#but it’s the first needle i’ve ever made so i consider it a success that it worked at all
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Regarding a Common Misconception of Hakuba Saguru
Lately I've been doing some reflecting on Saguru & the various ways I've seen him portrayed, as well as the ways I've portrayed him in the past. And then I was rereading some MK manga, and had some realizations. I've been feeling like rambling about them! So here I go, rambling.
[Disclaimer: I'm not personally taking issue with anyone's interpretation or impression of Saguru - just sharing my own impressions! This is just for fun <3 ]
Misconception: Saguru is constantly accusing Kaito of being KID
It’s a generally accepted fact in a lot of fics I’ve read (and honestly, maybe some fics I’ve written -- I used to hold this belief too!) that Saguru just unendingly insinuates that Kaito is KID--alone, in front of other people, always.
I won’t cite any here, but I’ve seen nods in fanwork to Aoko feeling a little stressed/frustrated about the fact that Saguru thinks Kaito is KID and makes it known. I’ve also seen fanwork where Saguru explicitly calls Kaito KID, presses Kaito for information, or otherwise makes his beliefs clear, even when others are around.
There are only five scenes in the Magic Kaito manga where Saguru makes direct indication toward his knowledge of KID’s identity.
First, of course, we’ve got chapter 17 - the first chapter where Saguru puts together that Kaito is KID.
For a long time, when I’d consumed more fic than MK canon, I recall an image born in my head of Saguru singling Kaito out in class and making the claim that Kaito is KID in front of everybody. I don’t know if I ever read any such allusion in a fic, or if it’s just an assumption I drew based on portrayals I read, but imagine my surprise when he does nothing of the sort.
Now, to be fair, Saguru is A LOT in this chapter. MK is still heavily in gag manga territory, so his behavior is extra extra played up. But if we take away the visuals, the dialogue between Saguru and Kaito can be summed up thusly:
[First scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]
Kaito: You look so tired. Haven’t gotten enough sleep after chasing KID for three nights
In a row, huh?
Saguru: Hmph. Aren’t you tired as well?
And then, a few beats later in the conversation:
Saguru: I’d like to invite you to the Ochima Art Museum tonight, where KID’s declared his next target.
Kaito: Eh?
Saguru: Then, you’ll understand why I’m so tired.
Or, do you have other plans tonight?
Kaito: Okay, I accept your invitation. It’ll be great to see your work in action!
And that’s it, that’s the big class confrontation. Aoko is present for it, but she’s more interested in joining in on the fun, and while I do think Aoko pieces together that Kaito is KID, she prefers to live in willful ignorance of it until it becomes impossible for her to ignore. She’s bright enough to pick up what Saguru’s implying, but because he never brings it past implication, there’s no reason for her to look at it too hard. Anyway, I digress. That’s conjecture and headcanon talking. My point is that Saguru never makes any explicit claims, just invites Kaito along to the heist.
Another neat thing about this scene is that--while certainly not motivated by mercy in this case, Saguru does give Kaito an out: “Or, do you have an excuse not to go tonight?” Of course, if Kaito took it, it would be rather damning, but I do think it would have been enough confirmation for Saguru. I don’t think there would have been any arm-twisting to get Kaito to agree.
But Kaito and Saguru are competitive bastards, so here we are.
Let’s move on to the heist!
Once again, the manga certainly plays up the whole ordeal. Saguru is intense and waiting for his moment, and Kaito’s being, well, Kaito.
At the heist, there are a few points where Saguru has opportunities to make allusions to Kaito being KID in a way others would pick up on, or otherwise make his suspicions known, but he doesn’t.
First of all, is this exchange:
Nakamori: Why are you guys here?
Aoko: Hakuba-kun invited us!
Nakamori: What’s the meaning of this, Hakuba-kun?
Saguru: I thought she might like to see if KID is arrested tonight.
Nakamori: You’ll fail if you’re too cocky!
Saguru: We’re well-prepared.
Besides, who knows… KID may already be here.
Saguru does imply KID could be present, but he makes no indication that he means Kaito. His next opportunity to hint at Kaito being KID or otherwise make accusations is when Nakamori asks him to consult as a magician.
Nakamori: Kaito, since you’re here, do you want to use your magic against KID?
Kaito: [laughing sheepishly]
Saguru: Oh, I want to see that fight, too. If you really can do it.
Needling, yes. Saguru knows what he’s saying and so does Kaito. Accusations, no. This is well within the realm of something Saguru would have said even if he didn’t suspect Kaito, considering their dynamic up until this point.
And then, the most explicit Saguru ever gets in terms of literally calling Kaito out as being KID, beginning when Kaito excuses himself to go to the bathroom right before the heist:
[Second scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]
Saguru: [handcuffs himself to Kaito]
Kaito: Huh?
Saguru: I won’t let you do that, Kuroba.
Kaito: What do you think you’re doing?!
Saguru: I got the report back from the lab. The hair I got from KID indicated that he’s a high school student. After I compared KID’s data with other high school students’ data in the database… Kuroba Kaito came up in the final list.
Kaito: That’s a coincidence.
Saguru: Really? We’ll see soon enough.
Let’s wait until the time KID is stated to come.
[Some heist hubbub occurs as officers get into position even though KID hasn’t arrived at the heist time]
Aoko: What? KID’s not coming?
Saguru: Ha! It looks like I win!
You’d better confess who you really are.
And from there, of course, ‘KID’ (Akako in disguise) swoops in and takes care of the heist. That more or less wraps up chapter 17, the first chapter where Saguru understands that Kaito is KID. And I would argue this is the most aggressive Saguru ever is. In fact, rather than persist in trying to accuse/capture/implicate Kaito as KID, he straight up vanishes from the narrative for several chapters.
Saguru doesn’t show up again until the Chat Noir heist, in chapter 25, when he calls from France.
It’s also important to note that at this point, Magic Kaito’s narrative has experienced a slight tonal shift. At the very least, while still often comedic, it reads less like a gag manga. Between the last time we saw Saguru and now, we’ve learned the apparent motivation behind Toichi’s murder, we’ve met Snake (an albeit rather incompetent villain) and Kaito has faced down gunfire and the danger posed by Snake and his men.
The way Saguru is portrayed has also shifted to reflect the shift too. Instead of a hulking antagonist-like character in a Holmes cosplay, he’s dressed primly and presents more as a cheeky but polite character. He’s also more effectively emulating the charm that the story tried to imply he had early on (“Hakuba Saguru, at your service!”, the girls in class fawning over him, the newspaper calling him out as a famous detective making a long-awaited return to Japan).
The interaction is entirely less antagonistic, too. For reference, I’ll paste the exchange (sans Saguru’s massive info dump) below.
[Third scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]
[At the heist for the golden eye]
Kaito: [Hiding in a bathroom stall while putting on a disguise]
[His phone starts ringing]
Hello…?
Saguru: Hi, it’s been a while. Are you still alive?
Kaito: [Thinking] This sugary yet obnoxious tone of voice is... Hakuba?!
Saguru: You’ve made quite the stir in Paris.
They’re all talking about how France’s Chat Noir is going to go up against you in Japan.
Kaito: Idiot! It’s not me. It’s Kaitou KID!
Saguru: Ha… it doesn’t really matter. I’ll share some information that I gathered over here.
[Info dump cut from dialogue]
Well! That’s about all I have to say. Do your best. I don’t want to see you lose to anyone until I capture you myself.
Kaito: Like I’ve been saying, I’m not KID!
Saguru: Oops, it’s almost time for the Paris Fashion Week. See you!
Kaito: H-hey…
The only part of this conversation that I could consider to fall into the territory of antagonistic is when Saguru says “I don’t want to see you lose to anyone until I capture you myself.” And more than anything, I think this is less reflective of a real desire to capture Kaito, and more reflective of his competitive nature. Not to mention, within the context of the conversation, it feels much more like teasing than anything.
Saguru’s motivation for making the call is clear: He doesn’t want Kaito to lose, and he wants to help ensure Kaito’s success.
And most interestingly (although I’d like to see the raw manga to confirm this, or otherwise a more literal translation) he never explicitly calls Kaito KID either. Outside of alluding to KID’s actions, Saguru doesn’t explicitly say Kaito is KID or mention KID at all. It’s Kaito who does that.
When Kaito points out that he is not, in fact, KID, Saguru doesn’t argue. He simply brushes off the denial and shares the information he’s collected.
So, to summarize what we’ve covered so far: after Saguru failed to arrest Kaito during chapter 17, he stopped troubling Kaito so thoroughly that the next time he features in the story isn’t until he’s calling from overseas to try to lend Kaito some helpful information. He’s not even playing a part in trying to capture this thief he allegedly wants to catch.
And then, Saguru dips back out of the narrative, although for a shorter period this time. The next arc he appears in is a few chapters later--the Nightmare Heist which he arrives in the middle of. But, there’s not any interaction between him and Kaito, nor any allusions made by Saguru about KID’s identity, so we’ll move on.
The fourth time Saguru makes any indication that Kaito is KID is during the Corbeau arc, when KID is being challenged by a clad-in-black KID lookalike.
Before jumping into that specific scene, though, there’s another interaction I’d like to call attention to--between Saguru and Nakamori. Not because of something Saguru says, but because of what he doesn’t say.
Nakamori: Hahaha! Looks like you let your guard down because you thought I was at home with a cold!
Saguru: Our plan succeeded, it seems.
Nakamori: But I only told Aoko I had a cold, so how does KID know…?
Saguru: Hm...
If Saguru were wanting to make some kind of accusation, even a non-explicit one, he would have made some remark. Instead, he doesn’t say anything at all, which continues to speak to the fact that he isn’t really interested in implicating Kaito.
Anyway, the next time Saguru makes any sort of implication that Kaito is KID he is, once again, trying to help. Last time it was over the phone, so the conversation was private. This time, the conversation is in a classroom, although based on the panels, it seems like Saguru and Kaito are alone at the beginning--or at least, no attention is being paid to them.
[Fourth scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]
Kaito: [Talking to himself]
It must be the case, there’s no other way. There must have been some trick with the case.
Saguru: [Eavesdropping, apparently alone in the room with him]
The case didn’t contain any hidden mechanisms.
Kaito: Eh?
Saguru: No hidden doors or things like that, as are often used in magic tricks.
Kaito: W-what on earth are you talking about?
Saguru: A new notice from Corbeau arrived this morning. ‘I’ll come and take the real Midnight Crow tonight.’ My name is Hakuba--so I don’t want a ‘white’ person to lose to some ominous black crow.
[From here, Akako and then Aoko jump into the conversation.]
Surely a classroom is a risky place to have a conversation about KID, but the nice thing is that Saguru--once again--doesn’t bring up KID at all beyond saying that he doesn’t want the ‘white[-clad] person’ to lose to the black crow. From the outside looking in, all he’s doing is sharing information about the case with Kaito. It may also seem unwarranted from that perspective, but not at all implicating.
Also, another thing I’d like to call attention to is that when Akako joins the conversation (and seemingly blindsides Saguru, as if he wasn’t expecting anyone else to join), Saguru stops talking. He continues to be quiet when Aoko chimes in, and he doesn’t have any relevant dialogue for the rest of the scene.
Once again, Saguru’s clearly motivated to share information in the interest of helping Kaito. He has to share with Kaito’s civilian identity, since he can’t exactly arrange a conversation with KID, and this is likely the easiest way for him to do it. He makes no accusations, and this time he doesn’t even imply he wants KID caught.
So--Saguru is a part of the narrative again, but since rejoining the narrative he seems less interested in actually catching KID and far more interested in helping Kaito. And no accusations or incriminating allusions have been made since chapter 17, before Saguru’s first hiatus from the story.
The final time Saguru nods to Kaito being KID is from the Sun Halo arc. This is probably the interaction that’s closest to what fanon tends to depict when it comes to Saguru making subtle accusations that Kaito is KID. And even then, I tend to take this arc with a grain of salt if only because it felt less like Gosho was trying to add to the story and more like he was just trying to make a Magic Kaito addition that hit various fan expectations while still being wildly disappointing, lmao.
[Fifth scene where Saguru makes direct indications as to KID’s identity]
Saguru: [approaching and commenting on Kaito’s motorcycle]
I see, a Suzuki GSX 250R.
Akako: Ah, Hakuba-kun…
Saguru: You’ve shown me something interesting. Perhaps this might help the police tonight. And could it be that you’ve forgotten… that the only motorised bikes we’re allowed to ride to school are scooters?
Kaito: Eh?! For real?!
Once again, Saguru doesn’t explicitly mention KID at all--and segues from his mention of the police to pointing out that Kaito is breaking the rules right now, actually, which helps blend this teasing comment into the conversation.
Yes, later in the chapter Saguru does show up with a team of motorcycle experts. But that also means there’s more disguise opportunities for KID and more factors to account for, thus complicating things for, well, everyone--not just KID.
Also, I tend to dismiss that as Gosho throwing in some comedy, and as less to do with Saguru’s character. Call it cherrypicking if you like :P
To recount--there are five times where Saguru implies Kaito is KID.
The first two are in chapter 17, when Saguru first puts it together, and it is during this chapter that he gets the most explicit about calling Kaito out as KID, as well as the most aggressively he behaves about it. And he backs off so hard after that doesn’t work, that we don’t see him for several chapters.
The next two times he implies Kaito is KID are both in order to help him. No aggression or accusations, just the sharing of information. Even when teasing or suggesting he’s interested in catching KID, he’s good-natured about it, and when he realizes there are potentially people witnessing the conversation, he stops participating.
The final time he implies Kaito is KID is a tiny comment about finding something Kaito has shown him ‘interesting’ and ‘helpful for the police’ before smoothing into gently teasing Kaito for bringing an illegal vehicle to school.
In conclusion, Saguru may start off apparently aggressive in part thanks to early Magic Kaito’s overall tone, but rather than persevering in trying to catch Kaito after cornering him in chapter 17, he actually seems to back off. Once he’s playing a part in the narrative again, when he interacts with Kaito it’s almost exclusively to help him. Yes, he is on the task force and participating at heists, but where it matters, he’s less interested in catching the thief and far more interested in those the thief is opposing (excluding the police force).
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A Matter of Time (1/2)
Pairing: Bucky x healer!Reader
Word Count: Just under 3k
Summary: Healing others took a lot out of you. It was only a matter of time until it was going to be too much on your body.
Warnings: Hardcore angst, blood, grave injury, explicit description of injury, medical life support, needles? still not good at this stuff.
A/N: Another @wkemeup writing challenge prompt! Thanks so much everyone for all the love and support on my first fic!
Prompt: Believing they’re about to die, Character A confesses their feelings for Character B before they pass out.
---
It was only a matter of time.
Healing always took so much out of you. One day, it was going to be too much for your body to handle. You hadn’t explicitly told anyone that it drains you. Only the observant picked up on it. It’s the reason why Natasha never asked for your help with minor things. It’s also why Bucky plain refused your help nowadays. He was hyper aware of everything around him and that included you. He always saw the light sheen of sweat forming on your brow, the way you became slightly breathless, and the increase in your pulse. When there was a major injury, he was very well aware of the tell-tale signs of exhaustion.
The very first time that he let you work on his shoulder, he had asked what it was like out of curiosity.
“Well… it’s kind of like projecting the pain onto myself. I’ve always been very in tune with my body. So ever since this,” you pause to gesture with your hands. “I can usually tell what the problem is. For example, I can tell that this specific muscle is bothering you,” you say as you gently put pressure on the specific aching tendon in his arm. Bucky winced before feeling the warmth reach deep into his muscles. He let out a deep breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. Turning slightly so that you could partly see his face, he thanked you. For a reason he couldn’t understand, a big smile slowly developed on your face.
“What?” He asked.
“Nothing, I’m just glad you finally let me work on it. I can see now that you’ve been… suffering. I’m just happy you’re feeling better.”
Bucky felt his face flush slightly and turned back to face forward. Amused, you started humming lightly as you continued your work.
Not that he would admit it but since then, there may have been… other reasons why he is always paying close attention to you. You reminded him of Steve. Somebody who was truly selfless. The one to make the sacrifice play. You may be less on the forefront of the battles but the work and the sacrifices you make for the world were just as big. Bucky found that he admired you for that. It stirred up feelings in his chest that he chose to ignore. It also made him nervous.
Every time you were needed, he was assigned as your bodyguard. You could handle yourself better than the average civilian, but you wouldn’t consider yourself a fighter. Considering that he preferred to stay out of the spotlight, as well as the fact that his relationship with the public was still rocky, it ended up being the ideal position for him. At first, he was nervous because he was protecting something incredibly important. More so than any jewel or riches that existed. You were someone that could practically bring someone back from the dead. If he couldn’t protect you, he was practically sentencing anyone who would need your help in the future, to death. Certainly, a weighty responsibility that would make anyone nervous.
It grew to be more than that though. Each time he protected you from a threat, no matter how small, your appreciation made it worth it. Your gratitude, which manifested itself into words, notes, and small gifts, sustained him. He had a hidden drawer filled with smiley faces on post it notes and cute little Tupperware containers that had held homemade sweet treats.
But his favorite reward was not anything he could bring back to his apartment. It was your touch. The small brushes against his arm grew into touches and squeezes. In turn, it grew into grasping his hand while thanking him and once, a quick hug before you jumped back and apologized. He blushed lightly and looked away, letting you know that it was okay, he didn’t mind. Actually, Bucky would’ve preferred for that moment to have lasted forever. Because when you pulled away, he was suddenly aware of how starved he felt without your touch. That one action had been the gateway to a life filled with longing. He would chase that feeling forever; He could not bear the thought of being without you. That’s what made him nervous. He felt like he couldn’t think clearly anymore around you. He was going to make a mistake.
It was only a matter of time.
---
Waiting in the Quinjet with Bucky, you listened for updates on the mission. This time, they had gotten intel about a subbranch of Hydra dedicated to chemical warfare. Fearing another threat like anthrax, you set out to stop it. Everyone was in the building and you were on standby in case any pathogens got loose. Wanda could contain it, and you could eradicate it by healing all of the infected, and then they could disinfect the area. Hopefully, though, it was just a precaution.
The atmosphere was calm, the lights off since the night sky was clear in the mountains. Moonlight filtering in through the front windshield, you were taking Bucky through the latest playlist you had curated for him when Nat radioed in.
“We’ve almost got the lab secured. No injuries.”
“Word.” You radioed back casually as Bucky looked at you confused.
You were about to explain the response and pull up urban dictionary when Steve radioed back as well.
“We had a group escape, some guards protecting the head researcher. They’re headed towards the jet. He blocked off the tunnel he used to escape so they’ll get to you before we can reach him.”
“Copy that.” Bucky radioed back as he got up.
When you got up to follow him, he gave you a look.
“Hey, don’t look at me like that! I’m not completely useless. Besides, I think I could take on a lab lackey.”
“I don’t want you to get caught up in the rest of it.” He responded seriously.
Looking at him and realizing it wasn’t up for debate, your expression sobered up.
“Okay. Just be careful, please.”
He nodded as he heard voices approaching. He headed down the ramp and met them outside of the jet. You peaked out of the opening of the ramp as he took them out one by one. When all five were on the ground, you came out and checked to make sure he was okay.
“Wow, impressive.” You commented, nudging one of the guys with your foot.
“Wait,” you said, eyebrows scrunching together. “None of these guys are in a lab coat.”
Just as he was about to respond, he glanced to the side and quickly pushed you out of the way. The lab coat tackled him where you had just been standing. They went rolling towards the edge of the cliff and you shouted his name.
“Bucky!”
He kicked the researcher away from him while still on the ground. As the man started rolling off of the cliff, he grabbed Bucky’s leg. Bucky started scrambling to find a grip as the scientist slid off the cliff, trying to take Bucky with him. You ran over to the edge, grabbing Bucky’s arm to support him as he tried to kick the guard off of his leg.
“With you out of the picture, the path forward will be successful. Hail Hydra.” He shouted as he grabbed a knife from his pocket and stabbed it into Bucky’s thigh.
Bucky grunted loudly as the scientist took the knife out and stabbed it back in. You strained to hold him up as he struggled to kick him off, blood streaming down his leg. With one more heavy kick, the man lost his grip and fell down the mountain. At the same time, the force of the kick had loosened the ground under you. There was a crack and you locked eyes with Bucky in panic.
You cried out as you used all of your strength to bring him back up over the cliff. It started falling away as soon as Bucky had found his footing and he lunged towards the jet while grabbing you. He held you with one arm and kept you from hitting the ground as the other forearm took the impact and held you both up. Looking incredulously at the strength of his arm and then turning your head back to look at him, he gently set you down. You were both breathing heavily as you lifted your head to see the platform you were just standing on was now gone.
You laid your head back down and closed your eyes in relief. Bucky took the opportunity to take you in. Your hair formed a halo around your face perfectly as it was spread out on the grass and the moon’s light made you look like your skin was glowing. You looked ethereal. Before you got the chance to see him gazing at you, he flopped over onto his back next to you, catching his breath. You looked over at him, the stars now reflected in your eyes, and started laughing lightly. He didn’t know what you were laughing at, but it made him start laughing. As it subsided, you sat up and faced him.
“Can I please heal those?” You asked, gesturing towards his leg. You had never worked on his thighs and you wanted to make sure he was comfortable.
He paused, partly out of shyness and partly not wanting to tire you out. Your gaze lingered on the wounds and he saw how much it worried you. He nodded and you leaned over to take a look. As you moved the blood-soaked fabric out of the way, he winced. The wounds were deep and bleeding still. You focused your hands overtop the injury and concentrated. The soft white glow enveloped your hands and his leg. He watched as the bleeding started slowing. After a few moments, the wound started closing and the pain started easing. Bucky tried to get up as soon as it became bearable, but you put a hand on his chest to stop him. Though your breath was slightly strained, the determination in your eyes stopped him and he slowly laid back down. Soon enough, he couldn’t even tell that anything had happened. Once it was completely healed, you then flopped down next to him.
You both settled, watching the clouds pass in front of the moon and stars. After you caught your breath, you spoke:
“Bucky Barnes, I owe you my life. Several times over. Thank you.”
“I think you’re the one who just saved my life, doll.” He said, amused.
“Ooh, doll. Somebody’s finally warming up to me.” You said, laughter in your tone as you stood up. “Do you call every damsel in distress you save a doll?”
The answer to that question was “no” but before he could respond, you held your hand out to him. Bucky sat up and accepted it, standing all the way up. As he let go of your hand, you wrapped your arms around his midsection, cheek resting against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Bucky swallowed and then slowly brought his arms around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. Content.
Unexpectedly, he stiffened. Something was wrong.
“Bucky?” You called his name hesitantly as you stepped out from his grasp.
You peered at his face and saw his pupils so blown out that you could barely see the blue anymore.
“Bucky!?” You shouted as he fell to the ground.
He couldn’t control anything except for his eyes as muscles all over his body started twitching. You knelt down and panicked, laying your hands against his chest, searching for an explanation. You hovered your hands over his heart and felt it so tight and strained it was barely pumping. You felt as if you were choking, and you weren’t even feeling the full effect.
Cardiac arrest. How is this possible?
You racked your brain for explanations. You instantly thought of the researcher. You traced a strange substance you felt through his veins until you found where it originated- from the knife wound.
Poison.
At this point, it had reached his heart. What little it was pumping was spreading the poison. It’s completely taken over his blood. You locked eyes with Bucky and saw the pain and panic in his eyes, his clenched jaw, and the tendons in his neck, outlined clearly by the strain. He was suffering.
No. Much worse.
He was dying.
You had to save him.
You interlocked one hand over top of the other and started doing compressions on his chest. What was normally a soft white light was now blinding. You could see the outline of his heart, and with each pump, the white light travelled an inch down his veins. Slowly, with each thrust, the white light made it further and further out from his heart.
“What happened!?” Steve shouted. You hadn’t even heard the team come back.
“We saw the light and came back as fast as we could!” Sam said.
You shrugged Steve’s hand off your shoulder as you continued compressions.
“Poison.” You panted.
Thump.
“He’s-”
Thump.
“Dying.”
Thump.
You hadn’t realized you were crying. Tears now spilled freely onto Bucky’s jacket.
Steve stayed kneeling next to you as the rest of the team stood back, watching in amazement as the light made its way through Bucky’s body.
Bucky locked eyes with him. He placed a hand on Buck’s head and wiped the sweat off of his brow.
“You’re gonna be okay, Buck. You’ll pull through.” He said with a small reassuring smile.
It wasn’t himself he was worried about. He’d never seen you exert yourself this much. He was in so much pain but dying would be better than seeing you go through this.
You shouted with each thrust, trying to keep yourself from tiring out and stopping. The white light had made its way back around to the heart and Bucky’s entire body started relaxing. You felt relief as he stopped seizing and his eyes started closing. As you wiped the sweat off of your face, you realized your nose was bleeding. Just as you were about to sit back, you froze.
There’s no heartbeat. You desperately connected yourself back to his body and felt that his organs were shutting down. You started compressions again, this time more vigorously. You were going to have to filter his organs for multiple rounds to reach every part, every cell affected by the poison. You wailed, crying harder as you felt his ribs crack from the force and then heal, only to be cracked again. You were starting to get lightheaded, and your muscles were burning. You could not keep it up for much longer. Desperate to get him back, you call to Steve beside you.
“Steve. There’s. Adrenaline. In. Jet.” You gasped between each push.
Steve was so distraught between seeing the both of you that he didn’t move right away. Natasha instinctively ran to the jet and brought it back, digging through it until she found the syringe and uncapped the needle.
Natasha knew she didn’t need to confirm whether you really wanted to do this.
“Injecting now.”
She thrust the needle into your thigh and clicked the top, releasing the spring and shooting the needle into the muscle.
You wailed again in anguish, fighting through the pain until you felt it hit your heart. The light had turned into a pillar, a beacon in the sky. Your hair once again in a halo, floating around you. The team had to shield their eyes and brace themselves against the force that hit them. You put newfound strength into each push until you could feel that every single drop of poison was filtered out of his body. Finally, Bucky opened his eyes.
You stopped pushing on his chest.
“Bucky?” you asked hoarsely.
He was still coming to but was well enough to sit up. He clutched at his chest and found no pain. He then looked at his hand.
“How did you-?”
You fell over.
Bucky scrambled over to you and pulled you into his arms. You coughed against his chest, bloodying his shirt. He looked at you and then at Steve, mouth agape. Steve could only look sadly back.
He cradled you and brushed the hair out of your face, blood from your nose and mouth smearing before being covered by the new blood steadily streaming out.
“I’m sorry,” You said softly, the sleepy look on your face deceivingly masking the gravitas of the situation.
“Don’t apologize.” He said quietly, pausing to keep the tears from showing. It proved to be pointless as his voice cracked, asking:
“Why would you do this? You should’ve just let me die.”
You closed your eyes.
“Because I love you, Buck. Always have.” You slurred tiredly.
You whimpered and then stilled.
Bucky cried while rocking you in his arms.
