#And my brain is too tired to make a whole set of fresh graphics and I need to work on commissions MYSELF

[hyaciiintho]

🌸｡*ﾟ+. If we had a thread together! And you would like to continue it, please message me and let me know! If you have a link to the thread, I would appreciate it a whole ton c': I have a few threads in my drafts but I know I had others... I'll be reaching out to partners to see if they want to keep them or drop them ♡ I know it's been a long time, so just let me know!

I gave up on graphics and icons because photoshop requires you to do fifty billion steps and five hours of processing to batch icon, so we ball iconless and graphicless LOL I am tired and just wanna write ♡ if creativity strikes me in the future, cool, sure, I'll make stuff. But otherwise, I am too broke to commission people and too tired to fight with photoshop, so we're going to our ROOTS and going straight vanilla :D

Anyways, hope everyone has a lovely day-- and please, again, let me know if there's any threads you want to keep/drop so I can get to replies whenever I can, or if you'd prefer we start something new!

[magnoliabloomfield]

Possession 12

Gally wished he never made the suggestion that Nikola be a keeper, he wished he had gotten her as a builder so he could keep an eye on her at all times. He hated it whenever he couldn’t see her, when he didn’t know what she was doing or who she was around, if she was safe. He wanted her around him. It was completely selfish, and he didn’t really mean it. Well, he meant it, but only a little bit, he knew it was better to have her on the council. Besides if she was a builder he definitely would have turned into the very type of possessive keeper he’d been worried about someone else becoming.

He had trouble focusing, sometimes even breathing, especially when he would think about how she said it would suck if he wasn’t around her, the sad pout to her lips. Her little pink lips. He found himself absently sketching her face in the margins of his blueprints instead of doing any real work. He’d always been good at drawing the straight lines and angles of architecture, but she made him discover a talent for portraits as well.

God this was crazy. He’d been the most upset the day she arrived, he’d been the most concerned about how the boys would be acting and here he was, a self fulfilling prophecy. It was like he only felt good when he was around her now. She brought something special to the glade that had been missing until now. She brought light, hope, fun, distraction. All the time they were fighting for basic survival, but she made surviving bearable, she made it worth it.

What was he going to do? He probably wasn’t the only one who thought of her this way, there had to be others just dying to have her around them too, thinking about her as much as he was. Who was she thinking about? After the little things she had said to him and the way she let her feelings show in her eyes only when she talked to him made a part of Gally believe she was thinking of him. However, the thought of being wrong was so painful he dared not let himself fully believe it. And then there was the rule. She’d never belong to him. The only comfort it brought was that she wouldn’t belong to anyone else either.

~~~~~

Gally laid in his cot, sleep evading him in favor of thoughts of Nikola. He couldn’t torture himself by giving in to fantasy, it would only drive him to do something stupid and get one or both of them in trouble. He stared up at his dingy ceiling and suddenly missed the nights back at the beginning when he was sleeping in a hammock in the trees, the sky above him and fresh air all around. His room smelled. He smelled, he usually put on the same clothes day after day all sweaty and rank. It never mattered before, but now he would be mortified if she ever came in here.

What would she be doing in there though? He told his brain to shut up, he wouldn’t follow that line of thought. It prodded him too much and he realized he was not going to get to sleep any time soon, just toss and turn in his smelly room all night. He was going to have everything washed tomorrow even if he had to do it himself.

He launched upright and grabbed his pants as he stood up, putting them on and then his boots. He was going to get out of his room and get fresh air and the sky above him. He stepped out into the midnight blue of the glade, faint snores coming from where the other boys slept. He went off in the opposite direction so he wouldn’t wake anyone up or have to listen to them either.

He found himself at her tower without realizing he’d taken a beeline to it. He would never try to get up there in a million years, that would freak her out for sure. Besides, he’d done much too good a job at making it intruder proof, something he never thought he’d be kicking himself for. But then he noticed her ladder was down. He looked around the glade for her, at first excited at the idea of her being up when he was up, but then he got worried about if someone besides them was up too. What if something happened to her? He’d been awake the whole night, he would have heard a scream… but what if she didn’t get a chance?

His search turned desperate and frantic, he listened for noise, he looked for light, any sign of her. He sprinted to her house and stood at the ladder. He was hesitant to call her name in case he woke someone else up. The ladder could have fallen, she could be up there asleep and have no clue, or she could be up there and not alone. He scrambled up the ladder and took a quick glance, finding she wasn’t there. He went down quickly too. He sprinted to the bathrooms just to find them empty, but there was water around her shower stall. She must have been here, or someone was. He raced to the kitchen next, it was only logical, you either get up to pee or get a drink in the middle of the night, right?

He saw a glow coming from the kitchen as he got closer and part of him felt relieved, but not enough to slow down. He burst in and saw Nikola crouched on the floor with a small laundry tub and her sheets.

“Shuck,” she said softly as she startled, almost falling over.

She stared up at him, relief passing her features when she recognized him. Meanwhile he just stood there panting for a second before bracing himself on his knees, so glad she was ok. He let his head hang for a moment as he composed himself.

“Are you alright?” he asked her as he straightened up and came closer. He noticed a pink tinge to the water and how only part of her sheets were in there, not the whole thing. Then he saw the garments. She started her period.

“I’m fine,” she said, looking down into the water a bit embarrassedly and trying to hide the stained clothes.

“God, I was thinking the worst,” he sighed as he ran a hand over his face before sitting on the ground next to her. She seemed surprised and confused as she glanced between him and what she was doing, wondering why he was coming closer. “Do you need some help?”

“No, Gally, you don’t want to help me with this-“

“I know,” he interrupted her, trying to show her she had nothing to be embarrassed about. “I know what happened and I can help if you want me to.”

She slightly narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know-“ she started to say before giving up, since it was pretty obvious. “It’s gross, you shouldn’t have to deal with it.”

“Hey, I’m the keeper of the builders, you think I haven’t had to wash blood out of clothes before?”

“It’s not the same,” she muttered glumly, starting to scrub half heartedly again. “It’s embarrassing. I was hoping to get it taken care of before it set, and before anyone could see it, and now of all people you’re here watching me make uterus soup.”

It was a graphic description but he wasn’t repulsed by it, in fact, he burst into laughter.

“Oh god,” he chuckled as he rubbed his eyes. “Well, if you don’t want me to touch your laundry is there something else I can do for you? Do you need something to drink, or eat, or a hot water bottle?”

She looked over at him as if trying to figure out what planet he came from. He saw her eyes travel down before she quickly looked away with a new shade of pink on her cheeks. He realized he had put on boots and pants, but not his shirt. Oops.

“I-I’m fine, you can go back to bed,” she told him.

“Oh, no I’m not going anywhere till you’re done and I make sure you get to your room safe,” He informed her, sounding quite firm about it.

“You don’t-“

“I do.”

“God, you’re stubborn,” she said even as she smirked.

“Yeah, and the faster this gets done, the faster you’ll get rid of me, so you might as well let me help,” he told her.

He didn’t care, he wasn’t squeemish about it. He had seen gore, he had seen and smelled boys crap their pants. It wasn’t pleasant but it wasn’t the end of the world either, not when there was water and soap at the ready. He was with her, and he could do something useful to help her.

“Well, you can stay to walk me back, but you don’t have to touch this-“

His response to that was to reach right in and take the sheet from her, making her mouth fall open in shock.

“I’ll leave your clothes to you and I’ll take care of the sheets,” he delegated to her, focusing on what he was doing.

She didn’t say much, but he didn’t mind. It was late, she was tired and probably had cramps. He was just glad to be beside her and be helpful. They finished quickly working together. They dumped the tub and put fresh water in, letting the sheets soak overnight to deal with in the morning. She took her clothes with her to hang to dry in her room.

“Hang on a sec,” Gally told her before rooting around in Fry’s food.

He triumphantly presented her with a jar of peanut butter. “It’s the closest thing to candy we have around here,” he explained, earning a chuckle from her as she took the jar from him, maybe her eyes flickered over his chest before she looked back up at him.

“Thanks, Gally. For everything,” She said as her tired eyes seemed to sparkle a little. “And I mean everything. You keep doing the most for me ever since I showed up here.”

He felt a bashful blush creep up to his face and didn’t have much he could say to that. He walked her back to her little house, standing at the bottom until she had climbed up and pulled the ladder up behind her, then pulled up the basket with her wet clothes and the peanut butter. She leaned on the railing, bathed in moonlight as she looked down at him.

“I don’t care how big the world outside these walls is, I don’t think there’s anyone else like you in it,” She commented out of the blue before her grin flashed in the darkness. “Goodnight Gally.”

“Goodnight Nikola,” he replied with a small smile of his own, watching until she disappeared inside.

He ran a hand over his hair and cradled the back of his neck with it as he let out a heavy breath. The insomnia was totally worth it.

Unfortunately he had been right about something. They weren’t the only ones awake that night.

Masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ready for some angst??? I have it planned in my brain a bit, I'll write it asap. thanks for your comments, likes and reblogs! They motivate me to write more.

@frequentlychangingfandoms @quackquackbi @poulterjonas @crazysheeplyca @pre-google @gladerscake @neilox @thesuitkovian @carp3d1em @cottoncandy-dreamxd @emilyhadenbaker

[atsunflower]

Hospital for souls — Tokyo nights.

Rated: SFW

Author note: Man, this one took me ages to write. And I don't even know how I could write this much for the second chapter, this is about 3,2k words. I'm tired because I decided to change lots of things in this chapter and I hope you all like it. Also, feedbacks are much appreciated!

Warnings: This chapter contains cursing, swearing, graphic descriptions of blood, violence and surgical procedures (Kind of inaccurate but only for writting purposes. Don't do it at home, kids). Also, there are slight mentions of anxiety, OCD and PTSD.

Enjoy the reading!

II — Tokyo nights

Previous || Next

You felt anxious.

Everytime you walked through Itachiyama halls, the hairs in your nape would stand and your skin, prickle in fear; a bitter taste would take over your mouth because everything was too much.

"Look, you don't have to worry. Itachiyama wouldn't dare to lay a hand on you because it would mean war." The memory of Suna's voice did nothing to soothe your nerves.

You knew that Inarizaki did not care. If anything, Itachiyama harming you would be like killing two birds with a stone: the Miya would get rid of your existence and then, have a excuse to go after your husband. "They know the twins' intentions, you know. It's not like Sakusa is dumb. Being honest, the guy is the most cautious man I ever saw" you recalled Suna saying it in your wedding's eve.

But one month after the deal, you still felt suffocated.

You opted to lay low and don't wander around the house; Sakusa's men were still suspicious of you and kept sending nasty glares in your direction whenever they saw you.

Since you weren't allowed to work anymore, boredom was killing you. At least, the maids were nice enough — or just too afraid to go against the lady's will — and let you do as you pleased. You then took over some house chores to busy yourself.

Cleaning, tidying and baking.

Sometimes gardening when you needed some fresh air.

"What a shame for Oyabun-sama, his lady is lowering herself to the peasants' level" you would hear some gossip here and there. Not that you cared, though.

"Sakusa-sama" you heard the housekeeper calling, the new name still foreign to your ears.

"Kaede-san? Do you need something?" The old woman wearing a green hakama stood in front of you, accompanied by a girl with dark blond hair.

"This is Kuribayashi Runa, the new maid working here" she said presenting the young woman by her side. The latter politely bowed at you.

"New maid? Why?"

"I'm afraid it's not appropriated the lady take care of house chores. These are strict orders from Komori-sama" her tone was dry. Kaede was never hostile towards you, but you could tell she wasn't fond of your presence either. "Also, remember you're having lunch with oyabun-sama today"

You released a shaky breath, dismissing their presence.

Why yakuza was taking even the smallest things from you?

Prying to the clock on the nightstand, you realized it was past noon and the lunch hasn't been served yet. Sakusa didn't show up either.

After being destitute of your duties, you went for a shower and killed time by reading in your bedroom.

Did something happen? You wondered.

Punctuality was something very fancied in this household and everything inside the mansion functioned like clockwork.

But how come Sakusa didn't show up yet? Why the food isn't set?

"[Name]" The door to your bedroom was open without ceremony, Komori's voice sounding harsh when he called you. The look on his face wasn't amicable either. "Sakusa wants to see you. Now."

The brown haired male did not spare you another glance, turning his back to you. You followed the tall man in an auto-pilot mode, already dreading whatever was going on.

The Kobun was taking you to Sakusa's office.

The large doors always made you feel unsettled; you never were there before. Being called to this room sent shivers down your spine.

Komori knocked the door only to the faint voice of your husband acknowledge your presence. Getting in, you were stunned. The whole mansion held a modern architecture with a minimalist design, and this room was true to Itachiyama's style.

The walls were pristine white and the floorboards were dark and shiny. The furniture held the impersonal style your husband seemed to appreciate and was clean to the eyes. Everything millimetrically positioned, aesthetically appealing.

By the glass wall, Sakusa stood proud. His back facing you, body clad in a black suit. The way he admired the stunning land through the windows held a power you never saw before.

Right now, he looked like a god rulling his own creation.

"Komori, go" his stone cold voice ordered the other male. The kobun did as he was told, leaving you two in this sinister room.

"I don't know if you are too brave ou just too dumb" he didn't turn to face you. The cold tone boomed loud within your ears and you felt cornered.

Forget the god thing. The man in front of you was the demon himself.

"What do you mean?" You asked, brows furrowing when suddenly, his enraged features loomed over you, even from afar.

"Don't fucking play dumb. I've warned you to stay out of my way" his menacing stare made the breath hitch in your throat "Where is the fucking folder?"

"I don't know what are you talking about!" You meekly replied, seeing his body growing close to yours.

"Thats it. You have a death wish." He merely stated "You're the only enemy inside this fucking house"

Without knowing what was going on, you didn't stand a chance to defend yourself. You tried opening your mouth in protest but your brain didn't come up with anything.

"Listen. I don't have the time to play whatever game you and those brothers of yours are planning." Sakusa scowled "In the first opportunity, you get to screw up. Fascinating."

"I don't even know what you're talking about" the cry left your mouth and your body trembled. The man before you grimaced at your outburst. He let out an exasperated breath, still trying to keep his cool.

"Do you expect me to believe you? Fine, I'll play along, then" He sat at the imposing chair behind his desk "The manila folder that was on this desk was stolen. You're the only one inside this house who has reasons to take it."

"It wasn't me! I never entered this room before!" You retorted, anxiety crawling in your skin. He fished his cellphone from his pockets, reading whatever on his screen

"Can't be proven, though it looks like we didn't find anything in your stuff–"

"Wait! You fucking messed with my things?" You cut him off in rage, observing him reaching over for a flask on the wooden surface.

"Well, you messed with mine first." He said while rubbing some hand sanitizer on his palms.

You rolled your eyes at his antics.

"Whatever" and then turned to leave.

"Where are you going?" The sarcastic voice filled your ears, making your steps to halt "As much as I despise it, you won't be out of my sight anytime soon"

God, You trully hated it here.

It was nighttime and true to his words, neither Sakusa nor Komori left you alone for the whole day.

Their presence was unnerving, to say the least, and everytime they talked to each other, you body went stiff.

Their speech wasn't explicit as you thought it would be. Both of them treated the matter as if they were making normal business instead of some yakuza stuff.

It didn't sound violent.

But you knew better.

"Have Fukuroudani made contact yet?" The Oyabun asked.

"Yes. Konoha told me they will be waiting by eleven" Komori peered at his watch "One hour to go. We should get going, then"

Sakusa turned his attention to you.

"Go get changed. We're leaving in ten minutes."

You did as you were told; black would do, you decided. Grabbing a wool coat and a satin scarf, you were ready to go.

Why the hell Tokyo nights were so cold at this time of year?

In the living room, Sakusa and Komori were waiting for you.

"Man, bringing [Name] along will be a pain" the brown haired male said while stretching.

"The stolen docs were about this meeting. We gotta bring her along if Inarizaki tries to do something" The taller one reasoned.

"Ah shit, this is so fucked up. I dont know how you agreed to it" Komori lamented.

Being honest, neither Sakusa did.

"Why do I have to tag along?" Your voice startled them. Your husband scowled at you while Komori opened the front door, both males ignoring your question.

