#because that's untrue and why should your records show something that is untrue and makes everyone's lives harder

[shemarmooresfedora]

Sugary Sweet Apologies

Summary: You and Reid never really got along but when he saves your life, you decide to be the bigger person and thank him and hopefully start over. Unfortunately, it isn’t that easy.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content/Warnings: light to mild angst with fluffy ending, swearing, spencer reid being an annoying bitch, brief mentions of case stuff (if you watch cm, you should be fine)

A/N: this is for @willowrose99 ‘s 1 year anniversary on tumblr writing challenge!! congrats! i literally wrote and edited this whole thing in less than one day because i got so excited, anyways i hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 1.8k

“Reid and Y/L/N, go to David Whitney’s house. He was the therapist of two of the three victims. He could have some insight into the victimology and know of any overlap between them. He has no criminal record of past aggressive behavior but we can’t rule him out as a suspect entirely,” Hotch stated.

“Hotch, you stuck me with her yesterday for the geographical profiling. Send Prentiss with her instead,” Spencer whined.

“I don’t mind going with Y/L/N. She is a great partner in the field,” Emily glared at Spencer.

“No. Reid, go with Y/L/N or be taken off this case. I’m a unit chief, not an elementary school teacher. I don’t have time for temper tantrums,” Hotch chided.

“Fine,” Spencer grumbled as you grabbed the keys to an SUV.

You don’t know what it was but ever since you started at the BAU four months ago, Spencer had never liked you which resulted in you disliking him as well. Everyone else on the team was super friendly and welcoming but Reid always was jabbing snarky remarks your way like “I don’t have time to explain it to you” or “This was in the FBI handbook. God, you need more training.”

Luckily, the others were quick to defend you. Once Garcia even heard him snip at you over the phone and as soon as you all got off the elevator after the case, Reid was being dragged by his ear into Garcia’s lair with him going “ow ow ow” behind her. So, you didn’t really pay much mind to him because you could deal with one annoying know-it-all to have such an amazing job with great coworkers minus the one.

“Look, I’m not happy about this either,” you said as you climbed into the driver’s side of the SUV, “But at least I’m not being a whiny bitch about it and being rude to the other person’s face.”

“Oh wow, I’m so sorry that I hurt your feelings,” Spencer mocked.

“Fuck you, Reid,” you shook your head.

-

David Whitney was on edge the second you arrived and showed him your badges. He was bouncing his leg up and down, he couldn’t sit still, and he kept avoiding eye contact.

He knew way too much about the other victim that wasn’t even one of his clients but you didn’t have anything solid on him. His house seemed very neat so you doubted he kept anything incriminating here. Organized offenders usually have a secondary location. So, you decided to push his buttons a little.

“I mean blitz attacks, leaving the bodies on the side of dirt roads,” you combed through the crime scene photos, “This guy was a real coward.”

Spencer picked up on what you were trying to do and his eyes widened, he was subtly shaking his head and mouthing “no”.

“Excuse me?” David asked.

“Well, I’m just saying a real man wouldn’t cower in the bushes and blindside a woman. He must not be very strong,” you stated, “He probably can’t even get it up.”

Before you even had time to react, David pulled out a switchblade knife from inside the couch cushions and put you in a chokehold, pressing the cool metal up to your throat. You closed your eyes tightly.

“David, you don’t have to do this,” Spencer stood with his gun pointed at you both.

“This bitch insulted me,” he snarled.

“She insults me too. That doesn’t make you any less of a man,” Spencer spoke carefully, “Just put the knife down and I’ll escort you out.”

David sighed, dropping the knife to the floor and releasing you.

Spencer put David in handcuffs and walked him outside as reinforcements came running in.

“Are you okay, Y/L/N?” Hotch asked.

“Yep, a little shaken up but fine. Thank you,” you stood.

“Let’s get you to the medics,” Morgan grabbed your arm to support you as you walked over to the ambulance.

Spencer never checked on you.

-

You knew your decision in the field was a little rash and you wanted to thank Spencer for essentially saving your life.

However, there was no way in hell you could verbally get out an apology while staring at his smug face, but you could bake. You settled on a note tucked inside a tupperware container of your Grandma’s special recipe of chocolate chip cookies. It was a good peace offering, maybe even a chance to start fresh.

During your lunch break, you took the tupperware from your desk drawer and approached the break room where Reid had entered about 5 minutes ago.

“I’m just saying I could not have been more clear in my message to her that it was too dangerous but of course, Y/L/N didn’t listen cause Y/L/N is going to do whatever she feels like,” Spencer stirred his coffee.

No one had noticed you standing in the doorway yet.

“Reid, you’ve got to be nicer to her. She earned her spot here just like the rest of us,” Emily defended you.

“Did she though? How much do we really know about her? She couldn’t even tell me how many pages the FBI protocol manual was,” Spencer said.

“That’s not a normal thing people know,” Morgan retorted.

“Well, I’m just saying the team was perfectly fine before her and it would probably be better off if she left,” Reid finished.

Garcia looked up from her yogurt to see you standing there, “Oh, Y/N”.

Spencer turned around in his chair as you angrily stormed up to him.

“Here’s your cookies, asshole,” you seethed, grabbing the note from inside and crumpling it up into a little ball and tossing it into the trash.

“Y/N!” Emily called after you but you were already gone.

The whole team glared at Spencer and picked up their lunches, leaving him alone at the table.

Spencer retrieved the balled up paper from the trash, having to fish through Rossi’s week old pasta and Anderson’s half eaten tuna fish sandwich.

Dear Reid,

Thank you for saving my life, I guess. These are my Grandma’s secret recipe for chocolate chip cookies so I hope you enjoy. I think we got off on the wrong foot and I would like to start over. I think cases would be a lot less miserable for everyone if we got along.

Thanks again,

Y/L/N

Spencer, you’re such an idiot, he thought to himself.

You never came back after your lunch break ended and Derek made Spencer go tell Hotch why it’s his fault you were missing the rest of the day.

He tried to call you multiple times but they always rang out before going to voicemail.

Spencer hesitantly knocked on Penelope’s door at the end of the day.

“Is she okay?” he asked softly.

“You don’t get to ask that as the person who hurt her in the first place. Also, she told me to tell you that don’t you dare go to her apartment to ‘check on her’. I’m headed over there myself actually,” Penelope collected her things and shut off her monitors.

“Will you at least tell her I’m really sorry?” Spencer followed her to the elevator.

“Absolutely not. I’m not doing any apologizing on your behalf,” Penelope huffed as the elevators shut.

-

You came in the next morning, keeping your head down. You grabbed a pen from your cup holder and the first folder on your stack before getting to work.

You were on the second page of the file when your clean, empty tupperware was placed in front of you plus another baking dish with aluminum foil over the top.

You glanced up to see Spencer guiltily looking down at you and you returned your eyes back to the file.

“I-I made you cinnamon rolls,” Spencer broke the silence.

“Are they poisoned?” you asked, not sparing him another glance.

“No, they’re not poisoned,” he assured you.

“I’m just saying how can I trust you as you have made it very apparent you would like me off this team.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Spencer was quick to reply.

“Then why the hell did you say it, Reid?” you slammed your pen down.

You grabbed your empty coffee mug and briskly walked to the break room but unfortunately, Spencer was right behind you.

“I didn’t eat any of your cookies by the way. Not that I didn’t want to but I felt like I didn’t deserve them so I handed them out to everyone else.”

“Oh how kind, taking credit for my work,” you tried to close the door in his face.

“I told them that they were from you,” Spencer insisted.

You rolled your eyes as Spencer grabbed the coffee pot before you could get to it, pouring your mug of coffee for you.

“What do you want from me, Reid?” you asked defeatedly.

“I want you to try a cinnamon roll and let me explain.”

“Fine but only because I didn’t have breakfast yet and I want to critique your baking skills,” you huffed, walking back to your desk.

Spencer gingerly placed one of the sticky frosting-coated rolls on a napkin and pushed it towards you. You tentatively bit into it. Damn it, it was actually delicious.

“It’s okay,” you understated.

You knew Spencer hardly ever used his kitchen let alone be up baking all night. He even chose a recipe that required more time and effort because the yeast dough would have to rise for a few hours.

“That’s good. The first batch didn’t come out as great...or the second,” he smiled softly.

“Well, the floor is all yours, Reid. Please explain to me why you talk shit about me to my co-workers when I’m in the other room,” you leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms.

Spencer muttered something incoherent.

“I have to hear the apology, you know,” you said, enjoying watching him uncomfortable.

“You’re intimidating to me because you’re intelligent, beautiful, and courageous. I think I was a little jealous that my spotlight as the ‘kid’ of the BAU was coming to an end so I said some harsh, completely untrue things and I’m sincerely sorry.”

“Oh my god,” you smirked, “Hotch was right, you are an elementary school kid.”

“In what way?” he curiously asked.

“You like me like like like me. You don’t know how to talk to the girl so you pull her pigtails on the playground,” you giggled.

“I take it back. You’re a horrible profiler,” Spencer was getting up from his seat, completely flustered.

“Awww,” you were laughing at Spencer’s bright red face as he went to go to the break room to fill his coffee mug.

When he got back to his desk, a sticky note was placed front and center.

In typical elementary school fashion…

Will you go get coffee with me?

Check:

Yes

or

No

Spencer smiled before picking up his pen and checking one of the boxes, crumpling the sticky note up into a ball and throwing it over to your desk.

“Good choice. See you Saturday at 9 at the cafe down the street,” you grinned.

“It’s a date,” he smiled.

#willsannievent #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fluff #spencer x reader #reid x reader #spencer reid #cm fanfic #criminal minds

[bluejayblueskies]

For the Touches Ask Game, if you can, a little Jonmartin with Touching/9?

Thank you so much, I love your writing!!! 😭💕

touches prompt list

9 - holding hands across the table

i did a season two lunch dinner date fic! cw for mentions of paranoia/stalking and murder (in typical s2 fashion)

.

They’ve been having lunch together for two months when Martin asks, with enough stuttering that it takes Jon a moment to process his words, if Jon would like to get dinner with him.

Jon hesitates only briefly before agreeing. Between finding out about Martin’s CV and the newly delivered CCTV footage, he’s almost entirely convinced that Martin did not, in fact, murder Gertrude Robinson and that his various attempts to make sure Jon eats and sleeps and drinks tea are simply a result of Martin being… well. Being nice, he supposes. If overbearingly so.

Why Martin feels the need to coddle Jon, he doesn’t quite know. But if he’s being honest with himself, he’s… not complaining. His frequent skipping of meals often isn’t an intentional thing, born instead of his tendency to get so wrapped up in his work that hours fly by without him noticing, and while sometimes he’s irritated when his flow is interrupted by Martin’s cheery greeting, more often than not it’s… a relief. To step out of the Archives, away from the feeling of eyes on the back of his neck, and pretend like he isn’t working alongside a murderer.

Maybe a murderer. He… he doesn’t know. According to the CCTV footage, Tim and Sasha and Martin and Elias all have alibis. But he still can’t shake the feeling that he gets, sitting in his office or walking down the corridors or reading through statements, that something isn’t right.

That there’s something in the Archives that’s not supposed to be there.

So, it’s… nice to get outside. And as much as Tim may joke about it—or… used to joke about it, at least—Jon does, in fact, try to eat three square meals a day if he can remember to do so. Try being the operative word. He’s been… caught up in work lately, and often he glances at the clock to see that it’s well past ten and he’s accidentally skipped dinner entirely. He hadn’t thought Martin had noticed, given that the man doesn’t live in the Archives anymore and typically leaves promptly at five along with Tim and Sasha, but evidently, he was wrong.

As Jon sits across the table from Martin at the small café they’ve chosen for lunch, he has the fleeting thought that Martin’s been sneaking back and watching him work and that’s how he knows that Jon has been missing dinner. He lets himself feel it, takes a deep breath, and pushes it away with considerable effort. No, that’s not… he trusts Martin. He does. Or he… he wants to. He’s trying.

“Jon?”

“Hm?” Jon blinks up at Martin, who’s clearly waiting for a response. “Sorry, I-I didn’t catch that.”

Martin’s cheeks are dusted a rosy red. He fiddles nervously with the black ring on his finger—a bit thicker in width than Jon’s, the metal smooth and bright where it reflects the sunlight. “Is—is this Friday okay? At—at seven? I-I can, um, meet you at the Institute. U-Unless you’d like to meet there! That’s, er. That’s fine with me too.”

“The Institute is fine,” Jon says, picking at his sandwich with a frown. The bread is damp and squishes under his fingers. “Perhaps we can go somewhere a bit less… soggy.”

“R-Right, yeah. I, um. I was actually thinking… you know that new bistro o-over in Clapham? M-Maybe not, it’s, er. It’s new. But I-I heard it has good South Asian food, which, um. I know you like.”

Martin’s face is fully crimson by this point. Maybe we should sit inside next time, Jon thinks. Or at least in the shade. The sun is rather intense. Martin picks up his mug of tea and takes a long sip, staring resolutely down at the table once he’s done. Jon waits, but it appears that Martin is done rambling, so he says, “Yes, that sounds fine.” Then, because it’s polite (and not untrue): “I am… looking forward to it.”

“O-Oh? Oh!” Martin looks at him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “Y-Yeah, um. M-Me too.”

We should definitely sit inside next time, Jon thinks as the back of his neck grows warm, the tips of his ears surely darkening. Good lord.

He doesn’t think the heat is responsible for the way Martin’s smile makes something in his stomach flutter. He decides to blame that on the atrocious sandwich because… well. It’s as convenient an excuse as any.

Because Martin is just looking out for Jon’s wellbeing. This is no different than him bringing mugs of tea when Jon is recording statements or accompanying him to A&E to get stitches after Michael or inviting him to lunch in the first place. This is not, he tells his ridiculous, over-zealous, butterfly-filled stomach, a date.

Because it’s not. Martin is simply a coworker—an employee—and a friend. Who he trusts. Maybe. Probably. And thinks about sometimes when he’s unoccupied. His hands, mostly, which look very soft and very capable. His smiles as well, each one like a gift meant just for Jon. The way he carries the heavier boxes that Jon can’t quite manage and can reach the top shelves to retrieve statements without even having to clamber up onto the bottom ones.

All completely normal thoughts to be having about a friend

So, when Jon wears the soft maroon button-down on Friday that he’s been told brings out his eyes and takes care to arrange his hair into something other than the haphazard braid he’s been managing lately and digs a bottle of peach nail varnish out of the bottom of his drawer the night before to coat his fingernails with, it’s just because he feels like it. Not because this is a date. Because it’s not a date. It’s just dinner. With Martin.

Who shows up to the Institute at quarter to seven wearing a nicer jumper than usual—cable-knit and mustard yellow, looking incredibly soft to the touch—and with small black studs decorating the lobes of his ears. He smiles widely when he sees Jon, also standing outside earlier than agreed upon, and Jon almost turns around to see if someone’s behind him. But there isn’t. That smile, unfettered and full of joy—it’s… it’s for him.

Surely, Martin is just… happy to see him leaving the office while it’s still light out for once. He’s certainly chided Jon enough times for his habit of falling asleep at his desk. (Which he’s been trying to do less lately, if only because it would be easy for someone to sneak up on him while he’s unconscious and slip a knife into his back or poison his tea or shoot him three times in the chest or—)

“R-Ready to head out?” Martin says, abruptly halting Jon’s train of thought. He tries not to look like he’d just been theorizing about his own inevitable demise as he mumbles his assent and follows Martin away from the Institute and into the still-bustling streets of London.

And if he presses close to Martin’s side while they walk, well. It’s just because every brush of unfamiliar contact against him feels overwhelming, enough so to make him flinch away. And if he takes Martin’s hand for a small period of time, well. It’s just because the crowd has thickened and he doesn’t want them to get separated. And if he feels particularly warm in his jacket when Martin laughs awkwardly at his own joke and rubs at the back of his neck, well. That’s just from exertion. It is quite a far walk to the restaurant.

The bistro is lovely. Jon typically doesn’t go for places like this—tucked between two nondescript buildings with a glass front that reveals soft, intimate lighting within and flowers planted in boxes outside—but once they’re inside and seated at their table, it’s… oddly charming. Jon shrugs out of his jacket, and even though it’s the same shirt he’s been wearing all day, Martin compliments him on it with a flush. The change from frigid winter air to the warmth of the bistro brings heat to Jon’s face as well, and he rolls up the cuffs of his sleeves to just below his elbows. Martin makes a choking sound, but when Jon looks up with a frown, he has his glass of water pressed to his lips.

“Sorry,” Martin says once he’s placed the glass back on the table. “Just, um. Uh. Tickle in my throat. A-Allergies, you know.”

Martin’s face pinches in what looks like a repressed wince, and Jon tries to be reassuring. After all, Martin is taking time out of his schedule to be here with Jon, and Jon doesn’t want to seem ungrateful. His grandmother taught him proper manners, and besides, he is… rather glad to be here.

His commiseration about his own experiences with seasonal allergies turns into a mini-lecture on the species of pollen-producing plants in their area. He only realizes he’s doing it when the waiter comes by with a cheery smile and asks if they’re ready to order.

Jon’s mouth snaps shut mid-sentence. He has not even opened his menu.

“I. Um.” Jon is about to ask for more time—which he strongly dislikes doing, as he’s had the waiting staff forget more than once about his table and he’s had to go through the mortifying ordeal of hailing them down like a-a bloody taxi—when Martin tilts his own menu toward Jon and points to an item in the middle of the page.

“They have chicken karahi and naan. I, er. I heard it’s good if you’re… interested.”

Jon blinks at the menu in surprise. “That… sounds great, actually. Er, medium spice, please.”

Martin orders his own squash curry, and the waiter takes their menus when he departs, leaving the spot in front of Jon oddly empty. Jon taps his fingers on the newly barren tabletop a few times, trying and failing to remember where he’d left off in his lecture. Ultimately, he gives up, deciding that Martin isn’t going to be interested in hearing about all of that and he’s already said enough on the subject.

Then, Martin says, “So, you were saying—about the pollen?” and something in Jon’s chest squeezes, an emotion he doesn’t know the name of. Relief, maybe, as Martin’s words manage to spark his memory and he picks up his train of thought again easily enough. Yes, that’s… that’s probably it.

The first few times they’d gone to lunch, Jon had made an effort to stop himself from rambling, as he was prone to do any time someone gave him the opportunity. He’d engrossed himself in his sandwiches and rice bowls and mediocre Chinese takeaway in order to keep from launching into an explanation of the origins of said folding takeaway containers or the documentary he’d watched recently about the Zhou dynasty. And the first few lunches had been… awkward. It wasn’t because Jon thought Martin was a murderer—he doesn’t think he’d have agreed to go for lunch if he truly believed that Martin might harm him. It was just… how things like this went when Jon was involved. He knows he struggles with casual conversation, and he’s never understood the purpose or execution of ‘small talk.’ He would be perfectly content to eat and exist in silence, except all too often he feels expected to provide some sort of conversation or entertainment, upon which point the silence becomes horribly oppressive and stress-inducing.

But he also knows that talking too much can be just as bad as not talking enough. His grandmother had always told him so. So he suffered through the awkward silences for the first few days, and Martin had let him, clearly assuming that if Jon wasn’t speaking, he shouldn’t either.

Then, around their fourth or fifth lunch together, Martin had begun to ask him questions. They were casual, genuine, and so clearly targeted at Jon’s interests that Jon was convinced that Martin was somehow following him home or searching through his computer history or—or something. On their eighth lunch together, Martin asked Jon about the newest exhibit at the museum—it had been about sharks, if Jon remembers correctly—and Jon couldn’t help asking how Martin knew that he’d gone to see it. He hadn’t explicitly asked if Martin had been following him, but he’s sure the sentiment was clear in his eyes.

The tips of Martin’s cheeks had grown red, and he’d said that Jon had mentioned a few days prior that he was planning on going. All traces of fear and paranoia had left Jon’s mind then, replaced by surprise and, beneath it, something warm and bubbly. Martin had remembered.

Their conversations had gotten a lot easier after that.

Despite how Martin seems to enjoy Jon’s long-winded tangents, he… does still make an effort not to hold a completely one-sided conversation. So, a few minutes into the continuation of his pollen discussion, he finds a natural stopping point and says, “So, er. You… like being outside?”

Not the most… articulated question Jon has ever asked. But Martin doesn’t seem to mind. His fingers curl around the bottom of his water glass, his palms smudging the condensation. “Yeah, w-when I can find the time, I suppose. I-I try to go for walks around my neighborhood if I can, if it’s not too dark by the time I get home, and there’s this park in—”

Martin cuts off with a small cough. He lifts his glass and takes a long sip, while Jon sits and drums his fingers against the table and tries not to bounce his leg too noticeably. “Sorry,” Martin says as soon as the glass leaves his lips, giving Jon an apologetic smile that somehow seems… artificial. Like it’s been plastered atop another, heavier expression. “S-Something in my throat again.” He hesitates, then continues, “There’s a park in Devon that I-I like, whenever I’m in that area.”

Devon’s quite a trip away, Jon thinks but doesn’t say. Why do you go to Devon? he doesn’t say. Is that where you go on Saturdays? he doesn’t say, because—well. It’s rather embarrassing, among other things, to admit to the fact that you’ve gone through your employee’s desk calendar because you thought he might have shot an old woman three times in the chest and had plans to do the same to you. Particularly when you are having dinner with said employee.

Ugh. Probably best not to think about the fact that he is technically Martin’s boss when he’s sitting three feet away from him at a candlelit table on what, to an outside observer, might look startlingly similar to a date.

But it’s not a date. Because Martin didn’t say it was a date, and he’s just trying to care for Jon, in that… over-the-top way that he does. Jon tries to muster up some irritation at the reminder that he’s likely being coddled, just for habit’s sake, but comes up empty.

He hasn’t been truly irritated with Martin in quite some time. He… doesn’t really know when that changed. When Martin became a source of comfort, rather than of annoyance.

“Jon?” Martin says. Right. Martin is still sitting across from him.

“Right,” Jon says, trying to sound like he hasn’t been drifting off in a hundred different directions. “That sounds… nice.”

Martin’s lips curl up into a small smile. “Yeah. I-It is. It, um. It makes the trip worth it, to be able to sit on one of the benches and just… write poetry.”

Jon has read some of Martin’s poetry, though Martin doesn’t know that. Jon doesn’t like poetry. Jon liked Martin’s poetry. These are, apparently, two truths that can and do coexist.

Jon does not mean to say, “Could I hear one?” But it appears that he is weary enough and relaxed enough and distracted enough that his verbal filter has small, critical holes in it. Damn.

Martin sputters. “U-Um, well, I-I suppose… I could, I-I do have a few, er. M-Memorized, if you—you really…” He trails off uncertainly. “You’re. Um. You’re sure?”

Well. Nothing to do but lean into it, Jon supposes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I weren’t sure, Martin,” he says, a bit snippier than he intends. The tips of his ears are hot, and he is deeply thankful that the dimness of the bistro hides the way they’re surely darkening.

“R-Right.” Martin clears his throat, looks down at the table. “I-I suppose I’ll just… do a short one?”

He proceeds to recite, in quiet, surprisingly stutterless lines, one of the poems that Jon already knows from the notebooks he’d left behind in the Archives. It’s… his favorite, if he were forced to pick one. But there is something different—something more—about hearing Martin speak the words aloud rather than simply reading them on a page. Martin pauses in places Jon hadn’t thought to pause, lingers on words he hadn’t thought to linger on, and adds a softness to the ends of lines and phrases that Jon finds himself enraptured by.

Logically, he knows that it’s not good poetry. He’d begrudgingly taken a poetry class during uni, had hated every minute of it, and had donated all of his books to charity shops the moment he wasn’t in need of them anymore. He’s read Dickens and Poe and Whitman—all the works that are considered great representations of their art form.

Martin’s poetry is nothing like theirs. His lines don’t follow the same rhythms; his words are clumsier, his images less profound. But still, even though Jon knows that it is technically not good poetry, he… he likes it.

He tries not to analyze that feeling too closely.

“So, um. Yeah,” Martin says after he finishes, rubbing his thumb over his ring. “I-It’s not really… great work, heh, you know, s-sorry.”

Jon is not the comforting sort. He’s been told that he’s too sharp at the edges, skin too full of spines and thorns. So he surprises himself, and probably his grandmother from beyond the grave, when he reaches across the table and takes Martin’s hand in his. It’s soft and big, the pads of Martin’s fingers lightly calloused from a past history of manual labor, and Jon thinks just for a moment how small his own hands look in Martin’s. He surprises himself even more when he says, honestly, “I enjoyed it, Martin.”

Martin blinks at him, eyes wide and owlish. His hand is rigid in Jon’s, like he’s afraid that if he moves, he’ll frighten Jon away like a skittish cat. “O-Oh.” It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Jon thinks Martin might be blushing. “Well. T-Thanks.”

Jon nods once stiffly. He does not retract his hand. At first, it’s because he doesn’t think to do so, too wrapped up in the feeling of his skin against Martin’s. Then, it’s because it’s been long enough that doing so would be more awkward than keeping his hand there. He asks Martin about the inspiration behind the poem, for want of another conversation topic, and Martin talks about the trip he took to the countryside once and how it stuck with him, and Jon’s hand remains atop Martin’s. Martin takes a drink from his glass, and Jon takes a drink from his, but both of them use their free hands, as if in unspoken agreement that this is just how things are now. Jon’s hand is resting atop Martin’s and it will be until he has just cause to move it and that is just the way of the universe. Nothing to be done about it.

Their food comes, and looking extremely regretful about the fact, Martin extracts his hand from underneath Jon’s and reaches for his fork. They don’t mention the loss, and it’s quiet for a period of time while Jon eats his chicken karahi and Martin eats his squash curry and Jon tries not to openly moan at how good the food is.

Something must show on his face, because Martin smiles warmly at him and says, “Well? Was that Yelp reviewer correct when they said that the chicken karahi is ‘literally the best food they’ve ever eaten in their entire life’?”

Jon swallows a bite of admittedly very good chicken. “Well. I don’t know that I would quite go to that extreme, but it is rather enjoyable.” Reminds me of the way my grandmother used to make it, he doesn’t say. That feels like a date conversation, and this isn’t a date.

(It feels very much like a date.)

(It isn’t a date.)

“Good,” Martin says. Then, he smiles, wide and unabashed and like a ray of sunlight, and Jon quickly buries himself in his food again so he doesn’t say something foolish like I really like it when you smile at me like that or Is this a date? or I would very much like this to be a date.

They finish eating, and the waiter takes away their plates with the promise of bringing the check soon. Jon’s hands rest on the table, index finger fiddling with the edge of the cloth placemat in front of him. He’s in the middle of trying to convince himself that yes, it would be ridiculous to take Martin’s hand again, you should definitely not do that on this very much not-a-date, when Martin reaches out and takes Jon’s hand in his. Properly takes it, pressing their palms together and slotting his fingers easily between Jon’s and knocking their rings together as he squeezes gently.

“Um,” Jon says eloquently. He should very much not ask if this is a date. “What are you doing?”

Nope, that’s worse. That’s definitely worse.

“Oh!” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand immediately, and Jon does not try to chase Martin’s hand as it retracts, thank you very much. He’s more dignified than that. “S-Sorry, I thought… I, um. Never mind. I-I shouldn’t have… sorry. Again.”

“It’s fine,” Jon finds himself saying. Then, in an effort to do damage control: “I… didn’t mind.”

“You… didn’t?” Martin seems confused, which is understandable. If Georgie were here, she’d tell him that he’s giving, quote, ‘mixed signals.’ He’d never quite understood what counts as ‘mixed signals,’ and he doesn’t know that he ever will.

“I did not,” Jon confirms. “I just… I suppose I…”

He should not ask if this is a date. He really, really shouldn’t.

“Is this a-a date?”

It appears he’s found another one of the holes in his verbal filter. Lovely.

Martin’s eyes grow impossibly wider. He makes a series of sputtering sounds as Jon waits and tries not to bounce a hole through the floor with the heel of his foot. “You—you didn’t…” Martin seems to have a miniature internal debate with himself, his face cycling through a dozen different expressions over the next few seconds. Finally, he sighs and says, eyes fixated on the table between them, “I had… intended it to be. Though I suppose if—if you didn’t know it was a date, that. Um. Kind of defeats the purpose.”

“Does it?” Jon’s mouth says without his permission.

“I-I mean… you can’t really have a one-sided date,” Martin says with an awkward laugh. The waiter is nowhere to be seen, which Jon is grateful for and disheartened by in equal measure. This situation would certainly be easier with a convenient escape.

