#If only he could Compel himself into giving a coherent statement on his thoughts

[abelllia]

There's one blorbo that doesn't communicate their needs/emotions because they don't want to be seen as a burden to other people. There is another blorbo that doesn't communicate their needs/emotions because they literally can not and find it difficult to communicate them effectively. These two blorbos are dating.

[moonbeamsung]

Bad Dracula

I have no intention of scaring you, baby~

member: jaemin

au: vampire!jaemin x gn!reader, supernatural au

word count: 2.1k

genre: fluff, a little angst, slightly suggestive

warnings: mentions of blood, kissing, implied strict parenting

recommended song: bad dracula by red velvet

author’s note: Based on the song above. This was so much fun to write and I thought it fit well with the time of year, so enjoy!

The dance floor in the large ballroom pulses with energy and vibrations from the DJ booth at the far end of it. It’s packed, so much so that all the people, all the shuffling pairs of shoes, threaten to overflow from the carefully manicured tiles on the ground and into the remainder of the space. This poses a problem considering there isn’t much, due to the dozens upon dozens of fancily decorated round tables scattered throughout the brightly lit chamber, some empty as their occupants sway to the beat of the music and others full with those still finishing their exquisitely prepared meals.

Dancing close to the edge of the massive crowd, you catch sight of the moon’s reflection on the polished floor, oddly clear. A strange feeling starts to overtake you as you continue to gaze at it, physically compelling you to raise your eyes. When you do, there’s a devilishly handsome stranger you’ve never seen before leaning against the wall, directly across from you. The moonlight spilling in through the glass casts a haunting shadow on his chiseled features, but your heart stops when the sliver of a fang peeks out from between his lips, gleaming a blinding white.

How no one else notices him, you’re not sure. What you do know, however, is that he’s definitely bad news.

...Right?

Your gut pinches at the thought, the silent signal begging you to correct your instant judgement based solely on his appearance. How could you possibly be wrong, though? He’s a vampire, for goodness’ sake! You’ve been lectured and warned enough times to remember that they’re always up to no good.

The inner dilemma going on in your mind causes you to stare blankly, zoned out and unaware that your focus is drilling into the boy. Amused, he waits for you to realize this.

Eyes blown wide with surprise, you whirl around to weave in and out of the throng of people, making your way to the center of the crowd in a pathetic attempt to undo what just happened. Attention trained on the ground, a pair of shiny black dress shoes come into your line of sight.

There’s that feeling again. You don’t want to, you fight the urge this time, but trying to resist the supernatural pull makes your head ache. Bracing yourself, you unwillingly lift your eyes again, tracing the length of his figure from the hem of his dress pants all the way up to the lapel of his suit. The wine-colored ensemble seems fitting, considering the craving vampires instinctively harbor for a similarly colored substance.

His looks are even more striking up close. The allure he possesses is something otherworldly, and he has to repeat himself for you to realize he’s speaking to you. “My name is Jaemin, and you are...?” He questions, the lilt of his voice silky and seductive. Stammering a somewhat coherent response, you freeze when his cold fingers grasp your wrist, lifting it to his lips and pressing a kiss to your trembling knuckles.

“Shall we dance?” It’s a statement, not a request, and not wanting to cause a scene, you make no attempts to protest. You get lost in the way his arms feel wrapped around you, every so often being twirled by the graceful movements of his hand.

Your eyes lock with his and they put you in an inescapable trance, casting a spell on your mind until the moment that he breaks the contact, glancing almost worriedly at something over your shoulder. He returns his gaze to yours as quickly as he removed it, and the enrapturing haze settles in around you once more.

For the final minute of your dance, he brings you closer than you’ve ever been to him before, head resting firmly against his chest. A triumphant feeling of rebellion bubbles up inside of you knowing that you’d be in big trouble if your parents could see you right now, in the arms of an enchanting vampire. The mere act of associating with one would be enough for them to explode with fury, so going even further than that would surely elicit a wrath of pure, unadulterated rage.

The song ends, its slow tempo coming to a stop before being replaced by a much peppier tune.

Most of your fright forgotten for the time being, you’re more curious than anything else when he begins to drag you away from the center of the ballroom, pulling you with urgency and a force that completely contrasts with the gentleness of his touches as you danced together. Stepping out from the crowd, he leads you around to the other side of the wide marble staircase, ducking to stand behind a pristine white column that extends all the way up to the heightened ceiling. It dawns on you now that he could actually be dangerous, and all the fear comes flooding back to you.

Jaemin sees it too, the way your pupils dilate to indicate your terror of the situation you’ve gotten yourself into, your terror of him. You’re about to cry out when he stops you by covering your mouth with his hand, the low temperature of his skin startling you even more, and you wince.

“Sorry, sorry!” He whispers hastily, panicked. You take notice of the instant change in his demeanor but it does nothing to calm you down. “It’s alright, don’t freak out, okay?”

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he breathes, finally providing you with some sort of relief. You relax a little under his hold, still cautious but deciding to give him a chance. Slowly, he removes his palm from your lips, allowing you to speak.

“What do you want with me, then?”

Glancing around with that same look of anxiousness on his face, he leans in, murmuring into your ear with every word.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, but I’m a vampire. I come from a whole family of them. My parents brought me here tonight to... uh, well, you’ve heard the stories. They want me to find someone with the best blood to drink.”

Come to think of it, you do recall seeing a carriage parked outside, black as night and delicately carved like it came from the darkest depths of the underworld. Must’ve been his, you realize.

“And that’s me because...?” You interrupt his explanation, causing him to wave a hand in the air, exasperated.

“Let me finish, okay? The thing is, vampires drink blood but it’s not the only thing we need to survive. In fact, we don’t even need it. Over time we’ve found ways to get the same nutrients in other ways and from other things. Some of us still do it for tradition’s sake. And my family is all about preserving history.”

Inhaling sharply, he continues. “But I... I can’t do it. Not only does it feel morally wrong, but I get sick just thinking about it. On nights like this, I just have to find a way to lie about finding some.”

“That’s,” he leans back to point a finger at you, “where you come in, angel. We just have to make it look like I took some of your blood, and that will be enough to satisfy my parents for a while.”

Too stunned to speak, you gape at Jaemin, leaving him waiting for your answer, wondering whether you’ll commit or not.

“Wow.”

“I understand if you don’t want to help, I can always find someone—”

“You are nothing like who I thought you were.”

Jaemin’s pale skin flushes with a color you’re not sure even exists before he beams at you. A few minutes ago, you would never have guessed the mysterious man leaning against the wall could smile this brightly. “Not all of us are bloodthirsty monsters.”

“I’m sorry I was afraid of you,” you tell him, looking down at the floor with a guilty expression.

“It’s not your fault, you had every right to be.”

“...Hold on, what was all that out there?” You accuse, brows raised in slight suspicion and a hip tilted to the side as you await an explanation.

“What do you mean, ‘all that?’”

“I mean the dance! I mean the way you introduced yourself, the way you spoke, everything... You were so cold, so intimidating. But you’re acting so different now.”

“All to put on a show for my parents, sweetheart.”

Blushing like mad, you shake your head as you remember the reason why you’re back here with him in the first place. “I’ll do it,” you say, heart fluttering at the way his eyes light up with gratitude.

“Really? You will? Thank you! Thank you so much...” he trails off, and you find the excitement in his voice adorable.

“So, how do we do this?” You ponder for a moment, tapping your shoe against the floor before an idea comes to you. “You don’t mind ketchup, do you?”

Jaemin knows what you’re getting at, nodding. “I don’t have a problem with it, so that should work fine.”

“But... how close are they going to look? Would a bite mark make it more realistic?”

Considering your words, Jaemin’s tongue darts out to lick at one of his sharp fangs, the action drawing your gaze down to them.

“You’re probably right...”

Closing your eyes and straightening your posture, you tilt your head to one side, exposing your neck. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”

Here goes nothing, Jaemin thinks to himself. Only he doesn’t aim for your neck.

When you feel his lips on yours you’re startled to say the least, but just like when he danced with you, you don’t pull away. The kiss is a delicious secret, only for the two of you to know about and no one else. Instead of ice his hands are like fire on your skin, and the sleeves of his satin suit jacket feel heavenly against your arms as they cling to his shoulders for dear life. It’s so intense, so heated and passionate a kiss that you feel yourself back up against the pillar you’ve been hiding behind all this time.

Not wanting anyone to get suspicious about what’s taking so long, Jaemin reluctantly separates his lips from yours and drags them across your skin, down past your jaw to halt at your neck. The magic bestowed upon all vampires gives him the power to temporarily restrict the ability of his fangs to take blood, rendering them harmless. Once he’s done this, he sinks them into the spot above your collarbone just far enough to leave an impression, eliciting a small whine from your lips but nothing more.

“That wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” you pant, taking heavy breaths in through your nose and out through your mouth while you wait to regain the strength you lost in the moment. It’s funny, you think. He didn’t take any of your blood, so why do you feel so dizzy?

Jaemin chuckles, brushing your hair out of your face since it had become slightly tousled during the kiss. His eyes widen in sudden realization and he snaps his fingers, “The ketchup!”

“Right!” You exclaim, hurriedly running over to the nearest deserted table and grabbing a single packet.

Tearing the corner, you squeeze a small dot of the condiment onto your finger before smearing it onto the skin below his lips, making it look as if it’s dripping from the edge of his mouth. Jaemin takes it from you and does the same, the red smudge complimenting the bite mark he left on your neck quite nicely, if he says so himself.

Leading you back around the staircase, Jaemin shares a second dance with you in the middle of the ballroom, and this time you’re both more comfortable with each other. From across the room, his parents’ enhanced senses of sight allow them to see your stained skin, humming in approval at their son’s apparent obedience.

“Will I see you again?” You ask in a soft voice, wavering at the possibility of losing the new friend, and maybe something more, you’ve made tonight.

“I don’t know, my dear,” Jaemin admits. “But I’ll try.”

Smiling lovingly up at him, you sigh, the three words you so desperately want to utter on the very tip of your tongue, but you feel it’s a little too soon. One day, you tell yourself.

Hidden amongst the crowd, he ducks down a little to steal a final kiss before a tall figure that’s probably his mother whisks him away and into the distance. You exchange longing glances before he’s forced to turn around, walking completely out of sight.

Taking long strides at an inhuman pace between both of his parents, Jaemin grins to himself, thinking of you and how amazing you looked tonight in that elegant outfit of yours.

From beside him, his father sniffs the air, pale nose wrinkling in distaste.

“Is that ketchup?!”

[bubonickitten]

Relistening to TMA yet again (new hyperfixation, what can I say), and I can’t emphasize enough how much these early episodes kill me.

Because for a long time, Jon doesn’t realize what he’s becoming. And yeah, that’s obvious -- but it’s even more heartbreaking on a relisten, because he senses that something is off, but from his perspective the changes are so incremental that he doesn’t realize how much he’s changing until he’s in too deep. 

He finds himself getting attached to this tape recorder (even when he initially hated it), but tries not to think too hard about that. He’s becoming obsessed with recording everything, and tells himself that he’s doing it for posterity’s sake. Jon is adept at using outward denial to hide his inner, nonstop, overthinking doubt. (Eventually it escalates to full-blown paranoid information gathering, which I think is where the Eye’s influence really starts to show, but more on that later.)

At first, it’s a safe half-lie (or at least not full-truth) to tell himself. He’s an academic, a researcher. He no doubt has a deep appreciation for the preservation of history, for the documentation of human experience -- that part is probably true. It’s how he makes sense of the world (and that started when he was a child, when the main way he interacted with the world was through books). And let’s be honest, the man is a nerd, and (I say this lovingly and with a tendency to infodump myself) he was probably prone to infodumping long before he became the Archivist. (Giving a Wikipedia summary of emulsifiers at a coworker’s birthday party, anyone?)

But beneath all that, Jon is just... scared. And Jonathan Sims comes to fear a lot of things, but one of his first fears was being forgotten. So it’s no wonder he takes so well to the compulsion to record, document, archive. 

Makes sense; he was, by his own admission, emotionally neglected as a child. And sometimes harassed. He chalked it up to being “a deeply annoying child,” which -- oof, no wonder he acts like an ass sometimes. Even if he was adept at social interaction (which he’s not), keeping people at arm’s length can feel a lot safer than letting them close and risking rejection when they decide you’re too much to handle. 

Point is, being ignored or ostracized was already painful, but it became his normal. Being forgotten, though, would be a existentially terrifying step beyond that. 

All of this is put into even starker relief after “A Guest For Mr. Spider.” At 8 years old he witnessed someone get snatched from the world without a trace – someone ten years his senior, who died because he made the choice to torment Jon and just did so at the exact wrong moment (or perhaps right? Maybe the Web decided that early that Jon was more useful alive). But despite the fact that it was his bully, Jon has survivor’s guilt over it. He feels responsible. He admits that it’s illogical for him to think he could have done anything  differently—he was eight—but he still comes out of that experience with the fundamental belief that being forgotten would be a unique kind of punishment that he believes even his bully didn’t deserve.

It’s such a raw, vulnerable moment when he finally admits it out loud: “Because I’m scared, Martin!” All that denial was external, and so fragile that it took one panicked moment for him to drop the veneer. But internally? Jokes about his obliviousness aside -- and, yes, in a lot of ways, Jon is that smart dumbass -- he’s got some self-awareness. He’s put two and two together, realized that the “real” statements don’t record digitally. He’s seen the artifact storage. He’s had a Leitner-based trauma, like so many statement givers. He’s just scared and he Does. Not. Want. To. Talk. About. It. 

He tries to hide it early on behind a cold, stoic academic demeanor, but that… doesn’t last long, and once that veneer drops, he absolutely spirals into open paranoia and fear. And going forward, he really doesn’t hide his terror much. When he’s threatened, we hear him beg for his life. Even when he thinks the world might be better off without him, he still doesn’t want to die. He’s afraid of death, and after S1, he doesn’t try to pretend otherwise. (I really appreciate a horror protagonist who shows fear even when they’re trying to be brave.) 