---
Part II
You opened your eyes to a black room. No, not a room. There were no walls. You glanced down at your hands. You could still see them so it wasn’t dark, just… black.
“Well, hello.”
You spun around and saw the source of the voice.
A serene, beautiful woman who had long dark hair and dressed in a green tunic addressed you.
“What has brought you here, young one?”
Read Part II Here
#bucky barnes#bucky x you#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#kas9kwc#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes fic#tfatws#marvel fanfic#marvel fanfiction#reader insert#bucky barnes angst#whump
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Hobbies
Phic phight! @idiot-cheesehead-archenemy
A series of vignettes about Danny having various hobbies.
(Master the Orb)
Danny exhaled slowly as the ice built up between his hands. Each new layer glittered in the ghostlight cast by the overhead ambient ectoplasm, embedding complex patterns in the overall piece as new layers built up over it.
“Very good, Great One,” rumbled Frostbite behind his shoulder. “Your control has improved immensely.”
Danny inhaled equally slowly, examining his work so far but not adding to it quite yet. “I don’t know. It looks a little lopsided.”
“Mmm, it looks fine to me. Especially for such an early attempt.”
Danny sighed, exhaling the ice he had built up with his breath. “So, it is lopsided.”
“Consider it practice,” said Frostbite, encouragingly. “It takes time to master art of any kind.”
“Humans do ice sculpture, too,” mumbled Danny. “They get really good, too. I’ve seen pictures. And videos. They don’t even have ice powers.” He rubbed his thumb over the surface, smoothing over a slightly rougher patch.
“That may be true,” said Frostbite, “but, again, you just started, Great One. You have only had your powers for a little while. Give yourself some support.”
Danny shrugged. “I guess it isn’t something my life depends on, so I can relax about it.” He built up another layer of ice. “This is oddly therapeutic, and I don’t say therapeutic lightly. You know Jazz.”
“I do indeed,” said Frostbite, somewhat ruefully, head half-bowed.
Jazz could be a force of nature, even more so than ice powers.
He held the ice orb up to the light. It caught on the patterns he had placed there. Fractals were the easiest. He was hoping that if he got better, he’d be able to make real sculptures with patterns in them, instead of just orbs.
But, first, he had to master the orb. Just like how when drawing you had to do circles first. Circle. Orb.
Ooorb. Yep.
The controlled application of ice. The evenness of the internal patterns. The solidity, density, and durability.
His orb was… not very orblike, despite what Frostbite said. Frostbite probably thought he was making so flat on purpose.
Yeah. He was terrible at this.
He was having fun, though.
.
.
(Furnace)
“You’re taking up glass blowing?” asked Tucker, surprised.
“Yeah? Is there a problem?” asked Danny, reaching over to stop his friend from accidentally drawing a line of orange sharpie across his poster on the themes in Macbeth.
“No!” said Tucker, quickly. “But, like, why? It just seems… unlike you.”
“Exactly,” said Danny, nodding sharply. “It has absolutely nothing to do with my powers and nothing to do with my family. Plus, I had a coupon.”
“For glass blowing?”
“It was a groupon,” said Danny. “For making Christmas tree ornaments. I’m going to do it with Jazz.”
“But, Danny,” said Sam, looking over from where she was working on her own poster about Twelfth Night, “glass blowing, uh, involves a lot of heat.”
“Sure?”
“Danny, you have an ice core.”
“Ah,” said Danny. “Well. I’ve got to use that groupon. If it doesn’t work out, it’s only the once, right?”
.
“Oh my gosh,” said Danny, wringing sweat out of his t-shirt. “That was awesome!” He giggled to himself and peaked into the annealer again. “So awesome!”
“Uh huh,” said Jazz. Her attempts had been… rather less successful than Danny’s, partially because she was trying so hard to make them perfect. But she had managed a few little baubles, nonetheless. “I think these’ll all be good for the tree. Assuming we get one.”
“And it isn’t set on fire.”
“Oh, yeah, that was a bad year.”
He squeaked open the annealer again, only closing it when the instructor lightly scolded him. “They’re so terrible and lopsided,” said Danny.
“Hey,” said Jazz. “Mine are fine.”
“I know! I was talking about mine.”
“Ah, okay then. I agree.”
“You aren’t supposed to agree.”
“What, you want me to lie? And after you said it first?”
“No,” said Danny. “But you could be nicer about it.”
“I’m your sister, what do you expect?”
.
.
(Lung Capacity)
Danny let the last note trail off to complete silence. He stared apprehensively at the assembled student body. Curse Mr. Lancer’s extra credit talent show assignment. Any minute now, they’d start laughing at him.
What was he thinking? He’d just watched a few YouTube tutorials on breath control, and he thought he could come up here and sing in front of people? He was a moron, and—
Sam and Tucker started cheering wildly, followed rapidly by everyone else in the gym.
Okay. What?
Sam and Tucker, following impulses known only to overexcited teenagers, swarmed up the stage and attacking Danny.
“Why didn’t you tell us you could sing like that?” demanded Sam.
“When did you learn?” asked Tucker, doing his level best to noogie Danny. “Why did you learn?”
“I wanted to improve my, you know, wail,” muttered Danny, “and all the breath control YouTube videos either had to do with diving or singing, so…” He did a little head wiggle to illustrate his point and also dislodge Tucker.
“I just can’t believe you kept this a secret from us,” said Sam.
Danny snorted and took a sort of half bow before attempting to leave the stage. “My dudes, I am basically made of secrets.”
“Encore!” screamed someone who clearly hated him.
“Oh, no,” said Danny, bracing himself against Sam and Tucker who were pushing him back into the middle of the stage. “No encore. I don’t do encores.”
But now people were chanting. Chanting.
“Come on, Danny,” said Tucker. “Just once!”
“Yeah, these are your fifteen minutes of fame!”
“I had those already! Multiple times!”
“That was Poindexter.”
“And now it can be you.”
Danny reluctantly took the microphone back off the stand.
.
.
(Letterhead)
The ink was thick, almost creamy, and paint-like. It was the ectoplasm mix, which also gave it a rich, rosy glow.
Danny was practicing ghost calligraphy. Well, one particular subset of ghost calligraphy, one which put special emphasis on the color of the letters as well as how they fit together.
It was a totally useless hobby. But it was… not exactly calming. No. He’d gotten way too angry about poorly formed arcs and crooked lines a couple of times. So. Yeah. Not calming. But… meditative. Meditative. And there was something satisfying about seeing the finished product.
Plus, if he framed his better finished work, they made for good presents for weirdo ghosts.
“You misspelled this,” drawled Ghost Writer.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Keuwii only has one kei.”
“This is only one kei.”
“What’s this, then?”
“It’s a flourish.”
“A flourish.”
Danny rolled his eyes. “Everyone’s a critic. If you don’t want it—”
“I didn’t say that.”
Danny raised an eyebrow.
Ghost Writer made a show of rolling his eyes. “Very well. Do you have one for my half-brother Randy. Perhaps one that says something along the lines of ‘idiot?’”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
.
.
(Babies on Fire)
“Danny,” said Jazz. “What are you doing up at three in the morning with a lighter? And… yarn? Is that yarn?”
“Dad wanted me to learn how to sew,” said Danny, “but I don’t like needles, not the sharp ones, anyway.”
“You get stitches every other week,” pointed out Jazz.
“Exactly,” said Danny, gesturing with the lighter. “So, I decided to look into, you know, knitting. And I was on knitting websites, and having, you know, a pretty good time with that, but then I found out about the babies.”
“The babies.”
“The babies,” said Danny, seriously. “And the blankets that are on fire. It depends on the yarn, you see. If the yarn is the wrong kind of yarn, if it catches on fire, the blanket can melt onto the baby. It’s terrible. Just terrible.”
“I kind of think that if the blanket is on fire you have bigger problems,” said Jazz. She took a step closer to her obviously insane younger brother. “Are you… testing the yarn?”
“I have to, Jazz. It’s for the babies.”
“Alright,” said Jazz. “You are going to limit it to just the yarn in our house, right?”
“But we don’t have any babies.”
“Okay, that didn’t answer my question, but, like…” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Since we don’t have any babies here, why are you testing the yarn?”
“Because we might have babies here in the future,” said Danny. “Or I might knit something and give it to someone as a gift and then they give it to their baby. Oh my gosh, I’d feel so guilty.”
“I’d be more worried about the toxic waste in our basement,” said Jazz, which was exactly the wrong thing to say to a sleep-deprived half-ghost on the edge of an Obsession-fueled breakdown. Danny vanished in a blur, trailing yarn behind him. Jazz, who had only gotten up for a glass of water, cursed under her breath.
.
.
(Before the Ball)
“I’m so, so sorry, Dora,” said Danny, holding back something adjacent to laughter.
Dora laughed, more openly. “It is fine, Sir Phantom. Even now, you are better than my brother.”
“Am I really? Your brother? Who was raised to do this?”
“Well,” said Dora, letting go and stepping back out of the range of Danny’s feet. Which were, evidently, both left feet. “No, I’m afraid, but it is amusing to say, isn’t it?” She pressed her fingers to her lips, suppressing more laughter.
“Yeah, it is,” admitted Danny.
“In any case, you are far more graceful concerning your mistakes than he ever was. More gallant. A better representative of chivalry altogether.” She patted the shoulders of his shirt.
“Thanks,” said Danny. “Do you think that I’ll be, uh, ready in time for the party?”
“It’s more than a party,” said Dora. “You’re being officially knighted. You’ll be a peer of the realm.”
“Aha,” said Danny. “Yeah. I don’t… what? Really? That’s a thing?”
“You thought I was joking?”
“No,” said Danny, drawing out the word. He had, in fact, thought she was joking and only accepted her offer to teach him how to dance because he thought it sounded like fun and like it might take his mind off his problems. “Of course not. So. Dancing. Important. For first impressions?”
“Everyone already knows you, Phantom,” said the knight assigned as Dora’s bodyguard. “But dancing is surprisingly useful for swordplay. Which you need all the help you can get at.”
“You said I was getting better.”
“That doesn’t mean you’re good.”
“Ouch.”
.
.
(Time)
“I don’t have time for a hobby,” complained Danny through the Fenton Phones. “Maybe if the ghosts let up a bit—” He zapped one of said ghosts.
“Danny, are you fighting ghosts right now?”
“Yeah. That’s my point.”
“Oh my god, get off the phone.”
“No way! This is the only time I can call you, what with all of your classes.”
“Danny…” said Jazz, clearly exasperated. He took advantage of the lull in the conversation to blast a few more ghosts.
“I’m fine Jazz.”
“You are not fine. You are, like, ten thousand miles away from fine. When was the last time you even slept through the night?”
“Eh,” said Danny. “Recently?”
“You need to take more time for yourself.”
Danny sighed and captured the last ghost. “Maybe catching ghosts is my hobby.”
“Catching ghosts is your self-imposed penance for doing something that isn’t even your fault. Not a hobby.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to you on Wednesday, same time.”
“Danny, don’t—”
He hung up.
“Ugh,” said Danny. “I guess I need to find a hobby. Have to find time to find a hobby.”
“Perhaps I could be of help.”
“Ah!” Danny jolted forward, dropping his phone.
Clockwork gestured with one hand, and the phone dropped back into Danny’s hands from above.
“Ohhh my ghost, why are you here?”
“You were just talking about finding time. And now I’m here.”
“Good timing, I guess?”
“Only the best,” said Clockwork, evenly. “But we were speaking of hobbies. Might I suggest ice sculpture? Your friends in the Far Frozen would be more than happy to teach you...”
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How Timothée Chalamet Channeled The Blockbuster Pressure of Leading Denis Villeneuve’s ‘Dune’ Back Into His Role – Venice Q&A
DEADLINE: In a few days Dune will premiere at the Venice Film Festival. You first met Denis Villeneuve about the role in May 2018 and started shooting in the early half of 2019. It was always going to be a long journey, but the pandemic stretched it even further. How does it feel to have finally arrived at this moment?
TIMOTHÉE CHALAMET: You know, I like to think that with every film I’ve done, whether it’s Call Me by Your Name or Beautiful Boy, The King, or Little Women, the character you play is almost a piece of your flesh. And that’s always true, but simply from the perspective of how long the shoot for Dune was, and also the arc that Paul Atreides is on, as well as the huge love and almost biblical connection that so many people have for the book and the original film, it really felt… tectonic, if that’s the right word for it. Just getting to this finish line feels like: phew.
And independent of what the film is now, and what it has become, the experience of making it was I was put in such a safe environment, which you can never take for granted as a human, as an actor, but especially when you’re just starting your career, and when this is the first film of this size you’ve ever done.
To get to work with Denis on it, to get to work with someone of his caliber, let alone on a book that he considers the book of his youth and one of the things he has connected to the most… When he would have it in his hands on set, his body language would become that of a fan; of a kid who had fallen in love with the book at home in Montreal. And when all the kids around him were wearing hockey jerseys with their favorite players’ names on the back, this was a kid wearing a jersey that said ‘Spielberg’ on the back.
For it all to come together, especially with the added challenge of the pandemic, it has all combined to make this moment feel especially spicy [laughs].
DEADLINE: The entire ensemble will show up in Venice.
CHALAMET: Right. And I just can’t believe it; Jason Momoa has the number one film on Netflix right now with Sweet Girl, which I just watched. And since we shot, Zendaya has had all this success with Euphoria and Malcolm & Marie. Just to be part of this cast, period, let alone as one of the title characters, it’s really the shit you dream of.
And let me not forget, too—and I know I’ve told you this before—that The Dark Knight was the movie that made me want to act. That movie had a score by Hans Zimmer, and he has done the score for Dune. And it’s almost not what you’d think. It’s totally appropriate and excellent for the movie, but he has somehow managed to do something subversive, in my opinion. It’s a pinch-me moment all over.
DEADLINE: So, take me back to the start. Is it true you had a Google alert set up to track the latest news on this project before you were ever cast?
CHALAMET: Yeah, it’s true [laughs]. Not right away—Legendary had the rights and was developing it—but as soon as Denis got involved, I set up a Google alert and that’s when I got the book.
In total honesty, I think my understanding of Dune at that point was from a graphic novel I’d seen at Midtown Comics when I was shopping for Yu-Gi-Oh! cards when I was about 10. The year you and I first met, when I was there at Deadline Contenders with Call Me by Your Name, that would have been 2017 or early 2018, and Denis was there with Blade Runner. I remember I was trying to put myself in front of him as much as possible and set up a meeting with him. We had a night at the BAFTA where one of my good friends, Stéphane Bak—who’s also an actor—saw Denis across the room and was like, “Hey buddy, he’s right over there.” So, we went over to talk to him. I kept trying to put myself in front of him, but I didn’t really get a sense of the possibility [of working with him].
I was about halfway through the book when I got the call that he was going to be the president of the jury at the Cannes Film Festival, and I was in London prepping The King. He asked me if I could come out there, so I quickly busted through the second half of the book as best I could. So, like, the first half of my copy is properly annotated and full of my thoughts, and then the second half I just raced through. And then I had that meeting with him, and it was such a joy.
I’m struggling with this even now, as I’m working with Paul King [on Wonka], because he’s another guy I have huge respect and admiration for, and it’s hard to feel on a level. Not that you ever are, because as an actor you’re a cog in the machine, and you’ve got to be humble to the vision of the director. But with Denis, he was pacing around the room, throwing ideas around, in some fancy suite in Cannes, and all I could think was that a year before I was just sat on a stoop on 9th Street in the East Village or something.
DEADLINE: Was that your first time in Cannes?
CHALAMET: Yeah. Well, bizarrely, my sister would do dance camps growing up. Ballet intensive programs in a town called Mougins, which is nearby Cannes, so I spent a lot of time there growing up, but never during the festival, and not on the Riviera. To get to be there for the festival was just nuts. I went to see the Romain Gavras movie, I think, and it was just a huge joy.
I got attached [to the role in Dune] a couple of months after that, and it was nerve-wracking from the announcement, because like I said before, the fans of the book, and the fans of David Lynch version, the computer game, and everything, there’s so much love and strength of feeling. And so much of our pop culture and films and books have been derived from Dune, and all the philosophy the book. I’ve been shocked to learn how many people have a next-level connection to the book. I compare it to how our generation grew up with Harry Potter, and that one makes sense to me. But it’s cool to see with Dune also, when you actually sit down and read it… It’s not that it’s a quote-unquote “hard read” or anything, but it’s not made to be consumed easily, I think that’s fair to say.
So, I was grateful to be working on something of this size not only with Denis Villeneuve leading it, who between Polytechnique, Incendies and Prisoners had nailed the smaller indie film across languages, and then had nailed Arrival and Blade Runner, but who, in his own words, he didn’t feel he’d made his greatest film yet. But also, to be working with this cast. I don’t know if there’s some nightmare version of a film where a young lead is not supported by the rest of his cast, where every one of them had been the leads in their own huge projects. But on this, everyone was there to support, and I think it’s because we all wanted to be foot soldiers for Denis, and I think we understood the potential, based on the script by Eric Roth, Jon Spaihts and Denis, that this could be something really special.
DEADLINE: I don’t have a connection to Dune; this movie is really my first experience of the story. What strikes me is this is clearly an enormous universe—a broad canvas being painted with various families and factions and politics and mythos—but that ultimately it comes down to very elemental, human themes, and we feel them through this character you play, Paul Atreides. Did those themes help ground the experience for you?
CHALAMET: Yes, and I would give the credit entirely to Denis. He would constantly say on set that he had some opposing drumbeat or something. In my diminished intellectual standing, I didn’t understand it, but it was like some vision for the movie based on how biblical the book is that tries to tackle so much that it doesn’t tackle anything. I think he felt the need to be close to a character in it, and Paul is that guy in the book. He’s a character that is still in formation, like a lump of clay, which makes him a great figure for the audience to mirror off.
It speaks, I think, to Denis’ premonition and his directing ability that there were times when we’d move on from a shot or move on from a scene, and I swear, literally, we’d go back because Denis wanted to get something over my shoulder, or push in on my reaction, just to make sure [it stayed on Paul].
And again, it’s something where I’m pinching myself. I had the best time on Interstellar, and that was one of my favorite films I’ve ever worked on, but it was very much something where I was aware of when I had the opportunity to do real acting. And on a movie like Dune, again, one could think it would get lost in the scale and scope. But I felt every day like my plate was full.
DEADLINE: One of those themes is fear, and Paul must overcome his to become the person he needs to be. When you are number one on the call sheet on a project of this scale, and the cast list reads like an address book of Hollywood in the 21st century, and Legendary has injected hundreds of millions of dollars into this production, and it’s all falling on your shoulders, I have to imagine fear is a theme you can readily relate to.
CHALAMET: Oh yeah, and they can bleed into each other for sure—not to diminish the other work that goes in. It’s great when your life experience can inform the role. That’s not at all to say I’m on some crusade in the universe or anything, but definitely… And I had that same good fortune with The King I think. My life is not nearly as significant or as exciting as Paul or Prince Hal, but we all share an unwitting needle in the haystack feeling. On The King that feeling was because I was so new to having a career. On Dune it’s because of, as you say, just feeling the pressure of the hugeness of the project in all those different ways. Those things can absolutely inform each other.
And then there are the moments of glee that come, too, like seeing Jason Momoa running at you at a hundred miles an hour, or just getting to shoot the shit with Josh Brolin, or getting to do a scene with Oscar Isaac. I felt so supported, whether it was Rebecca Fergusson or Charlotte Rampling. When Zendaya came, it was a total breath of fresh air, and she’s one of my favorite parts of the movie. I just got really lucky, and I can’t wait to see them all in Venice.
Denis split the book in half, and the hope is a second movie will get a greenlight. That’d expand Zendaya’s role in the story.
CHALAMET: Definitely, Chani will play a huge role in the next film. I don’t know if there’s a script yet, but just based on the book, along with Lady Jessica [Rebecca Fergusson], they have a lot to do together, let’s put it like that. And Zendaya was incredible in this movie; the moment she pulls the mask down, it felt properly showstopping and powerful. I was hiding behind the camera, counting my lucky starts, because I was there in month two of the shoot and here was a total powerhouse just coming in for the first time.
And as I said before, this was before I’d seen Euphoria and Malcolm & Marie. She’s doing such incredible work and is just trailblazing her own path, and she’s so, so cool. She also happens to be in the most-watched trailer of the moment, too, for Spider-Man: No Way Home. I cannot wait for that movie, and I was there, by the way, with everybody else, clicking through the trailer frame by frame looking for clues [laughs].
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idk if it's just me but as someone who's asian, the amount of "asian wips" by white creators rubs me the wrong way bc while representation is important, a lot of them tend to gravitate towards asian fetishization when it comes to their aesthetics and idk... it just doesn't feel as genuine.
i want to preface it by saying a few things. first: i am asian american, second/third generation, depending on who you ask. second: i am not gatekeeping asian wips. as i said in the conclusion, all i am asking is that you respect the culture, stay away from stereotypes, and don’t use it simply because it would have “interesting/pretty” vibes.
i have a lot of opinions about this, so let’s break it all down.
poc representation is important
fine line of fetishization
the big loud sentence i keep repeating about this issue is that YOU CANNOT PICK AND CHOOSE WHAT YOU LIKE FROM A CULTURE THAT IS NOT YOURS
an explanation about the big loud sentence i keep repeating
conclusion
more under the cut. warning: very long post. (another sidenote: this is all just applicable to writeblr wips, but i might have gotten carried away)
tagging @mitskism!
1. poc representation is important
this is a given. i’m sure you heard of how, when growing up, we couldn’t find people who looked like us in books, shows, and movies. we couldn’t find stories that really resonated with us and touched upon the same struggles we were facing within our own cultures. with all this said and done, poc representation is so incredibly important because media is what helps people understand and shape their identity. media teaches people because of how it proliferates.
the feeling of finally seeing a character that you can relate to is unlike any other, but imagine that feeling when that is the only character who resembles you in any way. imagine seeing the characters that look like you, behave like you, and identify the same way as you being constantly used as a stepping stone for the main character--who, decidedly, does not look like you or behave like you or identify the same way as you. in fact, that main character looks like every other main character out there.
that’s not the representation you want. you want stories about people like you. success stories, stories where they’re the ones who achieve their goals and get that happily ever after. but there is so little of that out there that it’s like searching for a needle in a haystack.
so yes, poc representation is important.
of course, poc representation isn’t the only important representation out there. but representation has to be done right.
2. fine line of fetishization
what is fetishization? i think the anon here says it very well: gravitating towards a certain aesthetic without really acknowledging where it came from or the history that comes from it. all in all, though, fetishization of a culture is taking things at face value from a culture is not yours, without any real understanding of what those things are or if it’s even respectful of you to take.
i wrote a whole paper recently on colonialism, imperialism, and the idea of the white man’s burden and the problems of white saviors. there’s a recurring theme in history that i’ve noticed: taking things from other cultures and turning it into the next great thing, when it wasn’t even theirs to begin with.
but that’s a completely different topic.
the thing about fetishization in writeblr wips--particularly that of asian fetishization, since that’s the topic of the ask--is that it can be hard to pick out. you might get this vaguest feeling that something’s off about the wip, but not have any concrete proof to back it up. so where can the line be drawn? that’s hard to say. the line between giving representation and fetishization is incredibly thin, but i’d say answering the following question is a good point to start.
1. why is this character/setting/etc asian?
if the answer to this question is because it looks good, or because you like the aesthetics, that is fetishization. of course, you have to consider this as well: whether or not you are asian yourself and if you have done the proper research.
subtopic: the fetishization of asian culture
i’m sure you’ve seen this around: things that take on an asian-like aesthetic simply for the thrill of resembling something from an asian culture. it’s the stereotype of submissive asian women and yellow fever. it’s the usage of random asian-sounding character names in wips. i’m not going to delve too deep into this because i have discussion in 20 minutes.
asian culture hasn’t been seen as something “attractive” until recently. even now, people still look down at asian people as the Other, an unidentifiable other race--or maybe an entire other species--that is inferior to the western world. growing up in america, asian kids had to divorce themselves from their culture in order to assimilate. and now, suddenly, the culture that their classmates sneered at is aesthetic. it’s desired. it’s acceptable now.
asian culture is made out to be a hot commodity, and that’s not right. you can’t make an entire culture a commodity. this brings me to my next point.
3. the big loud sentence i keep repeating about this issue is that YOU CANNOT PICK AND CHOOSE WHAT YOU LIKE FROM A CULTURE THAT IS NOT YOURS
YOU CANNOT PICK AND CHOOSE WHAT YOU LIKE FROM A CULTURE THAT IS NOT YOURS.
4. an explanation about the big loud sentence i keep repeating
the culture isn’t yours. it never will be yours before it is ours. and i’m sorry about how heavy that sounds but it’s true. you cannot pick and choose what you want from a culture with such a long history of its own. you cannot put up an image of a rising red sun because it fits the aesthetic of a wip page, along with images of other commonly depicted asian symbols, without acknowledging that the rising red sun has been used as a symbol for japanese imperialism.
(i’m bringing up this example because of this and also there’s. a lot to unpack in the history of japan and other asian countries)
5. conclusion
what i’m getting at is that you can do asian wips, if you respect the culture, stay away from stereotypes, and don’t use it simply because it would have “interesting/pretty” vibes.
#tris responds#anon#i'm very scared to put this post out there#i don't like to talk much about it here#idk as a minority and a person who's used to being talked over my entire life#i'm always scared to pitch in my two cents#v v important this is my opinion
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could you do A for the soul mate thing with felinette?
(Sorry it took me so long to reply! I’m still trying to keep up with my schedule for the “New Girl on the Block” fic, but rest assured that I’m totally writing all of the requests for this when I can! The next one I’m going to be working on is V for Daminette. I hope you enjoy the snippet and thank you for the ask!!)
If someone had the choice between technical immortality and certain death, it should be safe to assume that that person would accept the former. Technical immortal was the only logical option, after all. No one wanted to die. And yet, people chose death everyday. In fact, they were obsessed with it, because certain death guaranteed one thing that immortality couldn’t: a soulmate.
When a person turns eighteen, their aging process freezes due to some strange magic that scientists still can’t explain. From then on, that person will remain eighteen until they find their soulmate, specifically until they touch their soulmate directly with bare skin. Once their soulmate is found, they will begin aging as usual, as if they’d never become temporarily immortal in the first place. Some people speculate that this gives the two soulmates a chance to grow old together.
Felix, personally, believed that it gave him a chance to harbor an unlimited life span free of charge. Who needs a soulmate when you can explore all of the things in the world that are normally hindered by the aging process? There were too many things that he wanted to accomplish for him to worry about something as fickle as love or relationships.
One of those things happened to be building up the fashion empire that he had inherited.
It was hard to gain the respect that he deserved at first considering his physical appearance made him seem like a child, but once people found out that he was in his late twenties, it made things much easier. Now, three years has passed since his accepting the role of acting CEO, and the company’s success rate has been steadily rising until their profits were through the roof. He’s quite proud of it, if he’s being honest.