“I… suppose.” Jon worries at the edge of the placemat, pulling on a loose thread. “Though, it’s… if this were a date—or, I suppose, if I-I’d known it was meant to be a date—I… wouldn’t have acted much differently.” He pulls harder at the thread, feeling a bit bad for the way the fabric bunches around it. “I… would not have been… that is to say, I would have liked it if… rather, to say that I didn’t think about it would be, er… well, incorrect.”

Martin stares at him, clearly unable to make sense of Jon’s admittedly disjointed, half-finished sentences. Jon sighs and says, under his breath, “I am not opposed to considering tonight a date.”

Martin’s cheeks are red enough now that Jon can see the flush, even in the dim light. “U-Um. What?”

“I am not opposed,” Jon repeats, louder, “to considering tonight a date.” Lord, that’s mortifying to say out loud. How do people do this? To emphasize his point, he sticks his hand out, palm-up on the table. It’s stiff and awkward and he probably looks like a cat with its hackles raised. He focuses on the cable knit of Martin’s jumper so he doesn’t have to see whatever amused or mocking or disappointed expression is on Martin’s face as he realizes just how bad Jon is at all of this.

Martin is quiet for a moment. Then, just as Jon is about to pull his hand away and flee for the exit, he feels a touch against his palm. Martin’s hand settles tentatively atop his—not weaving their fingers together, not even properly holding it, just… pressing together, palm to palm. Jon can feel Martin’s heartbeat faintly against the tips of his fingers where they press against the inside of Martin’s wrist. “Okay,” Martin says softly, like Jon has just given him a precious gift. “Then it’s a date.”

It’s a date. Jon’s skin has absolutely no reason to prickle at those words, nor does his stomach have any reason to squeeze and sprout butterflies. He nods, a bit brusquely, and opens his mouth to say something—god knows what—when the waiter appears next to their table, somehow having both comically bad and impossibly good timing.

Martin pays, despite Jon’s insistence that he can cover his own share, and then they’re back out in the cool night air, making their way toward the tube station. The first few minutes are quiet. There’s a tension between them that feels more anticipatory than awkward. Their hands brush once, twice. Then, on the third time, Martin hooks his fingers around Jon’s and clasps his hand in his, and Jon lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

They hold hands all the way to the tube station, up until they have to part ways to take separate lines. Jon runs through all the things that he thinks he’s supposed to say in a situation like this—I had fun tonight or We should do this again sometime or… something—but ends up saying instead, “How long have you…?”

He trails off, squeezing Martin’s hand a few times thoughtlessly, like a warm, bony stress ball. Martin seems to infer the rest of his question, however, because he squeezes Jon’s hand in return and says, “It’s… new for me too, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Jon nods and squeezes Martin’s hand again. He thinks that’s going to become quite a habit if they keep this up. “Right.”

Martin hesitates, before letting his grip on Jon’s hand loosen slightly. “We… we don’t have to do this again if you don’t want to. I-I know things are complicated right now, and I…” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth. “I want to do this again, for… for what it’s worth. But I get it. If you don’t, that is. For—for any reason.”

“I do,” Jon says, surprising himself with his conviction. “I-I don’t… you’re right. Things are… complicated.” That’s certainly a word for it. “But I… I trust you, Martin. O-Or… I want to trust you.” He takes a deep breath. “I am making the decision to trust you.” It’s hard and it’s terrifying and there’s an animal instinct deep within Jon that’s telling him not to expose his vulnerable side, but… somehow, despite all of that, Martin makes him feel… well. Not safe, but as close to safe as he can get right now. Which is an accomplishment in its own right.

Martin exhales slowly and gives Jon a small, hesitant smile. “Thank you. I-I know that’s difficult, and I…” Martin squeezes Jon’s hand, just once. “I-I’m happy.”

And Jon finds that he means it when he says softly, “I’m happy too.”

Martin gets on his train, and Jon gets on his. And despite the ever-present itching beneath his skin and the persistent belief that something isn’t right and the knowledge that he is likely a hunted man, from the moment he lets go of Martin’s hand to the moment he closes his eyes and curls onto his side in bed, that happiness remains.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #ask #anon #this got so incredibly long... i hope you like it! #my writing #my fic

[nat-20s]

Part 5 of Wonderful! Au. *boyband voice* banter’s back alright!

Also on AO3

~*~

Jon: Hello everyone, and welcome back to our regular format. If my husband being horribly soppy-

Martin:-hey!-

Jon: -turned you off the how, this should be a refreshing return to formula, though I can’t guarantee there won’t be further horrible soppiness-

Martin, performatively under his breath: -most people thought it was charming-

Jon: -as that tends to happen when one is recording with the love of their life. If last week’s episode is the only one that you like, too bad, I’m back in full form, and should be at least through the rest of the season.

Martin: This show doesn’t have seasons? Due to the whole lack of a narrative thing?

Jon: I was referring to spring.

Martin: Oh, right.

[A beat passes.]

Martin, flatly: Oh. Great goof hon.

Jon, smug: Thank you.

Jon, sincere: Also, before we get properly started, I did want to actually thank everyone who sent well wishes.

M artin: Yes! We got positively inundated with lovely messages, it definitely brightened both of our days. I would even say it was wonderful.

[Jon groans.]

Jon: I am..not proud of the energy we’ve created for this episode so far, and we haven’t even hit the small wonders. Speaking of, do you have a small wonder this week?

Martin: Mine’s bad action movies.

Jon: Really? I had no idea you even liked them, let alone consider them wonderful.

Martin: Okay, so, saying I like them is a bit of a misnomer? It’s more that I like what they can do more than the movies themselves?

Jon: Elaborate?

Martin: It probably comes as a surprise to no one that I’ve tried my hand at a fair amount of mindfulness and mediation techniques. I’ve found poetry and journaling have been helpful for actually processing life events and whatnot, but when it comes to giving your brain a hard wipe and reset, nothing is half as quick and effective as a shitty shoot-em-up. Somethings about 2 hours of cartoonish, pg-13 violence held together with the absolute loosest of plots brings me to a state of mental blankness that would make a monk jealous.

Jon: How have I never witnessed you doing this? When are you sneaking off to go see Micheal Tarantino or who ever films?

M artin: That’s definitely not the right name.

Jon: Martin, dear, I don’t care. And you’re dodging the question.

Martin, fond: I’m not dodging anything. Since apparently we’re getting into it, you haven’t caught me cavorting with a movie involving more explosions than character development lately because I haven’t been. Haven’t needed it, in recent years. Turns out when you’re not crushingly lonely and working a literal nightmare of job, there’s less of a drive to try and escape your own thoughts. Shocker, I know. Still, to anyone out there that feels like their brain is on fire, go try watching a fast and furious. Any of ‘em, it doesn’t matter. Or even better, Chronicles of Riddick. I can’t remember a single goddamn detail of that movie, which makes it perfect for what I’m talking about.

Jon: I have the strong feeling that th is is a “mileage may vary” scenario.

Martin: Well, yeah, that’s this whole podcast. Plus, I imagine that movies like this would cause more stress to someone who cares about, say, world-building or rules consistency.

Jon: I wonder who you could possibly be referring to.

Martin: It’s a purely hypothetical person, love, don’t worry about it. Any small wonders?

Jon: Yes! Particularly relevant to the last week, my small wonder is stripping the sheets from your bed when it’s been too long between washes.

Martin: How very specific. M ost people would just say ‘clean sheets’.

Jon: Well, for one, I’m fairly certain that we’ve already covered clean sheets-

Martin: Shit, have we? Thank god other people keep track of this, otherwise this show would be unbearably repetitive.

Jon: Christ, yes. I typically check the website a good three times while prepping, and every about one out of those three times I find I’m trying to do an topic we did 30 episodes again. Anyway, um, it’s just nice, I think. When you’ve been too busy or sick or away for awhile, tossing the sheets in the wash makes a room instantly seem nicer. Of all the chores out there, this one, at least for me, has the highest reward to effort ratio.

Martin: Hard agree. Especially when the y have that slight funk of having been around to long, getting rid of that is such a relief. Speaking of, we need to change our sheets soon.

Jon: We can do it after the episode. Who goes first this week?

Martin: Considering last week was only me talking, I’m gonna say it’s you.

Jon: Alright, then. My first thing this week is Martin K. Blackwood.

Martin: Absolutely not!

Jon: Oh, you can do a whole episode on me, but I can’t do one little segment on my husband, whom I love very dearly?

Martin: Not while I’m sat here, no!

Jon: So you’re saying you don’t want me to tell the internet that your resolve to be kind even in the face of indescribable cruelty is one of the mot breathtaking things I’ve ever witnessed, or how I find it incredibly endearing when you get so emotional that your voice comes out as a squeak, or even that, on a more base level, you’re very physically attractive, and I could lose entire days thinking about your arms alone?

Martin, audibly blushing, voice the aforementioned squeak: Oh my god, Jon!

Jon, laughing: Then it’s probably for the best that my actual first thing is best friends.

Martin, peaking the audio levels: Oh you absolute bastard! Do you enjoy this? Do you get some sort of perverse sense of entertainment from riling me up?

Jon: Oh, don’t you start. As if you’re not as bad as I am. Maybe even worse.

Martin: That’s not…

Jon: Yes?

Martin: Okay. Maybe it’s slightly true. Really, what is romance for if not flustering your partner with compliments?

Jon, teasing: I certainly can’t think of anything.

Martin: Hush, you.

Jon: No, I don’t think I will.

Martin: Fine. I suppose you can tell our delightful audience about the power of friendship or whatever.

Jon: I would’ve assumed more enthusiasm, considering this segment is still, indirectly, about you.

Martin: In what way?

Jon: In the way that, to the shock of all, you’re my best friend.

Martin, pleased: Oh, is that what I am?

Jon, exasperated: Yes, dearest husband, I wouldn’t have married you otherwise. Though, upon reflection, I knew you were my best friend before I knew I held romantic feelings for you.

Martin: When was that?

Jon, letting out a breath that vibrates his lips: God it was...2016? I think it might’ve literally been the day after you told me about your CV.

Martin: That early? Huh. I wonder if that’s what people were picking up when they said they we were close.

Jon: What people?

Martin: I don’t know specifically, that’s just what Daisy told me.

Jon: Daisy? When the hell-?

Martin: It...was when she was interrogating me? And, because sometimes I have to be a parody of myself, pretty much my only take away from that interrogation was “people think me and Jon are close”.

Jon: Well then. It’s not like they were wrong.

Martin, smug: No, no they weren’t.

Martin, sincere: And you’re my best friend, too.

Jon: I was certainly hoping that you’re in this relationship for more than my good looks and incredible fortune, both in the monetary and luck sense.

Martin: You say that as if you aren’t good looking, which we all know is patently untrue.

Jon: You’re biased. You’d say I was good looking if I were nothing more than some primordial ooze with thoughts about its station.

Martin: I’m being completely objective. If you were primordial ooze with thoughts above its station, you’d be the cutest ooze of them all. That’s just scientific fact.

Jon: I’m starting to think we might be insufferable.

Martin: Starting to? Might be?

Jon:…

[Jon clears his throat]

Jon: What I find wonderful about the concept of best friends is, to me, they’re the closest thing real life has to soulmates. I don’t personally believe that there’s some..grand mystic force that drives people to be tied together in the manner that narrative typical soulmates are, and if there was I don’t think it would necessarily be the kind of emotional, heartfelt bond one would hope for, but I do believe that there’s individuals that get to know one another, and because of that knowledge, they chose to stick with one another. It doesn’t have to be a romantic, which is why I say best friend rather than specifically ‘spouse’, but I would argue that the basis of a strong romance like you and I have, is very much rooted in that connection. A true best friendship is an equal partnership, and there’s a sense of..matched sensibilities and understanding that can be utterly incandescent when it happens.

I also think that having one or more best friends makes living life on a day to day basis both better and just flat easier. The dark times aren’t as dark, and the bright times shine even more. I know from my own personal experience there are events that I..that I don’t know how I would’ve made it through without you. Hell, last week my..recovery period would’ve taken much longer if you hadn’t been there.

It’s an amazing thing to have someone to share things with, both triumphs and burdens. Um, also, according to Dictionary.com, the term best friends in English has been around since the 1200s. Something about that delights me, like, yes, we’ve had this casual way of referring to a Favorite Person for roughly 800 years. That makes it a hold-out from early Middle English. I dunno, it’s one of those things that make me feel overall very charmed by humanity.

Martin, audibly smiling: No, yeah, hard agree.

Jon: What’s that look for?

Martin: Nothing. Just. I love you a whole lot, you know that?

Jon, voice soft: I may have heard you say that once or twice. Per hour.

Martin: Only that often? I really need to be more diligent about that.

[There’s a bet of silence, presumably where they’re making doe eyes at each other.]

Jon: What’s your first thing?

Martin: Oh, um, right. Rats!

Jon: The expression or the animal?

Martin: Jon, have you ever once heard me say “rats” as an expression? Obviously I’m referring to the animal.

Jon: Ah. Should’ve known, considering that what, a third?, of all your segments have been on animals.

Martin: Yeah? And? You got a problem with critters? With creatures? With lil guys?

Jon, laughing: No, no, it’s very sweet. I’m just surprised you never became a vet.

Martin: Oh believe me, I wanted to. But then I learned that it was not, in fact, a job composed entirely of getting paid to play with other people’s pets.

Jon: You had that job, though, didn’t you? I thought I remembered you mentioning a month long stint at a doggie day care.

Martin, sighing dreamily: Best job I ever had. Too bad that place was shut down after it was revealed to be a money laundering front.

Jon: Good lord.

Jon: Martin did you...did you know it was a money laundering front at the time?

Martin:

Martin: Would it make you feel better if I said no?

Jon: Martin!

Martin: I figured it out like a week in, but, like, who cares? The pay was decent and the floor was super easy to clean, which is very much a plus for even a front of a doggie day care.

Jon: That’s...rather a lot. How about instead of getting into that any further, you tell me about rodents.

Martin: I would love to. But first, we have a shoutout!

Jon: Ooo, a shoutout. Does it specify who should read?

Martin: Let me check. It...does...not…..

...

Jon: Martin?

[A beat.]

Martin: Right! Sorry, um. This week’s shoutout is from Tim, to Danny. It says, “Danny! My favorite person who shares genetic material with me! I wanted to say thank you for your podcast obsession from 4 months ago, and specifically for telling me about these marrieds. They’ve gotten me through many a dull hour at the publishing house. Also, with this shoutout, I’ve officially gotten ahead on the Superior [Last Name Redacted] Brother scoreboard, so suck it. Love you lots, and looking forward to your visit next month, Tim.”

Jon: Oh.

Jon: Um. That’s very..sweet? I think? Mostly?

Martin: Yeah, I’d say so. Uh. We have to take a quick break because, uh, someone is..at our front door! Be back with you all in, from your side of things, just a moment.

#wonderful! au #jonmartin #jon sims #martin blackwood #>:3 #shoutouts are their versions of jumbotrons btw

[antiporn-activist]

The Children of Pornhub

Why does Canada allow this company to profit off videos of exploitation and assault?

By Nicholas Kristof, Opinion Columnist, Dec. 4, 2020, New York Times

This article contains descriptions of sexual assault. It’s also really long.

Pornhub prides itself on being the cheery, winking face of naughty, the website that buys a billboard in Times Square and provides snow plows to clear Boston streets. It donates to organizations fighting for racial equality and offers steamy content free to get people through Covid-19 shutdowns.

Yet there’s another side of the company: Its site is infested with rape videos. It monetizes child rapes, revenge pornography, spy cam videos of women showering, racist and misogynist content, and footage of women being asphyxiated in plastic bags. A search for “girls under18” (no space) or “14yo” leads in each case to more than 100,000 videos. Most aren’t of children being assaulted, but too many are.

After a 15-year-old girl went missing in Florida, her mother found her on Pornhub — in 58 sex videos. Sexual assaults on a 14-year-old California girl were posted on Pornhub and were reported to the authorities not by the company but by a classmate who saw the videos. In each case, offenders were arrested for the assaults, but Pornhub escaped responsibility for sharing the videos and profiting from them.

Pornhub is like YouTube in that it allows members of the public to post their own videos. A great majority of the 6.8 million new videos posted on the site each year probably involve consenting adults, but many depict child abuse and nonconsensual violence. Because it’s impossible to be sure whether a youth in a video is 14 or 18, neither Pornhub nor anyone else has a clear idea of how much content is illegal.

Unlike YouTube, Pornhub allows these videos to be downloaded directly from its website. So even if a rape video is removed at the request of the authorities, it may already be too late: The video lives on as it is shared with others or uploaded again and again.

“Pornhub became my trafficker,” a woman named Cali told me. She says she was adopted in the United States from China and then trafficked by her adoptive family and forced to appear in pornographic videos beginning when she was 9. Some videos of her being abused ended up on Pornhub and regularly reappear there, she said.

“I’m still getting sold, even though I’m five years out of that life,” Cali said. Now 23, she is studying in a university and hoping to become a lawyer — but those old videos hang over her.

“I may never be able to get away from this,” she said. “I may be 40 with eight kids, and people are still masturbating to my photos.”

“You type ‘Young Asian’ and you can probably find me,” she added.

Actually, maybe not. Pornhub recently was offering 26,000 videos in response to that search. That doesn’t count videos that show up under “related searches” that Pornhub suggests, including “young tiny teen,” “extra small petite teen,” “tiny Asian teen” or just “young girl.” Nor does it necessarily count videos on a Pornhub channel called “exploited teen Asia.”

I came across many videos on Pornhub that were recordings of assaults on unconscious women and girls. The rapists would open the eyelids of the victims and touch their eyeballs to show that they were nonresponsive.

Pornhub profited this fall from a video of a naked woman being tortured by a gang of men in China. It is monetizing video compilations with titles like “Screaming Teen,” “Degraded Teen” and “Extreme Choking.” Look at a choking video and it may suggest also searching for “She Can’t Breathe.”

It should be possible to be sex positive and Pornhub negative.

Pornhub declined to make executives available on the record, but it provided a statement. “Pornhub is unequivocally committed to combating child sexual abuse material, and has instituted a comprehensive, industry-leading trust and safety policy to identify and eradicate illegal material from our community,” it said. Pornhub added that any assertion that the company allows child videos on the site “is irresponsible and flagrantly untrue.”

II.

At 14, Serena K. Fleites was an A student in Bakersfield, Calif., who had never made out with a boy. But in the eighth grade she developed a crush on a boy a year older, and he asked her to take a naked video of herself. She sent it to him, and this changed her life.

He asked for another, then another; she was nervous but flattered. “That’s when I started getting strange looks in school,” she remembered. He had shared the videos with other boys, and someone posted them on Pornhub.

Fleites’s world imploded. It’s tough enough to be 14 without having your classmates entertain themselves by looking at you naked, and then mocking you as a slut. “People were texting me, if I didn’t send them a video, they were going to send them to my mom,” she said.

The boy was suspended, but Fleites began skipping class because she couldn’t bear the shame. Her mother persuaded Pornhub to remove the videos, and Fleites switched schools. But rumors reached the new school, and soon the videos were uploaded again to Pornhub and other websites.

Fleites quarreled with her mother and began cutting herself. Then one day she went to the medicine cabinet and took every antidepressant pill she could find.

Three days later, she woke up in the hospital, frustrated to be still alive. Next she hanged herself in the bathroom; her little sister found her, and medics revived her.

As Fleites spiraled downward, a friend introduced her to meth and opioids, and she became addicted to both. She dropped out of school and became homeless.

At 16, she advertised on Craigslist and began selling naked photos and videos of herself. It was a way to make a bit of money, and maybe also a way to punish herself. She thought, “I’m not worth anything any more because everybody has already seen my body,” she told me.

Those videos also ended up on Pornhub. Fleites would ask that they be removed. They usually would be, she says — but then would be uploaded again. One naked video of her at 14 had 400,000 views, she says, leaving her afraid to apply for fast-food jobs for fear that someone would recognize her.

So today Fleites, 19, off drugs for a year but unemployed and traumatized, is living in her car in Bakersfield, along with three dogs that have proved more loyal and loving than the human species. She dreams of becoming a vet technician but isn’t sure how to get there. “It’s kind of hard to go to school when you’re living in a car with dogs,” she said.

“I was dumb,” she acknowledged, noting that she had never imagined that the videos could be shared online. “It was one small thing that a teenager does, and it’s crazy how it turns into something so much bigger.

“A whole life can be changed because of one little mistake.”

III.

The problem goes far beyond one company. Indeed, a rival of Pornhub, XVideos, which arguably has even fewer scruples, may attract more visitors. Depictions of child abuse also appear on mainstream sites like Twitter, Reddit and Facebook. And Google supports the business models of companies that thrive on child molestation.

Google returns 920 million videos on a search for “young porn.” Top hits include a video of a naked “very young teen” engaging in sex acts on XVideo along with a video on Pornhub whose title is unprintable here.

I asked the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children to compile the number of images, videos and other content related to child sexual exploitation reported to it each year. In 2015, it received reports of 6.5 million videos or other files; in 2017, 20.6 million; and in 2019, 69.2 million.

Facebook removed 12.4 million images related to child exploitation in a three-month period this year. Twitter closed 264,000 accounts in six months last year for engaging in sexual exploitation of children. By contrast, Pornhub notes that the Internet Watch Foundation, an England-based nonprofit that combats child sexual abuse imagery, reported only 118 instances of child sexual abuse imagery on its site over almost three years, seemingly a negligible figure. “Eliminating illegal content is an ongoing battle for every modern content platform, and we are committed to remaining at the forefront,” Pornhub said in its statement.

The Internet Watch Foundation couldn’t explain why its figure for Pornhub is so low. Perhaps it’s because people on Pornhub are inured to the material and unlikely to report it. But if you know what to look for, it’s possible to find hundreds of apparent child sexual abuse videos on Pornhub in 30 minutes. Pornhub has recently offered playlists with names including “less than 18,” “the best collection of young boys” and “under- - age.”

Congress and successive presidents have done almost nothing as this problem has grown. The tech world that made it possible has been mostly passive, in a defensive crouch. But pioneering reporting in 2019 by my Times colleagues has prodded Congress to begin debating competing strategies to address child exploitation.

Concerns about Pornhub are bubbling up. A petition to shut the site down has received 2.1 million signatures. Senator Ben Sasse, a Nebraska Republican, called on the Justice Department to investigate Pornhub. PayPal cut off services for the company, and credit card companies have been asked to do the same. An organization called Traffickinghub, led by an activist named Laila Mickelwait, documents abuses and calls for the site to be shut down. Twenty members of Canada’s Parliament have called on their government to crack down on Pornhub, which is effectively based in Montreal.

“They made money off my pain and suffering,” an 18-year-old woman named Taylor told me. A boyfriend secretly made a video of her performing a sex act when she was 14, and it ended up on Pornhub, the police confirmed. “I went to school the next day and everybody was looking at their phones and me as I walked down the hall,” she added, weeping as she spoke. “They were laughing.”

Taylor said she has twice attempted suicide because of the humiliation and trauma. Like others quoted here, she agreed to tell her story and help document it because she thought it might help other girls avoid suffering as she did.

IV.

Pornhub is owned by Mindgeek, a private pornography conglomerate with more than 100 websites, production companies and brands. Its sites include Redtube, Youporn, XTube, SpankWire, ExtremeTube, Men.com, My Dirty Hobby, Thumbzilla, PornMD, Brazzers and GayTube. There are other major players in porn outside the Mindgeek umbrella, most notably XHamster and XVideos, but Mindgeek is a porn titan. If it operated in another industry, the Justice Department could be discussing an antitrust case against it.

Pornhub and Mindgeek also stand out because of their influence. One study this year by a digital marketing company concluded that Pornhub was the technology company with the third greatest-impact on society in the 21st century, after Facebook and Google but ahead of Microsoft, Apple and Amazon.

Nominally based in Luxembourg for tax reasons, Mindgeek is a private company run from Montreal. It does not disclose who owns it, but it is led by Feras Antoon and David Tassillo, both Canadians, who declined to be interviewed.

Prime Minister Justin Trudeau of Canada calls himself a feminist and has been proud of his government’s efforts to empower women worldwide. So a question for Trudeau and all Canadians: Why does Canada host a company that inflicts rape videos on the world?

Mindgeek’s moderators are charged with filtering out videos of children, but its business model profits from sex videos starring young people.

“The goal for a content moderator is to let as much content as possible go through,” a former Mindgeek employee told me. He said he believed that the top executives weren’t evil but were focused above all on maximizing revenue.

While Pornhub would not tell me how many moderators it employs, I interviewed one who said that there are about 80 worldwide who work on Mindgeek sites (by comparison, Facebook told me it has 15,000 moderators). With 1.36 million new hours of video uploaded a year to Pornhub, that means that each moderator would have to review hundreds of hours of content each week.

The moderators fast forward through videos, but it’s often difficult to assess whether a person is 14 or 18, or whether torture is real or fake. Most of the underage content involves teenagers, the moderator I spoke with said, but some comes from spy cams in toilets or changing rooms and shows children only 8 to 12.

“The job in itself is soul-destroying,” the moderator said.

Pornhub appears to be increasingly alarmed about civil or criminal liability. Lawyers are circling, and nine women sued the company in federal court after spy cam videos surfaced on Pornhub. The videos were shot in a locker room at Limestone College in South Carolina and showed women showering and changing clothes.

Executives of Pornhub appear in the past to have assumed that they enjoyed immunity under Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, which protects internet platforms on which members of the public post content. But in 2018 Congress limited Section 230 so that it may not be enough to shield the company, leading Mindgeek to behave better.

It has doubled the number of moderators in the last couple of years, the moderator told me, and this year Pornhub began voluntarily reporting illegal material to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children. After previously dragging its feet in removing videos of children and nonconsensual content, Pornhub now is responding more rapidly.

It has also compiled a list of banned content. I obtained a copy of this list, and it purports to bar videos with terms or themes like “rape,” “preteen,” “pedophilia” and “bestiality” (it helpfully clarifies that this “includes eels, fish, octopus, insects”). Diapers are OK “if no scatophilia.” Mutilation depends on context but “cannot depict severing parts of the body.”

So while it is now no longer possible to search on Pornhub in English using terms like “underage” or “rape,” the company hasn’t tried hard to eliminate such videos. A member called “13yoboyteen” is allowed to post videos. A search for “r*pe,” turns up 1,901 videos. ���Girl with braces” turns up 1,913 videos and suggests also trying “exxxtra small teens.” A search for “13yo” generates 155,000 videos. To be clear, most aren’t of 13-year-olds, but the fact that they’re promoted with that language seems to reflect an effort to attract pedophiles.

Moreover, some videos seem at odds with the list of banned content. “Runaway Girl Gets Ultimatum, Anal or the Streets” is the title of one Pornhub video. Another user posts videos documenting sex with teenage girls as they weep, protest and cry out in pain.

While Pornhub is becoming more careful about videos of potentially litigious Americans, it remains cavalier about overseas victims. One Indonesian video is titled “Junior High School Girl After Class” and shows what appears to be a young teenager having sex. A Chinese sex video, just taken down, was labeled: “Beautiful High School Girl Is Tricked by Classmates and Taken to the Top of a Building Where She Is Insulted and Raped.”

“They’re making money off the worst moment in my life, off my body,” a Colombian teenager who asked to be called Xela, a nickname, told me. Two American men paid her when she was 16 for a sexual encounter that they filmed and then posted on Pornhub. She was one of several Pornhub survivors who told me they had thought of or attempted suicide.

In the last few days as I was completing this article, two new videos of prepubescent girls being assaulted were posted, along with a sex video of a 15-year-old girl who was suicidal after it went online. I don’t see how good-faith moderators could approve any of these videos.

V.

“It’s always going to be online,” Nicole, a British woman who has had naked videos of herself posted and reposted on Pornhub, told me. “That’s my big fear of having kids, them seeing this.”

That’s a recurring theme among survivors: An assault eventually ends, but Pornhub renders the suffering interminable.

Naked videos of Nicole at 15 were posted on Pornhub. Now 19, she has been trying for two years to get them removed.

“Why do videos of me from when I was 15 years old and blackmailed, which is child porn, continuously [get] uploaded?” Nicole protested plaintively to Pornhub last year, in a message. “You really need a better system. … I tried to kill myself multiple times after finding myself reuploaded on your website.”

Nicole’s lawyer, Dani Pinter, says there are still at least three naked videos of Nicole at age 15 or 16 on Pornhub that they are trying to get removed.

“It’s never going to end,” Nicole said. “They’re getting so much money from our trauma.”