A sleek black car was waiting for you three. Komori took the driver seat and Sakusa sat on passenger's side. You found comfort in the beige leather of the backseat, appreciating the warmth provided by the air conditioned.

"Shouldn't we bring more men with us?" The Kobun asked.

"There's a back up car in downtown. They can reach us in no time if something comes up" Sakusa said while covering his face with a mask "Also, I doubt someone would dare to mess with both Fukurodani and Itachiyama" He spared a glance at you through the rearview mirror.

You sighed. Anxiety didn't let you be for the whole day and now, fear was taking its toll on you.

With your temple resting on the window, you observed the city lights.

You loved Tokyo and how bright it was, although, you loved the suburbs even more; the industrial aesthetic and the narrow streets brought you the comfort you didn't feel in the last three months.

You lived here for your whole life, after all.

It wasn't a surprise when you spotted the building you used to live in.

A surge of homesickness found its place in your guts and your chest constricted in longing.

The drive lasted five more minutes before Komori parked the car by a hangar. When you lived in this neighbourhood, the place was deem abandoned with its vandalized walls and rusty gates. But inside there, you found our the interior was really neat, proving you wrong.

"Sakusa-san, Komori-san!" A blonde male came into view, eyeing you with wariness. "I see you brought your lady tonight. It's a pleasure having you here, miss" the indifferent tone of his voice said otherwise, tough.

You merely noded at him while the heads of Itachiyama greeted the man.

"Shall we start, then?"The blond asked before opening a door to your right. You felt unsettled knowing they wouldn't want your presence there.

"As you wish, Konoha-san" was all Sakusa said while a woman appeared out of nowhere.

"I'm afraid your wife would be pretty bored in our meeting. Yukie here will keep her company for the time being." The man Konoha pointed at the brunette with short hair. Sakusa sent you a hard stare before entering the room.

You both sat on some wooden boxes filled with god knows what. You eyes wandered through the hole place, trying to find something entertaining.

The woman hadn't said anything for a whole eternity before breaking the silence.

"So, Miya-san, huh?" The way she said the damned name tickled you off.

"I'm no Miya"

"Yeah, I know. I've heard of you" Yukie chuckled, looking at you with despise. You cocked a brow ate her.

"Sure you did" She was about to retort before the door was open again.

"Well, it's always a pleasure to make business with Itachiyama. We will see you off, then" Konoha said before reaching for the exit.

It was long past midnight when the meeting ended. The five of you were by the gates, Konoha and Komori doing some chit-chat, when four people appeared out of nowhere, knives in their hands.

"Ara, ara. look at these yakuza big shots" A man with an undercut said, fidgeting with the blade between his fingers. In your periferic vision you saw Yukie running back to the hangar and the three men by your side reaching for the guns by their hips.

Among the other four, a figure seemed familiar to you.

"Kuribayashi Runa" The name left your lips in a whisper. The female let out a mocking laugh and Sakusa frowned at you.

"Explain" Your husband immediatelly demanded, grimacing.

"She is the new maid working in your house. Today was her first day." Runa scoffed at your reply.

"Do I look like a maid to you, bitch?" And then, everything went into slow motion.

The woman came in your direction, holding the knife high in the air whilst you stepped backwards, being cornered by the gate.

You saw the blade glinting under the street lights and saw it aiming for your chest.

But it never came.

A hand pushed you downwards and you fell to the ground along a clattering sound. Sakusa's shadow loomed over you, trying to evade the knife.

By your left, you saw Konoha and Komori fighting the other guys, their guns useless in a hand-to-hand fight.

The adrenaline rushed through your bloodstream, your mind going frantic. It felt like one of those life or death situations you faced in the surgery room.

How can I save someone's life right now?

You saw Sakusa's pistol laying on the ground next to you. He and the woman were a couple of inches from your body.

You knew what you had to do.

With your leg reaching forward, you made her trip. The knife she held was kicked away by your husband.

"Sakusa! Watch out for Komori!" And you threw the gun at him.

A second too late, the bang echoed and an agonizing scream ripped through the night.

By your left, Runa and two of the guys were already running away.

The man Komori fought collapsed to the ground clutching his leg and cursing under his breath.

But the most disturbing sight was the way Komori held his arm, whimpering and cursing while his right hand clutched the knife's handle.

The blade tore his flesh and crossed the limb right next to its joint, in a weird angle.

Yukie came back, carrying a rope and a pistol.

"I sent some of our men to their direction." She said while helping Konoha to restrain the guy who attacked you.

"What the fuck you guys want?" The blond asked before kicking the man in his guts. The latter spat blood, giving a crooked smile at Konoha.

"Johzenji is coming" Was all he said before passing out.

"Yukie, carry him to the basement." He ordered "Since it happened on our territory, we will be investigating the incident. We count with Itachiyama's cooperation and will keep you updated" Konoha bowed at Sakusa, before rushing back to the building.

Komori was still on his knees, head hanging low. A grunt went past his lips and you knew what he was doing.

"Komori! Don't!" But again your shout came too late and the man ripped the knife away from his limb. Blood rushed through his fingers and dampened the suit he wore. "Fuck" you rushed to his side, Sakusa's features going livid.

"We gotta take him to a hospital" you said.

"No!" Komori croaked out, getting a hold of your arm. You knew what he meant, but you also knew what could definetely happen if he ignored the situation.

Sakusa was frozen in front of you two, unsure of what to do. You took a deep breath, mustering up all the courage you had.

"You have to trust me, then" you held the brown haired male by his torso and gave Sakusa a determined glare.

The oyabun noded at you and it was all the assurance you needed before ripping out Komori's blazer and transforming your scarf into a tourniquet.

In your old apartment, you ushered the two males inside, taking them both to your kitchen.

Sakusa sat the Kobun in a chair while you went to another room. A minute later, you brought two metallic cases, some flasks and a first aid box.

In the cupboards you took a flask of alcohol and squeezed it to the table, wipping it with some gauzes.

Positioning Komori's arm over the wooden surface, you sterilized his wounds with povidone and then turned your attention to Sakusa.

"I'll start it now" before proceeding to the sink. Sakusa admired the movements you made while washing your hands "I need you to do the same" and he complied.

The male helped you to put the gloves and mask on and to set your instruments over the table.

Looking at Komori, you realized he passed out in spite of the pain. The blood loss wasn't huge, but you did not knew why he fell unconcious.

You prepared two syringes of anesthesics. Sakusa sent you a weird glare, brows furrowing at you.

"Don't look at me like this. I'm a surgeon you know" and then you did the infusion. "Its not that weird if I have some hospital shit at home".

You opened the cut with a scalpel. Scrutinizing at the wound, you saw the artery was hit.

"Thank god." You let out a breath of relief, realizing the damage was little. It didn't need an anastomosis, so some stiches would do. "The ulnar artery was hit but it won't be too hard to fix. Although, I can't tell if there's a nerve damage" and you started to close the vessel's lesion.

You observed if there was any muscle or tendon damages and proceeded to suture the gashes, making sure the procedure was well done. You then patched it up and imobilized the limb with a makeshift splint, before undoning the tourniquet.

"Let's take him to my bedroom" With that, you both carried the unconcious man to your bed. "I need to check him overnight and– Shit! Your face!" It was just now you realized he had a gash on his cheek.

Sakusa flinched, feeling the blood drying over his skin and dampening the mask he used. He removed the cloth and observed the cut with the front camera of his phone. He frowned at the sight.

"It can get an infection and leave a nasty scar. Do you want me to patch it up?" You offered after checking Komori's blood pressure and his heartbeat.

A please left his lips in a whisper.

You both went back to the kitchen and you used a new set of tools. Holding his face between your gloved hands, you admired his facial features.

Sakusa was pretty.

Almost ethereal with his thin nose, almond eyes and thick brows. In addition, te two moles on his forehead complimented his beauty.

You snapped out of your reverie, getting to work.

"Finished. This kind of suture won't leave a visible scar" you said cutting the thread and reinforcing the stitch with tape.

Your finger lingered a bit longer on the apple of his cheek. Sakusa grabbed your hand and held it for a while before getting away from you and settling himself on your couch. You ignored the ghost of his touch on your skin and went back to check on Komori.

That night, Sakusa realized that no one ever handled him with such care, as if he was made of fine china.

I like that touch, he decided.

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[roachzrivia]

I Won’t Move Until This Stops

Mordecai is hurting, bad. He's been trying to quit drinking, for Talon's sake, but sometimes everything gets too much for him and he reverts to his old coping mechanisms. Things are especially bad at night, when Brick and Tina are sleeping and he's alone with his thoughts. Set some time between Fight for Sanctuary and Borderlands 3.

Content warning for graphic descriptions of self harm, alcohol abuse and suicidal ideation.

Rated M. Borderlands. Mordecai/Brick.

Also on AO3 (link in bio)

It’s dark. Darkness on Pandora is absolute. It’s probably not safe, but he doesn’t care. He’s alone, outside. Talon is off hunting somewhere and he doesn’t know when the bird will return. He’s glad he’s not here to witness this, though. He drops his head to his knees and rests there, eyes closed, trying to so hard to talk himself out of what he’s about to do. But it’s no use. The urges are too strong. And anyway, he had his chance to fight it. He could have woken Brick and Tina. Told them that he was struggling, that it was going to be a bad night, but he didn’t do that. Instead, he picked up his gun and his knife and the bottles and left their camp. He had walked for over an hour, Talon flying soundlessly above him, until he felt far enough away. How far did you have to go to break a promise? Further than where he is now, probably, and yet he’s going to break that promise anyway. Because he’s a fuck up. This was inevitable, really, he thinks, as he reaches for the first bottle.

There are skags nearby. He can hear them. He wonders if they’ll come near him. He’s sitting with his back pressed up against a rock face, not far from the road that winds through the area. It’s cold, bitterly cold, but the booze is beginning to warm him. He’s drinking spirits neat. The taste is horrific, but the burn in his throat is comforting, and anyway, he’s not doing this for fun. The fuzzy numbness is creeping up him, and he welcomes it like an old friend. He used to always feel like this. It takes the edge off life, and life on Pandora is one sharp ass blade.

Images of Brick and Tina and Talon appear in his mind, but he pushes them away. They are too good for him. Tina with her goofy smile and her crazy schemes, always moving, always causing trouble, telling stories. Talon, who filled the hole left by Bloodwing, who he promised to raise properly, who relies on him like a father. And Brick. Brick, the man who stood by him though everything. They are all too good for him.

He takes another long swig from the bottle. It’s his second and it’s really kicking in now. He no longer feels cold, despite the air temperature. Even the sounds of the skags are muffled, like he’s trying to listen to them through water. He wonders absently whether they’ll find him. How long would is take him to die if they tore him apart with their teeth? It would be painful, regardless of how much alcohol he consumed. Would he scream? Or would he just lie there and take it? It’s an interesting thought experiment. Exactly how much would it hurt? He’s twisting the metal bottle cap between his fingers. It has sharp edges, and he notices the pain through his drunken haze. What part of him would they attack first? Sharp teeth tearing through his clothes, ripping open the flesh beneath. Jagged tears, through skin and muscle, down to the bone. Would they tear him limb from limb, or would they go straight for his guts, disembowelling him with sharp claws? Would there be anything left for people to find in the morning? Maybe just torn clothing, and a smear of blood on the hard dirt ground.

A sharp jolt of pain brings him back to reality. The jagged edge of the bottle cap has caught the soft pad of his thumb and he can feel the blood welling up. He has a sudden, uncontrollable urge to watch it, and he flicks his flashlight on. The brightness makes him blink, but then his gaze settles on the ruby bead of blood sitting on his skin. There’s something mesmerising about it. He presses his thumb to squeeze out more blood. Maybe he doesn’t have to wait for the skags. He takes his knife from his belt. It has a bone handle, smooth in his hand, and he’s kept the blade sharp. Sniping is his preferred method of fighting, but on Pandora you can never be too careful, and having something that can deal damage up close and personal is always recommended. He presses the flat of the blade against the palm of his hand, feeling the comforting cold of the metal. He hasn’t decided exactly what he’s going to do, yet. There’s a tiny corner of his brain, somewhere beyond the alcoholic fog, that’s screaming Brick, Tina, Talon, Brick, Tina, Talon, but it’s quiet, so quiet, and he has always found comfort at the bottom of a bottle or in the pain of a cut. Always turned to those first before people. Before friends, lovers, family. It’s what he knows best, after all. He undoes the wrappings around his left arm. He lifts them free to reveal the skin beneath, light brown with a criss-crossing pattern of silver scars marking it from his inner wrist to his shoulder. Everyone on Pandora has scars, but most aren’t as regular or deliberate as his. It’s been a while and there are no open wounds. He’s going to fix that, though.

He presses the blade against his skin, drags it across almost gently, caressing his skin. It leaves a thin red line in its path. Blood wells up, but it’s not enough. It’s never enough. He barely felt the pain, and what’s the point in cutting yourself if you don’t feel it? The whole point is to feel the pain. So he moves the blade to a fresh spot, pushes down again, drags the blade across his skin harder, faster, deeper. Opens up his skin as if the feelings will flow out with the blood. Again and again. Until the pain is strong enough to compete with the numbness. Until he’s cut up his arm so much that he can’t find a new place to cut. Until he’s tired, so tired. He lets the knife slip from his fingers, lets himself slump sideways so that he’s lying on the ground. Closes his eyes. Lets the pain and the cold and the alcohol consume him.

It’s almost peaceful.

-

“Brick!”

He aches all over, and his arm stings, and there’s the smell of vomit in the air. He’s lying on the ground, and he can taste vomit as well. He groans but doesn’t open his eyes. He guesses that this means that the skags didn’t get him after all. He feels mildly disappointed.

“Brick!” That voice again. High pitched, filled with more anxiety than he’s ever heard it have before. “No no no no no!” He feels hands on his body, trying to roll him over and he groans again. His face is in a pool of his own sick. He can feel it in sticky in his beard. “He’s alive!” It’s Tina, Tiny Tina, who shouldn’t have had to see him like this. He keeps his eyes closed to avoid having to face her. He wishes she would just go away, leave him to rot in peace. There’s a shriek from above, and he thinks that it’s Talon, and then the ground shakes as Brick stomps over. The man doesn’t say anything, just scoops him up into his arms and carries him fire man style home.

-

Brick hands him a glass of water, which he gulps down. He’s dehydrated, and he needs to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He wipes his face with the cloth Brick hands him and then watches as Brick washes and dresses his wounds in silence. Mordecai can’t tell whether he’s angry, or sad, or if he just doesn’t know what to say. Tina’s off playing with Talon so he’s grateful of that at least. He winces as Brick cleans a particularly deep cut.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Brick says nothing, just wraps a clean bandage around Mordecai’s arm. He’s surprisingly gentle.

“I-” He almost promises that he won’t do it again, but what’s the point? He broke the last promise. What’s to say he won’t do it again?

“I don’t understand,” says Brick, finally, and Mordecai realises that there are tears in his eyes. Now that’s a sight that he never though that he’d see, and it makes him feel desperately sad. He didn’t want this aftermath, hadn’t thought about having to explain himself.

“What’s to get, man?” he says, shrugging Brick’s hands away. “I’m a fuck up.”

“Don’t say that,” says Brick, and Mordecai finds himself being swept up into a bear hug, Brick’s arms gripping him painfully tight. “Never fucking say that.”

“You’re gonna snap my spine,” Mordecai manages to choke out. “I can’t breathe, Brick.”

Brick lets him go. He’s not smiling, his face is hard. “If Talon hadn’t found you…” he says. “Mordi, I need you.”

“No one needs me.” Fuck, but his head is pounding. Why didn’t the skags get him? Next time he’ll just put a bullet in his brain. It’ll be quicker, less messy.

“Don’t fucking say that!” Brick shouts. Mordecai looks at him and realises that he is angry. “I should have woken up,” he says. “I should have noticed.”

Those words cut Mordecai deeper than any of his self-inflicted wounds. He shakes his head. “No. No, it’s not your fault, Brick. None of this is your fault.” He pats the bed beside him. “Come here.”