So, by the end of S1, we get to see him start to admit that his new obsessive behavior is not just a detached academic interest, or his workaholic urge to do his job well. It’s because he’s scared. But beyond that, through S2 and into S3, he starts to admit that beneath that, there’s something else going on. His rapidly escalating paranoia spiral is due to trauma, as well as the realization that Gertrude was murdered, as well as the general sense of uneasiness and distrusts that permeates the Institute (the Eye loves that shit), but also, honestly?? I think this is where the Eye starts to really get a grip on him. The Ceaseless Watcher, the fear of, in Gerry’s words, “needing to know, even if your discoveries might destroy you. The feeling that something, somewhere, is letting you suffer, just so it can watch.”

Beyond the tape recorder obsession, Jon doesn’t seem to notice early on that when he reads statements, it’s almost like he’s in a trance. (I think one of the first episodes where he starts to notice this is actually in MAG 32, when he’s reading Jane Prentiss’ statement. His introduction to the statement is shaky, stilted, like he’s dreading it; when he’s reading Jane Prentiss’ words, it’s like he’s channeling her tone and delivery in a far more extreme way than he has before; and when he’s done, he’s clearly unsettled by the experience.) 

(Another thing that stands out to me on a relisten is his tone shift when talking to Elias in MAG 40 -- he has an almost dreamy, trancelike delivery of the line: “Tens of thousands of... things without mouths screaming as one.” Like he’s reliving a flashback, yes, but there’s something else in his delivery of that line that continues to show up in his later spooky-Archivist-powers moments. And Elias pauses, and I can only imagine him thinking in that moment, all smug and conniving, Good. Jon is starting to become The Archivist.)

And, of course, Jon also doesn’t notice when he starts being able to compel statements--which is kind of funny, because my first thought when listening to early statements was, “How are all these statements so detailed and coherent? Did all these statement givers take creative writing classes or something?” But Jon doesn’t really seem to question that at first. It becomes more clear when the archive assistants try to take statements -- the statement givers can’t stay on topic, can’t remember details, can’t relive the moment in the same way they can if they’re forced to through compulsion. Adelard Dekker mentions that in one of his letters to Gertrude, too. It’s also sad, though, because he kept getting accused of forcing people to answer questions when he didn’t realize he was doing it (e.g. his interviews with Basira, Daisy, and Jude). 

It’s just... such a gradual downward spiral. And yeah, there’s something tragic about that--and it isn’t going to end well; this is a horror-tragedy story after all--but one of the things I like about Jon is that he works so, so hard to change and become a better person in spite of what the Beholding is trying to turn him into. 

I’m getting way off-topic. Basically, Jonny Sims is... very good at character development, and it’s fun to relisten and start to pick out the moments when things start to go wrong, the little details that maybe didn’t stand out so much on my first listen. Admittedly I, much like Jon Sims, have my own little conspiracy corkboard flavor of overthinking, so some of this might just be me reading too far into it. But still, I like all the layers going on here. 

[weil-weil-lautre]

Jürgen Habermas may be the foremost intellectual in Europe. Since the 1960s his scholarship has set research agendas in philosophy, sociology, and history, while his newspaper articles and interviews have steered public debates on topics from the memory of the Holocaust to the Iraq War. He may also be the foremost intellectual of Europe, advocating for the continent’s economic and political integration.

In recent years, as that integration has stalled, one might have expected Habermas’s public interventions to gain in urgency. Instead, the opposite has happened: Although he has been as philosophically and politically productive as ever, his work has seemed to lose its relevance. Political developments against which he has struggled for decades, from populist nationalism to the erosion of the welfare state, seem more intractable than ever, while problems on which his political theory has little purchase, such as the growing influence within Europe of an illiberal and undemocratic China, appear ever more pressing. Still eminent in the academy but increasingly marginal outside it, the theorist best known for his notion of the “public sphere,” in which intellectuals influence politics by shaping public opinion, risks becoming the most compelling counterexample to his own ideal.

Habermas’s scholarly work and political commitments are held together by a worldview that expands on the ideas of the 18th-century Enlightenment philosopher Immanuel Kant. Yet, since the beginning of his career, Habermas has been shadowed by doubts about whether this vision can apply to politics. He has cast about for cultural resources, from the heritage of the French Revolution to the power of indignation, to generate a popular will in support of his program.

Since the turn of the century, this search has led Habermas to reconsider religion—to be more specific, Western Christianity—as a possible ally. Culminating in his recent Auch eine Geschichte der Philosophie (Another History of Philosophy, 2019), which has not yet been translated into English, his turn to religion is best understood as yet another attempt to overcome an insuperable contradiction at the very foundation of his philosophical project.

The British historian Perry Anderson once defined the task of Marxism after the collapse of hopes for a proletarian revolution as the “search for subjective agencies” capable of overturning capitalism. Habermas’s growing irrelevance suggests that European liberalism has mistakenly committed itself to a similar project of trying to find volunteers for its predetermined goals—and that this project may come to the same bitter end as communist aspirations. His decline as a public intellectual is more than the product of changing cultural trends or unfortunate circumstances that have thwarted some of his cherished causes. It represents the potential exhaustion of the sort of politics that his career embodies.

In his first major book, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere (1962), Habermas already positioned himself as Kant’s heir. As he saw it, Kant had articulated a system of morality in which all human beings should be treated as free and equal. Kant argued that this system is immanent in the structure of rational thought. All human beings, insofar as we think, are capable of becoming “autonomous” moral agents, recognizing independently that the “moral law” should apply to everyone. From this basis, Kant claimed that liberalism, a political and economic regime founded on the recognition of universal rights ensuring freedom and equality, corresponds to human nature—and that its global spread is the trajectory of history.

Inspired by Kant, Habermas nevertheless recognized several problems in his thought. Kant’s concept of autonomy seemed tainted by a defense of laissez-faire capitalism. People cannot really be autonomous, Habermas countered, unless they have a material basis for living independently. In the modern era, this means that they need the support of a welfare state. Since an expansive government, however, can undermine the independence of its citizens, it is imperative that the latter influence decision-making through voting and debate in the “public sphere.” Only with economic security and political participation can individuals see themselves and others as free and equal.

In the following decades, Habermas devoted his scholarly energies to reconstructing Kant’s account of the moral law, which appears to him as implicit in interpersonal communication rather than, as Kant had it, private thought. According to Habermas, whenever one person speaks with another, this person makes claims about what is true and gives what they hope the other person will take to be good reasons for accepting it. Although we often deceive each other, every conversation is premised on the possibility that human beings can come to an agreement guided by reason, without force or fraud.

As Habermas put it in his 1965 lecture “Knowledge and Interests,” every statement that we make to another person is a “foreshadowing of the right kind of life” (one based on autonomy) and a political demand that we work toward a society in which “communication can become, for everyone and with everyone, dialogue free of domination.”

But there is a tension in this theory. Habermas noted in the Public Sphere that Kant claimed that history would bring about a “cosmopolitan order … under which human beings could really get their right.” But, behind Kant’s “official” teaching, Habermas argued, must stand an “unofficial,” esoteric doctrine, in which instead of waiting for the end of history, “politics had first to push” its way there. In order to work effectively toward the goal of autonomy for all, political action would have to be directed by a collective “will,” shaped by intellectuals “giving guidance to the public.” This “unofficial” Kantian doctrine has been the banner under which Habermas has worked as an intellectual, trying to rally Europeans to the goal of autonomy.

Since the 1970s, Habermas has been concerned by two obstacles to this agenda. The first of these is economic. After the crisis caused by the oil shocks, Habermas came to believe that Europe’s nation-states no longer weigh enough in the balance of the global economy to protect the redistributive policies that make autonomy meaningful for ordinary people. In a globalizing economy, he has warned repeatedly, “Keynesianism in one country” is no longer possible. The welfare state must be recreated at a continental scale.

Habermas’s second problem concerns the collective “will” that is supposed to work toward autonomy. In Towards a Reconstruction of Historical Materialism (1975), he began to argue that such a will could not be located in any of the historical identities—class, religion, nation—that have organized European politics. Rather it should be found in a new kind of “collective identity” that would “no longer be anchored in a backward glance.” This new identity must be, in fact, not only European but universal, available to every human being without exclusion. Just as social democracy had to be extended from particular countries to a united continent, Europeans had to reimagine themselves as members of a common humanity.

This call for a collective identity that includes potentially everyone was a challenge the ideas of Carl Schmitt (1888-1985), the Nazi and Catholic political theorist who influenced the thought of Hitler’s regime and postwar West German conservatism. Schmitt argued that politics is founded on a “friend-enemy distinction” defining an in-group against a threatening out-group. He further claimed that modern politics is dominated by concepts derived from Christian tradition—a point, he insisted, that applies even to supposedly rational Kantians like Habermas. There can be no viable form of collective identity, Schmitt suggests, without powerful and potentially dangerous shared emotions and an aura of the sacred.

Habermas has often rejected Schmitt’s “clerico-fascist” ideas, with particular fervor in a 2011 article on Schmitt’s concept of the “The Political.” There he argued that liberal democracies neither have nor require a “religious aura.” They are based on “respect for the inviolability of human dignity,” which, he maintained, is a secular concept independent of any “friend-enemy” distinction. Appeals to collective will should be made on this rational, inclusive basis—or none at all.

Throughout his interventions in European politics, however, Habermas has been unable to stick to this formula. He has often called on Europeans to generate a collective will around a shared past, powerful emotions, and values of heroism and sacrifice, which border on the irrational and quasi-religious forces Schmitt saw as essential to politics. These injunctions, at odds with his own theoretical commitments, have been less than coherent intellectually and less than successful politically. They reveal the inadequacy of what Habermas has promoted since the 1980s as the “collective identity” to replace class, religion, and nation for Europe: “constitutional patriotism.”

Habermas developed the concept of “constitutional patriotism” during the Historikerstreit (“historians’ dispute”) of the late 1980s. During this period, West German conservative politicians and historians argued that their fellow citizens nursed a morbid sense of shared guilt over the crimes of the Nazi regime. Thinkers like Ernst Nolte insisted that Germans must develop a more positive national identity. These appeals often descended into downplaying the Holocaust, shifting the focus to German victims of Soviet reprisals, and they accelerated a rightward shift in the political culture.

Habermas was the most vocal opponent of this trend, and he cemented his status as a leading figure of the German center-left. Breaking through debates over historical guilt, he argued that his countrymen ought to shift their attention, and their affection, to the West German Constitution of 1949 and the broader European liberal democratic tradition on which it was based. They should find their identity in a “constitutional patriotism” potentially open to all human beings, rather than in positive or negative feelings about their national history.

While the Historikerstreit positioned Habermas as the champion of a post-national, progressive West Germany, he overplayed his hand. As the East German government collapsed in 1989, he insisted that “constitutional patriotism” meant that German reunification must not proceed on the basis of national identity. Rather, citizens from the former communist state should join West Germans to draft a new constitution, so that all could feel united by agreed-upon civic values, rather than their unchosen ethnic heritage. This proposal found little support, a failure that bitterly disappointed Habermas. In an interview given in 1993 (in The Past as Future), he complained that post-reunification German politics was based “vague appeals to national feeling” instead of constitutional values.

Rather than deciding that constitutional patriotism could not serve as the sort of collective identity his Kantian politics required, Habermas shifted focus from Germany to Europe. Since the days of the Historikerstreit, he has argued that Europeans should see themselves as united by the legacy of the French Revolution and should formalize their identity by creating a new constitution for a supernational European state, one that would transcend economic and legal integration to create a democratic policy. This decadeslong campaign seems from the perspective of the present like a larger-scale version of his unsuccessful intervention in German reunification. Both have been dogged not only by the resistance of public opinion and political elites, but also by an incoherent view of history.

While his ideal of collective identity seems to require Europeans to reject what he once dismissed as the “backward glance,” Habermas appeals to the legacy of the French Revolution in terms that echo the radical nationalism of 1789. In an essay written on the eve of its bicentennial (“Popular Sovereignty as Procedure”), he argued that what had begun with the fall of the Bastille was not over, “[r]ather it is a project we must carry forward in the consciousness of a revolution both permanent and quotidian.” The “ideals of 1789” must inspire passionate identification and deliberate action in the present. Otherwise, they “will not take root in our souls.”

With such language, Habermas spoke the language of the revolution’s leaders, who had tried to make the values of human rights and democracy part of what they called moeurs, or social practices and emotional experiences. Their efforts could be violent and illiberal. Creating a new civic religion centered on the rights of individuals and a passionate commitment to the nation led, for example, to the persecution of Catholics.

Although he has shied away from the revolution’s violence, Habermas has often described 1789 as the genesis of modern Europe and argued that a sense of connection to such historical events is vital to the “constitutional patriotism” he favors. In a 2001 talk at Washington University (“On Law and Disagreement”), he said that “citizens must see themselves as heirs to a founding generation, carrying on with the common project.”

It is by no means obvious, however, that citizens of contemporary Western democracies see themselves as heirs of the revolution. As Habermas noted, European countries today are receiving more and more non-European immigrants with different worldviews, creating “divided societies” without a “strong value consensus.” It is doubtful whether young people in Europe today will learn to think of themselves as the heirs of 1789 if they do not come to identify with a culture, nation, or civilization that transmits this revolutionary heritage to them.

In an increasingly diverse Europe, ties of symbolic filiation are fraying. As Habermas’s own emotionally laden rhetoric of inheritances, legacies, and heirs suggests, the abstract civic ideals written into a constitution have meaning for citizens only to the extent that the latter already feel themselves to be part of a community to whom those ideals are addressed. So Habermas’s references to 1789 as a point of identification for Europeans contradict his own political theory—and Europe’s social realities.

No more coherent are his frequent appeals to the collective emotion of “indignation,” which he imagines all of us feel when human dignity is violated. The idea of indignation allows Habermas to imagine collective political action might be possible in the absence of traditional identities. In 1992, for example, after incidents of violence against Turkish immigrants in Germany were answered with mass protests, Habermas wrote to Die Zeit in support of demonstrators’ post-nationalist “indignation” on behalf of newcomers.

But indignation does not necessarily serve liberal, cosmopolitan ends. In a 1963 article in Merkur magazine, Habermas denounced the West German state’s campaign of repression against homosexual Germans, which he saw as fueled by homophobic “moral indignation.” As he insisted that people’s private sexual practices should be protected from the indignation of their fellow citizens, however, he argued that “not all indignation leads to witch-hunts” and that “political enlightenment also requires moral motivations.” But in the absence of shared values about the sorts of practices that our feelings about “human dignity” commit us to defend, indignation carries the risk of degenerating into a just such “witch hunts”—or into impotent moralizing.