Pornhub has introduced software that supposedly can “fingerprint” rape videos and prevent them from being uploaded again. But Vice showed how this technology is easily circumvented on Pornhub.

One Pornhub scandal involved the Girls Do Porn production company, which recruited young women for clothed modeling gigs and then pushed them to perform in sex videos, claiming that the videos would be sold only as DVDs in other countries and would never go online. Reassured that no one would ever know, some of the women agreed — and then were shattered when the footage was aggressively marketed on Pornhub.

Girls Do Porn was prosecuted for sex trafficking and shut down. But those videos continue to surface and resurface on Pornhub; last time I checked, videos of six victims of Girls Do Porn were on Pornhub, which continues to profit from them.

One of the Girls Do Porn women I saw on Pornhub is now dead. She was murdered at 20, allegedly by an angry ex-boyfriend who is about to go on trial. I’m not disclosing her name because she should be remembered as a vibrant college athlete, and not for a sex video that represented her most mortifying moment.

VI.

So what’s the solution?

I had expected the survivors to want to shut down Pornhub and send its executives to prison. Some did, but others were more nuanced. Lydia, now 20, was trafficked as a child and had many rape videos posted on the site. “My stomach hurts all the time” from the tension, she told me, but she doesn’t want to come across as hostile to porn itself.

“I don’t want people to hear ‘No porn!’” Lydia told me. “It’s more like, ‘Stop hurting kids.’”

Susan Padron told me that she had assumed that pornography was consensual, until a boyfriend filmed her in a sex act when she was 15 and posted it on Pornhub. She has struggled since and believes that only people who have confirmed their identities should be allowed to post videos.

Jessica Shumway, who was trafficked and had a customer post a sex video on Pornhub, agrees: “They need to figure out who’s underage in the videos and that there’s consent from everybody in it.”

I asked Leo, 18, who had videos of himself posted on Pornhub when he was 14, what he suggested.

“That’s tough,” he said. “My solution would be to leave porn to professional production companies,” because they require proof of age and consent.

Right now, those companies can’t compete with mostly free sites like Pornhub and XVideos.

“Pornhub has already destroyed the business model for pay sites,” said Stoya, an adult film actress and writer. She, too, thinks all platforms — from YouTube to Pornhub — should require proof of consent to upload videos of private individuals.

Columnists are supposed to offer answers, but I struggle with solutions. If Pornhub curated videos more rigorously, the most offensive material might just move to the dark web or to websites in less regulated countries. Yet at least they would then not be normalized on a mainstream site.

More pressure and less impunity would help. We’re already seeing that limiting Section 230 immunity leads to better self-policing.

And call me a prude, but I don’t see why search engines, banks or credit card companies should bolster a company that monetizes sexual assaults on children or unconscious women. If PayPal can suspend cooperation with Pornhub, so can American Express, Mastercard and Visa.

I don’t see any neat solution. But aside from limiting immunity so that companies are incentivized to behave better, here are three steps that would help: 1.) Allow only verified users to post videos. 2.) Prohibit downloads. 3.) Increase moderation.

These measures wouldn’t kill porn or much bother consumers of it; YouTube thrives without downloads. Siri Dahl, a prominent porn star who does business with Pornhub, told me that my three proposals are “insanely reasonable.”

The world has often been oblivious to child sexual abuse, from the Catholic Church to the Boy Scouts. Too late, we prosecute individuals like Jeffrey Epstein or R. Kelly. But we should also stand up to corporations that systematically exploit children. With Pornhub, we have Jeffrey Epstein times 1,000.

#if you use pornhub you're complicit in this #sorry i don't make the rules

[phykios]

this one is dedicated to mi amor mari @perseannabeth, who is a beautiful bird and a wonderful friend and i am v v vvvvv grateful to have crossed the airwaves with her :”)

Today Was A Fairytale [read on ao3] T, modern royalty, fun at disneyland!

She stares at him. 

He stares back. “What?”

“Really?”

“What?”

“You really think this is going to be enough?” Annabeth points at her head, the blue Yankees cap squishing her curls. 

“Of course! It’s the Clark Kent effect.” As if to underline his point, Percy slips on his fake hipster glasses, except that stupid grin of his is too bright not to draw attention. 

“That’s not a real thing.”

“Sure it is. Studies show that glasses are actually good enough to alter your appearance if someone doesn’t know you well.”

“Then why didn’t you bring a pair of glasses for me?”

“Because your hair is definitely the prettiest thing about you,” he says, automatically tugging an unruly curl which peeks out from under the brim, a gesture so practiced she almost doesn’t register it--until he blinks, dropping his hand, blushing lightly. “I mean--the most noticeable thing. You know. A hat should be fine.”

He looks away. Heat rises to her face, too. Because it’s so hot out, obviously. 

“Anyway,” he mumbles, “um. No--no one’s going to give you a second look if your hair is hidden.”

Chewing her lip, Annabeth can’t help but worry. Percy’s face is extremely well-known, possibly more than hers, and they’ve both spent the better part of three weeks with their faces plastered all over the media on their diplomatic trip. This is probably a really, really bad idea. Then, a thought occurs to her. “How about,” she says, perking up, “you give me your glasses, and I’ll give you mine.” From her backpack, she fishes out a pair of sunglasses, big and nondescript. He’ll practically be wearing a superhero mask with these.

Percy smiles again, and Annabeth thinks she might fly. “Perfect.”

Which is how Her Royal Highness Anna Elisabeth Ingrid Irene of Sweden and His Serene Highness Perseus Alexandros Ioannis of Thera play hooky from their day of boring meetings, insufferable dignitaries, and stuffy security guards, to go see the eighth wonder of the world: Disneyland Resort in California.

And how Annabeth eats her words as they make it past the security gate unchecked. “Eh?” He beams, nudging her with his elbow. “Eh?”

Rolling her eyes, she shoves him back. “Shut up.”

***

[description: a tiktok video which depicts a line at Disneyland. the op, a black girl with braids, covers her mouth and looking into the camera, turning the camera to focus on the two people behind her. one is a tall boy with black hair and sunglasses, and the other is a blonde girl with a yankees hat and glasses. both are white. video text reads: “p sure the people behind me are prince percy and princess annabeth??? um?????”. background audio is a dubstep remix of the fight theme from undertale. end ID]

***

Maybe it’s a little weird, on account of her being actual royalty and all, but Annabeth has always been interested in princesses, both as a matter of historical record (history is awesome) and in the general sense. Like millions of other people, she, too, was raised on Disney movies and tales of princesses and true love, and she was just as captivated as the rest of them. She and Percy used to watch the Disney catalogue whenever their families held state visits for each other, staying up into the small hours of the morning, sharing some popcorn and singing along. 

Luckily for Annabeth, her favorite princess is holding a meet and greet at the Royal Hall.

“Excuse me,” Percy says, approaching Princess Ariel. Well, her cast member, anyway. “Could I get a photo for my friend?”

“Of course!” she trills, her blue eyes sparkling. “It would be my pleasure.” Holding her hand out, perfectly poised and graceful in a way that would impress even Annabeth’s stodgy etiquette instructor, she smiles, warm and welcoming, pivoting to bring Annabeth in for one of those weird, semi-awkward half-hugs. “What’s your name?”

“Anna,” says Annabeth. Hey, it’s not untrue. She’s a little leery of using any of her names, but Anna is common enough. Annabeth? Not so much. Even with her glasses and hat disguise, a little paranoia is justified, she thinks.

“It’s so wonderful to meet you, Anna,” she says, cheerful, with all the grace and charm of someone who doesn’t spend hours saying the same thing over and over again to excitable, temperamental children. What a trooper, she thinks.

“Don’t you recognize a fellow princess when you see one, your highness?” Percy says, grinning that stupid, smarmy grin of his. 

Annabeth glares. Oh, he thinks he’s so damn clever. 

“Oh, of course,” says Ariel, smoothly. “How could I have thought otherwise? Your highness.” And she curtsies to Annabeth, a short dip, her hand placed delicately against her chest. “Perhaps I can introduce you to my friend Anna, princess of Arendelle?”

Still smirking, Percy takes some more pictures, trapping Annabeth into smiling for the camera. She can’t be glaring daggers in her pictures, nor can there be video evidence of her kicking him--no matter how much she wants to.

And she definitely doesn’t miss the way Ariel not-so-subtly checks Percy out, eyeing him up and down.

“You fucking asshole,” she hisses as they leave the photo area, swatting him lightly, and he giggles. 

“Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist.”

“Ugh, I hate you so much.”

It’s hard to stay mad at him, though she definitely tries as they enter back out into the park proper, giving him just the barest hint of a cold shoulder. 

“Aw, come on,” Percy says. “I was just teasing.”

“You shouldn’t go around tempting fate like that,” Annabeth says. “Do you want to cause another international incident?”

Percy winces, no doubt remembering the Gateway Arch incident of 2008. 

“If someone recognizes us, we don’t have Zoe or any of her team to protect us,” Annabeth goes on. “Not that I think anyone here would try to hurt us, but…” But it’s a little nerve-wracking, being on her own like this. She hasn’t been alone like this for a really long time.

Wincing, Percy rubs the back of his head. “I guess I forgot you’re a little higher profile than me. Sorry.”

She doesn’t like to think about it, but it’s true. Percy, by his nature as the younger son of a largely defunct royal house, doesn’t have quite the same number of… issues… that someone like Annabeth might have.

Deflating, she uncrosses her arms. “It’s okay.”

“I should have asked you first.”

“It’s really okay,” she says. “No harm no foul.”

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asks, entirely serious. “I can call someone up.”

She knows just how long they’ve planned this, how many favors he’s called in and policies he’s sidestepped. Backing out now would just be a waste of a day. She shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she says. “I’m just… feeling a little exposed, I guess. But, I don’t want to ruin all our plans. Let’s keep going.” She grabs his hand, squeezing a little.

“...Okay,” Percy says. “But say the word, and we’ll call it a day. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Like he doesn’t have any other expression today, he smiles at her again.

It hits her, suddenly. He’s so much taller than she remembers. Once upon a time she used to be taller than him; now, he’s basically a whole head above her. 

It’s annoying. But also… not.

Spying something over her shoulder, his eyes light up, and he practically gasps. “Cinderella!” he points with his free hand, like a five-year old. “Come on!” And he takes off to one of the park corners, dragging Annabeth along with him. 

He has to wait in line behind a pair of twin girls, six or seven years old by the looks of it, in identical Cinderella dresses for a photo, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, and when it’s finally his turn, he nearly trips over himself to go up and ask for a photo. 

Cinderella agrees, and now Annabeth is relegated to the job of cameraperson. Percy slides in next to the princess, his hand on her waist, but, ever the respectful gentleman, loosely held, so the cast member can slide out of his grasp without any difficulty at all.

Taking a few shots, it does look kind of strange to have Cinderella’s beautiful, shining face, and Percy’s enormous sunglasses blocking his. “Take off your glasses?” she says, lowering her phone for a second. 

Dutifully, Percy slips them off, smiling again for the camera. 

Cinderella’s smile doesn’t falter, a credit to her professionalism, but Annabeth can see her eyes widen, just a touch.

Annabeth snaps off a few more photos, “Got ‘em!” and Percy once again gushes over the princess, thanking her for her time. Grabbing Annabeth’s hand again, he practically skips off, leading them in the direction of a nearby candy shop. 

***

me: IM SHAKING GUESS WHO I JUST TOOK A PICTURE WITH????

sis: prince percy?

me: HOW TF DID YOU KNOW

sis: its on twitter already

***

They’re walking along, Annabeth slurping up a Dole whip, when she suddenly stops in her tracks, outside of one of the many, many gift shops. “Wait up a second.”

“Hm?” Percy says, around the giant lollipop in his mouth. 

“I want to get some Mickey ears.” 

Very quickly they get lost in the sea of Disney merchandise, walking the labyrinth of Star Wars and Marvel and Pixar goods. There’s a surprising amount of black for the so-called happiest place on Earth, but things do brighten up when Annabeth finally turns a corner and finds the enormous selection of Mickey ears. It’s a wash of sparkles, flowers, bows, and occasionally characters, for children and adults alike. Annabeth eyes a pair designed like Baby Yoda, eyes wide and ears adorably huge, before she fingers a pair of white Mickey ears that have a bridal veil attached to them, contemplating its counterpart, the black ears for the groom, each ear emblazoned with a sparkling silver “Happily Ever After.”

She looks around. Where did Percy wander off to, anyway? 

Well, wherever he is, hopefully he hasn’t gotten mobbed by a horde of excitable fangirls. Given that she can’t hear any screaming--well, any unusual, non-Disneyland-relevant screaming--that’s probably a good sign. 

Running her fingers over the ear selections, she finally picks out a pair of silver sequined earrings with a shiny gold bow, a tiny, rhinestone Cinderella’s castle placed delicately in the middle. 

Yeah. This one. 

Percy finds her as she is paying for her ears, a pair of his own already on his head, red balloons inside of plastic circles. The sunglasses, she notes with a tinge of nervousness, are tucked in his shirt, and not on his face, protecting his identity. “Oh, check mine out--they light up!” he says, giddy, pressing the button on the side, not that she can tell in the brightly lit shop.

“That’s not why I was looking.”

Walking out of the store, ears firmly in her possession, she looks around again. Percy’s face is out there for the world to see, and no one is giving them a hard time. 

And her hat is really sweaty. 

Ah, fuck it.

She removes the Yankees cap, shaking out her sweaty curls, sliding the ears on in its place.

And the glasses, for good measure.

“Cinderella?” Percy asks.

“I thought you’d approve.”

Outside the shop, next to a corn dog cart, Percy pulls her aside, out of the way of a whole classroom’s worth of children, holding up a plastic plag. “So, confession.”

“Percy…” He didn’t. “We said no gifts!” They had agreed to it that morning!

“Well, see,” he says, fumbling around in the bag, pulling out a black t-shirt. “I saw this, and I thought--I thought you might like it.”

He unfolds it, and Annabeth frowns at the shirt design. 

It’s… a drawing of a man in a purple mask against a solid black background, glaring at the viewer. Circling him, in distressed, white-grey military font, are the words “BARON ZEMO,” and the logo for the show he must star in, Marvel’s The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. She doesn’t really watch superhero shows, though, and she’s pretty sure Percy doesn’t, either. Maybe he’s started this one and he really likes it? “Thanks,” she says, confusion coloring her voice despite her best efforts. 

But he doesn’t look too disappointed. “I was looking through their pride merch, and they didn’t have any stuff with the ace flag, which totally sucks, but then I thought that maybe you might like something a little more subtle? So, yeah.” He shakes it. “Ace pride!”

Oh. Oh, this boy. 

She remembers, so vividly, visiting his father’s summer home on Kalymnos, a few years ago, the summer she turned nineteen, waking up to a banging in the kitchen, noisy pots and pans making a real racket. Granted, it had been one in the afternoon, and Annabeth probably should have been awake sooner, but she had stumbled out of the guest room into the kitchen, rubbing sleep out of her eyes, to the sight of Percy wrestling with the standmixer, making bright, neon purple frosting. The night before, sometime around three or four AM, that weird, liminal hour where the shadow of night just starts to recede, the sky a sweet, soft, dusky blue, she had come out as demisexual to her best friend, saying the words aloud for the first time ever. Loopy from lack of sleep, the moment had passed without much fanfare.

But Percy, dark-circled and still yawning, had woken up early to make her a chocolate cake. By the time she had woken up, he had baked the cake, chilled it, and made two out of the three frosting colors, a beautiful, moist, dark chocolate cake which ended up being frosted with a marbled mix of purple, black, and white, all folding into each other into a kind of colorless, grey sugar. 

Here, now, in Disneyland, she throws herself at him, wrapping his arms around his neck. His arms automatically come up to circle her, hugging her tight. 

She had been worried it had been some kind of defense mechanism. A young girl with an alarmingly high profile, Annabeth had been the subject of intense scrutiny with regards to any romantic entanglements, with critics, tabloid reporters, and fans alike attempting to invent gossip-worthy relationships with every boy she ever talked to--most usually Percy. They did grow up in the public eye together, attending all kinds of events and functions together over the last fifteen or so years. And they did tweet at each other. Like, a lot. They even had their own portmanteau hashtag. But no relationship ever materialized.

She thought maybe she was just being stubborn, unwilling to play the media game. But it hadn’t been stubbornness. It wasn’t about shyness or inexperience. It was real, and it was her.

And Percy hadn’t even blinked.

“I love it,” she murmurs. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, swaying her from side to side, just a little. “It was my pleasure.”

***

What’s happening: #percabeth (Entertainment • trending)

@kndrck__ STREAM CHROMATICA: um @TheraUS @SwedenRoyals i think i found your sick royals? #percabeth #disneyland

@wasabiviking: omg werent they supposed to be at some hospital opening today #percabeth

@ChampionSno brando he/him: LMAOOO NOT #PERCABETH PLAYING HOOKY LIKE IT’S ROMAN HOLIDAY

***

“Holy shit,” Percy moans, his mouth full of food. “Oh my God. Dear God in Heaven.”

Annabeth kicks his ankle under the table. “Don’t be rude.”

He swallows, eyes fluttering. “Oh my God, Annabeth. Holy shit. This is the best damn sandwich I’ve ever had in my entire life.”

“A monte cristo?”

“A deep-fried monte cristo! In sweet batter!” Taking another bite, he moans again, just this side of indecent. “Oh my God I love Americans. They are absolute culinary geniuses.”

“Better than Bistrot Chez Rémy?” They had both been to Disneyland Paris, separately, sadly, and Percy had recommended the restaurant to her with great enthusiasm for her upcoming trip. As usual, he was spot on with his food recs. 

He nods, eyes closed in rapture. “By a mile.”

“You’ll have to learn to make your own when we get back home, then.”

He jolts, straightening up, cheeks full of food. Roughly, he swallows. “You’re right! I need to take notes.” And he takes out his phone, hurriedly typing down whatever scent and flavor notes he must be able to discern. “This is definitely challah…”

Plucking another piece of chicken with her fork out of her jambalaya, Annabeth lets her attention wander a little, content to watch the passengers on the Pirates of the Caribbean ride as they float on beside them, down in the artificially constructed bayou river. 

Truth be told, she’s kind of tired. They’ve been walking around all day, and even with the brief reprieve of rides, her shoes really aren’t the kind that deal well with huge amounts of walking. She can already tell that she’s going to crash, and crash hard, whenever they get back to their hotel. You know, if their security detail doesn’t eviscerate them first. 

When Percy had first presented his idea to her, she had agreed without hesitation. They had had a long, dense schedule of public appearances planned for their excursions to the states, and the days had begun to seriously wear them out. Together, they had worked out the kinks, coming up with contingencies, negotiating things to do, all over Discord so no one else would get wind of what they were doing. Prior to this trip, she hadn’t seen him in… probably almost a year. She knows his father had been keeping him close to home for whatever reason, and Annabeth had had a handful of official functions to deal with. Their paths just never managed to cross, up until now. 

She hadn’t realized how much she had missed him. 

It’s lonely, growing up in the public eye. It’s cliche, but it’s true. And while Annabeth is afforded a metric ton of various intersecting privileges, she thinks she’d probably give it up in a heartbeat. It kind of sucks being a living, breathing tourist attraction. 

Growing up, she had her cousin Magnus, and a handful of other assorted children to play with, but she would never say that she had a best friend, or even a good friend, until she’d met Percy. Her mother and his father, famous for their mutual dislike, had put aside their differences to host some kind of charitable dinner for the disgustingly wealthy, and had trotted out their respective children in all their finery. Annabeth, being all of twelve years old, hadn’t really grasped the gravity of the event, and had gotten into an itty bitty little food fight with the then-unknown Prince Perseus, the result of an extramarital affair whom his father had so graciously decided to acknowledge and adopt. 

After that night, they became fast friends, and she decided that, if she ever left the royal life, she’d make sure to take Percy with her. He’s one of the few things that makes her life bearable. 

She thinks about it, sometimes. Renouncing her title. It wouldn’t exactly be hard. There was Magnus, just in line behind her. And it’s not like her family held any executive power anyway. They’re just fancy, historically interesting celebrities. 

Would Percy give up his, she wonders?

“Hey.”

“Hm?”

He looks at her oddly over their dessert, two vanilla-bourbon creme brulees. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she says. “Just tired. Long day.”

“You want to call it a night?”

She frowns. “What’s left?”

“Well, we did Space Mountain, Rise of the Resistance, Haunted Mansion, Pirates of the Caribbean, a few others,” he counts off his fingers, “saw the princesses, got Mickey ears, ate at Blue Bayou… I guess all that’s left is walking around the pier, if you want.”

“Sounds like you two had a full day.”

As one, they almost leap out of their seats, Annabeth choking on her spit. “Jesus, Zoe,” Percy pants, his hand over his chest. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Oh?” says Zoe Nightshade, the head of their security detail, who had just apparently materialized out of thin air. “Funny. I could say the same about you, sir.”

Coughing, Annabeth eventually manages to get her air back. “Hey, Zoe,” she wheezes. “How was your day?”

“Eventful. Let me tell you about it in the car.”

Annabeth glances at Percy, who’s looking a little bit like a deer in headlights. Honestly, she’s surprised they even made it this far without one of their own tracking them down. Still, it looks like their game is up. 

...Or is it?

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees a large tour group, approaching on the horizon.

“Sure,” Annabeth says, getting up. Luckily, they’ve already paid, so they can just head out; they don’t need to wait for another big group of people to cross their paths. “Will you let us go to the bathroom, first?”

Zoe squints. She’s always been able to see through Annabeth’s bullshit. But Annabeth has her best, Percy-patented baby seal eyes on, perfectly innocent. Surely, Zoe wouldn’t deny them a physical need such as relieving themselves?

After a moment, she nods. “Make it quick, if you please.”

“Of course,” Annabeth says, looking over at Percy, hoping he gets the message. He stands up, slow and stiff, eyes darting between the two of them. “We’ll be right back.”

They wander through tables and chairs towards the bathroom, her eyes always on the tour group as it just starts to pass by. Reaching out, Annabeth grabs Percy’s hand, and with a turn that would make her track coach proud, sprints out of the restaurant, using the throng of people as cover. 

She thinks she hears Zoe yelling behind them, but maybe it’s just her own laughter. “Come on!” she shrieks, breathless, as Percy’s long legs keep pace with her. “To California Adventure!”

***

darthbingus said: the monarchy are fucking parasites but percabeth is pretty cute i guess :/

ladyofsandwiches reblogged and said: it’s obviously a publicity thing lmao, also prince Percy is gay???

eowynning reblogged and said: he’s dating rachel dare, right? he can’t be gay 

ladyofsandwiches reblogged and said: That was a publicity thing too obvs, and Annabeth hasn’t ever been linked to a guy. The king of thera is hardline greek orthodox, there’s no way he’d let his son come out publicly. They’re both gay and pretending to date because homophobia

lardoftheprks reblogged and said: people can be bi and ace and pan and all sorts of things you know

batgirlcock reblogged and said: can you animals leave them alone fr

***

Zoe only spots them after the ferris wheel starts moving. Sprinting over to them, they’re still a full forty feet off the ground by the time she reaches the operator. “Sorry!” she yells down to her, hands cupping her mouth. “We’ll be down in ten minutes!”

“Ananbeth!” he chokes, giggles still escaping him. 

“What?” she laughs. 

“We’re in enough trouble as it is!”

“Exactly,” she says, settling back on the ride. “You’ll probably be grounded for life.”

“Me?” he squawks, playfully offended. “What about you?”

She scoffs. “Please. I’ll just pin it all on you.”

Leaning back, he pouts, arms crossed. “Wow. I plan this amazing day, violate a few embassorial rules, and probably put both of our countries on a massive red alert, and this is the thanks I get?”

“I helped plan it, too.” But he does have a point. “Thank you,” she says. “I had a lot of fun today.”

He turns his head to her, a grin stretching across his face. “Me too.” 

His voice is so soft, so fond. They share a look, a moment, no words between them, only the silence of a true, deep companionship. They don’t need to say anything else, because they already know what the other would say. 

As one, they break away, looking back out into the California evening. 

They don’t talk much as the ferris wheel climbs higher and higher. Honestly, Annabeth is kind of impressed with how well he’s handling himself--she knows heights are a bit of a weakness of his. He grabs the edges of their gondola every once in a while as it drops a few feet, knuckles white and face a little green, but he manages to keep his dinner down, even as the ferris wheel grinds to a halt, Percy and Annabeth at the top of the world. The swing back and forth a little, hot faces against the cool evening breeze. 

And they stay there. 

And stay there. 

And… stay there. 

Annabeth checks her watch. How long have they been up here?

Percy taps his feet, a little too frantic just to be ADHD. 

Finally, there’s a burst of noise from below them, garbled and static. “Uh, yes, excuse me--” the voice says, amplified through a megaphone. “Yeah, um, it appears we are having some… uh, technical difficulties with the Pixar Pal-A-Round. Please remain calm, as we have our best technicians on it, and we are working on evacuating the ride in a calm and efficient manner.” Then the voice cuts out. 

Annabeth glances towards Percy. He has his hands in his lap, fists clenching and unclenching, over and over again. “Uh… you okay?”

“Hm? Oh, sure,” Percy says, “just fine. Peachy keen.” He squeezes his eyes shut, slowly blowing out his breath through his mouth. 

“Hey.” She reaches over, and takes one of his hands in hers, lacing their fingers together. After a long day of holding hands, somehow it still manages to surprise her, how well they fit together, how her skin tingles as she rubs her thumb against his finger. “It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna be just fine. They’re going to get us off this ride, and then we’ll fly home and be grounded for life.”

“I thought,” he wheezes, “you’d blame it all on me?”

“As if you could come up with a plan as genius as hiding from our guard in It's A Small World.”

He nods, shakily. “Right. All you. Definitely not my idea. Everyone knows I’d have looped back to Pirates of the Caribbean.”

“Definitely.” She squeezes his hand, scooting a little closer. “Just breathe with me a little, okay?”

They breathe together, slowly and evenly. At some point, Percy takes her hand in both of his, running his thumbs over her palm, tracing her lifelines like a map. His hands are big, and warm, and it seems to calm him down a little, so she doesn’t mind all that much. 

Twilight darkens, stars twinkling against the grey, dusky sky, and still they are holding hands. Eventually, Percy relaxes, slumping against his seat.

“You good?” 

He nods. He still doesn’t let go. “Yeah. Just…” he sighs, stretching his arms up, taking Annabeth’s hand with him. “Not super looking forward to the dressing down I’m going to get.”

She winces. Annabeth’s dad is a little more flexible than Percy’s when it comes to breaches of protocol. The king of Thera is somewhat famous for his paranoia. “I hope it was worth it.”

He whips his head to her, eyes wide. “Of course it was worth it!” he says, as though the opposite were even fathomable. “You kidding? This was the best day of my life.”

“Better than your sixteenth?” His father had officially acknowledged him that day. Annabeth had spotted him in a deserted hallway with his mother, the two of them fighting off a few happy tears. She knows just how special that day was for him. 

“Not even close.” Squeezing her hand, he smiles again, that smile she knows almost better than her own by now. That smile she grew up with, a quiet oasis in a whirlwind of ancient tradition and modern media coverage. That smile is safety, familiarity. That smile was there to greet her when her mother chose to leave her family, when her uncle died without heirs, thrusting the position of heiress on her, whenever she had a rotten day or a bad grade or a lonely night, just on the other end of a phone, or down the hall, or in the kitchen. 

Whatever happens, she knows, Percy will be her best friend. Her anchor. 

Her…

She swallows. “Thank you,” she says again. “I needed this.” A day without an agenda. A day just for them. 

His eyes are dark, and soft, like the water beneath them. One hundred and fifty feet in the air in a broken ferris wheel, there’s nowhere safer she can be. “Me too.”

So she’s not really surprised at herself when she says, “I’d really like to kiss you now.”

Eyes widening, just a hair, he opens his mouth, momentarily speechless. “You--are you sure?”

She nods, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

“Cool. Uh, me too.”

“Cool.”

Neither of them move. 

“So, do--do you want to--”

Annabeth leans in, her other hand cupping his cheek, and kisses him. 

His lips are soft. His mouth tastes like vanilla and bourbon. They are trapped in a metal box, one hundred and fifty feet off the ground, about to get the punishment of their lives when they get down, and it is absolutely, utterly perfect. 

And when Annabeth pulls back, there are fireworks. 

Quite literally.

Percy’s face glows with pink and green and purple, and a little fire in his eyes that’s all him. The pops of the fireworks, loud and brassy, and muted, completely overshadowed by the pounding of her heart in her chest. 

