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#you have the BEST ideas holy smokes i was so stuck on soup but i have an idea of how to make him fit now :DDD
thiswasinevitableid · 3 years
Note
for monster march, ghost + indruck + nsfw?
Here you go! I borrowed some ideas we’ve tossed around on the Discord
A sketchbook, new pens, a Hershey bar, and a bag of jumbo marshmallows. A small but lively fire. And a new, huge, fuzzy sleeping bag waiting for him in the tent. 
Not a bad camping set up for a city-boy art goth (as Barclay likes to call him).
Indrid sticks another marshmallow on the fork, roasting it until it’s deep brown, the smell of burning sugar curling through the air and settling in his hair. He’s never liked Graham Crackers, so he jams a square of chocolate into the molten center of the marshmallow and shoves the entire thing into his mouth. 
Kepler is small. Barclay hadn’t been kidding about that. He’d also been right that one of the two tattoo shops in town was willing to hire Indrid after looking through photos of his work and confirming he completed his apprenticeship. 
He’s been living in the Eastwoods campground in the Monongahela National Forest while he apartment hunts, and the tattoos he’s done so far netted him enough cash to buy his luxurious new sleeping bag. He might be waiting on a place for some time, so he may as well camp in style. 
Three “s’mores” later, the moon is up and the night is chilly enough that he wants his sweatshirt. Ducking into the tent, he can’t find it on his pillow, where he swears he left it this morning. Maybe he accidentally buried it getting dressed.
A splashhiss interrupts his rummaging. Scrambling from the tent, he discovers his fire is now a pile of soaked ashes and logs being angrily stirred by a thick piece of kindling. 
“Excuse me, but what the fuck?”
A man in a ranger uniform appears, the stick falling through his hand as he gives Indrid a disapproving stare. 
“Look here, I know you’re new here, maybe to campin entirely. But you can’t just leave a fire burnin when you go to bed.” He doesn’t sound mad, more like he’s a disappointed big brother scolding his sibling. 
“I wasn’t-”
“And all this” he gestures to the food on the table, “has gotta go in the bear box. Black bears are real good foragers and we don’t want ‘em comin’ into camp and gettin to comfy around humans.”
“Of course, but-”
“You didn’t take any food into the tent, right? Wouldn’t want somethin to decide to join you ‘cause it smelled a snack.”
Indrid pinches the bridge of his nose, “I am aware of all of these rules, and plan to follow them. Once I actually go to bed instead of ducking into the tent for my sweater. But since my evening appears to be over…” he grabs the marshmallows, roasting fork, and chocolate, carries them to the bear box, and slams it closed. 
When he whirls back around, the ghost is still there, chagrined. 
“Uh, sorry. I kinda jumpy about people leavin fires alone.” In the lantern light, his smile is as charming as his drawl. His stocky, bearish shape and unassumingly handsome face command Indrid’s focus, which is why his revelation comes so quickly. 
“You...there’s a statue of you at the visitor center. Which makes you, ah, damn it what was the name-”
“Duck. Duck Newton. They put my legal name on there, even though Juno tried to stop ‘em. But my name’s Duck.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Duck. I’m Indrid.”
“Nice to meet you too. Uh, sorry for ruinin your campfire, looks like you were havin a nice time.”
“It’s alright. I suppose I’m grateful there’s someone haunting the campsites to keep them in order.”
“You’re takin me bein’ a ghost surprisingly well.”
“I’ve always been interested in strange things, to the point that I earned the nickname ‘mothman’ in high school.”
“Huh” Duck watches him a moment, then shrugs, “well, guess I better be goin’. Have a nice night, mothman.”
With that, he’s gone.
------------------------------------------------------
“Hello again.” Indrid says as the campfire smoke curls around a human form, “Doing your rounds?”
“More or less. I like my job, and ain’t about to give it up just because I beefed it and turned into a ghost.” A creak as Duck joins him on the picnic bench. When he materializes, he floats slightly above the worn wood, watching Indrid draw. 
“That’s incredible, it’s so realistic it’s like you pressed the leaves into the pages instead of colored them.”
“Thank you.” adds depth to the leaf, “you know, I looked at the statue again today. It hardly does you justice.”
From this close, he can see a blush spread up semi-opaque cheeks. Then he starts fading.
“Oh, ah, I’m sorry. I was aiming for a benign compliment, not to make you uncomfortable.”
“S’alright, just surprised me. Not many folks wanna flirt with a dead guy.”
“I’m more interested in what the ‘dead guy’ wants.” Indrid smiles, hoping to convey he would submit to spectral touches as readily as he’d keep talking. 
Duck floats closer, “Kinda curious about your other drawin’s.”
Indrid turns the sketchbook back to the beginning, “they’re half portfolio and half travelogue. Here” he holds up a fade, detached piece of paper,  covered by an Morpho Butterfly that looks ready to fly away, “this is the first tattoo I ever designed.”
“Damn. Guessin’ that means you did this one” he touches the Rosy Maple Moth on Indrid’s forearm (or tries to). It’s chilly, but not in the way Indrid feared. More like taking a cool shower on a sweltering day.
“I did. Here, it gave me an idea for my first series of flash tattoos…”
They go over the illustrations page by page. Slowly, Indrid weaves in questions to Duck who, instead of recoiling from discussion of his mortal life, tells him rambling stories about the woods and which places serve the best food in town. 
The conversation doesn’t end until the fire goes out on it’s own, Duck standing automatically, grabbing a water bottle, swearing, and then disappearing so he can pick the bottle up. 
“Do you think that’s part of why you’re still here? Some unfinished business having to do with the woods?”
“Nah.” The water bottle thunks back on the table as Duck reappears, “I tried to live a normal life, improve the world the way I knew how, make some kind of difference to this town. Then I had to go play the goddamn hero.”
“I would say saving two dozen people from a forest fire makes a considerable difference in the world.”
A sad huff of a laugh, “Yeah, guess you’re right. Just...I meant to do somethin’ with my life, not my death, even if it was a small somethin’, and the closest thing I got to unfinished business is a model ship.”
“I...what?”
“It was four-masted and everything! I had Leo order it in special and everything and then I never, I never got to-”  He tilts his head up, sniffs once, “never mind. I better let you get to sleep.”
By the time Indrid calls “goodnight,” the ghost is gone. 
------------------------------------------
“Please tell me you’re gettin a place soon so you stop eatin everythin outta a can?” Leo bags the last of groceries.
“No such luck. Ah well, there are worse things than canned soup and Pop-Tarts.”
“At least let Barclay feed you, half the point of havin a friend who can cook is to let ‘em do it for you. You need stamps or anything?”
“N-” A box behind the counter catches his eye. It’s at an odd angle, as if whoever put it there is hoping no one will see it. Indrid can just make out an illustration of a four-masted ship.
“Is that for sale?”
Leo looks where he’s pointing, and for a moment something in his gruff affability wavers. Then he nods, “Yeah, suppose it is.”
“Can you ring it up for me?” Indrid nearly bounces on his toes when Leo sets the box on the counter and confirms his hunch. 
The older man sets a gentle hand on the cardboard, sliding it across to Indrid, “Don’t worry about that, kid. It’s yours.”
----------------------------------------------
“Duck?” Indrid turns in a circle by the picnic table, “Duck, I have something for you!”
He saw the ranger briefly last night, but he didn’t hang around. Gingerly, he sets the box on the table, tearing off a piece of sketch paper to write a note in case the ghost stops by while he’s asleep. 
“Holy fuck.” Duck floats across the table from him, “‘Drid, where did, how did--why?”
“Leo still had it. As for why I, ah, it seemed like you still wanted it. If you can douse a fire and over my camp stove, I figure you can build a model ship.”
Duck disappears and Indrid’s heart sinks; that must have been too much. Then he’s squished in an invisible, wonderful bear hug.
“Thanks, ‘Drid.”
From then on, Duck spends every night at his campsite, building the ship while Indrid draws, reads, or talks with him. The model lives in the safest corner of the tent during the day.
“I mean, I’m up durin the day too, but I scared a few folks on accident and I don’t want people avoid the forest because of me.”
Indrid also learns that Duck is stuck within a certain radius of where he died, and that his attempts to talk with Juno when she was in his part of the woods only lead to his friend thinking she was hallucinating and Duck feeling miserable for three solid days. Indrid offers to act as messenger and invite Duck’s friends (many of whom have, by chance and by proximity to Barclay, become his friends) to the campsite to see him. The ranger is quiet for some time after that offer.
“Not yet. Maybe someday, but not yet. I, it ain’t even been a year, ‘Drid. I think a lot of ‘em are still hurtin. And, and maybe this is selfish but...I ain’t ready to deal with them findin’ out I aint fully gone. It’d be so much all at once.”
Indrid doesn’t bring it up again. More than once, when Aubrey tells a story about Duck only for her eyes to sadden halfway through, or when he sees Juno looking at Duck’s statue a little too long, he struggles to keep his promise. 
A cold front blows into town and, since he’s still in the tent, he pops into Kepler Thrift N Find in search of an extra sweatshirt. Tucked in between one reading “Ranchos” and one with a picture of Garfield is a soft, well-loved hoodie with “Monongahela National Forest” on the front. He buys it and wears it home, the fact it’s loose in the arms making it even easier to tuck in his hands when he gets cold. 
He stops by the visitor center out of habit, checking out the new plush wild animals. There are also hints of Duck here and there; his name on displays, his face in group photos. As he contemplates a small, squishy black bear, he notices Juno looking at him more than usual.
“Hello again” he sets the bear on the counter.
“Howdy. This all?
“Yes, please. Are you alright? You look, ah, tired.”
“Yep. Or, uh, just noticed that sweatshirt. It was one that got made special for staff a few years ago.”
Indrid fidgets with the cat-bitten drawstring, “It was Duck’s, wasn’t it?”
“Uh huh. He put that patch on the sleeve. Guess it startled me to see it on someone else.”
“I understand.” 
“Knew him since we were kids. Hell, he’s my daughter’s godfather. Still don’t feel right, bein’ here without him.”
Indrid pushes the bear towards her and she pets it.
“What was he like?”
In the empty visitor center, Juno tells him. In her stories are echos of every conversation he’s ever had with anyone who knew Duck. When it’s time to close up, she asks if she can hug him, and thanks him for listening to her. 
“Guess you weren’t kiddin about wanting to sleep with a bear” Duck teases as Indrid sets his new purchase inside the tent. Indrid whaps at him, arm going through his torso. The ranger floats nearby as Indrid heats up ravioli and opens a can of Mountain Dew. Indrid tells him about the conversation with Juno. 
“Huh, guess that is my old one. Glad someone is gettin some use outta it. And it looks good on you.”
Indrid sets down his bowl, “We talked a lot, Duck. And it made me think about what you said to me one of the night after we met. You said you wanted a chance to make the world, the town, a little better. Everyone I’ve talked to, and I mean every one, has a story about you. How you helped them, how Kepler is worse off with you gone. You did so much, even with your time cut short. I, I wanted you to know that.”
The ghost looks away, “I wasn’t done tryin to help.”
“You still aren’t. You do what you can to keep the forest and the visitors safe. And you, you’ve made my life immeasurably better Duck. Seeing you is the best part of my day and I think I’m falling--ah, that is, you’re not done making a difference.”
Duck hasn’t moved since Indrid started talking about his feelings. When Indrid tries to meet his eyes, he disappears. Hurried, he reaches out to offer a reassuring touch and gets only air. 
“Duck?”
Nothing, even after he calls his name three more times.
He slumps onto the bench, “well, fuck me I guess.”
---------------------------------------------------
This is a terrible idea. But it’s his last, and therefore his best. 
Indrid even asked Barclay’s boyfriend, Joseph, if anything in his impressive library of the paranormal advised the reader on dealing with upset ghosts. A few did, always from the perspective of trying to get the specter to go away. They said nothing about what to do if your upset ghost was missing, leaving an ache in your heart you didn’t know you were capable of feeling. 
Instead, after a week of silence, Indrid changes tactics: if he can’t coax Duck back, maybe he can annoy him into appearing. 
Tonight, he finishes dinner and cleans his dishes, puts the bulk of the food in the bear box, and then tears open a bag of chips, scattering them across the table. He eats one, then leaves the open bag laying amongst the potato shards. 
Next, he dumps his remaining water on the fire, which takes it down to embers but does not extinguish it. When none of that gets a reaction, he decides to narrate.
“Hmm, that should be fine, it’s not that dry and I don’t think sparks can go over the edge.”
“Should I leave these juice pouches out? Yes, I think I should, in case I get thirsty at night. Maybe I’ll take one into the tent, just to be safe.”
He already feels silly and like no one is listening, and so he escalates. 
“I know I shouldn’t leave food out for the wildlife, but since there’s no handsome, ghostly ranger here to punish me for my transgressions, I am just going to leave some nuts out for the raccoons. I like raccoons. They deserve nice things. Hell, how about I just leave them a whole buffet since no one is stopping me!”
All he gets in reply are the few bugs awake this early in the spring and the crack of brush as a small mammal runs away from the weird bipedal thing yelling at his camp fire. He doesn’t leave out food for the raccoons; he climbs into his tent in a huff. What a bad idea, to think this of all things would bring Duck back to him. He’s being childish and bratty and selfish; Duck doesn’t deserve that, no more than he owes Indrid his company. 
He changes into his pajamas pants and sleep shirt, intending to go back out to make the site safe and tidy. Except.
Except something just opened the bear box. The chip bag crinkles and the fire hisses out a minute later. He should be running outside to apologize, but his mind has simultaneously�� registered the full darkness of the night , the possibility that Duck is not the only paranormal thing in these woods, and the fact the nearest other campers are on the other side of the campground, meaning he is very, very alone.
The zipper on the tent moves, the flap falling open so his lantern shines on nothing but April air.
“Duck? Please say that’s you.”
A low chuckle, “It’s me, ‘Drid.” The fly zips shut, “mighty peeved about that trick you pulled.”
“I’m, I’m sorry. I missed you, but that was a bad way to communicate that.” He can’t see him, and the lantern only picks up the odd shift of sleeping bag or tent floor, so Indrid’s eyes’ dart about trying to pinpoint him.
“Oh, you communicated plenty, sugar. Like what you want a certain, uh, ghostly ranger to do to you.”
“Oh god” he winces, “please, forget I said that, it’s humiliating.”
“Not all that surprisin, truth be told. I mean, you and I flirted now and then. And you told me enough about yourself for me to suspect that you’re a kinky little weirdo who’s dyin to get fucked by a ghost.” 
“I, I feel I should point out that I only want to fuck one ghost. You. I want to fuck you and that means fucking a ghoOOOst.” He gasps as cold lips press into his neck.
“I can make that happen, darlin, all you gotta do is say it. You were a pain in the neck earlier, so now I expect you to be real polite and use your words.” Duck’s voice has never been like this before, rough and possessive yet still, under all of it, the same warmth draws Indrid in like a flame. 
“I want you, Duck.”
A bite to his ear, strong arms wrapping around his waist from behind him, “Want me to do what?”
“Fuck me” this is like every wet dream he had as a teenager, the supernatural being coming for a fellow outsider. 
That gets him a tender kiss on the cheek, “That’s better. Though, if I’m rememberin correctly, word you used was punish.”
Indrid yelps as Duck turns and shoves him to lay across his lap, kicks his legs out in surprise when his waistband slides down to his upper thighs. 
“Yesss” he wiggles his ass as Duck palms it, “yes, Duck, pleaseAHgod” the first strike stings, and Duck doesn’t let him recover before delivering five more, three to each side. His cock perks up at the pain. Stranger still, because Duck is invisible, all Indrid has to do is tilt his head to watch it harden and twitch with each slap.
Twenty strikes later Duck pauses, hand rubbing soothing, cool circles on the burning skin, “Learned your lesson?”
“Mmhmm.” Indrid presses an awkward kiss to Duck’s knee. 
“Glad to hear it.” Duck hauls him up onto his knees, slides a hand under his shirt and up his chest, “I’m rarin’ to feel more of you--holy fuck” 
“AH!” Indrid arches as Duck toys with his left nipple piercing, his other hand quickly finding the right. 
“God, fuck, you’re fuckin hot, if I were alive I woulda taken you home first time I saw you.” Messy kisses cover his neck as Duck tugs the piercings.
“Gaahnnyes, that’s, that’s very flattering.”
“Ain’t flattery, sugar, it’s the truth. Never could turn down some skinny punk with piercin’s and messy hair, not when I was a teen burnout hidin in the woods and sure as hell not now.” He moves Indrid onto his back, rucking up his shirt as his legs twist in his half-down pants. The ranger cups his face, and Indrid is positive he’s meeting his eyes, “tell me what you want sugar, tell me so I can treat you right.”
“Marks, I want marks anywhere you’ll give them.”
A growl from above him, then lips smashing into his, drinking him in before continuing down his throat, biting and sucking hard enough that he cries out every time. Duck pauses, teasing his nipples with his tongue as he rakes his nails up his sides. He sits up and for a horrible moment Indrid loses him. Then with glee he watches five red marks drag down his chest. He moans, rolling his hips and discovering just how closer Duck’s clothed cock is to his own. The contact only feeds the rangers eagerness, and Indrid is tosses and turns as he sucks, bites, and scratches, laying claim to the illustrated expanse of his body. 
“More, please, god that all feels so good.” 
“Don’t worry darlin, still got plenty of you to mark up, but we’re gonna do somethin else while I do.” He eases Indrid onto his stomach, slaps his ass fondly, “don’t go nowhere.”