The latter was the tone that Habermas struck during the Iraq War, castigating the George W. Bush administration for its violations of international law. He saved his most strident criticisms, however, for European leaders, who were unable to develop a united foreign policy as a counterweight to U.S. power. In a 2003 open letter (“February 15, or What Binds Europeans Together”), he deplored this “shipwreck.” Habermas was to some extent concerned by the split between the historic member states of the European Union and the new members from Eastern Europe, which generally fell into line behind the United States. But he was most animated by the failure of Germany, France, and Italy to turn their diplomatic corps’ outrage over U.S. policy into something more substantive. He was also, however, embarrassed and compromised by his own previous support for NATO’s 1999 bombing campaign in Serbia, which had begun without authorization from the United Nations. He struggled to explain why that apparent breach of international law had been acceptable, while U.S. action in Iraq was not.

Habermas found signs of hope, however, in the “power of feelings” that had inspired millions of Europeans to protest against the U.S. invasion of Iraq. But this indignation could not give force to European foreign policy. Without the orientation provided by shared values and a common identity, popular feelings lack the sustained motivating power to shape elites’ behavior. And the United States is hardly Europe’s worst problem. In recent years, as Russia and China have made their influence felt in Europe, often exploiting the same divisions between Western and Eastern countries on which the Bush administration played, neither the threat of division nor popular disgust for Moscow’s and Beijing’s human rights abuses has seemed effective at moving Europe’s leaders toward a united foreign policy.

The legacy of 1789 and the feeling of indignation are not sufficient to produce the collective will that Habermas sees as essential to the realization of the Kantian ideal. In moments of frustration with the halting progress toward European integration, he seems to recognize this inadequacy, and he calls upon supplementary virtues of “heroism” and “sacrifice.”

However, there is no place for these values in Habermas’s theory. Indeed, he often speaks of them with contempt, associating them with the worst excesses of nationalism. In a characteristic moment, just weeks after the 9/11 attacks, he scoffed at Americans’ references to first responders as “heroes.” The “connotations” of heroism, he warned, evoke troubling political memories for a German. Quoting Bertolt Brecht, he concluded, “Unhappy is the country that needs heroes.”

Habermas did not recall that in The Inclusion of the Other (1996) he had demanded European leaders make a “heroic effort,” sacrificing their national identities and short-term interests for an integrated supernational polity. Later, in his On the Constitution of Europe (2011) he again summoned Europe’s “frightened” elites to show “courage” and bemoaned their inability to deepen the European Union’s cohesion. Europe is indeed “unhappy” if its future depends on intellectuals’ ability to coax elites into living up to values of heroism that they themselves despise.

The legacy of the French Revolution, mass emotion, and virtuous elites are only some of the incoherent and ineffective cultural resources that Habermas has drawn on in support of his Kantian political ideal. Such resources are supposed to motivate European citizens to forge a common will, while enabling them to break with historical forms of collective identity. None of them, however, seem to function in the absence of the traditions that Habermas intends them to replace. In an implicit admission of this failure, Habermas has turned in recent years to Christianity as another such resource.

In his recent Auch eine Geschichte der Philosophie, Habermas argues—in a version Schmitt’s claims that he once vehemently rejected—that Christianity has been a historical source for many of liberalism’s core concepts. He insists that Christians today can contribute to the liberal project by “translating” Kantian imperatives into religious language and inspiring believers to advance liberal ends.

Much of Auch eine Geschichte can be seen as a quarrel with Schmitt, but also with the French sociologist of religion Émile Durkheim (1858-1917). The latter argued that politics is always underwritten by a sense of group identity generated in collective rituals through which individuals unite in a group defined by its allegiance to something “sacred.” A liberal democrat and Kantian like Habermas, Durkheim posited that human rights can only be cherished and defended by citizens who are united by a national identity indistinguishable in its intensity from religion.

Habermas notes that Durkheim called for the “renewal of solidarity” through emotion-generating collective rites, such as Bastille Day parades, in order to rescue liberalism from “the abyss of anomie,” or the decline of binding social norms. Yet, Habermas insists that while Durkheim’s ideas may have applied in ancient societies, they are not relevant today. His turn to religion will not go so far as to admit, as Schmitt and Durkheim do, that liberal democracy must itself be a kind of collective faith if it is to survive.

Habermas’s turn to religion is unlikely to offer a more successful prop for his “unofficial” Kantian politics than his previous appeals to 1789, indignation, and heroism. Even as he invokes Christianity as a means of evoking a collective will, Habermas continues to hold at arm’s length the idea that liberal democratic states must actively generate strong allegiances to a shared identity that is smaller than all of humanity. Instead of calling on the state to foster a form of patriotism more robust and less inclusive than Kant’s cosmopolitan ideal, Habermas appeals to religion, as he once appealed to history or emotion, to supply the willpower still absent in his own system. But the post-Reformation Christianity, filtered through Enlightenment philosophy, that he promotes as a resource for liberalism is already much more culturally specific and less inclusive than he acknowledges. Many Christian theologians, such as John Milbank, reject his instrumental conception of their tradition.

As Habermas reaches unconvincingly for Christianity as another stopgap in his search for a new form of post-national collective identity for Europe, Schmitt’s influence continues to grow. In a 1985 essay on Schmitt, Habermas asserted that his nemesis was unlikely to ever gain a wide readership the English-speaking world. Since the 1990s, however, Anglophone scholarship has been marked by a Schmitt revival, first led by figures on the left such as Chantal Mouffe, whose ideas have also exercised a great influence outside the academy, inspiring left-populist parties in Europe such as Podemos and La France Insoumise. More recently, right-wing imitators of Schmitt’s theologically inflected fascism, such as Adrian Vermeule, have risen to intellectual prominence, and perhaps soon to political influence.

More troublingly, Schmitt has become a major point of reference for leaders of the rising global power. China’s use of Schmittian theory to justify its recent crackdown in Hong Kong has been widely noted, but, as Gloria Davies warned in her 2007 article “Habermas in China,” if Schmitt has taken off in China, this is in part Habermas’s fault. Widely read in the 1990s and early 2000s by reform-minded intellectuals, Habermas sparked outrage when he seemed to violate his own cosmopolitan liberal theory by endorsing NATO’s bombing of Serbia, which infamously destroyed China’s embassy in Belgrade.

Habermas’s most widely read article in favor of airstrikes against Serbia, “Bestiality and Humanity,” was structured by claims that Slobodan Milosevic’s regime was committing crimes against humanity—and by an attack on Schmitt, who had dismissed the idea of crimes against humanity with the phrase, “humanity, bestiality.” Outraged Chinese intellectuals such as Zhang Rulun countered that by supporting the violation of Serbian sovereignty, Habermas was more like Schmitt than he realized. Zhang argued that Habermas had revealed Western liberals, for all their talk of “democratic procedure” and “dialogue,” had no more respect for international law than the “rogue” states they wanted to bomb.

Zhang has revealed a fact about Habermas he has often been at pains to conceal, if not escape: That behind his liberal veneer is an emotional and ultimately irrational heart. But what afflicts Habermas is less hypocrisy than self-denial—a lack of self-knowledge that has made it impossible to avoid a drift toward political irrelevance. What remains to be seen is whether the same is true of Western political culture writ large.

[plethora-of-imagines]

Nesting (Part 2)

AN: This is a sequel to @13atoms fic [Nesting], it’s also based on ideas from @iwouldfuckthemaster‘s horny anons for cheetah!Master.

Word Count: 2291

Warnings: smut/lemon, implied breeding desires

Description: The virus is still affecting the Master the next day.

Tag List: @c-s-stars @queerconfusionthings

You woke up alone in the nest of blankets and pillows the Master had made in his horny desperation. Shifting you let out a groan. You felt sore from the stretch the Master’s cock had provided. Wait. You shifted again, then squirmed as much as you could in between the bookcases. When you still couldn’t move you accepted your fate. The Master had swaddled you in a blanket like a child. You couldn’t move enough to leave the nest and figure out where he had gone.

Making the best of it you nuzzled into the comfort of the nest. At least all of the blankets and pillows that the Master kept in his bedroom made the floor comfortable. It was almost like you were in a small bed on the floor. You had always teased him a bit for collecting as many blankets and pillows on his bed as a young girl had stuffed animals but you had never been more grateful.

The sound of the door opening got you to use your core strength to lift yourself up while still cocooned. Grimacing at the ache is caused. The Master walked through the door, still completely naked. He waisted no time in heading directly to the nest. With the way his cock was standing at attention you had a feeling you knew what he was planning to do.

A yank on the correct part of the blanket as he lifted you up freed you from your imprisonment. Well at least briefly. You only got a few moments to enjoy being released before you were quickly turned over and shoved face-first into the blanket nest. You twisted your head so that it was your cheek that was pressed into all of the blankets. His weight resting on top of you to keep you from squirming away as his lips found your neck.

Nips and bites were made to the sore and bruised marks from yesterday that were already covering your neck. You scrunched your eyes closed trying to ignore the slight discomfort it brought. A particularly harsh bite made you yelp in pain.

"Ow! Master, I'm not your chew toy!"

Kisses were pressed to the site as an apology.

"I've moved us far away from the planet. Somewhere few can reach us and challenge my claim to you."

"Claim to me?"

"As I said yesterday, you're ovulating. All those hormones and pheromones telling anyone nearby that you are ready to mate," he pressed you further into the floor. "But you're mine. All mine! I refuse to let anyone else get close enough to threaten my claim on you."

You could feel the growls that filled every space in his words, his proclamation that you were his.

Nose pressed against your skin he took a deep inhale. A pleased purr left his throat at your scent. He nuzzled into you the whole time he spoke.

"You've always smelled so good, but now you smell like the two of us and sex. It's perfect."

Your legs were spread open and hips lifted up. A small pillow placed underneath you to keep you lifted up so that he had better access to your vagina. His cock slid between your folds back and forth until his cock could move with ease.

You whimpered as he slid into you. It ached to have him stretching you again after how rough he had been last night. It was a pleasant ache, only because you somewhat enjoyed the pain. Soothing noises and purrs filled the air the whole time he entered you to help you relax.

He waited for you to take a few deep breaths before he started to fiercely pound into you, once again chasing his release. Your breath hitched as he found an angle that let him hit your g-spot and cervix, hard. Each thrust he made had you grinding into the pillow through no choice of your own. Just the sheer force of his movements. The clit stimulation helping to make the rough fucking he was giving you from behind pleasant for you. Your little moans filled the air along with his grunts and growls.

His hand snaked into your hair, tightly gripping it at the base of your skull. Yanking you back by your hair. Legs twitching with all of the stimulation.

"Whose are you?" His tone was strict, there was a correct answer that you'd better provide him with.

"Yours! I'm yours, Master!"

Your yell would have been heard by anyone else in the TARDIS, had there been anyone around to hear.

The pleased growl that he responded with made your whole body vibrate and tremble.

"Mine," it was the most possessive you had ever heard him.

With another sharp bite to your neck, he came inside of you. It was the fastest he had ever cum, normally he chased your climax first. You hadn't cum yourself this time but you still felt good. His teeth released their grip on your neck. Kisses peppered all over your neck and upper back to soothe you as you shook under him. 

You didn't even try to move as he pulled out. Maneuvering you like a rag doll he wrapped you back up in the blankets. Once again swaddled by them so you couldn't really move around, never mind try to leave the nest. He flipped you onto your back and kissed you deeply.

He pulled away and gazed lovingly at your lips. Kissing you again. This time when he pulled away he started to reluctantly leave.

"Master?" Your voice sounded vulnerable and needy.

You didn't want him to leave. You wanted cuddles. He quickly came back to your bound form. Dozens of kisses were pressed all over your face. A breathless giggle left your bruised lips.

"Sleep. I'll be back with food and water soon."

You still missed him when he left but the warmth and secure comfort of the nest lulled you to sleep. You were exhausted, and you had barely moved at all during this round of sex.

You woke to being lifted up and settled down in his embrace. He fretted over your positioning as you stirred. You nuzzled lazily into his bare chest. A cup was lifted to your lips. Coaxing you into taking several small sips of water.

Opening your eyes as he set down the cup you could smell the breakfast he had made you. Squirming to free your arms as he moved to restraint you. He gave a small little growl as he tightly held you still.

When you stopped struggling he loosened his grip. One arm remained around you as the other brought a bite of French toast to your lips. You took the bite and started chewing, hoping that he would let you speak before feeding you another bite. You swallowed as quickly as you could.

"I can feed myself, Master."

You curiously looked up at him. What was the reason for him taking it upon himself to feed you? He gave a small grimace at your probing statement. He must not want to admit to the answer.

"The virus has made me want to provide for you even more than before," he sighed. "Normally just making you breakfast is all I need to feel that I am properly providing for you, but now I feel the need to prove that I am the best possible choice for you as a mate. Which seems to involve feeding you."

You smiled,  "You know I'll always choose you, Master."

Another kiss was pressed to the crown of your head.

"Indulge my instincts this time, pet. I promise I will try not to be as overbearing if this continues in the future."

You settled fully into his arms, letting him feed you. Every few bites you took he seemed compelled to give you a soft kiss as a reward.

After you were done with the food he had made he returned to holding you tightly against him. This time almost unnoticeable purrs passed through his body. You let yourself relax and enjoy how calm everything was.

Calm, until you started to feel him hardening again through the blanket. You shivered at the thought of another round. Taking your shiver as an invitation the Master removed you once again from the cocoon he had swaddled you in. Hovering above you he looked down at you with lust.

He spent several minutes just working on getting you turned on. His fingers circling around your clit, slowly arousing you. When you started to buck up against his hand he pulled away. Once again sliding his cock into you. This time he went slow, letting you feel every inch as it entered you. You wanted nothing more than for him to just push quickly the rest of the way in, but he refused to let you move.

“Stay down,” he snarled at your efforts to lift yourself up and push him further into you.

The pace he set was slow this time. Going almost all the way out before he slid back in inch by inch. Your hands bunched up the blankets underneath you. You would never have thought that you would want the Master to harshly fuck you for the third time in such a short period of time. Normally you would have wanted him to go slow and sweet for the sake of your aching body. But he was deliberately going so slow that it would take you forever to cum.

