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gayoung-lover · 3 months

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dance with me ๋࣭⭑ chocol

after years of dancing in the comfort of your living room, you finally stepped into a dance class for the first time. throughout the class, your teacher—chocol, a participant from street woman fighter 2—closely observed your every move.

| wc: 1.5 k 🫶 | sorry it took so longgg ive been so busy 🙁💔 |

Although you have always enjoyed dancing at home, the idea of attending an actual dance class made you nervous. However, after being fascinated by the dancers on Street Woman Fighter 2, particularly the girls of Wolf’Lo, with their years of experience and passion for dance, you could not help but be inspired. Knowing that Chocol was organizing a pop-up dance class nearby, the temptation became irresistible.

Clutching your water bottle, you made your way to the studio—trying not to draw much attention, you dressed in all black with minimal makeup. As you entered the studio, you noticed it was almost empty, with only a few people arriving after you—the total count barely reaching twenty people. An unexpected wave of nervousness washed over you—having anticipated a larger group, thinking that with more people, any missteps on your part could easily blend in. As you began warming up, you positioned yourself in the corner, contrasting with the people that clustered towards the front—presumably wanting to be as close to Chocol as they could.

You looked down at your watch, noticing that it was time and the orange-haired dancer could arrive anytime soon—and you were right; the girl walked into the room and went to the front, smiling at everyone.

“Hello, my name is Gayoung—you can call me Chocol, too.” She made a pause, grabbing some papers that were on a table. “First thing I’ll do is take attendance—yeah, like if we were in high school.” She laughed—you thought how prettier she looked in real life, the cameras truly did not capture her beauty enough.

As she began calling names, you heard her call yours. “I’m here!” You said, and she looked through the people that were covering you.

“Come closer, no one bites.” Gayoung jokes, continuing to take attendance—you walked a bit closer but still chose to stay at the back. “There we go, everyone’s here.”

Gayoung showed the choreography she intended to teach—it was something somewhat beyond your comfort zone. However, witnessing her dance in person was a shock—the fluidity and precision of her movements were mesmerizing. As she finished dancing, everyone clapped, and she acknowledged it with a smile. "Let's get started then." She said, turning her back to the class and facing the mirror to go through each step.

Lost in perfecting the steps, you remained oblivious to Gayoung's observant gaze in the mirror. Her admiration was evident, captivated by your skill, the way you incorporated your hair into the choreography, and your overall elegance, giving off the vibe of a professional dancer.

"We're going to step to the front in smaller groups to check for any details—any volunteers?" Gayoung asked, scanning the room. "It's not mandatory, but it can be really helpful if you're up for it." Without hesitation, you raised your hand, seeing Gayoung raising her eyebrows. "Come to the front. Anyone else?"

Another girl volunteered, and you made your way forward, the crowd making space for both of you—your legs trembled from a mix of dancing and nervousness. "One, two, three." She counted down, syncing with the music. While her attention should have been shared, Gayoung's focus remained predominantly on you—you were too impressive.

Your facial expressions made her nod in approval—smiling crookedly. As you finished the choreography, you struck a pose, hand on the hem of your pants, smiling with your chest rising and falling. "Good job!" Gayoung exclaimed, clapping.

You smiled, bowing to both the other girl and Gayoung. "Thank you, it means a lot."

Following the class, you headed home and excitedly shared the photos and videos you took, tagging Gayoung with the caption "First dance class :)"—never really expecting her to notice amidst her popularity after the show. To your surprise, after a few hours, you discovered that she not only liked your posts but also followed you. Just as you were about to happily share the news with your friends that Chocol had followed you, a direct message from her appeared in your Instagram inbox.

iamchocol: Hello, I just wanted to say you did such a great job! Can’t believe it was your first dance class

iamchocol: You’re such a good dancer, are you self-taught?

y/n: hi! yes it was my first class :) i really admire you from swf2 !!

y/n: yeah, i’m self-taught hahaha thank you

iamchocol: Thank you!

iamchocol: I’m actually hosting another class in two days, I would love if you could come around

iamchocol: It’s a duet class

y/n: wow, a duet class?

y/n: but i don’t have any dancer friends :(

iamchocol: You’re going to dance with me

iamchocol: Well, if you want to :)

y/n: that would be such an honor :)

It was Friday, and as you made your way to the studio, you were even more nervous than last time. Upon entering, you noticed that Gayoung was already there, and you smiled at her. "Hello, nice to see you." You greeted her.

"Nice to see you too." She responded, drawing closer. "Since you're dancing with me, I'd like you to step to the front."

"But, don't I need to know the choreography first?" You giggled.

"It'll be easy for you; you'll catch on quickly." Gayoung assured, motioning for you to join her at the front of the class. "So come here."

As you stood beside Gayoung, the girls who were already in the class began whispering. When the time came, Gayoung explained the concept, insisting that everyone pair up. The moment the music started, you sighed nervously—it was a sultry, sexy song. Initially, the steps Gayoung went over seemed normal, almost basic hip-hop moves. However, as the duet segment began, the dance took an unexpected turn, it was touchy, yet the move that Gayoung was about to teach was going to change everything.

"So, the next step is this." Gayoung whispered, her voice close to your ear. "Bend down a bit for me." You complied, leaning your elbow against your knee, your back arching slightly. Gayoung's hands adjusted your body to the precise position she wanted. "After this, your partner should put their hand on your shoulder and turn around, moving their head from side to side, letting their hair flow, okay?"

Following her instructions, you executed the move. "Like this?" You asked, meeting her gaze, desperately trying to focus on the dance rather than the fact that you were dancing sexily with Gayoung.

"Exactly, see, you got it." She responded. "If you're following the choreography as me, make sure your hands are on your partner—anywhere they're comfortable. It can be on their waist, back, hips." Gayoung placed her hands on your hips, and you caught a glimpse of your blushing face in the room's mirror—as Gayoung's back was turned to it, she could not see your reaction. "That's basically it. Let's go over it again!"

You nodded as Gayoung let you go and began reviewing the steps. Despite feeling comfortable with the routine, her hands on your hips during the final pose sent butterflies fluttering in your stomach. While Gayoung seemed used to such interactions, you could not help but feel a nervous excitement.

"We're doing it one last time." She said, pointing at you and herself. "Then, one by one, every pair is coming to the front."

You nodded, and as the music filled the room, you danced with precision and made sure your facial expressions were playful. The moment you bend down, every dancer in the room cheered. Placing your hand on her shoulder, you winked, and she smiled, letting your hair flow to the music. After Gayoung's hands found their place on your hips, you moved them gracefully, holding the final pose for a few seconds after the music stopped.

Everyone clapped, and you nervously rested your face on Gayoung's shoulder, feeling her pat on your hips gently. "Good job, pretty." She praised.

You let out a breathy. "Thank you." You felt your entire face blush, as you heard her call you pretty.

After each pair had their turn and people began to leave, you gathered your belongings, ready to leave. However, Gayoung stopped you, leaning against the door frame. "Hey."

“Hey, what happened?” You asked, nervously clutching your phone.

“I'll be honest, I think you're pretty, and I was wondering if I could get your number.” Gayoung confessed, smiling at you. “I have your Instagram, but, you know, I get tons of messages, so I have my notifications turned off. I was hoping I could pay attention to you.”

Nervously, you bit your lip, finding it hard to believe. “Sure, give me your phone.” Taking her phone, you typed your number, handing it back to her. “Make sure you text me.” With a burst of confidence, you placed your hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. Gayoung looked at you, slightly raising her brow as you softly kissed her cheek. “I think you’re pretty too.”

Feeling a rush of embarrassment, you quickly left, avoiding eye contact. Meanwhile, Gayoung was left giggling and blushing—finding you adorable. “She’s going to be the death of me.” She whispered to herself before going back into the room.

#jo gayoung #chocol #chocol swf2 #wlw #street woman fighter 2

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pinkrelish · 2 years

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𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞.

bestfriend!eddie x fem!reader

✶Cold to the bone, delirious, and scared out of his mind, Eddie is guided by the group through the woods. "Where are we going?" he asks.

They spare him not a glance. "The Safe House."✶

NSFW — one bed trope, cuddling, hurt/comfort, eddie munson needs a hug, drug/alcohol mention/use, wingman steve + robin, 18+ overall for smut, canon typical gore

chapter: 10/15 [wc: 7.7k]

↳ part 01 / 02 / 03 / 04 / 05 / 06 / 07 / 08 / 09 / 10 / 11

AO3

Chapter 10: The Safe House

His skin was rubbed raw from the damp clothes he’d been wearing for hours on end. Shoes coated with dirt, socks soaked from lake water, and feet covered in blisters. Cold everywhere. No sleep for days; only sporadic glimpses when he felt safe in the sunshine under the blue tarp in the boathouse. At night, it was fear. Fear of being hunted. Shaking, and starving, knowing he wouldn’t have the energy to put up a fight. Just running. Running, stumbling, tripping, like he did now. But, unlike before, when he was abandoned, Nancy reached out her dainty fingers, and helped him with strength beyond measure.

Eddie was surrounded by friends, if they allowed themselves to be called that. Brave friends.

It hurt worse to walk, but he was encouraged to do so by Max, of all people. Vecna’s target, marked for death, and yet she bumped past his shoulder with her chin held high in the full moonlight breaking through the twisted branches of budding trees. She gave him a curious once-over, and nodded for him to follow, thinking he’d gone dizzy and lost his way. Dustin was courageous too, acting as the navigator at the front of the party. Guiding them to some unknown destination.

Steve grasped him around the bicep, and steadied him out of his stupor. He could tell Eddie was rattled after what he’d been through. Two gruesome deaths, traversing a literal hell. Still, it was Steve, with his neck torn to shreds and hobbling with gaping wounds, who comforted Eddie. “We’re almost there,” he said with such a strange glint of his teeth, as if he were grinning. But he wouldn’t be, right?

“Where’re we going?” Eddie asked, having been subjected to wandering through darkened woods for days. From the pitch-black Upside Down, to nighttime Hawkins.

“The Safe House.”

“The what?”

Dustin waved his compass up ahead, and whispered-shouted at the two men lagging behind. “If you two don’t get a move on, we won’t make it in time for dinner!”

“Twerp,” Steve muttered under his breath.

For once, Eddie focused on anything other than his abject misery. “Dinner?”

No one volunteered to answer him.

Too preoccupied from yanking his leg out of the dense bramble, Eddie also missed the shifty looks shared amongst the group, and the big blue sign outside the building they were approaching, and the orientation of the layout–particularly, the long stretch of rooms, and especially, the corner unit with an extra window facing the edge of the forest.

——Three Days, 7 Hours, 29 Minutes Prior——

Reefer Rick’s address flashed on screen. It wasn’t a perfect lead, but it was the best they had. Understandably, Steve nabbed Family Video’s master keys from under the desk, and ushered everyone towards the door, while Robin checked for customers in the aisles. Max was ready to get out of there too, until she realized another set of footsteps did not follow.

Dustin’s gaze remained glued to the phone sitting before him.

“Come on, dude. What’re you waiting for?” Steve spread his arms wide in annoyance at the gall of Dustin to be the one keeping them from finding his friend. His super cool older male role model friend who listens to loud music, dresses however he wants, and runs his little nerd game, or whatever the f–

“Finding Eddie is important, but..” Dustin’s curls bounced as he grabbed the phone and ran off with it to the manager’s office. “There’s someone else we should call! His girlfriend! She can help us.”

Steve choked back a laugh. “Girlfriend?” When the girls didn’t join in on the joke, he pursued Dustin with a vengeance. “Eddie “The Freak” Munson has a girlfriend?” He expected Robin to be just as bewildered, but she was in her own world, gathering the other phone to her chest and dialing 4-1-1.

Dustin nodded. “She goes to Penn State–”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “She’s in college?”

“I met her when she played DND with us,” he explained.

“She plays Dungeons and Dragons?” Steve’s voice couldn’t get higher.

“Yeah, she’s really cool!”

“And she’s cool?” he squeaked. It actually could go higher.

Ignoring him, Dustin turned his attention to Robin.

“Hi!” she said, full of cheer to the withered directory assistant. “What’s the area code for Penn State–Uh, Pennsylvania State University?” After a second, she spoke aloud for Dustin. “8-1-4? And the weather is mild, uh.. Okay. And oh, neat, we’re in the same time zone.”

Dustin punched the buttons on his phone for the local operator. 814-555-1212. “Hello, fine sir, I hope you are having a swell day.” Someone should tell him the fake ‘adult’ persona he assumed did little to convince anyone he was an actual grown up. “I’m in search of the contact information for.. Uh.. Someone in charge at the dorm for the women’s athletic teams at Penn State?” he finished quickly, sounding not unlike a balloon losing its air. “I’m looking to speak to an athlete for a.. report. Project. Thing. For school.”

The static funneling through the phone went silent.

After a stretch of heart palpitating seconds, the man spoke up, and gave Dustin the number for the Resident Adviser for the dorm.

Steve made an indignant scoff at them, and leaned towards Max. “Did you know Eddie Munson had a girlfriend?” She gave him a weird look, and shrugged. Righting himself, he asked Robin, “Is this really necessary? Eddie could be, well,” –He dragged his thumb over his throat– “by the time we wrap up this little game of Telephone and hit the road.”

She rolled her eyes at him and took the phone from Dustin to talk to the dweeby sounding Resident Adviser. “Hello, my name’s Robin Buckley. I'm a reporter for the Hawkins Post inquiring to speak to one of your athletes for a story about her coming from a small town and making it big.” Pressing the phone to her shoulder, she whispered to Dustin, “She is from Hawkins, right?” He gave a thumbs up. “Yes!” She spoke to the self-righteous, self-important voice on the line. He must’ve refused, because her face dropped. But so did her voice, as she abstained from making eye contact with anyone else in the room, twirling her finger around the phone cord. “If you patch me through, I’ll..”

In unanimous effort, the rest of them tuned her out, until she shoved the phone to Dustin’s ear.

He listened to it ring. And ring. And ring. And finally..

A gravelly, “Eddie?” answered.

Steve and Robin smashed their faces on either side of his, eavesdropping. Fully invested.

“Riddle Master Valendrei!”

“..Dustin?”

Way too enthused, he gasped, and clutched his chest. “You remember me! And what a coincidence you brought up Eddie! So, listen, he’s uh, in a little bit of a situation, you could say.”

There was rustling in the background. A lot of movement from what could’ve been bedsheets, followed by the metallic click of a purse being popped open. Point blank, tired, and weary, you inquired without a second thought, “How much is his bail?”

Steve snorted in approval. “She definitely knows him, all right.” Dustin smacked him from over his shoulder.

“It’s not that. Rest assured, nothing like that. It’s, ah.. Well. It’s worse. Can you come down here, like, soon? Extremely soon?”

Many responses started and died on your tongue. It was obvious you were pacing, probably wringing your neck with how it distorted your words, “Worse? H-How serious is it? I’m not on Spring Break yet, and I have midterms next week. Is there any way this can wait?”

Robin spoke up, “Probably not something you want to wait on, but we can do our best to keep him safe.”

“Safe?” you cried. “Goddammit.. Okay, uhm, give me a day or two and I can be there. I need to take care of a few things first, but–Jesus Christ, Dustin–tell me what’s going on before I have a panic attack. Where’s Eddie? Is he okay?”

“Yeah, so, last night..”

——Present Day——

Eddie was steered in the direction he should go. A hand pressed into the middle of his back, the owner’s warmth sinking through his jacket. He had the wherewithal to recognize he was delirious, but not the competence to divide his fleeting attention. Just when he’d grasped he was staring at a gray painted wall, he was shoved into a line. Someone was in front of him. Who? Too obscured by the shadows of the short building to tell. They were disappearing through a hole. A black square hole. Where to? Where.. Where to?

The owner of the hand on his back said something in his ear. Steve? Or maybe it was Lucas, and they pushed him forward. It was his turn to climb through. He complied. Not because he was brave, but because he was forced.

Nothing greeted his unadjusted eyes by sight, just the shuffling sounds of people moving out of his way. Using their hands to guide him into a packed place. Snug with bodies crowded around the entrance, whispers bouncing off the nearby walls.

“Is that everyone?” a kind, but stern someone asked.

“There’s a conga line of about twelve mosquitoes waiting to get in if you don’t close the window,” Steve said.

Eddie was lost in darkness. Until his Light found him.

A lamp clicked on by the turn of a knob. Eddie’s big, brown eyes grew. Familiarity, and a stark realization, greeted him. He was standing in the same room he’d been in half a year ago. The queen sized bed, two nightstands, an array of sitting chairs with one table near the front window next to the door, and a chest of drawers at the end of the bed balancing a large mirror.

The rest of the audience meandered to give space for the two wayward halves to reconnect.

His gaze landed on you, and his bottom lip shrugged.

Eddie was more prone to showing his vulnerability than most other men, that much you knew–wearing his sensitive heart on his sleeve around those he trusted–but you didn’t anticipate his relief to be so visible, knocking the air from his lungs. Stuttering his breath with every dragging step. Long strides of aching desperation to close the vast distance between you once and for all.

To anyone else, it would have been underwhelming, but to you, your world becoming his dirty hands reaching for you was a life of eternal pleasure incarnate. You knew not to expect him to hug you, and maybe that was for the best, because the simple act of his fingers curling in, and you accepting his weight against your knuckles, had your knees wobbling.

His gaudy rings dug into your bones. Flakes of blood and dirt and ash and decay grimed on contact. You kept him steady by the extraordinary opportunity of being able to touch him. Skin on skin. You could cry as he shivered into your body heat. Leaning into the unique embrace until nothing else existed. No sound outside two overworking hearts.

He’d never been this close on purpose. Where the tense expanse of his shoulders dropped into a relaxed slouch, and his head dropped forward, foreheads a suggestion apart. Eyes drifting half-way closed as he let go of his inhibitions, and studied you up close with the tantamount enthusiasm you examined him in–like neither of you could grasp the concept of being within arms reach after drifting apart one missed call at a time.

But did you ever really drift apart?

The trembling fondness in your matching grins proposed otherwise.

Attentive to the mild abrasion on the corner of his jaw, you spoke with such hushed awe, even he strained to hear beyond the hard consonants. “You’re okay.”

He was worse at keeping his voice down, but he tried for the sake of the moment, without losing the absolute cloying affection in his whisper. “You have no idea how glad I am to see you.”

Your eyes greedily drank in the other’s appearance, and when satisfied, they met. Gazing across the months of solitude. Of pain, and loneliness, and longing. Watery, and sweet.

“I missed you.”

“M’ssed you, too,” you said.

And the moment came to a close with his snuffed out smile as reality sank into his features.

Fascinated, Robin said in quiet amazement, “That was the most sensual fist bump I’ve ever seen in my life.” And Steve added a breathless, “Yeah.”

Eddie pointed a strict finger at you and rounded on the people he considered closer than family under recent circumstances. “Why is she here?” The group straightened their spines against the teetering vitriol laced in his clipped words. A dangerous balance between restrained anger, and denial. Daring them to confront him.

He zeroed on one person in particular. “Dustin? Don’t tell me, man..”

Robin stepped in. “We thought you could use your girlfriend here for support, Eddie.”

“We’re not dating,” he interjected.

Lucas pulled a similar expression to those around him. “What do you mean you aren’t dating? You literally never shut up about her–”

You smacked Eddie’s hand out of your face and shoved your way past him. “I’m here to help you, you idiot.” Rounding the corner of the bed, you reeled at the sight of Steve, blood slipping down his throat, wearing Eddie’s vest and surely staining the inside with the pool of gore seeping from his abdomen. “Jesus.” He fixed his mouth in a slant and shrugged.

Eddie was quick to claim your attention by following you on your heels. “This isn’t a goddamn sleepover with your best friend like it's the good ol’ times. I don’t know what they told you, but I’m a wanted man. You can’t be here. Hey, are you listening to me?” He cornered you at the other nightstand, fuming at your back while you sorted through your purse without a care in the world. “I’m wanted for murder! If you get caught, you’re harboring a fugitive. That’s a prison sentence! Think of your future. Your degree. The Olym–Huh?”

You cut off his ranting by sweeping your arm across his chest, moving him to the side so you could speak to the group. “Here’s the key for the black car parked across the street. If anything goes wrong, there’s about four days worth of food and water in the trunk to feed.. Well, some of you. I’m not made of money.” You lifted the mattress and produced two sheets of dirty metal. “Fake plates are already on. I got the car from a rental outside of Indy who doesn’t ask too many questions. If anything happens to it, it’ll go on Sasha Pennermen’s record.” Answering the puzzled glances around the room, you slid the thin piece of plastic off the nightstand and held it up. “My fake ID.”

“Fake plates, fake ID. How do you get this stuff?” Steve asked, catching the jangling keys and pocketing them.