Indrid’s duffel bag unzips, clothes and pens moved aside until a bottle of lube hovers in the air. The tube compresses and drips coat the rough outline of fingers. When the two digits press into him he sighs, eyes closing as he melts under Ducks watchful eyes. 
“That’s it ‘Drid, relax for me. Got well over a year of horny to work out, so this cute ass needs to be ready to take it.”
Indrid pushes his hips back in reply, taking as far as the fingers will go and whimpering excitedly when he presses in the tip of the third. Duck works that one more carefully, kissing Indrid’s face and shoulders as he whispers about how good he is, how much he’s wanted this.
“I want it too so for, for goodness sake please fuck me soon or I’ll leave my entire cooler out for the bears.”
“Only one bear in this campsite tonight darlin.” Duck laves his tongue down the base of his spine, bites down hard on his ass. Indrid’s still moaning from the pain when his cock pushes in.
“Fuuuckme that’s good. Shoulda snuck into your tent sooner, sugar, made you a fuckin cocksleeve you feel so fuckin good.”
“Ohgod” is all Indrid, voice muffled by the sleeping bag he’s biting, manages before Duck adjusts them so Indrid is on his knees. The ranger isn’t gentle, pounds into him like he’s nothing but a warm hole and chuckles whenever Indrid moans. 
“H-handprints, Duck, want hand prints GAHyesyesyes” he struggles to move in time with the ghost as the air fills with ear-splitting slaps. He’s so close, the pain and the sensation of phantom fingers claiming his body making his body beg for release. When he slides a hand down to jerk himself off, the arm twists up and stays trapped against his back. 
“You wanna cum, you know what to do.”
He blinks away the ecstatic tears, words raw in his throat, “Please let me cum, Duck. I want to, need to cum while you fuck me pleaseplease-” he cuts off into whine as the ghost works his cock hard, all the while jamming into him hard enough that the smooth fabric of the sleeping bag burns his knees. When he cums it’s with a weak cry of Duck’s name, which is swallowed up by hungry lips as Duck kisses him over and over, repeating Indrid’s name like an incantation as he pumps his hips and cums, pulling out as he does so it splatters on the reddened patches of his ass. 
A final kiss to the top of his head, and then there’s no contact between them and the zipper is moving.
“Oh no you don’t” Indrid scrambles, sweaty and exhausted, between the tent fly and the invisible man somewhere in front of him, “for goodness sake, Duck, I thought you liked me enough to at least let me fall asleep before you ran.”
The ranger finally appears, hair a mess and cheeks noticeably pink, “‘Drid, all that was amazing, but it’s all I can give you. I, I can’t...you said you were fallin for me and I can’t give you that.”
Indrid cocks his head, “Why not?”
“Because I’m a fuckin ghost, ‘Drid! You deserve to be with a livin’ fella, you deserve someone who can be a real part of your life.”
He crosses his arms, “Duck, you are a real part of my life. Honestly, what part of all the nights we spent together, all the ways we take care of each other, all of this” he points at the rumpled sleeping bag, “suggests otherwise?”
The ghost doesn’t speak, simply hugs himself (or tries to).
“If this is too much, if I’m offering something you do not want, then please tell me. But if this is you thinking that some paranormal quirks keep you from being a worthy partner for me, kindly think again.”
Duck disappears and Indrid is gearing up to try and tackle a supernatural entity when a familiar face buries itself in the crook of his neck. The ghost clings to him, and Indrid clings right back. 
“You really wanna give it a go?”
“More than anything.”
Duck lifts his head so their cheeks rest together, “Then fuck it. Let’s see what happens.”
----------------------------------------
Indrid finishes hooking up his lightly used Winnebago, AKA his solution to the lack of available apartments. He’s in a different section of Eastwoods, but he’s happy with his new spot. He opens one of his few boxes, gently lifts the completed model ship into a place of honor, and waits, humming happily, for an unseen hand to knock on his door. 
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yikeswtfmate · 4 years
Text
Saccharine
Summary: Bucky is trying to cook again and Y/N is afraid he will starve to death one of these days. Surely, no one can eat something that smells this horrifying? 
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x you
Warnings: swearing; a small sexual innuendo?; alcohol consumption; that’s it?
A/N: Based on the prompt My neighbour’s at my door, asking if everything’s alright, because it smells like something is burning, and I was only trying to cook for once and this is embarrassing but they decide to help me fix this mess although I’ve changed it a bit
Feels a bit rushed to the end imo, but this is what happens when I’m getting super excited about another idea and I can’t think about anything else
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There’s a distinct smell of burnt onions in the kitchen. I can smell it even from my place on the sofa, distracting me from my phone enough to raise my nose into the air and take a lungful of what now seems to be…rotten eggs? I wouldn’t be so confused if it weren’t for the fact that no one is currently cooking in my kitchen but as I make my way to the open window, I can bet good money that my neighbour is trying to cook again. It’s the third time this week that I’m wondering whether that long-haired handsome man is actually a vulture, coyote or freak of nature because how can someone eat something that smells so vile? His only redemption is that I know thanks to the impossibly thin walls of the building that these cooking endeavours inevitably end up in him ordering takeout after a couple of hours of cursing and what must only be whatever he’s been trying to make dumped into the bin.
This is it, I think. There is literally no possibility that a human being can survive on takeout alone. I go to the bathroom and make myself presentable, because let’s face it, I’m not going to face that pretty man looking like I’ve just hibernated for a week (which I have, but he doesn’t need to know that), put on a pair of slippers and with a long inhale get out of my apartment. In front of his door, I shift my weight from one foot to the other, now my exasperation at his culinary inabilities suddenly vanishing in the face of uncertainty. What if he’ll think I’m rude? What if he has someone over and I’m interrupting? What if he’ll think I’m weird? We’ve never spoken before after all, with the exception of the nods of acknowledgement in the mornings when we would occasionally meet.
As I ponder my decision, there are more curses flowing over the sound of sizzling. Fuck it, this man needs my help or he’ll starve. I knock on his door, waiting for a few seconds after I hear a shouted “coming.” The door flies open and my neighbour, this beautiful specimen of a man, is surrounded by steam and the smell of…does he have a wet dog inside the house? His hair must have been tied at the back, but now long strands are stuck to his sweaty forehead. He brings a hand to his face, wiping away at a red streak, only to be replaced by a black smudge. The kitchen towel he’s holding is dripping with something orange and the sleeve on his other arm is scorched. Has he been trying to cook an armchair?
“Hi. I know this might sound weird, but are you trying to cook?”
“Uh…Yeah. I’m failing miserably, as you can see.” He says with a frown, moving away from the door so I can look inside his apartment, which is now starting to fill with smoke.
“Uh – I think you might want to take off whatever you have on the stove now or the fire alarm will start going off soon.” I advise and with bulging eyes, he just turns around and runs toward the kitchen.
He leaves the door open so I take that as an invitation to come in and close it, just so I can spare the rest of our neighbours from the appalling smell. Following him, I inspect the damage and I can say hand on my heart that I have never in my entire life seen such damage. I let him take the pan off the stove and into the sink, although I should warn him that it’s probably not a good idea to pour cold water onto boiling oil, but I’m not even sure that is oil. I find some paper towels and wipe the cracked eggs off the counter and into a bowl that is full of skinned…peppers? I throw that away after I locate the bin, take a wet washcloth and clean the kitchen island, which is full of burnt meat, I’ll presume. As I inspect a purple sphere surrounded by slices of cucumber on a plate, there’s a grunt in front of me on the other side of the island and I look up with a consoling smile.
“This looks worse than it actually is.” He says.
“Well, it certainly looks better than it smells.”
“That bad, huh?” He scratches the back of his neck and extends a hand after he wipes it on his jeans that are actually covered in flour. “I’m Bucky by the way. I’ve never had the chance to introduce myself.”
“Y/N.” I shake his hand, noticing the rough skin – definitely not a cook then. At least I’ve established he’s not poisoning anyone else. “What were you trying to make anyway?”
“My friend Natalia gave me this Russian recipe for pirozhki, but I’ve just realised that she’s a worse cook than me so I should’ve never trusted her.”
He takes a sit with a grunt and a shake of his head. He offers me the chair next to him, reaching over an opened bottle of wine that was sitting on the island, next to a few mismatched glasses. I grab two, letting him fill them to the brim. It’s one of those nights, apparently.
“I’m pretty sure pirozhki are made with cabbage not…is that hummous?” I frown at yet another plate with an unnamed content that has started to get a green tint.
“It’s alright, I’m used to the cheap noodles by now.” He shrugs and takes a sip of his drink.
“Tell you what.” I say, now more emboldened by the wine. “I’ll whip up some pasta so you can enjoy some homemade food tonight and I can have some company on this fine Friday evening. What do you say?”
Bucky shifts in his chair to look at me with a confused expression that slowly turns into a soft smile. It suits him so well, rough edges becoming sweet, his eyes suddenly my only focus. It cuts the air out of my lungs, and if I were younger, I would’ve blushed to the roots of my hair. It still manages to make me tighten my grip on the tall glass I am holding.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I insist.”
“I don’t have any spaghetti though.” He says, still smiling, still looking directly into my eyes.
“Oh, I’m not going to cook in here, honey. This whole kitchen needs to be decontaminated, sterilised and cleansed with holy water.”
He laughs, which would have knocked me off my feet if I were standing. It seems this man can be very unhealthy for my state of mind, legs and lungs. With a chuckle he asks me to lead the way, bottle of wine in his hand and we’re now in my kitchen, a place I would have never seen him in in a million years. Maybe in some scattered fantasies, fleeting moments when I remember the broad line of his shoulders right before I fall asleep or the shape of his thighs in that particular pair of jeans he sometimes wears when he’s downstairs checking for his post.
“In my defence, I never had to cook for myself. After I moved to college, Steve would be the one cooking all the time and let me tell you, he did not like it if people meddled with his sauces.” He tells me two hours later after we’ve finished our bowls of pasta and we’re now sitting on the sofa, legs stretched on the coffee table and the tv turned on just for background noise.
“I don’t know, Buck. It’s kind of embarrassing not knowing how to at least make an omelette.” I laugh as he pours what is probably my third glass of wine.
“Now listen here, missy. I ain’t French and I do know how to do one thing.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“I know how to pour milk over my cereal.” He says with a serious face. I burst out laughing, dropping the spoon I was holding directly on my t-shirt.
“I’ll tell you something though.” He offers me a napkin from the table, and I try to focus on wiping the chocolate cream off, but I’m suddenly seeing double and everything is ten times funnier, although to be fair, Bucky turned out to be the best company I’ve had in a long time. “I’ve never eaten so well in a whole ass time. But don’t tell Steve that or he’ll rip one of my arms out.”
“I’m sure everything is better than boiled leather, Bucky.” I smile.
“Nuh-uh. The pasta was divine. And this cake…Y/N, I’ll have to marry you just so I can eat this for the rest of my life.”
I bump my shoulder with his, but there is a feeling that I’m not sure I want to ignore. He’s been sweet all night, complimenting the food, which to be fair, in my eyes is not only the way to a man’s heart, but to mine as well. He’s making my heart sticky, a syrup running through veins with viscous sugar and honey, and he’s candy-coated, teeth-rotting saccharine.
*
Bucky knocks on my door the next day, a lazy Saturday that I’ve spent baking cookies and reading a novel that’s been twisting my gut with want. When my eyes meet his, my legs involuntarily twitch, scenes replaying in my head, but the smile I offer in return is nothing but genuine.
“I smell something delicious.” He says instead of a greeting.
I let him in, pouring him a bowl of soup after he reluctantly admits he only ate an apple the whole day. He protests at first, claiming that he only wanted a cookie, but ends up asking for seconds and finishing an entire batch of raspberry filled cookies.
Three hours later, I’m somehow curled up into his side, watching The Office because he committed the heinous crime of never having watched it. He absently curls a strand of my hair around his finger and I’m drifting asleep, wrapped in a cocoon of powdered sugar.
*
“You’re making me fat.” He says, around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
“Excuse you, James. You’re making me an alcoholic.” I retaliate, raising yet another glass of wine.
Bucky is sitting in my kitchen, eating my food, as he’s been doing for nearly every evening for the last four months. We’ve fallen into a strange routine, where he’s just drop by, claiming he smelled “something delicious” on his way in after work and I’d just learned to cook dinner for two without questions. I got so used to spending this time with him, that whenever he’d text he won’t be joining me, it would feel off, somehow unbalanced without him on the other side of the table.
I watch him as he moves around the kitchen with ease, putting the empty dishes in the sink, cutting two slices of cheesecake, pouring me another glass of wine. It felt strange having him in my apartment at first, but now it’s just normal, easy, sweet. He takes the plates with the dessert to the coffee table, and I join him in the living room. He’s already dug into his slice, unholy moans escaping his lips, and I just purse mine. Sometimes I wonder if he does it on purpose.
“Stop judging me, this is heavenly.”
“I’m not judging you, I think you’re an idiot.” I laugh. “It’s just a cheesecake. And I’ve made this before.”
“It’s not just a cheesecake. It is the most marvellous thing ever. It is transcendental.”
“Ok, I think you’ve had enough wine.”
We settle into comfortable silence as I turn on the tv and look through the selection of films that seems pretty slim at the moment, considering the amount of Netflix we’ve been consuming lately. Bucky shifts on the sofa next to me, clears his throat, closes his mouth after opening it to say something, rubs the back of his neck, picks at a piece of strawberry on his plate, turns to me, takes his hair out of its bun, fiddles with the band.
“Spit it out already.” I say, without even sparing him a glance. He does this sometimes, this little dance of his when he locks himself up and is unsure of how to voice whatever’s on his mind. I continue to look through the list of unwatched films, but I have a feeling I’ll just introduce him to Parks and Recreation tonight, because this man has apparently been living under a rock for the past century.
“My birthday’s coming up soon. I was wondering if you’d like to come? I’m not throwing a huge party, just a little get together with some friends over at my place. I’ll just buy some beer and order pizza, but I’d like you to be there as well.”
He’s looking at me expectantly, uncertainty clear in his voice, which is stupid because he could ask me anything and I’d do it without second thoughts by this point.
“Of course, you moron.” I say with a roll of my eyes. “I’ll be expecting my formal invitation in the mail though.”
*
It’s two weeks later and I am running so late. My mother insisted to have a girls’ day out, which I’ve tried getting out of, considering that a) I know my mother too well not to be aware that even dinners with her usually take decades to end, b) my very cute neighbour is expecting me to make an appearance at his birthday party, and most importantly, c) I haven’t seen him for three days already and I miss his smile more than anything. As the hours have been progressing, my fidgeting became worse, to the point that mum had enough of it and finally released me of my captivity, two hours later than I promised I’ll be there.
“That boy better be worth it.” She laughed, holding me in a hug as we were parting. “I hope you’re feeding him well.”
I am now faced with his closed door, voices and laughter interlacing in the apartment before me, and I suddenly feel very nervous, a reminder of the first time I knocked at Bucky’s door. I hope his friends like me, not only because I have been programmed since birth to need to be loved by everyone, but also because I gathered from all my conversations with Bucky that he holds his friends’ opinions in high regard. I better not fuck this up, I think and with a deep breath, I knock on the door.
Someone shouts after Bucky, and I can distinctly hear a commotion set into motion, that makes me wary. There are yells, a loud line of cursing, and the clatter of what must only be a shattered glass on the hard tile of the kitchen. The door opens and I’m greeted by a man who’s holding a bottle of beer and looks as if he’d just stepped out of a Fourth of July commercial.
“You must be Y/N. Come in.” Mister America says and lets me step in.
The first thing I see is Bucky being held in a headlock by another man who seems too happy to be sober or sorry that his friend can’t breathe at the moment. Bucky looks like he’s trying to fight against an eagle, flailing around like an overexcited puppy. I am standing in the middle of the hallway, trying to stifle the burst of laughter that is taking hold of me.
“Come on, Barnes, don’t be rude. Your girlfriend’s here and you won’t even say hi to her? Where are your manners? I thought you couldn’t wait to see her after you’ve been worried all night she won’t show up.” Bird Boy says.
I raise my eyebrows, but Stars and Stripes is the only one that can notice my reaction. “That’s Sam.” He says nodding to his wrestling friends. “You probably already know that their relationship is…intense. I’m Steve, by the way. We’ve all heard a lot about you.”
A hand slams onto Steve’s shoulder before I try to pry information out of him. Bucky seems to have broken free, Sam closely following him, and I’m now faced with three broad-shouldered men that could easily pass for the planet’s bodyguards. I extend the cake tin to Bucky and he takes it, looking at me with those huge eyes that would be more fit for a cartoon character.
“Did you bake something for me?” He asks incredulous.
“Figured you’re too much of a dumbass to order a cake, so…” I shrug.
Bucky gives Steve the tin, without even opening it, as I would have expected him to do. I worry at my bottom lip, thinking maybe I overstepped or that a bottle of wine would’ve been more fitting, when he literally swipes me off my feet in a hard embrace. He snuggles his face into my neck, tickling my cheek with strands of his hair, and I can clearly smell the alcohol on him. He’s drunk, I realise, which can only mean that he’s past the point of being funny, now he’s just going to downright say whatever’s on his mind.
“Easy there, tiger. You’re gonna break her spine.” I can hear a woman passing by saying, but it’s too muffled by Bucky’s entire display of affection to figure out whether that’s Natalia or not.
“You didn’t have to bake me a cake.” Bucky murmurs. “You are enough.”
“I wanted to, Buck. Happy birthday, honey.” I say when he finally lets go off me and I can stand on my own two feet again. He brushes his thumb over my cheek and looks at me for a long moment, until he takes my hand in his and drags me into the living room, where there are more people sitting on the sofa, on the armchairs, and even on the floor.