For a moment Brick doesn’t move, but then he drops down beside Mordecai. Mordecai leans his head on Brick’s broad shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he says again. “It got too much.” He doesn’t have to explain any further. Brick wraps an arm around him and holds him.

A tear drips from the end of his nose, surprising him. He hadn’t realised that he was crying. But then Brick is pressing his lips against his, and they’re kissing, and the bad feelings recede ever so slightly. Mordecai wraps his hands around the back of Brick’s neck and whimpers into his mouth as one of Brick’s massive hands runs along his jawbone, up his cheek, through his hair.

After a while Brick pulls away. “How can I fix it?” he asks.

Mordecai sighs sadly. “I don’t think you can,” he says. “I don’t think anyone can. Sometimes the bad feelings just take over.”

“I’ll punch the bad feelings,” says Brick earnestly, which elicits a small chuckle from Mordecai.

“Wish life was that simple, man.”

“What if you tell me that the bad feelings are there,” says Brick, slowly. “And I’ll hold you, like this.” He wraps his arms tightly around Mordecai again. “And I won’t move until they stop. Deal?”

“Deal,” says Mordecai, head resting on Brick’s chest.

Brick stands up, Mordecai still in his arms. “Breakfast time,” he says, and Mordecai groans.

“No, please,” he says, but Tina has appeared at the doorway, yelling something about pancakes, and as Brick carries Mordecai out of the room, he realises that he doesn’t have a choice. And he realises that, despite the hangover, he doesn’t really mind.

“Hold onto this,” he whispers to himself. “Hold onto this feeling for next time.” Because more likely than not there is going to be a next time. Recovery isn’t linear. But, with Brick’s arms wrapped around him, recovery feels slightly more achievable.

He wonders if Tina cooked the pancakes herself, and hopes that, if she did, she stuck to a proper recipe this time. The last ones were rather more explosive than Mordecai would have liked.

[asotin]

what're your thoughts on castlevania (the netflix show, not the game, ive never played the game) what do you like, what don't you like? make it as long as you want. i don't care if i have to scroll for 5 minutes. go feral (personally trevor is extremely hot and i would like to date sypha. i'm not really into alucard's whole sickly victorian child aesthetic, yknow?)

oh god this is way too long, but you did say to make it as long as i want, and i have a lot of thoughts that i need to inflict on the world

i played two castlevania games, both from the nintendo gameboy era, so please don’t get mad at me, gamers

details below the cut, but since i’ll be talking about season three, i need to preface this with content warnings for mentions of: graphic violence, rape and sexual violence, racism, and the holocaust

before i get into it, i usually don’t go for alucard-type characters either, but knowing that he was redesigned to be bishounen sexy specifically because the boring, middle aged man look he originally had in the games wasn’t appealing makes me enjoy him. and he’s fun with trevor and sypha

do like:

the voice acting

it’s all good. i can’t think of any characters whose voices were awkward or fit poorly. they don't make sypha’s va use the standard flat affect or false high voice women tend to be assigned, trevor sounds suitably worn out but not monotone, and alucard sounds exhausted but in a sexy way

and the spanish dub is killer, arguably superior

the animation & design

it isn’t full-on artsy, but it’s definitely got a distinctive style that’s easy to look at. the color use and effects are gorgeous. it’s a story set in the medieval era, and the mixture of desaturated and oversaturated elements works so well with that

dracula’s castle and the belmont bunker aren't revolutionary in design, but they didn't need to be. they're suitably creepy and empty, and i enjoyed them

the monsters were unique enough to have obvious different types, and the scene where a monster commits blasphemy in a church by accusing a priest of committing blasphemy was good writing

lisa

she shows up to a stranger’s spooky home and scolds him for being rude. she really looked an ancient vampire in the face, told him he had no manners, then had a kid with him. what a phenomenal woman. 11/10, no notes

“start with me, and i’ll start with you.” you know what? i’d fall in love, too

dracula

this ancient, unfriendly vampire let a human woman walk into his home and tell him he’s got no manners. and that made him fall in love with her. just like that. lisa walked in and handed him his ass, and dracula thought “oh i love her”. and when she was killed (more on this in the bad section), he raised literal hell to destroy the world for doing it

speaking of lisa being killed, it fucks me up that it happened because she convinced him to leave the castle and experience the world. he left her alone to see what she loved so much, only to come back and find that the people he’d come to like- the people lisa had loved so much it drove her to help in a way that got her killed- had burned her at the stake. i love a good tragedy, and that’s good tragedy

the way he weeps when he has to fight alucard?? during a showdown in their home?? the “i must already be dead” moment in alucard’s childhood bedroom??? when he speaks to lisa about killing their boy, her greatest gift to him??? poetic cinema.

the trio’s dynamic

three bisexuals with two total brain cells and only alucard bothers using them. incredible

i went so hard for this ot3. it's right there and so good

sypha

she initially seems to be assigned the role of the adult™️ ie she's the only woman and gets stuck being responsible, but surprise! she’s just as annoying and dumb as alucard and trevor. she dropped a castle she didn’t understand on the ground and didn’t think too hard about it. then she argued about breaking it. i love her

if we don’t get an ot3, then she needs to have a dumb gf

alucard

he's got a stupidly low neckline and lower pants. they really leaned into ayami kojima’s redesign, as they should have. his little curl annoys me, though. why the fuck does he have a random section of hair that’s like three inches long when the rest is shoulder length or longer? love that he really looks like lisa

if you say he's canonically bisexual and polyamorous, no he isn't. yes he is. no he isn't :)

trevor

disgusting. a nasty man whose appearance mirrors his state of mind. he's 50 mental illnesses in a dirty jacket and his coping mechanism is… alcohol? maybe? he’s a mess, and i dig it

him trying his trick of kneeing alucard in the balls during their fight? and finding out it doesn't work? (which…… why doesn't it……?) juvenile but suitable

hector

his love of animals makes him my favorite. normally, i won’t touch anything with this much animal death, but i’m willing to set that aside because hector loves them so much. he’s so sweet and kind, and he loves his monster pets

yes he sided with dracula and has some really fucked up ideas about what constitutes humane treatment of people, and yet i love him. 11/10, but i have a lot of notes

isaac

i support him, including his murdering and his decision to support dracula. dracula throwing him out of the castle to save him was so cruel in that it was an attempt at kindness from a man who hated the whole world, but it was against isaac’s wishes

his time with the captain was great

idk enough about islam to know if he's portrayed correctly and haven’t seen any complaints, but given the show’s track record……… i wouldn’t be surprised if it’s not great

the forging

very cool. fresh and interesting! hector creating pet friends is cute and heartbreaking. love isaac for his dedication to reducing, reusing, and recycling

season 2’s big battle with all those vampires

the new version of “bloody tears” is phenomenal

this goes back to the animation, but listen……. it's so good. i loved the smoke vampire, and alucard’s fluid wolf transformations. his flying sword looked really good, and incorporating them together? super good to watch. and trevor’s whip?

the type and level of violence are suitable for what it is. it would be weird for a gritty show like this to be bloodless, but i don't think it would work if it were bloody to the extent of a slasher. it's also more clean violence, if that makes sense. you don’t linger just to look at gore; you see it because stabbing someone spills blood. the games weren't about extended, gritty scenes of realistic murder, so the show sticking with quick, slice and dice type fights fit with what i remembered of them

please watch this fight if you don’t remember it or haven’t seen it (part 1, part 2)

trevor’s whips

trevor’s weapons don’t follow the physics of normal whips, and they shouldn't. they’re heavily stylized and clearly a fantasy weapon, but they still have rules that they (mostly) have to obey. his morning star-whip hybrid in particular is so good 

it’s easy to follow, too. a lot of times, speedy weapons disappear, which is an understandable effect but one i find boring because there’s nothing for me to do. i’m just sitting on my ass with nothing to do

trevor’s whips don’t disappear. they’re fast, but you can always see them. and they have weight! you can see them slow down and gain speed. i don’t need physics to be real; i want movement to be pleasing, and that’s exactly what i get with the whips

don’t like:

fridging lisa

she could have been kidnapped (possibly make dracula think she was dead bc people want to lure out her scary demon husband, idk), then s2 could have ended with her and dracula reuniting as he died. she and alucard go on a trip together to attempt to make amends for the pain dracula wrought in lisa’s name. orrrr she dies a tragic death with him and we’re left to hope that they find each other in the afterlife. do vampires get to go to the afterlife? can alucard reintegrate? can he be happy with his new friends? or will he go back to his crypt and sleep again? will he ever be rediscovered? if so, what will he do? deep questions. i would prefer to cogitate on these instead of experiencing the shitshow that is s3

season 3

they should have ended it with dracula’s death. the quality of storytelling goes down immediately. just plummets. i’m sure there were problems in the first two seasons, but this one is so bad, i genuinely can’t remember

but i may as well get specific, so here we go:

abandoning alucard

trevor and sypha leave their friend alone in his childhood home where he just killed his father. where they helped him kill his father who, as i’ve said too many times, raised literal hell to get revenge for people burning alucard’s mother to death

yt they don’t talk about alucard. they don’t make any plans to touch base ever again. trevor’s entire family got killed. sypha’s culture, from which she’s now estranged, is family-centric. if ever two people should give a shit about alucard and know why alucard shouldn’t be left on his own, it's them

so what the hell is going on?

trevor and sypha’s relationship

look. it could be good. it would be better with alucard but they could be together and it could work fine

but this……….

trevor hates what they're doing. he hates traveling around and fighting. he's clearly tired and deeply depressed

sypha not only doesn't care enough to address it (did they forget the first two seasons?? sypha is annoying partly because she doesn't stop poking people) she might not even notice? yes, she's having fun, but trevor is basically dead on his feet in front of her

racism

hector, sumi, and taka all got done dirty 

sumi and taka

i hate the way they died. i hate that i’m certain that the plot won’t bring japan back into the narrative (or if it does, i don’t trust it not to be shitty). i hate the fact that by killing them off, i’m not going to get any more of them. they were interesting!!

speaking of the japanese vampire: the biphobia, arguably, given what happens with alucard

the addition of sexual violence

i don’t need or want lenore. if all she’d done was manipulate hector, i could have lived with that. she’s a villain, so she does bad things. that’s the point. but what she did was a massive escalation. we hadn’t had any sexual violence, and then the last few episodes gave us 

tumblr feminists who love her for how she treated hector need to be quarantined until their brain worms have been cured

everything that happens to hector

what was this shit? why did i open my netflix app and tap castlevania and find them making this man walk around naked in the cold to torture him? and starving him? he got manipulated, degraded, chained up, collared like an animal, and raped. and why? to show us how bad lenore is? that the other vampires are bad because they let her do it? i didn’t sign up for this

the holocaust reference

the imagery at the end of s3 when it’s revealed that the judge has been killing people he’s decided are undeserving to live and collecting their shoes in that barn was chillingly close to images of shoes taken from victims of the holocaust. there's no reason to invoke the holocaust here. it’s unnecessary and in bad taste

[notjanine]

2020 in books!

the only kind of new year’s resolution i made as a naive baby last january was to try to read 40 books for the year. (i read 37 in 2019, for context.) well, with all of my commuting time eliminated and an increased need for immersive escapism, i ended up surpassing that goal three times over lmao (thanks library ebooks!)

idk how to summarize my year in books in a way that makes sense but

(f) = fiction, (nf) = nonfiction, (p) = poetry.

books that rewired my fucking brain:

braiding sweetgrass by robin wall kimmerer (nf)- GOD?!?!?! good. dr. k is right. ostensibly a book about plants, but actually a book about shut up and go outside. consumerism and capitalism are doing their damnedest to fuck you up, but you can just choose to value different things. take care of yourself by taking care of your environment. etc etc.

wasp by richard jones (nf)- lissen. when i got this book, my wasp-phobia was so severe that i had to put it away face down on a high shelf because there are wasps on the cover and i couldn’t bear to RISK even GLIMPSING them. now i am like... a wasp evangelist. (also due to the bugs 101 course on coursera it’s so good.)

wag by zazie todd (nf)- i have a dog, but i am NOT a Dog Person (i.e. i love my dog, but please keep yours away from me, thanks.) this book helped me understand my little guy better, plus it gives actionable tasks and activities to do with and for your pup! plus, y’know, learning about things you’re scared of helps to lessen that fear. i’d recommend this to anyone who has, wants, or regularly interacts with a dog.

a closed and common orbit by becky chambers (f)- is this series complete fluff? absolutely. am i fundamentally different after reading this one? maybe.

the best we could do by thi bui (nf)- this is so far outside of my personal experience but somehow still made me come to peace with my relationship with my mom?? and it’s barely even about that?? idk. this is probably objectively the best book i’ve read this year.

books that were just fun as hell:

mexican gothic by silvia moreno-garcia (f)- this book made me YELL out loud

death on the nile by agatha christie (f)- i grew up on agatha christie shows, but never actually read her before this year! she really was That Bitch. read this before the movie comes out

cosmoknights by hannah templer (f)- i read this in one sitting through the worst headache i’ve had in years. it is a goddamn DELIGHT. this book has everything: spaceships. mech suits. fighting the patriarchy. a perfect otp. fun art in bright colors with clean lines. onomatopoetic WAPs from before the song gave that hilarious context. 800 lesbians. this is an antidepressant in graphic novel form.

stiff by mary roach (nf)- ms. roach is like the 4th most represented author on my bookshelf because she 1. stays writing about shit i’m interested in and 2. manages to talk about gross and ridiculous things without resorting to sensationalism. it takes skill to write a hilarious book about corpses.

black sun by rebecca roanhorse (f)- excellent sexual tension between a horny siren pirate and a hot doomed... monk, kinda? set in the pre-columbian gulf of mexico with magic and shit.

cuisine chinoise by zao dao (? n/f)- this graphic novel about chinese food history/mythology is BEAUTIFUL.

the color of magic by terry pratchett (f)- you’d think a hardcore douglas adams stan would have gotten to this sooner, but no, i had to date a nerdy white boy to get here. it’s fun though! i’m not gonna read them all, but this one was good. bonus: contains one (1) great himbo.

gideon the ninth by tamsyn muir (f)- like 500 pages of action and mystery and jokes and space necromancy. harrow the ninth gets a special mention bc it has a meme reference that took me out so hard i had to close the book, lie down, and groan for an entire minute before continuing.

other minds by peter godfrey-smith (nf)- i love octopuses. on one tma bonus ep, jonny sims says that if a creature can choose to do evil, then it’s a Person. octopuses are People. but anyway frfr this has an explanation of the evolution of consciousness that is cool af. (this one is much better than the other recent popsci octo book which i will not name out of politeness.)

the perfect predator by steffanie strathdee and thomas patterson (nf)- i read this bc my microbiology prof recommended it and it’s cool as heck! it’s got adventure, drama, mystery, Science-with-a-capital-S. i’m biased bc i’m a bit of a microbes nerd, but i had a blast with this. (but only bc we know going in that everything works out okay; if i hadn’t known that, i would have been TOO stressed!)

books that were a little less fun but still very readable:

my sister, the serial killer by oyinkan braithwaite (f)- i couldn’t find this as funny as other people bc i, too, have a beautiful sister who’s an insufferable narcissist, so it hits a little too close to home, but. it is a wild ride.

piranesi by susanna clarke (f)- idek what to say! i went into this one blind just bc it had a cool cover and title, so i guess i’d recommend that for other people too.

the sixth world series by rebecca roanhorse (f)- monster hunting! a post-apocalyptic take that doesn’t feel tired.

the shades of magic trilogy by v.e. schwab (f)- easy escapism. some ideas feel a little first draft-y, but idk, it’s also a pretty simple premise (which isn’t a bad thing). it’s a decent urban fantasy set in ~georgian?-era london. very actiony. suffers from a bit of i’m-not-like-other-girls disease, but i didn’t even notice until book two or three, so.

the only good indians by stephen graham jones (f)- starts off a little ??? (and reeks of being Written By A Man) but picks up. the pacing’s great and there’s just a super fucking cool monster.

robopocalypse by daniel h. wilson (f)- this reads like a tv miniseries so much that i can’t believe it isn’t one yet.

confessions of the fox by jordy rosenberg (f)- not my usual cup of tea, fiction-wise, but still compelling. a fresh take on the white-male-english-professor-self-insert? but not insufferable. gets weird!