“I live in a college town,” you shrugged it off like a duh? and put your illegal items away. “Same ground rules as what we discussed earlier. One: no talking to cops. Two: if you need to call me, use a payphone on the corner, not the ones attached to a store. They’re startin’ to put those freakin’ cameras everywhere. Can’t have any fun these days.”

Nancy made herself heard from where she shrank into one of the chairs, hugging herself. “A little late for the ‘don’t talk to cops’ speech.”

“That’s not all,” Erica confided with an accusatory glance around the room, crossing her arms. “I imagine we all have targets on us after we ran away from them.”

You were clasping your hands so tight, they shook. You clapped, turned your palms up, and clapped them again, smiling through your grimace. “A room full of wanted people. Great. Looks like we have our work cut out for us, then. Hiding from the police smack dab in the smallest town on the planet.” A few of them had the good graces to appear remorseful.

Eddie was uncharacteristically quiet.

Moving on, you apologized to the worn-down, fatigued group squeezing into any comfy spot they could fit into. “Sorry, I would’ve been here sooner. Had a few things to sort out before I could leave.”

The pinch of confusion concentrating between Eddie’s eyebrows subsided. His posture wilted, then stiffened. Jaw set. Grinding his teeth, pulsing the muscle there.

“Dinner should–ah!” The phone rang. You answered, and spoke briefly in, “Yeps!” and “Okays.” Pulling your wallet from your purse, you counted some cash, and made finger guns at the door. “Be right back.”

Eddie stopped you. Imposing his unassuming stature like a brick wall; expressionless, eyes glinting fragments of amber in the dim lamplight. Tone eerily calm, “You have Nationals in two days.”

“How do you even know that?”

“Nationals? I thought you said you had midterms this week?” Dustin recalled.

If looks could kill, Dustin would burst into flames under the ire of your glare, and you would be in the fifth circle of hell from Eddie’s.

“Midterms?” he repeated, turning his face away from Dustin to you, ever so slowly, pinning you with repercussions of his stare. “Midterms?” The incredulity spat from his lips. “Midterms?” He sounded in danger of hyperventilating. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“It doesn’t matter, Eddie,” you stressed. You dodged him, succeeding two paces towards your exit.

He trailed you. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter? Of course it matters! Wait–Why wouldn’t it matter?” He caught the sleeve of your flannel, pulling the unbuttoned shirt down your shoulder, showing off your black muscle tank underneath.

You saw the question in his eyes. He saw the answer in yours.

“Why don’t your midterms matter?”

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“..You dropped out?”

His weak whisper begged you to deny it. You pressed your lips in a nonnegotiable reticent line, and continued walking away, to where Robin and Steve observed you two at the table. But Eddie wasn’t done. When he was determined, he dug his hole to bedrock. Stubborn. Hounding you until you grasped the door knob, saying the one thing he shouldn’t.

“Please tell me you’re joking? You quit college to come here? Your entire future is planned out for you! I refuse to let you throw your life away for this!” Eddie collided with a force to be reckoned with. Whatever he was going to say on that next intake of breath was suffocated under your knuckles.

Initially, you intended to stab your finger at the center of his chest, but he failed to slow down at the same time you experienced a wave of confidence, so you eviscerated his hope by eliminating the space between your bodies, planting your fist firmly on him. A monumental touch.

The toe of his shoes nudged yours. His heartbeat swelled under your mighty hand. There was a gloss to his eyes, now, knocked from his outburst and coming to accept the gravity of you being here.

Your gaze bore into his. Unwavering, unflinching. Devoted and devastatingly honest. “I have earned the right to this life through blood, sweat, and tears,” your voice quivered. Channeling a lifetime of unworthiness into the cut of your words, leaving no room for argument, “I’ll do with it what I want. I’m not leaving you again, Eddie.” Any rebuttal vanished on those pink lips of his the moment you lifted your finger to his chin, dragging it across his stubble. “And I’d appreciate a thank you next time, sweetheart.”

At that, you were gone.

Eddie’s stomach clenched at the closed door.

“I like her,” Erica admired from her perch next to the TV, and Max agreed in an impressed, “Yeah.” Lucas shifted uncomfortably between them.

“Goddamnit, Goddamnit, Goddamnit.” Eddie paced, running his hands through his hair, exhaling repetitive expletives. Combing, raking, worrying until his oily fringe stood on end, and his short curls frizzed into a mane. God-fucking-damnit. “She.. Oh, fuck.”

He came to a forced halt.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve caught him in the curve of his arm–winced at the impact stretching his wounds–and turned their backs to the rest of the room with the exception of Robin, who offered Eddie a gentle smile.

Controlling his voice so only his chosen trinity heard, Steve thought it was time to give Eddie a heart-to-heart similar to the one he gave him in the Upside Down.

“Now, I acknowledge my privilege in regards to women willing to jump into a lake for me, but I’ve never seen anything like that with these optimistic eyes of mine,” he said in the same cadence Eddie used on him. Sparing a glance at the door, he clicked his tongue. “I’ve never known someone who’s just a friend to sacrifice the amount she has to be here today. We told her you were in trouble, and she came running. College education, whatever the hell Nationals is for her to have delts bigger than mine; nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing else mattered in the world except for protecting you. And that, that, is more than casual friendship, dude.” He leaned in. “To be honest, I’m jealous. If I were you, I’d have put a ring on her finger, like, yesterday.”

Eddie dragged a hand down his face, and kept his eyes closed. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, man. She’s my best friend.”

“Oh!” Robin snapped. “I love rom-coms, let me guess! You’ve been best friends since you were kids and–” She stood, eyes darting as she searched her memory for the hundreds of movies she’d watched. “Yeah, definitely best friends since you were kids, and you grew up together, always there for each other, fell in love with her years ago, and you’re scared that if you confess, either she’ll reject you or she’ll admit she’s been in love with you too, but then there’s the fear of something going wrong in the relationship, and you’d lose not only your girlfriend, but your best friend too! How’d I do? Did I get it right?”

In love with you for years.

The knot in Eddie’s throat bobbed under the eagerness of her beaming grin. Did Robin have a special talent, or was he that easy to read? Either way, his long hair was his saving grace, shielding his red ears from betraying him amidst the second worst week of his life.

“I think it’s sweet she’s wearing your shirt.”

“My..?”

“Yeah,” she answered his confusion. “The tag was sticking out. Your initials are E.M., right? Written with one of those jumbo Sharpies.”

The door knob jiggled. Eddie considered ducking behind a piece of furniture, but he figured his life couldn’t get more fucked than it currently was, and merely blinked at the opening door with disinterest, welcoming his fate.

“Dinner’s here,” you announced, juggling a stack of pizza boxes. The combined anxious energy of the room, and the deathly quiet, alerted you to the man-shaped brooding aura at your side, with his hands stuffed in his leather jacket’s pockets, and head dipped to deliver a condescending remark directly into your ear.

“Exactly what part of this situation screams ‘pizza party’ to you?”

Overflowing with a devious pout, you raised your shoulder to your chin, and batted your lashes at Eddie with a look of pure innocence. “Don’t worry, I ordered a sausage pizza just for you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” he stated.

“Wouldn’t want a second murder charge, Munson.”

“Actually, you’d be the third,” Dustin clarified, opening the top box and taking a slice of pepperoni before you could set them on the table. “He got a second charge yesterday, and now his name’s been released to the public. Got a whole village mob thing goin’ on. Pitchforks and all, probably.”

“Definitely,” Lucas mumbled.

At this point, your brain was too burnt-out from receiving shocking information for one day, so you nodded at them, and said, “Ah.” That’s it. Two murder charges? Wonderful. Police searching for the seven sets of hands clamoring over breadsticks? Lovely. Eddie’s name released to the public? Stupendous!

Life was great.

Yeah, life was great.

You sat on the side of the bed closest to the door, where you left your purse, and leaned against the pillow; and without a hint of communication, Eddie walked around to the other side, and mirrored you, sitting with one leg folded in front of him and the other hanging off the side, body slightly angled away, and scarfing down a slice of pizza. When he was done, you handed him another one. Along with a napkin.

Oddly, his attention seemed to be aimed at the back of your neck, and the tint of rosiness to his cheeks hadn’t disappeared from your innuendo earlier.

Sitting criss-cross on the floor, Robin sighed in bliss, “Warm food feels so good right now.” There was a round of drowsy hums in harmony. Tucking into their cheap, greasy fast food with the kind of melancholic joy of a prisoner eating their last meal.

“So..” you cut through the sounds of chewing. “Is anyone gonna explain why I’m here? Why the cops think Eddie murdered people, why you’re covered in blood, all that?” Considering you were judging Steve and his ability to eat with a gaping hole in his stomach poorly patched over with a strip of sweater, he took on the responsibility of filling you in

“A girl named Chrissy Cunningham–”

“Chrissy? I know her. We took tumbling together at the rec center as kids.” You heard Eddie’s hard exhale behind you, and sneaked a look at him. His eyes were screwed closed, and his face was scrunched in pain, smoothing his fingertips over the bridge of his nose.

Steve continued, a bit more gently, “Well, she was at Eddie’s trailer when she died. Murdered would be a better word, by Vecna, who I’ll get to in a minute, but that’s why the police think it’s him. Anyway, yeah, Vecna’s this dude who lives in a place we call the Upside Down..”

Calm. Calm. Calm. CalmCalmCalm. calmcalmcalmcalmcalm.

Chrissy was at Eddie’s trailer.

Chrissy was at Eddie’s trailer and you could feel the etch of his stare on the side of your face, analyzing your reaction. You gave him nothing but passivity. Resisting the urge to scratch at the sudden itchy sweat dripping down your back. Refusing to take your eyes off Steve, who was going on and on about shit you couldn’t fathom, trying desperately to not dwell on the reason why Eddie cringed when he remembered you knew her. Thinking maybe he meant to pick someone anonymous to date, and this was crossing a boundary. Forcing yourself to hang onto every word falling from Steve’s mouth in order to smother the nagging voices in your head taunting you, telling you he stopped calling because he had a girlfriend.

“And, yeah, the Upside Down is just like Hawkins, but there’s monsters everywhere, and Vecna controls them..”

“Oh!” Robin perked up at you. “You would’ve been great with the Demobats! You could’ve punched them right outta the sky. Couldn’t she, Steve?”

Steve stuttered, “I-I mean, they’re bigger than a normal bat.. And have barbs on their tails. Big teeth and claws. And, uh, stronger than you think.. I could’ve taken them too, if I wasn’t ganged up on by.. ten, or more of them..”

Erica’s judgy sneer spoke for all of you.

You meant no offense to Steve, or any of the kids joining him in explaining this whole other dimension, and girl-with-powers thing, but it was mostly going in one ear and out the other. It was hard to follow along with what nonsense they were spouting when Eddie’s gaze was still on you, and you were ashamed to admit how much it bothered you to know he was dating someone else. Not you. Never you.

“A hell world filled with monsters and a big bad guy that looks like beef jerky, and he’s the one that killed Chrissy and Patrick and Fred, and now Max is next, and all this is connected to a girl whose name is a number. Got it.” You sipped your water.

Dustin quipped, “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“Great,” Steve groaned, pushing himself out of the chair, and unanimously, the rest of the group followed his lead. “Now that we’re on the same page, we should get going.”

“Wait, where’re you going?” Eddie panicked.

Lucas sucked the oil off his fingers, much to Erica’s revulsion, and then wiped them on his pants, much to Max’s dismay. “We have our own Safe House.”

“Yeah, you two get some rest, we’ll be back tomorrow to work out a plan,” Steve said, making his way to the window and opening it for the party to leave through. “Should probably take care of these bites before I die of sepsis. That would be lame way to go out. And your van is still in the woods next to Reefer Rick’s, right? We’ll take care of it for you. Make it look like you left town or something.”

“Is there anything you want us to save in there before we do?” Robin asked.

Many emotions influenced Eddie’s facial expressions. Fond thoughts of his precious amps, a guitar or two, a few stashes of keepsakes that were less important than the ones in his room, but worthy of rescuing nonetheless. “Yeah, there’s uh..” he trailed off. The crust of his sausage pizza went limp in his hand.

He did not need a bunch of children discovering what else he had hidden in the back of his van–namely, the specially ordered magazines featuring women in little clothing, with pages dogeared on the models who resembled someone currently narrowing their eyes at him.

“Actually, forget it,” he said after spacing out. “Do whatever you want.”

Eddie shoved the crust in his mouth to prevent him from saying more.

“‘Kay.. You two have fun,” Steve said, sporting an annoying salute. It was obvious he wanted to imply more, but reading the mood of the room, he let it go, and climbed through the window, shutting it behind him.

“Not too much fun,” Robin chimed in from beyond the glass as the two halves of the curtain united.

The stillness that followed was heavy. Cold. Even when they were quiet, it was impossible to disguise the racket a group of people produced; breathing, swallowing, shuffling their feet, sighing. There was an awareness in the tension remaining. You and Eddie. Sharing the same bed.

And what better way to shush your nerves than by opening the mini fridge. “Now that the kids are gone,” you said, grabbing two ice-cold bottles, and walking them to Eddie.

He accepted the beer with more gratitude than you deserved. “A 40oz? Have I ever told you you’re an angel?”

“Don’t think you’ve ever called me that, no.”

Each step away from him was a deliberate action. Choosing to return to your side of the bed instead of sitting next to him. Sinking into the plush duvet, backs facing each other, playing with twist tops until the other cracked theirs first–tsss. Minds drifting to the same topic, yet declining to acknowledge it. Until the bile burning the length of your chest was too much to ignore.

Staring at the joint where the popcorn ceiling met the wall, you supposed you went over the sentence in your head hundreds of times before you could articulate it casually and without an underlying tremor of jealousy.

“Not that it matters, and you don’t have to answer, but.. What was Chrissy doing at your trailer?”

“It was just a drug deal.” The fact he chose the direct route of correcting what you were implying was not lost on you. He used a strong, swift, powerful voice to allay any worry you had before it could evolve into suspicion, “When Vecna picks his target, they start getting these massive headaches, and have hallucinations. She came to me looking for weed at first, and then asked for something stronger. I knew I had some K at home, so I took her there, where she.. s-she..”

Glancing, you made eye contact with him through the mirror, and when he turned to look at you, you twisted to face him.

“I swear it wasn’t anything more than a drug deal,” he promised softly. Imbuing his words with sincerity, and his wide eyes with naked candor, pleading for you to believe him with more passion than a friend should have, as if it mattered to him that you knew he didn’t have feelings for her. But neither of you addressed that convoluted mess, just like he didn’t question the significance of you crawling across the bed to sit next to him only once you knew he wasn’t dating someone while you were away.

He spread his legs to increase the staggering amount of thigh you had pressed against his in an invaluable moment of overindulgence.

You clinked his beer.

Both of you closed your eyes, put the bottles to your lips, and tipped your heads back, drinking with a sigh.

“In trouble and from darkness you come, Eddie, yet your coming is joy to me,” you said in a wise, old voice.

“Quoting Earthsea at me?” His chest rose with a besotted hum. “Never change.”

Swallowing the bitter taste of alcohol, you asked, “Is what they said true?”

“Never met Eleven, but yeah, it’s all true. Robin was right, too. We could’ve used your help back there. Coulda punched the bats right outta the sky.” He mimicked throwing weak punches while making cartoon sound effects with his mouth.

You snorted into your bottle while taking another gulp. Eddie copied you, downing his with more vigor. No one could blame him.

“Is it, ah..” he started, running his palm over the shredded strings of his jeans stretched over his knee. “Is it true, about school? Did you..?”

“It’s not so cut and dry,” you assured him, figuring he’d been tortured enough for one day. “I drafted my letter, but it still needs the signatures from the rest of my professors, my Coach, all that stuff.” Beer fueled your dismissive hand movements. “I tried to finish my first midterm on Monday, Eddie, I really did, but I couldn’t just sit there and focus on a stupid test while you were 8 hours away, in deep shit.”

In your periphery, you saw his disappointed head shake, causing knotted strands of his hair to fall over his hunched shoulders.

“I still think you’re ruining your future.”

“What if I don’t give a fuck?” He jerked at your abrasiveness. You collected the condensation from your bottle and dried your hand on your thigh, wedging your fingers over the curve of the muscle, and sliding them along his leg. “What if I don’t want to go to college anymore, or work myself to an early grave and not get appreciated for it? Win all the Golds I can hang around my neck, but can’t walk the next morning? What if I want to join the circus and learn to juggle while tightrope walking? What if I die there, instead? What if I don’t know what I want to do with my life? Is that okay? What if New Years was the last time I saw you?” You stopped to suppress the air in your lungs. Holding it there. Not letting it go. Not until the tears stopped blurring your vision. “What if I don’t give a fuck about any of your dreams for me? Not yours, not mom’s, not Coach’s. What if I’m finally doing what I want?”

He stopped wringing his lips together to ask meekly, “And what’s that?”

You released a sad, single laugh, and conceded to the one thought repeating on an endless loop above all others in your head. “At first I was going to say keeping you out of trouble, but I think we both know.. When you’re in trouble, I’m right there with you. I want to be right there with you. Forever, remember?”

Unable to verbalize what he was thinking to give the outer corners of his eyes a delicate kiss of wrinkles, he made a noise of agreement, and cheers you with a dear lean into your shoulder. You braced him. For just a brief second. It was lovely.

“And to address the elephant in the room,” you began in a mocking tone, “Yes, that’s my gym bag next to my suitcase, and yes, I can still compete at Nationals if I want to. I haven’t officially dropped out yet.”

“Good to know.”

The conversation stalled as Eddie downed the rest of his beer and sat it on the nightstand with a clunk. You weren’t far behind him. Despite the pleasant tipsiness you both had at this point, the humor of the night dwindled to the circular cycles of grief. Of uprooting your life for someone who unfairly witnessed too much.

“I’ve never been more scared in my life,” Eddie admitted in a whisper. His stare was unfocused. Haunted. Remembering things he never should have been subjected to. “I’ve just been running.. Running away in fear. I can’t even process what’s happening anymore.”

“Mm, I think my brain shut down hours ago.” Probably after your sixth caffeine pill wore off post-midterm and post-packing your car for an undetermined amount of days trip and post-driving in the countryside at night. It was reprehensible enough your first thought upon learning of Chrissy’s death was to accuse Eddie of fucking her instead of mourning her life like any sane person, but you tried to give yourself a break. Nothing about the last few days had been sane, or rational.

Gliding the back of your fingers along the seam of his jacket sleeve to the top of its broken zipper in an attempt to soothe him without direct contact, you reeled at the black goop you collected in the process.

Eddie took the hint. “Guess I should shower now.”

“Yeah, you smell awful.”

“Breaking my heart here, babe.”

Nothing woke you up quite like him using a pet name for you. He might rejoice when his battered body hit the mattress later, but you could cry now. Embarrassingly, you could weep at his use of a term of endearment. Babe. He was so sweet to someone so selfish as you.

He asked, “Will you be asleep when I get out?”