“Everyone, this is Y/N. She saved me from starvation, she is the love of my life, she has the softest hair that I’ve ever touched in my entire existence and if anyone lies a finger on her, they’ll be dead within the minute, just so you all jackasses know, so don’t try anything, Thor!” Bucky announces with a flourish of his hand.
There’s no time to process what he just said, as his guests start yelling their hellos and introduce themselves. I try to shake as many hands as possible, and even give hugs back when they’re offered, and I’m surprised to notice that it seems as if I already know all these people from Bucky’s stories.
A few hours later, I’m sitting next to Bucky on the floor of the living room, after being lured into playing a variation of Truth or Dare, that would make no sense for a sober person. There’s yelling, popcorn flying over heads when a dare is not deigned to be fulfilled, empty bottles scattered around the floor, and too many paper plates to count. I wonder fleetingly how much all of this will take to clean tomorrow morning and I make a mental note to offer my help, before a hand rests on my knee. I turn to look at Bucky, who seems unaware of his actions, his vision clearly hazy with alcohol, but I’ve also consumed enough to just enjoy it and not read too much into it. I lean my chin on his shoulder, which makes him cut his shout short and direct his attention to me. Our faces are a few inches away from each other, alcohol mixing from our breaths, pupils dilating in the dim light, and we sit there, looking at each other before a cushion comes flying right to our heads.
“Get a room!” Someone shouts and there’s an eruption of laughter, but no one else pays any attention to us anymore.
Bucky stands up and holds his hand out to me. I take it and follow him through the apartment without a word. He leads me to the fire escape, climbing out the window into the fresh cold air. With a shiver, I take the space between his legs, leaning my back on his chest and letting him warm me up with his arms. He’s the one to rest his chin on my shoulder now, and I play with his thumb, suddenly more sober than I was in the heated apartment, but I have to know, before my ounce of bravery is gone.
“Did you mean it?” I whisper, half wondering whether he’s too drunk to understand what I’m saying.
“What?”
“Back there. When you introduced me.”
“That you saved me from starvation? Well, yeah, did you forget I am completely useless in the kitchen?” He laughs.
“Not that.” But I really don’t want to give him any more clarifications.
“That you have the softest hair?” He murmurs into my ear, kissing my temple. “You do. That I’ll kill anyone who would even look wrong at you?” He kisses my cheek. “That you are the love of my life? I’m not a hundred percent sure about that, but I’m more than certain that I’ve never loved anyone the way that I already do you. And I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
The angle is strange, him towering over me although he’s only sitting a step above me, his arm wrapped around mine, while his other hand makes its way around my face, pulling it towards his. Strands of his hair fall over his eyes, but I can see the gentleness in them in the light pouring out from the kitchen. His nose brushes over my brow, breath ghosting over my skin until I close my eyes and his lips are like honey, melting like butter in a hot summer day. I feel syrup pouring over my soul, coating it in cotton candy, that leaves my insides sticky with sugar.
“Now I’m certain.” He whispers and I smile. I kiss his nose and snuggle closer into his arms. We stay like that for some time, that could have been either hours or mere minutes, the party dying down slowly inside the house. The sky is still dark, and I’m slowly drifting to sleep, but from Bucky’s shiver I know we should be going back, although he won’t admit it.
“You wanna know a secret?” He asks.
“Yeah?” I really don’t want to move
“My only saving grace is that compared to the kitchen, I’m amazing in the bedroom.”
I groan and bump my shoulder into his chest. This man will be the death of me. I climb my way back inside, closely followed by Bucky who is laughing behind me. He grabs my wrist and turns me around, loosely resting his arms on my hips and looking down at me through clear eyes. At least he’s sober now.
“Thank you for making my birthday wish come true.”
“You wished for a birthday cake?” I snort with a raised eyebrow.
He kisses my forehead and murmurs sugar-coated word into my skin. “I wished for you.”
***
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monochromemedic · 4 years
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Okay, story prompt time! Reader and Deacon sheltering from a rainstorm and maybe cuddling together for warmth while they talk about things, figured it’d be sweet!
“What the fuck, that storm came out of no where!” I cried over the roar of the rain hitting against the land and rumble of the forgotten land, racing towards Deacon soaking inside of the small shack. He looked drowned, wig sliding off his head and white shirt clinging to his body. We’d only had just noticed the storm as it rolled in, faster than any storm I’d ever seen and began to douse the land. Luckily we were trying to salvage the ruins of a small town, thinking that there might have been a Railroad cache to grab, so the coverage was available if you tried to ignore the half destroyed buildings. Deacon chuckled, straightening his pompadour wig as he walked through the rubble of concrete and shrapnel.  “Guess the storm didn’t want us to find that cache. Maybe the cloud is a secret leftover experiment from the Institute! Raindrops tracked to our awesomeness to stop us in our tracks.” He exaggerated, hands waving to the sky to strengthen his story. I grunted lightly, passing by him to look through the giant hole in the building, staring at others to see if they were worth the trek to try to hide in. They weren’t the best, some just rocks in the ground, others looking as if they would fall over if he leaned against he wrong pillar. “It’s pouring but its not much, maybe we could still search for the cache. What do you say was the hidey place?” “Uh... red brick fireplace. In the stack” “That wouldn’t be too hard to find, If you wanna hide in the house you can, I kinda wanna find this shit and head back.” I stepped around wooden splinters as Deacon shrugged, pulling out a smoke and lighting it. “Aye, Aye Boss. I’ll keep watch here. Make sure no mole rats take the base.” I rolled my eyes, heading back into the hard rain to scavenge. The water was like a fog with how dense it fell. Things that were too far away became a grey blur, and dark shapes that was probably dangerous if there was  fight. Then again, who the hell would be travelling around in this weather. Only idiots like me. The ground was soaked, boots sliding in the mud that made me fall a couple of times in the quickly forming puddles. Rubble scratched at my pant legs, and my glasses fogged with rain drops. It was shitty, but that cache was so damn tempting. Caps, a few guns, armor and food?  It’d be a great addition to the settlement and a horrible thing for a scav that’d have lesser intentions to find. Deacon said this was a good find, said he saw the gun fired once and blasted a hole in a brick wall. It was badass, and truth be told I wanted to pocket it for myself. By now I was feeling heavy, water logging me down and the cold making me shiver. God damn it how hard was it to find a bright red chimney? A light flashed against the sky, causing me to look up. A thunderstorm, I had a fear of it when I was a child, and never liked to travel in them. The ground shook as thunder boomed all be a bit too close for comfort, causing me to go cold in fear. The childlike phobia had began to crept in, and the need for a sick ass gun all but vanished. I turned in place, searching around for the building Deacon took shelter in but, with the rain it was impossible to try to find it. My footsteps began to quicken, pulling themselves out of the quicksand like mud as my eyes darted from shape to shape. That one? No This one? God damn it no. Another flash of light and an almost quicker reaction. A cacophonous ringing sound echoed through the air and shook Earth like an earthquake. It made my ears hurt and I stumbled back, falling to the mud as I saw the flash of lightening hit a tree not too far from me, blinding me as I screeched in fear and pain. When I opened my eyes again, forcing myself to try to focus past the black dots that tried to stop my vision I saw the tree, smoke rising from the large splintered wood from where the lightening hit. I was scared, shaking as I tried to push myself up from the soft ground. I screamed again as I felt hands on my shoulders, pulling me up and dragging me through the torrent, shouting for Deacon’s help. My own voice was muffled, ears still ringing from the blast of sound. I couldn’t see whoever grabbed me, I couldn’t hear, only loud muffled speech. It was only when the man spun me around did I see Deacon was the one holding me, a worried look on his face, rain spilling down his face as he spoke. His mouth was moving but all I could hear was muted words. And then it all came back. “-Me, It’s Deacon! Hello? Can you hear me? God if your deaf i’ll feel like absolute shit, come on!” “Deek... I hear, I ... there was a tree it got stru-” He sighed in relief before interrupting me starting to drag me through the storm until we were back in the dry remains of the building. “Yeah, no I saw. Holy shit that could of been you, you could have become a-a crispy little Jenna flake! No more hunting, you’re staying inside, no buts.” I nodded as we walked to the small place that Deacon had set up, lantern already lit up and set to the side, a book and still smoking cigarette against the ground. He must have dropped it to come chase me. He snuffed it out with a boot before he began to strip, placing the clothes on some broken wooden banners before flopping back to the ground, the only thing on was his underwear. “ Another pair of clothes gone, all my disguises are soaked. You might wanna do the same.” I tried to not look at him, eyes darting away as my cheeks burned bright.  “What you wanna get sick? As much as i’d love to play nanny, taking care of you barfing every 5 steps through dangerous part of the Commonwealth doesn’t seem like the best idea. I swear, I won’t look. I’m just gonna read my book.”  He raised his hands as if to say he was not guilty before picking his book back up, trying to find the page he was on. I debated for a long while, slumping my bag against the wall before giving in, hanging my clothes on the banner and sitting down not too far from Deacon. I was shivering, curled into a ball as I looked around where we were camping, feeling like a complete idiot for what I did. A cold, shaking, naked idiot. I pushed my head into my knees, trying to get whatever warmth I could get from myself, only to feel wet flesh hit my own and the presence of another. I peaked up from my ball, seeing Deacon was right next to me, still reading his book with a small smile, acting like nothing was wrong. I could feel from his leg that he was shivering as well.  “...what are you reading?” I muttered, raising my head cautiously. “It’s a thriller mystery, story about a detective trying to find a murderer in a big city. It’s pretty good, I like trying to find who the murderer is before the reveal.” He explained, moving his book a bit over so I could look at the page. “Sounds nice... listen i’m sorry I-” “Don’t worry about it. Let’s just try to not think about how awkward this is and try not to get sick. But I mean... if you do I make a MEAN brahmin broth soup. So you got that to look forward to.” I smirked I gave a little huffy laugh, starting to get more comfortable and stretch my body out. “I might need to take you up on that.” I continued to stare at the book, only occasionally looking him over before getting embarrassed at the entire situation and dart back to the book. It probably happened 3 or 4 time before Deacon spoke up. “So, Detective Carter, he’s been on the work force for like 6 years and this is the biggest case he’s had in a while, career changing. He’s so stuck on it it’s eating him alive and he’s starting to lose it. The murderers are bad but seem familiar and right now he’s so close to connecting the dots of why they seem that way.” He explained before clearing his throat and beginning to read out loud from the book, even doing voices for different characters. I couldn’t help but smile at that, starting to listen in to the story as I scooted closer to him, head leaning on his arm to stare at the words as we waited out the storm together.
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kathyprior4200 · 4 years
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The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno
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(What it says on the back)
 “You poor sack of former human skin and sin. You died and are stuck in Hell. Now what? Fear not, for in this book, you shall find the answers to seek on what you need to know to survive the inferno. You’ll learn how to stay safe and entertain yourself during the Extermination. You’ll get a sneak peek on the origins of voodoo, radio, and Jambalaya. And as for becoming a better person and getting out of this mess? You’re probably stuck here forever until you die again, but this book will provide you with handy information and a much needed cure for your boredom!”
 *Includes a free pamphlet for the Hazbin Hotel and how to tune in to 66.6 FM.*
 About the author: Alastor “Hazbin” Cajun was born January 24, 1896 in New Orleans, Louisiana. He died in 1933 and is now one of the most powerful demons Hell has ever seen. In his spare time, he loves broadcasting his murders on the radio, cooking meals, making dolls, and performing. As of 2020, he is 87 years old in Hell and 124 years chronologically. However, his friend princess Charlie is 200 + years old, despite having the appearance of a teenager!”
  This is a story of a book, a book called “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno”--not an Earth book, never published on Earth, and until the Exterminations occurred, no Earthling has ever heard of it.
 It is a remarkable book in Hell, though.
 It is highly successful, written by the one and only Radio Demon Alastor. It’s more successful than Angel Dust’s “Guns, and Poses: Turf Wars in Style,” “Lust is a Must,” and “Being Gay in a World of Macho Sinners.” Unfortunately for the following authors, Charlie Magne’s book “Rainbows Inside Everyone” remains one of the lowest ranked books along with Vaggie’s “Men Are Pigs.”
 Alastor got his book revised by his associate Niffty and published by Husk (after bribing him with money and booze. Niffty had to help him with the publishing process and stop him from using his money to bet on who would win the local Hellhound races.) Alastor hopes that his book will soon topple Hell’s number one bestseller from the king of Hell: Lucifer Magne’s “Fall From Grace.”
  It has many passages that may be inaccurate, and it does warn the reader never to cross said Radio Demon, unless they’re curious about what their organs look like from the outside.
 The majority of this story is broadcasted on radio, for if all the info were piled in a book, it’d take several leagues of demons to carry it.
 There are many benefits to this book. This book is slightly cheaper than Angel Dust’s works and it has the word “Smile!” written in large friendly letters on the cover. In an old fashioned TV is the number 66, the meaning of life in Hell.
   Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Jambalaya: (Page 14)
“Jambalaya is a traditional dish that originated in Louisiana in the 18th century. The dish was a result of attempts to make a variation of paella for Spanish colonists. Although the recipe was adapted by the Spanish, but Senegalese slaves brought the knowledge of rice cultivation form West Africa. German immigrants brought their secrets of sausage making to Cajun country. And one can’t forget the influence of French and Native Americans, whom contributed more flavor. (meaning they likely added peppers and seasoning, not their own flesh).
 “Jambalaya consists of rice, sausage, shrimp, and a variety of vegetables mixed together in a tasty gumbo. The “holy trinity” mixture consists of diced onion, celery, and bell peppers, a necessity for flavor in regards to the traditional method.
 Common meats used are smoked pork sausage, paired with chicken, though diced ham, shrimp, crabmeat or crawfish can also be added.
 There are two main types of Jambalaya: Red Jambalaya, also known as Creole Jambalaya, due to the use of red tomatoes and Brown Jambalaya, more often used in Cajun country. Both are equally tasty.
 Jambalaya is a rice dish, thus it is not a gumbo nor is it etouffee. Gumbo is more like soup and etouffee is more like a stew.
 Fun Fact: hunting is a beloved pastime in south Louisiana. It’s not uncommon for hunters to add game like duck, pheasant, and venison to their Jambalaya recipe. (Venison is my personal favorite, especially after a good hunt.) If you really want to go bold, feel free to add small slices of human meat to create a unique lighter pork flavor.)
 Do be warned: Jambalaya is no simple dish to make at times. It is a bad idea to add gunpowder and or wasabi to the dish. Doing so will likely result in the dish exploding in your poor mother’s face. Indeed, my mother’s recipe nearly killed her when she drank too much Southern Comfort Whisky ™ and decided that adding gunpowder was a great idea. Her face was burnt badly afterwards and there may have been a few slabs of her dark skin that fell into the dish. When I tasted it, the kick was straight outta Hell! The spice and chaotic spin of flavor…fantastic!”
 Here’s how to make it in a nutshell: brown your meat, sautee your vegetables, add rice, add liquid bring to a boil, stir, reduce heat and simmer for 20-25 minutes. Add them all together.
For full instructions, see the next page.
For instructions on how to hunt deer, see page 20.”
  Reference:
McCormick, “Jambalaya Recipes, History, and FAQs.”
https://www.mccormick.com/zatarains/jambalaya
  Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Voodoo, Hoodoo and dark magic (Page 177)
“According to Benjamin Radford, Voodoo is a pop-culture subpart of Voudon, an Afro-Caribbean religion that originated in Haiti. Followers can be found all over the world, including the United States. Leslie Desmangles, Haitian professor at Hartford’s Trinity College describes Voodoo as a system of ethics, stories, songs, proverbs, and folklore that is passed down through generations. It is an elaborate folk medical practice system and to her, it is a way of life. (“The Encyclopedia of the Paranormal” Prometheus Books, 1996.)
 In Voodoo belief, Bondye is the unknowable and the supreme creator God. Voudon emphasizes the worship of spirits called Loa, each one who represents a different aspect of life. Loas can help or impede human affairs by possessing the bodies of their worshippers. They can be good or bad or anywhere in between, so it’s best to always treat them with respect and leave proper offerings (not human sacrifice but more like animals, plants, gems etc.) Spiritual possession in Christianity is considered to be evil, but not in Voudon. In a ceremony guided by a priest or priestess, a connection to the spirit world and the ancestors is said to be an invaluable experience. Many practitioners believe in reincarnation.
 Voodoo deities are as follows:
   Loa Nations:
Rada – (creation, orderly, beneficial, water spirits)
Petro – (destruction, aggressive, warlike, New World)
Ghede – (spirits of the dead, loud, rude fun family, eating glass and hot peppers)
Kongo – Marinette, Simbi (water serpents, plants, poisons)
Nago – Ogoun –Loa of craftsmen, metalwork
  Deities:
 Bondye: The creator god in the Voodoo religion and the loa answer to him. The loa serve as intermediaries between man and Bondye.
 Papa Legba:  Sun god Loa associated with the crossroads and serves as an intermediary between man and the spirit world. In some places, he is seen as a fertility god, portrayed with a large erect phallus. In other customs, he is a trickster, or he may be a protector of children. He is associated with red and black, portrayed as an old man with a straw hat accompanied by a dog. He is always the first god to be invoked in ceremonies.
 Kalfu: moon god and ruler of the night. Patron deity of sorcerers, and those who practice black magic. He rules bad luck, destruction, and injustices. His favorite drink is rum laced with gunpowder. He is often seen as a darker version of Papa Legba.