Felix straightened the papers on his desk and set them to the side, catching the glimpse of his golden wrist watch as he did so. The little hand pointed towards one in the morning, telling him that he’d spent another late night at the office. He didn’t mind, though. These were the things that needed to be done for his company to excel.
However, he also needed sleep for the company to excel, and this seemed like a good stopping point if ever he saw one, so Felix stood from his rolling chair to begin gathering his things to leave.
“Hey, Sir, are you up there?” A voice crackled across the intercom. Felix paused his preparations to smile at it. It was the unmistakable voice of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, his personal secretary for the last two years (and his close friend for the last year and a half). They always happened to work late on the same nights, didn’t they?
He pressed the glowing red button on the intercom. “You know I am. What do you need?”
“I’m working on another piece for a fashion show. I want your input.”
Felix chuckled. How many of her pieces had he given his input on now?
“I’ll be down there in a second.”
“You’re the best!”
Felix set his stuff back on the desk and moved towards the door to his office. He hesitated briefly when he spotted his black, leather gloves on the edge of his desk- he made a point to wear them constantly, along with a number of other pieces of clothing, so he could avoid direct skin contact with others. No sense in taking any chances -but decided to leave them alone for once. Marinette should be the only other person in the office, anyway. It wouldn’t make a difference.
He took an elevator down to the second floor, where most of his top designers worked, and walked over to the desk that had its lamp turned on. He’d know which desk was hers either way- could probably find it in his sleep at this point -but it was a nice give away.
Marinette was crouched on the floor when he got there, stabbing a needle into some material that was draped across a mannequin. Her eyes were narrowed with concentration, and her tongue was poking out of her lips as it always did when she was working hard. Felix held back a snort at the endearing sight and glanced around her desk while he waited for her to notice his presence.
When she first joined his company, she was a budding fashion designer, someone who had been gaining a bit of fame for working with Gabriel Agreste, Jagged Stone, Aubrey Bourgeois, and many other note-worthy people. Apparently, she thought it was time to build a business of her own, and therefore, applied for the job as his personal secretary in an effort to gain experience on how a business should be run before actually starting anything.
The notion admittedly impressed Felix. People rarely thought to find personal experience in running a business before actually starting one. They normally just took a class and hoped that it paid off. Someone with that kind of rational thinking was someone he knew he wanted in his company, though, so he agreed to hire her, even if she would still be working independently on personal commissions.
Now that two years had passed, she would probably be leaving any minute now to become her own boss. It might be in a week, or in a few months, perhaps even a year, but he found himself dreading it no matter how long she continued to work for him. He’d grown quite accustomed to having her in his life, be it getting lunch together or going over the morning schedule or giving each other advice on their work. The quiet moments they shared made work life a little more enjoyable and made those rare nights of loneliness from refusing a soulmate a little more tolerable too.
“Oh, Felix!”
Felix’s eyes dragged back down to Marinette, who was staring up at him with wide eyes.
“When did you get down here?”
A small smile crossed his lips. “You know how it used to be one in the morning?”
Marinette tisked, picking up on his light-hearted tone. “Oh, whatever. If you don’t want to get stuck waiting then tell me when you get here. Now, come look at this and tell me what you think.”
She stood up and moved away from the mannequin, then gestured for Felix to step closer, which he gladly obliged to do. The outfit hanging on the mannequin was a dress that appeared to have several layers and a few frills. It seemed to be made out of silk on the inside, and on the inside was another material that had an antique, flower pattern. The way the materials were sown together, though, and the things she must have added to the flower pattern, didn’t give off the impression of it being old or outdated. It was a mix between old and new that created a unique combination.
“I think it looks fine.” He said after studying it.
Marinette groaned. “Fine doesn’t help me, Felix. What does it strike you as? Stunning? Charming? Old-Fashioned? I know you have more descriptive terms than ‘fine’ in that word bank brain of yours.”
Felix laughed. “Work bank brain?”
“You know what I mean.”
He does.
“Alright, Alright.” He knelt down next to the outfit again. “Might I inquire about your purpose for this garment?”
“See, there are fancy words you use all the time.” She remarked teasingly, even though she often used the same words herself. “I’m trying to create a modern Victorian type of style for my next show.”
Felix hummed. “Can I see the sketches?”
“Oh, yeah, they’re right over here.”
The pair moved back to Marinette’s desk, and she sat down in her rolling chair to slide a paper towards him. Felix leaned towards Marinette, placing his palms on the desk for balance.
“So, if you look at- oh!” Marinette had just started explaining her original thoughts for the design, when their hands brushed against each other. She drew her hand back immediately, surprise reflecting in her bluebell eyes.
“You’re not wearing any gloves.”
“Ah.” Felix drew his hands back as well. “No, I’m not. I figured they were a waste of time tonight, since it’s only us here.”
“Oh..” Marinette said. “I don’t think I’ve ever touched your bare skin before.. N-not that I’m keeping track or anything! Wow, that sounded so weird-”
Felix, being used to her ramblings by now, only chuckled. “It’s alright. I don’t think we’ve ever touched like that either.”
In fact, he knew they hadn’t, because he does keep track of who he does and doesn’t touch with his bare skin. So far, he’s managed to maintain a low count of five or so, but he supposed adding one more to the list didn’t hurt.
“Anyway, I like the way it looks. The colors combine nicely, and I can certainly see where you’re coming from with the modern, yet old-fashioned design. I’m sure people will enjoy them, especially for costume parties.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Marinette smiled. “Thanks for your help.”
“Of course. I’m actually on my way out the door, but don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything else.”
“You know I won’t.”
Felix laughed and pushed himself off of the desk to begin making his way back to the elevator. “Make sure you leave soon too.”
“Yeah, yeah, I will.. Eventually.”
Felix threw her a playful glare over his shoulder. “I’m not kidding, Dupain-Cheng. If I see bags under those eyes tomorrow, you’re going to be fired until you get a proper night’s sleep.”
“Thank goodness for make-up then.” She joked back.
Felix rolled his eyes and bid her farewell as he entered the elevator, and her soft call of “Goodnight, Boss” managed to reach him right before the doors slid closed.
-
The next morning began as any other morning. Felix woke up to his blaring alarm clock, forced himself out of bed, and started the brew for his morning coffee. He then dragged himself over to the bathroom to get ready for the day, starting with his hair.
The mirror provided a picture of his sluggish figure as he combed his platinum blond locks to the side. His hair didn’t seem to care to cooperate that morning though, because his cowlick was refusing to lay aside as they were told. No matter how many times he combed over it, the chaotic locks refused to budge.
Felix huffed and leaned closer to the mirror, but before he could continue furiously coming his hair, something caught his attention.
At the front of his bangs, dangling loosely to the side of his face, was a single, grey hair.
Felix frowned, moving even closer to the mirror to get a better. It was definitely a grey hair, but why on earth would he have one? People at the age of eighteen didn’t get grey hairs, and he’d never gotten one before. The only reason he could possibly get a grey hair out of the blue like this was if-
Felix froze, his eyes blowing wide. No.. no, it couldn’t be. There’s no way he found his soulmate. It was impossible. The aging process only started when he touched them directly, skin to skin, and he’d been horribly precise not to do so with anyone under any circumstances.
Well.. anyone except..
A knock came from the front door.
Although his mind was racing for answers, Felix pulled himself together enough to throw on a robe and go answer the door.
Imagine his surprise when he found none other than Marinette standing right outside.
She looked up at him, her figure tense, and a certain anxiety painted her features. He wanted to ask what she was doing there, or why she hadn’t called to tell him that she was coming, but all he could do was stare. Perhaps it was because a part of him already knew why she’d come to visit him. She was the only person he’s touched directly in the last year, the only person who could have caused his hair to change.
Slowly, Marinette held up a strand of her hair. It was hard to make out, being a single strand, but Felix didn’t need to see it know it was grey too.
They stared at each other, both floored by the discovery, but then Felix almost had to laugh. Because of course it was her. Of course the person who he had come to know and adore and yearn to be around daily would be his soulmate. He should have known that soulmates would find each other eventually, whether they had “Soulmate Magic” to guide them or not.
Before he could say anything, Marinette let out a grieved sigh and buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, Felix, I.. I’m so sorry!”
For a moment, Felix stalled, and worry started to set in. She’s sorry? Why would she be sorry?
“What do you mean?”
Marinette looked up from her hands. “I know you didn’t want to find your soulmate and start aging. I should have noticed your ungloved and been more careful, but I just wasn’t thinking, and-”
Felix blinked as she continued rambling. This girl was apologizing to him because she accidentally found out that they were soulmates. She wasn’t thinking about how much she’d wanted to find her soulmate- because he knew that she did -or that she would have gone without a soulmate for the rest of her life had she not made the discovery. No, she was thinking about him and what he had wanted, just as she always did.
“Marinette.” He said, taking her by the shoulders. “Marinette, stop.”
The ravenette paused, glancing up at him with her beautiful, concerned eyes, and he felt himself smile.
“If anyone had to be stuck as my soulmate.. I can’t express how delighted I am that it’s you.”
A wonderful blush tinted her cheeks. “R-Really? But I thought- what about being immortal?”
Felix chuckled, and he reached out to cup her cheek. “Immortality’s a small price to pay to have you.. if you’ll have me too, that is.”
Marinette exhaled, looking completely baffled, but that didn’t stop her from grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss.
“Yes.” She breathed, a shining smile coming to her features. “Yes, of course I’ll have you.”
Felix couldn’t help grinning as well, and as he pressed another kiss to her lips, he wondered how it could have taken him so long to realize what the soulmate magic was really all about. It wasn’t a choice between immortality or death, but rather a choice between immortality and life. All of the things he’d been searching for- fame, fortune, glory -and the experiences he’d been chasing meant nothing without Marinette by his side. She was the one who made him feel truly alive, and he never wanted to live without her again.
(Send me a letter and I’ll write a thing!)
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Programing The Winter Soldier
Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, heavy angst, this is seriously big sad hours
AN: This is so very sad and I definitely cried writing it lmao. I love Bucky Barnes so much.
Pairing: Steve/Bucky
Words: 3873
Read it on AO3 here
January 23, 1945
General,
Sgt. Barnes has undergone an initial mind wipe. Dr. Zola has succeeded in attaching the weapon to his shoulder. He has been put in the cryo-chamber as a test, and after some initial pain it looks as though it has worked.
We will begin reprogramming shortly.
Longing
Bucky wakes up in pain. His arm hurts. After a few moments of long, deep breaths where he decides he’s not, in fact, dead, he tries, experimentally, to move his fingers. To his relief, he finds he can, but something feels different, wrong. The clicking in his index finger, from where he had broken it when he was twelve defending Steve from some guy he had tried to fight in an alley after the creep had tried to grab at a woman on the street, was gone. The pain is gone there too, in fact he can’t feel anything below the burning where his shoulder meets something cold, something foreign.
He tries to look around, but it’s pitch black wherever he is. It’s also brutally fucking cold. He shivers violently, trying to get away from whatever cold metal is touching his skin, but no matter how far he leans, he can’t seem to get away from it.
Suddenly, without warning, fluorescent lights above him burst into life, and Bucky screws his eyes up against the sudden brightness. Blinking away the mild pain, he sees a man he vaguely recognizes coming toward him. He’s a shorter man, wearing round glasses…
Like another switch flipped, Bucky suddenly remembers this man, remembers a saw taken to the shattered remains of his arm, remembers being tied down, with a rag stuffed in his mouth to keep him from biting off his own tongue. He remembers the arm that doesn’t belong to him attached to his left side. He remembers throwing someone across the room as though he was weightless.
“Sergeant Barnes,” the man looks him up and down, ignoring the way Bucky shied openly away from his gaze, “Let us begin.”
They don’t release Bucky from the restraints while the doctor, Zola, measures him from head to toe, has him flex his new arm, takes his blood pressure and heart rate, checks him for infection. He only occasionally stops to speak to an assistant, who all keep their distance from Bucky, or say something in German to a soldier watching everything. He makes Bucky watch a grainy video of ever-changing shapes, and sticks him painfully with a needle whenever he tries to look away.
“Now Sergeant,” Zola addresses him after nearly an hour of poking and prodding, “Can you tell me a memory of yours?”
Bucky doesn’t even consider, just says the first thing that comes into his brain. Whatever this guy wants, it’s going to be easiest to just give it to him.
“Steve and I were walking along Rockaway beach two years ago. I remember it was nearly dusk, summer, we were watching the sunset and Steve brought some bread to feed the birds. I remember they were swarming us, you show them any kind of food and they all come swooping in. Steve kept laughing because they were trying to land on me. I remember the smile on his face and his eyes matched the water. It was the first time he really laughed since his mother had died. He told me later that he really needed that laugh.”
Zola looks at one of his assistants and gestures to the red book on the table next to him.
“First word: Longing.”
March 10, 1945
General,
We have had limited success reprogramming Barnes so far. Zola has been working extensively with him, and while we are now seeing less incidents of outward aggression to staff or soldiers, his rate of noncompliance has skyrocketed.
Please advise on any alternate methods we should attempt.
Rusted
Bucky tries not to think about his new normal, but the repetition of each day makes that difficult.
Each morning, he’s awoken by a prison alarm and the instantaneous switching on of all the lights in his cell, followed immediately by his first meal of the day served through a slot in the door. Steel door, reinforced, at least four feet thick. Even the new arm doesn’t make much of a dent in it, though he’s tried. God knows, he’s tried.
After breakfast he’s led to the combat cage where he meets with Zola, before being led through drills that he must comply with. Noncompliance leads to pain. Stepping out of line leads to pain. Not eating leads to pain. Not answering a question leads to pain. His whole life revolves around inflicting pain and trying not to get pain inflicted on him.
On bad days, when he’s been too slow or asked one too many questions, they wipe him before lunch. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. There is nothing else to say. It’s beyond unbearable.
On good days, they’d give him lunch and Zola would run his usual tests. Ask him about a memory, ask him about his family, his parents, his sister, his friends. For some reason, it always came back to Steve. Every time, no matter how Bucky tried to steer his brain away from him, it always came back to Steve.
This time he tells Zola about an old motorcycle they had rescued from the junkyard one summer. It was more scrap metal than anything, rusted out from the wind and the rain and the New York winter it had suffered through outdoors, but they had scraped together pennies from odd jobs and had gotten it to run again. It was a blast, to go zipping through the streets of Brooklyn in the dead of night, looking for trouble or whatever they could find, having to stop what felt like every ten minutes to fix some part that had fallen off or sprung a leak. A total hassle, but totally worth it.
After his tests, Zola would send him back to the unnamed soldier who was responsible for his physical activity, this time to put him against enemies. In the beginning, Bucky would refuse to fight them, but in his new quest of not putting himself through more pain if he could help it, he had started obeying the commands given to him, even if that meant using the strange attachment to his body that he hated looking at, that was welded to his skin, the burned and tortured flesh above it just a reminder that he used to be fully human.
After his second round of drills, they either send him to bed and give him dinner an hour later, or they put him in cryo. He longs for the cold metal of the room they keep him in on the nights when he goes to cryo.
It’s the same every single day.
Zola starts saying a new word to him: Rusted.
May 7, 1945
General,
After three weeks, Barnes’ hunger strike has ended. He can barely stand anymore, let alone lift the arm, but he is willing to eat. Zola has suggested that we put him back in cryo and get his weight up so he can at least stand. Your suggestion of a controlled shock each time he refused to eat worked perfectly, we always appreciate your input in the construction of our new weapon.
Seventeen
They let him out of cryo after what they tell him is four weeks. When he looks down at himself, he can’t see his ribs or the sharp definition of his hipbones anymore. They make sure he can stand, that he can punch, that he can shoot a gun. They work on the strength of the punch. Zola is angry that it’s been weakened.
The hunger strike was a stupid idea, it was too much like what Steve would have done, and Bucky would never be Steve, or be with Steve, no matter how much he would like to.
His body is littered with burn marks from the shocks they gave him when he wouldn’t eat, and Bucky winces at the memory of the pain, the memory of his body seizing up and being outside his control. He supposes he should be used to the out-of-control thing by now, but he isn’t, he can’t, because then he’d really have lost.
Bucky hates cryo, he hates cryo almost more than he hates the mind wipe, because at least when his mind was wiped he could still dream. They couldn’t control what he dreamed about, and they didn’t know what he dreamed about. Rather, they never asked him what he dreamed about, therefore they didn’t know.
Bucky thinks about his last dream, the one where he and Steve were on a beach somewhere. Not the Northeast, somewhere tropical, maybe California. They have their toes in the sand and Steve remarks that the sand is so hot here, how do people walk on sand this hot?
“Sergeant Barnes,” Zola breaks him out of his thoughts, “Tell me why you stopped eating.”
Bucky looks up at him, he’s so tired. He doesn’t want to fight anymore but he has to, the skinny little kid from Brooklyn with blue eyes and a blinding smile would want him to.
“When I was seventeen my family couldn’t afford food for the week,” the words pour out of him of their own volition, and he’s too tired to stop them, “Dad was out of work, we were desperate. Steve and his mom brought over dinner and made us keep the leftovers. It was a pot roast, best thing I’ve ever eaten.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t want to be a weapon. I don’t want to be your weapon.”
Zola leans back and considers him. A smile spreads across his face.
“What you want doesn’t matter. It never did.”
Bucky wants to hit him with the weapon on his left. He wants it more than anything. But he can’t. He’s not allowed. He really just is a lapdog for them now.
Zola adds a word the next day: Seventeen.
June 15, 1945
General,
It has been noted recently that Barnes is unwilling to lash out or attack any combatants that fit the following profile: blond, blue eyes, male. Zola has insisted this weakness is an asset in his reprogramming and that it will not last. We have brought in two soldiers that match this profile at Zola’s request, I will report any findings.
Daybreak
He’s not Steve, Bucky tells himself over and over as the handsome blond solider smiles at him when he brings him his dinner. They open the door now, just so Bucky can see the man clearly, just so he can see his smile and the slight edge to his light blue eyes. They’re lighter than Steve’s but something in Bucky simply doesn’t care anymore. The eyes were wrong but they were something he could cling to. The hair was just a shade too dark but it reminded him of a different time. The smile was just a little too wide, but he remembered one that was a little softer, a little more slanted.
“I remember watching the sun rise in Germany during the war,” Bucky tells Zola blankly in their meeting that day, so used to the stab of the needle in his skin that he doesn’t even feel it, “Steve told me his favorite time of day was this early in the morning, right at daybreak. He told me that before, too, before he was Captain America, but we got to just sit quietly and watch it, watch the colors. I don’t remember them.”
“Very good,” Zola stands, beckoning to the blond solider to take Bucky to his next assignment.
Bucky walks along silently, head held high as he approaches the cage, where a larger soldier is waiting for him, outfitted head to toe in combat gear. Shouldn’t be a problem.
“Soldat,” Zola stares through the bars of the combat cage minutes later, where Bucky has paused, fist raised above the quivering man in front of him, “Don’t hesitate, you wouldn’t want to disappoint your audience.”
Bucky looks over to Zola, the blond soldier who smiled at him the night before is watching.
Zola’s right, he can’t disappoint him.
“New word,” Zola mutters as Bucky straightens up, shaking his hand to get rid of the red on the metal knuckles, “Daybreak.”
July 4, 1945
General,
Barnes had an unfortunate breakthrough during today’s training. He seemed to remember something from prior to his fall and was unable to complete the mission set in front of him. I am becoming frustrated with Zola, he insists that this is all part of the process, that to break a man down there will be moments of pure weakness, but Barnes is looking less and less like the man we thought he was.
Furnace
Steve is the only thing he thinks of when he has a clear mind anymore.
He doesn’t remember little details of his memory anymore, but he remembers Steve. He doesn’t remember his birthday, but he knows when Steve’s is. He doesn’t remember the smell of spring in Central Park, but he remembers the way Steve wore newspapers in his shoes. No matter what, he knows Steve.
Zola knows this, he uses it against him. Every day, the talks get longer, the punishments get more painful, and the amount of times he’s wiped go up.
“Tell me a memory,” it feels like Zola’s asked this a thousand times now.
“Steve’s furnace in his building broke last winter. We had him over for two weeks until the landlord could be bothered to fix it. Mom loves him so much, she would have him around all the time if he’d let her. He always thinks he can do everything himself.”
“You speak of him as if he’s here. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s the truth.
Zola adds Furnace to the list of Bucky’s words. He can feel himself slipping away every time they’re uttered.
August 12, 1945
General,
Thank you for your visit last week. Your insight into our project is much appreciated. I agree that we must continue to press on, we have no put so much man power and energy into the project it would be a shame to shut it down now. Zola believes that we are close to a breakthrough, despite occasional noncompliance by Barnes.
Nine
It’s starting to get harder and harder to fight against the constant onslaught of change they were forcing on his mind.
He can’t dream anymore, so the cryo chamber at least lets him rest, because the only dreams he has are dark and shadowy. He’s losing his already tenuous grip on himself, his memories becoming indistinct, with only a few bright spots left to cling to in his mind.
“Tell me a memory.”
It takes him a second to think of one. He cowers as Zola stands over him.
“When I was nine we went on a field trip to the Met. Steve made me read all the little cards next to the paintings, even though it made us lag behind everyone else.”
“Do you still think of him?”
Always.
“No.”
“Good. Add Nine.”
September 1, 1945
General,
Zola chose to move forward with giving Barnes the news of Steve Rogers’ death last week. So far, it has proven an excellent tactic in breaking his resolve. After an initial disruption in his usual pattern of behavior (consisting of a violent outburst that left his entire holding cell destroyed followed by a complete emotional collapse), Barnes has been much more compliant in the process.
I believe we may be close to a breakthrough.
Benign
Bucky has been unmade, strand by strand, bit by bit, atom by atom, he has been unmade and put back together for the purposes of following orders, of being a human weapon of mass destruction. There has been so much pain in his unmaking, so much unrelenting physical and mental pain from being ripped apart and put back together over and over and over again.
And yet, none of that pain was like the pain of knowing that Steve Rogers was dead.
Bucky would take it all over again, spend a thousand lifetimes in this room, in the cell, in the combat cage, in the cryo chamber, having his mind wiped like a problem on a chalkboard just so he could unlearn that Steve was dead.
Zola is the one that tells him. He shows him a newspaper in English, then Russian, then German, all with the same headline: Captain America Dead!
Bucky feels like a feather caught in a windstorm, torn to shreds by the whipping downdraft of mother nature’s power, by the power of his own grief.
Bucky knows better than to move while Zola is in the room, but the second that he leaves, the rage, red, blind, hot, overtakes him, and he uses the weapon attached to him, which has become a part of him, to destroy everything he can. The metal table, reinforced with steel, comes apart like wet paper in his hand. He destroys the sink, leaving nothing but powdered ceramic and plumbing hookups behind. He gouges marks into the walls with his fingers, he slams his arm onto the floor. And then? He collapses in the middle of the cold metal room with his cold metal arm, just a cold metal soldier who’s lost the only reason he wanted to get out of here, to stay who he was.
“Come on Buck, we don’t have to do this.”
“When was the last time we snuck into a Dodgers game? It’ll be fun, I promise.”
Steve rolls his eyes, pausing as they waited to cross the street to cough into his jacket. Bucky, almost subconsciously pats his jacket pockets. Good, he’s got an extra one of Steve’s inhalers in case it’s a bad night for his asthma.
“Come on Steve,” Bucky nudges his shoulder as they approach the stadium, “I know it’s been hard recently, but hey, at least we have baseball.”
Steve laughs at that, and gives Bucky an almost radiant smile. Whatever it was, it makes Bucky feel like he has the sun in his chest.
“You know, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was a date,” Steve jokes as they sneak in behind an older couple, heading up to their favorite spot to watch the game.
“Who says it isn’t?” Bucky is glad his face is hidden in shadow as they make their way up the stairs of the stadium to the very back row, “But don’t think I’m gonna buy you a hotdog or anything.”
“Come on, what kind of girl pays for her own hotdog?” Steve winks at him, and Bucky can’t hide his wide smile at the words that settle themselves right in the middle of his beating heart.
“Soldat. Stand up,” Zola’s voice comes through the speaker, and Bucky can’t comply, he tries, but he’s crushed by the weight of the loss of Steve Rogers, the only person that could pull him out of this, that could undo the work of HYDRA that had been inflicted on his mind and body.
He hears the stomping of boots outside the door, but he still can’t stand, he still can’t make himself be the good lapdog he’s supposed to be. He’s broken, empty, unusable, unloveable.
“Steve,” Bucky gasps, not even thinking about fighting as the soldiers pull him up to standing.
Zola’s voice comes over the little speaker they have in the room, the one that Bucky couldn’t reach to rip to pieces.
“Next word: Benign”
October 29, 1945
General,
Zola had a long conversation with Barnes today. The loss of Steve Rogers is still affecting him. Zola tells me he has a plan, that our work is almost finished.
Homecoming
They take him to the combat cage again. There’s someone waiting for him.
“We have a test for you today,” Zola swings the door open, and he sees that it’s the blond soldier who reminds him of Steve, tied up and bound and already bloody.
Bucky takes a step forward, staring at the terrified man. He feels something, he can’t identify what it is.
“Tell me a memory.”
Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off of the soldier as he speaks.
“When Steve brought us back from the HYDRA base, they called it our homecoming. I wasn’t used to him yet, him being taller than me, being okay with being the center of attention. I wasn’t used to him being different. But sometimes I saw flashes of the old Steve, when he looked at me, when he was drawing on a scrap of a napkin, when he made a joke that everyone laughed at. And then, sometimes I thought he forgot about me. He didn’t need me anymore.”
He looks down at the soldier.
“Kill him, soldat,” Zola tells him, “You don’t need him. You never did.”
The cowering blond soldier might as well be Steve, Bucky can’t tell the difference anymore. He snaps his neck anyway, pretending that he doesn’t feel the shattered remains of his heart split just a little bit more.
“New word: Homecoming.”
December 15, 1945
General,
Only a few more weeks I believe, Barnes has become more and more compliant, completing missions with ease and without hesitation. We put him in front of a live target yesterday, the man captured at the border three weeks ago. Barnes did not even seem to hear his pleas, even though we have been assured he can hear and understand them.
One
He kills easily now. He does it without thinking.
“Tell me a memory.”
“I don’t have one.”
“Good. Add One.”
January 23, 1946
General,
Congratulations. The asset is ready to begin service.
Freight Car
The Winter Solider does not hesitate. He does not disobey orders. He pulls the trigger as easy as breathing. He’s a ghost story, a legend, the new fist of HYDRA.
Zola speaks to him, he answers. A soldier speaks to him, he answers.
“There is one last word to add,” Zola tells him, walking around where he stands, straight, like a steel rod. He’s more metal than man now, anyway, “Tell me about the day you fell.”
“I ziplined onto a freight car. I took out the targets. I fell. I was found by HYDRA.”
