning Kai’s coltish knees as he fended off more brotherly harassment. The question made him pause and look back up the rail-thin length of Izo’s slouching frame, blinking once as he stared back at that narrow-eyed, searching gaze reading his own expression and body language.

“Like I said. It’s been three years. I just thought, maybe… then we’d be blood brothers. You know, officially. That’s all,” he said, brushing Izo off and leaning back against the foot of the bed. He straightened his hair back out with a few brisk tugs of his thin fingers, tilting his chin up as though challenging the man to say otherwise.

Izo tsks, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth as his movements still and he stares down at Kai staring up at him with that far too serious glare.

The brat. How was he going to say no to a request like that? 

“Ah, you really know what to say, eh? Thought a lot about it, did you?” Scripted or not, he was good. Izo was melting a little despite himself.  He grabbed Kai’s head, looping an arm around his neck and squeezing as he roughly ground his knuckles in with a renewed vengeance. “Think you’re such a big man, EH?”

When he eventually released the boy, letting him drop to the hard floor like he was dropping a sack of rice. He turned back toward the mirror and dragged his fingers through his hair to work out some of the new tangles. Izo made a face and gave up on wearing it down. Finding a tie, he gripped it between his teeth and pulled his hair back away from his face to reveal sharp features that looked too narrow, too fox-like for even his own tastes. 

“Alright, since you say it so nicely, kid,” he muttered around the tie, “You can get what you want. But if it’s stupid looking, it’s on you. Remember that.”

[pandoras-proxy]

I'm also obsessed with the whole Strahd/Tatyana dynamic (I have an Insta account dedicated to it - @barovia_bites) Looking forward to seeing more from you!! You are an awesome artist and story teller :)

Thanks so much! It’s definitely something I’ve been enjoying a lot in our campaign. :) I think I mentioned it in a previous post, but the whole Strahd/Iona arc started with a letter she wrote to the Lord himself. I really loved this exchange, so I figured I’d share! 

Iona’s 1st letter

I write this letter not knowing where to begin. How did we meet? What were we to each other? How did I hurt you? I have more questions than there are stars in the sky.

I suppose I’ll begin with a confession.

I said I didn’t know you, but in truth, there was a whisper of a memory… but only a whisper. It may as well have been obscured by the mists that brought me here. I sense I have a history here, but there are so many things I do not understand. Help me understand.

Maybe then, I could understand the love you say we had or this curse you say I brought… Maybe then, we could free you of this cycle of suffering you are trapped in, together.

I don’t know where I’ll be by the time this reaches you but something tells me that if you want me to receive a reply, I will. Given how contentious our first meeting was (with words of anger from you and bravado from myself), I ask that you remember the protection I am under.

[There is a large space between these words and the next, and a small drop of ink, as if Iona’s quill hovered for a long time in search of words.]

Was I musically inclined when you knew me? In this lifetime, I find solace in music so I’ll leave you with the beginnings of a song:

I know not if fate would have us live as one

Or if by love’s blind chance we’ve been bound

You flee my dream come the morning

Your heart, its passion displaced

By anger ever growing, hardening into stone

The wish I whispered, when it all began

Did it forge a love you might never have found?

[Beside the words are music notations]

Iona

Strahd’s 1st letter

My Dearest Iona,

There is so much I long to share. So much, that I too find it difficult to determine an adequate place to begin. We have had so many beginnings you and I, and each one has been lost in the darkness of the past. But perhaps I shall start with the first.

A long time ago, my father had called upon me to serve in his wars. He called upon my sense of honor. He called upon my sense of duty. And, finally, he called upon my years. I gave him victory, and for that he took my youth. Time is such a precious thing. You cannot own it. You cannot keep it. You can only spend it. And, once you have, it is forever lost.

Following the triumph of our kingdom, I sent for my family, long unseated from their ancient throne, to settle with me in Castle Ravenloft. They came with a younger brother of mine, Sergei. He was young and handsome, and I hated him for both. But mostly, I hated him for what he brought with him. You.

From the moment I first looked into your eyes the rest of the world vanished. In you I saw everything that I had yearned for and lost. Youth. Kindness. I longed for you to be mine. But, alas, your heart went to Sergei. “Brother,” you called me. Yet while that word spilled from your crimson lips, I knew its true meaning. “Elder,” “Old-one.”

What my father had taken from me, he had left to my brother.

Darkness overtook me. I would find a way to preserve what youth I had left, no matter the cost. Perhaps then, I could rightfully take what should have been mine. I made a pact with death, which I signed with blood. But in the end, it did not matter. You hated me for what I had done. For the sacrifices I made in your name!

You threw yourself from the waterfall, and thus our first beginning came to an end. But I could not let it be the last. I darkened the skies and shrouded the land to keep you here with me. I would endlessly traverse time itself to find you again. I stand at its harbor, scanning the horizon, and through its waves I can see moments as slow and transparent as glass. And you, forever on the other side, your hair blazing like the rising sun. I tremble in your radiance. All other desires, hopes, and aspirations have been banished by its rays, until there is you. Only you.