 Maman Brigitte: Loa associated with death and the underworld. She is the consort of Baron Samedi and is often represented by a black rooster. She is also considered a goddess of justice. Rum and hot peppers are her favorite diet.
Maman Brigitte is portrayed as a light-skinned woman with red hair, it is said that she could be descended from Brigid, the Celtic goddess of the hearth fires and domestic life.
 Baron Samedi: Husband of Maman Brigitte, Baron Samedi is the god of death and is both respected and feared as the keeper of cemeteries. He often appears skeletal, wearing a top hat and formal tails and dark glasses. He is also a god of resurrection; only he can welcome a soul to the realm of the dead.
He is known for lewd behavior, swearing, and mating with other women. He is connected to powerful acts of magic and is the leader of the Guede, the family of loa who work with the dead.
 Erzulie: goddess of beauty and love, epitome of femininity and womanhood. She represents the cosmic womb in which divinity and humanity are conceived. Erzulie often grieves that which she cannot obtain, and sometimes leaves a ceremony weeping. She is sometimes represented as a black Madonna and other times as an upper class woman in fine clothing and jewelry.
Her three husbands are the war god Ogun, the sea god Agwe and Damballah. Erzulie feels sadness due to the broken hearts of humans.
 Loco: The god of wild vegetation, herbs and fruits for killing or healing. He is also the patron deity of doctors and Voodoo priests. His wife is the market goddess Ayzian (also deity of Voodoo priestesses).
 Shango: God of fire, judge, fighter, symbolized by double-axe or ram’s horn.
 Ogun: War god Loa associated with blacksmiths, warriors, and justice. Practitioners call upon Ogun for matters related to war and conflict and likes offerings of male roosters and dogs. He is symbolized by an iron knife or machete and has a fondness for pretty women and rum.
Ogun stood as Ghede Nibo’s godfather and adopted him.
 Oya: goddess of wind, fire, sea, nature and sudden change.
 Damballah: The creator of gods and humanity who helped Bondye make the cosmos and is represented by a giant serpent. His coils shaped the heavens and earth and he is the keeper of knowledge, wisdom, and healing magic. Damballah looks after the crippled, albinos, and children. Erzulie is his consort. He loves silver. His son, Simbi is a white snake god who brings rain.
 Ayida: The goddess of the rainbow and primary wife to creator Damballah. The pair manifest as intertwined serpents. Ayida also serves as a fertility goddess. Her favorite offerings are white food. Ayizan, her daughter, is goddess of the marketplace and of initiation into the sacred truths, making her the head Mambo (Voodoo priestess.)
 Oshun: One of the Orishas, Oshun is a goddess connected to rivers and water. She is associated with wealth, pleasure, love, beauty, and sexuality. Oshun’s colors are orange and golden yellow, green and coral.
 Yemaya: motherly goddess of the sea
 Obatala: Goddess of the heavens, personification of creative energy: old with white hair
 Agwe: The god of the sea and patron deity of sailors and fishermen. Agwe taught humans how to fish and build boats. He is one of the husbands of the love goddess Erzulie. Agwe is green-eyed and dresses like a naval officer.
  Zaca: The god of agriculture and the harvest. He dresses in denims and a straw hat. Zaca smokes a pipe, drinks from bottles of rum and wields a machete.
 Marassa: Mawa and Lisa: divine twins: male and female energy, personify sun and moon
  Radford states that Roman Catholicism imposed their religious beliefs onto many civilizations, including African slaves. The Africans and African Americans combined Catholicism with their West African beliefs. A 1685 law forbade the practice of African religions in the U.S. In fact, slavery was accepted as a tool to convert Africans to Christianity. In the process, many of their spirits became associated with Christian saints.
 Even though slavery ended in the 1800’s, followers of Voudon were still persecuted by authorities, and their religion was demonized. In an 1889 book titled “Hayti, or the Black Republic” (Filiquarian, 2012), Voudon was falsely attributed to cannibalism, human sacrifice, and other atrocities. This helped to spread fear of the religion…portraying certain aspects like voodoo dolls, dark magic, zombies etc. in media and literature. Added onto that, it also strengthened racist stereotypes: African Americans were viewed as “primal,” and “savage,” due to their practices and behaviors as perceived by those outside their culture.
 Voodoo has gained more respect in modern times, but all too many people don’t know the truth about it. Even today, many Christians associate Voudon and Voodoo with Satanism and the occult. Interestingly enough, voodoo dolls have little to do with the actual rituals.
 Here’s how I found out about Voodoo. It started a long time ago back when I was alive. My mother Loretta was Creole, and her ancestors came from Haiti. She told me that my grandmother Antoinette Duvalier was a powerful Voodoo priestess who once lived in Haiti but immigrated to the U.S. as a slave. Even though she was treated like dirt by the predominant owners and whites, she was well respected by those who knew her. Legend states that she was related to Marie LaLaurie, (1787-1849), New Orleans serial killer, cruel to Creole slaves. In fact, my cousin is Clementine Barnabet, a Louisiana voodoo priestess and serial killer, killed families with an axe.
  Needless to say, my mother followed in her footsteps as much as possible. Though during her life, she mostly had to work in low level secretary jobs as women didn’t have many opportunities. She taught me everything there was to know about Voodoo, cooking, singing, sewing, (and yes, cannibalism in dire circumstances, though she didn’t like to talk about that.) She warned me multiple times that magic was, indeed, real, and to never use it for evil. There were “evil” Loas as well as “good” ones. She told me that Voodoo wasn’t about cannibalism or sacrifice.
 As you can imagine, I didn’t listen in the long run. For several reasons.
 One was my father, Louis. A white, strong man with black hair, a mustache and French heritage. He constantly tried to shove the Bible down my throat. He would whip and abuse me whenever I didn’t meet his expectations of being a man. That bastard would sleep with other women behind my mother’s back but of course, she couldn’t do anything about it.
 I was scared of him. I was tempted to cry whenever he would hit her for no apparent reason. But both my parents told me to always smile, so I did. I’ve learned to hide my emotions and keep up a façade ever since. It’s necessary when you’re a radio host by day and a serial killer by night. Nobody would suspect a friendly comedian to be the Bayou Butcher/Louisiana Lunatic of New Orleans. It’s how I managed to get away with my actions for so long until my brutal death by dogs and being shot in the head.
 Two was the opportunity for power. I learned that in a hard life of bullying at school, and blatant racism for being of mixed heritage, you take any opportunity that comes your way.
 I was so caught up in the prospects of deal making that even I started to believe the cannibalism and misconceptions of Voodoo.
Basically, I came across a Satanic ritual book dropped by a group of imps from Hell on accident. It was in this book that I learned about spells, cannibalism, and black magic. I came upon a passage with instructions on how to gain near unlimited power in the afterlife. I made a deal with Kalfu and the Petro Loas of destruction. (My mother supported the benevolent Rada like I did once.) It was a risky one: to gain such power, I would have to bear witness to at least three deaths, a victim, a loved one…and myself. Turns out it all happened, after I killed many victims in Kalfu’s name, and when I eventually died. My mother died from the Spanish Flu and my father got what he deserved after I tracked him down and tortured him. Strangely enough, whether it’d be guilt or his meat I ate, I felt sick for several days afterwards.
 My deal with Kalfu and the dark Loas was how I got my current powers in Hell. You probably noticed my use of blood magic and how red voodoo symbols hover in the air whenever I use my powers. Not to mention me having control over voodoo imps, dolls, and shadow spirits. I am quite powerful, but I can’t use too much at once…it can be very taxing to use dark magic. But that deal was well worth it and now I make deals with other demons around at times. It’s how I got Husk and Niffty on my side…I summon them and they have no choice but to assist me!”
  References:
Radford, Benjamin, (2013). “Voodoo: Facts About Misunderstood Religion” LiveScience. https://www.livescience.com/40803-voodoo-facts.html
https://www.white-magic-help.net/About_White_Magic/Voodoo_History_Basic_Principles_Background.html
https://www.learnreligions.com/voodoo-gods-4771674
© Edward Wozniak and Balladeer’s Blog 2014. https://glitternight.com/2014/08/13/the-top-eleven-deities-in-voodoo-mythology/
      Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Cannibalism (Page 65)
 “Along with deer meat, jambalaya and many other kinds of food, I also have a rare fondness for eating humans and demons. You’re probably thinking: ‘Oh god, how gross and horrible! Who in their right mind would eat their own kind?’
Apparently, there are some tribes and a few cultures in the world that still engage in the practice. Not to mention several killers throughout the years. There are many kinds of animals such as the cane toad and redneck spider, who eat their own kind.  Human ancestors have engaged in the act for survival, or ritual purposes. And in Hell, it’s as common as getting into fights with other demons.
 In early history of human species, human and Neanderthals coexisted together, interbred, ate together and sometimes ate each other. Homo antecessor, the last common ancestor between Neanderthals and modern humans would often eat rival group members. Early humans in Europe practiced ritual cannibalism.
 Around the 12th century, human remains were incorporated into medical practices for remedies. “Corpse medicine” remained in use until the late 18th century. The Aztec and the Inca engaged in cannibalism as part of a sacrificial religious rite. In Germany, some executioners would sell leftover body parts as medicine. Human fat was sold as a remedy for arthritis and broken bones. Apothecaries stored fat, flesh and bone…and let’s not forget that some people eat their own placentas in modern times.
 The word “cannibalism” comes from the name that the Spanish gave to the Caribs/Canibales. The Caribs were engaged in anti-colonial battles with European powers…claiming they were cannibals may have been a fear propaganda tactic by the Spanish.
In Montaigne’s late 1500s essay “Of Cannibals,” shows an anthropological record of the Tupi people in what is now Brazil. They would taunt their captives by “entertain[ing] them with threats of their own death.”
 In early America, while some Native American tribes practiced cannibalism, some colonists had to resort to it, such as the Jamestown colony in 1610.
But the public commonly associates cannibalism with the Donner-Party, groups of people that were snowbound in the Sierra Mountains in 1846-47.
 Famine in the USS in the 1920s and 30s took millions of lives and forced survivors to turn to cannibalism, an event known as the Great Chinese Famine.
In modern times, cannibalism is still an acceptable practice in some tribes in New Guinea, like the Korowai tribe. Until the 1950s, the Fore people ate the bodies of relatives as they believed it would cleanse their spirits.
  Also, do not try self-cannibalism…you will die and I will find it hilarious. In fact, eating humans is considered taboo nearly everywhere because eating humans can make you sick. This is especially true if you eat the brain. Eating the brain can cause kuru, a brain disease similar to mad cow disease. Like any kind of meat, human meat much be properly cooked and prepared. But as I’m an undead demon, I can eat myself and others no problem. I don’t really know how I managed to survive when I ate my victims more often when I was human.
 There are tons of ways to prepare humans and demons and I have used them all:
Baking in the oven
Grilling
Frying in a pan
Steaming in a pot
Barbeque
Cooking over a fire pit
Chopping them on a board and eating raw pieces
Swallowing whole
  References:
Edwards, Phil. (2015) “& Surprising Facts About Cannibalism” Vox. https://www.vox.com/2015/2/17/8052239/cannibalism-surprising-facts
 Talal Al-Khatib (May 13, 2015) “Cannibalism: A History of People Who Eat People.” Seeker. https://www.seeker.com/cannibalism-a-history-of-people-who-eat-people-1769840684.html
 (Using a website with Vox’s name on it…life is a big slap in the face.)
 Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Radio Broadcasting (Page 5)
“Many folks call me the Radio Demon for good reason. One of my signature skills is the ability to broadcast what goes on around me anytime, anywhere. I’ve always loved being on center stage…I was a bit of a theater nut back in primary school. Fun fact: My shadow and I can travel through radios and produce static in the outside world in Hell.
 One of the neat things about being a radio host is you can spread news to anyone in different places in the world…and no one even has to see you. In my human life, it provided me with a stable career and something to occupy my mind. My favorite things to talk about were dad jokes, cooking food, singing songs, and of course, murders that had happened. My broadcasts had to go underground when my descriptions of murders became graphic, both when I did them and when other killings were reported on the news.
 My career wasn’t easy to start off with…it was quite a competitive business and I was lucky to start off as a janitor and radio repair man for a few years. My dad thought it was a worthless job but my mother supported me all the way. I slowly moved up the ladder, learning more techniques as I went along. Soon, I decided I would start my own show…become self-employed. My career really reached its peak during World War One and the start of the Roaring Twenties. I could describe all the casualties of the war to the public, talk about my own victims to my followers, all while ending with “You’re Never Fully Dressed Without A Smile,” my favorite song! I felt like I was on top of the world…not even my dad nor the ignorant folk could stop me. Like many people during the age of jazz and splendor, I basked in riches, ate good food and drinks…had tons of ladies at my feet. They were good friends, and even better victims! I was never interested in sex and romance…too many messy emotions. I didn’t want to be touched and nor down by anybody.  (Thanks a lot, father.)
 All this was before the police found me, my show was canceled, and my beloved radios destroyed by those seeking revenge. I smiled, I fell from grace, and I died during the Great Depression. Life really does have a twisted sense of humor.”  
 Experimental radio broadcasting began at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City, 1910 with a program made by Lee De Forest. The WWJ Detroit station is considered the first radio station in the U.S. The National Broadcasting Company (NBC) presented the first national broadcast in 1926, when I was in my late twenties. From 1925 to 1950, radios were a major source of family entertainment, where people could listen to music, stories, and the news. The success of NBC brought the Columbia Broadcasting System (CBS) into creation by William Paley.
 Some radio stations transmit radio signals using amplitude modulation, which became the term for AM radio. AM broadcasts can be received at long distances, but the signals and sound are affected by static. In contrast, other stations transmit signals using frequency modulation, hence the initial FM. FM waves reproduce sound better.
 I died in 1933 when radio was popular. But my rival, Vox (name means Voice in Latin) died in the 1950s, when television was becoming popular. He hosted his own program and did picture shows seemingly all the time. I remember him: tall, white skinned, slick short dark hair, eyes the color of dull metal. He advertised drugs, phones, cars, and a whole bunch of things…he enjoyed money a lot. Anything new he liked, new toys, new tech, new girls, then when they didn’t work, he’d replace them. Made me sick.
 In Hell, I confronted him once and told him he was a big showoff. I was quite mad that picture shows took over radio…he even called me an outdated geek with a voice of static! He had this stupid robotic voice that I couldn’t take seriously. When he shot me in the head from behind, I had enough. I held him in place with black tentacles, figuring out how he died. Then I heard someone mention his death…
So…with a loud crash, a large TV appeared out of nowhere and crushed his stupid face. I was doubling over with laughter as I left, he picked himself up and yelled, his screen face all cracked.
 So, what should you do in Hell? Listen to the radio, of course! Picture shows are fun as well, but even they can’t beat the classic radio. I know you techno folk flock to TV’s and computers thanks to Vox…both are annoying in my opinion. But radios are a great source of entertainment, especially when I’m on the air. My show starts at 6AM and 6PM every other day at 66.6FM. You can find radios in a whole bunch of stores and at the Hazbin Hotel…and if you’re brave, you can find cursed ones at the Black Market (all owned by me of course). If any demon gives you trouble, you can turn the dials a bit and the radio will either crush them or suck them inside. But be careful…listening for too long may cause you to sing, dance, experience your fears, and stab anyone within six feet of you.  I have plenty of radios in my lair in the shadow world beneath Hell, but you’ll never be able to go there. But just say the word and I’ll gladly store your remains in my icebox.”
 References:
“Broadcasting: The History of Radio” https://law.jrank.org/pages/4873/Broadcasting-History-Radio.html
   Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Sewing Voodoo Dolls (Page 38)
 “I have made tons of voodoo dolls both as a human and in Hell. I have my own collection of ones that resemble Charlie, Vaggie, Husk, Niffty and many others. Niffty helps me sometimes after she helps make me more clothes. Don’t tell anyone this, but I secretly snuggle with a doll I made to resemble my mother. She briefly went to Hell in the form of a powerful voodoo deer, but went up to Heaven before I got a chance to see her. It’s been decades.”
 Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Jazz (Page 72)
 “Music has always held a special place in my heart. Growing up in New Orleans, I was surrounded by jazz, live music, and theater. Playing instruments, singing, dancing, and performing were not just fun pastimes. Doing these hobbies also helped during certain times. Take the Great Depression or the Roaring Twenties or my way to bask in the spotlight as examples. I can play lots of instruments: piano, saxophone, trumpet, violin and furby organ. If you don’t know what that is, it’s an organ made from furry robotic toys made by this “LOOK MUM NO COMPUTER” human.”
    According to the National Park Service et al., the early development of jazz (1895) is associated with Charles “Buddy” Bolden, a popular bandleader. Throughout the 19th century, diverse ethnical groups cumulated their cultures and styles together, creating an evolution in music. Musicians of diverse backgrounds were united by their common love of music.
 One of my role models was real life Edward “Kid” Ory, a guy who lead his own band at age 14 and entertained dancers. He was the son of a White Frenchman and a Creole Woman of Afro-Spanish and Native American heritage, pretty much like me. I’m surprised we aren’t related. During my human life, I played in bands at Economy Hall, a dance hall that provided social services such as brass band dances for the Black Community. Many well-known jazz stars included real life Louis Armstrong, Joe Oliver, Johnny and Warren Dodds etc. During the Jazz Age in the 1920s, I was quite busy indeed with radio broadcasting career, playing jazz, performing at clubs and killing people on the side in the name of Kalfu and Satan. Music helped me get through the loss of my mother’s death via the Spanish Flu. I did also get my revenge on my father and uncle but that’s a story for another time.”