spinning silver by naomi novik (f)- rumplestilstkin, but make it interesting! a great, richly-told fairy tale, but like, large scale. good to read on a cold day while you’re wrapped up in a blanket with some hot tea.

interior chinatown by charles yu (f)- compulsively readable. a couple things bugged me, but not enough to make me dislike it. a fun companion piece to how to live safely in a science fictional universe. i like this guy’s style.

cannibalism by bill schutt (nf)- COOL. mostly covers the animal kingdom (fun), spends too much time on the donner party (less fun), ends with a SPICY take on prions that i cannot get out of my head!!!

buzz, sting, bite by anne sverdrup-thygeson (nf)- BUGS! broad but not overwhelming, neither dumbed down nor overly scientific, short enough to finish in a day or two. recommend this to literally everyone.

books that made me want to read everything else in the author’s ouevre:

the time invariance of snow by e. lily yu (f)- this FUCKS but it’s too short!!!

an unkindness of ghosts by rivers solomon (f)- okay this book is SO good and so well-written and interesting and blah blah blah all the good things, but... the whole time, i was just like?? why???? why is this what you’re choosing to write about??? (i did also read the deep and blood is another word for hunger after this one, and i did like them both, especially the latter, but i think they can do better! like i think they could write a perfect book and i am gonna be *eyes emoji* until then.)

the space between worlds by micaiah johnson (f)- a fine debut novel, but i want to see her do something a little more... idk, refined? i think she overreaches here, like it’s a little... idk looper? this is how you lose the time war? there’s a better comparison, but i can’t think of it, but you get the idea. and then halfway through it shifts gears to mad max. there’s something weird about one of the central relationships, like it’s not complex enough to take as long to resolve as it does. idk idk. there are just a lot of little nitpicky things. it’s not bad! but i think she can do better and i look forward to finding out.

postcolonial love poem by natalie diaz (p)- thinky! like i tried to read this before bed, but it’s not the sort of thing to parse out while you’re falling asleep, it requires more attention than that.

books that Learned Me Somethin:

smoke gets in your eyes by caitlin doughty (nf)- i am a self-professed death obsessed weirdo, fascinated by death and mourning, but i didn’t know all that much about what happens to a body between the dying and the funeral! this book isn’t big, but it covers a lot and doughty’s writing style is engaging and honest. it’s very memorable.

queer by meg-john barker and julia scheele (nf)- i’m gonna be totally honest and say Queer Theory is above my intellectual pay grade, but this book takes you by the hand and explains the basics.

vitamania by catherine price (nf)- LMAO my fellow americans, never take a supplement. this book is great and well-researched, but normal folks don’t need to read it, just listen to season two of the dream podcast, which definitely cribbed from this.

vegetable kingdom by bryant terry (nf)- this is a fine cookbook, my favorite of his that i’ve read so far. gets a special mention bc i had a religious experience just reading one of his kohlrabi recipes. absolutely gutted that i didn’t have an opportunity to try it this year, since the pandemic put the kibosh on all family bbqs.

the best american food writing 2020 edited by j. kenji lopez-alt (nf)- this really is just a great collection.

are prisons obsolete? by angela y. davis (nf)- yes.

i moved to los angeles to work in animation by natalie nourigat (nf)- before reading this, i had basically zero knowledge of how the animation industry works. now i know like three things.

the secret lives of bats by merlin tuttle (nf)- BATS! okay this book is more about the adventures of being a bat scientist than it actually is about bats, but there are bats in there. insectivorous bats basically shit glitter, you should know this.

books from valuable perspectives:

hood feminism by mikki kendall (nf)- a breakdown of who’s getting left out of feminist spaces, why that’s happening, and why it shouldn’t be happening.

all you can ever know by nicole chung (nf)- a (transracial) adoptee’s take on adoption and learning more about her birth family. the personal storytelling of this one really stuck with me.

motherhood so white by nefertiti austin (nf)- a single-mom-by-choice’s take on the foster system/adoption process. walks you through some things i always wondered about and some things i wouldn’t even have thought about.

this place by kateri akiwenzie-damm et al (? n/f)- i, like a lot of non- native americans, only know that history in broad strokes. getting this many highly specific stories in one dense and beautiful book felt like a lucky find. and taking that perspective into the future in the context of that history is v good.

empty by susan burton (nf)- eating disorder stories are important to me bc i care about food so much. this one is so relatable- not in its specificity, but rather its generality. it’s easy to empathize with her perspective because it’s like, Oh, i don’t have that exact problem, but i struggle with different problems in a very similar way. (feels like the opposite of roxane gay’s hunger, in a way.)

obit by victoria chang (p)- this exploration of grief is... woof.

short story collections are hard to evaluate bc you’ll never read one where every single story hits but i generally enjoyed these:

a thousand beginnings and endings edited by ellen oh and elsie chapman (f)

how long til black future month? by n.k. jemisin (f)

her body and other parties by carmen maria machado (f)

books i revisited:

the broken earth trilogy by n.k. jemisin (f)- i read the series backwards this time and like... i can’t really find any faults in these books, man. they’re just the best.

everyone’s a aliebn when ur a aliebn too by jomny sun (f... but is it really?)- half of this book’s sales are from me buying it for other people bc it’s the only way i know how to say i love you. i reread it every time just to make sure it still feels right and it always does.

other honorable mentions:

white is for witching by helen oyeyemi (f)- not to pit two bad bitches against each other, but this book does what akwaeke emezi’s freshwater was trying to do. it’s a little weird, a little haunted, a little of a lot of things. read this only in the dead of winter. (and with stephen rennicks’ score for the little stranger playing in the background.)

homie by danez smith (p)- there’s a lot going on here, but this just made me crack a smile a couple times in a way that no other book of poetry has ever done.

the murder of roger ackroyd and murder in mesopotamia by agatha christie (f)- That Bitch!

blues by nikki giovanni (p)- she sure has some Things To Say

the three-body problem by cixin liu (f)- interesting concepts, but... idk something’s missing? felt weirdly soulless to me. i’m probably not gonna read the sequels. but it did make some points!

the sisters of the winter wood by rena rossner (f)- i’m a slut for shapeshifting, okay. but this is a good fairy tale, it works!

parable of the sower by octavia butler (f)- i read this in march, when the pandemic was just kicking off and boy that was not the right time. def my least favorite of hers so far, but an octavia butler i don’t love is still better than a hell of a lot of other books. no idea when or if i’ll get to a good enough headspace for the sequel.

faves:

saturnino herrán by adriana zapett tapia (nf)- i got to learn new things about my mans and see some of his paintings i’ve never even seen online! GOSH.

on food and cooking by harold mcgee (nf)- yeah yeah, i’ve already mentioned this book half a dozen times on here this year, but i don’t care. this book lives off the shelf in my home bc i reference it like every other fucking day. this book is a part of me now.

[cuorepietoso]

Il primo amore non si scorda mai.

ft. Alessio Rossi & Rainer Gersten Trigger warnings: graphic violence and choking, injury, blood, alcohol use

I. 2010, [LOCATION REDACTED]

     Gersten’s hands are pale, with veins so blue that they look like great stretches of river, sweeping through an icy landscape. The knuckles and tendons jut out, and his fingers are lean enough to look skeletal. They perfectly match the rest of him, pale and a little too long and sharp, right down to the near-white tuft of hair that sits atop his head. Those hands are sunburned, now, as are the high lines of his cheekbones, which Tahan only notices because his neck is so goddamn lily-white, where he’d kept his scarf tightly wound in the blistering sun. 

     He gets up out of his cot, and paces. Opens the chest at the foot of Rossi’s cot, where the man watches with knowing amusement, and gathers a bottle of aloe gel, which he slaps down in front of the older man with force. Gersten, the bastard, has the audacity to grin at him, his cadaverous hands stilled from their task-- sharpening a wicked-looking blackened steel knife. Without a word, he drops the knife and slathers a generous helping of the goo on his hands, rubbing it into the burn and the calluses on his palm alike, before sweeping them over his pinkend cheeks. Tahan turns back to his pacing, restless. 

     Rossi watches this scene pass with the air of a particularly pleased jungle cat, lithe and lean and dangerous, if he weren’t so lazy in the moment. The book in his lap lays open, ignored, no doubt some ancient novel in a language that Tahan doesn’t speak. The man insists they offer great insight into what he refers to as only, ‘the human condition,’ with his nose turned up like royalty. Gersten always laughs at that, and accuses him of reading racy trash in another language, just to hide the fact that he’s a pervert. It always turns him the prettiest shade of pink he thinks he’s ever seen stretching under the light array of freckles, and he can’t help but wonder if the German agrees, the way he ribs him. 

     His pacing is halted by one of those freshly-sticky, pale hands. Their gazes meet, warm cinnamon brown to the unidentifiable haze of blue-pale-red, and Gersten peels his lips from his teeth in a rictus grin, and the man’s dry rasp sounds like the scrape of a blade against sandstone when he murmurs, “thanks, flunky.” 

     Tahan makes to pull away with a heavy eye roll, but Gersten tightens his grip, gaze unwavering. The grin slips from his lips, leaving nothing but a vast, blank sea. All of the life drains from him for a moment, the air around them seems to cool until the hairs on Tahan’s arms start to prickle, and his heart skitters around in his chest strangely when he hears Rossi sit up a little behind him, shifting his legs under his blanket. Just one moment of suspense, as the wraith pauses, and then vigor pours back into him in disjointed bits and pieces as he murmurs, “no, really. I appreciate you.” 

     He does tug his arm away, a little more gently than he perhaps intended, and barely resists the urge to curl it close to his body and rub at the skin that seems to burn and tingle from the touch. It’s just the aloe vera gel. There’s a tense silence for a moment, before he remembers how to use his voice. “It’s just aloe, for the sunburn.” 

     Rossi scoffs behind him, setting aside his big book, and when he turns to see what the hell his problem is, the younger man is standing, stretching his arms above his head languidly. “That’s not what he’s talking about, darling.” His brows furrow at the casual response, but he remains perfectly still when Rossi leans against his back and settles his chin on his shoulder, draping himself like a particularly recalcitrant blanket. 

     Gersten watches them with a considerate look on his face, and then thoughtfully picks up the knife, testing the edge of the blade with his thumb. “Oh? And what did you think I meant, schatzi?” 

     Rossi’s arms tighten like a noose, a playful headlock that he lets himself fall into without a second thought. His voice is rich, warm and solid like rock heated by the late afternoon sun, and Tahan can feel the smile in the cheek pressed to his ear. “You know what I mean. He may not look it now, but he’s ferocious.” Heat floods his cheeks, and he splutters for a moment before Rossi shakes him once again into stillness, and continues. “And he’s sweet, like the loyal flea bitten stray you slip some meat to when your parents aren’t looki-- what are you laughing at?” 

     With a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking a little, Gersten waves the question away while Tahan grumbles about the rather unflattering word picture being painted about his personage. “Nothing, nothing-- haha, you’re just talking about slipping the man some meat!” The joined pair groans as one at that, Rossi’s eye roll so exaggerated that he drags his willing captive closer when his whole body leans back with it. 

     “Kiss my shapely ass, and let me finish--” Manfully, he ignores the quiet ‘that’s what she said’ that Gersten murmurs under his breath, and continues: “That-- that fierce kindness. It’s what we respond to.” 

     Another long silence stretches, as each man in their cramped little tent ponders those words, before Tahan finally mutters, “Good God, he’s finally cracked. Like a little nut. I can’t believe I’m going to have to file a section eight report. The paperwork is going to be a nightma-- ghghgk--” He’s cut off when Rossi finally tires of the bit and tightens his grip until he’s choking, a little, and then releases him, coughing, and shoves him to take a seat when he laughs aloud. But Gersten … Gersten looks as if he’s seriously giving it thought, eyes narrowed and head tilted like a bird of prey. 

          “Is there more of that little speech planned?” He asks, and then laughs when Tahan groans and flops back onto his cot, trying to smother himself with his own hands. 

     Rossi puffs out his chest, smug. “I’m glad you asked. I have an entire metaphor for it. The head, the heart, the hands. For the three of us.” He kicks at Tahan’s knee when he groans dramatically. “I’m the head, obviously. Because I’m the only one with any brains around here.” 

     Gersten gamely agrees with a swift, “Oh, absolutely.” Tahan sits up, alert like a wary mutt. 

     “Rainer is the hand.” 

     Tahan makes an ‘eh--’ sound at that, lifting his own hands and waving them meaningfully. 

     “Quiet from the peanut gallery, please. I thought about it, but Gersten is far better with a knife, and he’s about as empathetic as a brick of cheese.” The man in question pauses in his renewed quest to sharpen the blade, considers that, and shrugs-- a silent ‘fair enough’. Tahan gives him a mortally wounded look that implies he’s a traitor, while Rossi takes a seat next to him on the rickety one-man cot and settles a warm hand over his diaphragm. “Which makes you the heart. Isn’t that cute?” 

     The bastard is smirking at him. Tahan wipes the smug little grin right off his face with a powerful swipe of a pillow, initiating what may be the rowdiest brawl the forgetful little firebase ever saw. 

-

II. 2012, [LOCATION REDACTED] (TW graphic violence, choking, blood)

          It’s some time around three in the afternoon, he thinks, the sun is high in the sky when he feels the noose tighten around his neck. 

               Unfortunately, that’s quite literal. 

     He’s five steps behind Rossi, half listening to Rana mutter to himself about how boring overwatch is over the radio. They’re on a routine patrol. A boy steps into the mouth of the alley. Rossi waves, and the kid waves back. Tahan snorts softly, and Rossi starts to turn around to give him a Look-- this is when time slows, he thinks, because he can swear in this memory, he can see the rough rope descend right before his eyes, hands clad in black leather holding either end. He can see the faint bemusement change into cold shock in Rossi’s hazel eyes, the only part of his face visible under his black mask, and he can feel the slightest tickle against his throat before the hot burn of it sinks into his skin, cutting off air and blood. Things go a little hazy from there. 

     Time continues to drag slowly along. He knows he struggles, because he can feel his own fingernails dig into the skin of his throat briefly, and he knows he pulls out his knife because he misses when he stabs for his assailant’s head, and carves a long line along his own forearm instead, before it drops from fingers swiftly going numb. It takes ten seconds to black out when you’re being choked like this. He isn’t fast enough.

     There’s a lot of yelling that he can’t understand. The sharp report of gunfire. He isn’t fast enough. His knees weaken, he can’t breathe, and what little sight he had disappears as his eyes roll back into his head. Still thrashing weakly, even as he goes down. There’s no witty last thought, no valiant final move that allows him to free himself. One second he’s there, and the next he’s gone, limp in his captor’s grasp. He comes to again laid out flat on his back, Rossi looming above him, white as a sheet and haloed by the late afternoon sun as he curses him and begs him to wake in the same breath, trying to shake him back into consciousness. 

          One ragged gasp. Two. 

     Rossi’s own breath comes in swift gulps, before he visibly steels himself and puts a hand on Tahan’s cheek. His face feels strangely numb, tingly. He blinks up at the younger man and lifts a shaking hand to settle it against his forearm, but he’s too weak to hold it there for long. When he lets it fall, there’s a fresh trail of bright blood in the bared skin that they both eye for a moment in contemplative silence. Tahan realizes then that his arm hurts. And his throat. And his head. 

     For his part, Rossi mutters a quiet, “It’s always something with you, isn’t it,” as he drags him into a sitting position and runs a hand up and down his back to try and even out his ragged breathing. Tahan coughs hard, once, twice, tastes blood. Once he can get past the burning sensation of the rawed skin and the rapid bruising at his throat, he realizes he can breathe, albeit painfully. No collapsed trachea then. The thought makes him wheeze out a laugh. He’s probably going into shock. He laughs a little harder at that, choking on it when it gets caught in his chest somewhere. There’s blood on his lips, and Rossi makes a panicked noise and puts a steadying hand to his jaw once more. “Oh, quit that. You’re freaking me out. Can you talk?”

     Licking his lips only reminds him that the only thing he can smell and taste is a whole lot of blood. He can’t tell if he bit his tongue, or if it’s pouring down into his throat from his nose, or if he’s hacking it up. He can’t tell if it’s his own blood. He spits out a mouthful of it, and it takes him a couple of false starts to manage a simple, weary, “water.” 