You put your whole body into nodding, and answered gruffly, “Oh, yes.”

~~~

Eddie stared at his naked self in the mirror. A bruise the size of a basketball was swelling to fruition along his ass cheek and hip from when he caught Robin during an earthquake. Spinning in a slow circle, he assessed more. Turning this way and that to find scrapes in strange places. Muddy brown blood mixed with unnatural black. Constellations of purple under layers of filth. Traumas to the surface he couldn’t recall earning. He hurt so much, he couldn’t feel them anymore, and scavenging his body was the preferred distraction from where he knew he was retrograding. The inevitable.

Snap.

Twist.

Squish.

Pop.

Adrenaline was a backhanded thing. It aided memory. Thrills you wanted to imprint for a lifetime, and horrors you did not.

Why did he work so hard to swim for air only to be met with the snap of Patrick’s knees echoing across the surface? Jason’s reedy cry when his friend’s mangled body splashed his face?

Why did he keep his eyes open when Chrissy’s popped, and wetness rained upon his cheeks?

Water felt awful on his skull. Drumming like their twisted fingers on his scalp, tracing the ridges of his spine. Running grungy with muck, and never feeling clean. The white soap you left for him was too pure. The shampoo bottle felt wrong under his torn fingernails paling from the strain of his clutch on reality. The cold tile dripped with sludge found at the bottom of the lake as he rested his forehead there, trying to calm himself down.

He tried. He tried. He tried.

Scrubbing himself til his skin blushed pink. Til his tangled hair combed smooth between his fingers. Til the beat of hot water on the tub drowned everything out. Til he didn’t care that he was using your toothbrush after his fourth consecutive day of morning breath.

Wiping the fog from the mirror, he knew he’d lost it.

He didn’t recognize himself.

He did, but he didn’t.

Toeing at his dirty clothes stretched across the floor to be dealt with at a later time, he dressed in his blue checkered boxers, and peeked outside the door.

The room was dark, and you didn’t make a sound.

Creeping further into the short hallway, he saw your back facing him from the bed. Shoulders just a touch above the covers.

Eddie opened the door wider and reached for the light switch. He hesitated, and dropped his hand.

He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t turn off the light. Too dark. For days on end. The forest surrounding Lover’s Lake, Skull Rock, the Upside Down, and Hawkins. Dark dark dark.

Going to the small TV on the chest of drawers, he flipped it on, and turned the volume down low. Adjusting the antennas, it was with a passing bit of ease he understood what he was watching. The fuzz dissipated. The dampness on his skin dried. The wrestlers slammed their backs on the squared circle. Not popular wrestlers who had audiences flocking to see them. Obscure ones. Still, he knew their names from the hours he’d spent at Gareth’s, insisting he used his cable to watch the weekly shows. Because it made him feel connected to you.

He walked to his side of the bed. Watched you for a moment. Shoulders rising and falling in peace under a loose white shirt. Bedsheet wrapped around your fists nestled to your chin.

You were wearing something different from earlier, and he was mostly naked.

Opening your suitcase, the black muscle tee welcomed him like an old friend. Tattered. Holes along the hem. It wasn’t sleeveless when he gave it to you some odd years ago, you must’ve ripped them off. What a liar. Claiming you returned all his clothes before you moved away. He wasn’t too surprised, though, running his finger over the tag with his initials.

Afterall, he collected many more reminders of you.

Moving on, he dug deeper. Clawing his way through your neatly folded outfits. Searching, searching. Pulling things out at random and holding them up to his body and tossing them. Over and over. He was panicking. Sweating. Couldn’t catch his breath. The inevitable. It was happening. It was happening. It was coming. It was here.

His chest tightened.

He grabbed a dark blue sweatshirt and pulled it over his head. It didn’t fit. The cuffs resisted meeting his wrist. Covered most of his skin. It’d have to do.

He went to his side of the bed again. And stared.

Snap.

Twist.

Squish.

Pop.

“Hey.” It came out as a whimper. “Are you awake?”

The first tear beaded over his lower lashes.

Could you feel it if he touched you? The secrets he kept suppressed for years? Screaming violence in his blood when you got a little too close. When he let you take things a little too far. When he dropped his guard a little too much. When you looked at him for the first time in months, and he got carried away, almost pressing his forehead to yours in a kind of intimacy he’d never explored before. Take, take, take. More, more, more.

He couldn’t. It was inappropriate. Friends. You were just friends. Best friends.

What were you wearing? He couldn’t find bottoms that fit. His legs were exposed. Were yours?

Shaking. Shaking. The ache was getting worse. Building, building, building. Throat constricting. Teeth clacking. Inappropriate, inappropriate, inappropriate.

A tear clung to the corner of his unsteady frown.

“Can I hold you?”

You didn’t answer, sleeping.

His Light. His Safe House.

Snap.

Twist.

Squish.

Pop.

The last of his energy being used to stave off the inevitable vanished. He buckled. He couldn’t do it. Beaten down by his reputation, his cowardice, his inability to succeed, his self-destructive habit of resisting taking refuge in the one person who brought him unconditional shelter without expecting anything in return.. All of it broke at once.

Light.

Safety.

Refuge.

Sanctuary.

With his gaze on the floor, his tears dotted the carpet as he tried between desperate inhales, “N-Need to hold you.”

He pulled back the covers and crawled into bed next to you. Shifting closer, closer. Sliding his arm under your head, throwing his other across your chest, and bringing you to him. More, more, more. It was wrong. It should feel wrong. It didn’t feel wrong. Your sleepy face was pressed into his flexed bicep, lifting your cheek to his nose. To where his lips muttered into your soft skin. I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

He said it in coughs due to his sobs. “Sorry–S-Sorry,” he wept. “I–Sorry. I. I.” His tears slipped over his nose, falling to your cheek in one stride. He shouldn’t be doing this. Holding you like this. Legs tucked against yours. It was wrong. Inappropriate. “Just need to hold you. I’m so sorry. Oh, God. I’m s-so sorry.” He risked more intimacy. Hugging you to his chest with the strength of his dormant urges. Years of cravings stirring in his muscles. Desires coaxing his lips–just once–to discover your jaw as he attempted to control himself, and force his face into the vacancy below your ear, burying himself against your neck, making a small whine when your hand found his safe haven.

You reassured him in a tender stroke along his temple. “It’s okay, Eddie. I’m here. You can hold me.”

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stargazer-sims · 1 month

Text

The Art of Redemption

(part 13)

previous // next // story index

—————

By the time Saturday rolls around, Nikolai has almost entirely forgotten his disappointment at not being able to enjoy Thursday's unexpected snowfall by playing outside with Stan, Beth-Anne and Stan and Milena's two young grandsons. He acknowledges that Beth-Anne and Stan's reasons for discouraging him from going out made sense. Another inadvertent fall wouldn't do his injured leg any good, and he definitely doesn’t want any more setbacks. But, just because he understands the rationale now, that didn't mean he had to like it at the time.

He can't say he was sad or bored indoors with Milena. They listened to music and she taught him how to bake chocolate chip cookies, and they laughed a lot at each other’s work-related anecdotes. Although he would have preferred helping to build a snow fort and then engaging in the inevitable snowball fight afterwards, lack of snowballs notwithstanding, it had been a fun day.

He and Milena had hot cocoa and their freshly-baked cookies waiting when everyone else came inside, and it was hard to determine if it was Stan or his seven and nine year old grandsons, Lukas and Marek, who were more excited about the snack. After snack time, Nikolai played video games with the boys while Milena got some housekeeping done and Stan and Beth-Anne went back outside to help the Kovacs' elderly next-door neighbour clear snow from his driveway.

While Lukas, the seven year old, was taking his turn with the game controller, nine year old Marek chattered enthusiastically to Nikolai about skating, about his Saturday group class, and how his grandpa thought he could start competing next year if he wanted to.

"I don't know if I'd win any medals or not," Marek said. "But even if I don't, that's okay. I like skating a lot, and Grandpa says having fun is what counts. But, I think he thinks I'm a good skater anyway."

“Well, your grandpa should know,” Nikolai told him. “He’s seen a lot of skaters in his lifetime, and back in the day, he was fantastic too. Is he going to coach you?”

“Maybe,” Marek said. “Or maybe Auntie Beth-Anne, ‘cause I’m in her group class now. You have to be at least nine to be in that class, and I had my birthday in November, so I moved from another class to that one."

“I’m coming to your group class this Saturday, so I’ll see you there.”

That elicited a giggle from Marek. “You’re too big for a kids' group class!”

“No, I’m not coming to skate. I’m coming to watch. Some day, I’m going to be a coach like your grandpa and Beth-Anne, but I have to learn how to do it first, and Beth-Anne is going to teach me.”

“Is that like… coach coaching?”

Nikolai laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Cool.” Marek beamed. “You should watch me, ‘cause I can do three different double jumps. Oh, and there’s this one kid, Eden. He can do a triple toe loop, but don’t tell anybody, ‘cause Auntie Beth-Anne already said he’s not allowed to do triples yet.”

Nikolai put a finger to his lips and made a zipping gesture. “The secret’s safe. Don’t worry.”

He’d been aware on some level that Stan’s grandson and the much-mentioned kid named Eden were both in one of Beth-Anne’s Saturday group classes, but until recently, he’d been far too focused on his own career and the events of his own life to give much thought to what might be happening at the rink when he wasn’t there. Saturdays used to be his day off, when he didn’t go to the dance studio or the gym, and when he skated only if he wanted to. Prior to his injury, he’d had very little contact with children’s group classes. He'd had no reason to.

But, all that has changed. It’s Saturday, and he’s essentially going to work. Or, more accurately, to volunteer. He rephrases the thought because although it’s technically on-the-job training, he’s not getting paid.

He’ll have to start looking for a real job soon. His savings won’t last indefinitely, and the mortgage on his and Anya’s house and their household bills won’t pay themselves. He doubts Anya would be thrilled about taking on the full responsibility for it. She couldn’t afford to manage it on her own anyway and would probably need help from her parents. Nikolai does not, under any circumstances, want that to happen. He’d rather sell the property than to be indebted to Anya’s father in any way. Mr. Baranov dislikes him intensely, a fact that he barely succeeds in hiding, and Nikolai isn’t shy to admit the feeling is mutual.

It hadn’t always been like that, of course. His family and Anya’s have known each other since he and Anya were teenagers, ever since Nikolai’s family had moved here from another province and Nikolai met Anya at the rink. They’d all gotten along well, and Nikolai even recalls Anya’s father happily giving his blessing for their marriage. It’s only been during the past three years, since Nikolai and Anya have been married, that things have gone drastically downhill.

God alone knows what Anya might’ve been telling her father about me all this time. It’s enough to push him toward panic, and he has to remind himself this isn’t the moment. He needs to be clear-headed. Later. You’ll have time to think about all that stuff later.

Beth-Anne had woken him up at six o’clock and told him to hustle, as they needed to be at the rink by a quarter to eight. When he asked her why they needed to be there so early if her first class didn’t start until 8:30, she explained there’s one kid who’s been coming to the rink with his older cousin lately, and the cousin is apparently fixated on arriving early for everything. He could be there as early as eight o’clock, she said, and she didn’t want a ten year old out on the ice by himself with only the non-skating teenage cousin to supervise him.

As it happened, Beth-Anne had given him ample time to get ready. He ended up sitting on the bench by the front door for twenty minutes waiting for her, and he wanted to laugh when she came flying down the stairs with a breathless, “Okay, this is the best I can do with this fucking makeup. Let’s go.”

They made it to the arena only five minutes later than Beth-Anne’s 7:45 target, which they mutually agreed was due entirely to being held up by some sort of emergency road work they’d had to detour around and had nothing at all to do with stopping at Tim Horton’s to fill their insulated travel mugs with fresh coffee. Beth-Anne was pleased, right up until two seconds ago, when they’d rounded the corner into the glass-walled corridor leading to her assigned practice rink and they spotted a kid already on the ice.

The child is small, with wisps of straight black hair peeking out from beneath his rainbow-striped toque. When he turns, Nikolai sees a delicate face that reminds him of a porcelain doll more than of a real person. He immediately feels weird for having this thought, but he can’t help remarking to himself that he’s never seen such a beautiful child before.

Then, something else occurs to him that quickly chases the stray thought away. He wonders if there’s been a mix-up with ice times. There’s no way this boy should be in a group class for nine to eleven year olds. He doesn’t look like he could be more than six or seven.

Nikolai blinks and looks more closely at the way the little boy is moving. The child is dancing around an orange safety cone, and his footwork is far too complex for any six year old to have perfected to that degree.

It takes only a moment for him to connect the dots. This must be Eden Seong, the student Beth-Anne often talks about with such adoration and pride. Korean-Canadian, tiny, feisty, and overflowing with talent… Suddenly, it makes sense why everyone refers to him as ‘little Eden’ and why he gets so much praise.

“Dammit!” Beth-Anne mutters. “I’m going to have a word with that cousin.”

Nikolai looks up toward the benches and notices another boy, this one probably around sixteen or seventeen, with the same delicate features as the younger one. He's bundled in a huge parka and cradling a takeaway cup between his mittened hands, and he looks unhappy. He appears to be shouting something at the smaller boy, but from behind the wall, it’s hard to tell.

Nikolai’s attention is off the child for no more than three seconds, but in that sliver of time, Beth-Anne lets out an exclamation of “Shit!” and almost simultaneously sets their two metal travel mugs and her skate bag on the floor. Beth-Anne is already pushing her way through the door to the rink area when Nikolai sees that the little boy is now sitting on his bum on the ice, legs splayed out in front of him.

Nikolai hurries to catch up with Beth-Anne, cursing under his breath because at this point his crutches are slowing him down rather than helping him. He abandons them by the door and limps as fast as he can to the gate that leads to the ice surface.

Beth-Anne is already practically running across the ice. "Eden, are you okay? What happened?"

The little boy — Eden — scrambles to his feet and skates directly into Beth-Anne’s waiting arms. Almost immediately, he begins to sob for all he’s worth. He wails, "Everything is awful!"

Nikolai frowns. Not that most of the figure skaters he’s acquainted with, including himself, are known for being particularly mellow, but this level of dramatic behaviour seems like an overreaction to a simple fall. He glances up at the teenager in the stands again. The older boy is scowling with his entire face, his features pinched with anger or embarrassment, or both.

He realizes something must’ve happened before he and Beth-Anne arrived, and what he’s seeing now is Eden’s breaking point.

"I wouldn't go that far," Beth-Anne is saying to her little student. "Everything can't be awful. There's got to be something that isn't."

"No... everything,” Eden says.

"Are you sure?" she asks. “What about grilled cheese? And ballet?"

Eden pauses, considering her words. He sniffles loudly and concedes, "No."

"There. You’re not awful either, and I’m reasonbly sure I’m not. So, everything's not awful. Just certain things."

"Yeah, I guess,” he says.

"Can you tell me why you're crying?" she inquires. “Did you hurt yourself?”

“No,” he tells her. “It’s just… I hardly ever fall down. I lost my balance, and it was stupid ‘cause I wasn’t paying attention.”

“Everyone falls down sometimes. It’s okay. As long as you’re not hurt, that’s what’s important.”

Eden shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it does,” Beth-Anne says.

“No, it doesn’t. Even if I hurt myself really bad and I could never skate again, it wouldn’t make any difference. Maybe it’d even be better that way, ‘cause then I’d have an actual reason to stop.” More tears spill down his pale cheeks, and he wipes at them aggressively. "It wouldn’t just be because my parents don’t want me to skate any more. They said I have to stop after this month, and it’s not fair.”

“I know,” Beth-Anne says gently. “I’ve talked to your parents, and I've been thinking a lot about that.”

"Really? Can you fix it? Can you talk to them again and make them change their minds?”

“No one can make anybody change their mind, you know. Every person is in charge of their own actions and their own feelings. I can try to convince them, but at the end of the day, what happens will be up to them."

“But, what about my feelings?” Eden protests. “I love skating. I don’t ever want to stop, but all my parents care about is liabilities, whatever that is. They don’t care how I feel.”

“I think they do,” Beth-Anne assures him. “But, they’re worried about you. They don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Then, I should never do anything ever again. I should never ride my bike or run on the stairs or walk on the sidewalk in my bare feet or play tag with Charlie and Sadie. I accidentally got hurt doing all that stuff.”

“Have you tried telling that to your parents?”

“No, but it wouldn’t do any good if I did.”

“You might be surprised,” Beth-Anne tells him.

“We shouldn’t even have to talk about it,” Eden says. He pulls back from his coach and looks her straight in the face. “I’m good at skating. Like, really good, and it’s my favourite thing in the whole world, and everybody knows that. Why would anybody want to take away somebody’s favourite thing that they’re really good at? That’s just… not right.”

"Hmm..." Beth-Anne lets go of him and straightens up. "You know what I think?”

“What?”

“That’s a very grown up way to express yourself. I think, instead of acting like you did last time when your mother came to get you, you should explain it to your parents the way you just did to me.”

"I was so mad," Eden says. "I couldn't help it."

"Really? Some invisible force of nature just pulled you to the ice and made you scream like a toddler?"

"No, but—"

"Remember what I just said? Each person is in charge of their own feelings and actions. That means we get to choose how we respond to things, and sometimes the choices we make help us get our point across a lot better."

"What do you mean?"

"If you were having an argument with one of your friends, would you listen to him more if he yelled and threw a tantrum, or if he just calmly explained his side of it?"

"Calm," Eden says. "I don't like it when people yell."

"Most people don't like that," Beth-Anne says. "I'll bet your mother didn't like it very much the other day."

"She said I made a scene." Eden looks down at his feet. "And she said she didn't want to hear me saying anything else about skating that day."

"Well, today's a new day, and you've already learned something useful, haven't you?"

Eden nods. "Yeah. Only babies get their way by screaming. Kids my age kinda have to act more like grownups to win the argument."

Beth-Anne laughs. "I might not have put it quite that way, but you've got the idea. If you want me to, I'll talk to your parents again, but I want you to talk to them about it as well. Do you think you can do that?"

"Yeah," Eden says. "As long as you tell them I want to have a grown up conversation first."

"I'll definitely do that for you."

"I'm gonna tell them what I told you, but should I also say I want to start competing in Novice division next season, too?”

“Yes, you can tell them that, but let’s concentrate on keeping you skating first, okay?”

“And getting out of group classes and having more individual sessions?” he persists.

“Yes, but let’s go one step at a time. Stay in the program first, and then we’ll worry about the other stuff,” Beth-Anne says. “For what it’s worth though, I do think you've outgrown group classes. If you want to skate competitively, you should have individual coaching all the time."

"Will you do it?" Eden asks. The prospect of skating competitively seems to have distracted him from his earlier emotional outburst, and Nikolai finds himself smiling slightly. Eden reminds him of himself with his single-minded passion for the sport and for reaching the top. "I want to keep skating and maybe even get to the Olympics some day, and if you were my coach, that'd be awesome."

"I'll be your coach for the next couple of years, if that's what you and your parents want," Beth-Anne says. "When you're ready for Junior division, you might need somebody who can give you more time and attention."

"Somebody?" he echoes, sounding a little incredulous, as if he can't possibly imagine not having Beth-Anne as his coach. "Like who?"

"We'll have plenty of time to work that out, but maybe this guy over here." Beth-Anne turns and waves her hand in the direction of Nikolai, who’s leaning against the open gate to take some weight off his leg. She beckons him to come and join them. "You know, if he learns everything I'm going to teach him about coaching, and if the two of you can get along."

“Is he nice?” Eden asks, as Nikolai starts to pick his way carefully across the ice. "And he can't work with me unless he likes hugs, 'cause you know I'm a hugger."

“He’s amazingly nice,” Beth-Anne says. “A little headstrong sometimes, but he’s great guy and he’s just as obsessed with skating as you are. That should make him a good match for you, and…” she cuts the sentence short to admonish, “Nikolai, take your time! And where are your crutches?”

“Over there,” Nikolai says vaguely. He slides a bit as he stops beside Beth-Anne. “They were getting annoying, and I can put weight on my leg now, so…”

Beth-Anne makes an exasperated noise. “See what I mean? Headstrong as fu—"

“Fudge,” Nikolai interrupts her.

Eden seems not to notice the slip. He’s too occupied with scrutinizing Nikolai. "Can you be a coach? Do you even know enough about skating?"

"Oh, I might know a thing or two,” Nikolai says, doing his best to keep his amusement off his face. “I’ve won a few medals, even.”

Beth-Anne smiles. "Eden, this is Nikolai Pavlenko. He won gold at Worlds last season." She gestures at Eden and continues, "Nik, meet Eden Seong."

Eden scrunches his brow in concentration as he studies him. "But, you kinda don’t look like Nikolai Pavlenko, though? My parents let me stay up to watch a bunch of stuff from Worlds last season. I watched your free skate, but you look a lot different than you did when I saw you on TV."

Nikolai strokes his chin. "Maybe it's the beard. It's new."