  References:
National Park Service. (2015) A New Orleans Jazz History https://www.nps.gov/jazz/learn/historyculture/jazz_history.htm
  Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about the Exterminations (Page 665)
“The annual Exterminations sure are fun to watch! It’s the one day out of the year where the dark angels travel from Heaven and into Hell to purge the citizens at random. This is done to reduce the abnormally high population down here. During the 24 hours, I relax in the safety of my lair, occasionally going up to watch the slaughters from inside a building, Niffty and Husk by my side. I broadcast what goes on so other demons can have their share of entertainment. Not only am I in a safe place, but anytime the Exterminators try and surround me, I just tear them to pieces, throw them into portals or just scare them off by staring at them. There is a collection of horned Exterminator heads I have for decoration along my mantle and near the stuffed deer heads on display. Their sinister smiles and Xs over their right eyes adds to the place. Niffty sometimes comes down to my lair to help spruce it up and even when she leaves, a strong spell ensures that she will never tell anyone about its location.”
 Someday when I rule Hell, the Exterminators will be the ones who are exterminated. Exterminators carry spears, swords, and harpoons which can kill any demon instantly. So I always try to be careful. I know that some demons can sell them on the black market so they can kill their enemies. I have several of them in a safe to use in emergencies.
 What should you do in an Extermination? Stock up and lock up, if you’re smart. Make sure you have plenty of food, drinks and things to keep you entertained during the 24 hours. And be sure to get the stuff early unless you want to fight a dozen sinners for groceries. Exterminators fly in the open, so barricade yourself in a building with few windows and openings. If you’re unlucky enough to be out in the open, run for your life and say your prayers! You will know when it starts by the sounds of air raid sirens. When it is over, Charlie will go out to her balcony and shoot fireworks in the sky, signaling that it’s safe to go out. Feel free to fight for territory, sing, grab a drink or feast on the deceased…but get in my way and you’ll regret it.”
  Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Taking Over Territory (Page 187)
“When I first came to Hell, I was filled with bloodlust and dark power. Excited to be granted a new form by the shadow spirits, Satan and the Loas, I took full advantage. I toppled overlords who had ruled for centuries, and I broadcast my carnage and victories. I defeated that snake lord guy and grew my supernatural army. Many of the previous overlords didn’t have much magical power or they were easily fooled by my speeches and schemes.
 But I knew that just having shadows at my beck and call weren’t enough. I needed corporeal demons to do my deeds as well. Thus I made deals with Husk, Niffty, and several others. Niffty admired me and my powers the moment I summoned her from the flames of the burning lake and into a fireplace at the hotel. She was happy to be free from the fires. My appearance and charming nature had her blushing and flustered. I told her she can do the things she enjoys: cooking, cleaning, sewing, reading and writing. Husk was more reluctant to serve me but I bribed him with money and booze… promising him “wealth and true love.” Both are beneficial: Niffty is quick on her feet and Husk is strong and good at gambling. Oh, it sure is fun to mess around with them.
 Additionally, I spend time with my dear friend and performer Mimzy and Rosie, a fellow overlord. All three of us are pretty close. The demons know that I’ve conquered a territory by the presence of tall radio towers nearby. Or whenever some demons go to a certain area, they encounter some voodoo creatures and shadows who warn them to stay away.”
 How do you take over territory? Choose your battles well. Don’t rush into a fight thinking you can win. Gather allies or if you’re powerful enough, just rely on yourself. The time right after the Extermination is the ideal time to claim land since many demons have perished. It’s also when many other demons fight over different areas. It’s fun to hear about it on the picture shows, especially when I’m mentioned.”
 Here’s what “The Radio Demon’s Guide to the Inferno” has to say about Asexuality (Page 221)
 “Some of you may or may not know this, but I’m asexual and aromantic. I’m not interested in sex nor romantic relationships with either men or women. Many of you fans have shipped me with Charlie and Angel and pretty much every other demon in Hell. Tell me mortals…why in the nine circles would I ever be into my rival Vox, or a pathetic loner scientist…or Hell forbid, Lucifer? Charlie is a lovely lady and a good friend, but if she’s no use to me for my plans in the long run, then she’s not worth it. And Angel…he’s alright, if not annoying and clingy. He invades my personal space and I certainly do not want to know what goes on in his perverted head. I’d rather get shot a dozen times than allow Angel to lay his hands on me (who knows where they’ve been). I don’t really love anyone, save for myself and my mama. It’s just the way I am.
 In my time, sexuality terms did not exist. Anyone with an abnormal obsession with the opposite sex was called heterosexual. And homosexual was a derogatory term for those who were outside the norm in regards to sexuality. It was bad enough that my father and uncle chided me for not being into girls and sex like a “real man” should. The thought of merging my body with someone else’s was gross. I invade personal space, but I feel repulsed when other’s touch me…it’s like I’m not in control in the situation. Plus, even if I wanted to have sex, there’s no point as sinners can’t reproduce down here. And I don’t like to be tied down…having to accommodate my needs for someone. Aside from dancing, having the occasional dinner with someone nice, there are better things to do in my time than typical romantic antics.  I learned very early on in my life that the only person I could really trust was myself…Alastor. It wasn’t hard to put up a charming exterior to make many women fall for me…including my dear friend Mimzy. The other women and men who stayed around for a while got tied up in my basement and screamed as I stabbed them and split their throats. Hey, you never know who will come into your life.”  
   Asexuality is defined as a lack of sexual attraction. Asexuals are not sexually attracted to anyone. Those who are aromantic are not romantically attracted to anyone. However, like sexual individuals, asexuals are different and have their own needs and levels of comfort. Some asexuals might be romantically attracted to males, females, or both. Others might desire intimacy and many are in relationships with asexuals and sexual individuals. Sadly, many asexuals feel broken and out of place due to cultural portrayals of sexuality in the media and other institutions.
References:
https://lgbt.williams.edu/homepage/10-things-you-need-to-know-about-asexuality/
Asexuality Visibility and Education Network. https://www.asexuality.org/
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Constellations Against Skin
n.t. “You hold him in your arms, a thousand stars in the bones of a man, and nobody could have thought you’d come so close to holding constellations against your skin.”
Dean Winchester X Reader; Castiel X Reader
Soulmate AU
[AO3] [Chapter List]
Two: Awake
You faded in and out of awareness for a day. Nurses moved around your room, taking your vital signs and redressing your wounds. Everything was fuzzy and floaty, like there was fog between you and the rest of the world. You heard voices, fading in and out. People you knew. There was a warm presence next to you - it felt like cherry pie and cedar-smoke. Like home. You reached out for it.
There were so many thoughts and feelings where you were. The energy was so jumbled and sad and sinking. Hope and despair and relief and worry and pain in a horrible emotion soup forced down your throat and into your lungs. It was too much.
At some point you thought you dreamt of an empty, echoing church and a boy with green eyes.
Your soulmark felt horrible on your ribs, the burning threatening to pull sobs from your throat even in your sleep. So much of you hurt.
It was that pain that woke you up.
You groaned, opening your eyes and blinking against the lone, dim light buzzing above a sink. The small room smelled strongly of disinfectant and linen. Shuffling noises echoed in the hall and a soccer game played lowly on TV. Voices on an intercom would occasionally interrupt the quiet, unobtrusive sound around you with loud beeps and cracking microphones.
Your head was cloudy, but you were aware enough to be yourself - even if your brain felt like it was stuffed full of cotton instead of thoughts. You had no idea how you got in this hospital room - and it was clearly a hospital room. You... didn’t remember anything after you took out the werewolf. Were you still in Wyoming? How much time had passed? Had you been in a car accident?
Wires and tubes stuck onto and into your body made it hard to move. You recognized the IV, EKG, and Oxygen mask but the rest of it was foreign to you. You wanted to get up and walk around, but were afraid you would wind yourself into knots. Besides, sharp pain shot through your whole body whenever you moved. You didn’t think you were going anywhere. It was worse than you were used to, and you were used to pain.
You reached out for the ‘call nurse’ button, but one of your hands wasn’t moving the way it should’ve. You looked down - your non-dominant hand was in a cast, your pinky, ring, and middle finger wrapped in gauze, leaving you with a lobster claw instead of a hand. The blue wrapping had a warding sigil written on it in sharpie - one that you had as a tattoo. Why had someone put that there? You didn’t need it twice. Your right leg was wrapped all the way up your thigh with fiberglass, and you couldn’t move it for the life of you. A frustrated sigh left you before you could help yourself. Just your luck.
You felt like you came down with a very bad cold and then ran into a wall face-first.
Every part of you that you could see was covered in bandages. A mask covered your mouth and nose; you could feel the faint tickle of oxygen coming through and brushing against your nostrils. There was even a fucking tube in your throat. You could feel it chafe every time you moved - it came out your nose and you had to stop yourself from gagging around it every other second. It gave you the worst sore throat you’d ever had on steroids.
The nurse better haul ass, you wanted this thing gone.
And your ribs, holy shit. Was that extremely painful or completely numb? Hell if you knew.
You stretched uncomfortably, choking back a grunt of pain as you reached for the remote that was just a little bit out of your reach.
A sharp intake of breath came from the door and something light hit the floor.
You turned to see none other than Dean Winchester - a man you’d been wanting to meet since you were fourteen, when you met John the second time. He’d been all too happy to shut that idea down quick, though. He hadn’t even wanted you around himself at the time, let alone his kids - a fact that never changed even after you started hunting in earnest around the same time Dean had. Didn’t need his sons meeting the freak, right?
John’s rejections had always hurt more than you were willing to admit.
You recognized Dean from the photos, though - more recent ones, and from the familiar soul thrumming through him. Different than his father’s gunsmoke and whiskey, yes, but the threads were there - you knew a Winchester when you felt one. Dean felt like campfires and old cars. A pine forest on a summer night.
You flushed scarlet. Of course when you finally met your dead friend’s hot son you looked like a drowned cat that got hit by a bus. (You felt like that too). You were injured to hell, but you had eyes - and you were in a hospital bed. There was no way you could flirt with him like this. Who the hell flirted while they were in the hospital?
This fucking sucked.
You made a pointed effort to avoid looking in his head. You didn’t need to hear his thoughts, they were probably just filled with the general hunter concern tinged with curiosity that you felt yourself when working a case. You didn’t have your necklace, which you’d enchanted and blessed yourself, so you were getting a metric shit-ton of the disjointed brain chatter and stray emotions it would normally keep away. The drugs dulled your senses somewhat, so it was more like cafeteria noise than legible thoughts, thank god. You would just have to not focus on him too much. Easy.
It wasn’t easy, he was very attention-grabbing.
Wait.
Were you a case?
Dean just looked at you in shock and then at the cheap coffee he’d spilled on the floor.
“Hey,” He gave an uneven smile before crossing the room to the sink and grabbing a few paper towels. “Bobby’ll be glad you’re awake.”
“Bobby’s here?” . You lowered your face mask to speak. That hurt more than it should’ve. Your throat was dry as hell, and your voice came out in a harsh, cracking whisper around the feeding tube.
You felt like crying. Had he been worried about you? How did he even know where you were? Had the hospital gone through your things?
You’d really missed him.
Dean coughed and looked away from you. Of course he would - he probably didn’t know how to deal with a random crying chick more than any other hunter. Which is to say, not at all. You blinked away your tears for the sake of both your pride.
“Yeah, he’s asleep back at the motel. Stayed here all night.” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “He only agreed to go back if someone stayed here with you.”
You sighed, settling back into the lumpy hospital pillow. “Can you get the thingy?” You pointed at the Call Nurse button. You were not stretching like that again, your whole body felt like it was on fire and underwater.
What drugs had they given you?
He nodded again, handing you the remote. “I’m Dean, by the way.”
“I know,” You rasped, with a wink that hurt way too much to make. Very sexy of you. “Nice to finally meet you.”
That caught him off guard, apparently. He gave you a skeptical look, one eyebrow raised comically higher than the other. You would think this man had never been flirted with by a grievously injured monster hunter before.
His deer-in-a-headlights look was cute, though.
You figured you should explain yourself. “John never let me anywhere near you and Sam, even when he kept telling me how great y'all are. Always figured it would be cool meeting a hunter my own age, though.” You gave the best, genuine smile you could muster and held out your good hand. “I’m (Y/n).”
He shook your hand, and you had to stop yourself pulling away in shock. Your energy had leapt out at his and latched on, sending a blush straight to your face and a warm, tingly feeling to your soulmark.
It’d never done that before.
You both yanked your hands away, looking away from each other.
Had he felt that too? He must’ve, right? If his flustered expression and red ears were anything to go by, then yes, he had.
Great, as if you weren't already a freak.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll go call Bobby. He’ll want to know you’re up.” He started, walking backwards toward the door. You nodded, hugging yourself as best you could and kept your eyes firmly planted on the wall. “I, um - I got your message, by the way.”
“What?” Your eyes shot up to meet his, confused You didn’t have his phone number. Was he talking about the polaroid of John you mailed Bobby to give the boys?
“Oh,” He waved you off, still walking backwards. He tripped on the trash can. “Nothing. You know what? Forget I said that.” And he left, pulling out his cell phone.
But you saw the sigil scratched on his hand - the same one that was on your cast. The same one that hid you from demons. One from your personal collection of Enochian seals. The one you hadn’t seen any other hunter ever use ever.
That’s sure interesting. You wondered idly if that’s what he thought your message was. But, as far as you knew, you couldn’t do something like that.
The nurse rushed in only a minute or two later, interrupting your thoughts, and looking absolutely beside herself. She didn't let Dean back in for a while, because right after her came the bedraggled Dr. Reyes, whose hair was threatening to escape her bun and run away. Apparently you were the biggest case in the hospital and she had just been… waiting for you to wake up.
The tests she ran were annoying, but you slogged through them all the same.
You could follow the pen with your eyes fine, your pupils were dilating fine, you knew it was 2006, and you didn’t seem to have any memory problems.
And nobody was answering any of your questions. Dr. Reyes just vaguely said there was an accident but refused going into detail, asking how much pain you were in when you pressed further. A different nurse than earlier brought in a new IV stand, hooking it up and handing you a button. Pain drip, she’d said - press when you needed more meds.
You pressed it as often as the damn thing let you.
Dr. Reyes agreed to take out the feeding tube shoved down your throat, but only after you proved you could hold down meals. And that meant you had to wait at least until after lunch, if not dinner. Boo.
You resisted the temptation to look at their thoughts to figure out what was going on. You hated, hated, hated doing it on purpose. It felt intrusive and gross to reach into somebody’s head like that and pull out what you wanted. Like prying a snail out of its shell.
And it reminded you too much of your time in New York.
When she was done looking you over, Dr. Reyes sat down on her rolling stool and leveled you with a serious look, face sad and empathetic but no-nonsense. “You don’t remember what happened?” She sighed when you shook your head, but continued. “Would you like me to tell you what happened, or would you like your family to come talk to you? I can come back later and explain everything medically if you’d prefer it that way.”
You swallowed, fear spiking in your chest at her tone. Bobby had brought at least Dean with him, and you had no reason to believe Sam hadn't followed. Why would he do that if it wasn’t something bad? This was serious, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t have brought back up if it wasn’t. If it was a normal case he would’ve come alone.
Did you want Bobby to tell you?
Yes, yes you did.
He’d been there after your parents died, and for most of your teenage years; he’d already seen you at your worst.
So you waited a few minutes for the nurse - Callie, her tag said - to get him from the waiting room. He’d apparently gotten there just a few minutes after Dean called him. Dr. Reyes left with the promise of coming back in an hour or so to go over your chart and explain all your injuries, wires, and treatment options.
Bobby looked like he hadn't slept in a week. You weren’t the only one who looked like a drowned cat, apparently. He squeezed your good hand for a second and pulled up what you were sure was a horribly uncomfortable plastic chair. He gave you a sad smile - which made you feel worse, nerves rising in your chest even more. He was never this soft-looking. “How you doing, kid?”
You just shrug weakly, making sure not to move too much, and acting more nonchalant than you felt. “Confused.” You murmur, before looking away and biting your lip, wanting to curl in on yourself but unable to, pain singing in your muscles at your attempt. You hit the pain button again and huffed when it made a beep that meant you’d already gotten your next dose. “I don’t remember how I got here.”
He sighed and sounded centuries old. You felt bad for asking him to come in, for making him so tired. You wanted to make him turn around and get some sleep. To stop worrying about you so much. But he would give you a better idea of what happened than the doctor could, if this was related to a hunt. And you had a sinking feeling it was.
“I think that’s a good thing, champ.”
You furrowed your brows and looked up at him, searching his face for answers. He just looked exhausted. And you felt just how drained he was. How frustrated, how angry. Heavy.
You felt like a little kid again, waiting for him to tell you why your house had been set on fire. Small, and confused, and clueless. “What happened to me, Bobby?” You breathed, voice small.
You were suddenly afraid to hear the answer.
“Alioth found you. Hurt you real bad,” He started, and you took in a sharp breath that stung your ribs like a bitch.
That stupid demon had been after you for years. But you’d exorcised him last year. He’d never been able to crawl out of hell so fast. You normally had two years of freedom from him at least. Bile rose in your throat and you wanted to run anywhere but where you were. He could be anywhere now.
Had he been exorcised? Were you still in danger? How had he found you?
Who had saved you if it wasn’t Bobby? Because it sure as hell hadn’t been Bobby, you could feel as much. Did you save yourself? You doubted that, as much as you wanted to believe you’d been able to kick his ass all by yourself.
You needed to leave now.