     The cap is twisted off and the canteen thrust into his shaking hands. He almost drops it, so Rossi helps him lift it to his face. He swishes the first mouthful, and then spits it off to the side. An embarrassing amount of it ends up soaking into his pant leg. He makes a disgusted noise, and then goes back for a few painful, tiny swallows of water, trying to get his wind back. Every moment brings him more clarity. 

     Between this and the next: pounding footsteps. A familiar dark uniform, and head of frosty hair. Rossi reaches for his sidearm and then relaxes when he recognizes the man, waving him over without a word. Tahan lazily reaches over to clamp his right hand over the oozing gash on his left forearm. It stings like a bitch, but he can’t make himself do much in the way of cleaning it just yet-- not when it’s still bleeding. Not when he can hardly string a sentence together in his own head. Gersten slinks forward, his footsteps echoing strangely in the cramped alley. 

     “Oh, Jesus wept,” he mutters under his breath as he approaches, the words as much a curse as they are an exclamation. Tahan has seen him slit a man from prick to throat without so much as flinching, so he can’t help but wonder what exactly about the scene makes him look so wild about the edges. 

     “Not for me, he didn’t.” Tahan grinds out in response, clutching the long gash on his forearm, his voice sounding as though it’s being ripped up by millstones and scouring pads and a little bit of gravel, just to top it off. The joke makes the normally unflappable German look like he’d just been slapped. Another high pitched giggle escapes him, cut to silence in some places by the limited capacity of his vocal chords. He feels lightheaded. 

     “Shut up,” Rossi snarls, tucking himself under Tahan’s uninjured arm and then dragging him to his feet. His vision swirls again, and they would fall to the ground if not for the pale arms, the familiar skeletal hands that reach out to settle on each of their shoulders, steadying them. His head lolls, and he can hardly breathe until Rossi drags him up a little higher and the weight of his head falls to rest on his shoulder instead of with his chin against his chest. 

     Gersten shifts his grip so he can hold his chin there for a moment, eyes serious. “I’ll run point.” 

     He feels Rossi nod, and the effort of lifting his head from his shoulder nearly leaves his knees buckling under him again, but the younger man’s grip remains firm. Holding his head up hurts so much that it makes his eyes water until he can hardly see, the involuntary reaction making him curse incoherently as they make their way to safety. 

     By the time their EVAC gets there, he’s managed to get himself together enough to give vague orders to Gersten on how to clean, stitch, and bandage the long cut on his arm. He does a surprisingly good job. Rossi can’t quite look at him, ostensibly keeping watch for anyone that might be searching for them still. 

-

III. 2014 [LOCATION REDACTED] (TW alcohol)

     They drink, late into the night. Rain pounds on the canvas of their little tent, and the others have long since gone to bed, but the three of them are still wired. Today marked Gersten’s last assignment with the KSK, he’s going back to Germany in the morning and getting discharged soon after. The goodbye party was a little bittersweet-- he’s relatively well liked by the men on base, and in their little mixed unit, and a lot of people showed up to drink contraband booze and clap him on the shoulder and wish him luck. A younger soldier had nervously asked him what he was planning on doing when he got out, and Gersten had laughed aloud and replied only, “Oh, probably be a hitman. I only have the one skill.” Everyone had laughed. 

          Tahan wishes he could believe the other man had been kidding. Rossi had just sighed. 

     They’re all more than half drunk, now. Laying on the cool plywood floor in their little temporary shelter. Tahan has been counting the sandbags lining the walls, but he kept forgetting where he’d been at and what number he stopped counting because Rossi’s nails would occasionally scrape his scalp, and it would make his vision go funny. He has his head resting in the younger man’s lap. No commentary is made on how he’s basically petting him. Gersten’s legs are draped over his shins, long and lean, and he has a hand resting on Tahan’s ankle. Occasionally he’ll make a broad gesture as he speaks, their little triangle ill-formed and sloppy drunk. 

     It’s lulling him to sleep. He must be getting old, if he can’t make it to 5am like the rest of the party animals. The livelier of the two are helpfully keeping their voices down, until-- Gersten’s hand clamps down on his hip, and he roughly shakes him awake.

     “Fuck me--” Tahan starts into foggy awareness, jerking into a sitting position. Rossi lets him go with a displeased grunt, and he’s already turning to give him an apologetic look when he spots the bottle in Gersten’s hand. “What the fuck is that.” 

     The pale man bares all of his teeth at him in a grin. There’s a vague creeping sense of dread. “It’s all the rest of the alcohol.”

     A long pause, in which Tahan can only look helplessly between a grinning Gersten, and a nonplussed Rossi. Neither of them make a move to elaborate. Finally, he manages to find the courage necessary to ask, “How do you mean--”

     Rossi, unimpressed, cuts off both the rest of his question, and Gersten before he can start in on his bullshit. “He’s spent the last ten minutes meticulously pouring every last drop of the dregs of whiskey, tequila, vodka, vermouth, and absinthe into that bottle.” 

     Gersten, maturely, pouts for a moment, before brightening again. “And beer! I put beer--” A hiccup. “Beer in it, too.” He swirls it a little, as if to make a point. The concoction bubbles and fizzes menacingly within its confines. 

     “I--” unsure, he glances between the pair of them. Rossi’s eyebrows nearly meet his hairline, and Gersten continues to shake the bottle back and forth, as if to be enticing. He tries not to feel sick from just looking at the sloshing liquid, but he can’t help the dread tinging his voice. “For what purpose?” 

     The bottle of possibly toxic waste is thrust in his direction. Tahan takes it warily, and Gersten laughs out, “You and I are going to finish this off. Rossi says you’re a lightweight, and that it would kill you.” 

     “I’m not fucking doing that, because I am and it will.” Rossi lets out a relieved sigh behind him. 

     Gersten whines, “Aw, no it won’t, pussy. I dare you.” 

     The gauntlet has been thrown down. Tahan sits up straighter, suddenly set alight, and turns to him with narrowed eyes. “You dare me? Are you serious?” Despite his incredulous tone, he eyes the bottle and then starts twisting off the cap-- it smells like a sewer, and he coughs a little. Rossi makes a noise of abject terror.

     “Don’t let him get to you-- he just doesn’t understand that daring each other to consume disgusting and possibly dangerous liquids is an important part of male bonding.” Gersten leans forward, practically vibrating with excitement as the words fall out of him in a rush.

     Rossi, who was the eldest of four brothers, snorts, and puts his hand over the mouth of the bottle before it makes it all the way to Tahan’s mouth. “Oh? And what are the other parts?”

          “Poetic yearning,” says Rainer. 

          “Gay chicken,” says Battista.

    They glance at each other after their simultaneous answers and burst into wild laughter, collapsing against one another and nearly spilling the concoction. Rossi looks on, arms crossed, a smile poorly smothered on his lips. His voice is wracked with suppressed humor. “All of the literature and art and thought about male friendship and desire, and the two of you have pared it down to ‘drinking gross things’, ‘poetic yearning’, and ‘gay chicken’. Bravo, really. Whitman would be so proud.” 

     Tahan lifts the bottle as if to toast the observations, the advancements they have made in such heavy schools of thought, and Rossi throws himself against his side, nearly bowling him over, and drags the cursed thing from his hand. “You have had quite enough, I think,” he tuts at him, pressed warmly hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Tahan lets himself slump a little, blinking placidly at the line of his cheekbone. Rossi slams the handle back, and then chokes a little when it goes down, spluttering, “that is vile. You’re going to hell.” 

     The abrupt frankness with which he says it-- and the fact that such sentiments rarely come from him at all, staunch catholic boy that he is, forces a sharp, shocked bark of laughter out of his two companions. He spends the next ten minutes trying to force some of it down Gersten’s gullet, and Tahan… 

     Well, Tahan has little trouble letting their absolute racket lull him to sleep as well.

-

IV. 2019, VR Italy

     It’s nearing daylight. Battista hasn’t yet slept, and the flakes of crystalline snow tumbling occasionally to the ground tend to tangle in his eyelashes, and fall from the leather of his jacket. They bite at the tips of his ears and his nose, and they melt into his shirt at the nape of his neck. He’s been wandering the city for hours.Very few signs of life have popped up. They rarely do, this time of year, this time of night. The snow comes down a little fast now, and he lifts his head to peer about, trying to get his bearings, figure out just how far he’s wandered while letting himself get lost in his own head. He lets out a long cloud of breath-- backlit against the streetlight, it glitters like he’d just exhaled a cloud of diamond dust. Memories roll around in his head so violently that his feet pause.

     There, behind him, a single footstep, just the faintest scuffle on the uneven cobblestone of the street. Battista doesn’t turn to look, and forces himself not to tense, either. Instead he watches the cloud of his breath dissipate, and sets a meandering pace down the street. Now that he’s listening for them, he can hear the steps following along behind him. They’re menacingly quiet. Battista leads his shadow down the street, and then almost absentmindedly turns down an alley, stepping into the darkness of the nearest stoop. The figure, clad in black, steps into the mouth of the alley and curses under his breath when he finds it empty. The familiar voice makes Battista’s blood run cold. 

     He steps forward, probably intending to check down all of the side streets, and when he passes him Battista steps out of the shadows and pins him with the barrel of his m9, right between the shoulder blades, with a soft, “hands up. Turn around, slowly.” 

     Rainer Gersten looks as horrifically pale and skeletal as ever when he complies. In the dim light from the street behind Battista, he looks like a shade. He looks like someone that’s hunted him back to Verona, to drag him down to hell. Rainer’s lips peel back from his teeth in that familiar rictus grin, five years older and with a few more scars, but his voice holds the same rasp, the same vaguely wondering, good-natured affection, “well I’ll be damned.”

     “You already are,” the response rolls out of him, almost pre-programmed from how many times they’ve done this little song and dance. The barrel of his gun doesn’t waver from where it’s pointed directly at where Rainer’s heart is. The humor doesn’t leave the madman’s face.

     “Still sharp as ever, I see.” The smile on his face slips into something chagrined. “I’ve been looking for you, you know? But I didn’t think I’d actually find you here, of all places. And if I did, I didn’t think you’d be quite so… alert.” He gestures, vaguely, with his open palm, at the gun trained on him. 

      Battista lowers it incrementally, looking at him straight on instead of down the sights on the barrel. Dryly, he responds, “I have paranoia.”

     The other man’s jaw works almost imperceptibly as he visibly forces himself not to tout another familiar line: it’s not paranoia if they’re out to get you. It would land a little too close to home, now, and both of them know it. Instead, he lets a long sigh roll from him, and without lowering his hands he murmurs, “I thought they had buried you, too.” 

     Something in his throat constricts. Rossi. How swiftly the light had gone out of his eyes. The gritty feeling of dust sticking to the tacky, drying blood on his face. The cold cuffs, how the world had swirled just out of his own control for months. The emptiness in the life he’d left since then. “Maybe they did,” murmured like an admission of guilt.

     There’s a long stretch of silence. Rainer puts his arms down, slowly. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on top of the barrel of the gun, pushes it down and takes it from Battista’s loose grip. He puts the safety back on, shucks the bullet out of the chamber, and puts it neatly back into the shorter man’s shoulder holster, and then zips up his jacket. Pats him on the chest, and leaves his hand there for a couple breaths. The expression on his face is serious, brows furrowed, but his voice is light when he finally declares, “well, you don’t make the most convincing corpse I’ve ever seen. Say goodbye to your career in acting, handsome.” 

          It’s not really something to laugh about, now. So they don’t. 

[ddaenqu]

Slow Motion

pairings: yandere monster!hoseok x scientist!reader

themes: Angst, Mature, Mythical monsters AU, Fantasy AU

tags: possessive behavior, obsessive behavior, toxic behavior/relationships, unhealthy behavior/relationships, manipulation, threatening, cussing, dom/sub undertones, graphic depictions of violence, implied sexual content

based on the prompt: “I need you more than I need to breathe.”

a/n: hobi can take my girl n i would be honored and i gotta just say monster!bts is the hottest thing ever. am i right or am i right? obviously, i had too much fun with this au and as you can tell, a lot of this science stuff is based off of my own imagination. i tried to do some research but idk, i kinda like it when i just go off on my own

You’re frantically pulling the sterilized, white lab coat on with shaky fingers. The narrow room is flashing, with a blinding white. The sudden change of light making you disoriented, it was uncomfortable compared to the hallway: a vintage white, a gentle dim that wasn’t too dark nor too light, and pleasant to the eyes.

The keypad near the door with a small scanner resting above it waited for the form of accession. You quickly pulled the ID card with your name and a picture of you plastered on the front of it, you turned it around where the barcode sat and almost placed it on top of the scanner. Your hand hovering over the device.

What were you getting in to?

You knew now better than anyone, that beyond this door was a line—the unknown behind it.

I can leave, you think, I can leave and go home and go back in my warm bed. This wasn’t working hours for you. Why were you even here? You had every right to be at home resting and not scrambling into your car at four in the morning, pulling yourself away from your one comfort and safety. This wasn’t your problem.

You pressed the plastic card down, the weight in your arm was heavy and unbalanced, as if it hadn’t planned to move at all.

You heard two consecutive beeps shortly after placing the lithesome-like plastic onto the scanner, a high-pitched yet small beep, indicating that security had granted access and the door was unlocked.

Not your problem, you remind yourself as your hands reach for the silver, pristine door handle, it’s cool surface pressed against your feverish palm.

The idea of leaving was tempting, tempting to the point that your own hands loosened on the handle multiple times, but only returning a stronger grip from the one thought that had picked your mind apart by the time you parked in the parking lot of this nightmare.

Was it selfish? Was it selfish to want to go home and call it a day officially and to not set foot in this godforsaken lab? Was it selfish to leave millions of undocumented work, untitled organisms laying around in glass tubes and boxes?

Was it selfish to leave them—in there—with it?

Yes, you concluded solemnly, it was

Swiftly, you pulled the handle and the door opened revealing the inside of a madhouse; the wide hallway had employees of all running back and forth between crossing rooms, some stood in one place talking with urgent hand motions to others, and there your supervisor stood.

His face was nothing short of tired, almost exhausted to the point of death.

Bags under his eyes, his skin a sickly pale, although his skin has always been paler than average, the deep, blackened circles hanging around his raging orbs really defined how pallid he was. If anything, the white lab coat pulled onto him matched his complexion more than anything at the moment. The frown on his face only seeped more into his face upon seeing you, giving him more prominent lines.

“Sorry for calling so late,” he said with a genuine tone, you could tell he was disturbed and more disoriented with the predicament.

He motioned you to follow him, walking beside him wasn’t a likely option. His stance and expressions already were a warning sign to any passing employee, even you. You followed after him blindly, staying close to him in order to hear his words—he often talked in jargon with a small voice—talking to him was more than awful. It was stressful.

“What the actual fuck happened?” you said to him, making sure to keep your voice at minimum.

The whole hallway was tense, palpable that you could almost taste it, it left a bitter taste in your mouth.

He let out a sigh, his whole body vibrating to that one guttural huff. “Don’t know. One moment it was fine, BPM and all,” he began and weaved himself through and around people as he passed doors. “Sent one of the crew to do a test, like usual—then—”

He had trouble finishing the sentence as if he hadn’t got his head around it either.

“It attacked him.”

The world stops.

No—it doesn’t stop, it slows down in accordance. Minutes ticked like hours, and seconds blinking away like minutes.

The people around you moved like giants. Slow and messy moves, blurs instead of outlines.

The hair on your body raised, goosebumps appearing like magic all over your body, and your eyes widening to the statement. Your breath hitched in your throat, and momentarily, you thought you were going to choke, nearly forgetting how to breathe.

While the world slowed, your brain formed jumbled words and sentences, words that weren’t words.

It attacked?

It couldn’t be possible, you denied.

You spluttered grossly, “HBi? That one—attacked? Are you sure?”

You continued to follow the man until you entered a room with people all around, looking at screens and papers, and the most surprising scene yet—a man’s whole shoulder being bandaged up as blood seeps through the fabric. His mouth agape as hoarse screams come out, his body flinching every time someone touched near his shoulder.

“I’m sure,” he replied curtly as he passed the doctors and nurses crowding around the injured young man.