His hands started to busy themselves with your clit. You sighed in relief as his attention to your clit brought you closer. It was much less achingly slow than his thrusts were. You could feel him starting to twitch inside of you.

"My little mate," he leaned near to your ear to purr to you.

"Little? Master I'm not smaller than you," you laughed.

"Precious -little- mate," each word was followed by a playful growl.

"Saying I'm little won't make you magically taller, Master," you purred back.

The coherent look in his eyes as he pulled away from your ear practically yelled mischief. A sharp thrust had you crying out. You were so deliciously sore.

"My tiny, little mate," he teased. "So stretched around her Master's cock, being thoroughly filled and claimed."

Before you could protest again that you were not tiny he picked up the pace. Strangled noised left you with each harsh thrust. His fingers keeping you from being in pain by overriding your senses with pleasure. His hands stilled the moment he started to cum.

The Master lifted your lower body up off the floor as he came. Holding you up as he pressed his cock as deeply into you as he could. He felt so deep inside of you that it hurt. You whined and shook, your body ready to fall the moment he released you. Your stomach was softly kissed as he held you up for several minutes, letting his cum be kept deep inside you by his cock. Gently you were lowered back down to the floor and the Master pulled out.

You could feel your clit contacting, feeling empty without him inside you. Shifting your weight around you tried to stimulate yourself enough to forget how empty you felt. 

"Does my little mate feel empty without her Master's cock?"

You whined at him.

"I'm afraid we need to let that pretty little pussy of yours rest for a while. Don't worry I'll make you feel good while we wait."

His hands- no longer needed to hold you up- started to focus on your clit again. He held you still as he made you moan with every stroke of his fingers. You could feel your core tightening, you were so close.

"Who are you?"

"Master, please!"

You were right on the edge. A few more strokes to your clit would send you over the edge. And the Master knew it. He slowed down to a painfully, achingly slow pace. Just enough to keep you near the edge but never give you enough to go over.

“Your mate! All yours!”

You needed him to make you cum!

"Who are you?" He teased.

He knew that he could make you say it. He wouldn't let you cum until you did. You wanted to cum too much to fight him on this.

"Master's tiny, little mate. Please, Master!" You were begging him. "Please let your mate cum!"

His fingers picked up their pace throwing you over the edge. They continued to draw out your orgasm until you whined and squirmed away. Falling to your side, the Master pulled you in close. Kissing the bruises on your neck from all of his biting he had done that he could reach.

"Get some rest," his voice sounded sated and tired. "I think after filling you with my cum a few more times I'll be ready to let you leave the nest."

You groaned.

"Oh don't groan like that, we both know you're loving this."

You were pulled even closer to him. He was right but that didn't mean you wouldn't complain about it a small bit.

"By the time you're ready to let me leave the nest, I'll be too sore to leave. I think if I tried to leave now I'd have to crawl!"

You could feel his smile pressed against your shoulder. He was clearly pleased with himself for a job well done.

"Good, that means that I’ve been through enough in claiming you."

You playfully pouted but nuzzled into the Master’s embrace. If this -nesting- didn’t happen again naturally maybe you would have to convince the TARDIS to go back to that planet again sometime. You enjoyed it enough to want this to eventually happen again.

[sooibian]

Stranger Things (2)

Pairing: Baekhyun x fem!Reader ft. Kyungsoo, Mark Lee, Jongdae (if you squint)

Description: You met an obnoxious lawyer at the airport and fell stupidly in “love” but little did you know, his heart belonged to someone else.

Themes: Fluff, crack, stupid OC, Mark Lee’s debut with a law firm, organic cucumbers, cowsheds, corgis, farmer!Soo, lawyer!Baek

A/N: This was not supposed to happen but four people asked for it and that’s really all it takes to get me to do something. I was SO tempted to title this - Of Cowsheds and Corgis!! This fic is ridiculous and very predictable but I gave up on the angst I was writing for this because ridiculous is just what I need right now. I truly hope you’re all safe and healthy!

Word Count: ~ 1.6k

Chapters:  One | Two | Three | Four (Final)

Groaning, you put down your second ‘fruit platter’ with a deliberate clang on Kyungsoo’s bedside table. Nothing. “Yah! Did you catch narcolepsy in that ridiculously mind numbing hamlet?” The skinny end of your chopstick slowly made its way to the sole of his left foot. Still nothing. Panic swelled within you and you crawled over to his side to check his breathing. He was breathing, alright.

“Eomma!” You bellowed. Maybe it was time for the third medley of diced apples and bananas.

Still nothing.

***

“Sloth.” You took a jibe at a barely awake Kyungsoo.

“Creep.”

“Creep?”

“You were watching me sleep!”

“I was waiting for you to wake up! There’s a difference, Snorlax.”

“Patience - -”, his mouth fell open in a huge yawn.

“Isn’t my greatest virtue. Yeah, I know. You’ve said it a million times. It’s etched in my heart. I’ll get it tattooed across my forehead. Now spill.”

For a moment Kyungsoo looked confused before diving into his fruit platter with a half-suppressed snicker. 

“What?” You attacked his stupid bespectacled face with a pillow. When was the last time he got a change of glasses? He’s worn this thick-rimmed atrocity forever. Although the man was optically challenged, his hearing was more than just fine. He was quick to spot the hint of defensiveness in your tone and his heart shaped smile had a reputation of showing up only when you were in deep trouble. “Ahhhhh….my case? The bank is entitled to a lien on the adjoining cowshed - ”

You cut in with a long impatient sigh. “Kyungsoo, sweetie, can we talk about corgis for now?”

“Chubs”, you undid your messy bun at the sound of that horrendous nickname, “you’ve got a bad case of --- honestly whatever this is. You spent two hours with him. Two.”

“Squishy, I’m not three anymore. I am a woman now.” His face contorted into an expression of disgust. “Stop. Calling me. Chubs.” Interjecting every word by striking his shoulder with your feeble wrist, you noticed how ‘un-Squishy’ he’d gotten over the past one year. “And I know all there is to know...about your 174 cm tall friend who struts around like he’s no less than 185. But that’s not him...that’s Handsome Mr. Park, his partner.”

“Stalker!” Kyungsoo’s eyes grew wide in horror and he flicked your forehead very, very hard.

Swallowing your cry of pain, you pinched his ear with all your might, making him wince. “It’s called content curation. If you ever happen to meet a lovelorn village belle ….let me know, yeah? I’m willing to put up my skills to offer. For a fee, of course.”

“YAH!” He freed himself from your grasp. “Behave! You’re not three anymore, right? Tell me...how much do you know about Baekhyun?” He was curious. Slightly panic-struck, even. But you couldn’t tell why.

“I will tell you but I need to know something before that. Has he - Doh Kyungsoo I swear to God I will bury you alive if you so much as smile - has he mentioned me at all?” You felt your face flame and a part of you really did not want to know the answer to that.

Kyungsoo sucked the insides of his cheeks in and said, “He thinks you’re interesting.”

You knew 'interesting', almost always, was nothing but a euphemism for weird. Ignoring the tender ache in your chest you said, "Well, I think he looks a lot like his corgi Mongryong. Mum has invited you to dinner tomorrow. Later, Squish." You pulled him in a bear hug, picked up the two, now polished, plates and walked out of Kyungsoo's room, slowly closing the door behind you.

"Eomma, Kyungsoo will be joining us for dinner -"  

"Chubs, wait!" He hurried out of his room and handed you a rather heavy C4 size envelope. "My dentist appointment has been moved to today and I had to drop these documents off at Byun Park's", after a small pause he hesitantly continued, "he won't be there."

"Who won't be there?" Kyungsoo’s mother eyed the both of you suspiciously.

You couldn’t say no to the illustrious prince of a family who fed you a whole carton of organic fruits a while ago. At least not in front of the matriarch.

"It's nothing Eomma… it's Kyungsoo's friend Byun Baekhyun. Yah! Doh Kyungsoo! Stop acting like he's my ex boyfriend."

***

Your heart raced as you stepped into the elevator of the swanky commercial building. Pushing the button for the 27th floor, you turned around to examine yourself in the mirror feeling frumpy and underdressed in your faded yellow sweater and mom-jeans. The ding of the elevator jolted your heart and your mouth went dry as you lay your eyes on the blond haired man standing in front of you. You wanted nothing more than to snake your arm around Doh Kyungsoo’s neck and put him in a tight chokehold until he begged for mercy -- at this point you weren’t very keen on letting go of the imaginary, gasping for breath, blue in the face, Doh Kyungsoo. He won’t be there??

“Hi”, you said stepping out of the elevator but what you really wanted to say was ‘I want to delete myself’.

“Airport Girl!” He jested. You didn’t feel very apologetic anymore or even underdressed for that matter since the partner of a snooty law firm thought that a long sleeved jersey with bib shorts were an acceptable choice of clothing. Nevertheless, you properly introduced yourself and did what was long overdue.

“I am sorry about the other day and -- ” You briefly waited for him to cut you off with a ‘Don’t worry about it’ or even dismiss it with loud ‘hahaha’ but instead his little eyebrow raise insisted you complete your apology. “And I shouldn’t have - -”

“Airport Girl, I notice you have a problem completing your sentences.” Resting his hands on his hips he cocked his head to the side. That vaguely familiar annoying smirk made your skin crawl.

“Byun Baekhyun-ssi, I am here to see Lee Min Hyung. I am supposed to hand over Kyungsoo’s documents to him. I hope you’re working hard on my friend’s case. He really needs that cowshed back, he’s paid the broker’s fee in full for it. I hope this was coherent enough for you.” His smirk stretched into a genuine smile as he inched closer to you. Uncomfortable as you were standing in an enclosed space and conversing with a man in bib shorts, the diminished distance from his two small strides made you squirm. You could practically smell his cologne.

“I’ll forgive you if you agree to come cycling with me. Right now.”

“Absolutely not. Can I go see Lee Min Hyung now?”

“MARK LEE!” Baekhyun bellowed. The unsparing luminous smile on his face wasn’t doing any favours to the health of your heart. Within seconds, a bespectacled young lad who looked like he hadn’t slept a wink for days came rushing to his side. So Byun Baekhyun worked his employees to the bone while he himself took hiking trips in absurd outfits.

He put an arm around the frail boy and introduced the fresh law graduate to you, “This is my main man Mark Lee from Canada.” Violently thumping Mark’s back he continued, “Madam’s here with Doh Kyungsoo’s documents. Take her inside and go over the file. Check if anything’s missing and most importantly, offer her something cold to drink.” Letting go of Mark, he said to you with a wink, “I’ll be waiting in the lobby, Airport Girl. Or you’re never losing the nickname.”

***

Mark Lee’s involuntary metamorphosis from scaredy cat to ferocious lion cub in the conference room took you by surprise. While going over Kyungsoo’s documents like a hawk focused on its prey, he dutifully put a glass of ice water in front of you just as instructed by Byun Baekhyun. It was nothing more than a courtesy call. “Doh Kyungso-ssi’s personal documents all look okay -- ID card, bank statements, transaction information, realtors invoice, property possession documents.” You lost him at ‘realtor’s invoice’. “Seems to me, the realtor tricked him - - why did he not get due diligence done before investing in property? How could he not notice that the title deed does not extend to the cowshed?” Mark Lee was furious….at you.

“He’s just a simple man with simple dreams who wanted to trade his city existence for a quiet rural homestead and grow organic cucumbers, I guess? Why don’t you give him a call and --”

Mark Lee’s paw met the desk in a loud smack, startling you. “A simple due diligence would’ve saved him the hassle - -”

You weren’t exactly sure of the reason Byun Baekhyun thought you’d need a cold drink but he was so right, everything else seemed wrong. You took a rather large gulp of water, snatched Mark Lee’s notepad from his firm grasp and scribbled Kyungsoo’s number in it. “Here’s Doh Kyungsoo’s number. Call him if you need anything further.” You rose from your chair and eyed him sympathetically. “Take care, Mark Lee and please don’t skip meals.”

***

He waited for you, just as he’d promised. He somehow managed to look just as stunning in that funny costume as he did when you saw him at the airport. “Let’s go. Half an hour with that enthu cutlet Mark Lee and I need to feel the wind in my hair. How do you manage?”

“Yah! Airport Girl. He’s my best and brightest.” Sounding like a proud parent he guided you to the parking lot. The guilt weighing your heart down compelled you to ask, “What about Yoona?”

“She’ll be joining us.” Baekhyun quipped nonchalantly, opening the door to his Audi for you.

It was at that exact moment you said a silent prayer to a certain 3rd generation male idol to strike you with lightning and put you out of your misery.

Tagging: @hirumixoxo @majesticsnow @dreamingofdreamydream @juncottonluvbot

[celsidebottom]

Given how exhausted Jon was after extracting a statement from Breekon, it’s likely that compelling Peter Lukas from within the Lonely will probably wipe him out even more.  So, based on a conversation I had with @kalgalen, here’s a short fic of Jon passing out the moment they’re out of the Lonely, and the talk he and Martin have when he wakes up, a talk which is long overdue.

Heaving and staggering, Jon and Martin stepped from the fog and static and back into the Panopticon, faint wisps of the Lonely still clinging to them until they finally wrenched themselves from it entirely.  

It was only once they were back in the Institute, hard, solid ground beneath their feet, did Jon realize how exhausted he was.  While looking for Martin, focusing on saving him above anything else, his adrenaline had taken over and nothing could stop him, not even Peter Lukas.  But compelling Lukas that last time, trying to force him to explain and – oh, god – killing him… Jon started relying more and more on the arm Martin had wrapped around his shoulders as they clung to each other and to the companionship both of them had very nearly lost. 

But soon enough, even Martin holding tight to him and calling his name couldn’t keep him awake. Exhaustion won out, and Jon fell to the floor.  The last thing he heard was Martin crying out for him, begging him to not leave him alone again.

*

Jon blinked heavily against the fluorescent light above him.  His head ached, and he could barely move his limbs from the bed in which he rested.

Besides the pain, though, he could feel one thing, something warm and soft against his hand, a vague motion to it.  

Struggling against his weakness, he lifted up his head to see Martin beside the bed, now watching him with worried and relieved eyes, while his hand tightened its grip around Jon’s.

“Jon… you’re… you’re okay.”

“Where are we?  What happened?”  Everything was a blur, flickering combinations of fear and static.  