Bobby put his hand lightly on your arm and you jumped, eyes going wide. “You're safe now. Me, Sam and Dean are gonna find the son of a bitch and send him back to hell if he so much as breathes in this direction.”
You just nod stiffly, staring at the wall, frozen in the sitting position you had bolted into in your panic. “How bad is it?”
“Well, I think you should ask your doctor that-”
“Bobby.” You didn’t have time for this.
Would you be able get discharge papers or would you have to sneak out yourself? Could you even sneak out like this?
“Your insides are fine, besides the fact that your heart’s real stressed out.” He sighed again, clearly either oblivious of your impending panic or hoping it would go away by itself. “You’re going to have a lot of scars, though, kid. I’m sorry.”
You forced yourself to breathe. To think, to let that sink in. You looked straight ahead and tried not to imagine what you looked like under your bandages. You would listen to the doctor first, figure out how to handle your wounds, and then get discharged against medical advice. For sure. You could do that. That was a plan.
You didn’t cry.
You refused to cry. Not for your vanity, and not out of fear. It was part of the life, nothing you haven't dealt with before. It’s not like you had anyone to impress, anyway. You were tough, you told yourself, it didn’t matter. And you had three hunters with you. If a demon so much as sneezed there would be a lightning storm, and they would help you get out of here before he found you again.
Not like you would be hard to find, given how much everybody seemed to be talking about you.
"What day is it?" You changed the subject, stubborn to avoid your freak-out. You could drive three states away and follow up with someone there by the time anyone realized you were gone. No need to hyperventilate. It was just the thing that killed your parents. No big deal.
"July tenth. Monday. A bartender walking home heard fighting and called 911 the night before last." He looked at you hesitantly, like he’s afraid of what he could hear. "So what… Do you remember?"
You had to shut your eyes to think past the blank spots in your mind. It was hard - you felt all floaty from the meds, thoughts slipping through your fingers like grains of sand. Everytime you thought you latched onto something you hit empty, gaping holes where the memory should be.
So you found the very last solid memory, and focused.
A gunshot.
Yellow eyes going dark. A body falling to the floor. Cleaning up a scratch on your shoulder. Putting weapons away in your Mustang.
"Finishing a wolf hunt." You croak, wishing you could get yourself some water. "After that there's nothing." You shook your head, frustrated, and run your hand through your hair.
"Do you know where you might've been heading?” Bobby pressed. “A motel, a store, a bar?"
"A bar." The memory flashes. You'd wanted a drink. "The country-themed one by the book store. It was crowded."
--
"Dude, I wanna ride the bull."
"Dean, you're not riding the bull."
"Not now, obviously," Dean said on their way past the machine and toward the back of the bar. It was empty, a little past three o'clock in the afternoon, and the place had just opened. The mechanical bull was mocking him, artificial red eyes glowing under the tin-can lights. "When we finish the case." He heard Sam's annoyed huff and chose to ignore it. He was obviously just too intimidated to try and didn’t want Dean to upstage him. Duh.
Dean flashed his FBI badge at the bartender, and his brother did the same before speaking. "I'm Agent Wright with the FBI; this is my partner Agent Mason. We're here about the attack Saturday night. We have reason to believe the victim was here earlier in the night."
That was Dean's cue to pull out an polaroid Bobby had given them, sliding it onto the counter. It was from last year. A headshot. You were smiling and covered in grey mud, just after you’d wiped off your face with your sleeve, your arm still pressed against your cheek. Your hair and shirt were trashed. There'd been some spell ingredient you were digging up and it rained the night before, but you hadn’t been letting that stop you. You sent pictures to Bobby pretty often, apparently, though Dean had never noticed. Maybe he had them all hidden in a box somewhere?
Oh, he was so snooping when they got back.
The man behind the counter - his name tag labeled him as David - shrugged after eyeing the photo for a moment. "I wasn't in on Saturday," He nodded to the back. "Duncan was though, I'll go get him."
Sam nodded. "Please do."
"David and Duncan, huh?" Dean muttered when the man was out of earshot. "As if this place needed any more D-bags."
Sam made a choked noise, leaving Dean with a wry grin. The worse his brother reacted to a joke the better he'd done, in Deans humble opinion. Half the fun of road trips was torturing him. Captive audience.
Duncan came out and crossed his arms, apparently swapping places with David. He was standing maybe a little too tall, puffing his chest a bit too much. He didn’t look happy to see them. "You think that girl who got attacked was here?"
"Considering she said so, yeah," Dean said, nodding at the polaroid. "So?"
Duncan took a moment, squinting. "Maybe." He shrugged. "She might've been the rum and coke I had around nine-thirty, but I can't be sure." He scoffed, rolling his eyes. "The place was packed, dude. I could barely keep up with orders, let alone remember every single face. "
What a beacon of empathy.
Sam and Dean just looked at each other. "Do you have security cameras?" Sam asked.
"You’ll have to ask the boss." He waved them off, making to leave.
Sam cleared his throat, stopping him. “Then go get them, please.”
Back at the motel, Sam worked his laptop open and Dean studied a map of the small highway town - seeing if there were other cameras they could track your path with. He was circling businesses and intersections along the shortest route between the bar and the paper mill where you'd been found.
He'd been careful to hide his hand from view while they'd been out - he didn't need randos thinking he was satanic.
It had been a shock, waking up with the sigil scratched into his hand. But Bobby reasoned that it was a message, somehow. It was the same tattoo you got on your leg - the one the demon burned through. As far as Bobby knew it was a kind of ward - made it hard for demons to track anyone wearing it.
It freaked Dean out, personally. You'd been unconscious and ten blocks away from him and you left him with that? It gave him the heebs and the jeebs. He was really looking forward to eavesdropping on Sam's inevitable conversation about psychic powers with you.
But Dean drew it on your cast nonetheless. Your protection had been stripped away, and he didn’t see a reason not to give it back to you.
And that wasn’t even mentioning whatever the hell happened when you shook hands. It felt embarrassing, somehow. Vulnerable, like whatever that energy was had shot through all his walls and shone a light on his insides. You’d seemed just as surprised as him and he didn’t like that one bit.
"Got him," Sam said suddenly from across the table, flipping the laptop around so Dean could see the feed - the camera at the back exit of the bar. A guy in a suit - the dead guy they had yet to get an autopsy report for - held you by one arm and shoved you into the alley, making you almost fall on your face. You weren’t reacting at all, just letting him push you around. He could see the shakes in your legs, though. Why weren’t you doing anything?
Then Dean saw the gun in his hand. Great.
"The place was packed, right?" Sam started, and Dean knew where he was going with this. "He must've gotten the drop in her."
Dean sighed, running a hand down his face. He should’ve gotten a drink when he could’ve. "Everybody in there was a hostage and the dumb bastards didn't even notice."
Sam just nodded. "I mean, it's smart. If she starts something, he can either play the victim or start shooting people."
He kicked Sam’s shin under the table. "Don't compliment the demon, Sam!"
"I'm not complimenting the demon!” He kicked back. “I'm just wondering how we would handle it. With all those people in danger."
Dean held his arms out in a ‘duh’ gesture. "Wait until you’re in a dark alley and then fuck him up when there’s no one he can hurt."
Sam hummed judgmentally at him.
"What?"
"This is from the bookstore’s footage." Sam turned the laptop around again to a different alley.
It started the same as before - the demon pushing you along. But after a second you elbowed the guy in the face, grabbing the gun from his belt in the same move. Before you could do more, he fisted a hand into your hair and shoved you against the brick wall. He made to punch you, but you ducked and kneed him in the balls, making the demon let go of you and double over. You grabbed his head and kneed him again, this time in the face. Three times, actually - Dean could see dark blood spatter onto the concrete below you.
And then you punched him in the stomach and ran, legs wobbling dangerously.
You made it all the way to the end of the alley. But the demon reached its hand out and you froze, entire body going stiff. You stood stock-still for a breath. Then your body jerked backward, flying through the air and landing you bodily against the demon's chest. He didn't look happy.
He dragged you out of frame.
"Looks like she thought so, too, Dean." Sam was wearing his bitchface.
What was his problem? Had he not slept again?
"What do you want me to say?" Dean aggressively opened a beer. "Oh, boo hoo, we're fucked if some bastard tries that? We fight, dude, even when the odds are shit. (Y/n) obviously thought so too."
Sam shrugged. "I was thinking more along the lines of ideas."
Dean groaned at his brother.
This fucking case.
--
It was later - much later, after you’d had bland hospital food and proved you could hold down meals. Callie had already pulled the tube from your throat, thank god. You’d gagged around it and thrown up on the floor, but she told you it was normal, to not worry about it, but you were embarrassed anyway, pulling the scratchy blankets over yourself and curling up as much as you could. You were able to keep the rest of the food down after that, though. You hid in your blanket cocoon as long as you could manage.
Screw the tube.
You were leaving in less than an hour, and would be in the back of your Mustang on your way to Bobby’s. Dr. Reyes was understandably concerned for your wounds, but you would rather leave now than risk Alioth finding you. If you needed to, you could check in to a new place in South Dakota. As long as it was away from here it didn’t matter.
Callie started changing your bandages one last time before you left, making sure you knew which wounds needed what kind of wrapping, that it would all be in the follow-up file they would send with you and on and on. You had to try stupidly hard to remember it all, but it was better than staying in this place, so you endured, partially comforted by the fact that it would all be written down.
Dr. Reyes had made it clear that ‘Someone’ (Alioth) had taken a torch to your soulmark. You’d been trying not to think about it while you waited for discharge, mindlessly playing the sudoku book Sam, who you liked almost instantly, brought by after lunch. He was smart and kind - and he offered to help you when you were out of the hospital, that he could stay in Bobby’s other spare room. Although, he did seem relieved when you let him know you wouldn’t need it. You had enough money to hire a nurse to come around once a day to help you change your bandages. Being psychic made you a very good poker player.
The worry about your soulmark was there all afternoon, though, despite the idle distractions you made for yourself.
You asked to look at it when Callie was changing the wrapping.
You know, like an idiot.
You could still feel it under the pain and numbness. It wasn’t so shallow a connection that it was dependent on the skin above it. It was in your soul, after all, and the mark was just the spiritual made physical. It wouldn’ matter if it was damaged. You would be fine.
You repeated that to yourself as the Callie brought you a hand mirror, and held it so you could see the left side of your ribcage.
You almost screamed.
Your entire soulmark was gone.
Completely. Gone.
All of it, replaced with a swath of discolored, grafted skin. The only bit left were thin, decorative wisps that barely brushed beyond the edges of your graft. But the important part - the name - the strange name written in a dead language that kept you waiting for miracles when there were none to be found - it was gone.
You fought against any tears that were forming and stubbornly tried to avoid your feelings. This was stupid. It was just a pretty word on your side, you shouldn’t be so upset. You could still feel the warm glow of your connection, you would be fine. But there was still a gaping sinkhole in your chest.
It was thirty seconds before a tidal wave of grief hit you.
You crumpled in on yourself with a shriek, whole body wracked with painful, painful sobs that shook your frame and made all the hurting ten times worse. It felt like a part of you had been ripped out and thrown in the trash. Like a part of your soul was torn out with a rusty ice cream scoop, leaving raw, torn edges. An empty, burning, ache rose in your chest and pushed out everything else, hollowing out your lungs and filling them up with a burning saltwater nebula.
There was a reason only serial killers went after soulmarks.
“It’s okay, honey, don’t you worry, okay? Marks are stubborn. Everything will be just fine in a few months, just you wait,” Callie shushed you through your snotty sobs and brought you tissues, trying her best to be reassuring as she hastily re-bandaged your side. “I’ve seen them regrow over scars, or somewhere else altogether, it’ll just take some time.”
But that hadn’t been the point.
Alioth wanted to hurt you and it had worked. It was violating and ruthless and it just felt so wrong to the core of your being.
You wanted to scream.
Instead, you did nothing at all, opting to stare at the ceiling and let yourself grow numb as Callie changed the rest of your bandages. The roaring sea subsided eventually, leaving nothing but fog in its wake. You were empty.
You didn’t ask to look at the rest of your grafts and cuts. The room was quiet against the background shuffle of the hospital. You didn’t say goodbye to Callie when she left.
You shut your eyes as tight as you could and returned to the cocoon of your blankets, eyes still burning with fresh tears.
I’m so sorry, Castiel.
Wherever you are.
A/N: I’m actually pretty proud of this story for once. I’m so excited to get to the good bits, we just have to get through the setup! So, let me know what you think so far! I’d love to hear some feedback. Anyone else out there a hoe for Dean Winchester? Cause I am! Who boy, and just wait until Cas shows up!
Until next time, thanks for reading!
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broadwayitbitch · 5 years
Text
The Talent Show
For @andi-simstoons!!! I’m glad I was chosen to give your gift!
You can also find this on AO3 at The Talent Show!
“Here it is. The night of their talent show. Their night to finally promote that they had something to present. The whole thing was TJ’s idea, wanting to show what he had for the drama department.
And their act? Singing La Vie Boheme from RENT. “
Here it is. The night of their talent show. Their night to finally promote that they had something to present. The whole thing was TJ’s idea, wanting to show what he had for the drama department.
And their act? Singing La Vie Boheme from RENT.
Alongside TJ was Cyrus, Buffy, Andi, Jonah, Marty, Walker, Iris, and Amber. It was all part of Metcalf’s new tradition that on the first day of June, kids would be allowed to do talent shows with no restrictions, minus anything sexual, which meant that some of the lyrics of La Vie Boheme had to be censored.
They were the grand finale. Metcalf said their act was perfect for the finale.
The GHC and Co. were backstage, running the number last-minute in case they forgot their choreography,
“Ready?” Cyrus asked TJ. He and Cyrus were Angel Dumott Schunard and Tom Collins, respectively.
“I’m nervous,” He replied, adjusting his mic a bit.
“We’ve been working on this for months, Teej. We’ve got this.”
TJ nodded.
“Lastly on the stage, we have the GHC and Co. performing La Vie Boheme from Jonathan Larson’s RENT,” Metcalf said into the microphone, gaining a huge round of applause.
The stage hands brought the tables out from backstage, along with the chairs the GHC and Co. had asked for the week beforehand. Once the props were set, the GHC and Co. walked on stage, taking their places (minus Andi, who stayed backstage until her cue).
Everyone started reciting their lines.
“Hey, hey, no,” Iris said her line. “You can’t be here, we have an important customer,” She pointed to Marty, playing Benny Coffin. “And besides, you never buy.”
Walker, who’s playing Mark Cohen, scoffed. “Liar, I had a tea on Wednesday.”
“You couldn’t pay,” She countered.
“Oh, yeah…”
On cue, the others and him sit at the table, some of them crossing their legs.
“Benjamin Coffin the third. What brings you to the Life Cafe?” Cyrus asked in a teasing manner.
“I’d like to propose a toast to Maureen’s protest. It went well, but how many tickets did you sell?” Amber stuck her middle finger up at Marty in response.
Jonah stood up from his chair. He was playing Roger Davis. “Why did Muffy-”
“Allison,” Marty corrected.
“Miss the show?”
Marty straightened the lapels on his jacket. “If you must know, there was a death in the family.”
TJ gasped. “Who died?”
Marty cleared his throat. “Our akita.”
Walker and Jonah looked at each other with wide eyes. “Evita,” They said at the same time.
The music started with a piano riff.
“You make fun, yet I’m the one attempting to do some good. Or do you really want a neighborhood where people piss on your stoop every night?” Marty sang. “Bohemia, bohemia is a fallacy in your head. This is Calcutta, bohemia is… dead.”
Walker stood up from his seat, slamming his hands on the table. “Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our goodbyes,” All of the girls cried dramatically. “Here she lies, no one knew her worth. The late great daughter of Mother Earth, on this night where we celebrate the birth.” Buffy, who was playing Mimi Marquez, imitated a baby cry. “In that little town of Bethlehem, we raise our glass. You bet your ass too… La vie boheme!”
Walker jumped off the table, and the ensemble began to sing.
“La vie boheme… La vie boheme… La vie boheme… La vie boheme!”
“To days of inspiration, playing hooky, making something outta nothing, the need to express- to communicate!” Walker sang out. “To going against the grain, going insane, going mad. To loving tension, no pension, to more than one dimension, to starving for attention, hating convention, hating pretension. Not to mention of course, hating dear old mom and dad!”
The ensemble began hitting their hands on the table to the beat of the music.
“To riding your bike midday past the three piece suits, to fruits, to no absolutes! To choice, to the village voice, to any passing fad. To being an us for once instead of a them!”
“La vie boheme!”
Andi walked onstage, going to Amber, who stood from her seat.
“Is the equipment in a pyramid?” Amber asked.
“It is, Maureen,” Andi replied with a sigh.
“The mixer doesn’t have a case. Don’t give me that face!” Amber said, kissing Andi’s cheek. Marty cleared his throat in protest. “Hey, mister, she’s my sister.” She said as Andi walked off stage.
Iris walked to stage left, a notepad in her hand. “So that’s five miso soup, four seaweed salad, three soy burger dinner, two tofu dog platter, and one pasta with meatless balls.”
Jonah cringed. “Ew.”
“It tastes the same,” Cyrus argued.
“If you close your eyes!” Buffy added, gaining laughs from the audience.
“And thirteen orders of fries, is that it here?” Iris asked.
“Wine and beer!” Everyone yelled.
Buffy and TJ got up on the table, starting to dance.
“To hand-crafted beers in local breweries, to yoga, to yogurt, to rice and beans and cheese! To leather, to latex to curry vindaloo!” They sang together. TJ thought that Buffy was the perfect choice for Mimi, she had the best voice out of all of the GHC and Co. “To Huevos Rancheros and Maya Angelou.”