He looked about in his 20s, still fresh. You won’t see him again, you knew that anyone new around here who gets too easily swayed loses it before they can understand everything. The deep wound on his shoulder, too deep for saving.

A mark that’s going to be ingrained in his skin and memories forever.

“It’s always been good, I don’t understand—a docile creature, that’s what it was,” he rambled on, and you’re sure by this point, you have had lost your focus on his words.

Anything he says fly pasts you, you don’t acknowledge a word, and you know you should be listening, but you can’t bring yourself to listen about it anymore. Your body feels numb yet sore, your stomach stirs uncomfortably, your own body begging for you to find a pillar to lean on.

To anyone, you looked impassive to the situation at hand, while everyone is running and yelling amidst the chaos, you’re standing there with an apathetic expression, body lax—almost sagging.

But inside, you’re terrified. Terrified.

Leave, your body tells you and it even goes as far to making your pace slow down, creating distance between your superior. You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to stop yourself from crying.

You can’t help thinking this was all your fault.

God, you need to leave.

“Yoongi—I think—” You stop yourself once you see the room you’re in.

All too familiar. The sets of computers, screens, TV. Most were only security footage, real-time, of hallways and rooms, while the other few screens displayed the insides of white, enclosed cubicles. Immaculate rooms, with glossy tables and chairs, sinks and more. The beds were different, depending on who or what was accustomed to.

“What is it?” he says with an acrid tone, he was busy talking to one of the security guards working the screens, only then did you notice how irritable he really was.

You knew not to take it personally. He was always a harsh person, even after becoming buddy-buddy with someone such as him. But you can’t stop yourself from stiffening to his tone, your hand bunched into a fist and your nails digging into the soft flesh of your palm. Tears were threatening to fall from your eyes, blinking them away only worsened it.

You gulp, “I just—why—did you call me?”

He met your eyes, his eyebrow raised, expecting you to answer your own question. Then, after a few deprecating moments of silence, he clicks his tongue and decides something with a tilt of his head.

“I know it’s wrong for me to say this—It wasn’t my idea, please don’t—you know I would never put you in danger.”

Your heart squeezes, you think your palm is bleeding by now by how hard your nails are digging crescents into them.

“It’s just that, Namjoon was thinking that—after the incident—we needed to administer the test,” he lets out a deep sigh, one that seemed to be with forced calmness, “and it never reacted this way, not until we changed who was giving the test to it—to that thing.”

He refers to the subject with evident hatred, spitting it out as if it was a curse.

Horror is what courses through you, pure unadulterated horror. He can’t possibly be implying what you think he is.

No, no, no, your head screams, and suddenly the world comes to a slow again as the words from his mouth come out emphasized. Your hands shake and your mouth dries, a sore bump appearing whenever you swallow air.

“We need you to administer the test.”

He seems to notice your reaction, taking the gray and small briefcase from one of the passing employees with a hesitant grip. He holds it by his side, for now, knowing fully well that it had the items inside of it are the ones you have to use.

“Please, you have to,” he begs whilst keeping his tone at minimum, “otherwise it could die from the temperature change. It’s too weak, still not adapting to our—”

“I got it,” you interrupt timidly and unclench your hand, raising it outward and waiting for that god forbidden suitcase to come into view.

You’re terrified, close to throwing up, your heart hurts and your breathing feels labored, but you know you won’t get out of this.

It wasn’t his choice, you remind yourself—it was Namjoon’s and his words were never up to suggesting, it was a command. Defying him was the equivalent to getting fired—you and Yoongi.

Yoongi watches you on the monitor with a steady gaze as your body trudges towards a certain hallway, and stopping at a steel door.

You can read the glass plaque next to the door frame. You’ve read it every day for the past month. “HBi-1” it read, horrible memories come flooding in, and the possible scenario appearing in your head, one he has depicted so grotesquely that it doesn’t feel like reality. None of this feels real, it all feels like a dream.

Your body moves mechanically like a stressed wind-up toy, the gears in your body are slow and unresponsive for seconds as you’re still thinking about what you were about to do. Your hand is clammy against the silver-like handle, the door is already unlocked manually from security, no keypad or ID card needed.

In other words: you can’t leave when you want to.

You let out a shuddering breath, pushing the door open, a small click, and snapping shut with a screech that made your ear strain to hear anything after.

It was a dark room, it was uncomfortable in light and didn’t cooperate for the first few practices with it. The temperature was a significant drop from the outside, although, it felt quite dry. It was as simple as all the other inhabitant's rooms; white beds, white floors, white bathrooms—the basics of what you can make out from the silhouettes right now, your eyes trying to adjust in the darkness.

Your heart is beating to no avail, you can hear it vibrating off the walls like waves—you’re almost sure that it can hear it too. Shaky hands wrapping itself around the handles of the case with a vice-like grip.

Sounds of fabric shuffling and harsh feet hitting the marble floor tease your ears, and your breathing quickens within moments. You can hear it, but you can’t see it. And maybe on the monitor it shows, maybe it shows the monster right behind you waiting for you to turn around. Maybe.

Then, you feel it, a sensation so normal and familiar from all your previous visits. Like a greeting to him, torture for you. Sharp claws running across your skin through layers of fabric, gingerly, you note. Goosebumps rising on your skin.

It’s behind you.

Too afraid to look, your body eminently frozen, you stare at the camera in the corner of the wall, flashing a red color to signal its recording. That people were watching behind those tiny glass lens. The only thing giving you any sense of relief or protection.

Soft breaths hit your neck. “You’re back.”

The sharp nails dig scantly through the fabric of your clothes, you can feel the sharp edge pinching the soft flesh almost. You try to ignore it and watch the camera as it is watching you, counting the number of times it flashes red.

A silence overcomes the room once again. The soft breathing ceases, and a more sinister growl rapes at your ear causing your heart to drop.

It digs its nail further into your skin, prompting a reaction from you.

“Speak,” it demands. Your back is scorching, something hot pressed up against it with violent breaths hitting the nape of your neck.

“Test,” you manage to whimper out, “I’m only here to do the test.” Squeezing your eyes shut.

It goes quiet. The silence feels suffocating, the first time you’d ever think of quiet as too much.

You’ll be fine, though, right? If anything goes wrong, they will come, right?

You look towards the camera once more, waiting for it to flash red.

It doesn’t flash red.

Panic instills in your body, ready to turn around and bolt at the door. The original task for being here was long gone by now, it was now you almost near to crying as you wondered where Yoongi was, and why they weren’t here, why wasn’t anyone coming for you.

Did something happen? Did it do something to them?

Powerful hands clamp down on your wrist, cutting your circulation and pulling you back with immense force. The room grows with light, still murky in a sense, but enough for you to see everything if you focus hard enough.

“Did you like my present?” it asks. “My surprise, in better terms.”

You can feel it’s erratic heartbeat against your own, it’s chest pushing against yours as it keeps your hands bound with his own. You force yourself to not look at the monstrosity, which only angers the monster more.

“Look at me,” it emphasizes each word with a hushed voice, “when I speak.” its claws are digging into the skin of your hand.

You wince, instinctively pulling away, only to be pulled back into the uncomfortable position. Your head moves up, following its order, afraid of what he would do if you didn’t listen again.

The first thing you notice is dark brown eyes and the artificial skin that looks too real. Prominent cheekbones that were high and prominent, sculpting his face in a long oval-like shape. It’s pixie nose and Its lips, thin from the corners, leading into a defined cupid’s bow with a strong jawline, as well as a tiny mole on its upper lip.

The creatures beauty was astounding as much as it was tempting. It made you wonder if it had stolen the skin of another or if it was completely original, stemmed from its own imagination.

It looked human, but the two sleek black horns attached to the sides of his head told otherwise.

“It’s been so long since I’ve seen your face, darling,” it mumbles with adoration present in those eyes, a content sigh that hit your face, that awful smile placed upon its lips. “Much better than that awful boy who came in here.”

It, again, smiles, but it didn’t quite reach its eyes, not folding into small crescent moons as it should be.

Minutes past and you’re wondering why nothing has happened, why the camera isn’t recording anymore. Why aren’t they unlocking that door? Why?

“The test,” you whimper, not knowing how to respond, and your eyes wander to the case fallen on the floor. You hadn’t even noticed you dropped it.

Its eyes darken into a void of black, a frown appearing as the eyebrows scrunch. “I know about the fucking test, love,” it scowls, for a split second, you can see the pointed canines, it’s skinny and long tongue gliding across them in a tantalizing manner.

You cower in his hold, however, you keep the gaze. A pathetic attempt to stay rooted, to have some power—defiance.

“You’re lucky I didn’t rip off his fucking arms,” It spits, “or maybe I should? Should I? Angel?”

You shake your head. “Please—don’t.”

It chuckles.

“And why shouldn’t I? It seems as though whatever I say you never listen,” it seethes, the amount of heat it is emitting is abnormal. “Tell me, angel, what should I do?”

Its head tilts from side to side with a delusional look in its eyes, his eyes brows still furrowing, but its lips hanged into a lopsided smirk.

What were you supposed to say? Opening your mouth and closing it multiple times. Any word you say could be taken literally, could be altered, could be used against you.

It clicks its tongue when you don’t reply immediately, getting impatient with the lack of answers.

“Should I rip them all apart? Everyone here?” it speaks up. “Make it so every breath they take will feel like all their limbs snapping in half? Breaking each of their fingers by pulling them back? Or peeling their skin off as they’re still alive? Is that it?”

It requests, lifting every scenario after another with almost too much excitement in its eyes, glittering as though its already made up its mind. It’s a matter of seconds before you’re begging for it to stop and holding onto your stomach for dear life, the sickening thoughts making you gag.

“I’ll make you watch as I do so, all pretty and obedient for me when I’m done. How beautiful it would be to have you wrapped around my arms begging.”

“No, no, no, please—” you cry helplessly, unrestrained tears are pouring down your cheeks. You can feel its claws coming away from your hands and up to your neck, drawing a line up to your chin. “Why are you doing this?”

It grins, it’s orbs flick into slits, much like cat eyes, a dark green surrounding them before it blinks, and the normal brown returns.

“Simple, I need you,” he whispers so softly, that it has your body responding with warmth and comfort, “I need you more than anything, more than I need to breathe. Do you understand, angel?”

No, you don’t understand. You only feel its nails digging into your skin and forcing you to look up at it, and it’s enough pain for you to understand it. You can feel his gaze burning into your head.

You nod numbly.

“Good,” he smiles, his pointed teeth appearing and his grip on your chin retracts, his hands falling to his sides.

From the corner of your eye, you see something flashing red in the corner of the room.

“Let’s start the test now, shall we, love?”

(feedback is greatly appreciated! 🧸❤️)

[hookaroo]

A Captain’s Heart (27 of 33?)

Chapter 1 Chapter 26

Rated T for language and graphic descriptions of injuries.

Also on FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12937105/1/A-Captain-s-Heart

Tagging @therooksshiningknight & @killian-whump by request :) Also @zippidyzany for the “hello” ;)

Killian was unaware of the point at which the Jolly Roger sailed out of the volcano’s reach and beyond Zeus’ invisible shielding. He stood frozen in a daze, mind completely disengaged, sailing by instinct alone. Oblivious to the lightening of the sky, the clearing of the air, the softening of all ambient noise. Something buoyed him up, preventing his logical collapse, and were he asked, the weary captain would probably have credited the living spirit of the vessel beneath his feet. And maybe that wouldn’t have been so far from the truth.

But he blinked, and he was somehow still standing, and somehow beyond the threat of death, and he could feel nothing but an overwhelming exhaustion in every corner of his soul. He examined the ship stretched out before him, barely registering the beautiful rose-gold highlights cast by a late evening sun.

It should have come as no surprise when three beings materialized on deck just meters away. But Killian had forgotten all but his own name and the name of his ship, and he gawked through bloodshot, burning eyes.

“I knew you were the man for the job!” came the grating voice of a crowing Eris. Killian grimaced at the noise, which was just familiar enough to hammer vague awareness into his reluctant brain. The goddess stalked closer, trailed by her two shadows - bodyguards, worshippers, whoever. Killian knew she was after something, but couldn’t remember what.

“Where is it?” she growled, holding out her hand impatiently. Killian responded with a slow blink, a clumsy shifting of his weight, noticeably out of sync with the gentle rocking of the deck.

“Bugger off,” said the pirate thickly. His tongue was as slow to react as the rest of him. Uncoordinated. Raging, Eris began to close the remaining distance between them. Then she spotted the crystal phial, tipped sideways on the deck, having rolled almost the whole way to the gunwale. She hissed as she waved her hand. The vessel appeared in her grip and she shook it lightly. A scant mouthful remained; the rest had flooded out onto the boards when the potion had fallen forgotten.

“Careless fool!” she screeched. Killian flinched instinctively as she flung a blast of furious magic in his direction. But it passed harmlessly around him, and he sighed a single, mirthless laugh.

“Immune,” he reminded, unable to keep the taunt from his voice, tired as it was.

“Is that so?” Eris poofed the remaining distance, and when she reappeared, she drove a vicious fist into his middle, directly in the center of Excalibur’s damage. Killian crumpled to the floor, too winded to even cry out, feeling himself being gored all over again despite the blade’s absence.

Apparently deciding that he wasn’t worthy of any more of her time, Eris turned away from the half-dead pirate. As she held up the phial, she gave it another wiggle and heard the small splash of its contents.

“You had better pray there’s enough left for me to use. I may not be able to shield my handiwork from Zeus and his minions, but I can at least protect myself.”

With that, she tipped the potion down her gullet. And though Killian was expecting the outburst that followed, he hadn’t imagined it would be quite so dramatic. Curled into a ball, eyes streaming, still struggling for breath, Killian could just barely make out the goddess’ agonized writhing that preceded a ripple, then a literal explosion of unrecognizable elements. The shards swirled, coalesced into a brief whirlwind, repelled each other and scattered to the heavens.

The clatter of phial against deck was followed by a stunned silence as Eris’ henchmen tried to process what had just happened. They appeared more surprised than aggrieved. When one of them spotted the fresh droplets of potion on the wood, he began to back away nervously. The other quickly followed suit, and an instant later, they both vanished. Doubtless off to instigate their own brand of mischief, or perhaps find another deity to serve. And Killian lacked the strength to rise from his fetal position, much less celebrate their departure.

In his misery, Killian missed seeing the setting sun cast a brilliant red glow over wave and cloud, mimicking both the dried and fresh blood staining his bandages. He missed the first stirrings of a breeze caressing the sails above, the gentle pulse of the moving ship below. He even missed the first hint of a portal parting the waves ahead, but as the whirlpool gathered strength and its roar increased in volume, Killian finally collected the gumption to raise his head, discern what was happening, and realize that he should probably find something to hold on to.

With a quiet whimper, Killian made it as far as his knees. He was less than two meters from the wheel, but that distance felt like miles. The portal loomed closer, the ship began to quake, and Killian forced himself forward. One knee. Then the other. Brace clutched tightly against his abdomen. Hand not taking his weight; crumpling to elbow, forearm. Gasping. Waves increasing in intensity, the deck bobbing. Another knee dragged forward. The wheel just out of reach.

There came a violent splash as the bow split the final watery hill before beginning its descent into the tunnel. The dramatic tilting of the deck was enough to send Killian sliding the remaining few feet, and he caught the wheel with a grunt just before the portal’s corkscrew path took hold. The Jolly Roger tumbled into the void, everything topsy-turvy for far too long, especially when each shudder sent a jolt of anguish through the pirate's battered body. But if Killian let loose with a cry of pain or two, it was impossible to hear over the deafening rush of water and magic all around.

The spiral tightened. Even for a seasoned sailor, the dizzying effect bordered on nauseating. And then, just when Killian’s weight had tripled and he felt as if he would smash through the floor, the ship leapt from the portal's exit. Its crash back onto a residual churning wake tore the wheel from Killian’s grasp. He toppled forward, stopping his fall with protesting arms, hissing as different kinds of pain raced up each one. But at least he was still on his knees and hadn’t hit the deck yet again.

It was lighter here, midday at most. Killian’s exhausted brain and eyes couldn’t handle it. He knew he ought to take stock of their surroundings, look for danger, and check the ship for damage. He also knew it was hopeless to make even a token effort. So when a familiar figure appeared on board, he was hunched on his knees, clutching his abdomen and rubbing his eyes with a quivering hand, and he didn’t notice. Not until that figure spoke.