“You saved me.  From the Lonely.  And then, when we got out, you�� you passed out.  I carried you back to the Archives.  Elias tried to stop me, briefly, but, well, out of everything, he was not going to stop me.”  Martin let out a heavy exhale.  “I didn’t know if you were just unconscious or if…  but you’re alright.  You’re awake.  You’re here.”

Jon squeezed Martin’s hand and mustered a smile, before propping himself up on some pillows. Every motion ached and his head throbbed, but it all hurt a little less once he was able to see Martin, still sitting there, holding carefully to his hand and refusing to let go.  “I’m not going anywhere, Martin.”

“Thank you,” Martin whispered.  After a pause, he continued, more frantically this time, “When you passed out in the Panopticon, I thought… I was afraid you were in another coma, or something.  Last time they didn’t expect you to ever wake up. And I… eventually believed that. I gave up on you.  Not this time.”  He shut his eyes tight against the tears.  “I’m not giving up this time.  I don’t know why you didn’t give up on me, but… thank you.”

“Because I love you,” Jon said, blurting out the words that had replayed in his head over and over as he wandered through the Lonely, hoping that that feeling might guide him to Martin.  

Martin watched him, clearly playing the words over in his head, before smiling and giggling slightly as a blush crept into his cheeks.  Jon couldn’t help but smile at him too, biting back an apology – he’d said the truth, and there was no reason to take it back, not now.  Not as Martin looked at him with a light in his eyes that hadn’t been there in ages, reminding Jon of every little thing he loved about him.

“I love you too,” Martin replied quietly.  “I thought I’d stopped.  But… once I saw you in there, really saw you… I know that those feelings never went away.  Not even when I thought you were dead.  But you’re here, we’re here…  Can I… can I hug you?”

Jon nodded and laughed as much as his aching body would allow.  “Yes.  Yes.”

Martin flung himself forward, held onto Jon, and buried his face in the crook of his neck.  A second later he tried to pull himself back, uttering some apology given Jon’s condition, but he couldn’t move as Jon sunk into the embrace, holding onto Martin with every ounce of his strength. They stayed like that for some time, crying into each other, offering apologies for every moment that they were apart and thanks for coming back together against all odds.

Only after they broke away and Martin returned to holding Jon’s hand, did Jon speak.  “There is… something that Peter Lukas said while I was in the Lonely.  He pointed out that we don’t actually know each other that well.  And, he’s right.  So, once I regain my strength and can stand again, what do you say we go get a coffee or something?  A proper date?  None of this end-of-the-world nonsense.”

“I’d like that.  I’d really like that.”

“Thank you for staying with me,” Jon added, unable to think particularly coherently as he focused on the way Martin’s thumb brushed against his own and exhaustion started to creep back into his bones.  

“I’m not leaving again. I mean, maybe to go to the restroom or get a snack or something, but…”  They both laughed, a melodious sound that echoed against the darkness of the Institute.

“I think… I’m going to get some rest, if that’s alright,” Jon requested, barely able to keep his eyes open as he spoke.  

“I’ll be here when you wake up.  Take your time.”

Jon smiled and shut his eyes.  Before sleep claimed him, he mumbled, “I’m glad we didn’t wait too long.”

[littleladymab]

tiny cracks of light - chapter eleven

(master post)

Prelude- Basira doesn't fidget beneath his gaze. She remains seated, calmly returning it, face impassive. 

Jon doesn't realize how much he has missed being regarded without fear or trepidation or anger until that moment. He takes a breath and considers his next words carefully, unwilling to force her to tell him what she doesn't want to. He doesn't want her to be the next to flinch. 

"You've worked here for almost three years," he says, and she nods. "You're only just coming to me now with this suspicion?" 

"There are so many other things at play here," Basira replies. "I have not been in a place so heavily observed by the Eye, that it was honestly disorienting in and of itself until I realized that that was part of the problem." 

He leans back in his chair and runs a hand over his face, exhausted. "The Watcher doesn't seem too worried about your presence here. You're certain he's aware you're one of the…" Jon makes a vague gesture in her direction. 

She lifts an eyebrow. "One of the what, Jon?" 

He doesn't want to say it. There's a danger in being known and named, and he doesn't want to put that weight behind Basira's presence. Not when he feels like she is the only person still on his side — Sasha's betrayal, Tim's self-destruction, Martin's withdrawal, Daisy's volatility. How many of them are because of what he's done, or more importantly, hasn't done? 

She waits, patiently, for him to answer. 

Jon forces himself to speak. "One of the Order of the Divine Host. One of the Blind." 

"I am," she confirms simply. 

Why are you really in my Archives? he wants to ask, but he doesn't. 

Instead, Basira continues without his prompting, and he wonders if she still feels compelled to give the details. "Despite what you might think of us, whatever you have learned from these books or heard from your Watcher, we are not so inclined as to destroy the sun, or send the world into a never-ending night." She hesitates, clearly debating what information she wants to give him. "There is a difference between all-knowing, and knowing enough." 

He surprises himself by laughing. "I'm well aware." 

She has the decency to wince at that. "On a grand scale, especially. There are things that seek to know and order the world to their whims, and we are the ones who wish to keep those futures… in the dark, so to speak." 

Jon considers this. In this head, the Eye yells at him in warning. The fear seeps into his own limbs, and this, too, he considers. "It's my job to know and understand," he begins slowly. "More than that, it is what I want to do, even if given a choice." 

"I'm not giving you a choice, I'm stating the facts as I know them—" 

"I understand that, but if you think that I'll just stop because some people think I should… I'm sorry to say that it's not possible." He pauses, and studies the wood grain of his desk, the whorls that almost look like eyes if one has more of a fanciful imagination. "I am, at this point, I think, quite unable to stop." 

Basira exhales through her nose, but still manages to keep her expression under control. "Do not think that the Blind are the only ones who are working against you, Archivist." 

"I think far too highly of myself to believe that only one group would be afraid," he says with words that aren't his own and the taste of iron in his mouth. "And you, Basira? Where do you fall on that scale?" 

She tries to resist. He can see it in the lines of her jaw, in the pulse of anger in the tether that binds her to the Eye, faint as it is. "I don't think you want this," she says, and he wonders what she would have called him if she had been weaker. 

Jon, or Archivist? 

He wonders where the line between them even is. 

Sasha wakes up first, with the sun at her back and Tim's arm slung over her waist. She frees one arm from between them and traces the slope of his nose. The uneven bump from a break that didn't heal correctly. Freckles and scars, both new and familiar. 

She can feel him slowly come to wake beneath her hand. He tilts his head to press a tired, off-center kiss to her bandaged wrist, then gazes up at her with sleep-bleary eyes and a lazy smile. "Good morning," she says, and he gives a content sigh. 

"I've missed this," he murmurs. "I've missed you." 

Her fingers continue their study, discovering the changes she couldn't see in the dark before. "What did you mean by 'as beautiful as a sunrise'? I don't think I've known you to ever be awake that early." 

Tim's laugh is accompanied by an embarrassed groan. He flops over onto his back, rubbing his hand over his face. "Heavens, Sasha, don't make me explain myself now." 

She follows after, grinning. "I want to know!" 

"Of course you do, you want to know everything," he teases. 

"I'll keep it a secret." 

He drapes his arm over his eyes. "It's so corny to explain it now." 

Even though he can't see it, she pouts. 

"Fine!" he concedes eventually. His arm lifts enough for one eye to glare up at her, and he sports a pout of his own. "I mean that when you're the first thing I see in the morning, you're this brilliant golden glow that I just want to bask in. Or something." 

She can feel herself flush all over, and he reaches up to let his fingers tangle in her mess of hair. "Oh," she says, for lack of anything more coherent. 

"I told you it was stupid." He applies the slightest bit of pressure to the back of her head, and she bends beneath his touch with ease. 

"It's not," she says, laughing, before she kisses him. "It's really not."

She had meant to get up to go do work, but his is an easy rhythm to fall into, and eventually she forgets what she even meant to do beyond this moment. 

When she wakes up a second time, Tim is gone and there is a haphazardly folded paper on the pillow beside her. She flops over onto her stomach and flips it open. 

Got called to do some work with Daisy. I'll see you for lunch.  - Tim  (As in we'll have lunch together like old times but honestly, I'm not complaining about the implication of having you for lunch)

She fails at stifling her laugh, reveling in how light she feels at that moment. She knows that this is not everything going back to normal. There is still a monster inside of her that wants out, and an inferno inside of Tim that wants to destroy. The Archivist is missing, and she carries marks that were never meant for her. 

But at least she can have this. 

Sasha folds the paper back up and searches for a pen. 

Find me in the Archives, I'll decide then. - S 

She leaves it on his pillow and goes to wash up. 

She could go back to her room to clean up properly, but she doesn't want to lose any more time. So she pulls her skirts back on, uses one of Tim's shirts, and makes her way to the Archives while braiding her hair. 

The stacks are bathed in bright light from the high windows, heavy with a mid-morning silence that welcomes her in. 

A pleased sigh escapes her lips as she walks through them. Last time, she was still a barely remembered variable. But now she is more Archivist than two days ago, and the Archives recognize her as their own. 

They will never be hers, like they had once been, but she can feel at peace here once again. The jagged lines of the past have been smoothed over, forgiven. 

She wants to return Jon to this place as much as it wants him back. 

Sasha collects several sheets of paper and a pen, then begins to make a list of what she knows. She has to lean into the connection with the Eye, despite the way it makes the thing inside of her squirm in anticipation. 

"You're not going to get another chance," she tells it. 

Seeing the future has never been your strong suit, it mocks. 

She has no comeback to that. 

The list is an incredibly short one, because even with the Eye's assistance, she still doesn't know much. The connection to the others is important — the marks that they share with Jon, as much as they rely on his presence. 

One way or another, he's saved each of them, that much she is certain of. Which implies that she still has to figure out Basira, and even Melanie. They both bear evidence of the Eye, though in different ways. 

Her pen pauses as she thinks about Melanie — who left the Archives of her own accord. Sasha wonders if she could find any remaining tether between her and this place, or if there had been a re-acclimation process for her. 

Did she hesitate before crossing the barrier, the same way Sasha did? Did she trace her paths through these halls to try and remember what they meant to her? 

Did she leave because she wanted to, or because she was forced to? 

Sasha realizes that she's been doodling while lost in thought, and when she looks, she finds the paper (list and all) covered in dozens of eyes. 

"Hard at work I see, Miss James." 

Sasha jumps, the pen flying from her already weak grasp. "Watcher," she gasps, forcing out a shaky laugh as she shuffles loose papers over her ruined page. "I rarely see you out of your office." 

Elias offers a benign smile and gestures to one of the chairs at her table. 

She hesitates, then nods. 

He takes a seat with a soft huff of breath and looks at the shelves surrounding them. "I wanted to talk with you, Watcher to… temporary Archivist." Again, that smile. "I see that you're making yourself right back at home." 

"I… I suppose?" 

"Are your hands alright? I heard about what happened with Miss Perry." He gives a mournful shake of his head, and Sasha half expects him to say 'such a shame'. "I'm glad to see that you have Tim back under control." 

Sasha immediately goes red, then cold dread fills her chest. "I'm not certain I know what you're talking about," she says, suddenly very aware of the way Tim's shirt fits on her frame. "He is perfectly in control of himself." 

Elias turns up his hands in a placating gesture and pretends not to notice as Sasha adjusts the collar of the shirt to hide marks that aren't even there. "It's been a long three years." It's neither an agreement nor a statement to the contrary, but Sasha knows that he's not saying it to be nice to either herself or Tim. 

"I'm certain you're busy, Watcher, and I don't wish to keep you with idle conversation." Sasha forces her hands to keep still on the table, unwilling to fidget in his presence. "What can I help you with?" 

"Oh, I just wanted to check on your progress. See how the search for my Archivist is going." 

She looks at the corner of the paper, covered in eyes, the list more questions than answers. "I would think you knew better than I do." 

He waves a hand airily. "I can only see that he will be returned to me, but the details, Miss James, are the job of the Head Archivist." His smile feels like a knife between her ribs, a reminder of what she was unable to achieve and is still only borrowing through his assistance. 

She doesn't know how to respond. She doesn't know what she expected. 

It all feels wrong, but it has felt like this for so long that she never noticed until she came back to this place. 

There's a footstep from several rows over, and Elias' gaze swivels away. "Basira," he says cheerfully. "Come join us." 

Basira doesn't quite sulk out of the stacks, but she certainly doesn't look happy at being called over. "Elias," she says by way of greeting. "Surprised to see you out of your office." 

"Yes, well, I wanted to see how Miss James was getting on in her search for our missing Archivist. So far it seems she's just made herself a more competent replacement." His tone implies that he's teasing, but the thing inside Sasha rages at his words. 

It takes every bit of energy she has to not get up and leave. Running away would be admitting something she doesn't want to face.

Still, Basira's presence helps relieve the pressure of Elias' attention. Sasha reaches out with her senses, and lets that calm wash over her. 

"We have our theories." Basira puts her hand on the back of Sasha's chair. “But it has barely been three days." 

"Since Miss James has arrived, but longer since Jonathan has been missing." 

There is a moment where the two of them stare at each other. Elias' smile widens slightly, the expression shifting into thinly veiled amusement as the seconds drag on. 

Finally, there is a grunt of frustration from Basira. "It would go faster if you didn't seek to interrupt us." 

Elias holds up his hands to defer to her. "Of course, my apologies. Like I said, I was just checking on Miss James, especially after Tim's breakdown just outside the Archives."

Sasha goes cold again. "As you can see, I am fine." 

"Indeed," he says, not sounding entirely convinced. "Well, I'll leave you two to it then." 

"Much obliged," Basira intones dryly and Elias gives her a thin smile before leaving. 

Sasha remains frozen for several painful seconds until she finally moves to once again adjust the collar of the shirt. 

Basira moves to sit in the recently vacated chair and does not comment. "I had hoped to catch you before he did." 

A high, strained laugh works its way out of Sasha's mouth. "I appreciate the sentiment."

"I actually wanted to speak to you about something, if you have the time." 

Sasha looks at her in surprise, then pushes aside the papers. "I can use all the assistance I can get, if that is what you mean." 

Basira shrugs. "Sort of. It does have to do with a suspicion I brought to Jon a few months ago. And… a concern I have, regarding what has happened to you." 

"How so?" 