They rest their heads against each other, breathing each other’s air, quiet and intimate, the calm before the storm that is surely coming. But that’s fine. Let it come, she thinks. She’ll be safe with Percy.

When the park technicians eventually get the ferris wheel moving again, Percy and Annabeth disembark from the gondola like nothing’s even gone wrong, waving to the crowd of people, fans, and reporters alike, who have swarmed the pier, phones and cameras held aloft in a constellation of light, before being quickly hurried away by Zoe and her crew, ushered to the end of the pier where Annabeth’s embassy’s car is waiting. 

Percy doesn’t let go of her hand once. 

***

KALYMNOS, GREECE--Prince Percy has arrived on the island for his family’s annual summer retreat, bringing his girlfriend, Princess Annabeth of Sweden, with him for the fifth year in a row, and the third as his official partner. Lifelong friends, the couple were most recently seen at Disneyland Tokyo, continuing something of a tradition for the two royals where they visit Disneyland parks across the globe. Our sources inside the castle are hinting that the family is planning something big this year. Could we see a proposal by the end of summer? Be sure to subscribe for more updates!

#pjo fic #percabeth #percabeth fic #my fic #au #perseannabeth #the rivalry ends here #will i ever stop writing modern royalty aus? no 💖 #also look mari i even used a taylor swift song

[internalsealpanic]

The Thorn pt.1

summary: “Please what, Kitten? I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me.”

 or my 6 thousand word essay on why I want more Sugar daddy!Slade fics.

a/n: This is just straight up smut Never combine stress thirst plus an amazing enabler. Thanks to @littleredwing89 for basically co-writing. Also I need more case fics with undercover gentlemen’s clubs stuff.  I will edit this for grammar later. 

warnings: mentions of murder and sexual assault (for the case), mirror sex, collars, oral (male receiving), choking, kind of public sex?, size kink (this is to be expected at this point), strength kink,  reader is kind of a dumbass, and praise kink. 

villain’s masterlist or masterlist

Saying this wasn’t your scene would be like saying the sun is bright. Obvious but wholly inadequate in describing just how out of your depth you are. You cross your arms over your chest in a futile attempt to shield them from prying eyes. The soft fabric of your lingerie feeling too little in contrast to the men clad in expensive suits leering at you as they passed your skittish form.

 You try to swallow down the nervousness. You try to tell yourself this is fine, that it’s just for the case. But the silk collar tied tightly around your neck and your own fraying nerves made it extremely difficult to ignore just how vulnerable you felt. 

 God, what made your awkward ass think you could pull this off?

 You lift your head, eyeing the other men and women around you. You all wore matching silk ribbons tied into bows behind your neck, a circular, silver tag hanging off of it. You wrinkle your nose at how young some of them look. Some barely look old enough to be anywhere near a place like this. 

 Part of you feels thankful that you shut Nicky’s idea down to go with a leather lingerie set but the stark contrast of your lacy lingerie set made you stand out too much in the sea of leather. It made you stand out just enough to color both your cheeks and ears from the amount of attention you were getting. You close your eyes trying to ignore the heat permeating from your skin. You try to focus on the details of the case. 

 For the last 8 months, there’s been an increase in the number of young men and women going missing and turning up dead. The assumption had been that it was due to the increase in gang activity but something felt off about the deaths. 

 Nothing was consistent. The victim type, the area, and even the M.O. of sexual assault were varied. Only the mode of death was even close to being consistent but even that presented its own problems. The injuries were too clean, too efficient for the killer to have drawn any pleasure from it especially when contrasted with the victims’ other injuries.  Normally people who make those injuries have a certain type and a certain way of doing things. And the clean efficiency of the disposal method had easily ruled out any of the local gangs. 

 When you brought all of this up to your boss, he waved you off saying something about looking into it. Somehow not getting fired after screaming at your boss (probably because you’re one of the few crime scene techs willing to stay in this shithole), you decide to conduct your own investigation. The more clues you uncovered (out of sheer spite) the more they seemed to point to an organized crime group, likely involved in trafficking.

 Finally, after a month and a half of searching, you found a solid lead. Augustus Klineberg. Despite the name, he was new money. At least, here in Merit.  

 “I’m his type!”

 “And so are a dozen bodies laying around in the lab, what’s your point?”

 “Sita, got me a part-time job at the Thorn.”

 It hadn’t been easy. The thorn was an exclusive gentlemen’s club that specialized in certain kinks. It had taken Sita a week to even get you an interview but after that they eagerly accepted you with worrying enthusiasm. Either way, this conversation was simply a formality. 

 Bernard stares at you and you watch as his entire being crumples into the dining room table. He turns to his husband pleadingly. “Nicky, Please, my love, talk some sense into her.”

 You turn to Nicky who is innocently sipping from his coffee mug filled with whatever ungodly creation came to Bernard in the dead of night. He tilts his head back seemingly collecting the right words. “Y/n has a point.”

 “No! Not you too!”

 “Yes!”

 “Bern, think about it. Klineberg would never suspect her and unlike most of Klineberg’s victims, Y/n is a ninja gremlin.”

 Bernard gives him a withering look while you snort. Nicky shrugs and continues to drink his, what you assumed was, liquid crack. 

 “Y/n, are you sure about this? The Thorn- Well, it isn’t exactly like your other undercover jobs.” You give both of them a cocky smile, biting into your mini waffle. “It can’t be that hard. All I have to do is sit there and look pretty.” At that little remark, Nicky burst out into a fit of laughter loud enough to wake the neighbors. 

You run your hand through your hair still, feeling flustered. You need air. 

 “Hey Nina, I’m gonna need like maybe 5 minutes.”

 “Sure, just don’t blame me for whatever excuse I give the bossman,” Nina says, shrugging at you. She flips her red curls over her shoulder, winking at a patron and tilting her hips to show off her curves. Both you and the patron are slack-jawed and entranced. Maybe you should try that sometime? Some time being after you stop gawking at Nina’s ass and probably also after you take in some air. 

 You shuffle away awkwardly keeping your eyes to the ground. You shrink into yourself easily as you cut through the crowd. This case was going to be the death of you and Bernard’s eulogy would just be a very short but satisfying ‘I told you so’. 

 Mercifully, you find a quieter area. You would have preferred to go outside but standing alone in a dark alley in skimpy underwear might be a bad idea. You flatten yourself against a wall and close your eyes. Maybe you could tell them you aren’t feeling well which isn’t entirely untrue. You felt sick being this vulnerable. You should probably leave before you do something stupid. 

 A hand on your wrist drags you back to reality. It takes absolutely everything in you not to break his wrist. You open your eyes to see Klineberg hoovering in your personal space. 

 “Are you ok?” He asks, the concern in his voice sounding synthetic. You try to wriggle out of his hold not bothering to hide your discomfort. You note how his smile seems to get bigger as you struggled more. Clearly, he was enjoying your discomfort. 

   “Thanks for finding her for me. The manager said she’d be in this general area but it’s quite hard to see with just one eye.” Slade says casually, settling a large hand on the man’s shoulder. Your heart stops. Of all the people you had to run into-

  Klineberg eyes him skeptically. You have to respect him for that. You’ve faced Slade several times before, only making it out due to luck or hours of planning. If you were Klineberg, you’d be pissing yourself. Despite the almost friendly expression Slade had on him, you can tell this wasn’t up for negotiation. And apparently, so can Klineberg seeing how he dropped your hand. 

 Slade waves a neatly dressed man over. The man eyes you appraisingly and your heart takes an express elevator to your throat. Were you that obviously out of place? 

 “We’ll be taking a room.”

 “Of course, sir,” The man answers politely, finally, taking his eyes off of you and handing Slade a key. 

 Wait. We?

 Slade starts walking without a word, the crowd parting for him easily.  You briefly look back at Klineberg who is still looking at you like he’s going to tear you apart with his bare hands before following Slade.  

 You walk behind him wordlessly. Your mind is still reeling from the fact that Slade ‘Deathstroke: The Terminator’ Wilson just saved you from your target and your own terrible acting and is mortified by the fact that he has now seen you in skimpy lingerie. The steps you take are measured, making sure to stick close to him but not too close.  You keep your eyes to the ground as you walk behind him, hoping it’s enough to hide the expressions cycling through your face. 

 You two enter a room. It was unexpectedly spacious even under the dim neon lights. You look around finding the room furnished with expensive decorations looking nothing like the seedy gentlemen’s clubs you’ve busted before save for the pole in the middle of the room. It looked more akin to an expensive hotel bar, again, save for the pole. The darkness of the room and the quiet flow of the music set quite the intimate atmosphere which just made you that more skittish. 

 Slade makes his way across the room, eyes searching the corners and spaces of the room. He nods seemingly satisfied with the setup and likely not spotting any recording devices. Your stiff shoulders loosen a bit, if nothing else you could at least speak plainly now. 

 Slade takes his suit jacket off, revealing broad shoulders and the outline of strong back muscles. Your throat dries. Something warm stirs in you and you’re gawking again. God, you really need a better reaction to attractive people. 

 Slade holds out a glass of whiskey to you, a playful smile on his handsome face. He doesn’t seem to mind you staring at him. You swear viciously not skimping on colorful words but walk over to take the alcohol regardless. It’s on his tab and you honestly needed some alcohol in your system if you’re going to talk to him.

 “So, working for the cops not work out for you?”

 “Nah, my last sugar daddy just kicked the bucket, so I’m looking for a new one,” you say, giving Slade a wry smile.  You watch him cross one leg over another easing into a relaxed position through the wall. It was polished to a mirror shine. You guess that’s the kind of thing rich people liked. 

 “Hmmm, that can be arranged.” You choke on your drink. You scowl at him. He simply shrugs at you taking a sip of his whiskey. 

 You hear the door open, forcing you to pretend to be civil. A man around your age, dressed in a classic waiter’s outfit comes in with a tray of whiskey and two glasses. You don’t know how but you can tell the whiskey is worth more than your apartment. This doesn’t help your urge to punch Slade. 

“Will you be requiring any special toys tonight, sir?” The straightforward tone of the question makes you stiffen more than anything. The man’s eyes flicker towards you but his focus remains squarely on Slade who eyes you openly before smiling and saying “No, thanks, Anthony. I think we’ll be just fine.”

 "If you say so, sir. Please feel free to let us know if you need anything." 

 You wait for Anthony to leave before turning the full force of your scowl at Slade.“How the hell did you know his name?”

 Slade regards you impassively over the rim of his glass. You refuse to break eye contact.  He raises his hands in mock surrender.  “Alright, Kitten, you caught me. I do frequent this club quite a bit.”

 “You kinky shit.”

 He eyes you again, his eye clearly tracing your curves. “I’m not the one sitting here in their underwear with a collar on. Speaking of which-” Slade nods his head towards something in front of both of you. 

 You look at the pole, blinking dumbly as a smile spreads across his face. He tips his head to it. “I did pay for your time and the customer is always right.”

 Your mouth twists into a snarl as the tips of your ears run red. “You are insufferable.”

 “Don’t make me call the manager.” You sigh at the unspoken ‘it is definitely going to blow your cover and get you shot. At best.’ and begrudgingly you make your way to the pole. 

 You grip the pole in front of you, flexing your fingers against the cold metal. Anxiety thrums under your skin. Your eyes flick nervously to Slade who’s got the audacity to sit comfortably, sip whiskey, and smirk at you as if he was completely in his element. 

 “No need to be shy. Be a good girl and give us a good show,” he says, winking at you. Your hackles rise and your face pulls into a frown before rearranging itself into a sultry smile. You put one heel in front of you, hooking your leg around the pole and grinding your clothed sex into the metal in an undulating motion that has Slade clenching his hand around his glass. You try your hardest to grin and you suspect you’ve failed. Not that Slade’s noticed considering his eye is laser-focused on your ass. 

 With your one leg on the floor, you push yourself into a spin. Your body tips back as your hand runs down your face, chest, and abdomen drawing attention to the plains of exposed skin and delicate fabric accenting your shape. Pulling your body back up, you let your body slide down to the floor. Your legs split as soon as you made contact with the floor giving him a full view of your ass. He whistles appreciatively, tilting his head. You watch him through thick lashes, eyes bright and predatory under the neon lights. You roll onto your hand and knees. He smiles down at you watching the sweat drip down the valley of your breasts.  You were a sight to behold. 

 Slade pats his knee. “Come here, kitten.” Hunger flashes in his blue eye. It sends a warm shock through your system. It’s odd being looked at like that but you can’t feel yourself getting too concerned over it. Not when it sends a pleasant hum through your mind. 

 You crawl towards him in time with the movement, slow and steady in its place. Stopping in front of him. A large hand grasps your chin, thumb brushing against your bottom lip.  

 You sit on his lap, hand grasping his broad shoulder. Embarrassment floods back into your system now that you’re this close, now that you had the full force of that hungry gaze on you. You feel your skin heat and the weight of his gaze makes your stomach flip. 

 Seduction was other people’s gig, not yours. 

 Large hands settle on your waist, pressing circles into your skin. The buzzing feeling in your brain returns and you refocus on your task. His hands slide down the side of your body, fingers digging into your hips. His hands follow the circular motions your hips make on his crotch and guides you over the growing bulge. You hear his breath catch and hiss as you grind down on his crotch. You wrap your hands around the silk tie dangling from his neck and roughly pull him into a kiss.  

 His fingers dig into the meat of your ass drawing an embarrassingly loud yelp from you and giving him access to your mouth. You suck on his tongue and receive a pleased groan from him. Your tongues wrestle for control as he kneads your ass, making you mewl and moan into the kiss. You break the kiss needing air while Slade admires his work. 

 When Slade dips in for another kiss, you pull away pushing off of his broad chest a flirty smile dancing across your features. You turn from him, heels clicking against the floor as your show off the lushness of your figure.  In the mirror, you see Slade settling back into his position and grinning at the corners of the room again. His arms relax on the back of the couch. 

You close your eyes and let the music swallow you whole. You don’t dare hazard a glance at the mirror. You sashay your hips to the music, loosening your tense muscles. You open your eyes giving Slade your best seductive smile. You run your hands up your body, tangling into your hair. 

 You bite your lip as you slide them back down. Your fingers catch against the collar. Slade’s mouth twists.  

 You ease your arms out of your bra and let it drop to the floor. Your nipples pebble in the cold night air. The sight of them makes the corners of Slade’s mouth twitch. You push past the warmth stirring in your stomach in favor of trailing your hands down your body. Your fingers toy with the straps of your panties, watching as Slade licks his lips in anticipation.  You slide the flimsy garment down your legs, bending over and giving him a good view of your wet pussy through the mirror. 

 Stepping out of them, you toss them at Slade, who just to be an asshole, catches and pockets them. He grins at you and shrugs unapologetically. You scowl at him putting as much venom into your features as much as possible.      

You sway your lush hips in time with the music, letting the slow beat dictate the rhythm of your movements as you saunter towards him. You swallow, the silk collar still wound tightly around your neck. The intensity of his gaze makes you painfully aware of your nakedness but the embarrassment heating your skin shoots straight to your core, making you shudder. 

 Reaching him, you straddle his thighs, your plump ass grazing over his growing bulge. You moan, mouth-watering at the sensation. Your mind dwells on the feeling, your insides growing slick at the thought of him inside you. 

 Your fingers trail up your thighs and up over your stomach. You watch as his eye follows the slow tantalizing movement. His large hands grip onto the plush headrest of the couch, squeezing them as his face twists just a smidge with a mix of exertion and frustration. 

 You give him a playful smile as you slow the gyrating of your hips. A growl rumbles from his chest and you snap your hips back against his erection, the loose movement of your body hypnotic like ocean waves. Tipping your head back into his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat to him. Your hips continue to undulate against him, feeling the deep bass of the music ripple through your body along with the shockwaves of heat coming from your core as you grind it against his bulge. The coarse feeling of the fabric against your core making your knees grow weak.  

 A sinful moan tumbles out of your lips followed closely by breathy panting. You let your eyes slide shut soaking up the sensation of his suit against your skin. You reach behind you hooking your arms around Slade’s broad shoulders to steady yourself as your press closer to his large form. He presses his lips to your neck, the prickle of his beard against your skin making you shiver. “Yeah, just like that, kitten,” he murmurs against your skin, a large hand settling on your thigh.

 You push further into him. You grind your hips, the movement deep and slow. Your hand tangles in his hair, gently guiding him to your lips. Your lips move against each other just as your bodies do, slow and sensual. You catch his lips between your teeth, nipping at it. He chuckles at your invitation, sliding his tongue inside your mouth and joining your lips once again. Below you, you feel another large hand hook onto your thigh. Both hands grip your thighs fiercely pulling them further apart, exposing your sopping pussy to the cold night air. 

 Slade breaks away from your kiss, his panting breaths hot fanning your face. You stare at each other with half-lidded eyes, lust bright in them even in the low light. He captures your lips again in a quick kiss before planting one on your shoulder. “Play with yourself,” he says, the command steady and rough against your ear. 

 The tone of his voice makes you shiver as you reluctantly release your hold on his shoulders. Keeping one hand tangled in his hair, you slowly slide your hand down your body, mewling into his skin when you reach into your neglected folds. You slip two fingers in immediately. You shudder and bite your lips trying to stop any obscene sounds from escaping. 

 A hand tilts your chin, coaxing you. “Good girl, look at yourself. Look just how wet you are just for me, kitten,” Slade says, nibbling at your ear. You yelp, your hips bucking into your hand, ass rolling against his member. You watch yourself in the mirror red-faced, open-mouthed, and sinful. Your dripping sex is in full view only obscured by your hand as your fingers dip in and out of your core. Slade’s eye never leaves the mirror even as he plants kisses against your skin. His large hand grasps your neck making sure you don’t look away from the mirror. You think of how easily he could break you and you feel like you’re on fire. 

 You're so close.  You’re so so close. You can even see the desperation carving itself so plainly on your face. Anxiety and arousal mix into a potent cocktail in your gut. The nervousness from earlier rearing its ugly head. You whine in frustration, adding in a third finger but you can’t seem to reach over the edge. You hear him chuckle behind you and see him grin into your skin. At least, one of you was having fun. 

 He gives your shoulder another rough kiss, leaving a mark before speaking. “Having some trouble, kitten?” You wrinkle your nose at his tone but...in truth, you were. You bite your lip not knowing what to say. You’re so close but… the venue made you shy and that was an entirely different problem.  Using the hand on your neck, Slade tilts your head towards him, the heat from his lips ghosting over yours. “All you have to do is ask for help, kitten,” he murmurs against your lips. The vibrations send another shockwave of desperation wreaking havoc throughout your already oversensitive body. 

 He tilts your head back to look at the mirror. You can feel your ears warm at the thought of begging but you’re a hair’s breadth away from your end. Biting your lips and furrowing your brow, you take a steadying breath but it still comes out breathy when you exhale due to the hand squeezing your thigh drifting closer to your core. He presses slow circles into your inner thigh with his thumb, his teeth nibbling at your shoulder leaving marks. A vicious curse leaves your lips blunted by a moan that follows it. 

 “Slade, please. Please. Sir, please.”

 “Please what, Kitten? I can’t give you what you want if you don’t tell me.”

 You tighten your grip on his hair and roll your hips against his. He growls in your ear but he doesn’t budge. “Use your words, kitten,” he commands, sounding far more patient than he actually is. You whimper, rocking against him. He holds you still, fingers digging into your flesh and body leaning into yours. “Words.”

 You pant, hot breaths loud in your ears. Whether it was his or your own you were hearing, you didn’t know and didn’t care, not when your head was jumbled with the buzzing under your skin. You swallow. His eye following the movement of your throat and the silver glint of your tag winking at you in the mirror. “Slade- Sir, please- Please, I need you. I need you inside me.”

 “That wasn’t too hard now was it?” He says capturing your lips in a rough kiss. You scream against his lips when you feel two large calloused fingers thrust into your core, stretching you replacing the ache in your core with a burning stretch. Slade releases you, steadying you so that your eyes are once again on the mirror. You both watch as his fingers pump in and out of you, the room filling up with your moans. “Keep your eyes on the mirror and watch as I make you cum.”

 He presses his thumb against your clit. The syllables of his name coming out garbled and incoherent. You cum with a whimper. Your body shakes uncontrollably, your bones melting. Your lungs take in greedy gulps of oxygen feeling like the wind’s been knocked out of them. Slade lets your head lull back against his shoulder. You press little kisses against the powerful muscles of his neck. “Thank you, sir.”

 Slade removes his fingers from your pussy, leaving you feeling empty. “Clean up the mess you made,” he orders, pressing wet fingers against your lips. You open your mouth letting them in. You slide your eyes shut and swirl your tongue around them. You bob your head taking them in deep. You moan, rocking your hips against his still hard cock, letting yourself imagine what it would be like to take him into your mouth. Your enthusiasm earns you a hiss from Slade. You smile as you continue to suck on his fingers and rock your body, the fire in the pit of your stomach reigniting. You flutter your eyes open. In the mirror, you see Slade, brow raised and mouth wrangled into a shape of wry amusement. “See, I knew you were a good girl,” he says voice strained. You grind your ass into him as you moan around his fingers. You gasp when a rough hand grasps your breast, nipple pinched between calloused fingers. 

 “Are you that hungry for my cock, kitten?” he asks, removing his fingers from your lips. Both your lips and his fingers glisten with your saliva. You nod not trusting your voice to be steady. He thankfully accepts it.  

 “Well, have at it,” he says, hands repositioning themselves on the back of the couch easing into a more relaxed position and looking as smug as humanly possible. He really is getting his money’s worth out of this. You shift your body making sure you brush up against his erect member as you did so. He looks almost pained when you finally face him. You drag your hands up and down his shirt, his muscles barely hidden by the soft silky material. You lick your lips, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. You slide yourself down his body, hands kneading and worshipping every stretch of muscle they come across. Fuck, they feel so good to your touch. 

 Getting to your knees, you rest your cheek against his knee. You let mischief shape your features. He quirks his brow at you, tilting his strong jaw urging you to move on. You massage his thighs as you pull yourself up. You undo his belt tossing it to the side. You pinch the zipper of his pants between your teeth and pull it down, grinning as you do it. Slade lifts his hips a bit to help you ease his pants and boxers down. Your mouth waters visibly when his cock springs free in all its glory. You gulp audibly as you figure the logistics of fitting all of it into your mouth. 

 “Take your time, Kitten. I’ve requested you for the whole night. We have time.” He drawls, smug. You roll your eyes at him finally deciding that head-on was the only way to tackle this. You lick a strip up his member paying special attention to the large vein running down the middle. You flick your eyes up to him, seeing his muscles tense. You grasp the base of his cock tight in your hand, kissing the tip and giving the slit a long, languid lick. The taste of precum wakes your taste buds. You hum, sucking lightly at the head, your hand twisting up and down his cock. His jaw tightens, the strain of keeping his hips still tightening the muscles of his thighs. 

 You spread your legs wide as you sink your head down taking him in and giving him a good view of your wet pussy. You take him in as far as you can, gagging when the head of his cock hits the back of your throat. The corners of your eyes sting with tears. You still yourself, letting your throat relax around him. You pull yourself back up. Your plush lips massage his length as you go and your warm hand not trailing far behind. You keep your mouth on the head of his cock before sinking back down. His sheer girth is sure to make your jaw ache but you couldn’t make yourself care, not when you’re growing wetter the more you worship his cock. Slade for his part looked like he was gonna tear the couch apart every time you sank down to take is cock on, the fluttering walls of your throat driving him up the wall. The soft music of the room was now barely audible against the mingling sounds of your moans. Slade’s unrestrained voice was dripped with whiskey and sin. 

 His cock twitches in your throat and it’s the only warning you get before cum splashes against the back of your throat and fills your mouth. You choke but when your eyes meet his, the muscles of your throat work automatically to swallow his load. The movement followed closely by his eye. You pull back, light-headed. He grabs your chin, tilting it up to inspect your mouth. He hums satisfied.  “Kitten, that mouth of yours is definitely worth more than the price of admission.” He says brushing a thumb against your bottom lip as you pant. 

 A familiar ache in your core returns when your eyes land on Slade’s still hardened cock.  

 “Of course, a little cockslut like you wouldn’t be satisfied ‘til you’ve been filled,” he chuckles pulling you into his lap so that you’re facing the mirror, your dripping pussy hovering over his saliva covered cock. The throbbing head teasing against your sensitive folds. He kisses your shoulder, his teeth pinching your skin leaving another red bruise. You whine as he guides your hips, moving them to ever so slightly brush your core against his cock. 

 “Sir, please. I need you. I- I need you to fuck me,” you beg, hands tangling in his hair and eyes watching his member in pained hunger. You sound so needy but you also needed him inside you filling you up. 

 Slade hums in your ear approvingly. He pinches your ear lobe between his teeth, making you keen. “Well, since you asked so nicely.” That was the only warning you got before his hands guide your hips down onto his engorged cock. Your walls flutter with every inch, stretching you with every inch. A hand cups your breast while he continues to guide you down onto his cock. Rough calloused fingers knead your breast as he whispers compliments into your skin in between kisses. The cacophony of sensations is almost too much for you. 

 “Such a good cockslut, look at how well that tight cunt of yours is taking me in.” You roll your hips, urging him to quicken his maddeningly slow pace. He simply chuckles at your attempt as both his hands steady your hips. You almost cry in relief when he finally bottoms out. You pant savoring the burning stretch tearing at your insides. Pleasure and pain mingling in your sense.  

 Slade rests his chin against your shoulder, lips pressed to the shell of your ear. “Kitten, I want to watch you fuck yourself on my cock,” he says, in a low commanding tone making you shiver and leaving no room for arguments. You grip on to his arms, nails digging into the meat of his muscle, to steady yourself. You lean forward to get yourself into a better angle. 

 Ah ah ah

 Breathy moans and the slap of skin against skin filled the air as you roll your hips against his. You watch yourself in the mirror, breasts bouncing, mouth hanging open, and tongue lolling out getting lost in the pleasure. The mixture of shadow and light highlighting and isolating the frantic need carving itself onto both of your faces. The coil in your stomach twists as your eyes meet his in the mirror. Icy blues trailing up and down your body possessively.   

 His hand wraps around your throat, squeezing it gently as he trails kisses up your spine. Your hips stutter, your walls squeezing around his cock. “You like that?” he whispers into your ear, putting just the tiniest bit more pressure around your neck. You feel your walls flutter around him and he moans in your ear. His other hand squeezes at your hip, nails digging into your soft flesh.     

 With a growl, he snaps his hips against yours almost violent in its intensity. You let out a loud yelp. Slade jackhammers into you like a madman, pummeling your pussy. His tongue dragging against your sweat-covered skin.  “Cum with me, Kitten,” he grinds out, nipping at your ear. Your pussy clenches and unclenches around him trying to squeeze his cock, gripping him as if not wanting to let go of it. He bites a hickey into your neck and you feel the coil in your stomach burst. You feel a flood of warmth fill your aching core as Slade lets himself go. 

 He turns your body around to face him, careful not to separate you two. He pulls you into a deep kiss as both of you ride out your orgasms. 

 Your body slumps against Slade’s, head resting on his shoulder and chest pressing against his. Your breaths come out in puffs fanning against his neck. Slade presses a kiss to your forehead. You yawn and kiss his throat, his pulse hot against your lips. 

 “Satisfied?” he asks, pulling your wrist to his lips nipping and leaving marks on it. You wonder just how many marks he’s left on you and if he’s technically allowed to do that. It just seems bad for business. 

 “Yes, sir,” you answer, nuzzling into his shoulder. He chuckles, rubbing his large hands soothingly over your aching muscles. He holds you tenderly for a while, both of you basking in the afterglow.  

 Through thick lashes, you see Slade look at his watch. You whine when he starts to shift. Wrapping your arms around him, you press your body closer. You see his brow wrinkle and have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from smiling. Sucker. 

 Slade gives you another kiss as he reluctantly extricates himself from your warmth. You shiver at the motion. Your oversensitive walls flutter making him groan. You whimper at the feeling of emptiness as he gently places you on the soft cushions of the couch. He places another kiss on your forehead then your shoulder then your wrist as he drapes his jacket over you. “Sorry, kitten, I have some business I need to take care of,” he says tucking himself back into his pants. “But if you feel like a repeat performance, feel free to come back,” he continues, fixing his shirt as he grins down at you. Your stomach flips despite how tired you feel. 

 You watch him walk away then stop. “Oh and I’ll be keeping these,” he teases, holding up your panties and tucking them back into his pocket. You try to sit up intent on throwing the entire bottle of whiskey at him but your limbs fail you, still feeling like jelly.