Steve was there. He tried to save me. We joked about Coney Island. I miss him, I wish I was with him. I wish I had died when I fell. I wish I could just be Bucky. I don’t want to be a weapon, I just want to be Bucky.
“Very good, soldat. Final word: Freight Car.”
As each word is read, Bucky departs his mind, taken over by The Winter Solider. Each word takes away a layer of memory, a layer of who he was, who he had fought so hard to stay. Now it doesn’t take weeks of time, or months, to unmake him. All it takes is ten words, ten words that connect him completely to Bucky Barnes, yet somehow, ten words that remove him altogether.
Zola finishes the list. Bucky Barnes is long, long gone.
“Ready to comply.”
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TMIT: What's your favorite story you've ever written? What's a favorite story someone else has written?
I have so many favorite stories from others! @andaerosdawnflare/@the-man-with-the-mohawk is a wonderful writer--you should follow all the other characters they have and read their stuff. So good! I also love @ourcollectivefantasy 's Iloam's writing--though I don't think any publish stories for awhile have been put up. Fantastic writer though, and they write such lovely things.
If any of these people was set to write a novel (you should do that!!) I would buy it in a HEARTBEAT.
~~~
As for something I have written? This is something I wrote YEARS ago now, but I really liked it at the time. I've copied and pasted it here, so forgive any formatting errors.
It's a story about Kharris/Khaeris when their stories were still the same. A young girl with parents recently killed, sent away from the only family she's ever known, to live with a distant aunt. Some of her earliest formative thoughts about herself come from interactions just like this one.
Some small head canon about noble elvish society:
"An Early Lesson"
“No. I can’t do anything with that.”
“Surely, you’re over reacting. Someth--”
“No.”
The little girl’s ears couldn’t help but perk toward the other room and the pregnant pause within, but otherwise her poise remained unflawed. She continued to stare over the patterns on the hallway wallpaper opposite her. The first voice echoed down the narrow hall ahead of two sets of steps. “What is the use? It won’t go anywhere. I have better investments to work with.”
“Our fam--”
“Is not worth my time.”
“--ily is able to pay your teaching fees. You can’t just--”
“I can. And I am, Lady Gal’diel.”
Reflex made the little girl’s gaze flick up at the motion as the conversation moved into the open doorway into the sitting room. She recomposed herself without shifting from the precisely managed 'relaxed-but-attentive' posture, and her gaze unfocused to the wallpaper again. Stripes, with pale flowers blooming and climbing. It was an old style; but not a classic. It was currently out of fashion.
The adults looked at her, eyes slowly sliding over her. One assessed coolly, with the slightest narrowing of his calculating eyes. The other with a frown tugging impatiently at the corners of her mouth. They both weighed and measured for a stretched thin minute; and then, all at once, simultaneous judgements found the offering wanting. The man dropped his gaze and as he shook his head slightly, his long, pale hair caught the light of one of the fashionably low mageflame lamps. They turned away silently before starting down the hall toward the entrance.
Kharris continued to stare ahead of her, almost unnaturally still. Even this young she managed the pose with enviable grace. Her breathing was even, but when the two were out of sight, one hand slipped off her lap to run dark fingertips softly over the velvet of the settee. Her finger slipped to the edge of the cushion, where the fabric’s pile had been worn thin. Her aunt had been careful to sit her over the worst of the wear. Kharris liked the change between the velvet and the worn parts, it was interesting to feel the difference and for a moment she didn’t hear the adults speaking, as she absorbed herself in the textures.
It was the apology in his tone that drew Kharris’s attention. “--no use. She’s nothing anyone will invest in.” It was the words he spoke that made the tiny smile she’d been grown fade slowly away like a stone slipping under the surface of a pond.
“My niece will be lovely. You can see that. There’s no reason she cannot be successful for this House, given the proper instruction.”
“She is already lovely. But she is different. She will not--cannot--bring your House whatever revival you seem to be chasing. Your House is dying. She isn’t the means for its resurrection.”
The voices were silent, but Kharris heard the rustle of stiff cloth--a coat brusquely shouldered and set.
“She is exotic! Even now, heads turn wherever we go!”
“Precisely. Heads turn. And they turn away again after the moment is passed. She is nothing that anyone who is looking to advance their position will be interested in. No matter how you present and polish that, the best you can hope for is that she is taken as mistress and cared for there.”
Kharris heard her aunt start to exclaim indignantly, but the governor cut her off. “Perhaps a courtesan. She would do we--” He cut off, and Kharris thought she understood why. She could imagine her aunt’s expression at that suggestion.
When he continued again it was gentler, but no less frank. “House Gal’diel doesn’t have enough influence or wealth to force a good match past the failings she brings. I’m sorry for your Houses’s recent grief in the loss of your brother, my lady. But while your brother’s orphan is striking, that is useless beyond a moment, and even perhaps a liability past that moment. She is useless to me. Useless to you. A half-bred, foreign, Traveler. We could cultivate her as the perfect Lady, and she would still only be a bauble: fascinating for a moment and occasionally picked up, but put down again when you outgrow the moment. No one wants to keep that. She will be lovely, you are correct. She will be popular, too, I predict, but not with the same names for long. She is a novelty. People will love to flirt with the idea of her, but they will never consider binding her to themselves. You should consider yourself warned: that girl is trouble for your House, through no fault of her own. Your plans are mislaid, Lady Gal’diel. She will not make you or your House happy. Good day.” The door closed cleanly.
For a moment the house was utterly still; he had been the third governor of decorum to visit since Kharris had arrived a few weeks ago. He had been the most honest. Kharris liked him the best.
Her small, dark hand slipped back into her lap with the memory of velvet still tingling up her nerves. The painted wallpaper had faded where the windows in the sitting room hit it every afternoon.
The woman appeared in the doorway, blocking the view of the flowers. The little girl didn’t give any indication she heard any of the conversations. She remained quiet, hands folded in her lap, awaiting her next instructions.
Kharris could feel her aunt’s eyes on her, though she did not meet the woman’s gaze.
Waspishly, the woman’s words were needles of determination laced with resentment. “Fine. I’ll do it myself.” She was not speaking to Kharris, and the girl did not speak. There had been no question asked.
Neither of them had anything but serene expressions on when the older woman turned to leave again. But for the first time, Kharris’s eyes spark to life as they unblinkingly followed the older woman’s back.
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discord thread with @rebeccakoval
Some of the people whose names were on the letters weren't familiar to Teak, so it took a little doing to hunt out who they were. Fortunately in that respect, the current confuddle and confusion on dear old Mystery-Ass Island worked to his advantage; people were too busy trying to deal with dark and snow and their own securing shelter and warmth and food, that they didn't have the bandwidth to be suspicious when he asked them questions.
And that was how he managed to find out who Rebecca was, and that she lived in some cave. Teak was surprised people chose to live in caves, and when he caught sight of Rebecca, he said as much: "Aren't there bats in there? Aren't you like, grossed out by the guana? Iguana? Wait, what's it called, the special name for bat poop? Isn't it highly toxic to breathe in the spores? I'm Teak, by the way. We haven't met."
He announced this last part with assuredness and a bright grin, certain he was correct. Well, certain enough.
Becca had seen him somewhat in the distance, climbing over the rockier terrain of the Western Cove, stealing glances here and there as she tried to collect her limited laundry pile into a net to drag down to the river for cleaning. Rebecca stood, frowning slightly when the stranger walked to the mouth of the cave, chatting like they were thick as thieves.
She really had to start thinking about making a door for more privacy.
Becca blinked, she didn’t know the answer to what bat poop was officially called. It never seemed that important, but now her focus was back on the cave walls which were cool and clean from what she could see. And maybe if she had been given just a moment of warning she would have been ruffled at the inference her living quarters might be inherently dirty – but Rebecca was taken so off guard by the company and rapid fire observation the most she could do was gape and stare.
“Well…I know an iguana is a lizard. So it’s not that.” She offered quietly, pursing her lips to ask the man just how they knew one another when he clarified that too. They really were strangers. Well, that made Becca feel a little better. “I didn’t think so. I’m Rebecca. Can I help you with something?”
"Right! Iguana lizard. They don't get along with bats, I don't think. But I could be wrong. And this island is weird anyhow so who knows what laws of the animal kingdom got messed up here." Teak shook his head direly at the thought. "Oh, but wait -- you grew up here, right? You were born here or something? Rebecca?"
He shook his head at her inquiry about if she could help him with anything, saying, "Actually, it's sorta the other way around. I, potentially, might be helping you with something. Not to do with your bat poop." Teak looked apologetic. "Sorry, didn't mean to get your hopes up in that respect, but if you choose a cave I figure you're down with bat business."
He gave a thoughtful nod, then shook himself back into the topic at hand. "But! What I'm here for is something else. I think I have something that's meant for you. Did you go out to the yacht that was here?"
“I did.” Becca confirmed, giving a slight nod for further emphasis. Well, even if they technically never met, it was obvious Teak had gone out of his way for something. She couldn’t exactly imagine lizards and bats interacting all that much, but he made a good point – given how weird the rest of the island was, who really knew for sure?
She scoffed, placing a hand on her hip as he brought up the bat poop again. Although he clearly had other things to get to, she couldn’t let the mention slide so easily. “I don’t need help with that. The cave is clean, was uninhabited practically till I walked up.” Her brow furrowed, puzzled when the yacht was brought into conversation. Becca glanced behind herself over to her makeshift mattress, above she’d manage to scavenge a nail, and the locket hung there.
“Yeah I swam out. There was something else, that you got saddled with? How weird. Well, the whole thing was weird, no surprise there or anything…” She trailed off before looking on expectantly at Teak, “Can I have it?”
"You found a clean, uninhabited cave?" Teak regarded Becca for a few long moments. "You sure that's what happened? You just happened to luckily find yourself a clean cave with nobody already living in it for you to have it all to yourself?" He snorted. "Ohhhhhh-kay. I believe you. I'm sure you didn't get somebody to throw out whoever was currently living in that cave so you could move in."
It wasn't really of much importance to Teak except that he kept it in mind for the future: Becca living alone in her apparently vermin-free cave, ripe for the eviction. It didn't matter at the moment.
"Why don't we trade?" Teak said. "Whatever it is you found on the yacht for whatever I found for you on the yacht." He'd noticed the way she glanced into her cave and added, "Don't try to tell me you didn't find anything on the boat. We all did."
“I didn’t need anybody to throw the previous inhabitant out.” Becca scoffed. If Teak wanted to be haughty about it, she could easily follow. “If you really want to know, I killed and buried them back out in the jungle.” A pretty bold face lie, but Rebecca’s expression remained placid and unbothered none the less. Maybe Teak would believe her, and maybe he wouldn’t, and even if he ran to tell, what did it really matter?
She laughed at his suggestion of a trade, picking up one of her torn garments and attempting to mend it with one of the less perfected, handmade bamboo needles she had managed to barter off one of the other islanders. “Sure, I found something, but it’s not for trade. Especially if you aren’t even going to tell me what you have of mine in the first place. Is that how you usually trade for things? I can’t imagine it works very well.”
Becca's claim to have murdered somebody and disposed of the corpse was entertaining, at least, so Teak just laughed and snapped and pointed at her with a wink. "Good one," he said cheerfully. "As if somebody like you is capable of murder. Or burying somebody. I mean unless you're an earthbender? In which case you probably could bury somebody without too much fuss."
She started to return to some task and Teak stepped closer, peering curiously at Becca's sewing venture. "Are you mending clothes? Maybe I could get you to do that for me. Hire you, I suppose. Unless that's what you do for the island, like your ... job, or whatever. How some people have jobs. Like all those stuck-up humps at the farm." Teak rolled his eyes at the thought. Not a single person on that farm (so far as he knew) was bearable.
He patted the pocket where he was keeping the letters. "I've got a few words for you from your dear old dad," Teak announced. "But then it doesn't sound like he really knew you, so I dunno how much dear is involved in it." He bobbed his chin. "Interested?"
Becca shrugged, “Whatever you think then.” She squinted fumbling with the needle and fabric for a moment before tightening one of the stitches. When she glanced up, she hadn’t expected Teak to be closer and blinked in surprise. “Ah no…I don’t do it for the island. I think it’s a bit too haphazard for that.” She held out the clothing so Teak could see the imperfection. “Don’t know if you want that but it works for me.” She cleared her throat, smirking at the corner of her mouth, “What would you barter?”
Rebecca stopped for a moment, finding something to tie her hair up with, “Well, I have another confession – I work on the farm occasionally. Don’t know if I’ve ever been called a stuck-up hump before.” She snorted at the slight insult, not taking it seriously for herself or anyone else who spent time there. Teak could have his opinions, the farm was making the roughness of the island just a bit more bearable at the very least.
She was disappointed to hear what Teak had for her in his pocket. It was like a punch to the gut, Becca sat with the feeling for a moment and then shook her head, “No, actually. Thank you.” She didn’t need some apology, excuse ridden letter. Or anything sappy or anything…mean. She didn’t need anything from the person that had simply dumped her at the jungle’s (and eventually Libby’s) mercy. He had a choice, and he made it. What good would any revisiting do now? “I don’t want anything from him.” Becca’s shoulders heaved with a heavy sigh she made, “So keep it, use it as kindling. I don’t care.”
"It's not like people here can go to a real tailor and get real alterations done so I suppose that's the best available," Teak said, looking at Rebecca's work with a critical eye. "They seem big on mending here. You'd think by now somebody would've invented cloth. Seems like a prett-tty big thing to work on instead of some of the people doing useless things." Teak didn't actually have anybody in mind but he was certain if given a moment he'd be able to list some of those things; he just didn't care at the moment.
He rocked back on his heels, saying "ohhh" when Becca said she was one of the farm workers. "You don't find them all stuck-up? Madi and Emre are soooooo full of themselves. Madi thinks if you don't work on the farm then you're not doing anything at all for people on the island. And Emre's just a dickhead."
When he told Becca what it was he had for her, the disappointment was palpable, and Teak felt himself responding in kind. She just said no, she didn't want it, she didn't care, and he rubbed a hand across his chest as he considered this reply. "Alright," Teak said eventually. If she didn't care, she didn't care, and that was pretty much his entire purpose in talking to her. "See you around."
Becca shrugged, “I mean, you can work on inventing a clever way to manufacture cloth on the island if you think it’d be more successful.” Maybe one day they’d get to that point, but keeping people fed and covered with what they did have was just a tad more important. It sounded like Teak didn’t have much to do though so maybe he’d be inspired.
Her lips thinned in growing irritation as he continued on about how stuck up and annoying Emre and Madi were. It seemed unwarranted, and Becca had hardly welcomed the criticism. “I suppose it takes one dickhead to know another.”
She watched Teak silently take in her refusal of the letter he’d found. Becca wasn’t entirely sure what he had wanted or had been expecting for the personal piece of paper, but he clearly hadn’t gotten a reaction he’d been waiting for. No trades, no tears, Becca’s lip curled into a faint sneer as the realization of Teak’s personal gain angle came clear to her. She gave a slight wave in dismissal, “Bye then.”
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Can you please add to the come Hell or Helwater story? I would be eternally grateful. Also do you post any where but here? Like A03 or something?
Come Hell or Helwater - Part Nineteen
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen, Part Fifteen, Part Sixteen, Part Seventeen, Part Eighteen
And here’s where you can find it on AO3.
*********************************************
Something was going on. Brianna wasn’t sure what, but there was something strange going on between her mother and Jamie. Whatever it was, they didn’t want her to know about it. Every time she walked into the room, they turned all their attention on her. It was overwhelming and she didn’t like it. She’d rather they told her what was going on. If it didn’t stop soon, if they didn’t say something… she would.
Isobel and Lord and Lady Dunsany had returned a few days after her mother. Brianna’s lessons with Isobel had resumed but neither of them were as interested as they had been. Isobel was excited about her sister’s condition and would be going back and forth between the two houses a great deal in the coming months.
“It’s a comfort to her to have me there,” Isobel explained as she struggled to show Brianna how to do decorative needlework. She was embroidering a cap for her sister’s baby.
Brianna was supposed to be putting a monogram onto a handkerchief for her father, but she couldn’t tell Isobel that the initials were wrong. She just worked quietly on the A and M, figuring someday she could add a J to the beginning and an I and E at the end. It wouldn’t be centered properly in the corner but at least it would properly be his.
“It’s important that she rest and not be upset by anything – it’s bad for the baby,” Isobel explained.
“And when you’re not there, is she upset?” Brianna asked.
“It isn’t polite to gossip about such things,” Isobel replied, more with resignation than an aim to scold Brianna for her question. “But she is certainly more inclined to find things upsetting when there’s no one around who can help her with running the household.”
“And you miss your sister too, I suppose.”
“Of course. We were close when we were younger. Our brother was older and we both looked up to him – Geneva especially. I… I remember his death more than him, really. It brought us closer, I suppose,” Isobel confessed.
“What’s it like?” Brianna asked, suddenly curious. “Having a sister?”
Isobel’s eyes widened with surprise but then she folded her hands into her lap, needle and thread carefully held between the forefinger and thumb of her right hand, the delicate, unfinished cap clutched in her left hand.
“Well… She liked to be in charge when we played, but I didn’t mind. I think she’s always been more fanciful so her games were more enjoyable than anything I ever thought of. There were times when we would quarrel, but I don’t know as I’ve heard of any siblings who don’t disagree from time to time,” Isobel confided with a warm smile. “It was harder for her, being older, I think. She had to do everything first when it came to being about in society when we visited London. She’s also prettier so more has been expected of her in other ways. Her marriage has been a successful one… in some ways more than others. I do think we enjoy one another’s company better now and I am excited to become an aunt,” Isobel said with a grin, her attention returning to the baby’s cap in her hands.
Brianna gave her a polite smile, pondering the relationship Isobel described.
She’d had some friends in Boston, but no one she was particularly close to. Even if she had wanted to have friends over to her house, many of their parents weren’t keen to let their daughters visit the Randall household. Despite the fact that Frank was a respectable professor, Claire not only worked, she had a man’s profession. They didn’t want their children getting ideas. Of course, it could only do Brianna good to see the example set in their own households, so she was always welcome there (but once her mother discovered what was behind their hospitality, she preferred to have Brianna either join Frank at the university or do her homework in her own office at the hospital).
Some of those sort-of friends had siblings, though. Angela’s older sister sometimes let them play with her makeup but she also yelled at them when they accidentally spilled her favorite nail polish on her desk. Barbara’s older brother mostly just ignored them whenever Brianna happened to see him and Barbara didn’t seem to mind too much. Doris had a younger sister who had just been starting school and she complained about how all her old things were being passed down – things Barbara still considered hers.
They’d stayed at Lallybroch for a few days before setting out for Helwater. It hadn’t been much time for Brianna to get to know her cousins (and it had been a little overwhelming because there were so many of them), but maybe she would come to see them like siblings… if they ever got back to Lallybroch.
“And what about you?” Isobel asked Brianna gently. “Do you think you would find the prospect of a younger brother or sister exciting?”
Brianna looked up at Isobel, confused. How had the older girl guessed what she’d been thinking about?
“I… guess,” Brianna replied. “I know I wanted one when I was littler but after a while of wanting one and not getting one, I guess I stopped hoping for one.”
“Mmmhmm…” Isobel nodded, her eyes darting back and forth from her needlework to Brianna, something playful in her gaze and at the edges of her mouth.
“What?”
“Nothing. I suppose… I wished for a younger sister sometimes when Geneva was being unkind to me. I told myself I would only treat my younger sister with kindness. While I may not have gotten a younger sister in the way I’d hoped, the girl I imagined she would be was a lot like you – in behavior more than appearance,” she added with a quiet laugh.
“That’s kind of you to say,” Brianna responded flatly, still confused by Isobel’s behavior. She looked to the clock on the mantel. It was a little earlier than they usually quit for the day but Brianna had had enough of Isobel’s riddles. “I should go back and help Mama,” she said, carefully putting her work away. “She hasn’t been feeling well lately.”
“I heard,” Isobel said, laying her own work aside and rising to follow Brianna to the door. “Send her my best wishes that she’ll soon feel better. Encourage her to rest and take care of her if she’ll let you.”
“I will,” Brianna promised but there was something in the way Isobel said it, in the way that she smiled that left Brianna turning their conversation over and over in her mind as she made her way back to their cottage.
When Brianna arrived, her mother was standing at her work table but she wasn’t working. She had one hand braced on the table, the other at the small of her back rubbing circles into it.
“Are you okay, Mama?” Brianna asked, closing the door quietly behind her.
“I thought you were supposed to be having your sewing lesson with Lady Isobel,” Claire remarked, straightening at the table and reaching for some dried herbs to add to her mortar for grinding.
“I told her I needed to come back early to help you,” she said, moving to a spot on the other side of the table.
“Very well. Here,” Claire slid the mortar across to Brianna and then handed her the pestle. “Grind those and then add them–”
“I know, Mama. I’ve helped you make this balm before,” Brianna assured her with an annoyed laugh.
Claire laughed quietly, moving to prepare the beeswax for melting. She paused at the end of the table, leaning into it again and running a hand over herself, first down her front and then to that spot at the small of her back for a moment. With a small nod to herself, she resumed her task.
Brianna had noticed and again asked, “Are you okay, Mama?” Seeing her mother sigh, seeing her prepare to lie or only tell half the truth, Brianna set the pestle aside with more force than she intended, and asked with more force, “Are you sick? Is that why you and Da have been acting strange?”
“I’m not sick, sweetheart,” Claire assured her. “I’m… I’m going to have a baby. I wasn’t sure for a while and there’s still a lot that can go wrong,” she babbled, “but no, I’m not sick.”
“Oh,” Brianna said, picking the pestle back up and grinding the herbs, simply for something to do with her hands. “Are you… happy about it?”
Claire looked at Brianna for a moment, a smile slowly breaking across her face. “I am. But I’m also terrified. The last time I did this was a looooong time ago.”
Brianna laughed. “I’m not that old.”
“No, but you’re not my little baby anymore either,” Claire lamented.
“You’re still scared even though this time you have me and Da?”
“Last time… I didn’t have much left to lose if things went wrong,” Claire answered, quietly. “This time…”
“You’ll be fine, Mama. Da and I will make sure of it,” Brianna promised.
“That’s exactly what your father keeps saying.”
“Two against one,” Brianna said with a shrug. “You should listen to us.”
Claire chuckled. “I suppose I should.”
“Can I tell Lady Isobel? She’s making a cap for Lady Geneva’s baby. Maybe she can show me how to make one for this baby.”
“That would be nice… And what about you? I know it’s a surprise but, are you happy about it? You won’t be close enough in age to be playmates…”
“I don’t know. It’s strange to think of having a baby here,” she remarked, looking around their small cottage. “But I guess it’s kind of like everything else. It’s strange at first, but then you get used to it and have a hard time imagining any other way. I still miss… I was gonna say ‘home’ but this is home now. Where we were before feels more and more like a dream.”
“Hmmm. It does. Not a bad dream or a good dream… just a little… not real.”
“But I always have you to help me remember it,” Brianna said.
“And I have you,” Claire agreed. “And that is something that will always be just ours.”
Brianna smiled, liking the thought of having something that she alone shared with her mother.
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What were your negative experiences with spells and magic?
Hi,
It seems you stumbled across my older posts warning against astrology. Maybe you want to know more about the ‘witchcraft’ mentioned here.
One experience in particular made me realize that magic was real, evil, and not to be experimented with.
I’ve had hypothyroidism since I was 15. Although this condition can be healed naturally, my doctor told me hormone replacement in the form of levothyroxine was the only viable solution. She told me I’d have to take a pill first thing in the morning every day for the rest of my life, and didn’t even consider other options, such as diet, stress management, selenium, etc. (all of which I discovered later.)
Every six months, I need to go to the doctor, and give them a blood sample so they can “ensure my prescription still works.” If I don’t go, they hold my prescription hostage, and without it, I gain weight, lose hair, deal with brain fog and a number of other symptoms.
Once you start hormone replacement for thyroid issues, your window for finding a natural, real cure, instead of being another steady source of income for your general practitioner/big pharma is pretty much closed.
It may seem like a small inconvenience to some, but I despised this leash, this leaden chain. I am forced to allow someone to violate my body (that’s what sticking a needle into someone’s arm is. It’s a violation, no matter how ‘noble’ or ‘necessary’ the cause.) against my will, lest they deny me medication that allows me to function.
(They take your blood even if there’s no indication that your prescription needs to be adjusted. I tried to talk to my doctor about it and she told me I had no choice in the matter.)
So, l tried a sigil spell I saw on YouTube. Worst case scenario, nothing would happen. Best case scenario, I’d finally be free. After ‘casting’ the spell, I was compelled to take an Iodine supplement by what I thought was my intuition.
I was wrong on both counts; about taking the supplement, and about thinking it was my own intuition.
Magic doesn’t work in a vacuum. You ‘set an intention,’ unknowingly opening yourself up to demonic entities, which influence you to take certain actions. If the spell works, that means the entity influencing you sees some benefit for itself from your perceived success. Basically, it thinks it can use you to lead others away from God. If the spell backfires, the entity sees more benefits more from harming you. By casting the spell, you consent to the entity’s influence, judgement (to ‘help’ or harm, either way, the endgame is to steal, kill, and destroy your very soul) and consequences of the actions you take.
My thyroid levels had been steady for seven years when I cast the spell and took the iodine. A few months later, my hormones were drastically thrown off balance, and my prescription increased from 50mcg to 88mcg (which is a HUGE jump.) I dealt with severe weight gain, hair loss, mood swings, brain fog, etc. It turns out that for some hypothyroid cases, iodine helps, but for others, it causes your body to attack your thyroid gland.
Keep in mind that up to this point, I’d experimented with numerous supplements (NAC, Licorice, Magnesium, melatonin, and a long list of other natural remedies) for other health problems. Usually, I saw positive to neutral results. Nothing ever backfired or left me with permanent damage like iodine. This was a stark, unexpected outlier after my years of study and experimentation with alternate medicine without the aid of any spell.
There were other things like nightmares, intrusive thoughts, sleep paralysis episodes, chronic fatigue that went away after I cut all ties with magic and astrology and begged Jesus Christ to save me from myself, my sins, and this fallen, evil world. Although my thyroid issue is yet to be healed, I pray about it regularly, and strongly believe the Lord will deliver me from this ailment and from being a slave to the medical establishment. He can not lie, and it is written that “If the Son therefore shall make you free, ye shall be free indeed.” (John 8:36)
(Though even if this doesn’t come to pass: “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28. I am at peace with God’s decisions, because He only does what’s best for me.)
Thank you for this question, kind stranger. I hope this clarifies what magic is, and why it’s considered an abomination to the Lord. When He tells you to stay away from something, like a father keeping his child from touching fire or running with scissors, it’s always and only for your benefit.
God bless you and if you are a believer in Jesus, please pray for Him to heal me so I can better serve Him and strengthen my testimony. Have a wonderful day!