He doesn’t mention that his beard is a result of him having been too depressed to bother with shaving. By the time he felt well enough to care about his appearance again, he decided he actually liked the beard and opted to keep it. He hadn’t been aware that it had altered his recognizability that much, but then again, he’s used to his own face in the mirror. He’d never not recognize himself, but that doesn’t necessarily mean other people would instantly know it was him.

"I like it,” Eden says. “You think I can grow one someday?"

"Probably when you're older," Nikolai replies.

"I'd look cool with a beard." Eden strokes his own chin like he’s trying to imagine himself older and with facial hair. "If you were my coach, could you teach me to do quads? You make them look so easy."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Beth-Anne says. "You can't even do a triple yet."

"Yes, I can!" Eden retorts, and then quickly claps a hand over his mouth. "Um, I mean... Triple? What's that?"

Recalling the tidbit of allegedly secret information he’d heard from Marek a few days earlier, Nikolai laughs out loud. "Oh, I already like you."

Really?" Eden says.

"Beth-Anne, remember the back flip?" Nikolai says.

"Oh, lord..." Beth-Anne groans. "Don't give him ideas."

"Back flip?" Eden inquires. "What back flip?"

"Never mind, Eden," says Beth-Anne. "Forget you heard that."

"Can you really do a triple, Eden?" Nikolai asks.

Eden suddenly has the stereotypical ‘deer in the headlights’ expression, as if he doesn't know how to answer this question without getting in trouble with his coach. He glances at Beth-Anne, clearly trying to gauge her reaction. “Um… maybe?”

Beth-Anne shrugs. "If you can, you can. Never mind that I told you not to try it."

"I can," Eden confesses. "A triple toe loop."

"You don't become a champion without taking risks," says Nikolai. "You told me that, Beth-Anne. Remember?"

"You were my first student. What did I know back then?" she says.

“I think Uncle Stan told you the same thing, didn’t he?”

“Motivational bullshit.”

"Eden, how old are you?" Nikolai wants to know. "You're starting Novice next season, so ten or eleven, right?"

"I'm gonna be eleven in May," Eden answers. “May twenty-third.”

"And you can do a triple already. Nice." Nikolai meets Beth-Anne's gaze. "Can he show me?"

Beth-Anne spreads her hands. "Does it look like I could stop him?"

"You really wanna see it?" Eden says eagerly. "I promise, it’ll be good."

"I'm sure it will," says Nikolai.

"Beth-Anne, can I show him right now?"

Beth-Anne nods toward the center of the ice. "You might as well go for it. Move a few of those cones first."

Eden looks excited by this new turn of events. He grins at his cousin in the stands and gives him a cheeky thumbs up before skating away from Nikolai and Beth-Anne, and then pushing the orange cones off to the side, one by one.

Nikolai can’t look away as Eden skates around, building up momentum. The kid may be small, but that little body is packed with strength and kinetic energy. It’s not only pure power, either. He moves with a precision that surprises Nikolai; refined, graceful and disciplined.

The kid has talent, and if he's already this advanced at ten, who knows what he might be capable of in the future?

Nikolai can predict the exact moment when Eden is about to jump. He counts the rotations.

One… two… three.

Yes!

The landing isn’t the greatest, but Eden doesn't fall or stumble as he touches down. Nikolai exhales. He’d been so invested in silently cheering for the boy’s success, he hadn’t been aware he’d stopped breathing while Eden was in the air. Now that Eden’s blades are back on the ice, Nikolai allows himself to cheer out loud.

Beside him, Beth-Anne sounds like she might’ve been holding her breath too. She visibly relaxes as she calls out, “Well done, Eden!”

Eden skates back to them and more or less tackles Beth-Anne in his effort to hug her. Understandably exhilarated from what he's just done, he exclaims, "Did you like it? Was I awesome?"

"Yes, you were awesome, sweetheart," she says. "I'm not letting you do that again for a while though, understand? You're brilliant, but it's not a good idea to rush you along. There'll be time to work on triples and quads when you're really ready, okay?"

He acquiesces. “Okay."

"All right. Your friends are going to start showing up for class soon, so we need to put the cones back. I'm going to grab my skates and put them on, and then I'll help you set the cones up. Sound good?"

"Sounds good," Eden agrees. He turns to Nikolai. "So...? Was I super amazingly awesome or what?"

"I've never seen anyone like you," Nikolai tells him honestly.

"You think I could be in the Olympics?"

"Maybe."

"That's my dream."

"I'll tell you what," Nikolai says. "Let's both agree that we're going to work really hard to learn everything we can and to be the best we can be. Then, when we're both ready, maybe we'll work on achieving that dream of yours together."

"So, does that mean you'd really want to be my coach?" Eden asks.

"We can't know the future, so I'm not going to promise anything," Nikolai says. "But if everything goes the way we want it to for the next year or so, and we get to know each other better, then yes. Some day, I think I'd really like to be your coach."

#writing #the art of redemption #thearteofredemption #nikolai pavlenko #beth-anne jones #eden seong #stargazersims

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festivids · 7 months

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Festivids Vid Exchange!

Current Festivids stage: The Festivids submission deadline is approaching: January 14 at 11:59 PM UTC.

If you're not sure about participating or are new to Festivids, here are the basics.

What is Festivids?

Festivids is an annual vidding exchange for small, rare, and completely nonexistant vidding fandoms. Vidders sign up by requesting vids in 5-10 small fandoms, and offering to vid 4-20 small fandoms. (Treats are also allowed - you don't need to sign up to participate!)

Festivids runs on the AO3's exchange platform; if you'd like to participate but you don't have an AO3 account, direct message us and we'll send you an invitation so you can make an account immediately without having to wait in the usual AO3 invitation queue.

What is a rare vidding fandom?

For Festivids this year, "rare vidding fandom" means a fandom that has less than 150 one-minute-or-longer vids made in the last ten years. Festivids volunteers go through the nominations and evaluate rarity of each fandom nominated! If you're not sure if your fandom is rare, you can check our guidelines to evaluating rarity.

What kinds of things can I nominate?

If you can vid it, you can nominate it. Participants have nominated and vidded commercials, tv shows, movies, graphic novels, web comics, books, paintings, podcasts, music videos, celebrities, social media accounts, live performances, and just about anything else you can be fannish about. Festivids nominations rules help us to understand exactly what you're trying to nominate.

Because many Festividders write letters to describe their fandoms, and many Festividders watch every vid in the collection, this is also a great way to introduce your tiny fandom to a bunch of new people!

Want to see some of these vids? Check out last years' Festivids collection or every Festivids collection that's on the AO3.

What is the Festivids schedule?

Wed 27 Sept - Sun 8 Oct: Fandom nominations!

Sat 14 Oct - Sunday 22 Oct: Signup for the exchange!

Fri 8 Dec - Mon 18 Dec: Check in with the mods to confirm that you're still planning to participate in the exchange.

Tues 2 Jan: Deadline to default on your assignment without a penalty. (The penalty is an earlier deadline the following year. See below for details.)

Sun 14 Jan: Deadline to turn in your gift vid!

Sat 3 Feb: The collection goes live with a gift vid for everyone! There are also usually many treat vids made between the submissions deadline and go live, as well as some pinch hits.

Sat 10 Feb: Vidders' names are revealed!

I defaulted after the deadline in a previous year - can I still participate this year?

Yes, you can still participate. If you defaulted after the deadline in a previous year, the mods will reach out to you after you sign up to discuss an earlier deadline for your vid this year. (That is, you may need to turn in a complete draft by January 2nd instead of January 14th.) If you turn your draft in on time this year, your record will be wiped clean and you'll be back to the regular schedule next year.

I want to sign up, but I think I'll need some support to help me as I make my vid.

Festivids also has an optional Festivids Buddies system. You can sign up for Festivids Buddies and be assigned a fellow participant in the exchange to cheerlead your vid, make music recs, beta your vid, help you find source, or provide technical help. You can ask for exactly what you want in the Festivids Buddies signup and we'll do our best to assign you a Festivids Buddy who knows your software system, shares your fannish interests, or is really excited to offer the kind of help that you want. (If you're new to the exchange, this is also a great way to meet people and find a beta who will keep your secret vid secret!)

More questions? Check out our complete guide to Festivids 2023.

#festivids #vidding #exchange #fanvids #festivids 2023

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desertfangs · 8 months

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For some reason you feel like the right person to ask about this (probably because of your fic where Daniel volunteers to manage Lestat'smusical comeback lol), but if the Armand bed pile (plus anyone else you have thoughts on) was a band, who would be in each role?

Lestat as lead singer, obviously. I feel like Louis has broody, 'bass guitarist who seems ready to drop out the band at any point but is a fan favourite for his mysterious and dark looks' vibes

But should Daniel be drums or keyboard 🤔 and I'm really unsure about where Armand himself should be

Also, not a traditional bed pile member, but I do want to suggest Bianca as another possible band member, either guitar or drums maybe?

Idk, I've just been imagining all the touring drama (imagine locking this lot up in a tour bus for months on end!), the dramatic and theatrical performances, how completely unmanageable they would be. The Vampire Lestat turned up to 11

Oh this is a fun question! I think you could ask everyone to build their own The Vampire Lestat reunion tour band from the vampire cast and everyone's answers would be different but I'll do my best. I'm just gonna use whoever might be at Trinity Gate when Lestat has this wild idea.

As you said, Lestat is the lead singer. That's his thing. He's the front man and he does the vocals.

I think you're right that Louis would be the bassist. He has dark, quietly brooding bassist energy especially with his hair long so it could drape over face. Louis would have his own groupies after a single show.

Armand would do lead guitar, because he'd refuse to take a backseat and he'd often try to steal the show with long solos. He and Lestat would probably fight backstage over him trying to take over certain songs, which would lead to them disappearing into a dressing room "to work things out" and coming out with their clothes all rumpled.

This means Daniel can do drums. I think he'd be good at them, even if though he might get excited sometimes and do a little "ba-dum-cha!" after Lestat says something that could be taken as a joke but maybe isn't meant to be. (Lestat will glare at him and Daniel will promise not to do it again, but he will.)

I'm also going to veer left here and add Sybelle on keyboard. The original band didn't have a keyboard I think it would add something and she'd be that keyboardist who doesn't speak but answers only in music if addressed.

Since Sybelle is there, Benji can work the merch table. He's probably not a bad sales person. And Marius can bounce between the merch table and backstage, acting as the haggard over-worked manager who's trying to keep everything in check and make sure the show goes on even when Lestat refuses to do a soundcheck (he can sub Daniel in for that!) or Louis refuses to come out of his dressing room in the sequined outfit Lestat is insisting he wear. A lot of this will be Marius solving problems, I imagine, but they'll play a few solid shows.

People will ask for autographs and think it's a fun tribute to Lestat's music and books, and never think these are the real actual vampires since of course the vampire are not real, and obviously this isn't the original Lestat. Except for one or two true believers who post videos on TikTok comparing their cell phone photos of Lestat at the show to footage of him from MTV and insisting it's the same guy and he hasn't aged a day.

Oh and Bianca is going to play the tambourine.

#this is so fun thank you!!!#uncivilcivilservice #answers in the desert #vc headcanons #lestat's reunion tour #the vampire lestat #lestat de lioncourt #armand #daniel molloy #louis de pointe du lac #sybelle #benji mahmoud #marius de romanus #vc #vampire chronicles #post-canon shenanigans #trinity gate #vc humor

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jcbbby · 2 years

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For the Witches

Chapter 4- I'm an Angel, I'm the Devil, and I'm Coming Inside.

Jamie’s dark preacher character is the center of this story, based on some of the themes and lyrics from the “I Am” music video, as well as a bit of Dante’s Inferno and general witchy-ness.

Full synopsis here. Chapter 1 here. Chapter 2 here. Chapter 3 here.

Chapter 4 below the cut! Note: this is kind of intense FYI! TW for mention of blood and burns.

It had been a few days since Harper had discovered her power with the help of Jamie. She had been attending services and rituals, and listening to Jamie speak, detailing the mission they were on and the various circles of Hell they would be working through. She hadn’t attempted anything like what happened with Jamie and the fireflies, but she was curious about what else she could do, if anything. Jamie had said that he would begin teaching her how to use her energy to perform rituals and help connect to the spirits like him, but nothing had come of it yet. She didn’t mind too much. To be honest, she was a little nervous to begin. Conjuring fireflies was much more benign than conjuring spirits and devils.

The service given by Jamie and his three members of his clergy today was discussing lust and temptation. He spoke about the sway that the devil had in this, poisoning one’s mind and drawing them away from the free will of their own values and getting lost in his own.

“So, my friends, we will journey to the second circle of hell. We will purify ourselves from the risks of lust. Our very own Thomas,” Jamie motioned towards a man towards the front “has volunteered to offer his body and spirit to the ritual. Thomas, would you mind stepping up here and explaining why you have asked this?”

The man called Thomas stood up and made his way to the pulpit. Jamie placed a hand on his shoulder in support before taking a step back, as Thomas cleared his throat.

“I have fallen victim to the sin of lust. You see…I was tempted by another while in a committed relationship. I gave in to that temptation, and I hurt the one I love. I ruined something good. I offer myself as a sacrifice to the second layer of hell, so that all of you may never cause the pain that I have.” Thomas looked out into the congregation.

Jamie stepped back up to Thomas, placing a hand once again on his shoulder. “Thank you, Thomas. For your openness, your honesty, and for your willingness. We will convene tomorrow for the ritual; we will journey together to cleanse your conscience and your soul. That’s all for today, everyone.”

The congregation began to shuffle their way out of the church into the evening. It had begun to rain, so Harper stayed back a minute, under the roof’s overhang, looking out as the drops fell on to the dirt. Jamie approached behind her.

“I do love the rain.” His warm voice cutting through the static of the raindrops.

Harper flinched slightly, having been surprised by Jamie suddenly being behind her. They shared a slight laugh over her brief scare.

“Yeah, yeah…Me too. It was looking like the ground could really use it, too. It’s so dry out here.” She said turning herself to Jamie and leaning against the wall.

“You mean you don’t like inhaling dust?” Jamie smirked.

Harper chuckled. “Not particularly, I can’t say I do.”

There was a moment of silence between them before Jamie took a breath. “So tomorrow…” he began. “Things may get a little more intense. I don’t want you to get frightened.”

Harper furrowed her brow. “What do you mean, how intense?”

“The practices used just may be a little jarring, but I just want you to know, all will be fine. Thomas and I have discussed this and the outcomes. I’m just asking you to trust me.”

Harper tilted her head. “Okay…well, I already told you I do.”

Jamie smiled. “Wonderful. Well, shall we head back?” He offered his arm, as Harper smiled and linked hers with his.

They made their way into the woods to join the others. Harper was confused by this warning he had given. How jarring would this possibly be?

Night had now fallen, and the congregation filled the basement ritual area once again. Harper had made herself a black mask to wear with fabric that Clara had given her. A chair sat in front of the altar that spirits had previously possessed Zack on. On the altar were a handful of black and white candles, a chalice of wine, a blade, and a mortar and pestle. The congregation stood in a semi-circle in front of the altar and chair, more candles created a complete circle around them all and the altar. A metaphorical circle of hell. Jamie stood next to the chair, acclimating himself to the items spread on the slab of rock. Harper watched him intently, until he turned to face the group.

“Thomas…would you please come join me.” Jamie motioned to the chair.

Thomas slowly stepped up to Jamie and gently lowered himself down to sit. He appeared nervous, but resolute. Jamie placed a hand on his shoulder and gave a single nod.

“Let us begin.”

Like the previous ritual, Jamie lifted his arms to either side of him and took in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he inhaled and exhaled, drawing his energy inward. He then slowly reached his right hand and placed it on Thomas’s forehead. Jamie began breathing deeply and rhythmically, pushing Thomas’s head back.

“The sin of lust!” Jamie shouted. “Lust clouds our vision, our thoughts, and our souls. My friends, look into the flames. See yourself in the depths of lust, feel the heat of sin in yourself.”

The congregation stared deeply into the flames burning on the altar, but Harper kept her eyes on Jamie. He let go of Thomas’s forehead as he reached for the mortar and pestle, giving a few grinds, before taking a pinch of the ground mixture into the chalice and sprinkling it into the cup. He took the blade and stirred the mixture.

“Thomas, please give me your hands.”

Thomas, still with his head tilted back, lifted his arms to offer the hands Jamie had asked for. Jamie took Thomas’s hands in his own, dragging the blade slowly across Thomas’s palm. Blood immediately seeped from the wound that was created. Thomas showed no reaction to the slicing of his hand, as he held the hand steady while Jamie took the other and completed the same action to the other.

“Bloodletting, cleansing the hands and the heart of lustful touch and feeling.” Jamie stated, placing the blade back down on to the altar.

To Harper’s slight surprise, the congregation repeated those words in unison. Almost as if they were in a trance. He then took both his hands, placing them on Thomas’s temples on either side of his head, craning his neck downward so that his head nearly touched the altar behind where he sat. Harper watched, sensing Jamie channeling energy, much like he did in that field with the fireflies. He was using his power.

“Spirits, cleanse the mind of lustful thought!” He shouted, the congregation echoing him again.

Jamie then turned back to the altar, taking the chalice again, and poured a small amount over Thomas’ forehead, in a baptismal way, allowing the liquid to flow backward through his hair. He then took one of the white taper candles from a holder sitting on the altar, turning the flame side down into the chalice. Fire immediately filled the cup, illuminating Jamie’s face. He returned the candle to its holder and walked in front of Thomas.

“Lust...enters the soul through the eyes.” The congregation echoed again. “The final step to conquer lust! Close the eyes to its temptation!” Jamie shouted.

The congregation shouted back his words one last time. To Harper’s horror, Jamie then thrusted the flaming liquid from the chalice into Thomas’s face. Jamie quickly doused water over him within seconds, extinguishing any flame that may have tried to linger upon Thomas. Harper couldn’t contain the scream of shock that left her mouth. It blended with the painful wails now coming from Thomas, the only reaction he had had thus far to anything Jamie had done. Thomas’s hands flew to his face that was already showing signs of severe burns. Jamie firmly placed both hands on either of his shoulders, quietly shushing him in an attempt to soothe him.

“I can’t see! I can’t see! My eyes!” Thomas shouted, squirming under Jamie’s grip.

Harper noticed Jamie focusing and drawing energy into Thomas, causing him to become unconscious. She could see that he had used his power to knock him out, no doubt as an act of mercy. She was frozen in her spot, trying to make sense of what she had just witnessed. Jamie turned to his three clergy members.

“Avery, Maggie, Ryan, please get him into a bed. Get him cleaned, dress his wounds, and keep watch on him. When he wakes, he will feel no pain. He will be alright. I will be along later to bless him.” Jamie nodded to them as they approached.

Ryan picked Thomas’ limp body up, carrying him bridal style, and the three of them left out through the bulkhead door. Jamie turned to the congregation and smiled.

“Thank you for being here today, that is all. Please clear the space so I may cleanse the altar and air.”

He turned to the altar, reaching for a stick of sage and holding it in one of the larger candles. The small crowd began filing out of the basement, following behind the clergy. Harper, however, still stood frozen. She came to realize that at some point, she had started crying, feeling moisture on her cheeks. As the last person stepped out of the basement, allowing the bulkhead to fall shut behind them, Jamie and Harper were now alone. She watched Jamie waft the sage gently over the altar.

“I told you that this was going to be a little jarring…” Jamie said quietly, not turning to her.

Harper’s face twisted as she began slowly shaking her head. She took off her mask and stepped closer to him, finally regaining the feeling of her legs. “A little jarring…a little fucking jarring?!” She yelled. “How about traumatic?! How about assault?!” She felt her heart rate beginning to race.

Jamie turned to face her. “Harper, you told me you trust me. I told you that the way we do things here can be dangerous, but it’s to free them-“

Harper cut him off, feeling like she could spit venom. “That…That was NOT freedom. That was not free will or clearing a conscience. You… injured that man. You ROBBED that man. His eyes…did you see what you did to his eyes?” She spat.

Jamie walked around to the other side of the altar, waving the sage in the air around him. “We discussed the risks beforehand. He was prepared. He will be okay and will be at peace. There is still a lot you need to learn here.”

Harper laughed at the outlandishness. “For fuck’s sake…I believed in you, but you are playing god here, and you’re not a god. You’re just a man, Jamie. You’re playing with these people to stroke some kind of weird god complex, your twisted ego!”

Jamie slammed his hands down on the altar, causing the chalice to fall over, narrowly missing some of the candles still burning on the rock. “You don’t know what I am.” He growled.

Harper leaned forward. “I know what I am. And it’s not this.”