  The next time you open your eyes is when you feel someone patting your cheek lightly. 

 “March,” Anthony’s voice comes out in a haze. It takes a second for your mind to recognize the name as your alias. You take a deep breath trying to quell the panic from being woken up. 

 “What time is it?”

 “A quarter past one.”

 Good, you’ve only been asleep for an hour.  

 “Thanks.”

 “You’re pretty lucky. Looks like Mr. Wilson was feeling generous,” Anthony laughs, thumb pointing to the stack of cash by the whiskey. 

 That asshole. 

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

Thanks for reading! 

a/n: This will be a 3 part series because I am thirsty as hell. 

  Tag list:  @batarella, @anothertimdrakestan , @lucy-roo , @multifandomgirl-us , @idkmanicantenglish ,@birdy-bat-writes , @americasmarauders , @l-inkage , @arestorationofbalance , @cloudie-skay , @wunderstell @hyp-oh-critical

#Slade Wilson #slade wilson x reader #slade wilson smut #slade wilson imagine #dc smut

[theatresweetheart]

For the bad thing happens bingo prompts: broken wrist and analogical? could you make it g/t too, somehow?

Student Struggles

Summary: He knew it was illogical and ridiculous to make such an emotionally biased decision. Yet, Logan did it anyway.

Warnings: Broken limb (non graphic), humans treated as lesser, main character referred to as an “it” (non malicious), fear.

Pairings: Platonic Analogical 

Characters: Logan, Virgil

Word Count: 3463 words

                                        ——————————

It was a precarious predicament.

It certainly wasn’t everyday he tried to sneak out of his university’s anthropology lab harbouring an injured and terrified human in his pocket.

As one of the more respected senior’s of his class, most of the professors that were still there hardly paid Logan another look as he left the lab for the evening.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that he was nervous. Smuggling a human out of the lab without a professor’s explicit permission was an offence punishable by suspension. The suspension itself wouldn’t last much longer than a couple days, but it would leave a bad mark on his crystal clean school record. It would change the reputation he had with his professors—all of which he had so carefully tailored right from his first year in the program.

In fact, most of them greeted him warmly. Asking about his classes earlier, wishing him a good weekend and giving a teasing reminder to study for the upcoming midterms. None of these conversations lasted longer than a few minutes and normally, Logan would have been glad to speak with them. But as of that moment, the longer he was stuck there standing with them, the larger the chance was of him being found out. He knew his professors were very well trained in spotting things that seemed off—an example would be students sitting in the very back row, the furthest away from the lecturer and still getting called out for not paying enough attention.

Long story short, if Logan got caught he was risking his entire future in this field.

A part of him still questioned if this whole thing was even worth the risk. Humans got hurt all the time in his practicum; especially when other students weren’t being careful enough. It happened, so why was this one any different?

Why was the human that had looked up at him with wide frightened eyes any different than the others?

Still, whether or not it was worth the risk, Logan was too far into it now to backtrack. Retracing his steps back to the lab may be considered suspicious, so it was all or nothing whether he wanted it to be or not. Besides, he was also positive that the doors would be locked anyhow, so backpedaling would be pointless. Not that he didn’t have a key to get back in if he truly needed to.

Logan ducked around another professor expertly and he went unnoticed, as the professor in question seemed to be engaged in a particularly interesting conversation.

Or so he thought.

Just as he was about to push the door to the building open, he heard the man bidding his quick farewells for the night before easily catching up with the student.

“Logan,” his professor greeted him with a grin, pushing the other door open before Logan had the chance to escape.

“Dr. Coleman,” he replied after a moment, shouldering his book bag a little more securely.

“You seem to be in quite the rush,” Dr. Coleman said, pulling his coat closer as the cool autumn air swept in through the doors. “Mind if I join you to the parking lot?”

As if he had a choice. Logan only gave a nod.

The squirming in his pocket started up again, this time with more vigor. Slightly paranoid that the little motions would show through the soft fabric, Logan make the quick decision to fully wrap his hand around the human—keeping it still and silent. While that stopped the slight movement from the outside, he could still feel the terrified motions pushing helplessly against his fingertips. Trying fruitlessly to budge his fingers. Of course, to no avail.

While he did feel bad about physically restraining it when it was so obviously in distress, Logan really couldn’t risk being found out this far into the endeavor.

He only hoped the little thing’s heart wouldn’t stop entirely.

However, during the entire ordeal he kept his features mindfully neutral, careful to keep from alerting Dr. Coleman of his current plight.

Dr. Coleman didn’t say anything for a long moment, his eyes flickered over the student and Logan pretended not to notice. Acting off would only make the professor suspicious. Something he really did not need right now.

The professor only hummed softly before turning his attention forward, toward the cars sitting silently under the streetlights illuminating the parking lot in a warm yellow glow. Logan must have spent more time in the lab than he had meant to, if twilight was already falling.

“Busy night tonight, I assume?” Dr. Coleman finally broke the silence and Logan only shrugged nonchalantly.

“You could say that,” he relented. While it technically wasn’t untrue, it wouldn’t be school work like the professor would assume.

Dr. Coleman snickered, reaching into his pocket to draw out his car keys. He clicked the buttons and his car’s headlights flashed in response. “Getting some studying done?”

In a way.

Logan forced himself to relax a little, knowing that the professor had no idea of his little stowaway. “Certainly. Can never be too over prepared for an exam.”

“True,” Dr. Coleman stuck his hands into his pockets. Logan felt relief wash over him when the professor reached his own vehicle. This was the very type of interaction he had been trying so hard to avoid. “This is why you’re one of my favourite students, Logan.”

The praise was nice, but really not what he needed right now. “I appreciate that, Dr. Coleman. But I really do have to get going, as pleasant as this conversation has been.”

As stinted as it had been too, it seemed. Usually, talking with Dr. Coleman didn’t take that much energy. He had engaged the professor in many heated debates over his four years of study. And he would be glad to engage in those types of conversations once more! Just as soon as the human was no longer on his person and in range of being confiscated, only to be placed right back into the same area where it had gotten hurt in the first place.

Whether or not this whole thing was the correct course of action, Logan was sick of witnessing humans getting injured and then being disposed of as if their injuries made them completely useless.

If given the proper treatment and time to heal, they would have a far less percentage of humans succumbing to their injuries or illnesses.

It was unfortunate that so many of his peers thought of the small creatures as disposable. While, no, it was not difficult for professionals to retrieve more right out of their lives on earth, it didn’t make the practice any less morbid or underhanded. Anthropology students should be learning how to assist humans in healing and recovering, not tossing them the minute they were no longer “perfect” in their eyes.

“Fair enough,” Dr. Coleman said, stepping back and placing a hand on the door handle of his car. “I won’t keep you from your studies any longer. Have a good night and take care of yourself. Don’t you be pulling all-nighters, understand?”

“I understand,” Logan repeated back as if on instinct. It wouldn’t stop him from doing it, but it was…nice, he supposed, to know that the professor cared.

It wasn’t like he didn’t have friends that wouldn’t check up on him, he did, but it was different when it was someone that was higher status than you were. Held more sway over what happened in the department. Dr. Coleman was the dean of the anthropology department and he had a lot of power.

The professor nodded his head with a grin, before pulling open his car and stepping in.

Logan let out a breath and turned on his heel. Quickening his pace to his own vehicle, he fished in his bag for his keys. He found them after a moment of struggling one-handed and unlocked his car. He slid inside just as Dr. Coleman’s headlights flashed over him and the professor pulled out of the parking lot, disappearing over the hill leading down to the highway.

Letting his head rest back against the seat’s headrest, he finally released the human from the confines of his hand. Using his now freed one, he ran them through his hair before pulling his glasses off.

What was he even doing?

So what if there was a cruel practice going on at the school underneath everyone’s noses? Just because he was privy to it didn’t mean he had to do anything about it. He was just one person. Logan had friends that were very much human rights activists and into studies and politics concerning the creatures, but none of their campaigns had really gotten the traction necessary to make a true difference. It was a difficult field of study to be in when there were people opposing everything you did.

While Logan always made sure his interactions with the creatures were careful and calculated, a part of him wished he could say the same thing for his classmates.

You would think, at a senior level of study, students would be taking it more seriously. Many of them did, but many of them still used this advantage to handle the humans they dealt with rough and carelessly. To which, the creature would get injured and would then be gone by next morning.

The human currently stuck within the confines of his pocket had been one of the unlucky ones. Injured thanks to a student who had been working in the lab outside of class just a few feet away from Logan—who had conducting his own experiments—they’d dropped the human from a dangerous height on accident, causing the little one to cry out.

His classmate had panicked immediately, obviously unsure of what to do or where to go from there. They’d even gone as far as to check over at Logan to gauge if he’d seen anything and snitch. The student had then gathered the human up as if nothing had happened. They’d packed their papers, shoved it all into their backpack and then deposited the human right back into the large glass terrarium in the middle of the lab, just waiting for someone else to find the injured creature in the morning and get rid of it.

Logan didn’t even have any connection to the human currently struggling to right itself in the soft fabric. Hadn’t conducted any studies with it, observed it or anything else of the such. He’d only heard the helpless cry and decided he wasn’t going to let it suffer in its own agony all night.

The move was illogical and he knew that. Yet, he was still risking absolutely everything for this one little human. His future career was banking on the hope he never got found out.

Logan slipped his glasses back on before sliding the keys into the ignition.

“The amount of trouble you could get me in is unbelievable,” he mused after a moment, unsure if he was talking to the human or not. Either way, the only reaction he got for his efforts was more struggling. So, pulling the gear shift out of park, he made his way back home.

—

“Oh, would you stop fighting me for five seconds,” the student groused, quickly managing to corral the human between his hands again without fully touching him. “If I wanted to hurt you, don’t you think I would have done that by now? Or perhaps, better yet, just left you back in the lab’s terrarium for someone else to find?”

The human only twitched away from his hands, just as he had been doing for the past fifteen minutes. Logan really didn’t want to have to pin him down to get the fidgety creature to be still, but he was quickly running out of options and patience.

“I don’t want to restrain you,” Logan’s voice finally seemed to get the human’s flickering attention. However, now the human’s eyes were locked solely on him, with an uncanny ability to follow his every miniature movement with unwavering attention. It was, all things considered, slightly disturbing to be watched so intensely with such obvious fright and distrust. “But I will if you force my hand.”

The human’s face contorted in an expression that resembled a sneer, before he tucked his injured wrist closer to his chest.

Logan pulled his hands back to himself, watching quietly as the human flinched further into himself. It was very much obvious the little one was touch shy and Logan really wanted to refrain from handling him as much as possible– lest he frighten the human so bad his little heart stopped altogether. “You must understand that leaving your wrist like that will only do you more harm than good. I can assist you in starting your healing progress.”

The human seemed open enough to the idea and Logan carefully extended his fingertips forward, a blatant show of nonaggression and allowing the creature to come to him in its own time. Giving the human the slightest semblance of control may make this entire interaction even the tiniest bit easier on them both.

Its eyes flickered uneasily from its wrist back to Logan’s outstretched hand. It twisted to look over its shoulders, as if searching out an escape route. It hadn’t worked before and Logan knew trying to escape wouldn’t work again. His reaction time was much faster than the human’s, so it wouldn’t make it very far anyhow.

The human in question turned back to Logan, almost as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to act like any other careless student that was ready to mishandle him. The human’s wrist was thin as it was, but now that it was injured (and Logan speculated, broken), it was even more vulnerable than before. Giving up a vulnerable piece of you was a frightening thing and Logan could hardly imagine looking at it from any other perspective but his own. Though, he could safely assume that he, himself, would not be very fond of this situation either if their positions had happened to be switched.

Truthfully, there would be nothing about the human’s life Logan would enjoy. Depending on whether or not he came straight from the earth’s surface and nicked directly from his own life, or if he had been born into a breeding facility.

In all reality, he understood the hesitance in letting him assist. If the human had been handled as recklessly as Logan theorized he had, coming face to face with someone that wouldn’t mishandle him purposefully would be unknown, suspicious and daunting new territory.

“I’m not going to ask you to trust me,” he said finally, the human’s eyes flickered up to meet his own. Surprise lingered in those colourful eyes. “I know you’re frightened and that’s alright. It may be hard to believe, but I really can help you. Only if you’ll allow me, of course. Though, I do think you and I both know that sleeping on that hurt wrist of yours would be uncomfortable at least.”

The human’s good hand clenched, showing Logan the inner battle the little one was facing.

Wanting to ease a little more of it’s stress, he quietly urged; “I will not hurt you, you have my word.”

A moment passed and the human hesitantly stepped forward, his wrist extended enough for Logan to start bandaging.

—

“Why’d you do it?”

The sudden voice very nearly startled Logan out of his thoughts. Virgil had been sitting so quietly next to him, that he’d almost forgotten the human was even there in the first place.

When Logan’s attention fell down to said human, Virgil wasn’t looking at him. He was instead focused intently on his wrist, carefully wrapped in bandages and hanging in a makeshift sling, the best either of them could have done. Logan had almost no experience bandaging such a small subject, so getting it done and in a place where he was satisfied with it was difficult. And Virgil had been working one-handed, so getting the sling to hold properly had been a fight all in itself.

Though, the question was what really nabbed Logan’s attention. “Do what?”

Virgil gave him a look—Logan was getting very familiar with Virgil’s looks and they all usually meant something different—which was a mix between annoyance and genuine confusion, as if Logan really didn’t understand what he meant; which was untrue “Smuggled me out of the lab,” he clarified a moment later, his fingers trailing over the white piece of fabric wrapped around his arm and shoulder again. “You didn’t have to do it, we both know that. I just want to know why you did.”

That was the true question, wasn’t it?

An inquiry that had been on Logan’s mind since that night’s ordeal.

In all honesty, Logan wasn’t entirely sure what had metaphorically possessed him in that particular moment. And while he wanted to be able to give Virgil a straight answer, he didn’t have one.

Logan sat back in his chair, hands resting idly in his lap. The silence was thoughtful, if a bit awkward. As far as they had come in their acquaintanceship (maybe even going as far as saying tentative friendship), there were still pauses that felt tense and heavy. Virgil had certainly come a long way from the first time they had met and Logan was grateful for it, since he was no longer having one-sided conversations.

There were, of course, some topics that Virgil was still too sensitive about to really learn anything, but they were getting there. Logan really hoped that he would eventually get to learn more about what it was like for the human, and be able to go off of that firsthand information to do something. However, until then building his trust was Logan’s priority.

“I don’t exactly have an answer for you,” Logan said after a moment’s pause of brief deliberation. He knew that giving Virgil solid answers was more preferable, since it would ease his anxiety. But this topic was one where Logan, regrettably, didn’t have any solid answers to give.

“Oh.” There was that dejected slump of Virgil’s shoulders, a position Logan was also very familiar with when dealing with him. Disappointment was clear in Virgil’s tone, but he made no move to push for further answers.

Logan felt as though he had let him down somehow. Which was certainly not something he would let stand. He took a long moment, carefully mulling over and debating his next words. “I suppose I did what I did because I couldn’t stand the way they were treating you anymore.” Now that seemed to have drawn Virgil’s attention right back up to him, though he had a brow quirked in question. So, Logan continued. “I know we didn’t have a working relationship prior to my thoughtless, albeit successful, actions. Though, I do feel… better, knowing that you’re safe here.”

Going from whatever kind of relationship they had established here now, Logan couldn’t bear the idea of someone else getting their hands on Virgil. Especially if they meant him any harm. While he could be mean and sharp, there was that anxious and unsure side to him, which proved that a lot of his bark was worse than his bite.

It also did give him peace of mind that Virgil was safe in his care. No more mishandling, no more purposeful injuries and no more testing with stuff that shouldn’t be anywhere near a human.

Virgil’s nose scrunched. “That makes no sense.”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Logan relented, the ghost of a smile gracing his features. He leaned forwards once more, returning to his laptop to type again. “Though, I’m sure it’s nice for you to know your arm will heal properly.”

Virgil shrugged his good shoulder, leaning back on his hand and looking up toward the student. “Still hurts,” he mused.

Logan hummed. “I’d be surprised if it didn’t.”

The two fell back into a more comfortable quiet. It was broken periodically by soft conversation, but it was mostly filled by the sound of Logan’s keyboard click clacking.

“…thanks,” Virgil eventually said, gently enough that Logan had almost entirely missed it. He paused his typing and his eyes flickered over Virgil’s form, whom of which was tucked comfortably into his hoodie, his eyes looking anywhere other than Logan. “For doing it, I mean. Even though you didn’t have to.”

Logan didn’t force Virgil to meet his eyes, as that would only put unnecessary stress on him. “You’re welcome,” he replied, “I find that your company is quite pleasant.”

While the consequences of his actions were still a very real threat, Logan couldn’t find it in himself to regret his decision.

                                        ——————————

#Anonymous #Brook writes #Sanders Sides #Sanders Sides fic #Sanders Sides g/t #ts Logan #ts Virgil #Logan Sanders #Virgil Sanders #Analogical #Platonic Analogical #g/t #giant tiny #infinitesimal!sides #human!Virgil #giant!Logan #tw broken limb #tw fear #TSSides #giant/tiny #bad things happen bingo #bthb

[mostlysignssomeportents]

David Dayen's MONOPOLIZED

The world is beset by urgent, fantastically technical challenges - vaccine logistics, financial misconduct, geoengineering proposals and fights about what we should eat and how we should get from A to B.

These are thorny problems. Getting them right is urgent - and hard. Not just because these are complicated questions, but also because there are powerful, monied people who benefit when we get them wrong, and they pay handsomely for doubt.

Worse: many of these problems involve far-off, probabilistic consequences for actions we're taking today: "If we don't do something about climate change, your grandkids will experience some bad stuff. Probably. Maybe not yours. Someone's though."

Add it all up - complexity, bad-faith doubt-sowers, and probabilistic, far-off consequences - and it's really hard to get people to treat these issues with the warranted gravity and urgency.

Authors who write books on these subjects use two main tactics:

I. Explainers: demystify a complex subject, breaking it down until it becomes legible to a lay audience, and

II. Storytelling: find people whose lives dramatize the technical issue and tell their stories.

This is a pretty good strategy. Get the balance right and the explainers become eye-opening jolts of recognition ("Oh, *that's* why things are the way they are!") while the storytelling personalizes the new knowledge.

But both have their limits, especially when it comes to the monopolies of late-stage capitalism. The thing is, every grift in the monopoly playbook - evictions, CDOs, pharmacy benefit managers, ad-tech, patent trolling - is just bullshit.

These things aren't hard to understand because they're complicated. They're complicated so that they'll be hard to understand. The first time you unravel one, it's quite gratifying: "Oh, I'm not stupid, it's just all nonsense. Wow."

The fiftieth time, it's like, "God, not another one?"

It's like when I worked in a bookstore and hustlers would come in trying to cadge money from me by telling me long stories about buying bus tickets home to help an ailing relative.

The longer the story went on, the most obviously untrue it became. The experience goes from amusing to weird to tedious.

Listen long enough to the idiotic scams of Gwyneth Paltrow/Alex Jones or Reverse Factoring hustlers and your brains will start running out of your ears.

And there's a storytelling failure mode, too: focusing down on "characters" can make systemic problems seem like individual ones - like, if we just punish that racist bully, we're driving out racism itself.

Writing an effective activist book on these lines is an art, not a science: just enough explaining to make it clear how wicked and awful the bad guys are, just enough storytelling so we know what the consequences are.

Which brings me to David Dayen's MONOPOLIZED, a *superb* book about the rise and rise of monopolies.

https://thenewpress.com/books/monopolized

If telling this kind of complicated, technical story and making it personal and urgent is an art, then Dayen is an artist.

Chapter by chapter, Dayen weaves explainers and personal stories together, unpicking snarled knots of bullshit and laying them straight to reveal them for the turds they are; then showing how we're personally drowning in crap.

From pharma to aviation, airlines to newspapers, Big Tech to Big Funeral, Dayen's book connects together every one of the scams that picks our pockets, robs us of dignity and life chances, and laughs in our faces.

He shows how monopolists - and their court sorcerers from the Chicago School of economics - have spent 40 years telling us that we can't believe our own experience of the worsening, contracting world around us, that the models prove it's getting better.

He shows us how both reviled mega-CEOs like Jeff Bezos and cuddly "investors" like Warren Buffet are brutalizing workers, inventors, customers, travelers, prisoners, and everyone in between.

His technical breakdowns are flawlessly understandable and witty, too - and never lapse into the tedium of "not more of this bullshit, no," while the human stories are perfectly chosen to illustrate how these scams hurt real people.

Dayen doesn't just break down his subjects - he builds them back up again, illustrating, for example, how monopolies in pharma forced the hospitals to monopolize in self-defense, and *that* led to monopolies in insurance.

The point being that any monopolies lead to everything being monopolized - and that the only sector of the economy that doesn't get to band together under a single institution to push back is us, the public, the workers, the consumers.

In the year since this book was published, the problems have only gotten worse. I noted with irony as I finished the excellent audiobook that it was recorded by a company that became a division of a notorious private equity fund over that period.

Our new gilded age is coming apart at the seams. A transparently absurd doctrine that assured us that monopolies were "efficient" and would benefit us all has brought us to the brink of ruin.

MONOPOLIZED is the story of how we got here - who is to blame, what's really going on, and most importantly what we need to do to turn it all around.

#pluralistic

[twdmusicboxmystery]

When a Grady Actor Confirmed TD and Other Reasons the Spoilers Don’t Spoil TD

Okay Everyone, I’m gonna cover a few of things today that I hope will help everyone to continue feeling at least somewhat better about the spoilers. 

***More spoilers below (same ones as yesterday, actually) but don’t read if you don’t want to know. You’ve been warned.***

1) Could the spoilers be fake?

I got plenty of messages and comments yesterday, too. Some of them claiming these spoilers aren’t even true and the person who spoiled them is a troll and unreliable. 

Now, before everyone starts messaging me and commenting about how you “know” these are true and the screeners are out, please note that I’m not making a claim either way. The account that spoiled this isn’t one who normally gets and reviews screeners, which means they could be false. That doesn’t mean that account didn’t get these from a reputable source, which means they could be true.

As I said yesterday, overall, I think they’re probably true. I think they were probably intentionally leaked to hype up the fandom and gauge our reactions. And I would rather you all make your peace with them being real rather than holding out hope that they’re totally false. But I think it’s worth reiterating that they haven’t been 100% confirmed, yet.

2) There’s a whole other person involved in this Leah arc that we don’t know about yet.

You know how yesterday I went on and on about how we don’t have anything near all the details of this arc? Well, someone pointed this out to me. Don’t feel bad if you totally missed it, because I did, too, and I haven’t seen anyone talking about it.

Look at the picture of Leah below carefully. Look at what’s behind her. If you look closely, there’s someone kneeling on the ground. They’ve got one knee resting on the floor, and the other one pointed toward the ceiling with their foot flat. You can see one shoulder to the left of Leah’s hip.

Spoilers make no mention of this person. We have no idea who they are or how they fit into the story.

This looks to me like it’s when she and Daryl first meet (hence, she doesn’t trust him and is holding him at gunpoint) and she seems to be protecting this person from him. Whoever it is, it probably has to do with why she’s out there to begin with, and will probably factor in how/why she disappears.

And I have no doubt that this shot is purposeful, guys. If they wanted us to know about this person directly, they would have given us a more obvious shot of them. And yet, they have put hints of the person in the shots they DID release. Isn’t that just like them?

But my point is, this is proof that there is a lot about this episode the spoilers are leaving out. So please keep that in mind.

3) When a Grady actor directly addressed TD.

So, for the past few days, as you can imagine I’ve been talking with and consoling people about these spoilers. I just keep going back to the stuff we KNOW. Like that there are missing scenes Emily was in from S5. Those have nothing to do with Leah and suggest Beth’s return. And if she’s returning, I promise you, Bethyl will be a thing.

The other thing I mentioned to people is when Jarod Thompson (guy that played one of the Grady cops) addressed TD directly. 

I quickly realized I needed to repost this because no one seemed to have any idea what I was talking about. Then it took me an hour to find it because I didn’t give it its own post when I first posted it. It was buried at the bottom of this Rick’s Fate post from S9 and not properly indexed. But I did finally locate it.

So, here’s the rundown. Right after the episode where Jadis took Rick away in the helicopter, Jarod Thompson tweeted this:

I’m pretty sure you can’t find this tweet anymore. It was taken down. But let me make a couple of points here. 

First, the obvious. TD has nothing to do with Leah. She wasn’t even on anyone’s radar back then. So what he’s telling us here has nothing to do with Leah. He’s basically telling us that Beth will return. 

Translation: Leah doesn’t matter. Beth is coming back. 

This is just one (of many) things that keeps me strong in TD. Because the actor actually confirmed this for us. And then it was quickly taken down, which is always suspicious to me. Why? Well, I’m sure some people will be quick to counter with the argument that maybe he was just trolling or making fun of us. But I don’t see that as a terribly logical argument. 

He’s never done it before or since. 

We have other evidence (HERE) of him working with Emily post-season 5, and possibly in the hospital setting. 

The timing is suspicious. This happened after Rick left. And I personally think that what he referred to here was the CRM. 9x05 was the first time they really came front and center, an active part of the story. So I think he was hinting that Beth is inside that organization as well and that now that the audience knows who they are, the stage is set and things are in motion for her return.

For the record, it was not long after this that we started getting the massing amount of Beth/Emily promotion on social media. 

Most importantly, his tweet was removed, probably by him at someone else’s request. Think about this really logically, guys. They don’t remove tweets about Caryl happening. They don’t remove teases about Daryl and Connie. They only remove suspicious posts that might tell us something about Beth’s return. There’s a reason for that. 

Furthermore, consider this. He’s kind of a small-time actor on the show. Of course I don’t mean that in a negative way. He’s fabulous. But I mean he’s not a main character on the show like Andy or Norman or Lauren. And HE knows all about TD, what we want, obviously what is going to happen, and which events in the show constitute room for us “to breathe.” 

So what does that tell you about other actors on the show, the writers, and any higher-ups connected to the show?

Yeah. Exactly.

Which leads me to my next order of business:

4) Kirkman’s Post/Poll

I think most people saw this last night, but if you didn’t , here it is. 

You can still vote HERE. I took the screenshot last night. I just checked again and the percentage has gone down a couple of points (still at 47%) with more than 9500 votes at this time. So the ‘bring Beth back’ option is still the runaway winner.

Here’s the thing. The timing on this is super-suspicious to me. When was the last time Kirkman tweeted something about Beth? I have no idea, and don’t care to go digging through his Twitter account to find out, but I promise you he hasn’t done it in a long time. He’s said things about her and Bethyl during interviews and such, of course, but he doesn’t just randomly tweet about her. Like...ever.

So you’re telling me that on day 2 after these spoilers leak, when the fandoms are loosing their collective minds, Kirkman just so happens to post this? No way. I don’t buy it.

Look, I know most of us don’t like Kirkman. And I’m not defending him. I don’t like him either. But after watching his interaction with tptb all these years, I have come to believe that they do use him. 

Gimple (and now Kang, I’m sure) are very careful about what they say. Guys, I’ve watched and analyzed this VERY closely over the years, which is why I always say that they never directly lie to us. Misdirection? Yes. Hyperbole? Of course. But they never look into the camera and tell us something blatantly untrue. 

I believe that’s because they don’t want the fans to be able to point at anything they say and accuse them of falsehood. That’s why they can’t ever say much, because it’s either give spoilers (which they won’t) or lie (which they also won’t). That’s why their answers are always so vague and general and very, very irritating. 

But Kirkman isn’t one of the showrunners. He’s connected to it, of course, and I think he knows a lot about what’s coming down the pipeline, but if he says something that’s untrue, tptb can simply shrug and say, “he’ doesn’t make executive story decisions.” Because of that, I believe they use him to sew discord and misdirection. 

And again, I’m not saying this isn’t troll-ish. I’m not saying I like this tactic or that it’s a good thing. I’m simply saying this is what they do. 

So when Kirkman says anything TD-related, I pay attention. Not because I think we should take it at face value, but because the timing, context, how he frames it, and what’s going on in the fandom at the time can tell us a lot about it and give us some clues. 

So, in this case, I think tptb are watching the fandom’s reactions to the spoilers and trying to do a little damage control. But here’s what really gets me: he only mentioned Beth, and specifically in the context of bringing her back. I mean, ALL the shipping fandoms are freaking out right now. All of them are hating these spoilers and losing their shit right now. But he ONLY mentions Beth.