"My order, the Divine Host — the Blind, as you call us." Basira touches a hand to her breastbone, and Sasha wonders if she wears a pendant beneath her brocade robes. Then she reaches out and pulls the paper covered in eyes from the disorderly stack. With the charcoal stick from the pouch at her side, Basira begins to steadily and patiently blind every single one of them. "The legend is that we once captured a powerful entity that wanted to command the world." 

Sasha watches as the eyes become awash with X's and jagged lines. It feels like a spell in its own way, and so she lets it happen without interruption. 

"That entity was once a man named Jonah Magnus, who began to see the future, and sought to control it." Basira sets aside the stick and, just as methodically, she begins to tear the page. "I think you recognize that name." 

"Jonah Magnus, the founder of the Institute," Sasha says despite how dry her mouth feels.

She nods. She sets aside two halves of an eye and begins on the next. "Given enough Watchers under his control, he sought to spread the power of the Eye and not only see the future, but arrange it to his whims." 

"That obviously hasn't happened." It feels more like a question, begging for confirmation.

"Not yet." 

"You have some reason to think that it will?" 

Basira sets aside another jagged half of an eye. "I think it is in the process of happening, and that Elias needs Jon for that." 

Sasha reaches out and covers Basira's hand with her own, pulling it away from the paper. "Speak clearly," she says, and she swallows back the taste of iron. "I do not have time for vaguery." 

"Magnus has escaped from our captivity. Likely a weakening of any restraints and wards we had after all that time. The Order has sent members to Archives across the country in order to see if they can find any trace of where he has gone." 

"And you think he is here?" Sasha asks, looking down at the mangled paper between them. 

"I think that he is here." Basira crumbles the paper in one hand before offering it to Sasha. "I tried to bring my concerns to Jon, but I think he was too far gone by that point." 

She takes the paper ball and focuses on it. It is a mass of strings, jumbled together. A few of them float off, severed by Basira's destruction. But the rest tangle into a cord that ties back to the Eye. Sasha listens, and the pieces inside of her clamor against the scrutiny. 

The Eye remains silent, watching her back. 

"Do you believe Jon to be Jonah Magnus?" she asks, trying to decide if she finds it ridiculous or not. "Jon. Jonah. You don't think that's a little too on the nose?" She had never seen Gertrude wield the level of power he had in that one moment against the Stranger. 

She had never seen Gertrude do what she has done in the last two days. 

"Not Jon, no." 

"What, Elias?" Even as she says it, though, it doesn't seem too much of a stretch.

Basira shrugs. "It is only a theory. And I think that the Eye had its grip too far into Jon for him to be of any assistance. It aligns with what Georgie said, about the ritual in the lake." 

"And you think that I am the better choice." It's not a question. It doesn't have to be. Elias does not want her to be the Archivist, despite the fact that she seems to be rapidly following in Jon's footsteps.

"I think you understand better than most what is at stake here." Basira rises to her feet and points at the crumbled paper. "I just ask that you consider it before your next move to recover the Archivist." 

"I thought you wanted me to find him," Sasha says as Basira turns to leave. 

She pauses, then slowly turns back to face Sasha. "You know as well as I do that there is a line between them," she says softly, almost in a confidential whisper. "I want you to find Jon, but I do not care what happens to the Archivist." 

Sasha thinks about it as she listens to Basira's retreating footsteps. 

She holds the paper in her palm, and tugs the strings together. One by one, she feeds them into the mark of the Desolation, and eventually, the paper turns to ash.

[bored-fan-bs-thoughts]

Tyrus Fic: Fake Dating

I know this has been done a thousand times, but I had this written and I didn’t want it to go to waste. T.J. and Cyrus “dating” to convince Cyrus’s Aunt Ruthie that he has a boyfriend. Enjoy!

Cyrus asks Aunt Ruthie if he can bring his friend Buffy to their annual family party, but she’s more interested in whether or not she’s his girlfriend. Cyrus sighs. Sometimes he wishes he could just have a giant sign across him that says ‘I’m gay,’ but he knows social stigmas would make that not very safe for someone with his considerable lack of physical strength.

“Why can’t you get a girlfriend already?” Aunt Ruthie asks.

Cyrus doesn’t know what compels him to respond in the way he does, but he’s just tired of hiding. He doesn’t question if she’ll respond negatively. He just says, “Maybe because I’m gay.” He immediately regrets saying it. His Aunt’s face morphs into a look of confusion…and Cyrus almost thinks there’s a little bit of disgust. Cyrus is mistaken though 

“Okay,” she says, “Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”

“I do, actually,” Cyrus lies.

“Oh, really?” she says, cocking an eyebrow. “What’s his name?”

“Uh, T.J.” Cyrus immediately regrets that answer. He knows it’s not smart. He knows T.J.’s not homophobic, but he assumes the guy is uncomfortable with acting gay, especially around Cyrus’s entire family. He’s bracing himself for the next statement he knows is sure to come out of his Aunt’s mouth.

“Are you bringing him to the family picnic next week?”

“I don’t know,” Cyrus says, “I haven’t asked him yet.” Meaning, I haven’t even asked him to be my boyfriend yet and he’s probably straight, like statistically speaking. She doesn’t need to know that part, though.

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

A couple days later, Cyrus finds himself hanging out with T.J. in his own room. He needs to tell T.J. for him to pretend to be in a relationship with him for a day, but he can’t quite get the words out. His friendship with T.J. has seemed so effortless in the past couple weeks. He doesn’t need his weird request to make everything different between them. He decides that it’s now or never. He’s beginning to realize that this conversation is not really going to arise naturally out of their study hang-out, so he just decides to bring it up out of the blue.

“So I may have told my Aunt that I have a boyfriend,” Cyrus says interrupting T.J. from his math homework.

“Okay?” he responds, “You don’t, right?”

“Correct,” Cyrus responds. T.J. nods his head as if to tell him to go on with his explanation. “I just got annoyed with her constant questioning of when I was going to get a girlfriend and it just slipped out.”

“Well, I don’t really know what to say,” T.J. says.

“The thing is, she thinks his name is T.J. and wants to meet him,” Cyrus says cautiously. T.J. doesn’t know how to respond. “Sorry, you were the first boy that popped into my head!”

“I’m the first boy you think of when you think of a boyfriend?” T.J. says. He has a typical confident grin plastered on his face. Of course he’s using this as an opportunity to boost his own ego.

Cyrus freezes, and a blush makes its way onto his cheeks. He stutters to make a coherent excuse even though the truth is exactly what T.J. is hinting at.

“It was a joke,” T.J. assures him. “So do you need me to pretend to be your boyfriend or something?”

“Yeah. There’s a big family party next weekend. It’s totally cool if you don’t want to—“

“Cyrus, I’ll do it,” he says, cutting Cyrus off. Cyrus just smiles. “Do I just have to hold your hand and give you cheek kisses or something?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cyrus responds, a bit too quickly for his liking. “That’s good.” T.J. nods. “I mean it’s like neutral. I guess.”

“Don’t get too excited,” T.J. mumbles. It’s clearly meant to be a joke, but Cyrus can’t help but notice that T.J. looks genuinely hurt.

“No. I mean, at least I’ll have someone to hang out with,” Cyrus reasons. “We need a story, though. Like how we started dating, how long it’s been, et cetera.”

T.J. pulls an extra sheet of notebook paper out of his spiral and grabs his pencil. “Let’s get to work.”

“You have homework,” Cyrus says, gesturing to the textbook sitting between them.

“This is much better than homework,” T.J. says with a teasing grin.

Great, Cyrus thinks, I’ve opened myself up to a whole new world of teasing.

“What should I wear?” T.J. asks first, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“Well, it’s a picnic, but it’s sort of a fancy picnic,” Cyrus says. “Although, people usually dress pretty casually. No hoodies.”

“Hey,” T.J. says in mock offense, “I thought you liked my all hoodie wardrobe.”

“I do,” Cyrus says, “But it’s not the greatest way to make a good impression on my extended family. They can be somewhat traditional.”

T.J. laughs in understanding.

—————

Cyrus was on FaceTime with Andi and Buffy the entire morning leading up to the party. He knows it’s not real, but he’s afraid his true desires will be revealed tonight. He spent forever picking out the right shirt and styling his hair. His friends yelled at him to calm down many times, but it did nothing to ease his nerves. 

When T.J. arrives at his house with flowers, Cyrus knows he’s in a for a wild ride. There is a cheesy, seemingly lovesick look in his eyes as he leans forward to give him a kiss on his cheek.

“Hi, babe,” T.J. whispers to him. It crosses Cyrus’s mind that he really doesn’t have to do that when it’s just them and his parents can’t hear him, but he is not about to complain. Before he can respond, Cyrus hears steps from behind him signaling the arrival of his parents.

“Dad and Sharon,” Cyrus says, “You both know T.J.”

“It’s nice to see you again,” his dad says, extending his hand to shake T.J.’s. “You’re dating my son?”

T.J. nods as he grasps Cyrus’s hand. “Yeah, it’s been about three months.”

His parents nod. Smiles are plastered on their faces, but he can tell there’s something more quizzical. It’s as if they’re assessing whether or not to actually trust the tale they’ve created.

Nevertheless, They both nod and invite T.J. in, explaining that they’ll be leaving in about twenty minutes. T.J. hands Sharon the flowers which certainly seem to win her over a little bit. Cyrus makes a mental note to thank him for that later.

—————

T.J. seems surprisingly at ease with their dating scheme. He is amazing at being polite (when he wants to), and he keeps the PDA to a level that is believable but not overwhelming. Cyrus finds himself just going along with what T.J. does because he’s too nervous to initiate anything himself. Cyrus can’t lie. He very much likes “having a boyfriend,” especially when that boyfriend is T.J.

They are about an hour into socializing when they’re approached by his Aunt Ruthie. Cyrus instinctively grabs onto T.J.’s hand in a slight panic. Aunt Ruthie isn’t scary per se, but she often makes snap judgements about people and she holds onto grudges for far longer than anyone ever should. She looks T.J. up and down with a critical eye.

“Aunt Ruthie, this is my boyfriend, T.J.,” Cyrus says nervously.

T.J. gives his hand a reassuring squeeze before smiling and greeting his Aunt.

“He doesn’t look Jewish,” is the first thing that comes out of her mouth.

Cyrus freezes and attempts to speak, but he stumbles over his words.

“My family’s not really religious,” T.J. explains, “But I would be willing to convert for Cyrus.”

Cyrus’s heart flutters for a second before he reminds himself that this is not real. It’s all for the sake of their scheme. And T.J.’s statement seems to have served its purpose because his Aunt smiles and lets out a small laugh.

The rest of the party is easeful. Cyrus grows more comfortable with the casual touches between them and even begins to initiate his own. Getting the approval of his Aunt was truly an accomplishment, and Cyrus knows the comfortable swag of his best friend is enough to win anyone over when he’s not terrorizing people.

—————

When the party is dying down, T.J. and Cyrus find a quiet spot to get away from the crowd. They sit on a bench in a part of the backyard that isn’t infested with flies. When they sit down, T.J. rests his arm across the bench behind him. Cyrus doesn’t think it’s necessary when there’s no one around, but he is definitely not going to complain.

“You are a fantastic fake boyfriend,” Cyrus says. “You even won over Aunt Ruthie! She doesn’t like anyone.”

“What can I say?” T.J. says with a smug smile. “No one can resist my undeniable charm.”

Cyrus smiles, but he definitely agrees with the boy’s statement. A thick silence passes over them. T.J. shifts in his seat. He removes his hand from behind Cyrus, who tries not to be too disappointed by that, and begins to fumble with his hands.

“Cy,” T.J. says. His voice is soft and unsure. He can’t seem to look up from his hands in his lap. “Today was a really nice day.”

“I thought so, too,” Cyrus says with a smile. His heart flutters from T.J.’s vulnerability. T.J. removes his hand from behind Cyrus and places it in his lap. Cyrus notices a shift in his mood. He seems nervous. Unsettled. Cyrus is about to ask if he’s okay before T.J. speaks.

“Am I crazy to, maybe, want to do it for real?” T.J. whispers. Cyrus’s heart nearly stops. He looks over at T.J. who’s eyes are focused only on his hands. He smiles, frozen with surprise.

“No,” he says, “Because then we’d both be crazy.”

T.J.’s eyes slowly meet Cyrus’s to search for any sign of deception. When he finds sincerity, T.J.’s face breaks into a wide, bashful smile. His eyes full of love and joy.

“Can I kiss you?” T.J. asks.

Cyrus answers with a nod before leaning forward to connect his lips with T.J.’s. It’s a short kiss, but it’s already a hundred times better than the two he shared with Iris. His eyes meet T.J.’s, who looks like his whole life was made. Cyrus finds it intoxicating that he can have this effect on others, especially on T.J. His cheeks heat up and he ducks his head to burrow it into T.J.’s chest. He feels T.J.’s arm wrap around him.

“We have to leave soon,” Cyrus says, his voice muffled by T.J.’s shirt.

“I don’t want this night to end,” T.J. says, tightening his grip on Cyrus.

“Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty more nights like this,” Cyrus promises.

The smile that overtakes T.J.’s face is the most brilliant sight that Cyrus has ever seen, and Cyrus can’t believe he gets to kiss that face now.

[eliasbouchardisarobloxthot]

five times jon came out (and one time he didn’t have to)

spoilers up to the end of season 4, and cw for minor transphobia/cisnormativity

i. his grandmother

He was nine the first time.

His grandmother had asked him to wash the dishes, and as he did, he ran over the words in his head as he kicked one foot against the stepstool he had to use to reach the sink.

“Stop doing that,” she said sharply, her voice carrying across the kitchen from where she sat, reading the newspaper. 

“Sorry,” he said, setting the dishes aside. She clicked her tongue at him, shaking her head. 

After a moment, he approached her at the table. “Can I talk to you about something?” he asked quietly, making sure he wasn’t fidgeting or anything like that. It would only make his argument weaker if he was nervous. She wouldn’t listen to him if he was nervous.

“Well? What is it?”

“I don’t… feel like a girl,” he said, his voice shaky even if his body wasn’t. “I haven’t for a while. And… I want to start dressing and acting like a boy now. And pick another name.”

She looked up with her eyebrows raised higher than he’d ever seen them. “Absolutely not,” she said, adjusting the newspaper in her hands and looking away from him. “There is absolutely no way I am letting you destroy our reputation like that.”