“You can’t leave now. You’ve already begun this path. You’re frightened, but you need this. And you need me. You know you do. You know that this is the only way out for you.” His tone was pointed and loud as turned and began walking closer to her.

“I thought you said you were the one who needed me.” She snarled. She heard her breath hitch as he stepped even closer.

Jamie smirked. “It’s mutually assured destruction, darling. We need each other.”

“Jamie…” She muttered quietly, continuing to back up.

“And you’re right, I’m not god, no. I’m an angel, I’m the devil, and I’m coming inside.” He hissed.

Harper felt the cold concrete wall against her back as he was now inches from her face. She wasn’t afraid. She felt electrified. Like she had met her match. The dream she had had her first night here flashed through her mind for just a second.

“Alright then…” She breathed. “Show me hell.”

Jamie smirked ever so slightly. “You’re not ready.”

“Try me.”

TAGS: @001-simp, @petersprincesss, @lunerbitch, @cinnamoncunt, @dark-academia-slut, @bleuatlas, @lma1986, @steamystrangerfics

let me know if you’d like to be tagged! and LET ME KNOW IF YOU ARE LIKING THIS PLEASE. I'm still kinda winging this whole thing lol.

#jamie campbell bower imagine #jamie campbell bower #jamie bower #jamie campbell bower fanfic #jamie campbell bower x reader #jamie campbell bower x you #jamie campbell bower x oc #jcb #001 stranger things #henry creel

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icedteaandoldlace · 9 months

Note

5, 6 and 16 for Barry, Iris and Cisco :)

Not sure whether you wanted one for each of them or if you wanted the same ones for all of them, so I just did every possible headcanon/character combination here.

5. Fear headcanon

Barry has a slight fear of cats. It's nothing serious, he's just very wary around them because he can never read them and he's never sure what they want. Joe's aunt had a cat who would roll over like it wanted a belly rub, but when Barry would try to give it one, it would take a swipe at him. He still hasn't figured out why cats do that yet. Whenever he pets a cat, he only touches it very lightly because he doesn't want to set it off. When Cisco finally gets the house cat he's always wanted, he insists that it's harmless and very sweet, but Barry still doesn't know what to do with it. It hops up in his lap while he's eating a snack on Cisco's couch, and he goes very still because he doesn't want to anger it by not sharing. Cisco tells him to just push him off, but no way he's making enemies with a thing with claws (he's kinda forgotten about the whole having super speed thing for a moment). Kamilla ends up coming to his rescue and holding the cat so he can eat in peace. It's still staring at him, though.

Iris is used to having to be the brave one. At sleepovers, if she and her friends heard a weird noise at night, she would volunteer to go check it out so none of the other girls would have to admit to being afraid. Part of the reason she nudged Barry toward Felicity and threw shade at Becky Cooper was because she didn't want him to let fear hold him back from telling either girl how he felt (or at least how she thought he felt), and she thought he could use the validation. She chose to be a journalist because someone needed to report the truth even when everyone else was afraid to. This tendency has carried over to several other aspects of her life as well, and she's gotten so used to being brave for everyone else that sometimes she forgets that it's okay to let people see that she's afraid. Without consciously realizing it, one of the ways she knows she's found a solid friendship is when someone can see through her brave front, and they let her address her fears while they act as the brave one for her for a change.

Cisco's fear of bees goes back farther than he can remember. He's not sure how or when it started, but he knows it was already in full swing the first time he watched Winnie the Pooh and the Honey Tree, as a small child still navigating basic motor skills. He can vividly remember being scared out of his wits when that mean bee laughed his buzzy laugh at Pooh getting stuck in the tree, and it was not a good time for him. It took him a few years to be able to watch that scene without wanting to leave the room. It doesn't scare him anymore, but he still doesn't like that bee. But one movie he is never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER watching again is My Girl.

6. Musical headcanon

Barry is the basic bitch of the group. He is the most likely to listen to Taylor Swift and The Beatles and other mainstream stuff like that, but of course he's also a big fan of musicals. He totally made a few music videos as a teen that he choreographed himself, and roped Iris into being in/filming a couple of them. At some point in his later teen years, he deleted all the evidence, but there's probably a home-burned DVD or a flash drive lying around somewhere that has a few survivors on it, including the Soulja Boy dance, which they were both so proud to have pulled off at the time.

Iris's taste in music has less to do with genre and more to do with how much of a visceral effect it has on her. She's a big fan of heavy bass lines and snappy tempos, and she loves anything she can dance to, whether slow and romantic or upbeat and noisy. She went to an *NSYNC concert when she was 12, and No Strings Attached is still one of her favorite songs of all time. She is also a big fan of En Vogue. She usually listens to music around the house with headphones, because if Barry walks in while she's grooving, he will embarrass her with his dad moves. But when she's driving to work, she lets it blast.

Cisco has the most All Over The Place taste in music out of anyone on Team Flash, and also the biggest music library, and the most playlists. He has (at least) one playlist completely dedicated to film scores, and another for songs used in memes. He has more songs he likes than songs he dislikes, but when he finds a song he truly hates, it Needs To Die ("Tom's Diner is trash, and I don't care who knows it!"). He's also a big time shower singer, and if it annoys you, that's your problem.

16. Appearance headcanon

Barry loves his signature quiff, but he secretly wants to have side bangs because he thinks they're cool. He's heard enough people make fun of guys with bangs that he's too afraid to get them himself, but he did enjoy that brief period with them right after coming out of the Speed Force. The best part of being Savitar was not caring what people thought anymore and getting to style his hair however he wanted, but he would never admit to that. That secret died with Savitar, but deep down, Barry already knows.

Iris has always been pretty confident about her appearance, but one thing she was on the fence about for a while was bright colored lipstick. She was just never sure if she could pull it off, so she would play it safe with neutral tones, and more often than not, she would just wear lipgloss instead. But after the whole Savitar thing and spending months thinking she was gonna die soon, she decided life's too short to be anxious about little things like that, so she started wearing bright lipstick more often, and she decided that she really, really loves it.

Cisco had to wear glasses when he was a kid, and he hated them because it just provided the bullies with more ammunition (especially when combined with the headgear). But he's too freaked out by the idea of having to touch his eyeballs to wear contacts, so as soon as he got off his parents' insurance plan and started taking care of his own medical expenses, he got LASIK surgery. THAT freaked him out a whole lot, too, but at least he knew it was only a one time thing. Ironically, he thinks glasses are sexy on other people, just not on himself. But he eventually got over that insecurity, and he fully embraced the Vibe goggles once he got comfortable using his powers.

#The Flash #Barry Allen #Iris West #Cisco Ramon #headcanons #ask #alittleflashvibe #long post

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silvermp · 1 year

Text

last night I dreamt -

I dreamt I went to a BTS concert. Accidentally swapped dreamscapes with a horse.

Now, I am not a huge fan of BTS. Their music is fun, and I’ve probably watched all their routines because I do like well-choreographed dances - but I dont even remember what they all look like, and I don’t know any of their names.

In this dream, BTS ended the concert by asking if anyone in the crowd wanted a chance to learn some of their choreography and dance on stage at their next show. Everyone else was so excited screaming that they forgot to raise their hand to volunteer. So I raised my hand. Free dance lessons sounded fun. I won the tickets.

After the show ended, an official rep for the band found me waiting in line at the bathroom, and asked to do a quick interview with me. Apparently they were doing a short film about inviting a fan to do choreo, and wanted to know my backstory (how I grew up) to start coming up with video ideas.

Me: Uhhhh, I live in Kentucky, and my mom trained horses to do dressage, I guess?

Them: Perfect!

This somehow resulted in piling into a large van with a bunch of film folks + their cameras, and my Fiance. We drove through some mountains until we reached Kentucky, where I was told I would be introduced to the horse they wanted me to ride onstage, to make the horse dance before I would jump off and join the dance as a person.

So we’re driving past all these amazing horse trainers demonstrating the wild tricks their horses could do in the fields, and ended up at... a farmhouse.

Like, a regular-ass, kinda run-down, dirty kentucky farmhouse. It had a rusted swingset in the front yard, the scraggliest fucking grass on either side of muddy paths, and a wooden wrap-around porch with peeling paint that sagged + bounced a little when you walked on it. Behind it was a very nice barn with beautiful horses and lovely white-painted fences - exactly what I’d expect. Horse people pour their money into their horses, not themselves.

But the film people were distressed! This wasn’t aesthetic! How would they do a beautiful documentary of me meeting this amazing horse and become a talented dressage rider on stage with BTS against such an ugly background!?

So the film people called in a bunch of woodworkers and repair guys to fix up the house to make it pretty, while I dropped my stuff off inside. There’s doilies and hand-made crafts everywhere. Cross-stitching. Hand-carved bears that also resembled dogs. A huge collection of cowboy boots and ALL of them were falling apart at the seams but still caked with dried mud to show they’re used regularly. The guest room smelled vaguely of cigarette smoke and pine sap. Everything is wood-paneled. The bathroom was entirely pastel pink.

All these details that felt like they’d been pulled from every stereotype I’d ever had about old in-use ranch and farmhouses. The outside was fully fleshed out, but the inside sorta....morphed into existence as I wondered something like ‘did they have a bathroom?’

So I met the ‘legendary’ trainer in a barely-lit wood-paneled hallway, shook hands with her, and we went to go back outside to go meet the horse I was to ride.

In the distance, there was BTS petting some other horses at the fence, one of them was laughing and waving at a cell-phone held up to livestream while another kept ripping handfuls of grass up to feed the horses. They had driven in the van behind mine, to make this trip, because they thought ‘BTS learns to ride horses’ would be a fun video for fans to see. (’sure’, I thought ‘That sounds like something rich athletic celebrities would make on a whim’)

But the horse in the barn took one look at me, pinned his ears back and gave me an expression like “Why the fuck are you here?” and tried looking over my shoulder, and I had the odd realization that this wasn’t my dream.

This was the horse’s dream.

The horse was a fan of BTS from hearing them on the barn’s shitty speakers, and wanted to dance on stage with them.

And I was one of a few humans in Kentucky who could make that ‘link’ happen.

Like, apparently reality in a dream could only bend so far before the improbability made the whole thing collapse. You had to make small bends here and there, until all the events could form the path you wanted.

The ‘bends’: Horse wanted to meet BTS and dance with them. I liked dancing, and appreciated BTS enough to theoretically buy tickets. I was also from Kentucky, and I both knew that horses could ‘dance’ via dressage, and could ride horses proficiently. I had the money to buy a ticket to their show, and I’d be game for being in a video project if one was suggested to me. All these little ‘truths’ were able to gently bend the dream’s baseline reality toward getting BTS to this particular farm.

But the horse wanted one of the BTS guys to ride him - Not me.

And I told the horse: I didn’t think BTS had ever ridden a horse, so of course they wouldn’t be placed on such an energetic and excitable young stallion to learn on - they’d end up on a very docile old mare who would just plod along calmly.

And so the horse snapped out of his halter, reared up and transformed into this really terrifying smoky dragon-horse-dark-souls-armor monster thing and screamed at me with a lot of very sharp teeth and sharp face plates. Despite that scary visual description, in the moment I just felt puzzled - not scared.

I left the dream with the impression that it was just the horse throwing an angry tantrum because this was the closest he ever got to actually meeting BTS but no one fucking believed in him!

I felt bad. =(

Anyway, I now believe there’s a horse somewhere in Kentucky who really likes BTS, and is trying to dreamlink his way into that meeting.

#one time I dreamt #horses #bts #dreaming #smp

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zizzlekwum · 1 year

Text

Stranger In A Not-So-Strange Land

Masterlist

CHAPTER SIX

The BAU investigates a series of homicides where the unsub calls 911 before murdering the victims. Follows the events of Criminal Minds Season 2 Episode 14 “The Big Game.”

Trigger Warnings: none

Word Count: 4,918

Tag List: @leftoverenvy @itsmeanobody @ctrljuls @theclassicgaycousin [if you want to be added to the tag list, please comment or send me an ask]

NOTE: Sorry again for the delayed upload, I kinda forgot yesterday was Sunday. Oops!

In your old life, you rarely went to clubs, more content to visit your few friends at their houses and play video games than going out drinking, but when Garcia excitedly tells you that everyone is going to the bar after work, you can’t bring yourself to tell her no. The people you work with are your only source of social interaction now, so you can’t justify not going out with them on the basis of it being outside of your comfort zone.

At the Irish-themed pub, you’re content to sit on the sidelines and chat with your found family, thankful that you were wearing your Calmer noise-reducing ear buds when you woke up in this universe; it helps you deal with the loud, booming music that serves as a reminder why you typically avoid going to places like this (you also always carry a pair of foam earplugs in your pocket, though, just in case). When Emily stands to grab everyone another round of drinks, you, you volunteer to help her carry them back to the table.

“Hey Morgan, be careful!” she shouts over the roar of the music as you follow her back to the table, balancing three glasses in your hands. “The one in the back could take your wallet!”

“That’s all right,” Morgan tells her with a grin, dancing with multiple women. “I’ll be a broke, happy man.” You laugh as Emily shakes her head, the both of you placing the drinks down on the table in front of Hotch, Haley, and Garcia.

“Thank you,” Hotch says, grabbing his glass. “Cheers!”

You sit down as you raise your glass of Blue Moon and smile, taking a sip. “Cheers!”

“So how are they treating you at the BAU, Emily?” Haley asks after setting her drink down.

“She means am I being nice to you,” Hotch jokes. Haley nods, smiling.

“Actually, everyone has been incredibly nice,” Emily tells her, smiling.

“Good,” Haley says.

“Just look at him move!” Garcia is turned away from you in her chair, sipping from her drink as she watches Morgan hungrily. “It’s like a cat.”

“More like a dog!” Emily exclaims, laughing.

Garcia glances at her. “He did not ask them to dance. They asked him.”

Emily smiles. “Okay. Okay, he’s a cat.”

“An alley cat,” Haley jokes, causing you to choke on your beer, spilling a little.

Hotch stands, grabbing her hand. “Come on, Haley, let’s go show them how it’s done.”

“I’m game if you are!” Haley says as Hotch leads her to the dance floor.

Emily hands you napkins as you finish coughing. “Thanks,” you tell her, wiping at the spilled beer on your shirt. “God, that was unexpectedly hilarious.”

“It was a good one,” she agrees, laughing. She looks over at Hotch and Haley. “That is so sweet!”

Garcia stands. “I’m going to the loo.” She points at Emily. “Do not let anyone steal my seat.”

“I’ll guard it with my life,” Emily tells her, smiling. She turns to you as you take another sip of your beer. She turns to you. “Having fun?”

“I’m enjoying spending time with everyone— you know, outside of work— although a loud bar wouldn’t typically be my first pick,” you admit. “I have sensory issues, so I don’t really like loud places, and crowds give me anxiety, but luckily I have these.” You reach up and remove one of your ear buds, showing it to her before putting it back in your ear. “They help reduce the noise to a more manageable volume.”

“How do they work?” Emily asks.

You shrug. “No idea. And I won’t be able to look it up, either, because these are from my own universe and won’t be invented for years.”

“What else do you do to help manage your sensory issues?”

“I try to avoid handshakes when I can— I don’t like that they’re never the same amount of pressure, and men squeeze way too tightly for my liking. I also don’t let anyone touch my head,” you say, then point to your hat. “And the hat helps me feel less anxious, though I’ve never really been able to pinpoint the reason why.”

“So that’s why I’ve never seen you without one,” she says, smiling.

You smile back at her, nodding, and open your mouth to continue the conversation when you notice JJ making her way through the crowd towards you. “Shit,” you say, taking a big sip of your beer.

“What’s wrong?” Emily follows your line of sight and frowns. “Oh no, that’s her ‘we have a case’ face.”

“We have a case,” JJ says when she reaches you, confirming your suspicions.

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” you tell her, standing.

“I’m going to go tell the others,” she says as you and Emily head to the bar to pay your tabs, abandoning your drinks.

“You good to drive?” Emily asks as you take out your keys.

You wave your hand at her as if to wave away her concerns. “I only had one beer,” you tell her, then pause. “Well, one and a half. Plus, I already had something to eat, and as my best friend Derek used to say, I have the alcohol tolerance of a cow.”

“A cow?” she repeats, chuckling.

“I don’t know, I guess it’s supposed to mean I have a high tolerance,” you tell her as the two of you exit the bar. You gesture down the street. “I’m down there. I’ll meet you at the BAU?”

She nods, beginning to walk in the opposite direction. “See you there.”

* * * * *

Back at the BAU, you all gather in the conference room. “You know, it never fails,” Morgan says, pouring himself a coffee. “Just as I’m getting my groove thing going, BAM! We’re back at the BAU.

“You know, statistically, a case doesn’t come in with any more frequency if you’re at a party or gathering than if you aren’t,” Reid says as you and Prentiss chuckle at Morgan. “It’s a trick of the mind. We merely remember the ones that came in that way more.”

“Besides, is it really that hard for you to get your ‘groove thang’ going again?” Emily asks. You snort.

“Only when he’s sleeping,” Gideon says as he walks into the room, taking off his coat.

“Where were you tonight?” Hotch asks Gideon.

“I told you, I went to the Jeffersonian,” Gideon says, sitting down.

“You missed a good time,” Prentiss tells him.

Gideon shrugs. “I had a good time.”

“Well, that’s definitely over,” JJ says as she walks into the room and grabs the remote, pointing it at the TV screen and bringing up a picture of a well-dressed couple. “The Kyles, Dennis and Lacy, were murdered an hour ago in their suburban Atlanta home.”

“Only an hour ago?” you say.

“Police were on scene unusually fast,” JJ tells you.

“Why?” Morgan asks.

“One of the unsubs called them and told them that the other was about to murder the victims.”

“You’re kidding.” Morgan shakes his head.

JJ nods. “From inside the house. According to the dispatcher, the first male sounded terrified and begged them to get there because the other, who they both identified as Raphael, was about to kill the sinners that lived there.”

“Sinners?” Hotch repeats, frowning.

“Yeah,” JJ says. “The 911 center is going to send Garcia a copy of the tape.”

“How fast was the police response time?” Reid asks.

“Four minutes, 26 seconds,” JJ tells him, pressing a button on her remote and pulling up pictures of the crime scene. “During which time Raphael managed to do this.”

“Oh,” Garcia says quietly, looking away.

“In four and a half minutes?” Prentiss says, a shocked expression on her face.

“Mr. Kyle is a dot com millionaire,” JJ continues. “His company is one of the largest employers in the community. There’s gonna be media coverage.” She turns back to the TV screen. “Also, when they arrived, the police found this displayed prominently on the bed.”

“Revelations, chapter six verse eight,” Hotch notes.

“They’re killing sinners,” Morgan says. “These guys are on a mission.”

“And mission-based killers will not stop killing,” Reid adds.

“‘And I looked and behold a pale horse,’” Hotch reads, “‘and his name that sat upon him was Death.’”

“‘And Hell followed with him,’” Gideon finishes.

“Hey,” you say, a thought occurring to you. “The name Raphael, could that be a reference to the archangel?” You mentally thank your obsession with Supernatural for helping make the connection.

“It could be a coincidence,” Hotch says, frowning. “But certainly something to keep in mind.” He looks around the room at everyone. “Wheels up in thirty.”

* * * * *

After the plane takes off, Morgan sets up a laptop on the table in front of you, connecting to Garcia with a video call. Prentiss sits next to him, you across from her on the other side of the table.

Prentiss looks to Morgan with a frown. “This is a bad one, isn’t it.”

Morgan sighs. “Unsubs with a cause are never good.”

“Pets, I just got the 911 call from the Georgia State Police,” Garcia says. She plays the audio.

“911, what’s your emergency?” the operator says.

“I’m at 1527 Chestnut Drive,” a man whispers, his voice shaking.

“I know where you’re calling from, sir, what’s your emergency?”

“He thinks they’re too greedy. They have too much.”

“Too much what?” the 911 operator asks.

“Stuff,” the man whispers. “You know, possessions. Things they don’t need. Hurry!”

“Are you calling because these people have too much stuff, sir?”

“No, I’m calling because Raphael—” There’s a thud, and the man stops talking.

“That’s enough,” a second man says.

“I don’t want to,” the first voice tells him.

The second man doesn’t respond. “He’s calling because Raphael is going to kill the sinners that live here.”

“I’m sorry, did you say somebody is killing someone?” the 911 operator asks. The audio file ends.

“Well, unsub one definitely sounds frightened,” Emily says. “Maybe he’s doing this against his will.”

Gideon shakes his head, frowning. “I doubt it. He whispered.”

“He could’ve called out to save them instead of calling 911,” Hotch says.

“Not if he had a gun to his head,” Morgan says.

“If he had a gun to his head, why would he have dialed 911?” Gideon points out.

“The second unsub said Raphael was going to kill someone,” JJ says. “Is there a third?”

“He could’ve just been referring to himself in the third person,” you offer.

Reid nods. “That’s not uncommon for an unsub. Ted Bundy gave thoroughly detailed accounts of his murders, but he never actually admitted to doing it. He would just say ‘the killer.’”