Buffy and TJ got back in their seats as Amber and Cyrus get on the table.
“Emotion, devotion, to causing a commotion. Creation vacation-”
“Mucho masturbation,” Walker interrupted, gaining even more laughs.
Everyone in the audience seemed to be having fun, including the GHC and Co.
“Compassion, to fashion, to passion when it’s new,” Cyrus and Amber continued their portion of the song. “To Sontag, to Sondheim, to anything taboo.”
“Ginsburg, Dylan, Cunningham and Cage,” Jonah and Cyrus sang together as well. “Lenny Bruce, Langston Hughes!”
“To the stage!” Amber yelled.
“To Uta, to Buddha, Pablo Neruda, too!” Everyone sang out.
Buffy got back on the table and Walker got on all fours on the stage floor. “Why Dorothy and Toto went over the rainbow? To blow off Auntie Em!” They high-five, and Buffy laughed.
“La vie boheme!” They all sang again.
Andi walked back on stage to Amber. Amber wrapped her arms around Andi’s neck with a sultry smile.
“And wipe the speakers off before you pack,” Amber instructed.
“Yes, Maureen,” Andi relented, about to walk away.
“Well, hurry back!” Amber called, and she began to kiss Andi passionately.
“Sisters?” Marty questioned.
“We’re close,” Andi and Amber said in unison.
Andi walked off stage once again. The entire ensemble began breaking out into their own dance.
“Bisexuals, trisexuals, homo sapiens, carcinogens, hallucinogens, men, Pee-Wee Herman!” They sang out. “German wine, turpentine, Gertrude Stein, Antonioni, Bertolucci, Kurosawa, Carmina Burana! To apathy, to entropy, to empathy, ecstasy! Vaclav Havel, the Sex Pistols, 8BC! To no shame never playing the Fame Game!”
Cyrus pretended to smoke a joint. “To marijuana!”
“To sodomy, it’s between God and me! To S & M!”
Marty stood up from his table, angrily walking off stage.
“In honor of the death of Bohemia an impromptu salon will commence immediately following dinner,” Cyrus spoke to the beat of the music. “Mimi Marquez, clad only in bubble wrap will perform her famous lawn chair handcuff dance to the sounds of iced tea being stirred!”
Jonah stood next, pointing to Walker. “And Mark Cohen will preview his new documentary about his inability to hold an erection on the high holy days.”
More laughing from the audience.
“And Maureen Johnson, back from her spectacular one-night engagement at the eleventh street lot, will sing Native American tribal chants backwards through her vocoder, while accompanying herself on the electric cello, which she has never studied,” Walker pointed out.
Marty appearing stage right with Buffy with him, and he put his hand on her shoulder. “Your new boyfriend doesn’t know about us.”
Buffy repulsed, smacking his hand away. “There’s nothing to know.”
“Don’t you think that we should discuss?” He asked.
“It was three months ago,” She countered.
“He doesn’t act like he’s with you,” Marty began to argue.
“We’re taking it slow.”
Marty huffed, not believing her. “Where is he now?”
She turned around, trying to find Jonah. “He’s right… where’d he go?”
Focusing back on the rest of the ensemble, Jonah had an electric guitar in his hands.
“And Roger will attempt to write a bittersweet evocative song,” Walker sang. Jonah began playing a tune, for about two measures before Walker stopped him. “That… doesn’t remind us of Musetta’s Waltz.” Jonah flipped Walker off as a joke, setting his guitar down.
“Angel Dumott Schunard will model the latest fall fashions from Paris while accompanying herself on the 10 gallon plastic pickle tub.”
TJ strutted on the table, acting like a model. “And Collins will recount his exploits as anarchist, including the tale of the successful reprogramming of the M.I.T. virtual reality equipment to self-destruct, as it broadcasts the words-”
“Actual reality, ACT UP, fight AIDS!” Everyone finished TJ’s lyric.
Marty ran off stage, yelling “Check!”
Focusing on Buffy and Jonah, they’re alone on stage as the rest of the ensemble is on the other side of the stage.
“Excuse me, did I do something wrong?” Buffy angrily sang to Jonah. “I get invited, then ignored all night long!”
Jonah, with a sad face, looks to Buffy. “I’ve been trying, I’m not lying. No one’s perfect. I got baggage-”
“Life’s too short, babe, time is flying. I’m looking for baggage that goes with mine,” Buffy sang with confidence.
“I should tell you…” Jonah sang sweetly.
“I got baggage, too-” She interrupted his verse.
“Wine and beer!” The ensemble said before the music slowed. Then a light beeping sound began to ring.
“AZT break…” Buffy said, taking out a pill bottle.
“You?” Jonah asked.
“Me,” She nodded. “You?”
Jonah’s lip trembled. “Mimi…”
While this was acting, Jonah always said that he would act the same way Roger did; astonished. Astonished that a friend would keep this sort of thing a secret from him. But remember, this is all acting.
“Are we packed?” Amber asked Andi, who looked to have an exhausted look on her face.
“Yes,” She replied. “And by next week, I want you to be.”
Amber gasped. “Pookie!”
Andi ignored her, going to her own line. “And you should see, they’ve padlocked your building and they’re rioting on Avenue B!” She exclaimed. “Benny called the cops!”
“That jerk!” Someone in the ensemble yelled.
“They don’t know what they’re doing. The cops are sweeping the lots,” Andi’s solemn face turns into an amused one. “But no one’s leaving, they’re just sitting there mooing!”
The ensemble cheered. “To dance!”
“No way to make a living, masochism, pain, perfection, muscle spasms, chiropractors, short careers, eating disorders!” Andi sang, beginning to dance on the table herself.
“Film!”
Walker stepped up to the table as well. “Adventure, tedium, no family, boring locations, dark rooms, perfect faces, egos, money, Hollywood and sleaze!”
“Music!”
TJ, along with Cyrus and Amber, get up on the table. “Food of love, emotion, mathematics, isolation, rhythm, feeling, power, harmony, and heavy competition!” TJ’s dress gets snagged, but he keeps dancing.
“Anarchy!”
Cyrus and Amber start pumping their fists up in the air. “Revolution, justice, screaming for solutions, forcing changes, risk, and danger, making noise and making pleas!”
They jump off of the table, landing on their feet.
“To homos, lesbians, cross-dressers, too!” They sang out. “To people living with, living with, living with, not dying from disease! Let he among us without sin, be the first to condemn!” They all took a breath, preparing for the next verse. “La vie boheme! La vie boheme! La vie boheme!”
Walker ran to center stage. “Anyone out of the mainstream? Is anyone in the mainstream? Anyone alive with a sex drive? Tear down the wall! Aren’t we all? The opposite of war isn’t peace! It’s creation!” He exclaimed, spit flying out of his mouth.
“La vie boheme!”
The music stopped, and the spotlight was on Walker.
“The riot continues. The Christmas tree goes up in flames. The snow dances,” He recited. “Oblivious, Mimi and Roger share a small, lovely kiss.”
Buffy and Jonah, who are still on the other side of the stage, kiss gently. Buffy looked like she was disgusted, but she continued.
The music started once more for the last time.
“Viva la vie boheme!”
The audience applauded loudly, some standing up (which were their parents).
And the GHC and Co. did what they do best.
They took a bow.
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chezzkaa · 6 years
Text
Treaty Line
A/N: Holy fuck, am I really posting a fic? Sorry guys, uni is kickin’ my butt, but have this stupid, short angsty thing I did to give myself a break. 
Pairing: FAHC! Michael Jones x Reader
WC: 1693
“Can we talk about it?”
He doesn’t meet your question, let alone your eyes. Tracing ruts into the grain curling through the table, fingers tugging on the splinters left by wood guzzling up the passing rain of a happier morning. Of an easier time in a section of the park the two of you adorn almost every day, bathing in the cold sun until you’re forced to part ways, lives pulling you apart.
God, you wish it were raining now, at least then there’d be something to fill the silence. Something to drown out the sound of your racing heart and the throb of rejection drumming in your stomach. Repetitive, nauseating. A winter night that froze with the whiplash of the day’s events, emotions tumbling into chaos as the world screeches to a stop. Stuck in this moment. Stuck with him.
“Please, Michael. I need you to tell me it’s alright.”
But he still refuses to acknowledge your existence, the words he spits joining your guilt pooling across the floor. Despair feeding the grass, seeping through the pathway stones. You can almost hear it hiding in the trees, gentle rustling nagging at the hairs dusting your skin, running over your scalp. “Why the fuck would it be alright?”
You don’t know how to answer, left to stare at the nothingness dancing from your lips in the cold, biting air. Of course it’s not alright. You doubt it ever will be. Somehow you find your voice, but it’s not much. A broken whisper that sounds far too close to a cry, almost lost on the wind that tears through your clothes as though you aren’t really wearing them at all. “I don’t know.”
“Am I ever going to get a straight answer from you, Y/N? Or are we hiding everything now?”
You were wrong, it’s not the air that bites. It’s him. The accusations in his eyes. The scalding soup of denial and betrayal and anger. Simmering in confusion, bubbling with bitterness; and with each bursting dome it gets worse. His mind more and more made up. A friend drifting further and further away.
“I’m sorry, Michael. I don’t know where to start. If you’d just listen, maybe-”
“Listen?” You can hear the growl rattling in the back of his throat, eager to crawl across his tongue and hang from his lips - but he does he best to hold it back. Instead he rockets from his seat on the park bench, glaring down at your fragile figure shrinking away. “You want me to listen to how you lied? To how you went behind my back?” He’s pacing down, wringing the night’s neck between frigid, unruly hands. He makes no attempt to hide the snarl. “About how you knew what you were doing, but decided to hurt me anyway?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Then what’s it like, Y/N?” He stops his pacing, and the anger you expect him to turn on you is replaced with defeat. Watery eyes and a face so pale the redness of his nose glares. “I thought it all mattered. I thought I mattered. More than the fucking crew who’s been screwing us for months, anyway.”
“You do matter, Michael.” You want to reach out, clutch his collar and shake until the trembles rocking your body subside. Want to hold him until it’s all alright and the din of the street fades into nothing. An involuntary hand twitches towards him, fingers calling out for his comfort, but he swats them away. “You matter so much.”
“Apparently not.” His arms cross tightly, blocking off this chest. “Otherwise you wouldn’t have been on the other side of the fucking treaty line. With them.”
You bristle, and it takes all you have to keep the rise of your hackles from curling your top lip. Instead a steady needling scratches the back of your neck, burrowing between your shoulders as he lets off a defiant sniff you almost feel sorry for. But it hurts, the accusations he hurls, the blatant disregard. Hurts enough for your self loathing to shift.  “You wouldn’t understand.”
At this he laughs, harsh and bitter. Incredulous, his eyebrows shoot beneath copper curls, the usual cheek that graces his face brightly almost returning. But his eyes stay flat. “You’re right, I don’t.” He returns to his pacing, the bottoms of his jeans wet with the grass. “I don’t understand how I thought I could trust you. How I thought you and me could be-”
He stops, catching the words he’s never had the courage to say, and certainly doesn’t have the will to now. Angry hums take their place, his face scrunching like the fists he holds by his sides. “Why did you pick them over us?”
This you have an answer to, though it’s not one you’re comfortable admitting. Never one to play the damsel, but helpless all the same. “I didn’t have a choice. If I left they’d-”
“What, kill you?” He laughs again, hollow.
“-Kill you.”  
Michael physically stiffens, caught off guard. You take the opportunity to draw in a shaky breath, the feeling long since lost in the fingers you delve into your pocket. From it you retrieve a hefty envelope crammed so full that the sides threaten to split. It thunks onto the park table beside you, taking with it the last of your patience. Then you roll up one of your sleeves, exposed skin stinging as fresh welts greet the open air. At the sight he pales, looking ill  while you roll up the other. The same red marks screaming angrily across your body, flesh wrinkled and twisted with the shape of the hot pokers that had been pressed against you only days before. The same goes for your stomach, body blotched with brutish blues and yellows beneath your clothes. You don’t know how noticeable it is in the bathing of the street lamps, but know by his horrified expression that it’s obvious enough.
“I couldn’t leave my crew because they’d kill the Fakes if I did. Everything they did to me,” you yank your clothes back into place, “they’ll do to you. That file?” You motion to the envelope, and this time he shifts his gaze to the offending bundle of paper. “It’s everything they have on you and your crew. Well, all that’s left that is. I managed to destroy most of it before they got hold of me, and did all of this.”
Michael tries to turn the information over in his head, confusion obvious. It takes a minute but eventually he admits that he has no idea what you’re talking about.
“They found out that I was friends with you. One of the guys, Todd I’m guessing, must have been tracking me for weeks. Should’ve realised, I was an idiot for not being careful. Remember the night you told me that you were a part of the Fakes? It was when Los Santos did those stupid light shows and had the market stalls. We sat by the pier and ate peanut butter everything until I nearly puked?”
He remembers, there’s no way he can’t. It was arguably the happiest night he’s had in years. The way the flashing string lights had danced with the colours shining in your hair, dusting your shoulders and bobbing across the water. He always remembers of that night, of you swinging your legs as they dangled off the wood, the gentle smile that crossed your lips and the way his hand itched to hold yours. “We ate a fuck tonne of pizza.”
“I told you not too.”
Michael pulls a face, exterior defenses thawing a little. He’d fought against your reminders of his lactose intolerance, eagerly eyeing up the cheesiest pizza either of you had ever seen. He regretted it, but that’s something he’ll never admit. You smile, though barely.
“Well, they’d heard you. The next day they… questioned me. I told them I was running some undercover ops after they finished trying to beat out my teeth and I had time to talk. Told them that I was trying to get access to the Fakes so I could rob you blind, and hadn’t told them because I wasn’t sure it would work. They believed me, for the most part. But I started noticing your files growing, so I decided I’d try and leave. Wanted to take all of the info with me too, but they smelt a rat. They brought me in again the other night, made sure I knew what would happen if I decided to consider changing sides. To me and to you. I stood on that line and put a gun to your head so they wouldn’t kill you.”
He doesn’t know what to do, hands working the air and eyes searching for something to fuel his anger. He finds nothing, only able to take in your distraught expression while gathering your guilt from the floor to claim it as his own. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
You smile, happiness breaking through the dreariness of the night and colouring his cheeks a pleasant pink. “Because you’d have gone running in and gotten yourself killed. And after all the effort I put into keeping you alive, I wasn’t about to let that happen.”
He can’t deny it, but for a moment he looks as though he wants too. Instead he takes a tentative step forward, uncertain. “I, err… I guess I’m kinda being an asshole, huh?”
“You think?”
Then relief washes your cheeks with tears, nervous laughter muffled in his shoulder as he pulls you against him. His apologies join the clatter of your head, words tangling in your hair. You breath him in, smoke and sorrow catching in your lungs and stumbling over the fingers gripping his jacket to stop him escaping; not that he has any intentions of doing so.
“So, are we friends again?”
He laughs, but you’re almost certain it’s a distraction from crying. “Not even close. But,” he pulls back, smiling warmly down at you as though the past day hasn’t sent the two of you in spirals, “we can rebuild as long as you pay for dinner.”
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Seven Devils
Steve X Reader, Avengers X Reader, (Surprise Guest) X Reader
A/N: I finally re-wrote this! Thanks for being understanding with my laptop troubles! This is a part 3/3 to Holding on For Dear Life, and this series has been converted into a prequel for something that is coming (If people enjoy this, that is)! *wink* Thank you for all of the amazing people reading this, and all of the brilliant ideas! I love hearing from you! PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK BECAUSE I LOVE ATTENTION LOL
(SIDE NOTE: I have very little medical knowledge and used google for the medical talk.)
Song: Seven Devils by Florence + The Machine
Warnings: Swearing (as usual), talk of suicide and self-harm, villainizing the avengers, Lots of goddamn resentment and anger, etc.
Word Count: 4210 This is SO LONG, holy shit…  
Masterlist
Part 1 // Part 2
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Holy shit! I feel good. Why do I feel good? Didn’t I…?
My eyes fluttered open, looking around the empty hospital room. Okay, so I’m at the tower. Not locked up, yet. I looked around for the nurse button, spotting it on the wall next to me and tried to lift my arms – but they couldn’t get very far, because they were cuffed to the railings of the hospital bed. “What the fuck?” I rasped, throat and mouth dry from being asleep.
Seriously?
“Hello?” I tried to shout with a raspy voice, clanging my shackled wrists against the railings of the bed. I stared at the cuffs, willing my wrists to get hot and expand the metal of the cuffs so I could pull my hands out. The heat didn’t bother me as I yanked my hands through and held them until they were cooled enough to set onto the blankets, so there was not another fire.
Fuck. The fire. How long has it been since that happened? How long has it been since I tried to… I didn’t want to think about that, yet.
Where is everybody? Anybody?
Nobody had shown up, yet. They must not have heard me, but my voice was not going to let me yell, again, unless I got some water.
When the cuffs were finally cool enough, I set them on the blankets. Wait a minute, dumbass. You’re in the tower. Tell FRIDAY to get the nurse.
“FRIDAY? Can you let the nurse know that I am awake and need some water?” My voice came out quiet and strained but the AI responded quickly, and I took a minute to gather my bearings.
I tried to kill myself.
I swallowed a bunch of Oxy… So why did I feel really good? I felt strong, like I could run a marathon. The more I thought about it, I was able to control that heat in my wrists without the slightest bit of strain, as well. What the fuck did they do? I ripped the blankets off of my body, looking down and gasping at the sight of my body.