I truly believe that this is tptb, through Kirkman, addressing TD specifically, and just kind of throwing us a bone. They’re not addressing the others because there isn’t any hope for those other ships. 

I know there will be people who disagree with him and think he’s just making fun of us. I understand why people think that. But guys, if that were the case, we’d see at least SOME comments about other characters or ships. There aren’t any. And hey, look through the comments on his tweet. There’s a ton of Beth support (which is why she won the poll) and a few haters, but there are also lots of people who are kind of mystified, saying things like, “How about bring back Glenn? Or Rick? Or Carl?”

See what I mean? 

5) The time Gimple Confirmed Something that was NOT Going to Happen on the Show

Okay, gonna end by reminding you of just one more thing. Just a couple of months ago, before the finale of The World Beyond, S1, one of the actors teased on TTD that we might see Rick in the finale. 

Now, that was totally false. The finale came and went with no Rick (obviously). The actor was just trolling and trying to get people riled up, which he succeeded at. A few days later, Gimple was giving an interview to a clickbait site and they asked him about it. Gimple started to give his run-of-the-mill, vague answer but stopped mid-sentence and said this:

ComicBook.com asked Gimple if World Beyond was working up to a Rick Grimes reveal. 

“You know what? I’m very happy to say… I’m not happy to say the answer,” he said, clearly aware he was about to disappoint people. “I’m happy to be definitive with people. It is not.”

That’s one, I don’t know if people are being cagey about that. But I feel that one’s important not to be cagey about…I think people could watch this show and learn a lot about the mythology that Rick Grimes is caught up in. And they might even see places where Rick Grimes has been. But yeah, he’s not swinging around the corner. And I don’t even know if I’m making people upset saying that, but I just don’t like people watching it, sort of expecting Rick.”

Full article HERE.

Guys, they’ve never done that with Beth and TD. EVER!!!

I’m just saying.

And I can already hear counter arguments about how they’ve never shut down other ships like C@ryl or Donnie either. You’re right, but those characters are still front and center on the show. If Beth is dead and not coming back, why wouldn’t they put her to rest for us the way he did with this Rick rumor? (And I’m also going to argue that they’ve given us very clear indications in the show about a few of these ships, and the shippers just don’t want to accept them. But that’s not entirely relevant here.)

Thoughts?

#beth greene #beth greene lives #beth is alive #beth is coming #td theory #td theories #team delusional #team defiance #beth is almost here #bethyl

[starship-imzadi]

S5 E17 The Outcast

Androgyny is defined as having both male and female characteristics so that a specific gender cannot be determined.

Jonathan Frakes has reportedly gone on record to express his belief that Soren should have been cast with a male actor as it would have sent a stronger message. And I absolutely agree.

As it is, Soren identifies as a woman and is played by a woman which is just reestablishing a heteronormative status quo. In fact, all of the credited cast who portray the J'naii are women.

I have a problem with this. Often times the dichotomy of western heterosexual gendering is seen as "the haves and the have nots". E.g. men have body hair, women do not (which is absolutely untrue). Women are emotional, men are not (also absolutely untrue). Women as "the weaker sex" are often seen as "without" and androgyny is sometimes construed as being more "without" because it's supposed to be lacking the characteristics that give definition or.... features that are identifiable as a certain gender. Casting all women to be androgynous is, in a way, sexist for this reason. Though the non speaking and background J'naii are far enough away they seem less defined and more androgynous (some might be cast with men but it's not possible to tell...which is the way it should be).

Okay...so, Riker gets a bad rap for his struggle with pronouns and misgendering BUT what he's doing is actually incredibly important and valuable. Riker is canonically an American, heterosexual, cis gendered, Caucasian, male. He is the character that the most privileged, and most represented demographic will see themselves in and relate to. He is put in a position where he doesn't understand the experience of the person opposite him, he's trying his best and he makes mistakes, but he's also demonstrating that he's open to learning.

I've also seen some small uproar, especially from younger viewers (I'm looking at anyone born after the year 2000) over the writers not using they/them pronouns "I do not think there is really a translation". It is true that "they" as a pronoun to refer to a non specific person in common speech has been in use since the time of Shakespeare. Up until women's suffrage in legal context the pronoun used was "he" without specifically meaning a man. I.e. those pronouns were place holders for an unknown person regardless of gender or sex. Non masculine or feminine pronouns used to refer to a known individual is a slightly different story. There have been many different pronouns developed and used to greater or lesser extent through the entire 20th century (e.g. Hir or Xe) However, none of them really caught on for regular use across the entire language. "They" has been adopted most successfully because it is already in the language but its prominent use and acceptance wasn't until between approximately 2013 and 2015. This episode aired in 1992.

I really like that early on Soren and Riker are given an established shared interest. Too often on this show two people are put together....and it's not clear why they like each other. In such a short span of time it's tough to establish a believable new relationship, but this is a good first step.

They've known each other two days? It is reminiscent of "The Masterpiece Society" just a few episodes ago where Troi started to fall in love after five days. (Maybe they're both just very loving people.)

Also, in the midst of the misgendering, I'm pleased that the writers (or whoever) chose for Riker to use "he" because it plays against this species that's supposed to be androgynous but... Have a tendency to look feminine.

Riker's dad had a recipe for split pea soup...I wonder when he ever cooked it though. Riker mentions that it's good for cold Alaskan nights and it's the second episode in recent memory of his mentioning that he's from Alaska (the other was "Conundrum") I can't actually remember it being mentioned prior to that episode.... though there's a good chance it was established in the "Icarus Factor" and i know it's mentioned again in "Lower Decks"

A lot of the focus on this episode from fans seems to be on Soren being transgender but the J"aii are also homosexual. Riker and Soren have two different paradigms that are represented as neither worse nor better nor even given a moral label, they're just different. (Although, the J'naii's insistence that Soren cannot be male or female in gender or sex, is clearly meant to be the reciprocal of any insistence by humans that we can only be male or female in gender and sex.)

"I like one who's intelligent, sure of herself, who I can talk with and get something back. But the most important thing of all, she has to laugh at my jokes."

This conversation has a great sub text: different men like different things in women (and vis versa) so for someone to even identify as "heterosexual" doesn't mean every member of a different sex is attractive to them. And it begs the question: why are so many people with different qualities all under the same gender "umbrella"?

I've seen screen caps of Soren asking about human male genitals but they only show Riker's surprise. Really he deserves more credit because he handles the question really well. The way he handles everything very kindly and graciously, and the fact that Soren continues to ask questions, is a real testament to the safe place that he makes for discussion and curiosity.

There's some... dark humour in how Star Trek talks about misogyny and sexism. It's one of the notable hypocrisies and failings in star trek: to talk about a better future, while still operating on damaging ideals, and without any real idea of the journey it would actually take for society to reach "better". Both Gate and Marina had struggles with how they and their characters were treated compared to the men.

Oh boy. Worf's sexism fluctuates a lot, but when they need someone to be a misogynist, Worf is the go to and it's always painful. And Data asks the innocent, child-like questions. With a scene like this there are unfortunate reflection on some of the characters BUT the main purpose of the scene is, a slightly heavy handed, means of proposing different view points for representation and comparison. It's not really about the characters at all.

I'll say just from experience with that long hours spent working together will create some sort of bond for pretty much any two people. Love or other wise.

This scene is clearly about Soren coming out to Riker. And he takes it as kindly as he has everything else so far.

Geordi has a beard! (LeVar apparently grew it for his wedding)

"good hunting commander"

"thank you sir. See you for dinner." Do Riker and Picard have dinner together? (I love a good found family shared meal).

I really like this scene between Will and Deanna.

"well this one looks like you" with the teddy bear absolutely gets me every time. And Deanna's side look! I love their friendship and comfort together.

"You're my friend and I thought... I don't know, i thought I should tell you."

"I'm glad you did"

"Nothing will change between us, will it?"

"Of course it will. All relationships are constantly changing. But we'll still be friends, maybe better friends. You're a part of my life, and I'm a part of yours. That much will always be true."

This really hits home. Regardless of the label for their relationship, regardless of the details of the boundaries of their relationship, Troi is affirming for Riker that they are important enough to each other, that he is important enough to her, that she will stay in his life and keep him in hers. In a way this touches on what was established way back "Haven". The characterizations were still being sorted out to a large extent, but when Troi was due to be married Riker thought he was losing her and Troi ask him "i am no longer imzadi to you?" But even as much as they love each other, Riker isn't taking for granted that Troi will stay in his life once he becomes involved with someone. Troi is assuring him, promising to him, that she will stay. And the fact that Riker went to her, to tell her about him and Soren, was his way of demonstrating to Troi that she is still important to him, and that he wants to keep her in his life too.

Props to Riker for protecting Soren. Not only did he keep her secret he tried to help her preserve it.

This is a really good and impassioned speech that, even though its clearly about legislation against homosexuality, doesn't feel over the top like a lot of star trek speeches can. It's probably one of the better speeches not given by Picard.

This is the second episode in a row Riker has gone to Picard for guidance...kind of.

It's kind of sweet that Worf offers as a friend to help Riker jeopardize his career, for the sake of someone important to him, even though he doesn't like or understand the J'naii.

In the end, the Enterprise must maintain its status quo, so much like "The Host", there had to be a reason then love interest cannot stay. Even if the reason is honestly so disheartening and sad. I genuinely believe Riker cared for Soren, and this is so devastating. This was probably the best single episode relationship in terms of development.

Picard is so gentle and subtle with Riker.

Engage (!)

[avauntus]

2020 favs: (short) fic recs

I am stealing this idea from @macgyver-sheriff, who has no clue who I am, but whose post I saw go across my dash. Thank you! 👋

Would you like some recs for the holiday season? - I too would like to share love for my favorite things I read that were written this year! <3

I’m going to do this in two parts - the short fics (10k or less, generally one-shot), and another post for the long or series fics I loved this year (it’s 2020, I figure we can use too much of a good thing?)

( @staidwaters - I’m ‘disqualifying’ your works because I’m biased, sorry! Look away! Unless you want recs!) 

"Congratulations, Get Rich" (9,238 words) by Attila (The Untamed - modern AU)

Tomorrow is Chinese New Year, which means Wei Wuxian has to get all of his bad decisions out of the way tonight.

Lan Wangji, Lan Xichen, Jiang Cheng, Mianmian are all so screamingly perfect as modern versions of themselves in this, and it is KNOCK DOWN HILLARIOUS. Wei Wuxian is just a screaming queer disaster (affectionate) - as he should be.

Excerpt:

After a long beat, Lan Xichen sinks gracelessly into the chair Lan Wangji had been sitting in earlier. “I just want to be absolutely clear,” he says delicately, “that you are currently under the impression that my brother has no romantic feelings for you. That is what you’re saying to me right now, yes?”

“Yes?” Wei Wuxian says, feeling desperately confused. “Obviously? Why?”

“Because at least one of you is very stupid, and I’m trying to figure out who,” Lan Xichen tells him, sounding distracted. It’s the rudest thing Wei Wuxian has ever heard him say, and his mouth drops open slightly.

“caved to the careless” (6,708 words) by ilgaksu (The Untamed/MDZS - Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen)

Love is a choice you make - like this, and this, and this.

Have you ever read a writer whose work is so distinctly itself that you can feel yourself slipping in time even as you keep going? That’s not very articulate, but it’s the best way I can describe everything of ilgaksu’s I’ve read. Their fics are the same emotional register as having the breath knocked out of you after a fall. This was the first one I read, and I think it ends well-- with what Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen find along the path-- but it’s still heavy. Discussions of canon-compliant character death and grief/mourning here.

Excerpt:

He pauses. Until this very moment, he was unsure who to ask for. He has heard the rumours of the Yiling Patriarch’s ongoing residence here, about Zewu-jun’s seclusion: he’s dead, but even the dead are not free from gossip. But he remembers a courtyard, nearly two decades ago, and the weight of eyes some might have called angry in their intensity. He remembers those same eyes, and how for the wear of the intervening years, they had kept the same essence: longing, yearning, a kind of small unspoken grief.

Song Lan had a dream once. A dream of a sect, bound not by blood, but by a shared belief in the right path. So many things are only an inheritance: shame is one of them.  

Love is a choice. Love is a choice, and you choose until you can’t.

“I am here,” he decides, carving the words into the dirt, every stroke of every character resolute, “To meet with Hanguang-jun. Please show this one the way to go.”  

“Green River Running” (8,169 words) by @rain-hat (Love in the Moonlight - post-canon AU)

5+1: Kim Byeong-yeon returns to the land of the living.

I skimmed through Love in the Moonlight during my quarantine summer (distinguishable from my “quarantine spring” or “quarantine fall” only by fireworks), and immediately upon finishing, thought: “Psht, they killed off their best character.” And then, something happened that never happens -- I went on ao3 and found the exact thing I was looking for, written far  better than I could have imagined. Kim Byeong-yeon is such a quiet yet powerfully subversive presence and the progression here is so masterfully done. This is true of all of rainhat’s work’s I’ve read, but this is a fine example-- I really treasure the warm humanism of them.

Excerpt:

People needed helping hands even more than they needed sympathetic ears, though. Over the last year, Hong Gyeong-rae and Byeong-yeon had built houses and planted crops side by side; negotiating with moneylenders here, helping small-folk secure their stores against bandits there. There was nothing courtly about Byeong-yeon’s capacity for labour, or his expectation of reward. Wherever he went, he worked from dawn to dusk, ate the food he was given, and slept under a roof if he was offered one.

It suited him, Hong Gyeong-rae thought, even though there was something outlandish about his gentle speech and palace manners in the midst of it all. But to behave in any other way would be untrue to his upbringing; nor was he the sort of man to whom it would occur to try. And after all, most people liked to be treated with courtesy; it did not come across as mockery from this solemn, severely dressed young man, who seemed to find no task too big or too small. Hong Gyeong-rae had seen him argue tax law with local councillors and stand up to highwaymen armed with nothing but a knife and staff. But he watched cooking pots for women who had to run to the fields to tide over the day’s labour, too; he wrote letters for them, and tolerated their fractious children and spoon-fed their bedridden elders, if that was what was called for.

“The Veritable Records of King Taejo: Year 2, Entry 208“ (9,857 words) by @sadviper (My Country: the New Age - Nam Seon-ho & Hwang Sung-rok slice-of-life)

Hwang Sung-rok eats his way to the bottom of a real estate scam, and Seon-ho and Yeon help (a little).

No one is out here doing it like SadViper. This is technically part of a series, but they can all be read separately. I did not realize I needed to see more of Nam Seon-ho in all his “type-A government official glory” until Viper started sketching him out for us, and as a bonus, we get to see Yeon, and Sung-rok as the world’s surliest caretaker (but don’t call him that). I have an authorial fallacy where I always think stories have to have some grand “plot” -- a “Maltese Falcon” to pull the reader along-- the genius of Viper’s work is she shows us exactly how interesting and important the day-by-day tiny choices and connections we make are, with an impeccable background of historical research to ground you in the setting.

Excerpt:

Nam Seon-ho was his master now. He was a strange one. He was a traitor, for helping the escaped Liaodong soldiers, but not, because he managed to wiggle his way back into Yi Seong-gye’s favor and was now a sixth-ranked inspector with the privilege of having personal audiences with the King. He was temperamental and belligerent from being the son of a slave mother and a lifetime subject of Lord Nam’s fantastic parenting philosophy. He was afflicted with perpetual guilt. And he was also one of the hardest working and most desperate people Sung-rok had ever known.

It was a terrible combination. He was not merely a disaster waiting to happen, but a disaster perambulating on two legs at the edge of a chasm. If Sung-rok intended to stay in service for long, he needed to find a way to cool down some of Seon-ho’s intensity, even though admittedly, it was what drew him to Seon-ho in the first place.

Thoughts like these plagued Sung-rok for a while. It was one thing to know a person; it was quite another thing to try to change them.

“Orison” (4,975 words) by @gravelghosts​ (aeli_kindara) (Supernatural 15x18 coda)

Cas says, I love you.

So! This rips my heart out, every time. All the times Dean imagines himself together with Cas...and then he imagines himself, if not happy, then thriving.

Jack: “What is the point...if everyone I care about is going to leave?”

Castiel: “The point is that they were here at all and you got to know them, you... When they're gone, it will hurt, but that hurt will remind you of how much you loved them.”

Excerpt:

The thing Dean tries to do is: listen.

Happiness isn’t in the having. It’s in just — being. It’s in just saying it, Cas tells him, and Dean’s whole heart is screaming, No, but he shuts his mouth. He listens. He listens like his life fucking depends on it, which it does, in more ways than one.

“Sky Full of Song” (6,632 words) by @drivingsideways (Supernatural, finale 15x20 fix-it, Dean/Cas)

Or: The One in which Cas ghosted Dean.

Look. Look. If Cas(tiel) can yank Dean Winchester out of Hell, celestial-scream at him not once but twice, burn out a woman’s eyes like an utter clown before thinking “Huh, an Earthly vessel, guess that’s not just bullshit, then,” and when they finally work it out, Dean greets them with a knife to the chest and THEN they’ll spend twelve years misunderstanding each other and bickering, you had better believe these two are going to be disasters even in Heaven. Drivingsideways gives us all of that dynamic, with the found family of Jack and Mary as facilitators, and the happy resolution, which of course includes a true form “roughly the size of your Chrysler Building.” <3

Excerpt:

The thing is, Castiel doesn’t want Dean to feel obligated.

Dean has a streak of self-sacrifice that's as wide as the Caspian Sea, and Castiel doesn't want to be any more of a chore or obligation than they have been to Dean for all the long years of their—brotherhood.

Castiel had shocked Dean, to the core of him, with their confession, and Castiel had seen the swirling confusion, the fear, the panic, the shit what do I say, what do I do—how do I stop him—

So, no, Castiel would not be paying a visit anytime soon.

Of course, if Dean evinced an interest in meeting them, then Castiel would not stay away.

Castiel isn't that cruel.

(They have, on occasion, been exactly that cruel, but they are trying to outgrow it.)

Dean is still their friend.

Dean knows how to reach them, if he wants to.

(see? disasters. haha)

“The Rough” (3,267 words) by anactoria (Supernatural, finale -15x20- ‘fix-it’)

 Heaven can absolutely fucking wait.

Rec’ed for the concept more than the style (this is dialogue-heavy, as a lot of 15x20 fix-its tend towards), but I *love* this course-correction: After kicking around Heaven, Dean and Cas return to Earth to take their place as urban legends among the hunter community. Just for a while.

Excerpt:

But it isn’t life. That’s the thing. It’s awesome, but it isn’t life; life’s a hard, painful, infuriating mess, and Dean only got halfway through his own, and he feels cheated. For all he held it together for Sammy at the end, for all he tried to take Cas’s big moment-of-happiness speech on board, he feels cheated.

There’s supposed to be peace at the end. When you’re done.

Dean wasn’t done.

#other's fic #fic recs #2020: a year! #spn #my country: new age #the untamed #love in the moonlight

[oneweekoneband]

meet me behind the mall!!!!!!!!!

I don’t know why Taylor Swift thinks that teenagers drink wine, and I don’t know why she chose to record and release a wistful high-school-other-woman song which left me feeling naked as a frog and therefore furious. Some questions we ask only so as to be soothed by the familiar sound of our own voice, still there after all. The answers are not coming. 

The Taylor Swift Teen Love Triangle Triad of “cardigan”, “august”, and “betty” is the part of folklore that makes me most bullish about where Taylor is going as an artist. A turn away from writing songs which are intentionally meant to appear confessional and toward, instead, songs which reveal the personal as refracted through fictitious circumstances and made-up characters is a better use of her big, weird brain, and allows that brain to be unleashed on a broader plain of experience. It’s incredibly embarrassing to be an adult woman with my own problems to manage and to have living in my head Taylor Swift’s demented YA fiction, but it’s an embarrassment that feels appropriate, like I could never really have escaped this fate. On “betty” she gets to play-act as a contrite teen boy who knows he’s done wrong, and while obviously the most charming thing about the song is Taylor saying “fuck” (and also her giving us a little of the ol’ razzle dazzle by way of some light twang), her experiment with imagining what it’s like to be a skateboarding kid who hates dances, trying on an imagined teen boy interiority as a costume, is effective too. 

“cardigan” is more removed, less plaintive and shouty. This is a song from adult Betty’s perspective looking back on this period in her life and in her relationship with James, who the song seems to imply she is still with now. While—full offense—I believe marrying your high school girlfriend or boyfriend is a disorder which should have its own listing in the DSM, restoring order by putting the original couple back together so as to make the story one of true love triumphing over adversity, rather than a series of sketches of kids doing fuckup kid things just because it is not easy to be alive and to be alive alongside others and with gentleness, least of all when you are very new at it,  is the only conclusion this saga could ever have reached with Ms. Swift at its helm, and I do appreciate the consistent, if baby-brained, internal logic. I’ve never known a teenage girl whose signature garment was a cardigan and, frankly, this Betty sounds like sort of a self-absorbed drip (I do love, love, how Taylor’s own voice comes through so clearly on the lightly threatening, smug lines, “I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired / And you’d be standing in my front porch light” !!) so I’m not totally surprised she got cheated on, but that’s very uncharitable of me and probably comes from the same meaty polyp in my brain that is responsible for my still loving all the hilariously mean-spirited, woman-hating songs on Speak Now.

“august” is about the other girl. The “her” in James’ rather pathetic defense, “slept next to her, but I dreamt of you all summer long”. “august” tells a story that brings to my mind another story. It is a story I won’t belabor because it is neither exciting nor unique. It will not illuminate an unexplored human experience, as it is, in fact, incredibly boring, regular, an incident which would be at home in any normal Tuesday, ordinary as meeting at the mall. This is a million years ago and there is a boy whose basement I go to sometimes after swim practice. We have matching team sweatpants with our names embroidered above the pocket at the right hip and I like to switch pairs. I’m you and you’re me and when we have pushed and bent the tiredness out of our muscles together, making experimental declarations in hushed voices down there while the furnace groans, well, then I’m you and me and you’re you and me and we are we are we are. 

One February day at twilight I bound out of the school building with wet hair and a fleece jacket, but his car is already gone. No worries. Standing at my locker the next afternoon like in a movie he will say, easy as anything, that he has a girlfriend, a family friend, two towns over, she goes to private school. You’ve probably met her, he says. And right then I remember that I have. Last year I did her zipper in the bathroom at a dance. We were fighting but we never really broke up, he says. For months you’ve been fighting? is all I say back. Fighting since October? As if that matters. Like that’s the point. My voice is pinched and ugly and I know I’ll hear that sound forever. Well, anyway... I feel bad. He doesn’t clarify for whom he feels bad. He’s got one sneaker toe working against the other one atop the tile floor that’s the murky green of sea glass. He looks at my St Brigid’s cross necklace, at the blue Masterlock hanging open like a broken jaw, at someone in a hoodie who punches his shoulder as they walk by. Nothing personal, he says, and there is a tiny smudge of cafeteria pizza at the corner of his mouth that I hadn’t noticed until that second and a day ago would’ve reached up and wiped away with the pad of my thumb, laughing. I get it, right? Oh, sure. 

The worst of it was not skipping pre-calc to cry in the bathroom, since, I mean, I couldn’t actually do pre-calc and would never learn how, but was inspecting my soul in the dark when I couldn’t sleep that night and finding part of me had known this all along, had chosen to pretend, wanted the wanting so badly I’d knocked from my brain the truth of how it was going to end. This would not be the last false love from which I’d find myself unceremoniously discarded, and in time I’d learn to be the liar myself, too. It’s unseemly to pathologize bad decisions, to take on poor impulse control or self-destructive patterns as an identity, but I do think that just as some people are born serial monogamists, part of a twosome forever with very little mess in-between, some of us were built from the very first cell to live like a pool ball struck and banging teeth first into the wrong mouths and hearts. I can examine my romantic history and tap my finger against the obvious errors, the times I chose what I knew would hurt me, when I ascribed hope to situations where it did not belong, when I, like the narrator of “august”, regarded someone as not mine to lose but still put myself in the position to be harmed by the losing, yet I can’t produce alternative choices that feel realistic. If you are in love and it doesn’t work out, there is mourning, there is pain, but there is all the while a record which shows something happened, it was real. “august” stands somewhat apart in the Taylor Swift catalog as a song neither about the glory of true love or the heartbreak when it’s over, but about the small, paper cut heartbreaks that are inescapable during each day of an untrue love. “It was never mine”. When it turns out you were wrong the whole time, fooling yourself, then even remembering that you’d been happy in the lie is like being trapped in a fun house, body bent and broken in the mirror, a thing not built right for this world. 

“august” is about the girl who James was with over the summer, the girl he leaves to return to Betty. Taylor said it’s the first of the three that she wrote, and I fear this has warmed me to her in some new and unsettling way. I fear this means she’s matured as a person and writer, capable now of a more expansive view of situations, to be generous. It’s like how you shouldn’t feed gremlins after midnight; there is no telling what new and more dangerous creature this woman might turn into if she’s suddenly been taught empathy. When Taylor-as-James in “betty” sings, “Would you trust me if I told you it was just a summer thing?” in his effort to woo Betty back I hate him a little, that thoughtless child undeserving of the kind of adoration in lines like, “your back beneath the sun / wishing I could write my name on it.” I try to extend grace to this fictional boy, but I think of the “Do you remember? in “august” and I feel a little sick from being so certain that no... No, he doesn’t. Not really.

“Back when we were still changing for the better / wanting was enough / for me it was enough”. I’d like to think there is no last chance to change for the better. I’d like to think wanting is enough so long as you want the right thing. I’d like to think that God made sure Taylor Swift became a singer instead of a young adult novelist because the absolute last thing this world needed was this freak joining the circus that is YA Twitter. Most of all, I like thinking that Judy Blume knows that her beautiful, searing, devastatingly romantic and also textually gay 1998 novel Summer Sisters is the only important book that has ever been published, and, further, that the world will show me the respect of understanding and accepting that “august”, when removed from the context of the Swiftian child romance trilogy, sounds as if it were specifically written in homage. Taylor, I know I’ve accused you of at least fifty crimes this week alone, but if you want to talk about Summer Sisters, please get in touch.

#taylor swift #folklore

[datleggy]

I’d Come For You (version 1)

Chapter One.

May doesn’t mention Buck to the cops, and her friends likewise keep their mouths shut about his involvement in the incident.

The three men Buck took on to protect them earlier are cuffed and in the back of two police vehicles, and none of them mention anything either, probably embarrassed to have had their asses handed to them by just one guy alone.

May spends the rest of her Friday night thinking about what happened at the mall that day. About how the men had cornered her and her two friends at the mall parking lot in a more secluded area. And how Buck, who she’d seen in passing, but hadn’t stopped to say hello, had rushed over to help as soon as he realized they were in trouble.

She touches her wrist where one of the three men had taken hold of her, just as Buck had told him in no uncertain terms to fuck off, before the fighting had begun. After the dust had settled and only Buck was left, somehow, miraculously standing, he’d turned to make sure they were all alright.

After confirming that none of them were hurt and someone from the small crowd that had gathered called 9-1-1, Buck had split, but not before asking May not to tell Bobby or Athena that he’d been there. She’d agreed then, too shocked to be anything but compliant at the time, but now, well past midnight, it’s what’s keeping her awake.

Why wouldn’t Buck want her mom and step dad to know? Buck had saved her, her and her friends! As far as she’s concerned, everyone should know. But the look of panic that had crossed his face when he’d begged her not to say a word, that’s what keeps her from telling anyone that night, and though she eventually falls asleep, it’s a restless slumber.

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

May and Harry help set up the yard for the BBQ they’re hosting the next day, though Harry notices how distracted his sister is throughout, and questions her, genuine worry on his face. May knows he still sometimes looks at her and thinks about the time she tried to end it all, and isn’t surprised by the concern; in fact, she’s a little touched, though she’ll never admit it out loud.

“I’m fine,” she says, then pauses and purses her lips. “Can I tell you something, and you have to pinky promise not to say anything? Not to mom or dad or even Bobby.”

Harry looks curious before turning serious. “I swear.” he holds out his pinky.

May smiles, wrapping her pinky around his and locking them together. She takes a deep breath. “So, at the mall yesterday, when I was out with Alisa and Quinn, these three creeps started harassing us in the parking lot, and one of them got kind of aggressive and he grabbed me--”

“Are you ok?!” Harry half-whispers, looking around to make sure no adult is in sight.

May nods, placing a hand on his shoulder to calm him down. “I’m fine, and it’s all because of Buck. He ran over and told them to leave us alone and when he tried to call the cops the jerk who grabbed me swung at him.”

Harry’s eyes go wide. “Is he ok? What happened? Didn’t you say there were three dudes?!”