“Okay, so I’m gonna go ahead and run the name Raphael through the Georgia criminal databases as well as our own,” Garcia says.

“Thanks Garcia,” Hotch says.

“Ever so welcome my liege,” she says as Morgan closes the laptop.

“We have a killing team on a mission in rural Georgia,” Hotch says. “We know what that means.”

“They’re not gonna stop,” you say.

“Not until the mission’s complete,” Morgan says.

“We need to hit the ground running,” Hotch tells you all. “JJ, we need an inside picture of the victims. Victimology can be critically important in a mission-based spree.”

JJ stands and walks to the far end of the plane. “Already on it.”

“Prentiss and Y/L/N, go to where the bodies are,” Hotch continues. “Examine the wounds. They managed to kill two victims in four and a half minutes. We need to know how.”

Prentiss nods. “You got it.”

“I’m going to set up at the Atlanta field office and go over case files from the state,” Hotch says. “It would be highly unusual for a first kill to be this efficient.”

“Reid, you and Morgan, come with me to the crime scene,” Gideon says.

“We land in less than an hour,” Hotch tells you. “Everybody try to get some rest.”

You know you’re not going to get any sleep without taking your sleeping pills, but you also can’t take them now because of the case, so you don’t even bother to close your eyes. Instead, you reach into your backpack and take out your copy of the current DSM and research mental health conditions until you land.

* * * * *

“They’re all long, deep gashes,” the ME tells you and Prentiss as he shows you the bodies. “Each victim has virtually the same wounds— both throats cut, a vertical gash up one arm from wrist to elbow, and a vertical gash down one leg from crotch to upper thigh.”

“Major arteries,” Prentiss notes.

The ME nods. “It’s damned efficient.”

“How much anatomical knowledge would someone need to do this?” you ask.

“Anyone with a basic understanding of the body knows where these arteries are,” the ME says.

“And do you have any idea which one of these wounds was delivered first?” Prentiss asks.

The ME reaches over one of the bodies and grabs a clipboard from the table. “Um, there was a— there was active blood flow from each of the wounds.”

“So probably all the wounds were made at about the same time?” you say.

He nods. “With any of these wounds, the victim would bleed out quickly. Almost like an animal at slaughter.” He pauses. “No, actually, exactly like an animal at slaughter. A-a-a deer or-or a lamb or a cow, something like that— you-you cut the throat first, then-then sometimes open up other major arteries to assist in draining the carcass.”

“So maybe a hunter?” Prentiss says.

“Or a farmer, or—” The ME stops himself, frowning. “Pretty much anyone in rural Georgia.”

“Oh,” Prentiss says quietly.

“Great,” you groan, rubbing a hand over your face. “Just great.”

* * * * *

When you and Prentiss arrive at the field office, Gideon, Reid, and Morgan are already there. Gideon is talking to Hotch.

“…a video of the attack,” you hear him saying as you and Prentiss approach them.

Hotch turns to face you. “How’d it go at the ME’s office?”

“They were killed like an animal at slaughter,” you tell him. “So basically, anyone in rural Georgia could’ve done this, as the ME put it.”

“What did you guys find at the crime scene?” Prentiss asks Gideon.

“Garcia found a video of the murders online,” he says, sighing. He motion to JJ over at a desk with a computer. “JJ was just pulling it up for us.”

You follow him over to JJ as she steps back. “It’s all set,” she says. “Just hit play.” Gideon moves the mouse and clicks, and the video begins to play.

A man in a hood appears on the screen, the lighting casting dark shadows across his face, concealing his identity. “He says the world is a cesspool,” the man says. “Of greed. Lust. Disease.”

“That sounds like unsub number one,” Emily says.

“He says redemption must be sought,” the man in the video continues. “We must all repent.”

“And he referred to being Raphael?” Hotch asks.

Gideon shrugs. “Or God.”

“It’s not God,” Morgan says. “It’s someone sitting right there next to him, telling this guy what to say.”

A second voice begins talking in the video as the screen changes to inside of a house. “As the Lord God spoke in Leviticus 26:18—”

“That’s a new voice,” Morgan points out.

“—and if you will not yet for all this—”

Emily shakes her head. “A third unsub?”

“—I will punish ye seven times more for your sins.”

“Could just be recorded from a religious program or a sermon,” Morgan suggests as a man and a woman you assume to be the victims walk into the screen.

“‘Punish ye seven times,’” JJ repeats.

“Five more victims,” Gideon says.

“These images were shot from the exact spot on the dresser where that computer sat,” Morgan says, pointing over at Reid, who is sitting at a desk behind all of you.

Hotch turns to walk over to Reid. You follow him. “So if this video came from that computer’s camera, then what? Did the unsubs bring it with them?”

“As far as we can tell, this computer belonged to the Kyles,” Reid reports. “Garcia can do a better analysis, but it has their banking statements, vacation photos.”

Hotch looks back over at the screen where the video is still playing. “One comes into the room and immediately goes after Mr. Kyle. What, did the other unsub turn the camera on?”

“We might be asking the wrong questions,” Gideon says. “This video, this message, it’s important. Clearly, they want the world to see this. They need it. But they didn’t bring a camera with them.”

“Guys,” you whisper quietly, stepping away from the laptop in front of Reid. “What if one of the unsubs hacked the Kyle’s computer and used it to shoot the video?”

Reid stands. “Agent Franks,” he whispers. “Does this building have wireless internet?”

Franks nods. “Yeah, why?”

“That camera’s on right now,” Reid tells you all quietly. “The computer’s connected itself to the internet. It’s streaming a video feed somewhere.”

“Can we trace the stream to its destination?” Hotch asks quietly.

“If we keep it open, Garcia might be able—” Reid is interrupted by a beeping sound coming from the Kyles’ laptop. You look over to it as the screen fades to black. A message flashes across the screen before the computer turns off: THE ARMIES OF SATAN SHALL NOT PREVAIL.

Reid shakes his head. “It turned off.”

“So they’re controlling it remotely?” Hotch asks.

“Is that even possible?” Prentiss asks.

You nod. “Oh yeah, totally. It’s why I always tape over the camera of any computer with a built-in webcam.”

Morgan takes out his phone and dials Garcia. “Hey Garcia, how would someone go about remotely accessing a computer?” he asks immediately when she picks up.

“Well, it’s actually done a lot today,” she says. “When a mortal calls for tech support, instead of, like, giving you instructions, the tech can work on your computer from wherever she is.”

“And they maintain the access even after the work is done?” Hotch asks.

“They’re not supposed to, but I suppose you could install a Trojan Horse during a service.”

“It’s, um, something left in the computer to be turned on later,” Reid explains, noticing the blank look on Gideon’s face. “Same way that websites get pop-up ads onto your computer.”

“Garcia, can you check the Kyles’ phone records and see if they called for tech support in the last six months?” Hotch asks.

“Right-o,” she says. “Oh, and if you get me the Kyles’ laptop, I can search the drive for anything implanted there.”

“Fast as we can,” Hotch assures her.

“By the way, this video?” she says. “It’s gone crazy viral.”

“What’s that mean?” Gideon asks.

“It means that a shit-ton of people have seen it,” you explain.

“It’s the most downloaded video on the internet,” Garcia adds. “Worldwide. And judging by the responses embedded in the files, people seem to think it’s pretty cool.”

Hotch shakes his head. “Call us if you find anything on the Kyles’ computer.”

“Yeah,” Garcia says. There’s a click, and she’s gone.

“Murder is entertainment,” Gideon says, shaking his head.

“They probably don’t even realize it’s real,” JJ tells him. “People see so many images online every day, they might assume it’s marketing for a horror film or something.”

“These unsubs are right about one thing,” Morgan says. “The world is pretty screwed up.”

You all head back to the conference room, where there’s a bulletin board set up with images of the crime scene and the victims’ bodies. A white board is next to it. Prentiss uncaps the marker and writes EFFICIENT IDENTICAL WOUNDS in blue ink.

“So what have we got so far?” Hotch asks.

Prentiss sighs. “Well, the killings are clinically efficient. They had the ear marks of a slaughter, as in an animal.”

“Or a sacrifice,” Morgan suggests. You nod. Prentiss turns back and writes SLAUGHTER/SACRIFICE.

“We haven’t been able to find anything in federal or state databases that suggest similar crimes,” Hotch says. “As far as I can tell, it’s the first in a series.” Prentiss writes NO PRIORS on the white board.

“At least one member of the team may believe he’s killing in the name of God,” Reid notes, “suggesting a psychopathy that should display extreme levels of disorganization, yet there are forensic countermeasures and somebody in control enough to do complicated computer work.” He grabs a paper from the bulletin board as Prentiss writes RELIGIOUS PSYCH, and COMPUTER underneath it. “One member of the team’s organized, the other’s extremely disorganized. But what’s strange is that the one we would consider as being most in control, the one that made the phone call, can’t seem to stop the other one from killing. Usually the frenzied personality takes direction from the cooler head.” Prentiss writes UNSUB 1 (DIS) and UNSUB 2 (ORG) in blue ink on the white board.

“All right, so let’s look at that,” Morgan says. “Unsub one called the police before the killing, but he didn’t leave time enough for them to get there. Is the phone call just the guy working on a defense in case of capture? I mean, maybe he didn’t wanna stop the other, but he did whatever he had to do to cover himself.”

“So,” Gideon says. “What do we have so far?” No one says anything. “Not enough.”

* * * * *

You and Prentiss are reviewing the evidence and bouncing theories off of each other when Hotch pokes his head into the room. “We got another murder.”

Hotch drives, with Gideon in the passenger seat. You sit in the middle between Morgan and Prentiss. When you get there, there are already multiple police cars surrounding the house. The front door is open, with an officer standing outside it.

You follow Hotch through the front door. “Detective,” he greets.

“Yeah,” the detective says, turning around. “Well, he called again. This time, it was different. Only one of them spoke.”

“Which one?” Hotch asks.

“Pretty sure it was Raphael,” the detective says. “I wrote down what he said, and I got a recording being brought out here. Took us almost eleven minutes to respond. We only had the one unit close.”

“Could the unsub know that?” Morgan asks.

The detective nods. “The lack of police presence out here has gotten some local media attention recently. Now, the 911 call wasn’t the only thing that was different. This particular scene is weird in another way. The male victim, upstairs… throat cut.”

“Why is that weird?” Gideon asks.

“He doesn’t live here,” the detective tells him. “He’s a local handyman.”

You follow Morgan and Prentiss up the stairs and into what appears to be the master bedroom. You each put on a pair of white latex gloves. The body is still on the floor, surrounded by a pool of his own blood. There are blood spatters across the white headboard of the queen-sized bed. On the desk across from the bed is an open laptop.

Morgan walks over to the body, his back to the desk. “Don’t look now, but we’re on candid camera,” he tells you and Prentiss, his voice quiet.

Prentiss nods. “Uh-huh.”

“Yep,” you say, popping the ‘p.’ The three of you continue to casually observe the body. “Body was sliced just like the other victims.”

“No defensive wounds,” Prentiss notes, checking the victim’s hands.

You look around the room. “Not many signs of a struggle. If the unsub did take the woman who lives here, she must’ve been easy to subdue.” You walk over to the edge of the bed, where there is a piece of paper with a highlighted bible verse printed on it in an evidence bag. “‘Power was given unto them over the fourth part of the Earth,’” you read aloud. “‘To kill with sword, with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the Earth.’ Revelations. A book about the end of days. Not good.” You all exchange a look.

There’s not much left to do, so you wait for Hotch and Gideon to come look at the room before exiting the house. Hotch turns to face you.

“So let’s work this out,” he says. “What does the new behavior tell us?”

Emily sighs. “That there was only one unsub this time? Uh, Raphael? Alone?”

“Not if he’s the psychotic,” Hotch says. “He wouldn’t be capable of operating this efficiently. Someone was here who could control himself, make sure no evidence was left behind.”

“At the first crime, unsub one called the police, right?” Morgan says. “This time it was Raphael. Why? It’s like the phone call is necessary. It’s part of the signature.”

“This team doesn’t act like any team we’ve ever come across,” you say. “Someone’s clearly the dominant one and someone’s clearly the follower. It doesn’t change like this.”

“Have we ever seen this in case history?” Hotch asks.

Morgan shakes his head. “A mixture of extreme psychosis in a controlled individual? No. One of the most common indicators of extreme psychosis is solitude.”

“They don’t exactly play well with others,” Emily adds.

“Was Garcia able to find anything on Raphael in the records?” Gideon asks from behind you, walking over to join the rest of you.

You shake your head. “Not yet.��

“So why is he naming himself?” Gideon asks. “Twice. Certainly not worried about us getting that name. In fact, he wants us to know it.”

“An alias?” Prentiss asks. “Y/L/N did suggest that he could be claiming to be the archangel.”

“Or Raphael doesn’t actually exist,” Gideon says.

Morgan frowns. “So we’re not looking for a team?”

“Meaning?” Prentiss asks.

“We may have one unsub, suffering from the delusion that he’s actually an archangel,” Gideon says. “Maybe that first phone call was not two people, but one.”

“A split personality,” you say. “Interesting.”

“Well, what about the third voice?” Emily asks.

Gideon shakes his head. “That I don’t know about yet.”

Hotch sighs. “Well, if Mrs. Douglas is Jezebel, there’s an especially unpleasant death in her future.” You cringe.

* * * * *

“Garcia’s running voice analysis on the first 911 call to see if there are actually two voices,” Morgan tells Hotch as you all walk back into the field office. “She’s also gonna peel the third voice off the videotape and see if that gets anything.”

“We should have a copy of that latest call brought over here within the hour,” the same detective from earlier says.

“Thanks,” Hotch tells him.

“Hotchner,” Agent Franks calls from his desk, phone in hand. “Your tech from Quantico is on the phone.” Hotch nods and walks over to a vacant desk, pressing a button on the phone. “Garcia?”

“Jeez, don’t you people answer your cell phones anymore?” she asks.

“We were driving back to Atlanta through the countryside,” Hotch explains to her. “Spotty cell signal.”

“If you think that first video went viral fast, the second one’s going through the stratosphere.”

“Second video?” Hotch asks, frowning.

“Yeah, there’s a new video from our psycho,” Garcia tells him. “I’m downloading it myself right now. Some of these upload sites get more than a million hits a day.”

“Get it on the monitor here as soon as you can,” Hotch says.

“Right,” she says.

You wait for the video to pop up on the computer screen. When it does, you lean closer. A hooded figure is sitting in front of a struggling woman, bound and gagged. “‘…that he spake by his servant, Elijah the Tishbite, saying, in the portion of Jezreel shall dogs eat the flesh of Jezebel,’” the figure reads from a bible in his lap. You hear dogs snarling and barking as the woman in the background struggles. As soon as the dogs appear on the screen, you turn away, the woman’s screams ringing in your ears.

“Jezebel’s death,” Gideon says.

“My God,” Prentiss says.

“You can turn it off,” Hotch tells her. She goes to reach for the mouse when the detective stops her.

“Wait!” he says, grabbing her arm.

“You haven’t seen enough?” Morgan says.

“Those dogs,” he says, pointing at the screen. “Those three dogs attacked someone a couple of months ago. I would’ve had them impounded but the victim knew the owner. A neighbor. He didn’t want to press charges.”

“And you’re sure?” Gideon asks.

The detective nods. “With God as my witness.” He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a notepad, beginning to flip through it. “Three mangy mixes. I knew those dogs looked sick. I called Animal Control, but I don’t know if they ever followed up on it.” He stops turning pages and shows Hotch his notepad. “Here is it.”

“You have the owner’s name?” Hotch asks.

“Hankel,” he says.

“‘Hankel?’” Hotch repeats.

“Tobias Hankel,” the detective says.

Your eyes go wide. “Shit!” you exclaim. Everyone turns to you in surprise. “Wait— oh my God, where’s Reid? Hotch, where’s Reid?”

“He and JJ went to talk to someone who called in a prowler in front of the Kyles’ house a few weeks before they were murdered,” Hotch says, looking stricken. “The name was—”

“Tobias Hankel!” you finish. You curse again, your heartbeat slamming against your chest. “They went right to the unsub. Hotch, he’s gonna get Reid. He’s gonna get Reid!”

Hotch is already rushing to the door. “Let’s move! Everybody, now!”

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fyodorloveclub · 1 year

Note

nsfw is fine for me, it can be sfw if you want

not comfy w/ sharing my real name on here so lets just go with Lycoris

i am a computer science student in college

im 5'8, white, i have blue/gray eyes, and dark red dyed hair in a bob with bangs

i am the parental friend who will ask questions, talk to people, keep us out of trouble, volunteer for things etc UNTIL i fimd someone who i trust enough to do that for me. then its chaos. i have adhd if that helps anything lol

enfp

i play genshin, persona 5, and minecraft; i play the guitar and sometimes write music (also sing and play a couple other instruments); i like reading literature: i watch anime; i like solving puzzles and working with technology; i occasionally upload on youtube or stream on twitch (not sharing it to tumblr lol) (im also a christian but im here on a tumblr smut acc)

im a very picky eater, i swear im like a child, i dont try anything i dont already like. i am a very assertive and opinionated person so if i dont like something You Will Know. but at the same time i can keep it back to be polite (except for food im sorry i will live off of ramen until i die)

any of the adult males, fuckin surprise me

nope nothing else to add <3

lycoris x ranpo

✧ surpriseee your silly little man is The ranpo edogawa himself

✧ you guys work so well bc you both compliment and counteract each other. you're very similar in some ways but complete opposites in others, which is. essential for relationships

✧ ranpo is a (loveable) dumbass and could definitely use your parental friend abilities, mostly when it comes to like changing lightbulbs, taking the train, doing the fucking laundry. he's so smart but so stupid pls be patient with him

✧ BUT i think he very much could step up and be that person you could trust wholeheartedly. you could let your chaos show with him he could handle it. he might match it with his own crazy tho bfdakljfk

✧ i would be SCARED to see your guys' kitchen dkfjkadsljf like oh my god. you both are the worlds pickiest eaters, and ranpo's obsession with snacks and sweets...... you would need an entire pantry shelf dedicated to just ramen and another one just for all of his candy. id get a fucking cavity just from entering the room

✧ you're slightly taller than him (2 inches) but he absolutely refuses to admit this. when he stands next to you he'll stand a bit on his tippie toes and everyone just pretends its not happening LMAO poor ranpo </3

✧ you hardcore bond over your love for puzzles and reading and problem solving. this is likely how the two of you ended up meeting and/or interacting for the first time, and is something relatively integral to your relationship. its something that both calms you down and can start fights fkjdalj;f like if you solved a poe novel first he wouldn't speak to you for like 3 days

✧ you are both . very opinionated and this can be good and bad

✧ bad in that you'd have to be very conscious about the fact that you inevitably will butt heads, and knowing the best ways for the two of you to cool off either together or individually.

✧ good because if you guys share a really strong opinion about a certain tv show or hatred for a person that is. talking material for DAYS you could both get hyperfixated on the same things and everyone at the agency is like oh jesus fucking christ. not them again

✧ you'll def find yourselves in arguments about the silliest things which isn't necessarily a bad thing sdlkjfdsjk like one morning you're bickering because ranpo was like NO YOU DEFINITELY HAVE MORE MARSHMALLOWS IN YOUR LUCKY CHARMS THAN I DO and you're like WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING A BOUT

✧ i promise i genuinely think you guys would work well together i really do fklajfkdj

✧ i dont think he really understands video games at all, like thats not his thing. but he def will sit there absolutely mesmerized as you stream.

✧ i know cockwarming where the guy is the one playing the games but why cant it be the other way around. u ride him as you play video games. why not. i said so

✧ he'd LOVE listening to you play music

✧ anyway. power couple. the two of you would drive everyone at the agency insane with your antics but they'd all love you too :)

#AA HOPE U LIKE #matchups #demon: scaramouches-girlfriend #ranpo bsd #ranpo x reader #matchmaking

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the-firebird69 · 4 months

Text

John Parr - St. Elmo's Fire (Man In Motion) (Official Music Video)

youtube

This is a concept and it just went really big I mean people all over the world are talking about it and they're talking about Saturn and they're talking about the rings and how it's really interesting and they're talking about the laser and how if the Earth was going to blow up they can hit a big device or even if it was it would stop the explosion and it's not good enough for us but that's what they're saying and they're saying it's a Max idea and it is their idea to put it out there like that and it is stupid and this maxing of the song is still around and stay out stupid stuff there arrogant swines and of course and the capturing them this guy's days are numbered he's surrounded and they're going to move in on him eventually he'll be gone and they want to thank him in person for the song. We need more than what we have and we're going with the schedule the way I said it was we have completed phase one through five for the two planets. The second planet is coming online tomorrow and we anticipated we're running through it now and we're getting everything that we need and he wants people to ask if you need anything else and that would be great he wants people who want to provide and be part of the projects even if you are new to it we need a lot of stuff also please feel free to request that I'm going to put it out here put it to Olympus right now or we are Freya and I and it's very nice thing and she's helping she says and it's going to work and it's going to be great but right now we need her to know the schedule is on schedule and yes there's a lot going on in February a lot and that is just around the corner right now it's almost January this only two months before the humongous project humongous and we have to get going we are working towards having everything ready before it starts how to test it out and we are halfway there we do need factories and workers and we need a ton of stuff a huge machines it's going to take time I'm putting it out there for people to volunteer their factories and all of your people will be signed on as well as yourself and your area and you'll be a part of a great great projects that will save everyone we need it now to ensure our safety here as part of our interstellar defense system and the reasons are obvious inclusion with a huge space for an object and a planet may cause an explosion and other planets to explode instead of unending chain reaction which might take thousands of years but it would still happen and we are getting on it now it might also become huge real quick so we need to get going on it we can stop a lot of stuff and that's some way we can stop but we need to ensure that it doesn't happen and we need to hire people now. I am also going to set in motion do you practice we need up and running and we do need more than that for the next project so we never will have enough and we need it for ships after that and so please volunteer and to sign on and it's the greatest job you'll ever have a lot more pay a lot more stuff a great position on board the ship and everything you can dream about practically when you go to a big meeting with Olympus. And he'll be there and she will too and I will be there in Freya and I want you to sign on so you can meet with us and be our friends