I looked great! I no longer looked sick from the drugs and homelessness. I was muscular, again. I looked better than I had ever looked. Better than I did before I stopped training.
After my initial shock, a wave of anger washed over me.
What the hell did they fucking do to me?!
“Miss Y/L/N!” A nurse came in with a smile, “You’re finally awake-”
“What the fuck did they do to me?” I growled, gesturing to my body. “How long was I out?”
Holy water cannot help you down / Hours and armies couldn’t keep me out / I don’t want your money / I don’t want your crowd / See I have to burn / Your kingdom down…
The nurse frowned, eyeing the damaged cuffs on my bed - then came over to read the monitor next to me. “You have been unconscious for approximately four months, one week, and five days. You overdosed on Oxycodone, and were given Naloxone to counteract the depression of your central nervous system and respiratory system, then we had to use activated charcoal to prevent further absorption of the drug in your system. Unfortunately, the damage to your body had already been done. Since you have a history of substance abuse, you sent yourself into liver failure.”
I tried to digest all the information as best as I could, but that was a lot to take in. “Liver failure?” She nodded, tucking the blanket back around me. “How come I feel great, then? What happened? What did they do?”
She bit her lip, breaking eye contact with me. “FRIDAY, can you please tell Mr. Stark and Captain Rogers to come to the room for further explanation?” She turned to me after FRIDAY responded, “Doctor Banner is away, or I would have him come explain himself. I have a cart full of food and water, would you like me to grab you something?”
“God, yes.” I felt like my stomach was going to ingest itself at any moment.
Halfway through the entire cart of food, there was a knock at the door. The fucking idiots have arrived. I looked up from my bowl of soup and narrowed my eyes at the sight of the men standing at the door, “What the fuck did you assholes do to me?”
They looked nervous. Rightfully so, because I was mad.
“Now, Y/n, we had to-” Steve tried to start.
“No, Steve.” I glared, setting my food down on the bedside table and rolling it slightly away from me, “I want to hear this from Tony. I don’t want to hear a fucking word come out of your mouth.”
Tony sighed, taking a step forward, “We injected you with an experimental version of the Super Soldier Serum.”
Did I hear that correctly?
“You WHAT?” I screamed, eyes widening in shock. “Why in the hell did you decide that was a good idea?”
“You were dying.” Tony huffed out a breath, “We didn’t want you to die. You were in a medically induced coma, going into liver failure. That was after you burned down a building and tried to kill yourself.” He crossed his arms, taking a deep breath, “What the hell were you thinking? Trying to kill yourself, Y/n! What the fuck!”
“No. You never gave a shit about if I lived or died before,” I pointed out, jaw getting tight with anger. “If memory serves, you guys left me on the streets to die.”
“We did not.” Tony argued, throwing his hands up, “We-”
“How many fucking times do I have to fucking say this?” I yelled, slamming a fist against the railing of the bed in anger, bending it. “You guys fucking threw me the fuck out without any way to provide for myself! I couldn’t work, I couldn’t pay rent, I couldn’t eat-”
“You found plenty of ways to get drugs, though.” Steve muttered.
“Go fuck yourself, Steve.” I glared, “I was trying to numb my fucking feelings. I don’t blame you for the substance abuse. I fucking blame you for making me feel worthless. I blame you for making me feel like a cheap whore. I blame you – all of you - for making me feel like I had no place in this group. I blame you for throwing me the fuck out like I was a piece of trash.”
Steve didn’t respond.
Tony walked over, standing at the end of my bed, “I am sorry that you feel that way, but what’s done is done. You’re enhanced, now. We need to deal with that.”
“You should have let me die.” I muttered, tears pricking my eyes. “You should have never experimented on me.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, Y/n.” Tony shook his head, shoving his hands in his pockets, “We have to talk about what happens next.” I raised an eyebrow, urging him to continue. “You still have to answer for your crimes. You burned down an entire building. The public doesn’t look too kindly on that.
“You’re going to have to be locked up.” He finished, breaking eye contact, “Secretary Ross will decide what to do with you during that time.”
“You’re going to leave my fate up to the man who wants me killed?” My eyes widened in shock as I clenched my fists in anger. “That’s not fucking happening.”
“You have no choice, Y/n.” Steve growled.
“The fuck I don’t.” I yelled, bringing my hands up as they grew hot, “I would rather be on the streets than be Ross’s fucking plaything.”
My hands burst into flames, and a wicked smile made its way to my face as the power in me was awakened.
Holy water cannot help you now / See I’ve had to burn your kingdom down / And no rivers and no lakes can put the fire out / I’m gonna raise the stakes, I’m gonna smoke you out…
“Y/n. Stop.” Steve raised his hand to his gun on his hip, “Or I will stop you.”
“Are you going to shoot me, Cap?” I taunted, smirking as I felt a surge of power run through my core.
I will no longer be weak. I will no longer be helpless. I will no longer feel the way I felt when I tried to kill myself. I will no longer let them have power over me. The anger in my body seemed to pulse through my veins. I could feel it consume me. The power surging through my veins felt wonderful. My whole body was buzzing. My mind was finally free of the depression and helplessness I had felt for so long. I was finally in control.
I was finally strong.
I felt the smirk turn into a full grin as I stood, flames balled up in my hands, “I would like to see you, try.”
Tony slowly backed up, and I took notice as he hit the emergency button on his watch. “Y/n, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”
“I think I’m done talking.” I let out a laugh, sounding sinister, “I suggest you let me leave.”
“I don’t think so.” Tony growled. His suit suddenly came flying into the room, attaching itself to his body piece by piece, until the helmet snapped shut over his face. “You’re not going anywhere.”
“Either let me leave, or I burn your fucking building to the ground with everyone in it.” I threatened, balls of flame levitating over my hands. They grew double in size, and Steve’s eyes widened in shock.
Suddenly, I felt something else surge through my veins. A new cold feeling that I had never experienced, before. Experimenting with this energy, I let the arctic feeling consume my hands, and the balls of fire suddenly turned to moving balls of ice.
“Uh oh, Tony.” I mocked, “I have a feeling that injecting me with the serum was a big, big mistake.”
I channeled my energy, sending a surge of ice shards to Steve. They weren’t directed at any major veins or arteries, they were pointed to areas meant to incapacitate. Steve tried to throw himself out of the way, but one stuck in his arm. He groaned as he yanked the bloody shard out of his arm and sent a bullet in my direction, missing me.
Seven devils all around you / Seven devils in my house / See they were there when I woke up this morning / I’ll be dead before the day is done…
Tony made an attempt to send a blast right at me, but I rolled out of the way. “You’ll have to be faster than that, Iron Man.” I taunted, sending a blast of flame his way.
I used the distraction to sprint out of the room. I was high up in the building, so I would have to get to the stairs. FRIDAY would never let the elevator go down with me in it. When I left my room, I knew exactly where I was, and made my way down the corridors.
Alarms started screaming through the building, and the lights shut down to the red emergency lights. So that’s how you’re going to play it? Get the whole building to fight me?
Bring it on.
The first wave of agents came after me when the door to the stairs reached my view. They swarmed the corridor, weapons ready, with determined looks on their face. Sam and Wanda came ran in front of the crowd, ready to fight.
“Y/n, we can’t let you leave.” Sam called out, voice stern.
“Try and stop me.”
I came at them with ice. I knew I was going to have a hell of a time trying to get any of this passed Wanda, so I went after the agents, first. They were not expecting me to shoot jagged daggers of ice in their direction, and they spread in panic. I used the distraction to freeze Sam’s feet to the cold ground, as well as everyone else in the room.
“Nobody warned me she’s fucking Frozone, now, guys!” Sam yelled into his coms, as he tried to pull himself out of the ice.
Wanda’s hands were glowing red as she used her ability to throw me into the walls of the corridor. I had to have hit the wall hard, but I barely felt it as I regained my footing and hit her with a surge of a new feeling that was flowing through my veins.
A gust of wind blew Wanda into the wall, rendering her unconscious.
“Oh, shit!” Sam yelled into his comms, finally freeing himself with his wings. “Wanda’s down.”
“You’re next.” I grinned, using the force of the wind to blow him to the wall. Then, switching back to ice, I froze his hands and feet to the wall, keeping him contained.
I dodged the other agents, sending an explosion of fire at the door to the stairs. The door blew off the hinges, hitting the wall on the other side.
I made my way down one set of stairs before I ran into more agents. “Fuck, you guys just keep coming.” I complained, sending a gust of air, knocking them down like a bunch of bowling pins. “When will you get it?” I yelled in annoyance, knowing the Avengers had cameras on me, “You won’t stop me!”
“We can try.” A new voice came from above. A teenage voice. Peter Parker.
“They sent the kid? Seriously?” I groaned in annoyance, “I’m not hurting you, kid. I have no beef with you.”
He sent webs in my direction, pinning my body to the concrete wall of the stairwell. “You can’t leave, Y/n.”
“Did you know,” I smirked, raising the temperature my body, “that spider webs are very flammable?” I sent a blast of fire from my body, lighting the webs up into flames. The webbing melted off my hot body quickly, and I realized that I had also burnt off my gown in the process.
“Umm, umm,” Peter stammered out, unsure how to proceed with my nakedness. Poor kid. He made an attempt to move forward and fight me hand to hand, but I rolled my eyes and quickly froze him to the wall.
“Good try, kid.” I laughed, “But I’m not hurting you.”
I left him to struggle with the ice on his own, hoping he didn’t end up with frostbite in that suit.
I pursed my lips in thought as an idea popped into my head. I wonder. I focused my energy on the air around me, and I was suddenly floating. “Cool.” I manipulated the air into floating me over the railing, and down the middle of the many floors of the Avengers Tower. I could feel my stomach drop a little as I descended quickly, and cushioned my landing when I went over the railing for the first floor.
When I blasted the door open, the looks on everyone’s faces were priceless as I walked – still very naked – through the hole where the door used to be. I assessed my surroundings quickly, and saw that several agents were retreating.
I guess they are either scared, or want me alive.
Ross probably wants me alive.
That meant they wouldn’t shoot me. Good.
A sinister grin spread on my face as three large figures made their way towards me in the main lobby. Bucky, Steve, and Tony.
And now all your love will be exorcised / And we will find you saying it’s to be better now / And it’s an even sum / It’s a melody / It’s a battle cry / It’s a symphony…
“Oh, good, the three musketeers are here.” I joked, biting my lip in anticipation. “Want to see what I just learned?”
“Cut the shit, Y/n.” Bucky yelled, metal arm whirring as he approached, “You won’t win this.”
“I won’t?” I snapped my fingers, “Well damn. Here I was thinking that I was making my grand escape. Guess not.” I lifted my hands, feeling flames caress my fingers as I stared at Bucky with a mocking smile. “I guess I will just have to kick it up a notch.”
Before any of them could say anything, the flames in my hands started spark and change color. I felt a crackling surge through my veins from my feet to my fingertips – like pins and needles – and the flames changed to electricity. I shot the energy through their bodies, stunning them like a Widow’s Bite. Not enough to kill them, but enough to knock their asses to the ground.
“You were saying?” I said to their unconscious bodies.
I took a moment to stare at Steve’s unconscious body, and a wave of disappointment washed over me. This man used me. This man made me feel unwanted, depressed, heartbroken, angry… This man was not the same man from before the ice. This man didn’t have the ‘old forties charm’ – like women claimed. Or maybe he did… just not with me. He had wronged me more than any of them ever had. He had treated me the worst of all of them. I will never let anyone treat me badly, again.
“Miss Y/L/N?” Vision’s voice came from behind, making me jump.
Crap. He’s going to be hard to get rid of.
He wasn’t somebody I wanted to fight. While he had never been a friend to me, he had never actually treated me like crap. Not like Steve. Not like the rest of them.
With a sigh, I spun around, ready to fight – but he just stood there, with his arms at his sides. He wasn’t even dressed for a fight. He was in that dark sweater that he always wore. “I wished to tell you, before you left, that I apologize.” He kept his hands at his sides, “While I was never impolite to you, I also never paid attention to how the others were treating you. For that, I apologize.”
My brows pulled together, and I bit my lip in confusion. He’s apologizing? Wow. Okay? “Uhh, thanks, Vision.” I brought the electricity back into my hands, almost like holstering my weapon. “I accept your apology.”
He nodded, turning around and walking into another corridor and out of sight.
Okay?
Shaking my head, I walked over to a chair by the front desk, stealing a long, woman’s trench coat hanging off the back of one of the chairs. I shrugged it on, and the length – thankfully – was long enough to hit my knees. I couldn’t find shoes, but I needed to get the fuck out of the building. The sirens were still blaring, but I could hear a bunch of police sirens getting closer and closer. Probably Secretary Ross and the cavalry.
Walking through the front exit, I was greeted with the sight of Natasha and Clint.
They can keep me high / ‘Til I tear the walls / 'Til I save your heart / And I take your soul / And what have we done? / Can I be undone? / In the evil heart / In the evil soul…
They were just standing there, with a crowd starting to form behind them due to the alarms and the flashing lights. Natasha’s red hair was blowing gently in the brisk breeze, and she had a look of disappointment on her face.
Clint, with the same look on his face and bow in his hand, spoke first. “You need to stop, Y/n.”
I shook my head, shoving my fingers in my pockets. “I can’t. I refuse to let Ross make me his plaything. You know how he feels about me.”
“I’m not talking about that,” He sighed, the grip on his bow tightening, “I’m talking about hating us.”
A laugh ripped through me, “Are you for real, Clint?” I removed my hand from my pocket, shoving it through my long y/h/c in frustration. “You guys treat me like shit for four years of my life, make me homeless, make me feel so guilty, make me feel worthless, experiment on me… and I am supposed to just ‘stop hating you’?”
“We never treated you like shit.” Clint defended.
“BULLSHIT.” I screamed, gaining the attention of the onlookers. The sirens were growing closer. “I did nothing but try and help. I did nothing but be there for all of you during tough times. I had your backs during every mission. I tried and tried to gain everyone’s trust and friendship, and instead you all blew me off like I was nothing!” Angry tears were pricking at my eyes, but I would not let them fall. “I made one mistake. A bad mistake, but no worse than any mistakes made by the people on this fucking team. You all let Steve throw me out like I was a piece of trash!”
“I didn’t know-” Natasha tried.
“You should have known!” I cried, turning to her, “You’re a fucking spy, Nat! You both are some of the best fucking spies in the world! You should have known that I was spiraling! You should have been able to find me pretty fucking quickly! I didn’t even leave the fucking city, you just didn’t care enough to look! All I wanted was to fit in, and to have a family! You should have had my back, just like I had all of yours.”
I could see the giant SUVs coming down the streets, now.
“This team is not good.” I shook my head in defeat. “The Avengers need to be put in their fucking place.”
Clint laid a hand on Natasha’s shoulder as she went to pull out her gun, “I pulled you out of the shower, Y/n. I tried to save you, just like you saved me.”
Clint was the voice? Clint was the person who pulled me out, before I went into a coma? “Why didn’t you just let me die?” A single tear streamed down my face.
“Because I-”
Bang!
I cried out as a sharp pain radiated from my shoulder, and I dropped to my knees. Someone fucking shot me!
Hate, anger, pain… All of the negative emotions I was feeling, they raged through me like a hurricane. It seeped out of me faster than the blood from the gunshot wound. I could almost feel the fire in my eyes as I brought my hands up and let a column of fire shoot into the sky in anger.
“No, stop!” I heard Natasha yell as I stood up.
I let out a scream – one filled with so many different emotions – and felt all of my energy explode out of me, like a bomb. Everyone wearing a uniform within my sight distance got shocked unconscious. Civilians were screaming, filming on their cellphones, running, and panicking. I turned to the building, encasing the entire lower half of the Avengers building in a thick layer of ice.
I looked over around at all of the chaos and smiled, using my newfound elemental abilities to create a gust of air around me, lifting me up and through the city.
Leaving the Avengers behind me on my own terms.
-1 month later-
Sitting on the roof of an old apartment building, I pulled out a smoke, conjuring a small flame from my finger and lighting it. Blowing my smoke up towards the moon, I made the brisk, night air around me a little more bearable.
After testing out my skills in an abandoned apartment for a month, I discovered that I had all of the elements under my control. Earth, water, fire, and air. Like that cool anime I used to watch as a kid. Although, I didn’t need to do some dojo looking shit to get what I needed done. I didn’t really know anything about the electricity. I figured it had to do with lightning, or something…
“Miss Y/L/N.” A man’s voice came from next to me, breaking me from my thoughts. “I hoped I would find you here. You look lovely, as usual.”
I slowly turned my head, eyebrow raised in question, to the man sitting next to me on the edge of the rooftop. I only knew one person who fit the description of the raven haired man sitting next to me in some weird, green, armor getup.
“Loki.” I smiled, taking another drag of my cigarette, “What brings you back?”
“Unfinished business.” He smirked, light eyes gleaming in the moonlight. “Care to join me?”
“Do tell,” I stubbed out my smoke, turning to straddle the ledge of the roof and face him, “What is this ‘unfinished business you speak of?”
“Revenge to the people who have wronged us on this planet.” His smile wolfish as he stared at the sky, “Revenge to the Avengers.”
Finally, someone was speaking my lingo. Someone who hated the group as much as I did.
“I won’t kill them,” I chuckled, laying back against the ledge, legs still straddling both sides, “How do you propose we get our revenge?”
“I have a plan.” He replied, holding his hand out for me to take, “Will you join me?”
I didn’t even hesitate before lifting myself up and grasping his hand.
“I’m in.”
_____
Read the A/N at the top for more info on a possible series coming up! *wink*
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