May sighs, “I don’t know, he kicked ass and some rando called the cops and the assholes got arrested, but Buck left as soon as we were safe again, and he asked me not to say anything to anyone, but I’m worried.” she wraps her arms around herself, biting her lip. “Buck is strong and everything happened so fast, but I was there, I saw the fight, he took a lot of hits. What if he’s hurt really bad and he didn’t tell anyone?”

Harry shakes his head. “But why wouldn’t he say anything? He’s a hero! He saved you.”

May grimaces. “I think it’s because of that whole stupid lawsuit thing---which, for the record, I think he was in his right to file. I love Bobby, but he had no reason to keep Buck from his job. He was being overly cautious; and I get that, because well, Buck’s like a big brother to me, I never wanna’ see him get hurt, but that doesn’t mean Bobby was right to deny him when the board themselves agreed Buck was fine to do field work after passing that test.” she shakes her head, annoyed at the adults in her life.

Sometimes they made absolutely no sense.

Harry’s heard his mom and Bobby talk about it, about how Buck is back on the team, but Bobby still isn’t sure he should be out on calls with everyone. He doesn’t really understand, but it seems unfair to Buck, who Harry knows from hearing his mom speak of him over dinner sometimes, is always trying his best to prove himself.

Still, he tries to reassure May, bumping her hip gently. “Don’t worry, we’ll see Buck in a couple of hours at the barbecue. We can check on him then.”

May nods, a little reassured. “You’re right. Thanks Harry.”

One by one, or in pairs, the 118 arrive to the Nash-Grant household.

Though he’s a couple of years older than Christopher and Denny, Harry still has fun hanging out with the boys, especially because due to the age difference, the kids often follow his command when they play games.

May waits anxiously for Buck to show up, but about an hour into the get together she realizes he’s probably not coming, and she has a horrible sneaking suspicion that perhaps he wasn’t actually invited.

The adults are gathered near the grill, Bobby and Michael taking turns flipping burgers---both wearing silly ‘kiss the cook’ aprons Athena gifted them for Christmas last year, with Eddie, Chim and Hen nursing beers to the side.

“Hey, um, do any of you know when Buck is coming?” she asks, interrupting the flow of conversation among them.

Michael looks around, “That’s right, where is the big guy? He’s half the reason I went out and got all this meat.” he jokes.

Bobby makes a face, an ‘I’d really like to change the subject right now’ face, and sighs. “I thought it’d be less awkward if I just didn’t invite him today.” he admits. “Things are still kind of...tense, at work.”

Eddie snorts. “That’s putting it mildly.” he swigs back the rest of his beer, clearly annoyed.

Hen scratches the back of her head. “Yeah, things are...complicated between all of us at the moment.”

“Plus,” Eddie adds bitterly, “He’d probably rather spend his Saturday afternoon with that lawyer pal of his.”

Chim frowns. “C’mon guys, it’s been months, we really should give the guy a break, he went through a lot.”

Hen arches a brow. “Says the guy dating his sister. Look, I love Buck, but he’s gotta learn that doing dumb impulsive things that hurt the people he claims to love is not ok. This is what, his third or fourth ‘second chance’ the Cap’s given him since he started at the station?”

Eddie nods. “Exactly. Enough’s enough.”

Athena hears the conversation going and decides to join in, “We talkin’ about our boy genius over here?” she asks, sarcastically.

Michael shakes his head. “I think you’re all being a little rough on the poor kid, no?”

Athena shrugs. “He brings this kinda thing on himself, if you ask me. I love the boy, but he’s like a walking talking magnet for trouble.”

“You guys are being completely unfair!” May finally cuts in, almost shaking with indignation.

The adults all turn to her in surprise. “Now May, you know better than to raise your voice like that to--”

“Well I thought you were a better judge of character, but I guess we were both wrong!” she continues, as if her mother hadn’t ever uttered a word. “Buck is the only reason I’m even alive right now!” she blurts out in anger. May can’t stand one more person saying one more stupid untrue thing about Buck!

Michael’s the first to react, “I’m sorry, what did you just say? What are you talking about? What happened?”

May hates that she’s breaking her promise to Buck, but she hates what they’re saying about him even more, so she spills everything, telling the whole crew, plus her mom and dad about what happened the day before, how Buck literally swooped in and saved her and her friends from some serious creeps at the mall, how he made sure everyone was safe and sound, though he was clearly injured during the fight.

“Baby, why on earth didn’t you say anything last night?” Athena asks, worriedly checking May over for any possible hidden bumps or bruises on her person.

“I’m fine,” she insists, stepping back. “Buck begged me to keep his name out of it. I didn’t get why before, but after hearing you guys badmouth him while he’s not even here to defend himself, I can see why he wouldn’t think any of you would give a fu---”

“May!” Michael interrupts, eyes widening.

May folds her arms across her chest and heaves an aggravated sigh. “He probably knows you guys don’t care about him, so why bother!” she runs away after her outburst; she’s too angry to stay, she doesn’t know what else will come out of her mouth if she does.

Athena calls after her but she doesn’t stop, slamming the door to the patio behind her.

Michael grimaces. “I’ll go talk to her.” he says, looking at Bobby and Athena. “Maybe you guys should go talk to Buck. See if he’s ok.” he suggests. He’s always liked that kid, and had in fact agreed with Buck’s decision to sue the department at the time that he did.

Karen and Chim stay behind to watch the kids while Athena Bobby and the rest of the crew rush to Buck’s home.

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

Perhaps sending four people to check up on Buck is overkill, Bobby starts to think, as they get out of the car. Surely if Buck was hurt in any grievous way yesterday he would have gone to the hospital, wouldn’t he?

Athena knocks on the door, her knuckles hard against the wooden surface. “Buck?” she calls, when a few too many seconds pass without a response. “His Jeep is still in the driveway, he’s gotta’ be home.”

Eddie scoots her and Bobby aside and digs out his copy of Buck’s house key, making everyone raise their eyebrows in surprise. Bobby knows the two men are close, but copy of each others house keys close? Huh.

Eddie opens the door and marches inside, calling out Buck’s name again. He’s quickly followed by Hen, Athena and the Captain.

There’s a bloody rag on the kitchen counter---it looks fresh.

He’s not upstairs in his bedroom, not in the kitchen or in the connecting living room either. Eddie dashes towards the bathroom and slams open the door without even a moments’ thought. “Buck!?”

Buck lets out a startled yip and nearly falls off the sink counter, midway through applying what looks to be some ointment across his side and lower hip, over some seriously alarming bruising.

Buck hastily removes his earphones and sets them atop his phone on the sink. “What the hell is going on?” he hops off the counter, wincing when he lands. “Why are you in my bathroom? All of you?”

He is very much neither ready, nor in the mood for guests right now. Buck snatches a towel to wrap around his waist, embarrassed to be seen in his underwear by Athena of all people.

But Athena isn’t focused on that at all, she can’t bring herself to look away from the spatter of nasty bruises running all across Buck’s chest, side and back---it almost looks like the poor kid got hit by a bus. “Buck, did you get those looked at by a doctor?” she asks, praying he did, but somehow already knowing the answer is a no.

Buck furrows his brows. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Can you all please get out of my bathroom and let me get dressed?”

Hesitantly they do just that, giving Buck the space and privacy he needs. 

Buck comes out a few minutes later, now in a pair of sweatpants and a loose t-shirt that covers all of his injuries, except the split lip, of course. It’s still a little bloody, and Eddie’s pretty sure that’s where all the blood in the kitchen originated---or at least he hopes, since he didn’t see any other open wounds on Buck.

“So...what are you guys doing here?”

Bobby stares at him like he’s gone nuts. “Buck, you’re hurt, we need to get you to a hospital.”

Buck frowns. “I’m just bruised. It’s really not that bad.” He gulps. “How did you even know? Wait, is May ok?”

Athena cuts in. “Buck, she’s alright.” She looks at him, grateful beyond words. “Thanks to you. But now we need to make sure you’re going to be alright. You could have internal bleeding; those are some real nasty bruises you’ve got.”

Buck lets out a relieved breathe. He hated leaving May and her friends after everything, even knowing they were in good hands, so he’s happy to hear they’re alright. But this mess here is what he’d been trying to avoid in the first place. He turns to the Captain, “I’m fine, really. If this is about me not showing up to work on Monday you don’t have to worry, I’m fit for duty, I swear.” he tries to assure him.

Bobby shakes his head vehemently. “Is that what you think this visit is? Buck, I’m not here as your Captain, I’m here as someone who cares about you. How could you try to hide something like this from me? You should have told me as soon as it happened. I know things haven’t been great with all of us lately but we’re still family--”

"It's been almost five months since I came back and you haven't said a single thing to me that wasn't an order for me to do chores or to yell at me in front of everyone for even the smallest mistake.” Buck clenches his fists at his sides, incredulous. “For all I know Captain Nash, if I had come forward you would've just accused me of lying and trying to use May to get back into everybody's good graces.”

There’s a sharp pain in his side, but he chooses to ignore it. “You wanted to teach me a lesson, well, lesson learned, I get it already. We aren’t family." Buck winces when the pain becomes shooting, wrapping an arm around his mid section.

“Buck! Buck?!”

Maybe he should have gone to the hospital, after all, he thinks fuzzily, as everyone around him starts to blur and suddenly it all fades to black.

#Buck Saves May fic #prompt #911 fox #post lawsuit drama #hurt/comfort #hurt!buck #sibling relationship #I'd Come For You (Version 1) Chapter One #long post is long #second chapter will be tagged I'd Come For You (Version 1) Chapter Two #thanku for reading!

[lightofthemagdalene]

So, Onna is Dead

(a record)

I got the ping from Amara while I was driving 3 days ago. I haven't written until now because it was very painful and stressful and I needed to process it, though I regret a little that I may have lost some of the details of her passing.

I've never been ping'd before. I didn't know I could be, but I recognized her when she called. How could I not? We shared a mind for 28 years. I went to the door she and Addison use to enter our headspace from their world in a panic, and was about to essentially try throwing myself into the ether without guide (because why would Amara need me?) when Orias showed up (she really can get anywhere, I didn't know she could be in my headspace) and grabbed my arm and said no I must never do that (especially not while driving) and to just close my inner eyes and follow her voice. I went into a kind of trance, my body drove me the rest of the way home without issue (though I will never choose to do that again) and slid into another headspace. I recognized it because it's not much different from her room in our old house. Very Amara. I could hear and feel her really clearly from there (an over-the-top fancy victorian gothic room in a cave/mound in a field of dark green tall grass under a purple sky oddly, I was expecting her house though she reminds me now that her house is more of a real place than a headspace would be).

Amara was panicking and sent me an image of where she was (at her house with Onna who was very ill) and said "It's time. I don't know what to do. Can you help me?"

Knowing her I understood.

"It's okay. It's okay that it's now. She doesn't look like she has much time left and it's okay, you've been here before. Say goodbye and let her go, hun, she's in pain."

"I know, I know, but..."

"We can't save her."

"That's not what I want! You know that! I want..."

"Don't tell me, tell her."

She took me with her as she focused back on her body. Onna was... Gods, she was awful. Her body withered and sunken and stinking of rot and pain, wrapped in parts of what was probably a beautiful dress. She always did dress well. Her legs and fingers were essentially only bone now, and her arms barely functioned. She was laying across Amara's lap on the floor in the sitting room. Amara had barely made it past the entryway with her body before she'd run out of energy and Onna had begun to run out of time. She'd wanted her to die in her bed, but this was as close as they'd gotten. Her eyes were still clear.

Onna's dark, glittering eyes still saw me, though.

"Hello there, kitten-sweet, did you come to say a helloandgoodbye?"

Her voice sounded like paper as she rasped out the old, old joke she knew I'd remember. I nodded, just then realizing that that was why I was really here. I moved my arm to hug at my waist, moving Amara's arm to do the same along with me. She leaned into the pressure, the best I could do at physical support through this odd separation we endure. When I nodded so did Amara, and Onna smiled.

"Thank you for taking her, I know she can be trouble." Her lips cracked and bled as she forced the weakening movements of her facial muscles into submission. Fighting everything including her own body until the last, as we'd expected.

"That's okay. She was good."

"Apologies for not making myself up for you, dear, you'll have to forgive me."

"That's okay, On."

"It was good to meet you, little traveler."

"It was good to see your light, sister."

"May yours remain lit, sister," she nodded.

I pulled back, my heart hurting too much to talk anymore.

Onna's breathing hitched and slowed and Amara's panic took over once again.

"Tell her," I reminded her softly.

“There is a world,” she choked, knowing it to be untrue but needing to pretend-- as we often did-- that it wasn't, “where we were never broken. Where your mother loved me and we grew together as equals. Where you never lied and we figured it all out. Where we found Jack and loved him as one. Where we loved each other in a way that didn’t burn the world down.” Her throat closed, and she fought the rush of panic that overtook her as Onna’s breathing shallowed and faltered.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t this world. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix it for you.”

Onna tried to speak, but the words didn't form. Only her low-ringing harmony sounded, but it was enough.

I forgive, I forgive, I mourn, I forgive.

The room stilled. Something exited.

“Goodbye, On.”

There was a massive amount of disorientation as Amara's panic set in. Odd that a few years in therapy alongside a human prison taught her some skills, but useful. We calmed down together without damaging her or the house. She screamed for a long time into the emptiness about their house.

While she keened I tended to the body, my movements a strange kind of spiritual muscle movement as I laid her out flat and pulled that green energy from somewhere and bid it cover the torn fabric and twisted flesh with a glamor (which: since when do I know how to do that?). Onna's cheeks filled out and I managed to twist her skirt enough to cover the worse of the disfigurements. I closed her eyes and settled her back into Amara's arms, reminding her of what would need to come next.

As she carried her back to the entry hall she looked mournfully back at the mosaic portraits of the two of them which domineered the back wall, framing the doors to the main hall with their regal, placid expressions of ownership. Onna looked as she was meant to look, a terrifying beauty that hurt if you looked at it for too long. I'd thought she only glowed in Amara's happier memories, but from what I've seen now she glowed even in images of her. Even in death. An inescapable point of light that genuinely burned once you became too aware of it.

"That'll have to come down now," Amara said out loud though it was directed to me.

"Only if you want it to."

She stood and stared for a long time.

"I want it to."

"Then it will have to come down."

"Later."

"Later, indeed."

She shouldered the front doors open and pushed through, squinting at the harsh light of the sun in her world. I didn't even take the time to experience being in another world, all I could do was hold onto Amara and feel the pain of the weight of Onna in our arms as she collapsed on the path at the front of the house.

Onna was horrible. A horrible, awful, terrifying menace to everything I love and value in any universe. She was hate and greed and pain and control and abuse in every possible horrific aspect of each word.

She was Amara's first love. Her whole entire world for most of her existence. She was-- at one point-- the best of what we can be. I have the memories of Amara's of every single little moment of goodness that she left in the world, and also the ones that should have warned Amara that she was slipping... But the fall came quietly, and Amara's vision cleared too late and there is nothing to do to change that.

She was a Sister of the Magdalene. Their sister. Their god. Their matriarch across millennia.

That is why they all came to say goodbye.

Tessa arrived first, Anya close behind her with her hand clasped tightly as they shoved through the remains of the cheering, victorious armies that had fought their fight home. Tessa called for silence and shamed them, for a death is nothing to celebrate to a Magdalene. Selena came next, riding the wind and already crying streaks of heavy tears before she pulled Tessa down to hold onto both Amara and the body that remained. She began the Keening, and Amara followed next. Maia arrived at a steady walk along with Kira, and both sank to their knees with the rest of the group to cradle the corpse. Jack came with Viv soon, and the group parted to allow him to settle at Amara's back and support her as she held the weight of the passing.

When Orias arrived Amara's Keens changed pitch. The true end was coming.

Even Orias-- who hated Onna more fiercely than any being in memory-- wept as she pulled Onna's soul from where it remained inside her sunken, hollow chest. The parts were separated in the family's tradition, and Onna's pains were offered to Amara.

"Do you want to remember these for her, Mother?"

Amara shook her head, which surprised me. I'd expected her to want the suffering, but she didn't. I'd never watched this far into my predictions of how this day would go, wanting this to remain private for her if she wanted it. Orias too considered eating the sins for which she'd suffered her entire life, but chose to let them go instead. She released the little ball of darkness from the tips of her gauntlet-talons and it faded into the air as if it never was, to be forgotten by time itself as the world healed. Onna's body broke down, crumbling into flakes of paper-like petals that drifted away on the breeze, over the house's wall and off toward the garden. Off home.

That's where I left them. Amara followed later, needing somewhere away from the family where she wouldn't just get high or drunk or hurt herself in her anger. I'm so proud of her for knowing not to just lock herself in her house alone with a pile of opioids and rot.

She'll be okay. They'll all be okay.

Sometimes it's time to say goodbye.

The memory of two little girls laying on the sand looking at the stars and planning their lives still lives in me. It still lives in Amara. It's what we have left of who Onna could have been. It's not enough. Gods' truth, it's not enough... but it's what we have, and that's okay.

Sometimes only the small things remain.

#All dialogue translated #tongues #Ur #mourning #death work #onna #onna and amara #amara and me #amara #Tessa #Selena #Kira #Maia #Anya #Viv #Jack #Orias #Headspace #Death Work #Over There #Personal Pantheon #The Magdalene #forgiving #remembering #cw #trauma #abuse #ptsd #drug use

[heartofether]

Episode 16 - Lorelei TRANSCRIPT

[You can listen to the show wherever you get your podcasts, or go to our “Listen” page if you’re on desktop.]

VAL

Warning: This episode contains discussions and descriptions of child abuse, and may not be suitable for all audiences. For exact time stamps and a full list of content warnings, please check the show notes. We suggest you check the content warnings regardless, since this is a bit of an intense episode, and contains instances of panic attacks, screaming, and violence. Listener discretion is advised.

AUTOMATED VOICE

[VERY SLOWED DOWN] Please state your message.

[THEME SONG PLAYS.]

VAL

Three-eyed Frog Presents: The Heart of Ether.

[THEME SONG FADES TO A STOP.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[INT./EXT. OUTSIDE OF LORELEI FOSTER’S HOUSE, DAYTIME.]

[THE SOUND OF A RAVEN CAWING IS HEARD IN THE BACKGROUND.]

AGENT JUNE

Jeez, this place smells like a zoo.

AGENT MAY

I need to introduce the recording. Interview with Lorelei Foster, at her home. Part of Operation Saturn, phase 1.2. Conducted by Agents May and June. All— [CUTTING HIMSELF OFF] June, hey, stay in the car!

[AS HE TALKS, AGENT JUNE IS HEARD OPENING THE CAR DOOR AND STARTING TO STEP OUT.]

AGENT JUNE

What? Come on, dude, I’m getting impatient.

AGENT MAY

We’ll go up to her door in a minute. There’s just—I need to ask you something first.

AGENT JUNE

Oh. Why didn’t you just say so?

[HE CLIMBS BACK INTO THE CAR, CLOSING THE DOOR. AGENT MAY SIGHS.]

AGENT MAY

[SLIGHTLY NERVOUS] You are aware of the case of Lorelei Foster, correct?

AGENT JUNE

Uh, obviously. She was a part of some coven and they all went missing except for her. She moved to this house way outside of town and refused to show her face.

AGENT MAY

Well, under the naming conventions of Valencia and Wood, the Foundation believes that Lorelei Foster is what is known as a “Beastly.” What she could be capable of—it’s not something to play around with. Okay? She could be dangerous. Not deadly, per say, but still potentially devastating in her power.

AGENT JUNE

[PANICKED SARCASM] Wow, that’s super comforting, Agent May.

AGENT MAY

Just don’t say or do anything stupid, alright? Also, if when we see her, she looks, you know, different, don’t comment on it. Act like you don’t even notice.

AGENT JUNE

That’s all? Well, don’t worry about it, then. I’ve never judged a book by its cover. I’ll just stand there and act as well-behaved as I always do.

AGENT MAY

[UNDER HIS BREATH] That’s what I feared.

[THEY BOTH GET OUT OF THE CAR AND WALK UP TO HER FRONT DOOR. IT'S A LOVELY DAY OUTSIDE, WITH BIRDS CHIRPING AS IF NOTHING IS WRONG. AGENT MAY KNOCKS.]

AGENT MAY

Ms. Foster? This is Agents May and June. We’re with the Harper Foundation. We’re here to ask you a few questions.

[A RAVEN CAWS AS THERE IS NO RESPONSE.]

AGENT JUNE

Maybe she’s not home?

AGENT MAY

I don’t believe she ever leaves her house. Look at her car. It’s untouched. I’m sure she even gets her groceries delivered, somehow.

[HE KNOCKS AGAIN.]

AGENT MAY

We do not wish to harm you or bring you into custody, Ms. Foster. We won’t tell anyone what you are or what you’re doing here. We simply believe you may have some helpful insight on Ether. Just let us ask a few things, and then we’ll be out of your way.

[THERE’S A LONG PAUSE.]

AGENT JUNE

Maybe it’s a lost cause. Well, at least we can say we tried. Guess we should just—

[AS HE’S TALKING, THE DOOR CREAKS OPEN JUST A CRACK.]

LORELEI

You do not plan on taking photographs, do you?

AGENT MAY

We’re recording this over audio. Nobody will see your face except for the two of us, we promise.

AGENT JUNE

Yeah, don’t sweat it. We’re not gonna—[STARTLED] Oh my god!

[AS HE SPEAKS, LORELEI OPENS THE DOOR THE REST OF THE WAY TO REVEAL HER TRUE FORM.]

LORELEI

Is there a problem?

AGENT MAY

Not at all, Ms. Foster. Apologizes for my colleague, he is—

AGENT JUNE

[NERVOUSLY BLUFFING] I have a fear of new people. Yup. Terrified of ‘em.

AGENT MAY

[PLAYING ALONG] It’s tragic, really. Makes our job incredibly difficult.

LORELEI

[SUSPICIOUS] Quite.

[A BEAT.] Well, you said you had questions?

AGENT MAY

That we do. May we come in?

LORELEI

I would advise against it. Terrance is a pacifist when around me, but I am unsure of how he would react to new people.

AGENT JUNE

And who is Terrance, exactly?

LORELEI

A bear. [SADLY] Used to be a friend.

[A BEAR GROWLS IN THE BACKGROUND. AGENT JUNE MAKES A WEAK NOISE OF FEAR.]

LORELEI

I am still unsure whether his calm nature is because he maintained his human consciousness, or if I have some level of control over him that makes him do as I wish. Perhaps a mix of both.

AGENT MAY

Did you make him this way?

LORELEI

That much should be obvious, don’t you think? Assuming you really know what you’re talking about, and you’re not just bluffing.

AGENT MAY

We are somewhat familiar with your kind, but we’re always looking to learn more.

LORELEI

[SHE SCOFFS.] Is that what this is? You view me as a learning opportunity? Like a sample dragged in by the biology teacher for lab day?

AGENT MAY

Of course not. We’re just trying to learn more about Ether.

AGENT JUNE

I am very curious about how you managed to do it, though, if you care to indulge us?

[THERE’S A PAUSE.]

LORELEI

[SOLEMN] I never asked for any of this. When we attempted the ritual, our hope was that by the end of it, all of us would obtain the same level of power. Valencia told me it would never work. I had quite the rebellious streak back then, though. I didn’t believe him. Perhaps I should have.

If I had known that all of that power would have been channeled into me, I never would have attempted it. Now that time has passed, I realize how useless of a power it even is. What made Ether decide to curse me with it, I’ll never know. Perhaps we didn’t speak clearly enough when we did the ritual.

I had no idea what my limits were, or how to use my abilities. The consequences, of course, were far greater than I could have ever imagined. Terrance and Abigail were both accidents. Clementine, I turned her into a spider in a fit of rage. Scott happened when I was sobbing my eyes out, and he made the mistake of trying to comfort me. I am unsure if I intended to turn him into a snake or not. By the time River was the only one left, they came to me and asked to be turned into a cat. They said they knew I was bound to do it eventually, and they wanted to choose what animal they became. I did as they wished.

[JUST AS SHE SAYS THAT, A RAVEN FLIES OVER AND SQUAWKS. AGENT JUNE STARTLES, YELPING AT THIS.]

LORELEI

[SHE GIVES A DRY CHUCKLE.] I don’t think Abigail likes you.

AGENT MAY

You mentioned the consequences were far greater than you could have imagined. Was that in reference to the loss of your friends?

LORELEI

Oh, don’t make me say it. It would have been one thing if I simply turned my entire coven into my own little petting zoo. Now, however, I can never escape my own errors, even if I were to leave them all behind. I am forever haunted by the marks my ability has left. The bear paw that has become of my left hand. The raven feathers in my hair. The spider eyes sprawled across my face. The venom that drips from my fangs and burns my lips. And oh, how disappointing having the tail of a cat is, despite how elegant I thought it would be when I was a little girl. Cats used to be my favorite animal. They aren’t anymore.

AGENT MAY

Don’t you think River would take offense to that?

LORELEI

Hm. Perhaps you’re right.

[A CAT MEOWS FROM INSIDE.]

AGENT MAY

How did you access Ether’s power?

LORELEI

The same way I’m sure most people have. We did a ritual. Just as most of them do, it went wrong.

AGENT MAY

Do you know where exactly it went wrong?

[A PAUSE.]

LORELEI

Can I be honest with you? I have had years to think long and hard about the events that transpired that night. I read through our plans over, and over again, hoping to find a way to undo it all. After all of that, I came to the conclusion that whatever fault it was—whatever slip of the tongue or missing ingredient it could have been—none of it would have mattered.

Ether chooses who to favor and who to damn by the luck of a draw. Flip of a coin. It knows no order. It will do what it pleases. It is not a person, or a sentient being—it is a random number generator that can grant unlimited power if you get lucky. It’s a lottery of stones, however. Nobody is ever really winning, even those as fortunate as the Forget-Me-Nots, or those well-off enough to never hear about Ether at all.

[A PAUSE, THEN] Do you have any other questions? I’m rather sure my pets are looking forward to their dinner.

AGENT MAY

Just one: where is the heart of Ether?

[A PAUSE.]

LORELEI

I would be careful, if I were you. I’ve heard things, rumors, about your little project. Though I doubt you fully understand the dangers, seeing as you’re just the worker bees, hm?

AGENT MAY

It’s not my place to question, I’m afraid.

LORELEI

Perhaps you should. Never does anyone any good, blindly following orders.

[AS THEY TALK, RIVER MEOWS, PURRING AS SHE RUBS AGAINST AGENT JUNE'S LEGS.]

AGENT JUNE

[WHISPERING TO THE CAT] Ah—hey! Go away! Shoo!

AGENT MAY

If you could answer the question, I promise we’ll be out of your hair.

LORELEI

Hm. I’m afraid I can’t be of much help. For years, people believed Ether resided in the sky, but that is untrue. Though, during the brief window Valencia was willing to speak to me, he did tell me he had a theory—

[AGENT JUNE CUTS HER OFF BY SNEEZING.]

AGENT JUNE

[MUTTERS] Stupid cat!

[RIVER HISSES.]

LORELEI

[OFFENDED] I would appreciate it if you did not insult my animals.

AGENT JUNE

[CONGESTED] Then tell River to leave me the hell alone. Can’t you control them, or whatever? At least use your freaky powers to—

AGENT MAY

[OVERLAPPING] Agent June—!

AGENT JUNE

I just want this damn—

[THERE’S A TENSE PAUSE AS HE REALIZES LORELEI IS GLARING INTENTLY AT HIM.]

AGENT JUNE

I mean, uh, this lovely cat, to uh…I’m so sorry, ma’am, this has been incredibly rude of me.

LORELEI

[A BEAT.] What was your name, again?

AGENT JUNE

Juh—uh, Agent June?

LORELEI

Agent June. [SHE SAYS THE NAME WITH DISDAIN.] Agent June, do you have a favorite animal, by chance?

AGENT MAY

[WHISPERING, PANICKED] Don’t say anything. Just thank her and let’s go before—

AGENT JUNE

[OVERLAPPING] I don’t know. Uh, have you ever heard of Sonic the Hedgehog?

LORELEI

[MIXED WITH CONFUSION AND DISGUST] Sonic. The Hedgehog.

AGENT JUNE

[NERVOUS RAMBLING] Yeah! I was obsessed with those games growing up, and so I went through this whole phase where I wanted a pet hedgehog really bad, but my parents never let me have one. Said I was too irresponsible, or whatever. That dream kinda, like, carried over into my adult life though?

LORELEI

[NODDING] So, hedgehogs.