We have to print they're messing around with him and this device

Thor Freya

Olympus

Zues Hera

#Youtube

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atlanticcanada · 1 year

Text

A liver for Karla: Operation day

EDITORS NOTE: This series was produced by veteran CTV Atlantic Anchor & Reporter Bruce Frisko, documenting his sister's successful liver transplant surgery in May of 2022. Karla Frisko found a match in Scott Watson, a co-worker who was inspired to sign up for living donor testing after hearing her story. Although liver transplants are performed across Canada, living donor programs are not available in some provinces.

Enveloped by darkness in the car, Scott Watson recorded a short video for his Instagram page, where he'd been documenting an important process that had altered his life.

"I just drove to the hospital and Joe's paying for parking," he said quietly. "I'm getting ready to admit myself. I'm very, very, very surprisingly calm."

Not everyone would be.

Scott Watson had signed up to donate up to 70 per cent of his liver to donate to my sister, Karla.

The act of generosity was even more striking, given that the two were little more than co-workers and had never even met in-person when Scott volunteered for screening.

It was pre-dawn in Edmonton, early in the morning on May 2.

Some 4,700 kilometres away, in the community of Anglo Rustico, P.E.I., Scott's Mother, Linda Watson, was already preparing to make the journey to her son's bedside.

Born in Halifax and spending his early years there, he was musical and a showman, she says - the entertainer of the family.

"He was just a really happy little guy and always trying to make people happy," she said. "Always trying to make people smile and laugh. He was fun. He was a fun kid to raise."

Being so far away during the procedure was difficult, and although she had her reservations, that morning, it was out of her hands.

"Mostly, I prayed," she said, fighting back tears. "For them both. And we had the whole family praying with us, even though they were so far away."

Although more and more common, liver transplants remain a medical mystery to most of us, and when a living donor's involved, it's a marathon as well.

Three separate surgical teams work concurrently.

Scott was opened first, a good, final opportunity for surgeons to inspect his liver.

A short time later, the scalpels moved to Karla.

Scott's operation lasted six hours, while Karla's lasted 12.

As the city sprang to life on that Monday morning, our family began a long day of killing time and waiting for news.

No one was particularly hungry, but breakfast gave us something to do.

It would be suppertime before we'd hear anything, a text from the hospital that the surgery was complete and both Karla and Scott were in recovery.

COVID-19 restrictions prevented us from visiting in-person, so we celebrated with a quiet meal.

The next day, I jumped at the opportunity to interview the lead surgeon, Dr. James Shapiro, the director of the Clinical Islet Transplant Program and the Living Donor Liver Transplant Program.

I began by asking him how the operation went.

"The surgery went exceedingly well," said Shapiro.

The living donor program has been a game-changer, and a life-saver, he said, noting the generosity of donors like Scott is difficult to overstate.

"There are really special individuals out there that want to do some good materially. Like, not just say so, but something really tangible," he said with a small smile.

"And giving half your liver to someone else to save their life is an amazing gift."

Several hours later, as he was waking up, Scott's husband, Joe Connors, captured a short video that would later be posted on Instagram.

Asking him how it went, Scott replied, "Piece of cake!"

Pauses for a moment.

"Piece of Pie," he says with a smile.

So, Scott Watson would end his day much as it began: "surprisingly calm."

Both he and Karla would be monitored carefully in the critical hours ahead.

A long surgery now complete; a longer road to recovery just beginning.

from CTV News - Atlantic https://ift.tt/RuF4NJD

#new brunswick #prince edward island #nova scotia #news #politics #canada #CTVAtlantic

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janhellriegel · 2 years

Text

There is no R in Fee...or why the Free Economy sucks for artists, or anyone, really.

Just imagine if I asked you to do a job that could take months, even years, to complete; but before you started, I explained, you may never get paid for it.

Welcome to the world of the artist and musician. This is the environment we work in. Our currency is *IP and Copyright and sometimes we can earn a healthy amount for our output; but for the majority, it’s hit and miss and creative incomes are pretty lean.

Over the years, I have developed a simple response when anyone wants to use my work, or music, on the Songbroker Music Publishing catalogue for free, and that is; “There is no R in fee”.

Creatives are driven to produce work for a variety of reasons, but it is unlikely the main one is because they think they are going to earn a lot of coin. Secretly, probably, we all hope we will, but there is never a guarantee we can charge for the work we do.

Artists don’t get paid via a salary or a wage, we get paid when our audience (or customer) wishes to interact with our work commercially. And the kicker is, because we never know if someone will be interested in what we offer, or when that may be; well, it’s not exactly a job for the fainthearted.

I have licensed songs on film and TV productions that were written over 25 years ago. That’s a long time to wait for a pay cheque.

As I am in Skin by Cassandra’s Ears recorded in 1989, featured on NZ TV series Westside in 2020.

I wrote It’s My Sin around 1990 and someone licensed it onto a film, Juniper, in 2021

Recently, and it’s not the first time this has happened, someone asked me if I would license one of my music tracks onto an online promotional video. A Government Department was funding the project, and the Director was certainly not short of a bob or two.

The fee they offered me was Zip; Nada; Zero; Nothing. The producer was hoping I might consider a gratis license because it was such a good cause.

I thought about that offer for about minus two seconds and said. “No way”.

If I am not keen to proceed with a *synchronisation deal, I usually say “No, thank you, but thanks for the opportunity”; but this wasn’t one of those circumstances. This was a bunch of people asking me to work for free when they should’ve known better. There are laws against this in the real world, but unfortunately not in the artists’ realm where the Free Economy continues to dominate.

Another example of the Free Economy is when performers work at events for no remuneration. A Charitable Trust; A Non-Profit; or Government Agency may ask them to volunteer at a fundraiser or perform at an industry awards show spectacular for exposure or experience while the people asking are on very reasonable salaries. Everyone else contracted to work at the event is getting paid, but there is an unwritten assumption that the performer should rock up for no charge.

Most artists are good people. We want to do the right thing. But asking anyone to do something for free backs them into a very uncomfortable corner. Even if someone agrees to give their work away for nothing; you need to understand, like buyer’s remorse, they might go away and, after having time to think about it, might resent you very much.

What the Free Economy also does is perpetuate the myth that ‘art’ has no value and that creative people are not important in our society, nor do they deserve to earn from their work. That may not be your intention, but yeah, that’s what happens when you pull out the “Will you do it for free?” card.

Thinking people in Aotearoa New Zealand champion the living wage and accept this is a fair way forward but then these same people would not hesitate to ask someone who is probably earning way less than them to donate their time, or their work, for ‘no-charge’.

Look, I get it, it’s OK if you are an established artist who wants to donate your expertise to a worthy cause (and even get some personal promo going) but many artists in NZ do it very tough and even a small *koha is better than not offering some sort of payment for a person’s time or work.

If you are organising an event, the rule of thumb when considering whether you should pay someone is this; If all people working at an event, including; you, the caterers, roadies, ushers, bar staff, cleaners and the production company, are receiving some sort of payment, then you should offer to pay the artist, performer, speaker, etc. There is no excuse not to.

It’s also about excellent results. When everyone working on a job is happy, the outcome of this is a good energy and therefore a better work flow. This is probably a little esoteric, but I have worked on a lot of projects in my time and my theory has not failed me yet.

Art is valuable, and it’s worth investing in, but who wants to sink resources into something that has no return at all? The irony is when an artist hits the big time, the income from their creative output can be more than some of our highest paid CEOs and Government Bureaucrats. Lorde will earn from her creative industry for the rest of her life and beyond; at the same time contributing to society by paying her taxes. One less person who will need to rely on a pension in retirement has got to be a good thing, doesn’t it?

You need to be brave to be an artist. You will face rejection and years of living from hand to mouth with no ability to save for a rainy day or support your kids (which is why I had to give away my music for a number of years). So when there is an opportunity to sell or license your work, then you want to be paid decently because you know how much work went into creating it.

Through all the years of working and getting paid a wage to support my creative tendencies, I can say, hand on heart, nothing is as sweet as being paid a royalty for my creative work. Whether it’s a song placed on a film, a streaming income or a performance fee, it’s all good. Whenever I sell a book or one of my albums, I am happy feet dancing for hours. It’s nothing to do with the money. It’s because someone is interested in my art and they are acknowledging me by paying for it. Frankly, it’s one of the best feelings ever.

Next time you are thinking of acquiring music or licensing art or asking someone to work at your event; keep in mind the many hundreds of hours that this person has laboured to make what you are asking for, available. Before you make a fee offer, ask yourself; “Is this fair?” Always offer something and remember the mantra. “There is no R in fee”.

See more about the author Audio Culture

*HP = Intellectual Property

*Synch Licensing — Synchronising music onto film and TV shows.

*Koha The koha reflects the mana of both the giver and the recipient, reflecting what the giver can give, and the esteem they hold of the person or group they are making the gift to… *source Wikipedia

#Jan Hellriegel #Essays #Music Blog #creative industries #creative business #Free Economy #Work for Free #Music Mentoring #NZ Music #Music Industy #Knowledge is Creative Freedom

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thewhizzyhead · 3 years

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WELP BITCHES GUESS WHO HAS TO BRING BACK THEIR NON-EXISTENT SONGWRITING SKILLS FOR A FUCKING MUSIC-VIDEO-INFOMERCIAL PROJECT ABOUT THE FUCKING PANDEMIC WOOOOO may God help me-

#NO ONE ELSE WAS VOLUNTEERING AND EVERYONE WANTED TO DO A MUSIC VIDEO #BECAUSE WE ACTUALLY HAVE A PRETTY GOOD SINGER HERE #ONE THAT KNOWS HOW TO PLAY THE GUITAR EVEN #so yea yup i'm making a song *screams in exhaustion*#at least i can base it off the tune of Pare Ko by eraserheads #just um new lyrics same instrumental #thank God the girl who'll be singing knows how to play guitar #what i'm worried about is this um minute long musical interlude thingy that i suggested right at the start of the vid #it's supposed to be very bone chilling to set the mood of the acting scene #and um it sucks that i have to make my own instrumentals for this because the og instrumentals are um too damn fast #but eh i think it'll work well and thinking of new lyrics to accompany this interlude would be fun!#what i'm worried about is that i dont think the music style i have in mind fits our singer #so um if i finish the interlude and if the group decides that they like it then um I guess i'll be nominating this other person #to sing it #despite having never heard their voice before #but from what i can tell #they can do really really well in bone chilling stuffs fjdjd call it a gut feeling #i don't think they want the others to know that they can sing tho (they tweeted a random singing related twt and thats how i know-#that they can sing)#and i dont like putting others on the spot so um yea I'll just subtly encourage them to do the thingy (i dont they know i know they sing)#BUT IF THEY DONT WANNA SING AND IF THE SONG DOESNT FIT THE MAIN SINGER AND IF MY GROUP WANTS TO INCLUDE THE INTERLUDE #THAT FUCKING MEANS THAT THEY'LL MAKE ME SING IN THE VID AND I DON'T WANT THAT FJSJFG #IM GONNA BE WRITING TWO SONGS FOR THIS SHIT AND THE SCRIPT SO NOPE I DONT WANNA SING #but wah if the interlude makes the whole thing better then welp fiiine #anyways thats the ramble for the day bye bye time to do more school shit #personal shit #*tag correction:(i dont think they know i know they sing) wah why is it when i ramble in the tags #some words go missing which makes the whole thing very confusing fjdjd

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shurisneakers · 3 years

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harmless (epilogue)

Summary: Bucky volunteers to go stop a small time villain, but nothing can prepare him for what exactly he has to deal with. (Bucky x villain!reader)

Warnings: cursing, frustrated bucky, dramatic reader, obnoxious flirting, mention of tax fraud, money launderig, etc. you know. the usual

Word count: 5.8k

A/N: oh hi. no i didnt disappear for two months what? anyway. for a story to have a conclusion, there should be a plot. and since there is no plot, just have some good vibes and idiots <3

shoutout to my sparkle anon for the can opener slander <3

also to my love currently in another continent on video call with me as i post this. i love you. thank you for all the non-decisions decisions and sitting with me for 8 hours and hearing me complain. this is for you mwah. now send chips ahoy

if you want more of them, check out Harmless Mini Drabbles to catch up on what we’ve done so far!

okay now for the last time!!

Previous Part || Series Masterlist

It was a fine day.

A good day, even, to watch your lair descend into complete chaos after your plan to take over the tri-state area with an army of clones fails.

Not to mention the unperformed musical number.

It smacks Bucky in the face right as he enters-- an ocean of teal shades and a chorus of his name squawked at him like the seagulls from Finding Nemo. If he wasn’t so damn used to it, he would have maybe had a faint blush at the occasional “you’re pretty” thrown in there.

In greeting, he presses his lips into a thin line. A rather pathetic excuse for a smile, if you could even call it that.

“Well, hello. What an unexpected surprise.” One of the voices is agreeably louder than the others, and so he diverts his eyes to the circular platform raised from the floor. “And by unexpected I mean completely expected.”

“Y/N.” He ignores the multitude of ‘yeah?’s to zero in on you in the centre.

“Bucky.”

He can tell it’s the original-- not because of the ultramarine tuxedo you have on, accessorised with a sparkly dance cane and definitely more feathers than should ever be on something that’s not a bird-- but because of the additional top hat. No one else in the crowd had one.

“Clone army? You serious?”

“You can’t blame me, Bucky.” You throw him a wide-toothed grin, eyes still hidden behind the masquerade mask you’ve got covering half your face. “I gave you the chance to destroy the blueprint and you never took it, so now we have to deal with it.”

“Deal with what?”

“Us taking over the tri-state idea,” you say, bringing your foot down loudly on the metal platform.

Scarily in sync and in a manner that leaves him speculating how long you had to practise this, your doppelgangers do the same before falling into the first position of a dance number.

He winces. Hands in the air, no one else moves.

“Where’s Nico?”

“He said he was gonna get ribbons to tie around everyone’s wrist so we can differentiate between the orignal and the copies.”

Bucky stares at you.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to just tie one around your wrist?” he asks slowly.

You blink at him, arms lowering. “He was excited so I gave him twenty dollars, leave me alone.”

“You’re the only one with a hat,” Bucky continues emphasizing.

“You’re the only one with a hat,” you mock, voice high pitched and muffled. “Stop focusing on the technicalities, you killjoy.”

“There is not a single person in this lair who thinks.”

“And that includes you.”

Rightfully, he walked straight into that one. If he tried hard enough, he could place the blame for the profound loss of his critical thinking ability on hanging out with you.

“You don’t deserve our performance.” You sigh dramatically.

“Thank God,” he deadpans.

All of a sudden it’s his one, lone metallic middle finger against an army of white-gloved middle fingers challenging him.

“Can you please finish with… whatever this is.” He checks his watch. “We got somewhere to be.”

“A hot date?” You lean forward on your palms, bodyweight precariously balanced on the cane.

“You wish.”

“I do, actually,” everyone echoes back at him. He wonders if they’re only programmed to hit him with insults and pick up lines.

A smile slips past his otherwise well-maintained, time tested facade of annoyance. “Get it over with.”

“Alright, everyone. Just as we practised.” You straighten out your spine, arm holding the cane high in the air with your head tilted to the sky. “One, two, three--”

“Attack,” your clones say in unison.

“What?” You look down quickly. “No, not that. The other one.”

They look up at you. “Unclear chain of commands.”

“Not Battle Plan #3, execute Dance Routine #2.”

They look at each other. Bucky, too, watches them look at each other.

“Unclear chain of commands.” They tilt their head up at you.

“What the hell is unclear about-”

“Executing Battle Plan #3.”

“For fuck’s sake,” you curse, crouching to leap down from the platform. “Not Battle Plan #3.”

“Confirmation received. Battle Plan #3 in motion.”

“I said not-” You land gracefully on the ground, already in a defensive stance.

Hot, he thinks. Not a good time to let you know, however.

“Abort Battle Plan #3.”

“Plan set in action.” They march eerily into straight lines, easily at least two hundred of them populating the lair. “Clownproof Protocol activated.”

“Oh, my God, you idiots-- deactivate Clownproof Protocol.”

But they’ve shifted positions already. Backs stiff as a cardboard and eyes a nice, bright red that doesn’t go well at all with the shade of blue they’re dressed in.

“No,” their voice, robotic and gravelly, is a sharp contrast from before.

Right.

“Hmm,” he notes, unsurprised and unimpressed. “Your clones are malfunctioning, sweetheart.”

“I can see that.” You grit your teeth, spinning around to watch them as they reach behind their backs.

“Should do something about it.”

“Ya think?” you shout when they swiftly brandish their weapons.

“I do, yeah.”

Long cylinders tubes of foam and small tubes of translucent material.

He doesn’t have to spend too long racking his brains on what they as they hold up the smaller sticks. A beat passes before a crack sound reverberates through the lair, neon colours of blue, green, pink, and yellow bright in your palms.

The lair goes dark.

There’s a long silence before--

“Are you kidding me?”

Bucky doesn’t wait for the collective, loud battle cry to finish before he calmly makes his way to the corner of the room to stand.

“Your plan was to take over the tri-state area using pool noodles and glow sticks?” he snorts, vaguely making out your silhouette through the flashes of pink and purple on your face.

“This was for the fucking dance number,” you seethe, top hat giving away your location like a lighthouse. “Everyone stop it. I swear to God if you even breathe at the espresso machine, I’ll--”

Bucky checks his phone. Two texts from Steve that he leaves on read and a video from Clint on the group chat that he doesn’t even open.

He can hear the chaos upholding in front of him. Pool noodles fly across the crowd, glowsticks thrown up in the air and down before getting kicked around the floor. More of a fucking rave than an actual plan gone wrong.

“We got an hour left.” He locks his phone and slips it back in his pockets. “D’you think you’ll be done by then?”

“You can help, y’know.” You duck under a pool noodle being flung at you.

"I'm not gonna fight you, Y/N.”

"Bucky, baby, these are my evil clones.”

"I'm not gonna hit your clone," he argues back from his place in front of the wall. “Make them not look like you or something. Maybe then I’ll help.”

“That’s very sweet, and you’re adorable.” You jump to land a dropkick against your carbon copy, whipping around to glare at him. “But I hate you.”

It’s almost on instinct that the exact opposite nearly slips out of him, but he bites it back. Considering that he hadn’t ever said it to you before, saying it in the middle of a clone battle with yourself didn’t seem like the most opportune moment. He’s been holding onto it for weeks, a little more time wouldn’t hurt, would it?

“I know,” he says instead, crossing his arms over his chest again. “Pay attention. You’re behind you.”

You swing around, kicking the feet out from under a clone. The sharp clang of metal on the tiles of your floor is reassuring.

The lair door swings open. All activity comes to a halt when the darkness temporarily lifts.

Someone stands at the doorway, light casting a halo around his broad figure.

“Hey boss,” your new assistant says cheerfully. “And boss, and boss, and boss, and boss--”

“Hey Nico,” you cut in from the middle. “Hit the reverse button on the clone machine, please.”

And the glowsticks resume flying through the air.

“Yes, ma’am.” He salutes, veering through the crowd with soft ‘excuse me’ and ‘coming through’s. The little cloth bag he carries when he goes shopping finds itself tied to his belt, for safekeeping in case things get too ugly.

Nico was ridiculously tall, easily towering over all the clones. His shirt is about two sizes too small and the seashell necklace he kept around his neck because it reminded him of his home and his mom looked like tiny beads in comparison.