#spiritual awakening#spirituality#spiritual awareness#astrology#witchcraft#god#Jesus#truth#I’m gonna leave this in the tags for now but when I say ‘I strongly believe that He will heal me’#I feel like the answer is a hard ‘yes’ and just a matter of time#God hates pharmekia and calls my body His temple#so He does not want my body in the care of people who care nothing for me#and He certainly doesn’t approve of this ritual of taking blood when no need is indicated#Matthew 9 12#But when Jesus heard that he said unto them They that be whole need not a physician but they that are sick.#edit 2: removed St.John’s wort from the list of natural remedies#basically it helped my depression but made me shed a lot of hair#so neither positive nor neutral it was a mixed experience#but the damage was easily reversed
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Super Trouper (John Deacon x Reader)
Summary: You and John Deacon became good friends during college. When John joins a band, you both thought it was a fun hobby - until it became more. Over the years, you each followed your own career paths and shared your love of music, staying in touch mainly through letters, as friends -- until he invites you to Queen’s show at Madison Square Garden in 1980.
A/N: This piece was written for @imcompletelylost for the Possessed by Love Event. I was so excited to be your creator, as we have some musical interests in common that I incorporated into the story. I hope you enjoy them. The story is based on my favorite ABBA song. Thank you @yourlocalmusicalprostitute for coordinating this event. Thank you, @warriorteam1924 for great beta reading, ideas & support. Also thanks to @mirkwoodshewolf and @iwilltrytobereasonable for brainstorming and your terrific ideas.
Warnings: 2-parts fluff to 1-part angst. Band and song dates may not perfectly align with the story time frames. I hope music historians will be forgiving, and any lapses will not detract from the story.
It’s 1971, and you and your best friend, John Deacon, were in the cafeteria line pushing your trays along the railing. Each of you grabbed a plate of sodden fish and chips from under the orange warming lights. After four years, you still missed a good old American burger and fries, but aside from the food, attending college in London had been a great experience.
“They asked me to audition. Seem like a good gaggle of guys.” John laughed at his alliteration.
“They call themselves Queen? Like, Your Majesty?” you queried.
“Indeed,” John affirmed. “The lead singer, Freddie, is an art student. He’s drawing a crest. And there’s Brian and Roger. They’re science students.”
“Lovely!” you enthused.
“A good distraction from studies.” John concurred. “Though they do seem quite ambitious.”
“Can’t hurt to give it a go,” you shrugged. “Though good thing you all will have those polished degrees to fall back on,” you said, only half joking.
“I am pleased to confer your degrees upon you. Congratulations to the class of 1972,” the Dean asserted with a tight grin. The audience broke out into polite applause. You looked around a bit bewildered. You missed the American tradition of giddy graduates tossing their mortarboards in the air with abandon. After a quick embrace, you and John made your way to the local pub to meet up with his band mates, now considered your friends.
“So, Y/N,” Brian said, placing a beer down before you, “You’re heading back to America next year? So willing to leave our lush gardens, cultural sophistication -- and our dear friend, John?
“Not to mention, the next band destined for greatness,” Freddie declared with a broad smile as he tucked his chin slightly, his long hair falling into his face.
“Yes, well,” you took a deep breath feeling four sets of eyes upon you. “The advertising agency I worked for during school offered me a position in their New York office. Always wanted to live in New York. I will miss London’s beauty and culture,” your voice lilted with the faint British accent you had picked up.
“And…” Roger prompted you to respond to the end of Brian’s statement.
“And, yes, the people I’ve met,” you spat out. You shot a glance at John, and you melted as you felt his eyes meeting yours. “And the memorable times I’ve had. With them.” you added, trying to sound light, but you felt tears collecting on the rim of your eyes and you blinked to dissipate them. You knew their presence resulted from the thought of leaving the most important person to you-the lithe, long-haired brunette, whose grey eyes you were now lost in-your best friend, John. Only a friend, the last four years had established. You grabbed a napkin and subtly dabbed at your eyes.
John blinked, and his lips fell into a grin that made his eyes crinkle. “You can’t be talking about our first day as chemistry lab partners when your signature hand movements to Dancing in the Street knocked the beaker clear off the table, smashing it to a million pieces.” John smirked.
“No,” you laughed, moving past your embarrassment to counter, “I’m actually thinking about the time we stayed up all night to write our English papers and finished each other’s sentences, taking sips of beer after each successful line.”
“Some of the best writing the University has ever seen,” John deadpanned, as he looked up wistfully. “And one of the highest English scores I ever earned, legless or sober.” He added, rubbing his chin.
“There it is then,” Roger interjected.
You both looked at him mystified.
“You’ll stay in touch by writing letters. Though you’ll each have to finish your own sentences, I suppose.” Roger concluded, unleashing his playful smile.
*****
Your tight bell bottoms skimmed the floor and the loose open-neck cotton blouse with colorful embroidery flowed around your curves. You glanced at your bags piled by the door, moving over to check one to distract yourself from the impending onslaught of emotions. A soft knock interrupted your nervous efforts. You rezipped the bag as John entered and halted, taking you in. His swallowed, and his mind revisited the thoughts he repeated to himself over the last few weeks. If only. If only this conversation could be different. If only I said something sooner. If only we wouldn’t be risking our friendship. If only you wanted this to be more. ‘If I only had the words to tell you, If you only had the time to understand. Though I know it wouldn't change your feelings, And I know you'll carry on the best you can.’ (1) You’d probably go anyway, he had concluded.
“Thanks for seeing me off,” You said, avoiding his gaze.
“I…I brought you something,” John blurted out, as his long fingers dug into the front pocket of his faded bell bottoms. He thrust a rectangular box toward you.
You forced a smile through your tense face and lifted the lid. You pulled out a delicate sterling silver chain that held a mounted luminescent grey oval stone with angular cuts that refracted blue hues. “John, it’s…beautiful,” you said, as you reached behind your neck to fasten it.
“Here, let me,” he moved behind you, his strong fingers overlaying yours to ease the clasp, as he thought of the day he purchased the gift. Brian had accompanied John to the jewelry shop, and as they peered into the display case, Brian suddenly gasped. “Oh, a moonstone. So beautiful how it catches the light and changes colors. This is really exquisite, John. And, it will be a reminder that even apart, you’ll still share the same moon.”
Back to the present, John stepped in front of you and admired the gift resting splendidly between your collarbones, perfectly framed by your open blouse. “I’m not into all that crystal nonsense,” John said, “but it’s said to be a calming gemstone. And a wise man said, it will remind us that though we’re apart, we’ll be sharing the same moon.” John figured Brian wouldn’t mind him lifting his line.
“Oh John, that’s lovely,” you leaned in to hug him, and as he returned the embrace, your denim jeans pressed together and your arms pulled each other close. How could you be leaving this, him? You had to accept that nothing more was meant to be.
“Wait! I have something for you!” You pulled away suddenly, knowing time was of the essence, and reached into your bag, retrieving a long black box. You held it out to John, who opened it quickly. He held up the beautiful pen engraved with JRD.
“Now that we’ll be writing to each other….” You indicated.
“It’s perfect.” John said his eyes shifting between you and the gift. Before you could embrace again, a horn blared. “Cab’s here. Let me grab some bags,” John looked down, hefted two bags and headed out the door. You looked around your flat, grabbed your last suitcase and purse. As you entered the hallway and slowly shut the door, you knew this special chapter in your life had ended. And you hoped Roger was right: that your friendship with John would continue from afar.
*****
Sirens blared outside as you dragged yourself up the four flights of stairs. You felt a corner of the record digging into your side through your thin fabric bag. Once inside your apartment, you pulled the record out of the beautiful jacket, and read the song list on the label. You propped open the heavy lid of your record player and blew on the vinyl disk before placing it gingerly on the turntable. You flipped the on switch, and the album turned rhythmically. You carefully lifted the needle, hovering it over the fourth groove as the record turned, waiting to release it at just the right place to start the song, at just the right indentation to avoid a scratch. You steadied your fingers and eased the needle down carefully. After a beat, success! ‘Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?’ (2) You took a deep breath as the beautiful, familiar melody consumed you, taking you on an emotional journey, flooding your small flat. You kicked off your heels, curled up on the couch and grabbed your writing kit from the side table.
Dear John,
I’m listening to Bohemian Rhapsody-on my own record player! What a work of art! I loved your last letter describing your creative adventures with the boys at Ridge Farm. The song sums up how I’ve been feeling recently: my fantasy of working at a big ad agency has been replaced by the reality that starting out, it’s more grunt work than glamour. Accepting that helps me stick with it. And, it calls into question, what really matters in life? And what is Scaramouche, anyway? Ha-ha. Give the boys my love and let them know I am so proud of them and so pleased you’re all getting deserved recognition. Too bad those hard-earned degrees are going to waste! Cheers, Y/N
Dearest Y/N,
Yes, the reception for A Night at the Opera has been a whirlwind and exceeded our wildest dreams. Speaking of which, I had a dream we were back at Uni playing the finishing sentences game in your flat. I handed you my notebook and instead of words, there were musical notes. Probably because I’ve been writing some songs. In fact, I wrote You’re my Best Friend for you. True story. Yours, John
*****
Dearest Y/N,
I know we were both disappointed that we missed each other during our recent US tour. I hope your business trip was all it was supposed to be. Well, we’re back in London now, having had to cut the tour short in Boston, as Brian was very ill-and is still recovering from Hepatitis. Suffice it to say, it was very scary. But, you know him, as ill as he was, he was still writing. He was afraid we’d kick him out of the band, which we would never do. We are brothers, family. I thought the band was just a hobby, and now I can’t imagine my life without being part of Queen. Love to you always, John
Dear John,
My goodness, I hope Brian has recovered, and you have as well from a stressful trip. Speaking of trips, mine was…very good. I met someone special… Eric. We just clicked-about life. He’s in Boston. And get this! He was supposed to see the show you had to cancel because of Brian’s illness. He was so impressed that I knew you all ‘way back when.’ Can’t wait to see him next weekend. Not picking out the wedding gown yet….But, I did pick up Billy Joel’s early album Street Life Serenade. The Entertainer reminds me of you and the boys: ‘I am the entertainer. And I know just where I stand. Another serenader. And another long-haired band. Today I am your champion. I may have won your hearts. But I know the game, you'll forget my name. And I won't be here in another year, if I don't stay on the charts.’. Well, you don’t have to worry about the last line. You guys will be on the charts for the foreseeable future-and beyond. I also thought it was funny that he wrote, ‘if you’re gonna have a hit, you gotta make it fit, so they cut it down to 3:05.’ (3) Tell Freddie he proved that wrong with Bohemian Rhapsody! Take care and hugs to Brian. Cheers, Y/N
****
Dearest Y/N:
That’s a great song! Joel’s descriptions are certainly accurate, but they don’t capture everything. It’s been a tough time. Tensions permeate the group, and there are lots of arguments. I do think in a weird way they help to fuel creativity, but it can feel exhausting. Even though you and I are not together, I feel you with me, soothing me, steadying me. Truthfully, that helps calm me-and helps me to soothe the boys and try to keep us all focused. I hope you are happy. You’re my Best Friend. Love, John
Dear John,
I’m sure you are a great calming influence for the band. You are a stalwart trouper during tough times indeed!
Speaking of calming, your beautiful necklace has been soothing me as I try to move on from the failed love affair with my Bostonian. The line from Summer, Highland Falls sums it up: ‘How thoughtlessly we dissipate our energies. Perhaps we don’t fulfill each other’s fantasies. We are always what our situations hand us-it’s either sadness or euphoria.’ (4) It was a roller coaster of grand fun and tense irreconcilable disagreements. He was very inflexible, wanting everything on his terms. I realize everything was easy with you and me; there was a give and take. Knowing you’re there for me – and that we share the same moon – helps. Cheers and love, Y/N
*****
The boys were nursing warm drinks in a Munich bar, as John pulled the letter out of his jacket and scanned it again. The boys eyed him, sensing relief that John found hard to cover.
“It’s OK to gloat, John. Glad she dumped that selfish bloke,” Roger said. “You’ve been a trouper all these years, being a great friend to Y/N. It must be hard though. I mean, you’ve always wanted more…”
Freddie put his beer down loudly on the table and took a commanding tone. “Enough with this letter-writing rubbish. Now is your time, John! Invite her to our upcoming Madison Square Garden show! YES!!! We’ll have your dressing room decorated with lights and big bouquets of fragrant flowers brought in from the nearby Flower District! And Moet of course!” Fred’s words spilled out of him, as the images came into focus.
Roger jumped in. “We’ll arrange a limo to bring her to the show. She’ll be escorted to her front row seat-and then backstage after the show to meet you privately. Finally! You’ll tell her how you feel; ask her to move to London and….”
“Guys, wait, wait!” Brian said in a measured tone. “This is John’s decision. It’s a big step for him, and he…”
“Really, Dear,” Fred interrupted, trying to hold back an eye roll and a disdainful tone, “Must you be such a Dolly Downer?”
John looked at his band mates warmly, touched that they clearly wanted what was best for him. “Well, I do appreciate the premiere matchmaking services of Mercury-Taylor. And May is right, it’s a big step.” John hesitated. He felt he was on a precipice looking out into a sea mixed with excitement and anxiety, like waves gathering, crashing gently toward each other before rushing out at low tide. He added haltingly, “It…it may be too late.”
“Well, you won’t know unless you try. It would be nice for you to share the same moon on the same continent,” Brian said with a wink to John.
John smiled as a lyric came to his mind, ‘You can't be everything you want to be before your time. Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight.’ (5) “Maybe it’s my time. Our time,” he said, casting a smile at his friends.
“Wonderful! I’ll tell Miami the arrangements to be made!” Freddie said decisively.
******
Your office meeting stretched into the night, not an unusual occurrence, though the head of the firm addressing a small team of top-performing staff was unprecedented. “We have acquired a number of significant clients in London, and we will be expanding our office there. If any of you are interested in a position, please let me know in the next two weeks.” As the meeting ended, your colleague turned to you, “How about we let off some steam at the Palladium?” Sounded good to you. After the bouncer removed the velvet rope, you were welcomed to the club by pulsating music and lights thrown off a large disco ball hanging from the ceiling. You entered the dance floor and started to move to the blaring beat, ‘Gimme gimme, gimme a man after midnight.’ (6) You realized it wasn’t any man you wanted. It was John. Maybe you should take a position in London. Maybe you and he….But you were getting ahead of yourself. Tomorrow you’d have a front row seat at Queen’s Madison Square Garden concert and a private reunion with John afterwards. For now, as usual, you let the music envelop you and move through you, expressing your feelings.
*****
You were ready to go in a black leather miniskirt, white sleeveless tank top and your white go-go boots. Your nerves were making a cameo; as you clasped John’s necklace your fingers shook. You entered the waiting limousine and stretched out in the back, enjoying the rare city view from a car. It sure beat riding the subway. Upon arrival at the VIP entrance, you were escorted to your seat. Your stomach felt hollow, and you had to consciously remind yourself to breathe. As you settled in, taking in the huge stage, thoughts coursed through you: Here you were: sitting front row at Madison Square Garden, seeing Queen-a band you knew and truly admired, reuniting with John -- and hopefully clarifying your future. You tried to push it all aside as the hot spotlights lit the stage, signaling the start of the show.
In the wing backstage, John shifted from foot to foot as he peered out onto the stage lit only by four glaring spotlights that cascaded over the smoke. He could already feel the heat from those lights, but he knew there was more to the warmth creeping through him: you were out there, and the two of you would be reunited soon. A smile bloomed across his face as he took in the roar of the crowd. ‘Suddenly I feel all right, and it's gonna be so different when I'm on the stage tonight. Tonight, the super trouper lights are gonna find me shining like the sun, smiling, having fun, feeling like a number one, Tonight the super trouper beams are gonna blind me, but I won't feel blue like I always do. 'Cause somewhere in the crowd there's you.’(7)
Ratty gave the queue, and Freddie led the boys in a bounding stage entrance. John took his place behind Freddie’s piano. The powerful beams prevented him from seeing the fans, but he wasn’t blinded. He saw more clearly now than he ever had.
The show was magnificent, and after the encore, the boys met again in the stage wing, as the roadies handed them towels.
“Your dressing room is ready!” Freddie reassured. “We snuck in a few candles, though we are violating New York City Fire Code,” he added with a wink, and glance at Roger, who tried unsuccessfully to conceal a laugh.
Brian rolled his eyes and raised his hands dramatically in front of himself. “News Headline: Queen burns up Madison Square Garden. Literally.”
“For a good cause, though!” Roger defended.
“Thanks, Guys,” John said softly, nodding to his best friends. “Wish me luck.”
John’s heart beat faster with each step down the long corridor. As he opened the door he spotted you seated on a couch, and he gasped. You stood, and he reached out his hand, which you took, as you swayed your hips slightly to release some nervous energy.
“Y/N, I’d hug you but…I’m a sweaty mess,” John said, suddenly self-conscious. “You’re so beautiful.”
“You look gorgeous-you always did,” you said. “The show was fantastic! And I love what you’ve done to the place,” you said coyly, gesturing around the romantically lit room, dotted with lush bouquets and a champagne bucket. “Who knew The Garden had such impeccable decorating taste?”
“It was Fred and Roger’s doing, actually,” He chuckled. “Sit, sit.” He bent into the couch and still holding your hand, he eased you down with him.
You both started to speak at the same time: “Y/N, I wanted to tell you that I….” “John, my company has positions in the UK and I’m thinking of taking one….”
“Is that what you want? To return to London?” John asked, trying and failing to temper his excitement.
You stared at each other. “If,” you said, gathering courage and then shaking your head to change the point. “It isn’t just work I want to return for…It’s…well, I know you probably have girls lining up, but I…”
“No.” John cut you off. There’s never been anyone serious. There couldn’t be. There’s only been you. All these years.” He swallowed before continuing. “Tonight…the reason for all this, I was planning to tell you that I love you, always have, always will, and ask if you’d consider coming back to the UK. Back home, to me….”
“Yes! A definite yes!” You embraced with some distance between you, and John broke apart sporting a broad grin. “Oh, Y/N! I…. I need to shower and then we can continue our plans. I’m so happy! And I need to tell the boys that their matchmaking efforts worked-and that as Brian said, we’ll be enjoying the moon together-from the same place.”
‘Whenever we’re together, that’s my home,’ (8) you said, letting your happy tears flow.
Song Notes
1. If I Only Had the Words, Billy Joel
2. Bohemian Rhapsody, Queen
3. The Entertainer, Billy Joel
4. Summer, Highland Falls, Billy Joel
5. Vienna, Billy Joel
6. Gimme, Gimme, Gimme (A Man after Midnight), ABBA
7. Super Trouper, ABBA
8. You’re My Home, Billy Joel
#john deacon#john deacon x reader#john deacon x y/n#john deacon x you#roger taylor#freddie mercury#brian may#queen band#queen#pbl#possesed by love#queen fanfiction#queen fandom#abba#billy joel#super trouper#Bohemian Rhapsody#possessed by love event#john deacon x fem#friend to lover#friend to more
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Love Bites
Love sucks. That's pretty much common knowledge. Combine that with addiction, money, fame, and childhood trauma and you've got a recipe for disaster.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 4
Chapter 3
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In terms of nationwide success, Guns N' Roses is a band that's virtually non-existent. I mean, considering that they're an unsigned band without a debut album, that isn't surprising. Looking at them and listening to their amazing music, I would say they take a lot of inspiration from Hanoi Rocks, The Rolling Stones, New York Dolls, and to a lesser degree, The Sex Pistols, particularly in their onstage behavior.
And just like all of those bands, they're extremely talented. This band might be the best band I've ever seen play the Whiskey or in LA in general.
They're really fucking good.
I take a second to look at all the members of the band. All of them are very attractive but the man clearly trying a little too hard to look like Johnny Thunders catches my eye. Everything about him screamed cool and mysterious and I instantaneously found myself wanting to do whatever I could to get to know him. My gaze lingers on him for a moment before I begin to survey the crowd. I feel somewhat out of place in this setting. It's mostly men and women trying way too hard to catch the attention of the band for...obvious reasons. No offense to them, I support women doing whatever they want as long as they aren't hurting anyone, but I can't picture myself ever being in that crowd.
Once their set finishes, I begin to wonder if I should wait for the redhead, Axl, to approach me at some point, or if I should just turn around and leave. I weigh my options and figure that I should stay. Not because of Axl, but because I don't really feel like going home and running the risk of walking in on Tiffany and her boyfriend. I don't really feel like going home at all now that I think about it, and if it wasn't earlier, now is definitely not the time to be walking the strip at night.
I sit at the table with my mind wandering, when Axl walks over to me with a massive grin on his face.
"Did you enjoy the show?" he sits down and waits for me to reply. Looking at him and how he carries himself, it's clear he's a man who has little insecurities, if any at all. I wonder for a moment if I should humble him just a tiny bit, but I decided not to.
"That was the greatest fucking thing I've ever seen." I return the smile, as his grows even wider, which I didn't think was possible.
He tells me to hold on for a second and disappears into the sea of people. When he reemerges, he isn't alone. He has a tall blonde man and another man with long curly black hair in tow, and I recognize them as the bassist and one of the guitarists respectively.
"This is Duff," Axl points at the blonde, who I've just discovered is named Duff.
"And this is Slash. Guys, this is Julianna."
I stand up and extend my hand for them to shake and and obviously intoxicated Slash pulls me into his arms for a hug instead. Although I was taken aback at first, I hug him back. At least he's friendly!
"We're having a bitchin' party at our place tonight, you should come." Duff leans over and whispers into my ear while I'm still in Slash's arms.
"I doubt you have anything better to do, no offense." Axl cuts in.
I want to object and tell him that I have plenty of better things to do than to go to some stupid party with people I don't know but 1. I literally have nothing else to do and 2. As cynical as I can be at times, I actually kind of like parties. I'm actually going to a party with strangers, just because they say I should. Ted Bundy would've just loved me.
"If you don't know our address, just follow the crowd." Slash half-shouts as he removes his arms from around my body and begins following his band mates.
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The house is exactly what you'd expect the members of an aspiring rock band to live in. The house is a complete dump and it appears so structurally unsound that I find myself questioning how the place is still standing. The lawn is covered with cans and bottles that once contained alcohol, shattered glass, cigarettes, and an alarming amount of drug paraphernalia. Despite my better judgement after seeing all of these things, I asend the concrete stairs and open the door. Well, what was left of the door.
Upon opening the door, I am immediately greeted with the smell of alcohol, cigarettes, marijuana, and God knows what else. I also smell something burning and I pray to the Lord above that it isn't heroin, although that would explain the needles decorating the yard and the hardwood floor that adorned the interior of the house.
Before I know it, Slash grabs my arm and starts running up the stairs. This man is truly insane and I can see myself getting along well with him after tonight.
He brings me to a room with four other men in it and it doesn't take me longer than a second to recognize them as the other members of Guns N' Roses.
"That's Steven, he's our drummer. On his left is our rhythm guitarist Izzy. And you've already met Axl and Duff.
"Hi!" Steven exclaims excitedly. He's got a lot of energy, something most people expect from drummers.
Izzy looks up at me for a second with a blank expression, then looks away. I can't decide if it's because he's not impressed with what he's seen or if he's just shy.
"I need a drink." Duff wastes no time standing up and leaving the room to consume whatever alcohol the boys have in the house.
Axl leans over to Steven and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it was, it caused both of them to glance at me and chuckle slightly. Instead of asking any questions, I brush it off and sit on the chair that was once occupied by Duff as Axl, Steven, and Slash start talking amongst themselves. Izzy's eyes meet mine again, he looks at me for a little while longer than before, then he exits the room without saying a word.
The other guys seem to have forgotten I'm in the room, so I opted to leave too.
Walking down the stairs, I instantly recognize "Call Me" by Blondie blaring from somewhere down here and I resist the urge to embarrass myself by singing and/or dancing. A man approaches me and offers me a drink but I quickly decline. My mother wasn't good at being an actual parent, but she definitely told me to never accept a drink from a stranger.
Partying at a strangers house, surrounded by strangers, was never brought up in that conversation.
I've always had exceptionally good hearing and when I hear sirens wailing in the distance, I go into panic mode. I assume no one else hears it so I scream.
"COPS!"
The atmosphere changes as everyone from all directions beings running to whatever exit is closest. I'm grateful for my smaller stature as I can easily move around the crowd of people and exist though a window that isn't as populated and is harder to spot from most angles. I don't even look behind me after I leap out of the window and run like my life depends on it. I technically didn't do anything wrong, but as previously mentioned, I DON'T like the cops.
I ignore the burning sensation in my lungs while I haul ass all the way to my apartment, narrowly avoiding being hit by several cars on the way. I sprint the full mile to my apartment, unlock the door, and collapse onto the couch after locking the door behind me.
"Well, you did say you we're gonna try working out daily." Tiffany chuckles at my exhausted state. She goes into the kitchen and comes back with a glass of water, which I gratefully accept.
"I was worried about you, did you have a fun night?" Tiffany sits on the couch nexts to me when I sit up to drink.
"Mhm. I saw this really cool band play at the Whiskey, they invited me to a party at their house,"
Tiffany raises an eyebrow in amusement. She knows I'm not the type to go to just anyone's house. I pretend to ignore her and continue.
"someone called the cops, and I got the fuck out of there as fast as possible."
"For someone who's never broken a law in their entire life, you sure are scared of the cops." Tiffany says, while taking my empty glass.
"They've got guns and shit. You don't have to break any laws to get fucked up by a cop."
At the same time I stand up, Victor walks out of Tiffany's bedroom in nothing but his boxers.
We exchange awkward waves and he goes to meet Tiffany in the kitchen.
I like Victor. We got along really well when I first met him. He was a good guy and made Tiffany happy, that's all I cared about. Then when the whole situation with Gwendolyn happened, shit changed almost instantly. By this point, Gwen and I were friends so it made the situation difficult. I didn't want to just stop talking to Victor, but I didn't wamt to hurt Gwen. It's hard to be truly neutral when all three people involved are people you care for.
I decide to stop overthinking and go into the bathroom for a hot shower and some sleep.
#guns n' roses#guns n roses#guns n roses fanfic#slash gnr#slash#saul hudson#axl rose#izzy stradlin#duff mckagan#fanfic#steven adler
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Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.
It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.
“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”
Lifelong enemies Allie and Harry are devastated when they learn they are soulmates, so they form a pact to never act on their bond. Unfortunately, fate has other plans for them.
[read on ao3 here]
“Do you want to know your fate?”
Allie watched the old man place a crystal ball on the table in front of him. The bauble was unassuming and slightly dirty. Honestly, Allie wouldn’t have been surprised if it were made of plastic. It, like everything else in the cluttered store, looked cheap and fake. But then again, what did she know about the world of psychics? That’s why she was here, after all: she wanted answers about her future.
It was the day before Allie’s thirteenth birthday, and she was at a fortuneteller’s shop. Her friend Becca had insisted they come here to celebrate her impending soulmate reveal. Perhaps, Becca said, they could get a little insight into who she would be paired with.