“Killian? What the hell!”

The pirate managed a strained smile of relief, genuinely happy to hear the alarm in Emma’s voice. It meant she was here. More than that, that she was okay. Killian’s hand dropped to his thigh in a moment of rest while he worked on peeling his eyes open. By this time, despite her shock, Emma had teleported to his side, and as she crouched, he reached a feeble hand in her direction.

“Emma.”

Emma surrounded his hand in hers, all the while taking in his appalling state. Countless wounds - a number haphazardly bandaged, others exposed - decorated his person, oozing blood. Some dripping it, if he moved a certain way. He hadn’t appeared so close to keeling over since his rescue in the Underworld. Gaze slightly unfocused, butterfly bandages askew on his cheek and forehead, Killian fixed her with the saddest eyes she had seen in quite some time.

“Killian. What happened?”

At a loss where to start, Killian eventually just pulled her closer, intent on bringing her into his embrace and never letting go. Emma inched gingerly forward, apparently more concerned about protecting his injuries than he was. And then she stiffened.

“The hell?”

She sounded so thrown that for a moment, Killian forgot his physical complaints and quickly twisted to check what had her so rattled. When he saw, his pained groan was cut off before it could fully form. Frantic, he attempted to rise to his feet with muscles too injured to respond, reflexes dulled by exhaustion and blood loss. Swearing softly, Emma moved to help him; she knew it was useless to try and stop the mad scramble.

“Marvel,” breathed Killian, listing wildly, clinging to Emma but shuffling forward all the same. “You’re here.”

The human figure shimmered before them, not quite solid. The faint outline of the stern railing could be seen intersecting her torso. She wore a melancholy smile, and when she spoke, the words had an ethereal echo about them that sent a chill right down Killian’s spine.

“We’re here,” she amended. “We made it, dearest.”

Killian stopped a few paces away. With her hand a support behind his back, Emma halted as well. Killian’s arm tensed, his fingers twitching as he wrestled against the urge to reach toward the apparition. Finally, both shoulders slumped, and he leaned more heavily against his wife.

“How long?” was his plea, in a voice so low and tremulous that it broke Emma’s heart. Marvel’s expression stiffened.

“Not long.”

In the silence that followed, the waves caressing the hull became a heartbeat, the rippling of sails a repeated sigh. Ghost Marvel took a step forward, and Emma squeezed her husband's arm in solidarity.

“I only wanted to say-” began the ship’s soul, but Killian cut her off.

“Don’t. Please. Don’t say goodbye.”

Marvel’s lips twitched in a sly smile. “Hello.” Her next breath was half chuckle, half sob. “Hello, Captain. It’s so very nice to meet you.”

Killian echoed her strangled sort-of laugh and raised his hand in an automatic gesture. “Likewise, my darling.”

Marvel drifted closer, taking steps that seemed unnecessary as no friction propelled her along the floorboards. She lifted her own hand - her right hand - and rested it gently atop his, feeling like nothing so much as the faintest of breaths against his palm, the lightest of flower petals. Killian bent to kiss it anyway. And then he found he could not let her go.

“Stay?” His voice was hoarse, thick with emotion. “Can’t you just… stay?”

“Oh, Captain.” She brushed her free hand along his cheek, a mere wisp of sensation. “We’ve had such wonderful adventures. And we’ll continue to do so. But this… this is when we talked.”

Her ghostly thumb caught a teardrop before it fell. For an instant, her gaze turned to Emma’s, and they shared a silent conversation, their mutual love for the man between them providing effortless understanding. Then Marvel gave Killian a soft smile.

“Go back to your big, beautiful house, with so many people to love and be loved by. Run around, be human. Live. And know that I will always be here when you need me, ever happy to see you, but rejoicing when I don’t. Because I understand things better now. Sorrow and fear and shame… and joy.” She withdrew her hands, placing one on her own chest and the other on his. “Human or not, this ship’s heart belongs forever to her captain. And all I will ever want for you is total happiness. For the rest of your days.”

Trembling, Killian tried to reach up, to place his hand over hers, but she seemed less solid than before, and his fingers grasped nothing. He gulped a breath and began,

“Marvel, I have to say… and… and I had hopes of…”

The words caught in his throat. He couldn’t finish either thought. As tears flooded his eyes, Emma tightened her embrace and caught his lonely wandering hand. Marvel smiled softly through crystalline tears of her own.

“I know, my love.”

And then she began to glimmer. Little stars of light flickering in a random dance within her image. She seemed to almost revel in the sensation, giggling as she watched and turned her palms this way and that. Then she met Killian’s despairing gaze with one of excitement, almost glee.

“Watch this,” she winked.

The stars drifted apart and multiplied as they slowly lifted higher into the breeze. The greater the number of lights, the fainter Marvel’s image, and Killian was torn between watching the spectacle and keeping his eyes trained on the last glimpse he would have of the ship incarnate. For her part, Marvel kept her head thrown back, delighting in the beauty above.

Slowly the stars began to outcompete the cloud-covered sun in brightness. There were just so many, and each burned with a ferocity that made looking directly at it painful. Between one heartbeat and the next, Marvel’s form dissolved into a final spattering of lights, which hastened to join the others, noticeably playful in their movements.

The constellations migrated toward the bulk of the ship, and reflexively, Killian pivoted to keep them in sight. He leaned almost his entire weight against Emma now, but for a moment, neither of them noticed. Then, with a blinding flash and a crack of displaced air, the stars raced to line every inch of the ship’s perimeter. It only served to make the normally-beautiful Jolly Roger even more breathtaking.

Killian and Emma lost track of the amount of time they stood dazzled by the sight. But then, one by one, the twinkling lights started to flicker out. And as they faded, so did the remainder of Killian’s strength. His knees buckled and he sank to the deck, pulling Emma down with him. Still watching the sparkles, silent tears tracking down his face, he allowed himself to settle back on his haunches. Emma knelt beside him and gently lay her head on his shoulder; after a moment, he rested his cheek against her.

They stayed that way until the lights winked out, the waves were water once more, the breeze no longer breath. And the Jolly Roger, marvel that she was, floated inert.

[bakugou-ou]

Some things about my BakuShima fic.

Tonight, I had nightmares. Specifically, nightmares that I’ve written Katsuki Bakugou as having. This isn’t the first time since I wrote them, but tonight they really got to me, and I’m here to talk about some of the choices I have made as an author regarding my fic, because people ask about things, and I am tired of feeling like shit about wanting to do with my fic what I want to do with it. 

This won’t have spoilers for the ending, which we’re still a bit far off from; I originally estimated this fic would be 22 chapters, but as I work on 21, I realize now that it will probably end up being closer to 24-26 chapters due to points I want to include in the fic, have been planning to include in this fic from the beginning, and ideas I have adopted along the way.

For those who don’t want to read about the fic, or who aren’t caught up to chapter 19 yet, I’m putting this under a cut. It’s going to be long, so if you choose to read it, just be aware that there’s a lot I feel like I need to say.

With that, here are some things about my BakuShima fic, Kokoronashi.

Since this issue is most fresh in my mind due to what I mentioned above, I’ll start with it.

In chapters 18 and 19 of Kokoronashi, I wrote about Bakugou having chronic, extremely graphic nightmares. I didn’t go into great detail about those nightmares, because during the writing process I had tried to do that and ended up triggering myself with them. Knowing that some people’s threshold for gore and trauma can be even lower than mine, I made the decision to keep a bare bones yet informative description of what it was that Bakugou was seeing every night when he went to bed, rather than writing a detailed scene illustrating everything that Bakugou sees.

I didn’t want to have to update the archive tags to include gore and major character death, even if they only happened in a nightmare, and have people avoid my fic for two scenes out of two chapters in a fic that will probably end up being around 26 chapters long. But, even more than that, knowing I have a relatively high tolerance for things like this, knowing what attempting to write the scenes in full detail did to me, I couldn’t imagine putting that out there for anyone to see, people who may or may not have lower tolerances for these sorts of things than I do. I couldn’t risk triggering or traumatizing people who wanted to enjoy my fic, alienating people who have stuck with me this whole time due to two scenes out of an incredibly long fic.

So, for anyone wondering why I chose not to go into detail, to write out Bakugou’s nightmares as he had them, to give pointed descriptions of them while avoiding detailing everything about them, that is why. I’m sticking by my decision, and I kind of don’t care how anyone thinks I should have written that scene. If you wanna see that kind of stuff written out, write it yourself. I can’t do it.

Next up, we have the topic of the passage of time in this fic: up until chapter 11, I followed canon and rewrote things from Bakugou’s perspective. I made a goof because I wasn’t reading carefully enough when writing the kids moving into the dormitory, but otherwise everything is as it is in canon. Starting in chapter 11, the fic became canon divergent.

Some chapters take place in the span of a day, others take place over the course of a few days or weeks, some skip a couple months between events, one in particular takes place in the span of about an hour; the amount of time that chapters take place in varies drastically based on the points I’m trying to make with the plot. If you do not like the way I choose to pass time, write your own fic and pass the time how you want to. 

Everything I do in this fic, I do for a reason. I have had the plot pinned down since I first decided to write it, I am trying to stick to that plot, and I have already deviated significantly from it to accommodate people’s need for fluff. Originally, this fic wasn’t going to include all the cuddling that happens, or the mistletoe scene, or the massages in the bath. But, I also loved the idea of using touch to deepen Kirishima and Bakugou’s friendship, to illustrate that there are various ways in which you can support your friends, from talking to them, to touching them, to just being with them. 

As much as this is a fic about BakuShima as a ship, it’s about them as friends, too, and how as his relationship with Kirishima evolves, so do his relationships with other people. Their friendship is incredibly important to me, and setting a solid foundation for their friendship before allowing either of them to come out and say how they feel is something I believe to be really important, so I’m doing that.

The lack of detail in 18 about time passing is because Bakugou doesn’t realize how much time is passing, and what he’s missing. He is so wrapped up in his PTSD that he just isn’t present. White Day isn’t mentioned because he just isn’t aware; by that, point he isn’t talking to any of his friends anymore, everyone has stopped trying to bother him for fear of making things worse for him, no one was there to remind him that it was a thing, and Kirishima was not about to bring that up to Bakugou, who was obviously not in the mental space to deal with something like that.

The suddenness of Bakugou’s decline is also done on purpose, the lack of detail leading up to and then Bakugou’s PTSD reared its ugly head and ruined his life for about a month, and continued to interfere with it for months after that breakdown is for a reason. Sometimes, that’s just how it is for people with PTSD. I have it, I go through periods like this. Sometimes you just snap, and for someone like Bakugou, who buries his feelings and is a chronic avoider of anything he deems to show him as weak, he snapped. It was a build up throughout the fic, it was a long time coming for him, but the sudden triggering of his nightmares was a result of his thoughts that Kirishima doesn’t love him back, the stress of school, of PLE retake training, and the fact that he’s been suffering for so long from so many things that his brain just stopped working. It hits Bakugou as suddenly as it hits the reader, it literally happens overnight, and from there it’s a fast slide down a bad path. It was done for a reason.

In 19, a few weeks pass before Kirishima and Bakugou speak again. Kirishima comes to congratulate him after he passes the PLE. Kirishima thinks Bakugou is mad at him for something he said during the bath scene at the end of 18/beginning of 19, he’s keeping his distance because he blames himself for what happened, and Bakugou thinks he’s the worst person ever and avoids Kirishima because of it... But Kirishima being the ray of sunshine he is, he decides to reach out to Bakugou, and he misses Bakugou, he can’t stay away.

I didn’t include Bakugou’s 17th birthday in this fic because, as I imagined it, Bakugou is still recovering from his nightmares, from the incident with Kirishima, how he lashed out at his friends before that due to his PTSD, he’s not interested in celebrating, and while the others in the class wanted to do something for him, Kirishima, who knows him best, advised against it, knowing Bakugou wasn’t in a good place and would probably feel worse. 

So, no one made a big deal of Bakugou’s birthday, he got birthday wishes, but there was no party, no presents. People let Bakugou do what he wanted, and what he wanted was nothing. He had a quiet night in the dormitory doing homework, used his time in a manner he thought to be more productive than sitting through a party he wouldn’t have wanted even under the best of circumstances.

The next time we see Kirishima and Bakugou is after the sports festival, and I’m gonna be completely honest here: I was too lazy to write another sports festival. Horikoshi is right! Sports festival arcs are incredibly difficult to write, and the main point of what I did write about the sports festival was to illustrate the impact that one incident in the bath with Kirishima had on Kirishima, even three months after the fact, how he was still beating himself up over what happened, how he didn’t trust himself with Kirishima, how he viewed himself after it. 

A sub-point to this point, people have pointed out that I “mixed up” the timeline when it comes to the Deku vs Kacchan 2 fight and the PLE; Bakugou thinks about the exam after his fight with Deku, and Kirishima brings up the exam after the Deku vs Kacchan 2 fight on the eve of his own internship because he’s thinking about how he wished he and Bakugou were working together, because he knows how much it bothers Bakugou that he didn’t pass the exam. It’s unrelated to the actual exam itself. People are allowed to think of and speak about thing after they happen, and I left the exam out of the fic for a reason; Bakugou’s experience during the exam is left out because, to me, it wasn’t as important as his fight with Deku, though it’s still an important moment in his development. I think the aftermath of the exam is more important the exam itself, and that’s why things are written the way they are.

Large time skips in this fic are to illustrate that Bakugou has long periods where things are not okay, and to avoid boring or triggering people by going into detail about all the ins and outs of his days during those periods, I use time skips. Again, if you don’t like this, you are more than free to write your own fics and portray the passage of time as you wish. This is just how I choose to write my fic. 

Another, which kinda circles back to the idea of me wanting to prioritize BakuShima’s friendship over their romance, despite this being about Bakugou’s developing feelings, is that there is a very specific reason that I’m avoiding a kiss scene, why I have the boys get close but never seal the deal. It’s frustrating as hell, I know, I get comments screaming about it, begging for a kiss, for confessions, etc. I know that’s how most fics go, that the boys kiss and live happily ever after, but to me that’s just... Not realistic, not to any experience I’ve ever had in romance, and to my interpretation of their characters. They’ve both got issues to work through before they could even be close to the “kiss and be happy forever” point, where they’re at now ain’t it.

And, for now, my final point about the fic: I got the idea for this fic while listening to this song, and if you wanna get a better understanding of the direction this fic is heading in, why certain things have happened, read the English lyrics here. The fic loosely follows the song while exploring Bakugou’s feelings, specifically about Kirishima, but also about himself, and his relationships with other characters. Everything I do is for a reason.

If you read this far, first of all let me apologize for being so longwinded, but things have been bothering me, and I needed to say it. Especially after what happened with me having those nightmares. All of the stress that came with that particular point brought up my feelings on the other things, and I needed to put my thoughts down so that hopefully they’ll stop bothering me.

I may delete this later, I’m not sure, but for now it’s here for anyone to read.

Secondly, if you have been reading Kokoronashi and like it, thank you for supporting my writing! Or, even if you haven’t, and you’ve been reading and supporting my blog, thank you! The fact that people enjoy what I do makes me happy. If I can make other people happy with what I do, invoke emotions in other people, that makes me happy. Writing is the only thing I’m even kinda good at, so if you enjoy what I write, that’s the most I can ask for from you.

And, lastly, I swear I’m gonna get back to imagines once I’m done with the zine piece I’m currently working on, and Kokoronashi. I’ve been so busy with major writing projects, and have been thinking about giving up on writing entirely once those two things are over, that I’ve been struggling to get it together enough to revive the imagines part of this blog. But I’m gonna bring the blog back, there will be imagines, damn it! Besides, I just found out my community college here gave me the boot because I didn’t take classes this semester, so it’s not like I have to worry about school hahahahahahahaha kill me now.

[hummingbird-operandi]

Hey you lovely (mostly not but hey, we’ll include the spam bots as well) tumblr’rs!

Long time, I know. Things have been fucked intriguing trying --- they’ve just been; I find myself at the precipice of something new and with that comes another adjustment to how I present myself. 

Too Long Don’t Care? Click the link above and follow me...or don’t. #Trigger Warning below. Nothing graphic (some burn blisters #scarification under Semi-Colon), but my life kinda requires it. 