“But—” He’d expected this, had sources, had a plan. 

“No buts. Continue with your chores and then start your homework. Now.”

He left the point for nearly four years, just tried his best to get on with his life and be a normal person. And then he hit puberty, and then everything felt wrong. 

From then on, he would insist at least once a month that he still wasn’t a girl, still felt wrong, still wanted to pick another name. And every single time, his grandmother would shut him down, tell him that he was going to ruin their reputation, force him back into the closet. 

It was almost convincing. He gave up on it, thought it was just a phase every girl went through—until uni, until Oxford when he was free and could shave his head and dress how he liked and be who he liked… 

ii. georgie

…and still he felt wrong. It became clearer and clearer that this wasn’t going to go away. 

He started joining online support groups. There were some that confused him, some that helped, some that were just useless to him.

His college roommate talked to him about her friend groups—and the pair of boyfriends in it. He joined the gay-straight alliance with her and told everyone to use ‘they’ pronouns for him, and it felt… good. Really, really good. Not perfect, of course, because there was still that tiny sense of wrongness tweaking at the back of his mind, but good enough that he felt really, truly safe.

Georgie, one of the girls in the GSA, started to talk to him. Then started to hang out with him. Then they started to date, and by the end of their junior year they’d made plans to move in together. And then the sense of wrongness got stronger and stronger. He spent night after night worrying about it, barely eating or sleeping, just thinking and thinking. He spiraled—deep into his own thoughts, constantly on the edge of a panic attack or a breakdown. 

He came out to Georgie only a few days later. She accepted him—of course she did, she was incredible about it. They went online and found a trading group, one that gave away binders from people who had finished their top surgery. 

And then they fought, and then they broke up, and Jon was alone. 

So he moved on. He got a job while closeted, and then was outed at work, and got fired. And then… 

iii. elias

…he did something he wasn’t proud of. 

He forged his documents. A birth certificate, resume, degree, everything he needed. He went back to the Magnus Institute, where he’d done an internship a few years before. 

The interview had been a breeze. Apparently they’d been looking to fill a researcher position, and while he hadn’t studied anything even close to research science, his English degree was close enough. He wasn’t sure that was how it worked, but he wasn’t going to turn down a job he had basically gotten with no qualifications at all. Especially one that he was allowed to present male at.

There were the usual bumps, of course—he didn’t get along with everyone there, but he wasn’t expecting himself to, and for the most part, people were actually kind of nice.

He was transferred to the archives a few years later. He didn’t know the first thing about library science, much less have a degree in it, but apparently he was somehow qualified enough to become the head archivist. It had struck him as odd at the time, of course, but he didn’t question it. The job was well paying, and if he made anyone aware of the fact that he really wasn’t qualified to be doing this, he might lose it.

So he didn’t. He just kept doing his work, recording statements, getting poorly made bagged tea from Martin, staying later and later until he barely went home. It was absolutely perfect—until his new boss, Elias, did some digging.

He didn’t know what to do until Elias said that he wasn’t going to be fired. Of course, he was completely confused by that—why wouldn’t he be fired? 

When he told Elias so, he just replied with a sigh and a shake of the head. 

“You’re a capable archivist,” he said. “If I fired you over just a tiny bit of forgery, what would I do without you? I’d have to hire another, and…” He waved a many-ringed hand vaguely. “Really, too much work for me.”

And with that, Jon was still working there. Still drinking the slightly disgusting coffee that Sasha would make, still working with Martin and still avoiding Elias as much as he could. 

Things started to get weirder and weirder, and before he knew it…

iv. tim

…there were worms. There were these terrible, awful worms everywhere and he had to save the Institute and then they were on him and he was fairly certain that he blacked out for a while because the next thing he knew, Martin had a corkscrew to his arm and he was having worms pulled out of him.

He knew where they were. He’d felt them. And there were some that they’d have to go under his binder to get. 

They’d better give me a raise enough that I can get top surgery soon was the only coherent thought running through his head. He was panicking—very slightly, but still panicking.

“I can do the rest myself,” he said, standing up quickly and practically tearing the corkscrew from Martin’s hand. 

It only took a few moments for him to lock himself in the bathroom and strip off his shirt, then his binder. He bit his lip, then drove the corkscrew into his upper chest.

It burned like hell as he drew it out of himself, but the worm was gone in moments. Then the next, then the next. He made his way down his chest, to his stomach, then prepared to drive it into his leg and—

“Jon?”

He flinched, seeing Tim standing at the door with a shocked expression on his face. His eyes flicked from Jon’s face to his chest back up to his face.

“Those look pretty bad,” he said hollowly as he stared vaguely in Jon’s direction.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

Tim stood there in silence for a moment. 

“You’re not going to tell anyone,” Jon said, his voice shaking violently. 

“No. I’m not.”

Jon pulled his shirt back around himself. He looked away from Tim, praying he wouldn’t try anything.

He heard a sound from beside him as Tim sat down, looking straight ahead rather than at Jon. It was a small relief, but a relief nonetheless, and he tried to struggle back into his binder to little avail. 

“Hey, hey, don’t do that. You’re still bleeding, Jesus, Jon.” Tim put a hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Just… just sit here, I’m gonna get you some gauze and we’re gonna get you down to the medical team so we can get you fixed up.”

Jon shut his eyes tightly, and he leaned heavily on Tim as they both tried desperately to get him sitting up. 

“Just take your shirt—you want your jacket, too?” he asked, helping Jon to his feet. 

“Y—yeah.” He struggled into his shirt, Tim helping him with the buttons. After a moment, he leaned on Tim, clinging to the lapel of Tim’s jacket tightly. He hated feeling so helpless, but he could barely walk for all the holes in his legs.

“This changes nothing between us,” Tim said as he brought him to the ambulances outside. 

“Of course.”

v. basira

Everything was normal for a while. He could pretend things were normal for a while. 

He flat-ironed his hair less regularly. Martin grew more distant. He and Basira started working together, traveling together.

America wasn’t the best place to be, but he was tolerating it. They were hopping, motel to motel, never staying in one place too long. Staying in the same room, same bed sometimes. Didn’t matter much—Jon went to bed far later than Basira most nights, anyway. So he was careful.

Really, it was inevitable that it would happen.

They were watching a movie together, curled up on the motel room couch, closer than Jon would ordinarily have wanted to be but close enough to satisfy the pain in his skin when someone wasn’t near enough to him. He couldn’t remember a single plot point from the rest of the movie, but there was something happening with explosions and a girl with spiky hair.

“You good, Jon?” she asked, one hand on his head and one around the massive bowl of microwave popcorn. 

“Tired,” he murmured, curling up against Basira. “Really tired.”

“You want to shower and go to sleep?” she asked, turning the volume lower on the TV. He shook his head, still leaning against her shoulder. 

“You always go to bed so late, Jon. Please? For once?” 

He sighed, curling up into a ball next to her. “I can’t.”

“And why can’t you?”

“Just can’t.” Words were becoming difficult. He didn’t want to compel her to answer him, force her to do anything, but it was getting harder and harder. “You’ll—”

“Jon. Please just… just sleep. I don’t care about seeing you ‘unprofessional’ or whatever, I just—”

“I don’t care about you seeing me like that, I care about you seeing me without my binder!”

There was a long silence, where Basira didn’t move. Jon could feel himself getting more and more tense, until she finally shifted on the couch to pull him closer.

“I’m not going to judge you for that, Jon,” she said quietly. “I bind, too. Not like you’re special or anything.”

He sighed in relief. And things got easier. Travel got easier when he wasn’t hiding anything from Basira, movement got easier now that he could take off his binder for several more hours a day than he had before. They made far better time getting around than they ever had before, likely due to the fact that Jon wasn’t constantly exhausted. 

And then they returned to the Institute and things were different. Worse. They had to rescue Martin—or, more accurately, Jon had to rescue Martin, because that was the only way.

Things were not normal. Normal wasn’t real anymore. But… 

+i. martin

…what things were, that was more difficult. If Jon had to put a pinpoint on it, he would say things were comfortable. A new kind of comfortable, of course, one that sat just to the left of the end of the world, but comfortable nonetheless.

Martin was, in the most complete sense of the word, perfect. He was so caring and generous and offered to do pretty much everything, since Jon was nearly incapacitated since the Lonely and had to use his wheelchair nearly constantly. They managed to live what could have been called a normal life for at least two weeks. 

And then Jon managed to work himself into a panic over the fact that he hadn’t been on testosterone for three weeks, and locked himself in the bathroom to sit and cry.

“Jon? You in there?” Martin asked, gently knocking on the door. “Er, I mean, of course you’re in there, but are you alright? You, er, you’ve kind of been in there for quite a while…” 

“Y—” He sighed. “No. I just—I didn’t—”

“Oh, you didn’t get to bring any testosterone with you, did you? Shit, Jon, sorry. I thought there was something off, you’ve been really moody. How many milliliters are you on? You can use some of mine.”

And that was that. No need to think about it, no need to worry. Just Jon and Martin, living their lives, going into town to get things from the market, being happy.

He could get used to this. 

[syzygyzip]

Solaire is the Sandworm and Other Apocrypha

What follows is an essay about Knight Solaire, a character from Dark Souls 1. The essay discusses his metatextual influence, his symbolic import, and a few theories about his supposed fate in Dark Souls 3.

On the Nature of Headcanon Canon as a concept adopts different rules when it comes to videogames. More concretely than in other artforms, the content of the game changes according to its witness. You can’t account for another person’s playthrough, so you are obligated to trust their story—within reason. A player can tell you that they beat a boss without taking a single hit. That’s reasonable. A player can say that they saw an enemy clip through a wall, placing it in an otherwise empty environment. Could be true, might want to see footage, but reasonable. Further out, a player can tell you that a completely unprecedented game-object appeared out of nowhere, started flying around and corrupting objects. This is unlikely, but, like some crytptozoological encounter, could be explained away by the witness’ misapprehension (maybe a hacker invades the game and thwarts the rules).

Just like witnessing the mothman or other spectral phenomena in real life, the person’s impression of the event is real. To borrow Jung’s term, it is a subjective fact of the psyche. Because it is “of the psyche,” it describes the psyche.

Physical is not the only criterion of truth: there are also psychic truths which can neither be explained nor proved nor contested in any physical way. If, for instance, a general belief existed that the river Rhine had at one time flowed backwards from its mouth to its source, then this belief would in itself be a fact even though such an assertion, physically understood, would be deemed utterly incredible. Beliefs of this kind are psychic facts which cannot be contested and need no proof.

[…] The psyche is an autonomous factor, and religious statements are psychic confessions which in the last resort are based on unconscious, i.e., on transcendental processes.” (Jung, Carl pars. 553-555).

Unusual things will happen in games, and still more unusual things will be perceived to happen. What happens “off-screen” in the game world has no true authority, not even from the developers, because every player acts as a co-author. Some fan theories are formed by mentally structuring objects and events. Other fan theories seem to spring forth fully formed from the inky off-screen unconscious; in this case, for the theorist it feels more like a discovery than a construction. But most headcanons are a composite. Theories and headcanons are also informed by the meta-culture—by what a game and its characters have become in the eyes of “the community.” Black Iron Tarkus, for instance, has no lines of dialogue in any game, but has developed a personality and prestige from his interpretation by the fandom. Such occurrences are almost a matter of course. Games, especially when they reach franchise-level popularity, spawn stories and memes. The game reveals content not programmed by its developers. It is doubtful that anyone at FromSoft foresaw Tarkus’ fandom. Nor would any on the staff have guessed that a few discrete game items (Giant’s Armor, Havel’s Ring, the Mask of the Father, etc) would cohere into a folk hero called Giant Dad. I say “folk hero,” though he is a scourge to many. This “character,” who is really just an exploitative blend of game mechanics, would be made, remade, imitated, elevated to memetic and then iconic status. Most other archetypes in Dark Souls are divided into their attributes: Helm of Artorias, Sword of Artorias, etc. Giant Dad is the reverse: he is constellated by his attributes; none of them alone hold his pneuma.

The Knight Solaire is more famous than either of these figures. Like Artorias, he is a character specifically designed to appeal and to exist in relation to; and yet like Giant Dad, he is a fan-fueled nexus of meme. Beyond both of these capacities is the degree to which he emanates himself beyond the franchise. His catchphrases “Praise the Sun!” and “jolly cooperation” have taken on a life outside of Dark Souls—a scope of renown unreached by Giant Dad. Especially noteworthy is his corresponding emoticon \[T]/ How many pop cultural icons can be summed up in 5 pieces of unicode? He has also been coagulated into an Amiibo, which is another ontologically ambiguous prestige, occupying a strange corner between meatspace, the virtual, and the symbolic apparatus of capitalism. But he is not quite so easily as commodified, as a Squid Kid or an Isabelle. He is not moe like they are. He does not have a face. But that is not say he is featureless: he has a personality and a mystique that coheres throughout his diegetic presence, his cross-cultural memetic tendrils, and his various costumes in headcanon. What force accounts for this coherence? No archetype can be summed up into a single definition or personality, but the style by which they draw attributes and myths around them allows us some understanding.

The Knight of the Sun When encountered in Dark Souls 1, the character of Solaire presents a rare locus of optimism. He is standing in the sunlight, staring into the sky in quiet appreciation. He is immediately friendly and encouraging to the player, and gives them the tool of “jolly cooperation.”

I want to emphasize how much Solaire’s demeanor stands out in the milieu. Though he is encountered at an early point, the game has already introduced the player to an extremely dismal and unforgiving world. They have likely met many overpowering obstacles and dejected NPCs, and begun to realize how scarce is the refuge of the bonfire. It doesn’t take much exposure to Lordran to take on its infectious loneliness. Solaire’s optimism cuts through this bleak fog like a lighthouse, and he literally gives the player the key to online collaboration. From another gameplay standpoint, consider how the player has become conditioned to dark corners, to ambushes, and fatal surprises; to visually scouring the environment like a rat, wary of predators and keen to spot a glowing treasure. For a moment, Solaire stops the desperate scavenging to direct your attention to the skybox. These contemplative silences have become a signature of the Souls series, but this is perhaps the first directed instance.