Allie’s world revolved around soulmates. When two people were ideally matched, an unbreakable soul bond tied the pair together. And two rules applied to all soulmates:
First, the bond was manifested in a tattoo. Everybody had their partner’s name written on their body somewhere. These tattoos didn’t require needles or ink; they showed up on their own, as if by magic.
Second, the tattooed names didn’t appear until the thirteenth birthday of the younger person in each couple. On that day, both soulmates would wake up to find themselves marked with their other half’s name.
Assuming Allie’s soulmate was older than she was, there was only one day left until she learned who she was bonded to.
Allie gazed at the crystal ball. Behind the fortuneteller, a pink neon sign buzzed an electric tune. The lights cast a dim glow throughout the small store.
The psychic seemed over-the-top to her, not that she would ever tell Becca that. The man sitting across from her seemed more like a crackpot than a sage. His greasy hair hung in his face, so long that it nearly obscured his eyes. He reeked of licorice and burnt lavender. But they had already paid the man his fee, so they might as well hear what predictions he could conjure up for them.
“Do you want to know your fate?” he repeated. “Once you learn it, you can’t go back.”
“Yes,” Allie said. “I’m ready.”
The fortuneteller muttered a few unintelligible words and stared deeply into the crystal ball. “Hmm...it’s foggy, but some images are starting to come into focus. Ah, yes. I can see it now.”
To Allie, the crystal ball looked exactly as it did before.
“I see money stained with blood. Tears and white bedsheets. Two bodies, submerged in water. A cellphone is ringing, but no one is picking up.”
“Okay,” Allie tried to figure out how to respond to this prophecy. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but she certainly hadn’t thought he would list such unpleasant images. “But what does that mean?”
“These images foretell rejection and denial. You will learn who your soulmate is tomorrow, but you will be unhappy when you learn who you have been paired with. This bond will confuse you and bring you unhappiness. Yes, I definitely sense rejection and denial.”
Allie was stunned. “Do you see anything else? Like, happiness and love, maybe?”
“I cannot see specifics,” he responded with contempt. “That is not how my gift works.”
Of course the fraud fortuneteller wouldn’t be able to see specifics. She had shelled out good money for him to ruin her day. She protested, “But—”
The man cut her off with a dismissive wave. “Do not disrespect my craft. Just because you demand answers of me doesn’t mean that I’ll give them to you. I only see what the universe shows me.”
Allie glanced back at the crystal ball, which was still maddeningly clear. There were no bloodied dollar bills, no ringing cellphones. The fortuneteller could have invented any story he wanted. He could have reported that he had seen her in a happy relationship and with a successful career. And yet he deliberately chose to give her a bad fortune.
“You must see something good in the crystal ball, right?” Becca murmured. She had been quietly listening in on the conversation between Allie and the psychic for the last fifteen minutes, mostly content to observe. “I mean, it can’t all be bad.”
“Actually, it can,” the man snapped. “I do not control your future. I merely pass on the messages that the universe sends me.”
“So you’re saying that rejection is my fate, and there’s nothing I can do to change that?” Allie said.
The man nodded eagerly, as if glad that she was finally catching on. “Precisely.”
“And why should I believe that?” Allie usually wasn’t so confrontational, especially with adults, but this fortuneteller was an exception. What did he know about her soulmate? Nothing.
The man scrutinized her frowning face. His lips went thin with irritation. “I think we are done here. I’ve told you what I saw. It’s not my problem if you don’t like the truth.”
Allie nearly scoffed. He read tea leaves and tarot cards for a living. He probably got pleasure out of ruining his customers’ days. Staring into a crystal ball and mumbling about dark visions wasn’t the truth, it was a cruel joke.
At least, she hoped it was a joke. There was a part of her (a part she tried to ignore) that worried that his predictions might come to pass. She pictured the images the man had mentioned—blood, tears, bodies in water—and she saw death. She shivered at the thought.
“Thanks for the crystal ball reading,” Becca cut in before Allie could offend the fortuneteller even more. “Well, we should probably go. My mom’s waiting for us outside.”
The fortuneteller wasn’t even listening. His attention had strayed to a stained, crumpled box of cigarettes that sat by his side. He picked one cigarette from the pack and sparked it with a pink lighter from his pocket.
Allie felt anger on her tongue, ready to be sharpened into spiteful words, but she could see that Becca was anxious to leave. She smothered her fury for her friend’s sake. “Yeah, thanks for the fortune.”
She stood up and walked out of the store with Becca. As the wooden door swung shut behind her, she turned around to give the fortuneteller one last glance. Thick smoke swirled around his head. His eyes were closed as if he had already forgotten that they were there.
What did a man like that know about her fate?
+
The next day, Allie woke up at five in the morning. She was too giddy to go back to sleep. Despite how horribly the visit to the fortuneteller had gone, she was still excited by the potential of finding out who she was bonded to. She’d been waiting her entire life to see her soulmate’s name tattooed on her.
She checked her wrists, a common spot for soulmate marks. They were blank. Her arms and legs, too, were bare. In fact, every visible inch of skin was unmarked.
Don’t worry, she reminded herself. It’s probably just hidden under some clothing.
She lifted the edge of her pajama shirt and walked to her mirror to get a closer look at herself. As she scanned over the planes of her stomach and saw more blank skin, she felt growing disappointment. It seemed that she hadn’t gotten her tattoo after all. Her soulmate was probably younger than she was, which meant she would have to wait until his thirteenth birthday to find out who he was.
But then she spotted a scribble of black near her waist. The writing was scrawled across her left hipbone in messy, boyish letters. She bent down to get a closer look at the words.
Harry Bingham.
She gasped.
Harry Bingham? No, it wasn’t possible. Harry had been her sister’s sworn enemy since preschool, which meant that by default, she and Harry were also enemies. Almost every time they had a conversation (a misfortune she did her best to avoid), he was arrogant and entitled and cruel.
“No, no, no,” Allie said to herself. “This can’t be real.”
She paced her room, trying to rationalize why she was paired with Harry. She and Harry were nothing alike. It should have been impossible for them to be soulmates.
Maybe this was some sort of cosmic joke, or the universe’s revenge for the times she’d been a bad person. Or maybe, while she had been sleeping, her sister decided to write Harry’s name on her as a prank. All those explanations were more logical than the thought that she might actually soulmates with Harry Bingham.
“This can’t be real,” she repeated.
But the ink was underneath her skin. As much as she wished that she could blink and watch the tattoo vanish before her eyes, she knew the mark was permanent. It would stay on her body forever, reminding her of the boy she’d been chained to.
When she took her shower later that morning, Allie tried, in a half-crazed stupor, to wash the name from her body. She scrubbed with her loofa until her skin was raw and red. But Harry’s name was still printed on her hipbone.
After the shower, Allie dressed hastily, as if covering the mark would mean that it no longer existed. She even considered stealing a bottle of concealer from her sister’s room and smearing the makeup over her hip, but she feared that Cassandra would catch her in the act. Her mind was racing for solutions, and yet she was paralyzed by inaction.
She curled up on her covers, her hair still damp. She was too stunned to cry. Instead, she just stared at the walls, trying to decode the mess she had landed in.
By ten, Allie knew she could not hide in her room any longer. She crept downstairs to the kitchen, where her dad was flipping pancakes and humming along to a pop song. Cassandra and her mom were setting the table for breakfast. They had even put out a vase filled with her favorite peonies.
“Morning, birthday girl,” her mom said.
“Morning,” Allie replied, faking a grin. Her lower lip trembled from her anxiety.
“I’m surprised you woke up late,” her dad said. “I remember waking up at the crack of dawn on my thirteenth birthday. I was so anxious I almost got sick. And then it turned out that there wasn’t even a tattoo on me!”
“Sorry, dad, but even my birthday isn’t enough to get me to wake up early.” Lie.
“You ready for breakfast?”
“Of course.” Another lie. Truthfully, she was terrified. She knew her family would use breakfast as an opportunity to spring the dreaded question: do you know who your soulmate is?
Her dad plated the golden pancakes and coated them with pats of butter and gooey, sugary syrup. He brought the food to the table, and they all sat down to eat.
Allie shoved pieces of pancake into her mouth as if she were Joey Chestnut on steroids. She hoped that if her cheeks were stuffed with food, her family would let her eat her breakfast in peace instead of poking her for information.
Across from Allie, Cassandra was only on her second bite of breakfast. She had cut her pancakes into delicate, precise slices and had taken care to ensure the syrup was evenly distributed. Even when taking sips from her orange juice, she was polished.
Perfect Cassandra, Allie thought. She would never be bound to someone as awful as Harry.
“I remember my thirteenth birthday,” Allie’s mom said in between bites of pancake, seemingly clueless to the turmoil tearing her daughter apart. “I woke up and saw your dad’s name on the inside of my arm. But I had no clue who he was! Your generation is lucky to have the internet. You can Google your soulmate’s name and immediately find out who they are. We were in the dark about our soulmates until we met them in person.”
“Unless you knew your soulmate before you turned thirteen,” Cassandra pointed out. “Like, if you were paired up with someone that went to elementary school with you. Then you wouldn’t need the internet to help find them.”
Allie almost choked on her juice. That comment was uncomfortably close to her reality.
“I suppose that’s true,” her mom said. “That’s very rare, though. Your dad and I met when we were twenty-two, and we met earlier than most.”
“Well, I think it’s better not to use the internet to find your soulmate,” Cassandra declared. She said this frequently, especially when she was asked why she didn’t have social media. “I think you should meet your soulmate naturally, as you were supposed to.”
“So, Allie,” her mom turned to look at her. “Do you have any news for us yet?”
Allie went red. This conversation felt intensely wrong. Worse than the “sex talk” her parents had given her when she was eight. Although she had never considered it before, she wondered why her family felt like they were entitled to this information about her body and her future. Their society had bought into the idea that everyone should wear their soulmate tattoos like a badge of honor—but shouldn’t people be allowed to keep this information private?
Allie was ashamed of her mark. She didn’t want to admit that she had been paired with West Ham’s most obnoxious idiot.
“I don’t have a tattoo yet,” Allie lied, desperately hoping that her family would buy her act. “Guess he must be younger than me.”
“Oh,” her mom said, clearly a little surprised. Her mom and her dad shared a look. “Well, that’s okay, honey. I’m sure you’ll find out who he is soon enough. Your thirteenth birthday doesn’t have to be all about finding your soulmate. You’re so young! You can worry about that later. Today’s still going to be a great day. ”
Allie almost laughed. Her parents thought she would be upset because she hadn’t gotten her tattoo. If they knew the truth...
“Yeah,” Allie said, grateful that her family didn’t prod further. And then she told her greatest lie of the morning. “I don’t really care about soulmates, anyway.”
+
After breakfast, while her parents washed the dishes, Allie went back to hiding in her bedroom. She buried her head in the covers of her bed and let her emotions swallow her.
Harry Bingham, she thought again. How on Earth could I have been paired with Harry Bingham? We’re nothing alike.
She startled at the sound of her door swinging open. It was her sister. Cassandra wore a small, close-lipped smile that set Allie’s nerves on fire. Allie realized immediately that despite escaping the breakfast interrogation, she hadn’t escaped her sister.
Cassandra sat down on the bed.
“You know you can knock, right?” Allie asked sharply.
“Sorry,” Cassandra said, entirely unapologetic. “So, who is it?”
It was unlike Cassandra to be so upfront. Usually, she was the more reserved one, always telling Allie to calm down or be more patient.
“It’s nobody. I told you, I didn’t find a tattoo on my body.”
“I know you’re lying,” Cassandra said. “I can hear it in your voice. You can fool mom and dad, but you can’t fool me.”
Anxiety shot through Allie. She thought that her performance at breakfast was Oscar-worthy, but as always, Cassandra saw through her lies. “I don’t want to tell you, okay? It’s none of your business.”
“I told you the second I found out who mine was.” Cassandra emphasized her point by sticking her wrist, which was encircled with blank ink, in Allie’s face.
Allie could feel her panic growing. Her sister had a point, but Allie couldn’t possibly tell her the truth. How could she?
Allie imagined speaking Harry’s name aloud. She pictured her sister’s reaction, her mouth gaping wide and her eyebrows raised in shock. Cassandra would stutter out a kind response. She would try to make her congratulations sound convincing. Yet no matter what was said, they would both know the truth: Cassandra hated Harry, truly hated him. And that would never change.
No, Allie could not tell the truth.
“Just tell me.” Cassandra pushed. “I’m your sister. You can trust me.”
Allie’s eyes filled with stinging tears. “I do trust you, I promise. But I can’t tell you. Please, Cassandra, please just take my word for it. Please.”
Her sister looked bewildered. Allie knew Cassandra had never seen her beg like this before.
“Fine.” Allie could hear the hurt in her sister’s voice. “You have to tell me one day, though. A soulmate’s not the kind of secret you can hide forever.”
Maybe not, Allie thought. But I can try.
+
When Allie arrived at school the next day, she was determined to corner Harry and confront him about the tattoo.
As it turned out, she didn’t need to search for him. While she was walking down the hallway, a hand grabbed her arm and pulled her behind the lockers into a tight nook. It was Harry. Anger blazed in his eyes. He held up a cautious finger to his lips, shushing her. “Don’t say a word.”
Allie nodded. He stared at her suspiciously, as if he was worried that she would start screaming.
“I think you probably know why I wanted to talk. I’m guessing it was your thirteenth birthday yesterday, Pressman. I don’t know what else could explain the tattoo I woke up with. And to think that I thought I would have a soulmate I liked.” The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable. “You probably prayed every night that you would end up with someone like me, huh?”
He was infuriating. She couldn’t believe that he had the audacity to think that she would ever be interested in him.
“You think you’re so special, don’t you?” Allie said. “Harry, you’re pretty much the last person I’d want to be bonded to.”
“Believe me, the feeling is mutual. You think I want to be part of your shitty family?”
That was one step too far. She was half considering throwing a punch at him. She could do it if she wanted; in this nook, they were hidden from the eyes of their teachers and classmates.
“You’re an asshole,” she spat.
“Bitch.”
Allie wished she could vaporize him on the spot. How could she have been chained to such a callous jerk?
She thought of clever retorts she could say to him, insults that would permanently puncture his inflated pride. Though Cassandra was usually in the spotlight for her intelligence, no one could beat Allie’s wit. She could trade barbs with the best.
Allie considered those rumors that she had overheard about his parents’ loveless marriage. Yes, that would be a fertile site for insults.
She opened her mouth, prepared to escalate the argument. But she stopped herself before she could say anything.
What good would fighting with Harry do? At the end of the day, she would still have his name written on her hip.
Looking at him, she found that he, too, appeared to be at a loss for words. Though he still wore an angry sneer, his eyes were sad. It seemed that they both came to the same realization: they could hurl nasty words at each other for hours, but it wouldn’t fix their situation. If they wanted to overcome their bond, they’d have to work together.
“We’re stuck with each other until we die, aren’t we?” Harry let out a deep sigh. His furious mask cracked, and Allie glimpsed genuine misery and anxiety on his face.
For a moment, neither of them said anything.
Then, a brilliant thought struck Allie. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t thought of it before. “We don’t have to be stuck with each other. There are plenty of soulmates who reject the bond.”
“I guess.” Harry scrutinized her. She could tell he was considering her suggestion. “But how would we make sure that we’ve rejected it permanently? I wouldn’t want you falling in love with me five years from now, Pressman.”
Allie rolled her eyes. “Harry, it’s us. There’s literally no way we’re ever going to be friends, much less…well, you know.”
He nodded. “Okay. So what are you thinking?”
In her mind, a plan started to fall into place. A simple, perfect plan. “We both have to promise that we’ll never speak of this…this bond to anyone else. Ever. We have to keep it a secret until the day we die.”
“Like a pact?” Harry asked.
“Yes, a pact. Except a pact isn’t enough. We have to do more than that. Before we turn twenty, we both have to agree to get our marks covered up.”
Harry seemed much less certain about this suggestion. Covering up soulmate tattoos was technically illegal. Most tattoo artists outright refused to do it, and those who were caught in the act could face up to a year in jail time. Eventually, however, he conceded, “Okay, fine. I can agree to that. But you need to swear on your life that you’re going to get yours covered up, too. This is a two-way street, Pressman. If I’m going to jail, so are you.”
“I swear on my life I’ll...,” Allie paused, considering her words. “You know, I feel like we should have some official pledge or something. For example, I, Allie Pressman, swear on my life that I will never mention that my soulmate is Harry Bingham. I will do everything in my power to keep my tattoo hidden.”
Harry snorted. “Who do you think you are? The queen? Let’s just shake on it and call it a day.”
Allie glared at him. “Just say the damn words, will you?”
“Fine. I, Harry Bingham, swear on my life that I will never mention my soulmate is Allie Pressman. I will do everything I can to keep my tattoo hidden. Yada yada yada, you get the gist. Can I go now?”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were the one who pulled me behind these lockers in the first place.”
“Touché.”
Just like that, it was settled. Their soulmate marks were a secret that they alone would keep. And they would never, ever act on their bond.
+
For two years after that, neither Harry nor Allie spoke about the curse they shared. They didn’t interact in the hallway or the classroom. They both pretended that the other didn’t exist, and they were both happy with this arrangement.
While her classmates celebrated their budding relationships or dreamed of the day they met their other half, Allie fantasized about getting a new, large tattoo to cover up the one on her hip. She was fifteen now; there were only a few more years until she could write Harry off as a memory.
Sometimes, she heard murmurs about him in the hallway. Sometimes, it seemed all of West Ham High School wanted to know his soulmate’s identity. Between his looks and his wealth, Harry was considered an ideal match. But no one was ever able to discover whose name was on his body.
Harry was hardly a factor in her life, much less her soulmate. He was a problem that she had solved, and she was content to let him stay that way.
+
Mid-October during her sophomore year of high school, Allie planned a trip to Manhattan. Her aunt, who lived in Virginia, was having a weekend getaway to the city, and she had invited both Allie and Cassandra to join for the last day of her vacation.
A week before the trip, Allie reminded Cassandra (who was swamped with homework as always) about their aunt’s visit. “Do you want to come?”
“What day are you going?” her sister replied.
“This Sunday.”
Cassandra frowned. “I can’t. I have to study for a math test that day. My grade is on the edge right now, and if I do poorly on the exam, I’ll get a B+ in the class. I can’t risk it. Trust me, I would go if I could.”
Allie understood. She knew her sister wanted to go to Yale, and she had seen the statistics. The admissions rate was around six percent. Even for the best of students, Yale was a reach. Allie was a bit sad—the city was always more fun with Cassandra by her side—but she wasn’t a child anymore, and she didn’t need her sister to accompany her everywhere.
“It’s no problem,” Allie reassured. “Just let me know if there’s anything that you want me to buy for you while I’m down there.”
+
Allie went to the city alone, bringing only her black purse and her cell phone with her. She arrived at Penn Station in the early morning. Aunt Carly, decked out in her characteristic prints and bold colors, was waiting for her.
“Allie!” her aunt hollered. Her obnoxiously bright orange-red lip gloss matched the color of her handbag perfectly. “It’s been so long since I last saw you. You look taller—have you grown?”
Allie gave her aunt a tight hug and laughed. “Since August? No, I don’t think so. Same height as always.”
“Any boys?” Her aunt asked with a wink.
Allie’s chest tightened. She hated that question, truly hated it. “Nope, no one yet. But I’m happy being single.”
Luckily, Aunt Carly dropped the subject, and moved on to talking about a list of all the clothes and books and trinkets the two of them would be splurging on throughout the day. There was no budget, it seemed; Aunt Carly acted as though her pockets were bottomless.
They spent the first part of the day shopping on Fifth Avenue and hopping into trendy boutiques. Aunt Carly bought dozens of clothes with dizzyingly high prices. By the time they went to eat lunch, her aunt had seven large shopping bags in her arms. Allie was more frugal; she had bought one bag’s worth of clothes.
After lunch, they spent their time exploring Manhattan. They meandered through the streets, grabbing snacks in between people watching. Allie loved the vibrancy and anonymity of urban life. Here, she shed the labels that followed her in West Ham.
After ending the day with burgers and fries at the Shake Shack in Grand Central Station, her aunt prepared to board her train back to Virginia. Her tiny frame was dwarfed by the assortment of large bags and suitcases she carried with her.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay walking back to Penn Station?” Aunt Carly asked. “I wish we had arranged a train for you from here. The walk is so far.”
“I’ll be fine,” Allie promised. “You don’t need to worry about me.”
“Actually, you know what?” Aunt Carly pulled her green wallet out of her purse and grabbed a couple of twenty-dollar bills from its folds. “I just don’t feel comfortable with you walking all that way. Take this money and take a cab. Please, do it for my peace of mind. I would feel much safer if you did.”
“Okay, I will,” Allie said, knowing full well that she was lying. “Have a safe trip home!”
Allie watched as her aunt took her bags and boarded the train. As soon as Carly was out of sight, she pocketed the money for herself. That money could be useful for another day. And, she thought, there was something kind of peaceful about a solitary night walk.
She left Grand Central and pulled up the directions to Penn Station on her phone. It was dark outside, but the way was straightforward enough, so she put away the phone and let herself fully absorb the city. She was mesmerized by the myriad of people who surrounded her. It was truly electric.
Allie peered into clubs where the night was only beginning, and where men and women knocked back liquor like it was water. She walked by a row of cramped food trucks, where the heavy scent of spices soaked in through her lungs and warmed her to the core. Compared to West Ham, New York City might as well have been another planet—a wondrous, delightful alien world.
She must have taken a wrong turn, because she realized she had walked halfway down an alleyway she didn’t recognize. The near-omnipresent city crowd had disappeared. The only sounds were the quiet hum of cars on busy streets and the plinking sound of water dripping from a drainpipe onto the street.
Allie suddenly felt very, very small.
She couldn’t have gone too far from a main street. So she told herself that she shouldn’t be worrying, really. All she had to do was walk through to the other end of the alley. Once she was back on a major road, she could pull out her phone again and check for directions.
Allie walked down the narrow street, thinking, for the first time, that maybe she should have taken that cab after all. In polluted Manhattan, there were no stars to light her way. The drainpipe’s dripping water drummed an eerie rhythm—plink, plink, plink.
Behind her, slow footsteps made squishing sounds on the wet pavement. She glanced over her shoulder quickly. It was a man, tall and blonde, strolling nonchalantly toward her. He seemed to have emerged fully formed from shadow. His eyes traced over her with feigned disinterest, only to light up when he set his sights on her purse and shopping bag.
She picked up her pace. The footsteps behind her sped up to match her strides.
That couldn’t be a coincidence. A host of horrible nightmares burst into her head. Assault, murder, robbery...
She needed to walk faster.
Allie started scurrying down the street.
So did he.
When Allie glanced over her shoulder again, she could see the man closing in on her. Terrified, she broke into a sprint. But just as before, he mirrored her actions, and from the sound of it, he was a faster runner than she.
A cold hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her back mid-run. Allie tripped and went tumbling to the ground. The palm of her left hand scraped across gritty gravel, tearing her skin open. Blood oozed out from the cut and dribbled onto the street.
Allie stared up at the man with wide, stunned eyes. He whipped out a black glock from the pocket of his oversized jacket. His hands shook as if he had never pointed a killing weapon at another person before. Up close, he looked young, perhaps only one or two years older than her.
Adrenaline jolted through her body, waking her up from her dreamy wandering. The pain of her injury receded as she focused on the weapon in front of her. This could be life or death, she realized. She had taken one wrong turn and ended up against the barrel of a gun.
“Give me your bags,” the man demanded.
“What?”
“Did I fucking stutter?” And indeed, though his hands shook, his voice was calm.
The man jerked his gun in the direction of her purse and shopping bag as if his threat hadn’t been clear enough.
“Okay, okay,” Allie said in rushed breaths.
She took off her bags with her wounded hand and held them out to him. She stifled a cry as her purse’s handle bit into her skin. Her blood smeared over the metal, streaking it with red.
In a swift move, he snatched her belongings from her fingers. It amazed her how deftly he could move while still managing to point his gun at her.
He quickly pulled her wallet out of her purse and rifled through paper bills quickly, including the money that her aunt had given her for a taxi. In the dim light of the alley, she could see her blood glistening on his fingertips, marking up every paper bill he touched.
He shut the wallet with a snap. His eyes darted nervously to each side of the alleyway, presumably checking to ensure no one had seen him rob her.
“Now, close your eyes and count to thirty,” he ordered. For added intimidation, he waved his gun at her again. “And count slowly.”
Allie nearly whimpered with fear, but did as he said. She let her vision go dark. Without her sight, she couldn’t help but imagine his finger on the trigger, ready to kill her. She wasn’t putting up a fight. It would be an easy crime.
“One. Two. Three…” she counted.
But the shot never came. She heard the muffled thunk of fabric meeting heavy plastic, and then the squish of his feet as he sprinted down the alleyway. In seconds, she could no longer hear him at all. The city had swallowed him up. She was alone again.
Allie opened her eyes and slowly rose from the ground. She winced as she plucked jagged pieces of gravel from her hands. She could still feel cold fear curling in her chest, although that emotion was quickly being replaced by the panicked realization that she had just lost her money and her ticket back home.
She was lucky about one thing: he hadn’t asked her to empty her pockets. Her phone was still tucked snuggly in the back pocket of her jeans.
+
Allie dialed Cassandra’s number. It was past midnight, so there was a high likelihood that her sister would already be asleep, especially since she had a test the next day. Her parents, notorious for going to bed early, would certainly already have dozed off.
The line rang and rang, but Cassandra didn’t pick up. Then: Hi, you’ve reached Cassandra Pressman. Leave a message and I’ll call you back as soon as I can.
Since her sister’s phone had gone straight to voicemail, she would have to rely on someone else. She went through her contact list one by one, praying that at least one of her friends would pick up. Will, Becca, Gordie, Bean: none of them answered her calls.
The blood on her left hand had started to clot. Her cell was rapidly running out of battery. She needed someone to pick up.
She scrolled through her contacts again, calling people she barely knew. She even called Elle Tomkins, who she had spoken maybe a total of three words to. Over and over, she was met with disappointment when no one picked up.
Allie was quickly running out of options when she came across a person she had tried to push to the corners of her mind. Her finger hovered over his name in her contact list.
Harry Bingham.
It seemed wrong to call him. Wrong, when he was constantly at Cassandra’s throat. Wrong, when they had done everything possible to ignore each other since she turned thirteen.
You know what? Allie thought to herself. Fuck it.
Before she could stop herself, she called him.
He picked up on the second ring. “Hello?” His voice was thick with sleep.
“Hey. It’s Allie.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s the twenty-first century. I have caller I.D. What do you want?”
Ugh. Though his rudeness was no surprise, it still irked her. But at this point, it seemed like he was her only hope, so she tried to suppress her irritation. “Can I ask you a favor? I know it’s a lot to ask, but I have no one else to turn to and I’m scared and I don’t know what else to do.”
“Shit, Allie. Just spit it out.”