TLDR: I’m changing blogs and it’s going to have (but not be limited to) subjects like death, suicide, anxiety, depression, abuse, and other unpleasantness in the effort to broaden the discussion.

So those who know me--personally I mean--know that it is rare on a good day for me to be caught on camera; I have some pretty strong beliefs about what capturing someone’s likeness does post-mortem. Yet somehow;

I’m pretty sure the last time I was taking photos was when I took that one that’s my profile image...which was promptly after leaving the hospital for the second time around; ultimately they marked the beginning of this Los Angelean chapter. Two plus years can hardly be considered an era, yet something about the new dawn breaths fresh--hope isn’t at all the right word, (dash it from this glossary because I do not speak of such things) it is care.

Then I was Annabelle, bipolar, reclusive, smoker...

Now? Well now is both different shades of similarity and something completely new. In this new space (that from which I had come (it seems redundant, but it is not)) I have vastly expanded my understanding of my own my mind/condition. While my gender identity still plays a heavy role in it, I’ve found the term Genderfluid to be the easiest ‘title’ though in reality it’s still more complex.

3 people, 1 platform 

I’m not entirely happy with my diagnosis but until my research pans out, i’m stuck with ‘almosts’...*deep inhale*.

So at all times there are three distinct consciousnesses in my brain and at any given time ONE of them has control. The GIF above--from Pixar’s Inside Out--pretty accurately describes when I’m conflicted in Democracy mode (I’ll get to that in a moment) all three have equal control and none (one) plays nice. This is different from ‘voices’ in that direct and instantaneous control is possible (as opposed to a suggestion aspect of control); but this also differs from Multiple/Distinct Personality Disorder in that there is no loss of consciousness...so that’s nice...I guess.

See, the fun thing about the movie is that Pixar personifies emotions and portrays how that affects and controls us...sadness makes us sad, anger makes us angry, etc. This is cute, and fun--in my ‘movie’ those three are each their own being, fully loaded with all the anger, sadness, jealousy, and fear to boot. I wish I could say that one hasn’t set up the other for failure [some call this self-sabotage, I call it pettiness over an argument (the ‘I’ that is writing this currently) won back in 2007 and ‘she’ still gets bitter about...even writing this is pissing me off.

Democracy mode! That’s new. For the majority of my life it has been one in the foreground, BURYING the others; when I had finally allowed ‘her’ to speak it felt like fire coming from my throat--that I had been locked away from childhood into my mid-twenties. My gender presentation had less to do with dysphoria and more with control--she had waited almost two decades watching the other two ruin this vessel.

The GIF above is quite suitable too. None of my ‘me’s’ have names, I just am who I am--but there is a distinct (younger male) [older male] and [female]; the ages are irrelevant (as they say age is) but it’s better to differentiate them that way as opposed to (weaker male) [stronger male] because that greatly underestimates (him). To put this realistically, there’s a lot of “YOU....He...she...we...us” and  very little “well (he) said this, {she} disagrees” so narrating out my internal monologue can get a little confusing to read--I’ve lived with it (maybe think about having your siblings in your brain at all times and control over stuff...)

Where the fuck are you going with this?

I’ve learned that fascism doesn’t help anyone.

So I’ve let go (for some time now, but ultimately as well) with gender markers to differentiate when ‘she’ is me, those who know me (who quite frankly are the only ones of whom such a thing would even impact them) know how she carries myself; and she’s had to make a lot of compromises but cohesion is key. Hence--as you can see, having read thus far--the need for a re-birthing.

--------------Trigger Warning below : Scarification -----------------

Semi-Colon

Do you know about the Semicolon Project? No? What the fuck are you still doing here, nothing on this page is nearly as important as what’s HERE. [THIS LINK is a ‘TALK TO SOMEONE NOW’ page. Just one of many not nearly enough.]

It isn’t pretty...that whole night was a brutal rendition of the more poignant scene’s from Fight Club; I did quite literally punch the ever loving shit out of myself more than once. Aaaaaand this was the other outcome. I’ve long said, even though it offers me no peace:

[Self-harming] is a coping method. Is it a good one? Fuck no! But it’s strong. WAY strong. When chaos reigns over logic, when your darkness is quicker than you, when you’re so far shut down even feeling is unmanageable--it works. [S.T.O.P Techniques] {see here} are powerless to the unbridled force of ‘natural reaction’. 

I really screwed this one up--it was meant to be more art piece than self-mutilation, but this night was a bad night. It healed okay, but the damage to the structure of the shape is noticeable. Regrettably so.

My semicolon is important to me; it is a constant ((sometimes through the darkness) daily) reminder of WHY I am alive; simply seeing it often can offer me a breath of consideration.

 “It’s when an author could’ve chosen to end the sentence, but didn’t.”

So that brings me all the way back around to the beginning (of this post anyway); I grow tired of stagnation--and while the illusion of work (Fiction) was a nice distraction/stretch, I’m doing nothing but avoiding the necessity of work; nonfiction.

I’ve talked multiple times about writing more on the topic of death, the afterlife, depression, anxiety, abuse and so much more™...but rarely delivered. Another product of Annabelle’s indecision and avoidance...every time I got into something of value I’d let it rot; unchecked, unseen, uncaring.

                                 ^^^^^^^^

There’s always time to expand on all that. For now, either hit the follow button above, or don’t--this blog (Hummingbird-Operandi) is going to fall into beautiful disrepair; favoring this blog (JakFenchurch) to hideously bloom.

 Sure the image is darker, grainier, and complex; but it’s truer.

[imakeficrequestsandthendisappear]

When You Say My Name CH5

Author: YoungDumbandFullofHeadcanons /https://imakeficrequestsandthendisappear.tumblr.com/

Summary: Being an Army brat means that every new town is a chance to start over. When the Criss family moves to Derry, Vicky Criss dies so Vic can start living.

Pre-IT (2017), AU: Trans!Vic Centric, Henry/Vic Slow burn

Angst  Fluff  More Angst  Smut  Even More Angst Playing fast and loose with the canon

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Major Character Death Rape/Non-Con Underage

Category: M/M

Fandoms: IT (2017) IT - Stephen King

Relationship: Henry Bowers/Victor Criss

Characters: Henry Bowers Victor Criss Patrick Hockstetter Reginald “Belch” Huggins Henry Bowers’s Gang (IT) Oscar “Butch” BowersThe Losers Club (IT) Pennywise (IT)

Language:English

Chapter 5: School

Summary:  Vic caught the sight of steely blue irises in that brief moment of eye contact between them. There was a certain empty hate in those eyes, like ashes left behind from a raging fire.

Thursday morning Vic wakes up an hour too early, and spends most of that extra time curled up in his bed with his stomach in tight anxiety knots. Finally able to crawl out of bed, he changes his clothes quickly with the lights still out. The camo shirt he puts on is faded and will never stop smelling like smoke no matter how many times it’s washed, and he wears the same jeans as yesterday because he didn’t bother to dig another pair out of his bag. Checking the hallway for anyone else, he rushes to the bathroom and gets ready for school in silence.

He waits in the living room for everyone else to wake up, tucked into the corner of the new couch that probably put them into debt.

What’s the point of suburban living if you don’t buy shiny new furniture you can’t afford? .

Daddy also bought a pick-up truck yesterday, for work. Vic still isn’t clear on what the job is, but if it gets Daddy to leave before six a.m. and back home after eight p.m., then Vic’s happy.

The bruise on his face is still garish on his pale skin. The burn of rejection still feels fresh in his chest, but he pushes that down and tries to be happy about his first day of school. Happy about his first day as himself.

The car ride is simultaneously too quiet, the girls only chatter every once in a while, but also too loud, because it’s like he can hear all their thoughts bombarding him like heavy stones as they just openly gape and glare at him.

I know all the things that can go wrong, you don’t need to look at me like I don’t.

He doesn’t say that.

When they pull up to the school, his hands are shaking with nerves, so instead of putting his backpack on Vic clutches it against his chest as he gets out of the car. Daphne steps out beside him, and then before the door can even fully close their mother is driving off at a breakneck speed.

Vic looks to his sister, and they make the barest of eye contact before she turns away from him and stalks toward the brick building. Every time they’ve started a new school, he and Daphne had stuck together for at least the first couple days, because it’s easier to be the new kid when you’re not alone. This buddy policy never lasted that long, as Daphne would make friends and Vic would try to keep himself to the fringes and stay out of sight. Now he watches her walk purposefully away from him, and the massage s clear.

If you’re gonna be a boy, then you’re on your own.

When did they all learn how to speak without words?

Still standing on the sidewalk, he digs into his bag and pulls out the class schedule he received after registration.

Homeroom: Math 115

It takes him too long to find his class, not because he gets lost but because he goes to extra lengths to avoid brushing up against anyone in the hall. Vic slides along the walls to avoid the crowding students, and when he finally gets to Homeroom everyone is already in their seats and the bell lets out a cry that sends makes him jolt in his skin.

Vic has felt invisible for so long that when he's in front of a class of full of kids, all looking at him as he stands at the front awkwardly rolling on the balls of his feet, he feels an uncomfortable zing run up his spine.

They’re gonna know. They can see me and they’re gonna know what’s wrong with me. They probably already know. Everybody knows. I can’t do this. They know. They know. They know.

The mantra runs wild through Vic’s head like a tornado and blocks out all other thoughts. He wants to turn and run out the door, but his legs feel numb and all he can do is clutch his backpack tighter like a security blanket.

The desks sit in rows of two, cramped in and close together as students talk amongst themselves before class begins. The room seems overfull with its thirty-three kids, like there wouldn’t be room for another, and the close proximity breeds easy distractions and loud conversations. No one is really looking at Vic, but the thought that they could be is enough to scare him near to running away. The teacher seems too young to handle this many students, and is already fed up with the day before it has begun. It takes her a moment of organizing the papers on her desk and erasing the board before she notices the little blond boy standing frozen in front of the class.

“Do you need something?” she says with a biting tone as she approaches him.

Now more attention is called to Vic, and people start to take notice and he hopes they don’t see him shaking. His vocal cords are so immovable that they feel like rusted wires. Quickly he grabs the sheet the register gave him and passes it to her.

She looks over the paper with disinterest, and then turns to face the class.

“Alright, everyone quiet down.” She shouts over the class. “This is-” She has to look down at the paper again, “Vic Criss. He’s a new student, so everyone try to be welcoming and all that.”

Vic doesn’t even notice her dismissive tone because his brain is running into overdrive from hearing someone say his name. Hearing someone call him a he for the first time.

All the other students respond to the introduction with unimpressed silence. And he is relieved that she doesn’t make him introduce himself to the class. But then the issue becomes where he is going to sit.

The teacher looks around the room, knowing there is one place available in the back corner pair of desks. She wonders if she can shuffle anyone around, because this kid doesn’t look like he could handle to be thrown to the wolf in the back of the class. Coming to the conclusion that this is about the only option, she hopes that Vic is tougher than he looks.

“Go sit there in the back” she says without looking at him.

Vic looks at the empty desk, right beside one where a student sits with his head on the desk and arms folded around to block out any extra noise or light.

“Henry. Don’t make this an issue.” She commands in a stern voice to the boy in the back. “And you will sit up in my classroom.”

Just as Vic is about to sit down at the desk, though he can’t remember willingly walking towards it so his body must be on autopilot, Henry lifts his head from the desk and levels a stubborn glare at the teacher. Vic cautiously sits down beside him, and Henry snaps his gaze over to Vic. On instinct Vic breaks eye contact with Henry as fast as he can, finally sitting down and setting his backpack at his feet.

Class begins from there. Vic grabs his notebook and tries to keep up with the lesson, but he’s always been behind in math and he is distracted by the roaring flow of blood in his ears. Occasionally he steals glances over a Henry, who makes no attempt to pretend to pay attention as he leans on a bent arm and scribbles in his notebook.

Vic caught the sight of steely blue irises in that brief moment of eye contact between them. There was a certain empty hate in those eyes, like ashes left behind from a raging fire. Besides that cold resentment, Henry just looks tired. His head bobs every so often and his eyelids slip shut for a moment, before he shakes himself awake again. It’s a chronic fatigue that makes him look like he lives in a warzone and sleeps between battles. Shaggy, dirty blond hair falls in his face and he makes no move to push it back. Light freckles dot across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. He seems scrawny for his age, and the flannel shirt he wears sags on his shoulders and the sleeves hang too low.

Vic is fascinated, because he realizes he’s hasn’t been this close to another boy since he cut his hair. No longer is he looking at boys from a distance, seeing them as some unattainable status he could never get to. Now he’s up close and it’s like his whole perspective has changed.

Trying to sneak one more glance at him, Vic discreetly looks over to find Henry looking back at him. Henry’s eyes scan him over, like he is assessing his opponent before jumping into the fight. His gaze doesn’t connect with Vic’s though, instead it settles on the aging bruise on his cheek. Vic watches through his bangs, stuck in a loop of studying Henry while Henry studies him, until finally their eyes meet and they both quickly look away in embarrassment.

Henry huffs and turns away, head propped up on his hands and looking out the window. Just as he turns though, the collar of his shirt slumps a bit and something catches Vic’s eye. There is a big mark on Henry’s collar bone, so dark in the middle it’s almost black, and just beneath the skin is speckles of red where the blood vessels have burst. Just before he can really look at it, Henry fully faces away from him, and Vic can’t get the sight of that nasty bruise out of his head.

Class ends. The day goes on. Vic gets a locker assigned to him. Daphne doesn’t even look over when they pass in the hall. He’s too anxious to eat lunch so he waits outside his next class. Out of six classes, Vic has three with Henry, but he only is made to sit with him in math. He goes the whole day without speaking to anyone.

Mom picks them up at the end of the school day, asking how their days were in a tone that is more obligated then interested. For how concerned she seemed yesterday about him going to school, she seems exceptionally uncaring now.

If you ignore the problem, then it’ll just magically go away.

Or it will just fade into the background. It’ll still be there, but now you care a whole lot less about it.

When they get home Vic quietly rushes upstairs and into the bathroom. His shirt is caked with nervous sweat and his skin feels sticky and clammy. Shucking his clothes and getting in the shower, he fluctuates the water temperature between freezing and boiling to bring some feeling back to his skin. He scrubs himself too rough, leaving red rug-burnt patches on his arms and legs.

Finally he shuts the water off when he feels raw all over, like his whole body is an exposed nerve, and he steps out to towel himself off. He avoids his reflection in the mirror until he can wrap the towel around his waist, because sometimes when he sees the flesh between his legs he gets sucked up into a whirlpool of cold self-doubt.

Hair still wet and skin prickling into goosebumps, Vic looks in the mirror and runs his fingers over the bruise on his cheekbone. The glossy swelling has all but disappeared, and in a few days the color will be gone as well. Next he finds the fading marks Daddy’s grip left on his arm. He knows they’re there, because he can still feel that strong callused hand on his tender skin, but to anyone else the red rings are invisible.

Or maybe to everyone else, he’s invisible.

Then, he touches his clavicle, right where he saw the bruise hidden under Henry’s collar. Wrapping his fingers over his shoulder and pressing his thumb into the soft spot right below the collar bone, He holds his breath and pushed inwards.

He imagined a hand, much wider and stronger than his own, pushing down on that spot. Pushing down until the skin turns black. Pushing down until the blood vessels burst like fireworks. Pushing down until the bone cracked under the pressure.

He’s squeezing as hard as he can, until a few tears eek out from his tightly winced eyes and he has to stop. The skin left behind turns hot where the blood rushes back in, but other than a faint pink oval there is no evidence of damage.

Vic thinks about the way Henry studied his face earlier that day, honing in on the bruise on his cheek, and then he questioned his own fascination with the mark below Henry’s neck.

After he has spent so long thinking about if someone could look at him and just know his secret, it seems he went the whole day without even being glanced at twice by anyone else.

What really unnerves him is that someone could look at him, and in an instant know where his bruise came from. And then he could look back at Henry’s and know where it came from.

Like the hand that hurts them is one and the same.

Notes: Notes:  Link to AO3  http://archiveofourown.org/works/12399036/chapters/28303902

Swipe left for long walks on the beach and more pubescent gender identity crises.

This also had minimal editing cause i'm tired, plz 4give meee XOXO

YDFH