You ask me if you have always been gifted with music? Yes. But to me your greatest work was simply your presence. It has been the symphony of my heart, and the dirge of my soul.

Strahd

Iona’s 2nd letter

I learned about Ireena today. She was one of our many lost beginnings, wasn’t she? I wonder how many times you’ve found me as you stood vigil over your oceans of time. It sounds… so lonely.

Has tragedy truly followed all of our meetings?

I don’t know how much of my life you’ve seen, if any, but I have not given my heart to another. The thought is terrifying. Love has only ever destroyed those around me and made them suffer. As it has made you suffer. All that you’ve gone through, the pain, the sacrifice, this cycle of torment, can you honestly say it’s been worth it?

And yet, even as I write this, I realize our paths aren’t so different. Rage and despair have lead me to a pact of my own, as you must know. I don’t care its price so long as the violence in my heart is reconciled.

Will you help me or will you hinder me in the end, I wonder?

I travel now, my destination unknown. This world of yours is a dark place and I sense its menace around me, like the eyes of a predator upon my skin. Tell me, what will I face? If I ever need aid, is it the Vistani I can trust? How can I show that you and I are connected?

As ever, I am full of questions but perhaps you understand my caution. Already this beginning of ours was nearly ended.

You’ve told me about yourself and about us and for that I thank you. Is it strange that I look forward to your next letter? That I’ll watch the night skies and think of you when I see the mists?

The first song isn’t ready for an end, so I will leave you with this one instead:

Sun sets, beloved one

Time to dream. Your mind journeys,

But I will hold you here.

Where will you go, beloved one,

Lost to me in time?

Seek truth in a forgotten land,

Deep within your heart.

Wherever you shall go, beloved one,

Follow my voice-

I will call you home.

I will call you home.

[Music notations are beside the words]

You’ve called me home again.

Iona

Strahd’s 2nd Letter

Dearest Iona,

Tatyana was the first, and Ireena the last. Until you. And through the years, there have been many more.When you threw yourself from the cataract, I knew I must keep you here with me. I drew upon the darkness and formed the ashen mists that envelope this land. They are a prison, which binds souls to this valley and keeps them here with me. Time and time again, you would be born. Time and time again you would choose death over my embrace.

When Ireena passed, I waited again - patiently like the tide. But you did not return. Despite all possibility, you had escaped. I scoured the world from my castle. Searching. Until there was a whisper… but only a whisper. And I followed, just as the moon follows the sun across the horizon.

No, Iona, I cannot say that love has been worth torment. It has never brought me happiness. The fires of hell could burn for all eternity and it would never equal what I feel for you in minute of the night. Yet appraising its value is futile. If only I could cast it into flame and sear it from my heart, I would. But, in my endless vigil, I have found the most horrifying truth: Love never dies.

Join me, here in Castle Ravenloft and bring an end to this curse you have placed upon me. Until then and always, I too shall watch the night sky and think of you.

Strahd

Iona’s 3rd letter

[Some context: This letter is sent after Iona leaves Ravenloft against Strahd’s wishes. She does it reluctantly but with the belief it must be done to pursue her goals.]

I know you will be angry. Maybe you will never forgive this perceived betrayal. But please know that I did not do it to spurn you or to hurt you. What I said before was the truth; when I have completed what I must do, when the connection between the Feywild and the Material Plane has been severed, I will stay with you. Whether you try to stop me or help me from now on, I will come back to you. I will walk to your castle gates and I will give you everything that I am.

Until then, I beg for your understanding and for your forgiveness.

I hope you will write back. Though I’ve only known you a short time, there’s already a hollow ache in my chest at the thought of your silence. If you write, will you tell me one of your happier memories? Before the curse. Before Tatyana. I want to you know you. Not the Lord. Not the Vampire. But the man. I want to open my heart to you.

I’ll share a memory of my own.

When I was a young girl, I was rather mischievous. I would escape my caretakers often and lose myself in the gardens of the Unseelie court. There I had such adventures. I would weave myself a crown of black hellebore and nightshade and carefully make dolls out of twigs and grass. In my halls of hedgerow, I presided over a kingdom of leaves and flowers.

In it, I would slay dragons and capture fell beasts, all of which were in truth the resident sprites of the garden. Whether it was the honey I used to entice them or simply the amusement at seeing a Fey Lord’s daughter prance about with flowers in her hair and dirt on her knees, they played along in a spectacular fashion.

I had death-defying duels with willow switches. I embarked on quests to find treasures of seed and stone hidden for me throughout the garden. I held court and danced beneath faerie light.

Despite its darkness and the pain it caused me, some of my happiest memories were in the Feywild. I hope I can be the light in your darkness.

I left you my lute in the gardens by the cliff. It’s the last thing I had of my mother. In its place, I will cherish the memory of your lips and the sliver of your heart I carry in my possession.

Now and always, I am yours.

Iona