“I’m stuck in New York City. A man mugged me and took all my money and my ticket back home. I wouldn’t have called you, except I’ve already tried my family and all my friends. Can you come get me?”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. In her head, she pictured him lying in bed, half-asleep and sneering at her. She imagined that he was hovering his finger over the red button on his phone, ready to end the call at any moment. Knowing Harry, he would probably hang up on her and go right back to sleep, and in the morning he’d forget that she’d ever called him.
“Hello?” she said, breaking the silence. “Harry? Are you still there?”
“Yeah, I’m still here.” He sighed. “You’re going to owe me for this, Pressman.”
Relief rushed over her. “So you’ll do it?”
“Yeah, I will. Might be a couple of hours before I can get to you, though. I’m going to have to take an Amtrak or something, because my dad will get pissed if I start racking up miles on my car.” The trains from West Ham to Penn Station took an hour and a half minimum, and since fewer trains ran at night, the next train to the city probably wouldn’t be for a while. “Do you have somewhere safe to stay until then?”
“Um, I was just planning on waiting around at the train station.”
“Jesus Christ.” He cursed under his breath. “You so owe me for this. Alright, walk to the Waterwhite Hotel. It’s only two blocks from the station. Tell the person at the front desk that you’re a friend of the Bingham family. They’ll let you wait in the lobby until I show up.”
A cool rush of relief flooded her. “Harry? Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it. Like, seriously. Don’t mention this to anyone.”
+
Harry arrived at the Waterwhite a little over two hours later. His shirt was rumpled and he looked like he desperately needed two shots of espresso. Allie had never seen him look so disheveled. He must have come immediately after she called him.
Allie was waiting for him on a modern, dark blue couch in the hotel lobby. She watched as he walked over to the tall brunette working the reception desk. He smiled and said something to the woman. Her previously bored expression turned happy, and she pointed to where Allie was sitting. Allie could see him thanking her with one of his classic Bingham smiles before walking over to where she was waiting. Even bedraggled, he still somehow managed to charm.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said. If he noticed her state of distress—her grimy shoes, her still-bloody hand, her tired red eyes—he did not comment on it.
She nodded. “Thank you, again, Harry. I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t here.”
He didn’t respond. They walked to the train station in near silence. The clacking of her shoes on the pavement was the only sound either of them made on the way there.
When they reached Penn Station, Harry paid for her Amtrak ticket back to West Ham in cash. This, too, was a near-wordless exchange. She thanked him. He merely grunted in response.
After waiting for thirty minutes, their train arrived. Unlike most trains out of the city, this one was near empty, occupied only by sleep-deprived workers commuting to their morning shift and a few odd stragglers.
Allie slid into a seat near the front of a car. Rather than sliding into the seat next to her, Harry spread himself out on the row of seats across from her. He rested his back against the window, stretched his legs across the seats, and let his feet dangle into the aisle.
Allie pulled out her phone to check the time. 3:23 a.m. was etched in glowing lights.
The train rolled to a start. Harry closed his eyes and slouched in his seat as if he hoped to resume the sleep he had been enjoying before she had called. When he stretched his arms behind his head, his shirt rose to expose a sliver of skin by his hip.
She could see the start of her name, inked on him in her penmanship. Allie Pressman. She had never seen it before. It pained her to look at it, although there was an almost beautiful quality to the tattoo. Unlike tattoos done by hand, a soulmate mark would never fade or need touch-ups.
He dropped his arms. The tattoo vanished under a cascade of black fabric.
“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.” He was looking at her with half-shut eyes. So, he’d caught her staring after all.
Maybe it was sheer curiosity, or maybe her tiredness had made her weak, but she wanted to see those words on his skin.
Without responding, Allie lifted the edge of her top and nudged down one side of her jeans so that his name was fully revealed. The tattoo was the same as always, stark black ink against pale skin. It felt strange to have her mark exposed to the world. No one had ever seen it but her.
Harry followed her lead. He lifted the edge of his shirt, showing his tattoo to her once more. This time, she could see the entirety of her signature, like a claiming brand on a boy who despised her.
They sat in silence, examining each other’s inked skin with fascination.
“It’s weird, isn’t it? Seeing your name on someone else’s body,” she said.
“Yeah, very weird.” Harry tore his eyes away from her skin. Then, with a wry smirk, he said, “Almost as weird as having to cross state lines at three in the morning to pick up your enemy’s little sister.”
“Why did you help me?” she asked, genuinely curious.
He looked surprised at her question. “Allie, I know what you and your sister think of me, but I’m not a bad person. I wasn’t going to leave you stranded in New York.”
Allie didn’t quite know what to say to that. Harry was right—she and Cassandra thought he was all West Ham’s worst traits distilled into one human being. Could it really be that after years of hating him, he was worth redeeming?
The train swayed hypnotically on the tracks. The cabin was quiet except for a man snoring three rows away from them. She and Harry stared at each other silently, truly seeing each other for the first time.
He seemed different in this setting, she noticed. Away from his callous friends and his detached parents, he seemed lost and sad and beautiful and kind.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she finally said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Really? And what exactly do you think of me? I know you don’t like me, so don’t even try to deny it.”
Allie rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t know, Harry. I think you’re richer than I’ll ever be. I think you’re smart but overconfident. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t think about you much at all.”
Harry smiled at her. Had she ever gotten a genuine smile from him before? She didn’t think so. She was used to his cold glares and bitter frowns, so this unfamiliar expression sent a shock of warmth through her.
“Don’t think about me at all, huh?” he said. “I’m hurt. Here I was, thinking I’d been in your dreams since thirteen.”
“Haunting my nightmares, maybe,” she retorted.
“Ouch.” He turned away from her to look out the window.
Guilt flared up in Allie, although she wasn’t quite sure why. “As if you care what I think of you.”
He turned back to face her. He wasn’t smiling anymore. “Why would you think I don’t care?” He sounded surprisingly genuine, completely dropping the teasing tone he’d previously used with her.
Allie suddenly felt anxious. She was trapped on a train with Harry Bingham, and he kept subverting her expectations. Without the judgment of West Ham hanging over her head, she didn’t know how to behave around him.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I think that because of a conversation from many years ago, when we both agreed to pretend that there was nothing between us.”
The train’s fluorescent lights flickered out above them. For a moment, they were plunged into the dark. The only light was the blue glow of the city outside, which bounced brilliantly off Allie’s white sneakers.
Across from her, Harry’s eyes glittered dangerously. He looked tired but wild, like there was something lurking under his skin that only revealed itself in the dark.
It was at that moment that she realized how little she knew him.
“I remember waking up on that day, the day of your birthday,” Harry said, still cast in darkness. “I remember seeing the tattoo for the first time. I was terrified and angry, but I wondered…what if? What if we didn’t deny the bond?”
Allie could feel her whole body tense up with renewed stress. She was grateful that the lights had gone out—hopefully, he couldn’t see her blushing.
Why was he divulging this to her?
Harry laughed. The sound was sharp. When he spoke again, his voice was newly guarded. “I never wanted to be bonded with you. I still don’t. But when I look at the ink on my skin, I think of you. Always. So yes, Pressman, I do care what you think of me.”
The train’s lights startled back on. In the full light, Harry studied her for one more moment. His gaze was so intense it felt like it was burning her. She searched for the words to respond to him, but they kept getting stuck on the way to her tongue.
Before she could come up with anything, he pulled a pair of earbuds from his pocket and shoved them in his ears. He closed his eyes, too, blocking out the sight of her. And just like that, he was back to ignoring her.
+
They arrived at the West Ham train station at five in the morning. The sun had not yet risen, and the dark sky was speckled with tiny stars. Just a short train ride had separated her from the everlasting citylight of New York. Her shopping spree and mugging almost felt as if they were figments of her imagination, although her scraped hands and the missing weight of her purse were painful reminders that the past twenty-four hours had been real.
“Need a ride home?” Harry asked.
“If you don’t mind.” She felt guilty for asking so much of him. She hadn’t even expected him to answer her call, and he had ended up coming all the way to New York to get her.
“It’s whatever,” he said. He rubbed his tired eyes and took out the keys to his Maserati.
Harry had parked next to the station. They got into the car like phantoms, sucked of all their energy.
Five minutes later, they turned onto Allie’s street. Harry made sure to pull over three houses before hers. That way, her family wouldn’t hear the purr of his engine or see her coming from his car.
“This is just between you and me, right?” Allie asked. “Just like before?”
Harry jerked his chin in response—a drowsy, clumsy attempt at a nod, she assumed. After a beat, he said, “Right. Just like before.”
There was nothing left for her to say to him. So she just said thanks, and then she exited the car.
He zoomed off the second her door shut behind her. As she watched the silhouette of his Maserati drive out of sight, she was struck once more by what a wild night it had been. She had been saved by her worst enemy. She had sat by him on an old train and in a luxury vehicle. She had shown her mark to him. How out of character—perhaps she had been seized by a bout of insanity after she was mugged.
She was thankful for his help. She was also ready to go back to forgetting that Harry even existed. With any luck, their relationship would return to the exact state it had been in before: nonexistent.
#harry bingham#allie pressman#the society#harry x allie#hallie#it took SO LONG (I'm sorry) but part 1 is finally here#soulmate au#hope you guys enjoy :)#fic: hallie#my fic#your name on my skin
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Rose Tattoo [Chapter Two]
Rating: PG
Summary: Calum moved to New York after high school to gain experience as a tattoo artist. It was his hope to return home and open a shop in Sydney. However, life has a way of interrupting even the best thought out plans and Calum found himself still in New York at age 25 with a son and a job as an artist at a shop owned by one of his best friends. His heart had been broken and he told himself - and his friends - time and time again that the last thing he needed to worry about was finding a girlfriend. However, despite the turmoil in his life, he finds himself drawn to the girl with rose tattoo. | Inspired by this blurb. | This is Stevie’s face claim!
Word Count: 6.7k
SERIES MASTERLIST | CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE
Stevie stared at her laptop, the blinking cursor and blank word document seeming to mock her as she waited for the words swirling around her brain to magically appear on the screen. She knew what she wanted to write - the interview she’d done the day before seemed to lend itself to a certain kind of article and was neatly outlined in her mind - but it was as if her brain couldn’t connect with her fingers. She felt as if she were incapable of moving, that if she tried too hard to type, her head would explode, and it was beginning to make her heart pound and her head ache. She’d been stuck for nearly an hour, her eyes sore as she stared at the bright screen, and finally huffed a frustrated breath as she reached out and closed her laptop.
She wondered, idly, as she glanced around the small coffee shop if it was the noise distracting her or maybe the overcast sky affect her mood but, if she were being honest with herself, she would be forced to acknowledge that it was neither of those things. It was a myriad of feelings outside of her control, a series of chemical imbalances in her brain and life events that blindsided her, and she hated feeling like she was barely treading water when she was once a proficient swimmer.
It had been a rough few months adjusting to the seemingly never-ending changes that rushed into her life like tornadoes, spinning out of control and leaving her sanity in shambles, and she was struggling to cope with it all. She had always had a safety net, a group of friends and family close by and ready to catch her should she ever fall, so being on her own and on the verge of spiraling in a city over a thousand miles from home only added to the feeling of helplessness she’d been saddled with since Angela’s diagnosis.
It was hard, watching her best friend go from the brightest light in a room to being snuffed out in a matter of months, and she knew that she wasn’t handling it well. But that was no surprise. Stevie had never handled death well. Dealing with mortality, acknowledging that death was inevitable and a force of nature that could not be ignored, was hard for her. Her worst fear had always been losing the ones she loved and having that fear become reality had shaken her to the core.
She wanted, desperately, to feel happy that she was sitting in a cafe in Manhattan, drinking tea and writing for a magazine she’d read all her life. She wanted to enjoy the cold, the real winter that she never got back home in Louisiana, and play in the snow. She wanted to celebrate her success, a job and a life that she only ever dreamed she’d have, and be grateful that she was getting such an experience.
But it all felt hollow. Empty. Wrong.
Any victory celebrated felt like a slap in the face to the best friend she’d lost, to the family she’d left behind, and to the life she’d given up in order to achieve it. She felt guilty for surviving, for thriving, while everyone around her seemed to be crumbling. She knew that it was just something akin to survivor’s guilt and that it would leave her eventually but she could feel herself slipping back into a headspace she hadn’t been since she was a teenager and, for the first time in years, didn’t feel like fighting it. She wanted to wallow in her misery, to grieve and fall apart in peace, but that seemed counterproductive.
Instead of taking time to process her emotions, instead of talking about them or working through them, Stevie shoved them to the back of her mind. She let them fester, locked away in some dark recess that would likely break her some day, as she had always done and put on a happy face as a coworker - the one who’d recommended Calum to her - took the seat across from her.
“How’s the writing coming?” Noah asked as he placed his own coffee onto the table along with his laptop and notebook. “They’ve got you doing a feature, yeah?”
“Mm,” Stevie confirmed with a hum as she reached for her tea. “The interview went well. The band was good, they gave me a lot of good quotes to work with and a good idea for how I want the article to work. I just need to get it from my brain onto the page,” she sighed as she tapped her nails against the hardwood of the table. “My brain is stuck today.”
Noah made a noise of sympathy as he tapped at the keys on his laptop for a moment before he peered over the screen to glance at her. “You should take the rest of the day,” he suggested as he glanced at the time. “The deadline for that is, what, Monday?” When Stevie nodded, Noah followed suit and took a sip of his coffee before he continued. “You’ve done more this week than pretty much anyone else. Give your brain a break. You’ve got your second appointment with Cal today, right?”
At the mention of her impending appointment with Calum, Stevie felt herself perk slightly. She was still nervous about her tattoo, the idea of spending another few hours with a needle repeatedly being stabbed into her skin would likely never truly appeal to her, but she was eager to finish the tattoo and see the final piece. The base that Calum had done had healed and though there were still details and color to be added, she was thrilled with how it looked so far. It felt as if it belonged on her skin, like it had always been a part of her body, and she was glad that she’d taken a step out of her comfort zone and gotten it done. Completing it would also mean a check on the bucket list and the ability to move on to the next task.
Also, somewhere in the back of her mind, Stevie was looking forward to seeing Calum again. He was sweet, a gentle soul and easy to talk to, and she was looking forward to chatting with him again. He had made the appointment fly by and she hoped that the same would be true this time.
“Yeah,” she nodded, finally answering Noah’s question as she glanced over at him. “Thanks for the recommendation. He was really good. He still has some details to add and the color but the tattoo’s beautiful so far. It’s exactly what I wanted.”
“Good,” Noah nodded with a smile as he gestured to her arm, “can I see? I’ve got an appointment with him next week. I want to add to my leg.” When Stevie shrugged her jacket off her shoulder and rolled up the sleeve of her shirt enough for Noah to see the bold black ink against her skin, his eyes widened and he nodded in appreciation. “That’s bigger than I thought you’d go for a first tattoo but, you’re right. It’s beautiful. He did a great job.”
Stevie hummed her agreement as she reached for her phone to text her boss and ask for the rest of the afternoon off. “He really did. I’m excited to get it finished. He was just really good all around. I was freaking out before, like, almost having a panic attack outside the shop but he was really good about it. And he was really easy to talk to. It was a good experience.”
“He’s a really nice guy,” Noah agreed as he tapped at his keyboard. “I’ve been trying to get an interview with him for ages, though. Ashton agreed but only on the condition we feature them both and Cal is great at dodging my requests. Think you could put in a good word for me today?” Noah requested as he glanced over at Stevie with a grin.
“Yeah, I’ll see if I can remember to hound the poor guy about getting back to you while he’s jamming a needle into my skin,” Stevie nodded as she felt her phone vibrate in her hand. It was confirmation from her boss that she had the rest of the afternoon free and, with a sigh of relief, she grabbed her laptop and shoved it into her bag. “I’m going to go walk my dog before I go in. I’ll see you on Monday, Noah.”
“See you, kid,” he called, taking great pride in the nickname though he was only two years older than her. “Try to get me that interview!”
Without glancing over her shoulder, Stevie flashed her middle finger in Noah's direction - something she knew he wouldn't take offense to - and left the coffee shop to head back to her apartment.
*****
As Stevie crossed town, eager to get back to her apartment and take her dog for a walk before she had to sit still for a few hours, Calum sat on his couch and stared at the cellphone in his hands. He was exhausted, more so than he had been in years, and felt overwhelmed as he realized that his plans for the day had fallen through. He could hear Tāne’s coughing, the same sound that had plagued him for days, and he felt his heart constrict in his chest as he stood to find the cough medicine.
Calum had always considered himself lucky. By all accounts, Tāne had always been a good child. He had never been very fussy. He went to bed on time, was easy to put down, and was a sweet, affectionate, pleasant child. He was easy - as easy as a child could be, anyway - and Calum was grateful. Not much changed when he was sick - Tāne was still a sweet, pleasant child - but he didn’t sleep as much, too sick to get comfortable without the aid of some sort of medication, and Calum’s heart hurt for his son. He was slightly irritable, a little more emotional than usual, and didn’t want to be far from his father as he battled
Tāne was on the upswing after a rather serious bout of flu and Calum was relieved that the worst of it seemed to be over. He wasn’t quite back to his usual self, not yet, but he didn’t look as miserable as he had and he no longer felt as warm as he had the night Calum had taken him to the emergency room. He was well enough for Calum to be able to report to the shop for the first time in nearly a week - Calum was already dreading the few makeup appointments he would have to reschedule, though he was thankful for Ashton stepping in and taking a few of them to lighten the load - but the babysitter that Calum always used, and trusted to handle Tāne in such a state, was on her way to take an exam and no one else seemed to be able to fill in on such short notice.
He only had one client, Stevie, and he knew that if their initial meeting was anything to go by, she wouldn’t be one to have a meltdown if he had to cancel. However, Calum was itching to get back into the shop - this was the longest he’d been out since Tāne was born - and didn’t want to make Stevie wait any longer for her finished tattoo. He remembered her story vividly, the pain in her eyes and the tremor in her voice as she recalled the loss of her friend, and wanted to help her close that chapter. He knew that it would be at least another three weeks before he could fit her in again and he didn’t want her to have to wait.
As soon as Calum gathered Tāne in his arms and carried him to the living room, his son was clinging to his neck and fighting sleep. Even if Calum was able to find a sitter, he knew that he wouldn’t want to be far from his father when he felt so bad and, honestly, Calum wasn’t fond of that idea, either. So, though he knew Ashton would agree to let Tāne rest in the back room as Calum tattooed Stevie, he grabbed his phone and called to check, just in case.
The moment Ashton was on the other line, Calum could hear the hum of noise from the shop. He knew that things would thin out by the time he and Tāne arrived, there wasn’t a lot on the books for that afternoon, and that the others would gladly help him keep an eye on his son. As he asked, Ashton assured him of as much.
“Of course you should bring him,” he huffed, almost offended that Calum would even bother to ask. “There are still some of his snacks in the back if he gets hungry and Luke should be done by the time you get here. I’m sure he won’t mind sticking around and helping keep an eye on him.”
Calum could hear Luke ask, “Is he bringing Tāne?” in the background and confirmed that he was, indeed, to Ashton. “He’s better but he still doesn’t feel great. I don’t want to be too far from him. You sure you don’t mind?”
“I’m hanging up on you for even asking,” Ashton huffed and Calum smiled at the sentiment despite the slight anxiety he still felt. He knew just how much Ashton, Luke, and Michael loved his son - almost as much as he did - and he knew that Tāne would never be an imposition. Before he could speak, Ashton said, “Bring him a blanket, it’s kind of cold in here today. See you in a few,” and ended the call.
Calum laughed, his heart easing just a bit, and dropped his phone onto the couch to free his hands. He rubbed Tāne’s back, his fingers gentle against the material of his t-shirt as he listened to his son’s slightly raspy breathing. “You want to go see Uncle Ash?” he asked, his voice quiet as he shifted just enough to see Tāne’s face. “And Uncle Luke?”
Despite not feeling his best, Tāne was never one to pass up an opportunity to see his uncles. He still looked a little worse for the wear with dark circles beneath his eyes and red cheeks, clearly displaying his warm temperature, but he brightened at the prospect of seeing the boys. He didn’t respond verbally, just a small smile and a nod, but that was all the agreement that Calum needed as he returned the gesture.
“Alright,” he hummed before he brushed a stray curl from Tāne’s forehead. “Let’s get dressed and we’ll head to the shop, bub.”
Forty-five minutes later, Calum strolled into the shop with Tāne in his arms and a backpack full of his son’s favorite items - a pale green blanket, a plush penguin (given to him by Uncle Luke), and a copy of Toy Story, ready to be watched on Calum’s laptop - on his back. Calum knew that Tāne would need at least a little bit of distraction, something to occupy his mind and soothe him back to sleep, as he worked and hoped that the things he’d brought were good enough. Almost immediately, Tāne was scooped out of his arms by Ashton with Luke not far behind.
“Get set up for Stevie,” Ashton told him, a small grin at the mention of Stevie (despite Calum’s attempt to redirect him, Ashton still hadn’t given up his attempt to play matchmaker). “Luke and I’ve got our favorite little dude,” he assured him before he turned his full attention to the small boy in his arms. As Ashton took Tāne toward the back, Luke grabbed the bag from Calum’s hands and grinned at him, offering a quick thumbs up, before he followed along.
Calum stood for a moment, gathering himself and savoring the brief respite, before he breathed a deep sigh and set about getting ready for his appointment. He felt a slight bit of his worry ease as he ran through his mental checklist - ink, gloves, paper towels, machine, A&D - and began preparing his station. Having Ashton and Luke, two of the people he trusted more than anyone else, watching Tāne was a welcome relief. It was normal, something that happened more often than not, and gave him a moment to breathe as he listened to Tāne giggle at a story Ashton was telling him.
He hadn’t always been a worrier. He worried whenever Tāne got sick or hurt, just like any parent would, but he’d been the calm one. He never let the worry shake him as he hoped for the best and kept his head on straight. He kissed scrapes and dried eyes and encouraged him to get back up (although he never pushed; sometimes a child just needed to be held and cuddled and Calum was more than willing to provide that). But the impending custody battle had him rattled. He didn’t want to lose his son - not when Tāne meant the world to him - and he felt himself growing anxious over every little wrong move he could possibly make. He worried that he would do something wrong and that he would never see his son again and it hurt more than he cared to admit.
As he imagined losing Tāne, Calum felt his throat tighten and his hands shake. He never imagined his split with El would end in this way, with them bitter and angry at one another, but it did and it hurt that she was only just trying to step into Tāne’s life. Calum didn’t know what her motives were but, knowing her, it was purely out of spite and the last thing he wanted was for his son to grow up in a house where he wasn’t wanted.
“I’m sorry I can’t stay. Sierra and I are - are you okay?”
Calum looked up as Luke returned to the main area of the shop and frowned at the look of concern on his face. He loved his friends and appreciated the concern that they held for him but hated feeling so fragile. He was always the strong one, the one that picked up the pieces for them, and found it difficult to be in the reverse position. He wanted to assure them that he was alright, that he could handle what was being thrown at him, but that was hard to do when he wasn’t sure he could.
Regardless, he nodded at Luke’s question and returned his attention to his workstation. “Yeah,” he nodded, glancing over his shoulder to throw Luke a smile. “Have fun with Sierra. Don’t worry about us. Tāne’s feeling better than he has been and Stevie, the client I have coming in, seems pretty understanding. I feel like she won’t mind if I have to get up and check in on him.”
“You sure?” Luke asked, his frown deepening as he leaned against the counter and watched Calum wipe down his station with disinfectant. “I can stick around for a little while longer. Sierra won’t mind.”
“He’s sure,” Ashton assured Luke as he walked out of the back, wiping his wet hands on a paper towel. “I’m staying. I’ve got to get some drawing done but it’s easier for me to get up and walk to the back than it will be for you,” he rationalized, stopping Calum’s protests before he could start. “You needed to get out of the house, to do something other than be a dad for a few minutes, and I get it. I was just going to draw at home, anyway. I really don’t mind sticking around. Luke, leave. You’ve been a lot of help this week. I’ll see you on Monday,” Ashton said, glancing at Luke as he nodded toward the door.
Luke hesitated for a moment, his phone in his hand and ready to text his girlfriend about their potential changed plans, but Ashton’s look and Calum’s urging convinced him to leave. “If you need me,” he began as he reached for his jacket and began shrugging it on, “just give me a call. I can come back.”
“I appreciate it, Luke,” Calum acknowledged, and he really did. He appreciated everything his friends did for him, the love they had for Tāne, and didn’t know where he would be without them. He watched as Luke waved in their direction and headed for the door with one final glance over his shoulder before he left for the night.
On his way out, Luke held the door open for who he assumed - correctly - was Stevie and gave her a smile before he headed to meet Sierra.
Ashton spotted Stevie first, his grin widening at the sight of the green-haired girl, and he stood to welcome her. “You actually came back,” he teased, his eyes bright as he gestured for her to make her way to the tattoo area. “Calum didn’t scare you off?”
“Mm, not yet,” she confirmed, her own tone playful as she glanced at Calum. “But I can’t promise I’ll be getting anymore tattoos after this one. I don’t know if I’m fully sold on the repetition of tattoos yet.”
“You can hold a conversation right now,” Calum pointed out, a small smile on his lips as he glanced up from where he was setting up the chair for her, “I feel like you might be getting a taste for it.”
Calum watched Stevie for a moment. She looked calmer than she had been the first time, her hands not shaking and her breathing steady, but she still had a hint of nerves present on her face. He could see the stiffness in her shoulders and the way she twisted the rings on her fingers but, as he’d pointed out, she could hold a conversation and had a genuine smile on her lips as she greeted them both. She might not be sold yet but Calum could sense that she was nowhere near as petrified as she had been just two weeks ago.
“I’m finishing up,” Calum informed her as he glanced at the small metal tray filled with items. “I’ll be ready to start in just a few minutes.” He hesitated for a moment, unsure of whether he should tell her what was happening with Tāne upfront or just hope that she wouldn’t mind a few extra breaks. After a moment’s consideration, he decided on the former and added, “I just want to let you know that my son’s here. He hasn’t been feeling to great so he’s in the back. We might take a few more breaks than we did last time, just so I can go check in on him, if that’s alright.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Stevie assured him, no hesitation whatsoever as she nodded earnestly. “I can reschedule if you need me to,” she offered, her head titled as she watched him fill a cup with ink. “I’d love to get it finished but I can wait until the timing is better for you,” she said and Calum lifted his head to meet her gaze.
She looked so sincere, so earnest, and it made him happy to know that he’d read her correctly. He was glad that she was as sweet as she’d seemed and that she was his client for the evening, not someone who wouldn’t understand. “No, tonight’s fine,” Calum assured her with a nod. “He’s getting better, he feels better than he has all week, but I still want to keep an eye on him. If we reschedule, it’ll be a few weeks, at the earliest. I’ve had to push back everything for the next week.”
“I really don’t mind. Take care of your family first. I can wait, I promise.”