AGENT JUNE

Um, sure.

LORELEI

I see.

[A PAUSE.]

LORELEI

I do hope you’re happy with that choice, Agent June.

[A HIGH-PITCHED RINGING IS HEARD AS SHE REACHES HER HAND OUT. AGENT JUNE STARTS SPUTTERING IN FEAR.]

[EERIE AND TENSE MUSIC BEGINS TO PLAY.]

AGENT JUNE

[TERRIFIED] What the—?

AGENT MAY

Shit.

[AGENT MAY IS HEARD PULLING OUT A DART GUN AND SHOOTING A TRANQUILIZER DART AT LORELEI. SHE CRIES OUT A BIT, BEFORE STUMBLING, AND THEN COLLAPSING.]

AGENT JUNE

Did you just tranquilize her?

AGENT MAY

I didn’t have a choice. Come on, get in the car. The full effect only lasts forty-five seconds.

[THEY BOTH FRANTICALLY CLIMB INTO THE CAR, SLAMMING THE DOORS AS THEY GET IN.]

AGENT MAY

Are you okay? Did she change you at all?

AGENT JUNE

[HYPERVENTILATING] No, no! But it—this really weird feeling washed over me, like, like my body was trying to fit into a smaller one, I—that was the worst thing I’ve ever felt, oh my god.

AGENT MAY

[ATTEMPTING TO SOOTHE] Agent June, calm down. You’re safe now, okay?

AGENT JUNE

Yeah, only because of you. You just saved my life. I mean, technically, I would have survived, but I would have had to live out the rest of my days as a hedgehog!

AGENT MAY

[FRUSTRATED] Maybe if you had been able to hold your damn tongue for thirty seconds, this wouldn’t have happened.

[AS HE TALKS, AGENT MAY STARTS THE CAR AND SPEEDS AWAY, THE TIRES SQUEALING.]

AGENT JUNE

I’m sorry I was having an allergic reaction!

AGENT MAY

That’s no excuse for you to have said the things you did. I told you to keep it together.

AGENT JUNE

Stop trying to blame all of this on me. I don’t care if it’s my fault, I almost just lost my humanity. Do you know how horrifying that was?

AGENT MAY

[HE INHALES SHARPLY.] No, you’re right. You’re not entirely to blame for what just happened.

If only she had at least finished her sentence about Valencia’s theory.

AGENT JUNE

[GUILTILY] Yeah, that was pretty poor timing, huh?

AGENT MAY

We’ll find out one way or another. Might have to go back to Irene Gray.

AGENT JUNE

Ah yes, the other enemy we’ve made in this town.

AGENT MAY

I guess we’re going to have to find a way to change that, then. [A BEAT.] Turn off the recording, please.

[SOME SHUFFLING AS AGENT JUNE MOVES TO TURN THE RECORDER OFF.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER BEEP.]

[EXT. LEMONGRASS PARK, NIGHT.]

[IRENE IS SITTING IN HER CAR. THERE ARE CRICKETS HEARD IN THE BACKGROUND.]

IRENE

I’m parked in front of Lemongrass Park. To be honest, I’ve never actually been here, even though it’s so close to my house. It’s small, but it’s a nice park. There’s a swing set, a seesaw, one of those metal slides that would always burn my skin during the summer. Some nice trees, too.

[REMINISCING] Do you remember when we would go to the park late at night? It was really stupid of us to go there after dark, honestly, it’s a miracle nothing ever happened. Well, I mean, you did hurt your leg that one time you fell off the swing, which I still feel bad about. It felt so serene, though. Like we were the only people in the world. We were still clinging onto our childhood innocence, and you, you were so fond of that park near your house, and I was so fond of the way you laughed. You’ll love this park, too, I think, if you ever get to see it. You always loved places where—

Wait, hold on, I think—I think Sadie’s waving at me. She’s sitting over on one of the swings. At least, I think it’s her? Not quite what I expected her to look like, but then again, I don’t know what I was expecting. She’s wearing all black, and has a striped shirt underneath her t-shirt, even though it’s hot as hell. Is this how emo kids dress these days? I think Aden said something about “e-girls” or something. [SHE SCOFFS.] Jeez, I need to start keeping track of these things. I feel so old.

She’s also wearing a black fabric surgical mask, with a white design? I’ve hardly seen people wear those outside of the medical profession—I mean, there was one time, but that was an outlier. [SHE SAYS THIS PART UNCOMFORTABLY BECAUSE THIS IS REFERRING BACK TO THE FIRST TRAILER.]

It must be her, though. Otherwise, why would she be waving at me? I have the box of film in the passenger’s seat. Avery and I talked today, and they were incredibly vocal about how bad of an idea this was, but they said I’m an adult and can make my own choices.

Avery is…well. I think they have good intentions at heart. They act indifferent all the time, and they’re incredibly mature, but they seem…I don’t know. Sometimes, there’s this, fear, maybe? That bleeds through when they speak. I think they try to hide it. Reminds me they’re still, technically, a kid.

Right, I feel kinda awkward sitting here while Sadie is staring at me. Guess I should get this over with.

[IRENE GRABS THE BOX OF FILM AND STEPS OUT OF HER CAR. SHE WALKS TOWARDS SADIE. WHENEVER SADIE TALKS, HER VOICE IS JUST SLIGHTLY MUFFLED.]

SADIE

[FROM AFAR] Irene, right?

IRENE

Yup!

SADIE

Wonderful!

[SADIE WALKS OVER TO IRENE.]

SADIE

I’ll take that.

[SHE'S HEARD TAKING THE CARDBOARD BOX FROM IRENE.]

SADIE

Looks heavy! How many photos did you take?

IRENE

[HANDING THE BOX OFF] Thank you, uh, I didn’t take these, though.

SADIE

I see. That’s a bummer. I thought I’d met a person of similar passions.

IRENE

Sorry to disappoint.

SADIE

Don’t stress it! Where did you get the film, then?

IRENE

[LYING] It’s from one of my dead relatives.

SADIE

Mm. Sorry to hear that.

IRENE

It was a while ago, so it's okay.

SADIE

They sure took lots of photos. Do you have any idea what they photographed?

IRENE

No clue.

SADIE

Well, I’ll do my best to get this developed. I’m staying with my uncle for part of the summer, and he never uses his dark room, so I have it all to myself. You know, he has this massive house, spends lots of money on rooms he never uses every time he gets a new hobby.

IRENE

Odd he chose Daughtler of all places to stick it.

SADIE

You know, that’s what I said! My professor went green with envy when I told her about it, though. She said this is a perfect town to take pictures.

IRENE

You’re a student, then?

SADIE

Yup! Majoring in photography, in case that wasn’t already clear. [SHE GIGGLES.]

Anyways, I’ll try to get this developed for you as quickly as possible. It may take a while, ‘cause there’s so much of it, so would you like me to give it to you in batches?

IRENE

That would be great, yeah. Um, thank you. Are you sure I can’t pay you?

SADIE

Oh, please, don’t worry about it. Like I said, I’m just thankful for the opportunity.

So, any other questions for me? I’m happy to answer them.

IRENE

Um, I have a bit of a weird one.

SADIE

Hm?

IRENE

Why are you wearing a surgical mask? Is it, like, a germ thing, or are you sick?

[THERE’S A PAUSE.]

SADIE

I should go get started on this.

IRENE

Um, you didn’t—

SADIE

[AGGRESSIVELY CUTTING HER OFF] Pleasure working with you, Irene! I’ll get back to you about your first batch ASAP!

IRENE

[TAKEN ABACK] Oh. Okay, then. Um, bye.

SADIE

Later!

[IRENE WALKS TO HER CAR AND CLIMBS BACK INSIDE. THERE'S A PAUSE.]

IRENE

Well, that was interesting, for lack of a better term. Sadie seems fine? I guess I just got a bit too personal with the mask thing. I mean, if it makes her feel comfortable, I don’t see why she can’t wear it. I’ll try not to worry about it. As long as she can develop the photos, that’s what matters.

Though I am kind of worried. I mean, Valencia could have taken, well, suspicious photos, assuming they’re connected to his research. I have no idea. I guess we just have to hope? Sadie seems pretty okay with minding her own business, it seems, so if I’m lucky, she won’t question it.

[HER PHONE STARTS VIBRATING.]

IRENE

Oh, hang on. Avery is calling me.

[A BEEP AS SHE ANSWERS.]

IRENE

Hello?

AVERY

Just making sure you didn’t get murdered.

[AS AVERY TALKS, THERE IS THE SOUND OF MASHING VIDEO GAME CONTROLLER BUTTONS AND JOYSTICKS.]

IRENE

[SHE SCOFFS.] Well, I didn’t. Sadie was fine. You really had nothing to be worried about.

AVERY

[DISTRACTED] I mean, it’s still a really bad idea to be meeting someone in the park this late. Daughtler is a small town, but even if we don’t have much of a problem with normal creeps, weird stuff is still kind of the norm, you know?

IRENE

Yeah, I’ve gathered that much, I—wait, hang on, are you playing video games right now?

AVERY

Dude, it’s just Stardew Valley. It’s not like I’m fighting anything.

[A RAVEN CAWS FROM THE GAME.]

IRENE

[AWKWARDLY] I don’t know what that is.

AVERY

That’s because you’re old.

IRENE

Hey.

AVERY

[OVEREXAGGERATED, FAKE] Ah no, I just got attacked! I gotta hang up, sorry Irene!

IRENE

You just said there’s no—

[AVERY HANGS UP.]

IRENE

[DEFEATED] …combat.

[SHE HUFFS.] Talk to you later, I guess.

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

[ANOTHER BEEP.]

[INT. THE APARTMENT ABOVE THE OPEN EYES BOOKSTORE, NIGHT. A BUDGIE IS OCCASIONALLY HEARD CHIRPING OR FLAPPING ITS WINGS IN THE BACKGROUND THROUGHOUT THE SCENE.]

[HOLLY IS HEARD SORTING THROUGH A GROCERY BAG AND SETTING THINGS ON THE COUNTER.]

HOLLY

Is it recording?

PHOEBE

Yes, it is.

HOLLY

Cool, cool. I got eggs, by the way. I know you talked about wanting to try to make pie at some point, and you were running low, so.

PHOEBE

[SLIGHTLY OVERLAPPING] Oh, um, thank you! Um, why were you out so late, anyways?

HOLLY

Hm? Oh, just a nighttime stroll.

PHOEBE

[WARY] I see.

[HOLLY WALKS OVER, AND SITS ON THE COUCH NEXT TO PHOEBE.]

HOLLY

Alright, then. You have the next letter? I guess all that’s left to do is open it.

[THERE'S A PAUSE AS HOLLY HESITATES.]

HOLLY

You sure you’re okay with me being in the room for this? I know her letters to you were, well, personal.

PHOEBE

It’s okay, don’t worry. I—I trust you. I’m sure Grandma Doe would, too.

HOLLY

[TENDERLY] That…that means a lot.

[A BEAT.] Go ahead, then.

[PHOEBE OPENS THE LETTER.]

PHOEBE

Phoebe, If you are reading this, I assume you have successfully completed the ritual. If it was not a success, well, I have a separate envelope marked for you to read. I suggest you find it.

HOLLY

Almost want to read the other one just to see what it says.

PHOEBE

[UNSETTLED] I don’t think that’s a good idea. If the alternative was that bad, well. I don’t want to think about what could have happened to me.

HOLLY

Fair, yeah. Continue.

PHOEBE

[SHE CLEARS HER THROAT.] If everything worked as well as I hope, then you have now stepped into your role as a Forget-Me-Not. I could not be more proud of you, little wildflower. What a lovely Forget-Me-Not you will be.

I have already warned you of some of the dangers, but now that this is your reality, I am going to begin to describe it all in more detail in order to prepare you. It is nothing I have not already mentioned in previous letters, however.

Now, let us start from the beginning: why did I name them the Forget-Me-Nots? Valencia thought it to be a rotten name. Too flowery, he said it was, too delicate. I believe it to be a sophisticated name. Better than the Hungry, or whatever other titles he’s come up with.

HOLLY

The hell is the Hungry?

PHOEBE

Um, I’m not sure. I’m sure we’ll find out?

HOLLY

Let’s hope.

PHOEBE

It goes on: Anyways, I called them the Forget-Me-Nots because it is not just about their quest for new knowledge. It is about the knowledge they already have. Sure, they know where to find any and all information, but what about that which is already within them? A Forget-Me-Not cannot forget anything. Even the tiniest detail, they will cling onto for the rest of their life. I still remember what I ordered at an Italian restaurant twenty-seven years ago. It was some mediocre chicken parmesan. The sauce was a bit too bitter for my taste, but I went back there because they had delightful breadsticks.

However, this is a double-edged sword. It is not just new information you will begin to retain. If only it was that simple. A Forget-Me-Not also remembers all which has happened before. This includes all of your life up to this point, from your early childhood, to more recent events.

When I chose you to be my predecessor, this is what I dreaded most. Your mother and I always considered it to be a blessing in disguise that you did not remember much of your childhood. I know you are aware of what happened, but the specifics are far worse than I think you’ve ever processed. I would not wish memories of that horrid time upon anyone, especially you. Your poor mother, my dear Agnes, she lives through them every day.

You may be forced to confront some of the memories of your father. The sick, rotten, vile man he was. I am eternally grateful I was able to save you from some suffering when you were a child, though I am deeply remorseful for all your mother put herself through. I wish I could be there to walk you through it all, to comfort you as you remember, but the circumstances are not in my favor.

You are stronger than you give yourself credit for, however, and you do not have to do it alone. Please do not hesitate to reach out to your mother if you find yourself needing the support. You could also talk to a friend—I’m assuming you have an abundance of those, you’re far too charming and sweet to not have any. Like I’ve said, isolation will only drain you of all you are. Nothing about this process will be easy, but I would not put you through it if I did not believe you could handle it.

Take your work slowly. Do not rush into it. Allow your mind to process the—

[PHOEBE SUDDENLY STOPS TALKING. THERE’S A LONG PAUSE.]

HOLLY

[A MIX OF CONFUSED AND CONCERNED] Phoebe?

PHOEBE

I— [A PAUSE, THEN] Sorry, sorry. Sorry. It’s just. [SHE TRAILS OFF.]

HOLLY

Is something wrong?

PHOEBE

Th—the letter, it’s just, um, got me thinking, I guess. About my father.

HOLLY

[CAUTIOUS] How much do you remember of him?

PHOEBE

[SHE GIVES A SHAKY CHUCKLE.] Oh, I’m trying to avoid that train of thought. I’m scared it will all come flowing in at once.

HOLLY

Oh, right, yeah. Try not to focus too much on it, okay?

PHOEBE

No, I’m okay, I just—I remember bits of it. More vividly, now, than I did before.

[WHAT FOLLOWS IS THE AFOREMENTIONED DESCRIPTION OF CHILD ABUSE. VIEWER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.]

PHOEBE

Have you seen the stuffed cow sitting on my bed? It’s so old and worn, but it’s one of the most precious things I own. Its name is Baby. It’s, um, a silly name, I know. I used to play pretend with it, though, and act like I was its mother. I cradled it, pretended to feed it. So I named it Baby. [A BEAT, THEN] I didn’t remember why I named it that until now.

My dad hated Baby, though. He hated that I was so attached to a stuffed cow, of all things. He would constantly use Baby to threaten me, holding his ability to take it away over my head, because he knew that was a quick way to make me upset. If it was his choice, I’m sure he would have destroyed it. Not sure why he never did.

One day, when he was in a bad mood, and my mom was at work, I hid Baby inside my closet. He stormed into my room, and demanded for me to give it to him. I lied and said I had no idea where Baby was, but of course he didn’t believe me. He tore through my room, ignoring my pleas for him to stop, until he found Baby and took it away. I was forced to clean up the mess he made before my mom got home.

When she did get home, I instantly went and hugged her legs tightly and sobbed. I told her that Daddy had taken Baby away, and ruined my room. She asked me to take her to my room, so I did, only to find Baby sitting on the bed, staring right back at me.

My dad came in. “Of course I didn’t take the stupid toy,” he said. “She probably just misplaced it.” My mom didn’t argue. I was outraged. How could she believe him? Looking back, however, she knew something was wrong. I know she did. Even as a kid, I could read it on her face. He didn’t give her a choice, though.

[A BEAT.] He let me keep Baby, at least. Though he warned me not to try to tell mom what he did ever again. Otherwise, he would be very upset with me.

[A WET CHUCKLE.] And I didn’t even face the worst of it. I would spend days, weeks even, here with Grandma Doe when my dad was especially bad. That’s why her and I were so close, and why I didn’t remember so much of what my dad did. My mom had to endure most of it, though. That is, until she was finally able to get a divorce. He was arrested for a few years, I never learned what for, but I hope it was for the right reasons. When he got out, my mom got a restraining order against him.

The last time I saw him was my eighth birthday. He didn’t get me anything.

[THERE'S A LONG PAUSE.]

HOLLY

I’m going to kill him.

PHOEBE

[NERVOUS CHUCKLE] I—I appreciate you caring, but—

HOLLY

[A BIT TOO ANGRY] No. I mean it. If he’s still alive, I’ll kill him.

PHOEBE

[SLIGHTLY STARTLED] I don’t know if he’s still alive. I mean, it’s not like I’ve made an effort to reach out to him, heh.

HOLLY

[A PAUSE, THEN, SINCERE AND EMOTIONAL] I’m so sorry.

PHOEBE

It—It’s okay! Really. I promise. It was a long time ago. It’s just…I’m not sure how much I’m going to remember. As time goes on. I mean, I’m sure I would have been forced to confront my childhood eventually, this is just kind of speeding up the process.

HOLLY

You can always come to me, you know. If it gets to be too much.

PHOEBE

I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you, Holly. Really.

HOLLY

Of course. Anything I can do. [A PAUSE.] Would a hug be okay?

PHOEBE

[SHE TAKES A SHAKY BREATH.] A hug would be nice.

[THERE ARE FABRIC RUSTLES AS THEY ARE HEARD EMBRACING.]

[PHONE BEEP.]

[RECORDING ENDS.]

AUTOMATED VOICE

Today's quote is: "In every couple there is one who is the historian of the relationship."

Susan Sontag in Reborn: Journals and Notebooks, 1947-1963.

[OUTRO MUSIC AND CREDITS PLAY.]

[AT THE END OF THE CREDITS, THERE IS A BRIEF, HIGH-PITCHED RINGING NOISE, THAT BEGINS TO BREAK UP BEFORE STOPPING ABRUPTLY.]

#heart of ether transcripts

[alightwhendarknessfell]

Dear Andy,

I have debated posting this for a while, mostly because I wanted to get it right. With the WSTW re-record release approaching and things coming to light about the actions of a former member I feel that now is as good a time as ever. I don’t know if you’ll read this, but it is something that over the past year I have wanted to do. I have been unfair and overcritical and at times, downright mean. I was judging you and your actions based on my own interpretations. The events of the past few weeks have shown me that those interpretations were wrong. So here it goes…

I have been a fan of not only Black Veil, but of you going back to 2008-2009, when everything was still on Myspace. I vividly remember eagerly awaiting the release of WSTW and making my mom drive me to the local Hot Topic to pick it up the day it came out. I remember going to my first show in a small little bar in Raleigh, NC that sadly is no more, and I remember being dressed in war paint along with my best friends. I know that it may not seem like it, but I to this day consider myself a fan. The band that you created was pivotal for my teenage years and to this day the community you helped build means the world to me.

I will admit that it was my passion and love for that community that was the root of my criticism. Despite what you or others reading this may think, I do not hate you, not at all. There have been times that I felt let down, cheated, and disappointed as a fan, but the events of the past few weeks have really opened my eyes. I will get that to that point, but I did not and do not hate you. As a person I speak up, at times when I probably shouldn’t, but I do when I feel strongly about something. I have certainly made the mistake too many times of speaking before I had all the information or trusting my own judgement on things, I knew nothing about. I am trying to get better at not doing that.

I can see how some of the things I have said, condoned, or even given a platform to were mean, uncalled for, hurtful, and regrettably untrue at times. I have had this blog and been in this fandom for over a decade. I was 13-14 years old when I first made this blog, and I am almost 25 now. I look back on some of the things I said, and I deeply regret them. In 2015 this blog was accidentally deleted, and honestly it was probably for the best that some of my earlier posts are gone. Regardless, I have let myself get carried away or swept up in drama perpetuated by others (and sometimes myself). I have said things, even in the past few years that I shouldn’t have, things that could be hurtful. While my intention was never to hurt you, I think it’s safe to say that myself and others lose sight of the impact of our words when they are said behind a screen, to people we think will never read them. As a teenager or even in my early 20’s I didn’t think that someone ‘famous’ would see what I wrote, surely it would all get lost in the sea of tweets, posts and comments.

That does not make saying those things right.

I would like to personally apologize to you for not considering the fact that you might see some of those words. That you are a person with emotions just like everyone else, that could be hurt by them. I am sorry for letting others get away with saying cruel things, even if I pushed back on them or didn’t directly comment. I would be lying if I said that the fame (or infamy), status and notoriety I got for my words didn’t affect my actions. It’s sad, but true that often times more attention comes out of negativity than kindness.

As someone who has been bullied and suffers from mental illnesses, I should have left some things unsaid. I do not know you personally, I only know what you have shared. Seeing you speak about your own struggles with mental illness over the recent years has really given me a much-needed reality check. I have related to some of the things you’ve talked about more than you know. Some of the things that others and I have been critical of were clearly not the result of malicious intent but of your own hardships that we were blind to. 

I think people forget, and I know I did, that when this band took off you were just a teenager yourself. To think that at 18 or 19 someone in your situation would act ‘right’ all of the time and never make mistakes is ridiculous. Not only were you a kid trying to figure the world out, but I think it has become clear that you were dealing with people who used you for their own selfish gains. That would be hard for anyone, regardless of their age. 

I have never dealt with addiction on a personal level, but I emphasize with whatever pain you had to endure in your own struggles with it. You are right when you said that no one sees themselves becoming an alcoholic at twenty years old, and I am sorry for not being more sympatric in the past. One of my biggest regrets in all of this was hearing that during the time that I was probably the harshest to you (around 2016) was when you were struggling the most with trying to be sober. 

I am happy that you are sober, I am glad that you were able to make it out of that cycle that consumes so many people. I hope that others who are struggling are inspired by your dedication to living a healthier life. In an industry where it is too easy to fall back into toxic behaviors and coping mechanisms, I am glad you have found strength.  

I would like to speak on why I have been so negative in the past (and at times hateful). As I said, what you created in Black Veil meant a lot to me and so many others. This band has been a part of my life for so long and I have met some of the most amazing people through it. I have met people that I can honestly say I love because of this community. This fan base gave me a home when I felt alone and gave me something to identify with as a kid. That’s why I started cosplaying as you, sure it’s a hobby of mine and aesthetically I am a fan of 80’s glam metal, but it was mostly to pay tribute. I am not a ‘traditional’ artist in the sense of paintings and drawings, my media is makeup and costume. The WSTW/STWOF era is what I consider my era as a fan, the one that I identified with the most. 

I admit, I was upset when it ended. That’s a stupid reason to be upset, obviously all bands change and there’s nothing wrong with that, but that’s how I felt. The source of my jadedness was not the adoption of a new look, it was deeper than that. Around 2016 was when I had the most animosity because I saw what I thought at the time was you ‘giving up’ on Black Veil. I felt like the ‘old’ fans weren’t wanted anymore and like most people, I felt the need to protect and defend what I loved.

With the introduction of your solo act, it felt like the community I cared so much about was being destroyed and I couldn’t understand why you were doing that. I was blinded by my own judgements. What came off as hate was really just hurt. I know I am not the only ‘OG’ fan who felt that way, and I took that to mean I was justified. In hindsight it is clear, none of us had any idea what was really going on with the band and certain individuals who were bringing it down. At various times it seemed like you hated the old era and as a fan who stood there from the beginning that felt like a gut punch.  I let my own feelings make me bitter, and that was wrong. I let others fuel that bitterness, including ones who were actively stabbing you in the back. 

I remember around 2012 I made a very critical post of an article you did in Kerrang talking about your struggles with alcohol. I criticized you for not saying more and even said that what you shared was nothing in comparison to a former member’s struggles with addiction. When I received this DM from that individual saying that they approved of my words and that I was ‘spot on’ I felt embolden. I deeply, deeply regret letting such a toxic and horrible person influence me. That post I wrote was wrong, ignorant and immature. That post was one that got deleted in 2015, but I still regret having written something so heartless. 

(screen shot is from 2012, this was a Twitter DM from said individual. I did not share that post with them, they found it on their own and contacted me. ) 

I see now that you were not turning your back on Black Veil, you were trying to save it. The interview you did with Ryan Downey brought me to tears. I cannot imagine what it feels like to have something you spent your whole life fighting for be taken over by an abusive, evil, and selfish person. I feel like I have gained a better perspective of where you and the band were at over the past three weeks and I am sorry you are not free to say more. I am sorry for defending this person because they did not deserve a single fan.

Some who takes advantage of another’s passion and youth because they lack the creativity and ability to do it on their own is stealing, plain and simple. I am sorry that you have been tethered to such a horrible person for so long. I deeply admire your perseverance, strength and determination in taking back what that person tried to take. To be willing to destroy something you love and care about to keep it from the hands of evil is an incredible act of dedication to it. 

I would like to end this with a few more things. I know I have been critical of people that you love. I do admit I have taken those criticisms too far at times where they crossed into bullying. I am sorry to Juliet for being unfairly harsh, I am not a hateful person, but I have allowed myself to act that way. There are certainly things that I have said that I stand by, and there are things that I may not agree with or understand, but I think there are ways that I can voice my own opinions respectfully, without being mean. 

In an ideal world I would love to sit down with you, or anyone else I may have hurt and have a discussion about it, but hopefully this gets my point across well enough. I do not intend to delete my blog or stop accepting posts (although I will try and make an effort to get rid of toxic posts. It will just take a while to sort through them all). While I can’t promise to never say anything critical again, I can promise to stop the hatefulness. I am promising to make a real effort to clean up some of the toxicity towards you that is unfair and unwarranted. To facilitate a more respectful, yet still honest and open dialogue. I do take pride in my blog being one of the last places of discussion and community for fans, but perhaps without the cruelty that been allowed to fester. If you are someone reading this who comes here to be mean and hateful, I’m sorry but it has to stop. This was never intended to be a ‘hate blog’, but I will openly admit I understand why people thought it was.  

If you take anything away from this, or if you even read this, please let it be this. I consider myself a supporter of you and what you have created. I want nothing more than to see you succeed and be happy. I hope that you are able to overcome the struggles in your life and that you are able to find meaning and true happiness if you have not already. Although it may not appear so, I have always routed for you. It may seem like nothing you do is ever good enough for the fans (or at least some of them) but for me at least that is not true. You have been given an impossible task of trying to please thousands of people, of never being allowed to fuck up, and having past transgressions brought up again and again. For that I am sorry, and I am sorry for having played a part in that. 

You deserve to be treated as a person, not as an object or persona. I whole heartedly believe you are a decent person, who maybe has flaws and room for improvement, but so do I and so does everyone else. I do believe there are fundamentally bad people out there, people who deserve the karma they have coming. Those are the people that purposefully hurt, lie, manipulate, cheat and deceive others for personal gain. I think especially in the past few weeks we have been shown who those people are. Yet, I don’t believe you are one of those people. 

To everyone out there who is reading this, please give people the chance to change. Be okay with admitting when you are wrong. Allow people to grow and become better. Over the past year my mentality and perspective on the world has shifted dramatically. Two years ago I couldn’t have written this post, but as I enter my mid-twenties I am able to look back and say ‘this is not the person I want to be, this is not the person I want people to think I am’. So all I can do is admit my shortcomings, apologize, and be better. 

Andy, if you read this and made it to the end, thank you. You are in no way obligated to respond to or accept any of what I said. I just wanted to put this out there with the hopes that it in some way, or that some part of this, lessened some of the hurt I regrettably have caused. 

- Ren <3 

P.S the banner of my blog is not calling you or the band trash. It’s a fan term for when someone is really into something. Saying “I am ______ trash” means you love that thing. I know it’s weird, but it’s supposed to be an inside joke for other fans, it’s a positive thing. So, when I say “I am 100% 2010 Black Veil trash” I am talking about myself being a massive fan of that era. I don’t think you or the band is trashy, if I did, I wouldn’t be spending money on tickets, merch and shoving blue contacts into my eyes for 10+ years. 

#Andy Biersack #Andy Black #Black Veil Brides #BVB #alightwhendarknessfell