Despite Bucky’s initial cynicism, the guy seemed to fit in rather well at the lair. He was clearly just as fascinated as you were with the wacky tech ideas, doing his part by taking on all the heavy lifting which previously was managed by you and your several levitation rays.

“I couldn’t find enough colours for two hundred people so I just picked up some coffee for us and Christmas lights,” he informs loudly, letting out a small ‘oof’ is courtesy when one of you thump his chest with a pool noodle.

Not to forget, Bucky also appreciated how Nico’s spring cleaning got rid of years’ worth of junk from the lair, the new windows he had you blow into the walls to allow in more sunlight because he believed it helped productivity and the fact that the furniture always smelled of lavender.

“That’s great, buddy.” You struggle against one of them in a swordfight and Bucky briefly considers stepping in until you deftly disarm them, flipping them over your shoulder before springing up. “Did you get the Tekton set?”

“No, they were all out.” He takes a large leap to the raised stage at the end of the hall, the floor vibrating where he lands momentarily. “But I got some new screwdrivers because I broke them last week.”

“Broke them? I thought you lost them.” You throw him a glance in the middle of shoving a clone aside.

“No, that was the previous previous set. I broke the ones we got after that.”

And the guy apparently had an aversion to screwdrivers, it looked like.

“How did you break vibranium sc-”

“Wrap it up, Y/N, we gotta go.” Bucky reminds over all the noise, back still very much pressed against the wall.

“Oh, hey Sergeant Barnes!” Nico calls out, ducking to avoid a glowstick thrown at him. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Afternoon, Nico.”

“Would you want some coffee?” he asks politely.

“I’m good, thanks.”

“I only brought two cups but you can have mine. Or maybe if we mix it together we can form one mega drink--”

“Nico, the switch,” you intervene.

“Sorry, boss.” He hurriedly turns back to the machine, gently picking one of your clones up and setting them aside like they were made of nothing. Maybe he could be an Avenger.

“It’s okay.” You let out a noise of irritation when someone thunks you on the head with a glowstick. “Any day now.”

“Um-” Nico’s eyes dart over the control panel. “Which one’s the button again?”

“The big red one that says ‘reverse switch’, probably.”

“That’s-” he pauses. “That’s not here.”

“What d’you mean that’s not there?” Your arms hold back the attack of a noodle. “Check the emergency panel.”

“Okay.” He momentarily disappears behind the gigantic box until his voice comes back muffled. “It says we need a password.”

“A password?”

Bucky sends a text to Steve that they might be late.

“What the fuck is th- okay, fuck that. Just hit any switch that’s not green.”

“Gotcha.” He waddles back to the front, shaking his fingers out. “Is yellow okay?”

“Any colour, Nico,” you whine.

“You got it, boss.” He slams his palm down on the button.

Bucky can feel the giant wave that runs through the lair, the hair on his arm standing straight.

Mechanical groans and the noises his laptop makes when it powers down soon follow as the red eyes return back to normal. Instead of just falling over, which he’s sure would haunt his nightmares for days, every clone just plops themselves down on the ground, crossing their legs and sitting as he remembers he did in middle school.

“Yay.” You lean against the railing for support, breathing heavily.

“You did it, boss.” Nico gives you a large thumbs up. “It all went according to plan.”

“Sure it did.” You nod. “Definitely. That was the plan.”

Bucky scoffs out a laugh, pushing himself off the wall and making his way to you. He makes sure to flip the switch on his way to you, bringing light back into the lair.

“Why-” you hold up a finger, still trying to catch your breath “-why did we put a password on the emergency panel?”

“Because, uh-” Nico gestures towards Bucky in what felt like an apology.

Bucky looks back at him strangely.

“It was to stop him,” he adds. “No offence, Sergeant B.”

“None taken,” Bucky reassures because it was literally his job.

“Fine, whatever.” You ignore the whole exchange, dragging yourself to behind the machine. “What’s the password?”

“I dunno.” Nico scratches the back of his head. “Did you try ‘password’?”

Your head pops around to stare at him unblinkingly. “Our password is ‘password’?”

“No, wait.” He snaps his fingers in a moment of realisation. “I think maybe it’s one two three.”

Bucky nods along, mouth pursed inward. It seemed pretty on-brand.

“It’s not working.” You glance up at Nico.

“One two three four.”

He can hear the chime of the keypad as you punch in the numbers, mumbling to yourself.

“You’ve gotta be shi- why did that work?” You throw your hands up when there’s a woosh of air following a small click. “Who decided that?”

Nico shrugs. “We didn’t. It just came with the system.”

“The system?”

“You guys don’t change the default password?” Bucky’s eyebrows furrow. “Even I do that and I’m six hundred years o-”

“Okay,” you interrupt, pulling off the panel and letting it fall to the floor with a clang. “No more password-based stuff, Nico, make a note of that.”

“Noted.” He pulls out a tiny little book, scribbling in it with the pencil attached before flipping it closed.

A second later the machine whirs to life, blue light emanating from it. The sounds of a generator overpower what he’s sure is Bye Bye Bye by *NSync playing through the speakers.

Each of the clones gets up, dust their blue suits off before obediently lining up in a queue. He can hear them shoot compliments at each other, either for the wrinkled suit or the glowsticks in their pockets.

“See you later.” You give them a small wave. “Or not.”

“Bye,” Nico says to the first person who walks through the door and disappears. “See you. Nice meeting you. See you around. Bye--”

With the determination of a person too polite to be alive, he makes sure to bid farewell to every person who walks through the machine.

Your eyebrows upturn at him but you say nothing.

“Hey,” Bucky says, stealing your attention. “Did you have fun?”

“Loads.” You wipe the sweat off your brow, ditching your post to come stand in front of him. “You ever been in a battle against yourself? Should try it sometime.”

“No, only one of us can be the designated idiot at a time.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “You good?”

“It’s your turn next week.” You let out an exhale before giving him a bright smile. “All good.”

“Told Steve we’re gonna be late.”

“Oh, good. I need a shower.” You scrunch up your nose, picking at your suit. “Maybe a nap. How about we don’t go?”

“Sure, if you’re the one to break the news.”

“Coward.” You poke at his chest. “Fine, but we’re taking the bike.”

“Why would we need to take the bike if you’re gonna cancel?”

“Because-” you open your mouth to begin, only to be cut off by a sound of utter distress from across the platform.

From the side, you see Nico standing over his espresso machine that lay in pieces on the floor.

You look at Bucky. He already knows what you’re gonna say.

He shakes his head. “Just go.”

“It’ll only take twenty minutes.” You flash him a smile. “You’re my favourite person in this room. Maybe even this street.”

“Yeah, yeah.” It nearly escapes him again, the words hanging at the top of his tongue. Shouldn’t be this easy to say, should it? “Go on. He looks like he’s about to cry.”

You blow him a kiss before stalking towards Nico, placing a hand on his shoulder. The smile he gives you doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and you gently dismiss his insistence that it’s okay before bending down to assess the damage.

Bucky lets out an exhale before pulling out his phone to hit play on the video Clint sent at least two days ago.

“You did what?”

Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. “Stop being dramatic.”

“I’m being dramatic?” you scoff. “You bought a house.”

“So?”

“I was gone for twenty fucking seconds and you bought a house without telling me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t think it was necessary--”

“Not necessary? We’re together and you’re-”

“Guys,” T interrupts. “It’s just Monopoly.”

Steve nods from his place on the couch.

“T, he bought a house without telling me.” You turn to her immediately, voice shrill in complain.

“It’s a fucking board game.” Bucky leans back. “It’s your fault you left.”

“To get your thirsty ass some apple juice, you loser.”

“Did I a-”

“I don’t even buy apple juice. Where did you get that?” T points to the glass in front of you, half full.

“I have resources.” You cryptically count the fake currency in your hands, glancing at the board in front of you for your properties.

“Are they allowed to team up?” Steve’s voice is low when he asks his girlfriend.

“No.” T narrows her eyes at you slipping Bucky a wad of cash, an unnaturally high sum.

“She just gave him cash.”

Bucky silently takes it, looking his best friend right in the eye. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Right.” You clear your throat, getting up from your place and pretend to dust yourself off. “I’m going to the kitchen for some orange juice--”

“I don’t have orange juice.”

“Does anyone want some?” You place your hands on your hips. When you get a round of declinations in return, you nod. “Alrighty. Be right back.”

“No more chips, we need to get dinner,” T calls out. “You won’t find any, but still.”

“Yes, ma’am.” You throw her a salute before marching on to your quest.

Bucky counts the money he has left. It’s a few seconds of silence as it dawns on him that he has more money than he realised initially. The obscene amount he had procured made no sense, even if he counted the amount you’ve been slipping him all evening.

“I’ll be back.” He pushes himself off the couch, shoving the bills into his pocket for security while he investigated.

In hushed tones from what he left behind, he hears, “They’re strategizing. It’s a team meeting.”

The reply, however, comes back at a normal volume. “It’s literally just a board game, what is wrong with you people?”

“You’re doing what she told you not to, aren’t you?” Bucky finds you amidst a kitchen full of half-open shelves.

“I’m definitely not looking for chips.” Your head was tilted up as you scoured T’s cabinets for her extra stash you know she kept hidden. “Would never do that.”

“Sure you’re not.” He leans his weight against the counter, watching you blindly reach about the space. “Check behind the cereal box.”

“Checked.”

“Check inside the cereal box.”

“Oooh,” you exclaim, pulling the box out and flipping open the cardboard lid. “Only an evil genius would know that. What are you not telling me, Barnes?”

“I live with like, thirty people. You learn to hide things.” He watches you pull out a brand new packet of nachos stealthily. “Are you actually mad at me?”

“Fuck no,” you respond immediately. “I’m just gonna use my public meltdown to our advantage. Throw ‘em off their rhythm, they’ll never see us coming.”

Which reminds him, “We’re not on the same team, I don’t know why you keep giving me money.”

“You’re my sugar ba-”

“Stop,” he interrupts.

You grin at him, tearing open the packet gently. “I’m embezzling funds and stashing them at your bank. Some of the notes are from my game back home.”

“You brought your own currency?”

“Sure did,” you sing. “You’re my fall-man. You’re going to take the blame-”

”No, get your illegal money out of my bank, what the fuck?”

“Go to jail-”

“I refuse.”

“And then I’m going to bust you out of there and then we’ll live on an island or something.” You shake the bag gently, well out of her earshot, shuffling the chips toward you.

“No.”

“Go team, I’m so proud of us.” You pop a nacho in your mouth and smile at him widely.

He shakes his head, reaching into the bag you hold out for him. “Not a team.”

“Hold on now, what happened to Team Dumbass? Bracelet Bitches my beloved?”

“It died when you tried to get me sent to jail for money laundering and tax fraud.”

“If that’s all it takes to break us apart then it wasn’t that strong in the first place.” You sigh, placing a hand on his chest before retracting it quickly to shove it into the bag again.

But it has been. Strong, he means, for months now. He would never be able to say it out loud but he’s pretty sure it’s the most content, happy even, he’s been in nearly a hundred years. Also, it’s the most absurd mix of distress and fun he’s ever chosen to be subjected to.

“Steve thinks we’re strategizing in here.” He hums.

“I already have a strategy.” You stand close enough beside him to have your elbows touching. You’ve found that likes some sort of physical contact, no matter how small it may be.

“S’ppose it involves me.”

“Obviously. Maybe if you didn’t betray me then I’d tell you what it was.”

He scoffs. “It was one house that I bought with my own non-illegal currency.”

“Without telling me,” you reiterate. “And all your currency is illegal, I’ve been swiping it out the whole evening.”

His eyebrows cinch together at this new piece of information but he doesn’t pursue it further.

Instead, he takes another chip. Counts the number of tiles between the countertops on both sides of the room. Revels in the feeling of your skin grazing against his metal arm.

He hears you reach into the bag, snapping his mind out of the little trip it was taking.

“Hypothetically, in real life,” Bucky begins, breaking the momentary silence, “if I ever did buy a house-”

The smile drops from your face instantly. “Did you actually-”

“No,” he adds quickly. “Hypothetically. In the future. Not now.”

You eye him skeptically, all other movements put on halt for that brief period.

“I didn’t buy a fucking house, I swear.”

You press back a smile at his degree of seriousness, feeling relief flood into your system. “Go on.”

“You’d be open to that?” Bucky looks at you out the corner of his eye.

“Sure.” You shrug casually and he lets out a short breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “But I got some hypothetical conditions.”

“Course you do,” he mumbles.

“Number one,” you announce, holding your hand up with a chip pinched together between your fingers, “No can openers.”

“Okay, hypothetical plan cancelled,” he says immediately.

“No can openers, I’m serious.” Your laugh is short, teasing.

“It’s the first thing we’d hypothetically get.” He rolls his eyes. "You call me over every time you need me to open one."

"Because those pieces of shit are hard. And I just call you over to see your face."

He knows.

“And your arms. They look great while you do it.”

Okay, moving on.

“Second--” You do it before he can “--Jake.”

“What about him?”

“Hypothetically, he’s gonna be happy that I moved out and I can’t have that.”

Bucky quirks an eyebrow.

“Let’s fake my death.”

A little too dramatic, he thinks.

“Give him something to be sad about.” You grin. If he knows you, then he knows there are at least three plans already formulating in your head.

“He won’t be,” he reminds.

“You’re right, he won’t.” The smile vanishes slowly, narrowed eyes taking its place. “Fine, then fuck Jake. He can starve after he realises I’m the one who restocks his stupid yoghurt.”

Bucky’s pretty sure Jake knows. It’s also why your roommate buys your favourite pasta sauce even though just the mere sight of it makes him want to, in his words, projectile vomit.

But remembering Jake brings up another detail.

“What about Alpine?”

“Alpine 2.0.” Your answer comes back startlingly fast. “I’ll clone her.”

“We’ve already seen what happens to your clones.”

“Just because a few of them went rogue-”

“We’re not cloning Alpine.”

“Fine.” You huff. “I’m pretty sure Jake’s more attached to A.N.K.L.E.S. now anyway.”

“The murder Roomba?” Bucky picks up nacho. Dinner wouldn’t be an issue for him, his metabolism was much higher than the average human’s.

“It’s not a fucking Roomba, it’s a droid and its name is A.N.K.L.E.S.”

Bucky scorns. “Since when?”

“Since forever. The A stands for ABBA and the rest I don’t know yet.” You pop a chip into your mouth. “Either way, I don’t think he’d care much.”

“Okay, so hypothetically we get Alpine.” Bucky chews slowly, thoughtfully. “She gets a room.”

“Alpine gets two rooms. One for the day and one for the night.”

“The cat doesn’t need two rooms.”

“She deserves two rooms.”

“No, she doesn’t.”

“You feed her enough to need two rooms.”

“Shut up, she’s a growing cat,” he murmurs. He just pinned a new recipe to try out for her on his Pinterest board.

“She’s grown.”

“Alpine can pay rent if she wants two rooms.”

“Jerk. Don’t subject my cat to capitalism.” You take a pause. “Cat-pitalism.

He stares at you. “Hypothetical plan cancelled.”

“Third,” you continue regardless, “I’m gonna fill the entire place with traps and fake doors and shit, it’s gonna be so cool.”

He gets vivid flashbacks to pen swords and almost-mushroom clouds. His nose twitches.

Bucky pushes himself off the counter’s edge to get some water. “You get one room to invent and none of it ever leaves that space.”

“How do I take it to lair then?”

“Figure it out.”

“What if you sneak into the room and steal the plan and ruin my inator?”

He had an all-access pass to the lair and it had never happened before. There was no reason to believe he was going to start now.

Still, he kisses your cheek on his way past you. “Figure it out.”

“Okay, well then hypothetically I’m gonna build a portal in one of the rooms.”

“I will burn your hypothetical portal to the ground.”

“You can’t do that, I have a hypothetical force shield.”

“Your force shield has a hypothetical battery that I’m gonna remove.”

“That was one time.”

“One room to invent on the weekends and you use your teleporting shit to get it to the lair.” Bucky’s been here enough for dinner parties and game nights to know where T keeps her all her dishes.

“Okay, new hypothetical plan,” you say as he holds his glass out under the tap. “I’m gonna build a lair in our garage.”

“Garage?” In this economy? Fuck no.

“Fine, dungeon, then.” Your eyes shine. “We’re gonna stay in a castle.”

He shuts the tap off. “You’re gonna stay there alone.”

You continue excitedly, “A big, dark castle and you will never see me again because there’s gonna be so many rooms.”

“Great. Let me know when you’re moving,” he says dryly. “Gotta move all your stuff out of the Tower.”

“Yeah, lemme call a moving van for my fucking toothbrush.”

“Your other stuff.” The water disappears in a few strong gulps. The glass, he decides, can be the alibi he needs for being there, just in case T comes at you for stealing from her stash. If he was going to jail for money laundering, you could go for theft.

“What other stuff?” You squint.

“Y’know…” he trails off when he realises you very much don’t know, setting the glass down. “Your inators and stuff.”

Your head tilts inquisitively. “Thought those go to S.H.I.E.L.D..”

"Well, yeah. They’re supposed to." Bucky shoves his hands in his pocket. "I don’t know, just had a feeling you'd want 'em back one day."

“Wait, so you kept them?” You fight the smile that threatens to spread across your face. “Since when?”

“Freeze gun, I think.”

“Wasn’t that-- wait--” Your eyebrows knit together before your jaw drops. “Wasn’t that the first time we met?”

“Don’t remember.” Yes, he does. Yes, it was.

”You’ve had a crush on me since our first meeting?”

“No.”

“Oh my God, you’ve had a crush on me since our first meeting.”

He drags his palm across his face. “They’re getting recycled first thing tomorrow.”

“Not before I see them first.” You jump up with a renewed interest in this conversation. “Where even are they? The storage? On a ship?”

“My room.”

“I’ve been to your room, I’ve never seen my inators around.”

“You’ve seen the shelf,” he argues, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You mean that fucking drawer in the corner?” You cross your arms too, in retaliation. “The one you’ve stuck together with tape?”

“Why do you think it’s like that? I ran out of fuckin’ space, it’s too full.”

“I didn’t know it had my inators, I thought it was just like that.”

“You thought it’s barely hanging together because it was just like that?”

“Like owner, like cabinet.” You laugh when he rolls his eyes at you. “I’m kidding. Here, have a chip.”

“No,” he says as he takes the one you’re offering. “Hypothetical plan cancelled.”

“Okay,” you move on. “So in our castle, there’s gotta be at least one hypothetical room for all our friends.”

“Right, so that’s zero rooms for you then,” Bucky notes.

“We’re literally in my best friend’s kitchen right now.”

“Ask her if she feels the same.”

“T,” you call out and he gives a short exhale in disbelief. “Are you my best friend?”

Her voice comes back loud and clear. “No.”

“See? She loves me.” You turn to Bucky.

“You’re missing a few steps there.”

“No, I think I got all of them.” You nod. “T, Jake, Alpine and her three rooms.”

“Oh, so Alpine gets three rooms now.”

“Yeah, duh.”

He’d disagree but Alpine really was the royalty in this house. It was only time till she took over the entire house. The Tower had been claimed months ago anyway.

“Fine. But then hypothetically, if we’re doing this then you need to do it properly.” Bucky pauses. “Castle’s gotta be all-black.”

You reel back. “It certainly does not.”

“Black walls, black furniture--”

“Pink walls. Blue furniture.”

“...black cushions. Black curtains--”

“Yellow cushions. Purple curtains.”

“No garlic, no mirrors--” he continues to list out.

“We’re not vampires, Bucky. The castle has to look like a Barbie dreamhouse or I’m not staying.”

“I guess it’s just me and Alpine then.”

“You’re going to steal my child and stay in a castle that I made without me.”

Bucky’s lips press inward. “Yeah, sounds ‘bout right.”

“Bitch. I’ll leave all my inators in every room. They will be the first thing you see in the morning and the last thing you’ll see at night.”

“...black kitchen. Black floor--” he continues in revenge.

“Alpine’s going to get four rooms. Morning, afternoon, evening, night.”

“Black doors. Black bed. Black can-opener--”

“No can-openers.”

“Black wardrobe. Black--”

“I will evict yo--” You stop abruptly. “Why are we arguing about this?”

It’s not like you ever needed a solid reason before.

“Let’s just build a treehouse and stay there,” you propose instead.

“Deal.” He holds his hand out for a handshake, which you grab firmly.

“You guys done in there?” Steve calls out. “Neither of us wanna check if you’re fine, so please just get out.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, dropping your hand.

You gesture to the bag of chips. “D’you think I should take this out th-”

“Hide.”

“Good call.” You stash it back in the cabinet for later. Not in the cereal box, since it was your bag now.

You can tell game night’s gonna go on for longer, given that your plan to bankrupt Steve so hard he’d never be able to play the game again without tearing up had still not been put into action.

“Get your money out of my bank.”

“We’ll see.” You grin, cupping his cheeks and giving him a quick kiss before taking a step past him. Only, he tugs you back for one more, just a little longer than the last. It’s nice that it still leaves him feeling things in his stomach he refuses to put a name to.

You hum as you pull away with a small smile. “Wait three minutes before showing up so people don’t think we came together.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrow. “What the fuck even are you talking about?”

“Actually, you know what? I think it’s time we let them know we’re-” you drop your volume “-official.”

He stares at you. “We’ve been together for months.”

“Shhh, they’ll hear you.”

“There’s nothing to hide.”

“Yeah, only ‘cause we’ll tell them.” You roll your eyes.

“They already fucking kn-” he shuts his mouth. “I’m not gonna do this again. Stay here if you want, I’m leaving.”

“You’re just gonna ditch me? Traitor.” You change stances immediately.

“You just s--” For the love of God. “--you’re insufferable.”

You stifle a laugh. “Go on, say it.”

"Say what?" he asks wearily.

"Say, 'God I hate you', or something like that."

He should say it. It's tradition, and you're waiting there, arms crossed across your chest. There's a mock glare on your face but a twinkle in your eye.

"I love you," he says instead.

It’s a second before your face pulls into the biggest smile he’s seen.

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