Ashton watched the pair of them interact, a smile on his lips, and Calum wanted to throw a roll of paper towels at him. This would only fuel his delusion that they would be the perfect pair and Calum really didn’t want to endure another week of teasing from his friends. However, he couldn’t deny the relief and slight admiration he felt for her as she encouraged him to delay something that meant so much to her so that he could take care of his son.
Before he could answer, however, Ashton interjected, “I’m sticking around to help keep an eye on him so it’ll be fine. He’s just going to sleep in the back. Cal’s been itching to tattoo all week. Have a seat, Stevie. Take advantage of that desire and my willingness to devote my time to my favorite kid.”
At that, Stevie glanced at Calum and he nodded his agreement, nodded herself before she shrugged off her jacket and pulled the t-shirt she wore up and over her head. She avoided hitting her elbow this time, narrowly, and grinned in triumph as she placed her things onto the table. “It hurt to bend my arm for, like, three days after hitting my elbow,” she told Calum as she took a seat in the chair and settled in.
“You always that clumsy or was it just the nerves?” he asked as he pulled off his gloves and stood from his seat.
“…I don’t want to talk about it,” Stevie mumbled, her pink cheeks telling him that it was a mixture of both.
Calum grinned, finding the action endearing, and shook his head as he glanced down the hall. “I’m going to go check on Tāne and then we’ll get started.”
In the backroom, Tāne was sound asleep as Toy Story played in the background. Calum was relieved to see him look so peaceful, to get a moment’s rest, and hoped that he would stay like that long enough for him to finish Stevie’s tattoo.
For the first hour and a half, the tattoo went smoothly. Stevie was still somewhat reserved, as if there was something lurking under the surface of her smile, and Calum wanted to question it but thought better of it as he worked. She was pleasant, almost talkative, and he found that he enjoyed her company even more this time than he had the first. As he tattooed her, Calum and Stevie talked, much as they had the first time, about music. He told her about some of the bands he’d loved back home, some of the ones that were well known in Australia but weren’t talked about as much in the States, and was surprised to see her face light up at the mention of Violent Soho.
“I saw them a few years ago,” she told him, a smile on her lips despite the pain she felt as he shaded her tattoo, “it was a badass show. My dad had to go to Sydney for work and my sister and I were out for Christmas so he took us and mom and made it a family trip. We went to Big Day Out and it was one of the best days of my life.”
“Yeah?” Calum asked, a smile on his face as he watched her grin. “How did you like Sydney?”
“It was amazing,” she gushed, grinning as she tried not to use her hands - something Calum noticed was hard for her when she got excited. “I loved it. Except it was hot as fuck in January and even though I’m from Louisiana, it was weird seeing everyone in bathing suits and flip flops so close to New Year’s. But I got to see a ton of cool bands. Australia’s music scene is seriously underrated.”
“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” he laughed as dabbed at the ink on her skin. When she gave him a quizzical look, he raised an eyebrow. “You write for a music magazine,” he elaborated, “I expect you to have better taste than most.”
“Don’t judge us all by that standard,” she warned with a laugh as she watched him continue to shade the red in the roses. “Some of the people I work with have the shittiest taste in music. Like, I understand that it’s a personal thing but if you listen to your music out loud in a public space, you are giving me permission to critique you and anyone who listens to Florida Georgia Line for personal enjoyment needs to rethink their choices.”
“…. I don’t even know who that is but I think I’m happy about that?” Calum mumbled, laughing at the look on Stevie’s face. He didn’t know her very well, he barely knew her at all, but he already trusted her taste in music and anything she deemed unworthy of his time, he felt compelled to agree.
Before Stevie could respond, before she could tell him exactly what kind of band they were and why he should be wary of modern country, a small voice interrupted them.
“Daddy, I got sick,” a child Stevie recognized as Tāne - based on the curly hair and chubby cheeks - mumbled, his eyes watery and his lip quivering as he stood at the edge of the room, blinking at the harsh florescent lights.
Calum, who had been about to continue shading, didn’t hesitate to place his machine on the small tray and pull off his gloves. “Can you wrap her up for a second?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder Ashton as he crossed the room to pick up Tāne. “I’ll be right back,” he called, this time glancing at Stevie, before he headed down the hall to help Tāne brush his teeth and change into a shirt that wasn’t soaked with sweat.
It only took about five minutes to clean up and get Tāne comfortable, the normal length of a quick break, but he refused to be out of Calum’s line of sight after he’d gotten changed. He was fully awake, crankier than he had been, and wanted nothing more than to sit in the chair at his dad’s side and watch as he finished up Stevie’s tattoo. On a normal day, Calum wouldn’t hesitate to ask. Tāne loved watching his dad work and was always good whenever he sat in. However, he didn’t want to make her uncomfortable as he knew that not everyone was fond of children and, even if they were, he didn’t want her to be afraid that she’d get sick. To his surprise, though, she overheard Tāne’s tearful request and ambled over to where Calum stood.
“Calum, please feel free to do whatever you need to to make sure he’s okay,” she told him, directing her words toward him before she glanced at Tāne and offered him a small smile. “I don’t mind, I promise.”
Calum knew that he needed to finish up her tattoo as soon as he could in order to get Tāne back home so he didn��t argue. With a nod, he gestured for her to head back to his station and followed suit. Ashton, who had been ready to jump in whenever he was needed, pulled a chair closer to Calum’s station and had Tāne’s blanket ready for him whenever Calum sat him down. The small boy hid his face half beneath the blanket and watched Stevie curiously as Calum removed the wrap from her arm and settled back into his position.
“I like your hair,” Tāne said after a beat of silence, his eyes glued to the green strands framing Stevie’s face. “Green’s my favorite color.”
“Really?” Stevie asked, a smile on her face as she turned her head to glance at Tāne. “It’s mine, too. Is that why your blanket’s green?” When Tāne nodded, his fingers brushing the soft blanket, Stevie smiled. “I had a blanket like that when I was little but mine was purple.”
“Why not green?” Calum asked, interjecting with a small smile as he watched the exchange between Stevie and Tāne. His son, while sweet and pleasant, was not known for his interactions with strangers and he was mildly pleased to watch him so fascinated by another person.
“My mom wouldn’t let me have a green one. She said green wasn’t a good favorite color for little girls,” Stevie explained with a shrug, “but she also gave me a name that sounds like it should be for a boy so… Logic wasn’t her strong suit.”
“Green should be everyone’s favorite color,” Tāne pointed out, his voice muffled by the fabric of his blanket. He paused for a moment, considering what else she’d said, before he asked, “What’s your name?”
“It’s Stevie. What’s your’s?” Calum was happy that she’d asked, even though he knew that she knew, and continued working on her tattoo as he listened to the exchange.
Tāne told her his name before he paused, frowning at her answer, and said, “Stevie is a boy’s name.”
“It can be,” Stevie nodded as she struggled not to shrug. “But I was named after a girl. Has your dad ever played you any Fleetwood Mac?”
When Stevie asked, Tāne turned to glance at Calum. Calum knew that Tāne wouldn’t know the band off the top of his head - the only music he knew without fail was that of Queen - but he had indeed played Fleetwood Mac for him. Tāne had fallen in love with Landslide the first time he’d heard it and Calum sang a few lines, quietly, to jog his memory.
Stevie stared at Calum for a moment, the surprise at his voice clear on her face, before she winced as he hit a particularly tender spot on her arm. “Is she the one that sings that?” Tāne asked curiously, watching Stevie’s face as she frowned at the feeling. “I like that song.”
“She is, yeah. Her name is Stevie Nicks. My mom really liked her music so she named me after her. And I like being named after her. She was a really cool role model to have growing up,” Stevie explained with a slight nod as she smiled at Tāne.
Stevie and Tāne continued talking for the majority of her session. Much of their conversation was about Scooby Doo and The Avengers, two things that Tāne loved more than almost anything else, and Calum was blown away as he listened to them interact. Most people treated Tāne like the child he was, talking down to him and waiting for him to catch up, but Stevie didn’t. She was patient, helpful if she said something he didn’t understand, but she didn’t talk to him like he was a baby. She carried on a conversation like she would have with Calum and he really appreciated it. It was something he tried to do himself, something he encouraged the others to do, and found it endearing that she tried so hard to connect with him as Calum finished up her tattoo.
He was grateful for her presence, glad that she was the client he’d been tattooing, as she successfully distracted Tāne from the discomfort he’d been feeling. Calum didn’t know if it was a conscious decision on her part or if she was just good with children but, whatever the case, he’d never seen Tāne take so readily to a stranger. He almost hated that this was the last time they were guaranteed to interact and, though he hated to admit it, he was stating to understand where Ashton was coming from.
However, he didn’t dwell on the thought as he wrapped Stevie’s arm and turned to Tāne. “Can you stay with Uncle Ash for a second while I finish up with Stevie?” When Tāne nodded, a pout on his lips as he bid Stevie goodbye and allowed Ashton to pick him up, Calum gestured for Stevie to follow him to the counter. “Thank you,” he said, glancing at her as he wrote up her receipt.
“What for?” She looked genuinely confused, unsure of what she’d done to garner thanks, and shook his head as he slid the paper across the counter.
“People can be assholes. Thank you for not being one,” he said simply, shrugging his shoulder as he watched her sign the bottom. “And thank you for talking with Tāne. He liked you. He’s never that talkative with people he doesn’t know.”
At that, Stevie grinned brightly and glanced toward the back, where Ashton sat with Tāne. “I liked him, too. He’s a really sweet kid. You and your wife or partner or whoever are doing a great job,” she complimented and when Calum frowned she grimaced. “Um, sorry. I just… assumed?”
“It’s okay,” he assured her, shaking his head as he did. “It’s just me, just us, but thank you. I appreciate it.”
The pair of them stood there for a moment, awkwardly, watching the other. Calum wanted to ask her for her number, or maybe if she’d like to have coffee with him, and he opened his mouth to do so but was interrupted by the sound of a coughing fit from the back. “I’ll let you go so you can get him home. Thank you for the tattoo, Calum. It’s beautiful. Tell Tāne I hope he feels better. And, um, I’ll see you around, maybe?”
“Yeah,” Calum said, his voice reflecting his disappointment as she turned to walk toward the door, “I’ll see you around.”
And just like that, Stevie stepped out of the shop and disappeared into the crowd of people walking down the sidewalk.
Calum stood there for a moment, staring after her, before he breathed a heavy sigh and turned off the ‘open’ sign. He headed to the back of the shop and took Tāne from Ashton’s arms. “Come on, bub, let’s get you home,” he sighed as he headed to the small back room to begin gathering his son’s things.
Calum placed Tāne on the couch and let him sit as he cleaned up the small area. Ashton followed him and handed him the DVD and plushie as he said, “Please tell me you got her number.”
“If I did, I’d be lying,” Calum sighed as he lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck. “I was about to and then Tāne started coughing and she left. It’s probably for the best. El’s gonna use everything she can against me and a new girlfriend would only give her more fuel.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it,” Ashton huffed, his voice quiet as he tried to keep Tāne from overhearing them. “I know you’re worried but that’s no reason for you to make yourself miserable. What’s going on?”
Calum hesitated as he thought about his answer. A lot of his hesitation did stem from his desire to focus on his son. His first priority was ensuring he kept custody, tied with ensuring that his son had everything he needed. But a smaller bit of his hesitation stemmed from the fact that Calum hadn’t been on a date in three years. He hadn’t been with anyone other than El in almost five. His heart had been broken, destroyed, and he didn’t want to risk that again. He had been in a bad place the last time, depressed and alone, and he didn’t want to return to that state. He didn’t want to be vulnerable, to put his heart in anyone’s hands, and that’s what he told Ashton as he slipped on his coat.
“I don’t have feelings for El anymore but I don’t know if I’m ready. I just want to focus on being a dad. I appreciate the encouragement, I really do, but I’m okay. I promise.”
Ashton watched as Calum and Tāne left the shop, Tāne with his face nestled in the crook of Calum’s neck and Calum with a slight slump in his shoulders. Ashton knew Calum better than he knew himself. And he knew that Calum was lying about not caring if he didn’t get a chance to try something with Stevie.
Calum wanted to pursue something with Stevie, even if it was just meeting for coffee, and this was the first time in three years that he’d shown any interest whatsoever. Ashton didn’t like meddling in his life, not when he knew that Calum was so steadfast in his decisions and generally made the correct choice, however, he felt compelled to meddle and decided that if Calum wouldn’t make the first move on his own, Ashton would give him a nudge in the right direction.
________________________________________________________
Author’s Note: So, thoughts? Feelings? How are you liking it so far? I love Stevie and Calum and Tāne. It’s a little slow burn but! We’re getting to good stuff next week, I promise. I’m trying to upload at least once a week. Chapter 3 will likely be out around the 8th or so (maybe a few days before that) so keep your eyes peeled! If you want to be tagged, just let me know! :) Also! I know this is unrelated but if you sent me Luke and Lottie blurbs, I promise I’ve gotten them and will be answering them. I’m just trying not to get frustrated with MF and think too much about it. I just needed to step away for a second and Rose Tattoo has proven to be a great place for me to do that!
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I feel like the things I’m writing lately for the vampires aren’t so much whump as they are angst or just “scenes from a captivity.” So if you’re still reading this stuff, I hope you enjoy it. I’ll get back to Etienne in a bit; it’s Nikolai time right now. And I’ll get back to some more “classic” whump soon.
This piece also involves a character named Cyprian who I think was mentioned before? All the backstory you need should be here anyway. He’ll be showing up a bit more hereafter.
I also highly recommend this playlist for some mood music.
---
“Glad as I was to hear from you, do you truly believe you can mend the rift between you?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
They were sitting before the fire again. They were always sitting before the fire, with the night pressing in like black walls. But this time there was a stranger with them.
His Lord sat on the couch to one side of the fire, and Nikolai sat on the little velvet stool beside him. Across from them, though, was the stranger--to Nikolai, at least. Adrastos seemed to know him all too well as they spoke across the elaborate, twisting patterns of the carpet between them.
White faces, such white faces, like moving marble statues when they spoke, one to the other. But this stranger, their guest, seemed, although they both had the same smooth, grave-marble faces, younger in some way. The way he lounged on the couch, the tilt of his head.
But his Lord was just as nonchalant; the comfort of a lord in his own home, of course. Nikolai was beginning to fidget: twisting the ends of the ribbon around his neck, pulling at his jacket draped over his shoulders, worrying at his fingers.
Nikolai watched them from under his brows. All of this sitting before the fire was for show, pantomimes and shadow-plays of life as it had once been and could never be again for these two monsters. Yes, pretend to be cold and weary after riding out to this house and come warm yourself by the fire. It was a play for the two of them only, a game. After all, Nikolai and the postulants all knew them for what they were. Perhaps this was their only entertainment left.
Adrastos reached out and began to stroke Nikolai’s hair.
“After everything you’ve done, Cyprian?”
Cyprian shrugged, his eyes closed, white palms turned up in the dark. His hair was auburn, dark in the shadow but copper bright in the light of the fire, in loose waves that fell across his forehead.
“Or is this because you know Viktor will have to choose an heir someday?” Less question than statement. “Perhaps Ruslan told you--”
“About the new boy he’s caught? No. But I heard tell of it.”
“Cyprian, please.”
Cyprian rolled his eyes. “Black swan,” he said, then went on, “I’m quite comfortable as I am. I don’t know that I’d need an inheritance.”
“You’re living a bit like Ruslan these days.”
“I enjoy it, the squalor down in the shadow of the university.”
Nikolai’s eyes flicked up to Cyprian’s face and he found Cyprian looking back at him, eye to eye. Cyprian shifted in his seat, rested his chin on his hand.
“I only ever met Ruslan perhaps twice, you know.”
“Viktor tolerates him but there’s no love lost between them.”
“They’re too different. And your master needed you to bridge between them.”
“Is that why you wrote to me, then?” Adrastos said, leaning forward across the span between them.
Cyprian matched him. “I’ll have a lineage of my own someday.”
“After what you did?” Adrastos hissed.
But Cyprian went on: “As will his new” a pause “black swan. What is a disagreement between us now could become true factions within a few years. Think of that.”
Adrastos sat back, considering. “You could as easily be killed. Kill the serpent in the egg, as they say. After all, you know what you’ve done, as do I, as does he.”
Cyprian looked disinterested and was looking sidelong at the fire.
“In fact,” Adrastos went on, “some scrap of what you have done has made its way back to him.”
Cyprian still looked towards the fire. Nikolai tried to see the color of his eyes in the firelight, with no success.
“So. It’s not inheritance, it’s not envy, it’s not guilt, it’s purely to prevent this speculative ‘war’ between the lineages. You’re a fool if you believe that could happen.”
“I am already outnumbered, that is true.”
“You’re only half a fool, then.” And Adrastos leaned forward again, his fingers steepled before his mouth. “So why are you here?”
Cyprian was still turned aside. He closed his eyes. “Because I need him. And I need you to help me back to him.”
Adrastos scoffed. And Cyprian turned on him, blazing.
“I do! You know the things I’ve already done. I’ve crossed paths with--” and he paused and closed his eyes.
Adrastos gave a low, slow sound of understanding. “Is that it? You’ve found the first of your impossible creatures, your own black swan.”
Cyprian dropped his forehead to his hand. “How do I resist it? Or how do I accept it? I don’t know what to do.”
“And you mean to go to him to ask.”
“He is still my maker even if I refuse to call him my master. He knows me.”
“Indeed so.”
“I understand the break between us. I promise you I do. But I need help to cross it. He needn’t speak to me again after this, so long as he answers me. If I write to him I’m sure he’ll burn my letters before reading them. I would have gone to Ruslan, but I know how things stand between them. And so--”
“So you wrote to me. I can’t say I’m flattered that I’m your last recourse, but here we stand.”
Cyprian was looking up at Adrastos and his eyes were wide and pained. “Will you help me?”
Adrastos sat quietly a moment, looking into the darkness beyond. Nikolai found himself twisting his fingers again and willed himself to stop. This unexpected meeting had pushed back his first dose of the day (call it that) and he was beginning to want for it.
“I think,” Adrastos said, “I can do something for you. But more than half of it will still lie with Viktor. I can intercede, but only so far.”
“Any help would be welcome. I don’t expect forgiveness or for him to welcome me back with open arms. I only need his help. And I can promise him that he won’t hear of me again if that’s what he wishes.”
Adrastos set his hands gently atop Nikolai’s to still them. Nikolai looked up towards him, then down and aside, ashamed. But he could feel that strange fever beginning to come over him. His eyes were hot. The skin of his back was tight and itching.
“Then I will write to him on your behalf. You’ll be in my debt, you know.”
“I do know, but I think perhaps it is worth it.”
Adrastos laughed, softly, and drew the jacket off Nikolai’s shoulders. “Now, come: we’ll pledge our cooperation.” He set his hands on Nikolai’s shoulders, “This is my black swan.”
Nikolai fixed Cyprian with his dark eyes.
“And his name?” Cyprian asked.
“Nikolai,” Adrastos answered, rising and going to the writing desk set against the wall beside the fireplace. He opened a drawer there and Nikolai breathed a sigh, almost a sob, of relief. He knew what was kept in that drawer. He opened his eyes again to find Cyprian staring at him and he ducked his head, all humility.
But still, he watched his Lord come back to the couch with the wooden box, the bottle, and the delicate knife; he kept his eyes most on the box and the bottle.
“This is, perhaps, a bit taboo? A bit questionable? But you must experience it for yourself.” He spun a spindle-footed table from around the arm of the couch to stand on the rug among them all. “Consider this quite a demonstration of trust. But we’re pledging our good faith, aren’t we?”
Now Adrastos was laying out his tools: the syringe, the needle, the cord (a cord this time?), the harsh liquor to clean the implements, the knife, the bandages for after. Nikolai was trembling slightly.
“Have you ever drunk from one who was drunk, Cyprian?”
Cyprian looked at him quizzically. “I have.”
“Then you know that sensation.” He had opened the grappa and let the stinging smell fill up the space around them. “In my life before,” Adrastos said, “I was at times fond of the spirit of the poppy. As content as I am now--” Cyprian interrupted with a scoff, but Adrastos went on “--I do miss those dreams sometimes. And knowing what we know about drinking from a drunk…” he trailed off.
Cyprian’s eyes narrowed. “It seems dirty, somehow.”
Adrastos held up the syringe and fitted the needle to it and began to clean it, gently, with the grappa. “Perhaps it does.” He drew up a full syringe of the grappa then shot it into the fire where it flared blue for a moment, then died. “But you must try it.”
Cyprian was quiet, but he looked from Nikolai to Adrastos and back again.
With everything laid out to his liking, Adrastos slipped Nikolai’s jacket from his shoulders and helped him up onto the couch. Nikolai pulled off his leather slippers and set them neatly beside the clawed foot of the couch. Adrastos surrendered his place to Nikolai and Nikolai lay back, looking up into the ceiling, chewing at his lips in anticipation? Frustration?
Adrastos crouched on the floor beside him, and smoothed Nikolai’s hair back from his forehead.
“I’ve been increasing his doses for several days now,” Adrastos said, not looking away from Nikolai’s face, “in anticipation of your visit.”
“Whatever for?”
“So he can endure the dose I will give him tonight, which he will share with us.” He began rolling up Nikolai’s sleeve.
Nikolai breathed deeply once, and closed his eyes. The tightness had gone from his forehead and around his eyes. Already he seemed close to sleep.
Adrastos took up the cord and wrapped it around Nikolai’s bare arm. That blessed numbness and thickness spreading down his arm from the pinch of the cord--Nikolai licked his lips.
With the needle in hand, Adrastos drew up the dose of morphine from the bottle, pressed a few drops back into the bottle and let a few more drops slip down the needle as he held it upright, examining it. He turned back to Nikolai and smiled.
“I could hold a drop of laudanum on the tip of a pin and I think he’d crawl across stones and glass to lick it off.” He smiled. “Or let me prick him with it.”
Now Adrastos had Nikolai’s hand in his. Now the chill of glass and metal against Nikolai’s skin. Now the pinch and sting of the needle. And now the hot rush of blood back into his fingertips as Adrastos untied the cord around his arm.
“Come,” Adrastos said, “Sit here beside him.”
Soft shuffling in the dim firelight and Cyprian came to sit at Nikolai’s feet.
“Just a moment more,” Adrastos said and, as he did, Nikolai’s eyes drifted open, rolled back to show the whites, and fell closed again. And in that moment he fell limp, boneless as a ragdoll, or as the old adage went, like a puppet with its string cut. His breathing was slow and deep and, to Cyprian, it seemed that he was almost smiling, as one would smile in a sweet dream.
Adrastos was leaning over him, smoothing his hair and his forehead. “You’ll be a wretch after our guest leaves, won’t you?” he whispered into Nikolai’s ear. “No, you can’t stay so blissful forever.” He kissed off the bead of blood from the needlemark and then he reached for the silver knife.
Adrastos took up Nikolai’s hand. “I won’t sully him with scars,” he said to Cyprian as he unfolded Nikolai’s fingers, a white flower blooming in the dark. “You needn’t worry: he’ll feel nothing.” Drawn so close as they were now, Adrastos whispered velvet in the dark to Cyprian.
With the silver knife, he cut small nicks and cuts into Nikolai’s fingers; the blood trickled down to pool in his palm. Adrastos cut him again low on the palm (the Mount of Venus and the Mount of the Moon, that was what a fortune-teller had said once when there was a traveling carnival passing through the town out beyond his house and Jonathan’s house and the forest and the fields and they had bears and wolves but maybe those were only dogs and a girl who would balance on the hand of the strongman and…)
Adrastos held Nikolai’s hand like a cup, letting the trickles of blood gather there, then offered Nikolai’s cupped hand to Cyprian. “Try him,” he said.
Cyprian paused a moment, holding Nikolai’s hand, then sipped at the collected blood once, twice, enough to finish it. Salt, sweetness and copper. And heat. And something bitter, but that was his own mind: there seemed to be nothing he could do that was not a sin in someone’s eyes. He sat back again, leaning against the couch, licking the last tastes of sharp metal from his mouth.
Adrastos looked at him and smiled, then set to freshening the cuts on Nikolai’s hand, to start the flow of blood again. He waited, letting the blood collect in the cup of Nikolai’s hand, and watched Cyprian.
Cyprian had been sitting, waiting, with one arm on his crooked knee and his back straight against the seat of the couch when, suddenly, his posture slackened. His mouth dropped open. He leaned forward at first, then laid his head against the seat of the couch. His leg slid out before him, another puppet with cut strings. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and blinked slowly.
“How quickly the thirst can be slaked,” Adrastos said, watching him.
He brought Nikolai’s hand up to his mouth but stopped short and, instead, toasted to Nikolai with Nikolai’s own hand and own blood, then drank up the collected blood.
He laid back against the couch as well, but with his shoulder pressed against it so he could go on stroking Nikolai’s hair a while, so he could go on lapping up the last droplets from Nikolai’s fingers. But he succumbed as well, and nearly as fast, with his head leaning on the couch.
Perhaps this oblivion was the nearest to death he would come until some madness took him and he killed himself out of boredom or frustration or because he had become some gaunt monster cursed with a nigh-endless life and buried in darkness as if buried alive--for so he was buried alive in a sense. Any number had taken their own lives, if the consciousness he endured could be called life, ending some of the great lineages, destroying their masters in the course of it, causing some great cascade of despair among some houses.
But he had this sweet bliss now, for now, like wandering through an endless house of dark rooms, unhurried, unafraid, only passing from room to room, unaware that they were rooms, only moving without knowing he moved, gliding, existing without existing, persisting…
---
Some time later, Nikolai awoke, vaguely sick, his body still like wet sand and wet velvet. The two vampires were still unconscious, one at his head and one at his feet. And, yes, he did consider that he might kill them both in that moment. Or, if not kill them, make clear his rage, perhaps, though he felt only cold inside, with no heated rage. How long had it been since he had felt it? But still he could take the knife they had used on him and he could use it on them, make them bleed as they had made him bleed.
He was reaching out for the knife where it lay near Adrastos’ hand when he saw the dried tracks of blood in his fingerprints and in the lines of his palm. He held his hand in front of his face, considering it: he had not been bandaged.
He looked to Adrastos, who had always been so careful to bandage the tiny cuts he made when he was finished, even when he took from Nikolai after a large dose like tonight. But the bandages were still in the box and the box was on the table and the table was perhaps a mile, perhaps two miles (or so it felt) from where he lay. He did reach out for it, but fell far short.
He sighed and then wrapped his hand in the hem of his shirt in case any of the wounds opened again, and turned to lie with his face towards the back of the couch. Soon enough he would feel the fever of wanting again, his head would ache, he would shake, he would sweat and feel sick to his stomach. And whether that was better or worse than the leaden feeling now--he looked over his shoulder at the two vampires, still asleep if they did sleep, and envied them. He was past that bliss now, left in a useless stupor, and with only the fever to come.
He pinched his eyes shut to stop from crying and willed himself to sleep just a bit more, just a bit more.
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