This is to say that Solaire is the first personification of goodwill that the player meets, so early into their journey, and is thus easily wrapped up into that symbolism. As the player’s relationship to the world takes on new dimensions (not simply new game areas, but entirely new spheres: online play, community discourse, lorekeeping), the symbol of Solaire follows them. In online play, he pops up as someone’s cosplay—and spectacularly, most of these sunbros, these independent actors, will reflect his behavior accurately! In Souls communities, Solaire is almost omnipresent, as people will post his slogan or his emoticon as a way of communicating affirmation, respect, or pure joy. There are other things to like about Solaire, like the fact that he is relatively powerful as an ally in boss fights, that he has the cool lightning move, or that it is revealed his armor is “average,” and that his strength comes from some inner source. Another element that should not be underestimated is the psychological potency of his implicit longing for a father. It goes without saying that the motif of the absent father has been especially compelling in the 21st century, ubiquitous in mass media, and often exploited by advertisers, etc. Beyond that, Solaire is searching “for his Sun,” an object which can be interpreted countless ways; suffice it to say it is a timeless and recognizable symbol of purpose and wholeness.

For all these reasons and more, Solaire is an easy point of projection for the player. He is an image both relatable and aspirational; he is average and exceptional. He is savvy, strong, and kind, and never in hyperbolic measure. He realistically represents a player’s best traits. The quality of his goodness is unspecific and broad; it becomes an anchor point for any virtue a player may value, as can be seen in the varied mutations he takes on in the subculture, becoming in turn funkier, wiser, more heroic. This trait of mutability, in itself, is generous! In a game that is by now famous for its therapeutic value in treating depression, Solaire’s influence should not be disregarded. Here is an illustrative example of the potential effect of Solaire on a player, posted to reddit by user unsuppressedYay:

Like most, when I was playing Dark Souls, I was in a very bad time of my life (which was incidentally only a couple months ago). I was at a college that I hated, with roommates who were not accepting of me, and many friends who had stopped hanging out with me. The only joy I would have is going home on the weekends, playing Dark Souls until I accomplished something and then going out to see my friends from back home. In this dark time i had isolated myself from most people during the week and was lonely and didn’t accomplished much, as such my grades also suffered. it was a bad time.

By playing dark souls, I felt accomplishment after getting through a particularly tough area or beating a boss. It gave me a reason to go on, that I would continue in the doomed world of lordran where i had to reach a fire with no good ending. It gave me encouragement to continue in my own life and applying to a different college and get my life back on track.

So to the point. I had accidentally spoiled what happened to Solaire. but I was still unable to stop it. I thought the chaos bugs were the big bugs in the lava after lost izalith. I felt so guilty and like I actually lost someone I cared about. I felt the obligation to wear his armor until the very end of the game. It made things significantly harder because of how weak it was compared to normal armor, but I stuck with it. The item description from the armor was something along the lines of saying that Solaire had no special power or magic, like we did. He made the armor himself, and was strong through his dedication and work ethic and never willing to give up to get his sun. So thanks Dark Souls and thanks Solaire for reminding me that optimism is the best way to go about things.

tl;dr cheesy story about dark souls helping me get through tough time, and feeling obligation to beat the game with solaires armor due to his wonderful optimism, and guilt over his death.

 Even if a player doesn’t specifically don Solaire’s armor in tribute, they likely integrate some aspect of his character in other ways. It can be as simple as performing the Praise the Sun gesture before a boss or upon victory. Miraculously, the gesture conveys the attitude quite plainly. The phrase “what happened to Solaire” alludes to the tragic fate that befalls him if the player does not intervene: he goes hollow in Lost Izalith, loses his enthusiasm and direction, and apparently mistakes a Chaos Bug for the sun which he seeks. After this point he will be hostile to the player, and will be wearing the cursed thing upon his head. This piece of headgear, formed from the body of a chaos bug, emits a lighted orb resembling the sun. If the player follows an arcane route through the game, they can avoid this outcome, and bring Solaire as a helpful ally in the final fight against Lord Gwyn.

Solaire as Gwyn’s Son For a long time, the battle at the immemorial kiln seemed like a fitting resolution to Solaire’s arc, as Gwyn was assumed to be his estranged father. Complementing Solaire’s recognition of an affinity between the Sun and the Father, we are told that Gwyn had a long-lost firstborn son. While essentially disproved by the apparent revelation of Gwyn’s actual first-born in Dark Souls 3, this lore speculation continues to live on in the imagination of the Souls community. It remains as another fact of the psyche, and thereby further illuminates the nature of Solaire. To understand why this is significant, we have to go a little bit into the symbolism of the Sun. You may be surprised to hear that people have been aware of the Sun for a long time now, and it has accrued significations far too numerous to list in full. So we will just mention a few of its rays, those that coincide with Solaire’s virtues: generosity, joviality, light, warmth, and cooperation. It also symbolizes the gift of life, vitality, will, and essence. Then there is that important attribute: obviousness; there is simply no denying the Sun in the sky, as it illuminates everything around you, and your planet circles it incessantly. But this principle of “apparentness” follows the sun to its cultural correspondences, like the lion, who is known to be named Leo. Which chakra does the sun relate to? Why, the solar plexus. Guess which metal the Sun corresponds to. It’s gold. You don’t have to be an occultist or a psychologist to notice the sun’s dignitaries: they have a way of exuding themselves. So it is with the conspicuously named Knight Solaire and his undeniable presence. It is simply one of his attributes: the ability to beam out from the Souls world, through the metatext, and into broader strata of culture.

The solar principle is also a consciousness principle. To “shed light” upon something is to become conscious of it. Thus the Sun describes both the ego and the Self (the inner image of God). The ego can be thought of as a low-res isomorphism of the Self, or as an inner, inextinguishable “divine spark.” It seems that this spark is the source from which Solaire derives his boundless optimism. Solaire ambivalently identifies with the Sun, and marvels at it outside himself, terming it as a “magnificent father.” Though he is a source of light for the player, he humbles himself before the “gross incandescence” of some higher power. This ego-Self dynamic, so essential to human experience, triggers a (conscious or unconscious) question of reconciliation. So players may wonder, “Who is the father of Solaire? To whom does he defer?” and the natural affinities between Solaire and Gwyn present themselves. Aside from the fact that it is later contradicted, this genealogy is also simply too concrete and anthropocentric to satisfy the greater mystery. The Solaire-Gwyn interpretation remains as a psychological fact, but it is just the beginning. It is the exoteric story, revealed to players of DS1 not as deception, but as an inaugural step for constellating a much more complex archetype. Now that we have taken a good look about how well the figure of Solaire invites a player’s projections, we will move on to a few other lore theories, far stranger and more infamous.

Solaire Has Become a Worm Who was Knight Solaire and what became of him? Some say he is the great Carthus Sandworm, writhing around the Smoldering Lake in the ruins of Hell. While apparently originally suggested in earnest, the Sandworm story has come to be known as a meme theory. As we have discussed, a meme won’t exist if it’s not compelling on some level.

Here is the apocryphal myth as commonly understood. Canonically the player fails to save Solaire after he wanders into Lost Izalith in search of his Sun. He discovers the Chaos Bug (or slays it and discovers its corpse), and mistakes its gentle glow for his personal sun. Worn as headgear, it becomes the Sunlight Maggot, a “loathsome parasite” that is “completely immobile, yet still lives.” Solaire goes hollow, losing his identity and sense of purpose. He despairs. We don’t know whether the parasite produces this abject condition in Solaire, or whether it is symptomatic, or coincidental. Therefore speculation begins here. Assuming the player does not destroy the mad Solaire, he wanders around the underworld for a very long time. As the years go by the vast hellscape of what was once Izalith disintegrates. Its army of demons becomes hills of corpses. The land itself is now nothing more than a small maze of ruins, and a warm puddle—the so-called “Smouldering Lake.” During this time, the theory suggests, the parasite has completely consumed Solaire, turning him into the “Carthus Sandworm” an enormous, Dune-esque burrowing worm that spits lightning.

So because Solaire was overtaken by a Chaos Bug, it is assumed he never left Carthus and became the worm. The further justification(?) for this theory is as follows. The worm spits lightning as Solaire does. The worm drops Lightning Stake, a miracle that mentions lost dragon slayers, who are affiliated with Warriors of Sunlight and thus Solaire. The worm also has human appendages sticking out from its body, and drops an undead bone shard, which are seen as clues that the worm was once human. (It is also suggested by some that Solaire’s might and indefatigable nature are the reason that he was not consumed by the parasite, but instead transformed into an enormous creature. But this point is often glossed over in the meme-theory variant.)

We can see that the diegetic evidence upon which the case for Solaire-as-Worm rests is rather thin. So what accounts for its popularity? Why does it make some kind of intuitive sense? Why does it generate enough interest to be passed around, albeit ironically? Let’s examine the origin point of the story: Solaire venturing into Lost Izalith and losing his mind to a Chaos Bug. The story of a solar hero venturing into the underworld has—once again—existed for as long as people have been staring at the sun. Each day the Sun goes down, and comes up again reborn. Psychologically, the descent into the underworld symbolizes the journey of the ego into the unconscious. The principle risk of this journey is possession by the contents therein; re-absorption into a state of dependent unconsciousness. For this reason among others, it is associated with the great and destructive Mother in her negative aspect. The motifs of “the devouring mother” and the “belly of the whale” are likely familiar to most people. The loss of a sense of a separate self is a much-feared thing, and this story arises perennially and across cultures. Izalith too is full of (negative) Mother imagery, with the mother of pyromancy at the center, portrayed as a small bug, not dissimilar from the Sunlight Maggot which consumes Solaire. We should of course not reduce the Mother to some Freudian positivism. She is called the Mother because she represents the matrix of the world, which engenders, sustains, and decays all forms. In her fullness she is the divine feminine principle. Her fearsome aspects, such as the devouring mother, are constellated by the ego’s fears and rejections. The mother is the first being from which an infant must differentiate itself, and so there is this necessary period in which the mother becomes the abject, the locus of all that is disavowed and detested. When stories tell us about “slaying the dragon,” it is not about conquering the feminine, or defeating chaos; it is about overcoming a false view of the Divine Mother born of fear and prejudice. It is this view, cohered into a monster, that must be slain, as the Chosen Undead does in Izalith in Dark Souls 1. According to tradition, how is this accomplished? In psychological terms:

The slaying of the mother and identification with the father-god go together. If, through active incest, the hero penetrates into the dark, maternal, chthonic side, he can only do so by virtue of his kinship with “heaven,” his filiation to God. By hacking his way out of the darkness he is reborn as the hero in the image of God, but, at the same time as the son of […] the regenerative Good Mother. (Neumann 165)

The “father” in this case corresponds to the solar principles of Logos, order, and law. Swords and lightning-strikes, Solaire’s preferred tools, refer to the capacities of discernment and insight necessary for differentiation. This identification/alliance with the father in this task is only temporary, for the Father too must be destroyed: he is the old order, the ego deteriorating into an oppressive and petty tyrant. This is why Gwyn is underwhelming and ailing when we find him. So it appears that saving Solaire, and bringing him to defeat Gwyn, is a relatively psychologically healthy outcome. That is—if Solaire is the new ego!! But think about it: when playing a game, is it not the player-character who is most representative of the ego? It is out of the Chosen Undead’s eyes that we see, it is their actions we control, not Solaire’s. We have already established that for many players, Solaire is an ideal image, whose full potential is necessarily unknown. Does this mean that Solaire is meant to be abandoned here? Is he, like Gwyn, an outdated self-conception that must be discarded so that something new can be born? The moral judgment of this situation is more complicated than it first appears.

Let’s look at the steps one must take in order to save Solaire: one must join the Chaos Servant covenant and collect humanity for the “Fair Lady.” This witch of chaos is a pale and deteriorating spider-woman meshed into the wall of her lair. She speaks a language incomprehensible to the player, unless a special ring is worn, which reveals that she mistakes the player for her sister. If she is given a whopping 30 humanity, the Chosen Undead rises to a rank of prestige in her organization, and a special door opens which allows passage to the site of Solaire’s fall. This is the only way to arrive at the scene and destroy the bug before Solaire finds it. So the key, in essence, is offering your humanity to a mysterious dying witch over and over again. Or, as reddit user JotaBarra puts it:

To save Solaire of Astora you have to give 30 humanity to someone who you don't know, that doesn't understand you and the only thing you know is that she put herself in pain trying to fix something that she doesn't did. If you help her, the games give you the opportunity to save your friend. The only way to save Solaire is by being like him. Friendship is exactly like that. You help the only one that help you everytime he can. He will fight alongside with you against the final enemy. It represent what a relationship is. We don't build relationship with our direct actions but with what the actions mean. You dont help directly to your friend, but you do what he could've do for you.

This interpretation makes a good point about how it is necessary to become Solaire, to take on his attributes, in order to save him. Does this therefore mean that by the time the two of you get to Gwyn, you are the same person? Or were you the same person all along, and Solaire was just projected into the external environment, just as he both embodies the sun and seeks it outside himself? That light, whether the anglerfish lamp of the Sunlight Maggot or the Sun itself, compels the body forward, because that compulsion is the Sun.

Specifically, compulsion is the Sun in its chthonic state. It is synonymous with the ever-burning fuel of sulfur, replete throughout the realms of hell.

Lost Izalith, the Hell of Dark Souls, has been reduced to very little in Dark Souls 3. It appears quite plainly that the kingdom has deteriorated. What were once oceans of lava is now a knee-high lake of simmering water. However, among the ruins and heaps of demon corpses, there is indication that new life is growing. Roots of world trees coil around the stone and new forms of demons are singing living flames into being. Most significantly, there is also the presence of crabs, which are a timeless symbol of birth, and present at the other two places of world-regeneration in Dark Souls 3 (the forest and the painting). Beneath the desolate surface of Smouldering Lake, there is the beating heart of new life.

It is on the surface that the pseudo-Solaire worm confronts us. It could be that it is protective of this nest, or maybe it is a crude image of the unborn life in incubation within. The fact that it is coiled here, in a pool of water at the base of the world, suggests the kundalini serpent. In psychology and metaphysics, the kundalini is the libidinous upward force catalyzed by the primal energy (shakti) at the base of the spine. Alongside its physiological manifestation, the rising serpent/worm is one of the oldest mythological motifs:

The Gnostics related the serpent to the mysterious energy of the primordial waters symbolized in the waves of the undulating serpent as well as the stirrings within the serpentine spinal cord of man. The stirrings surface from the abyss of the unconscious, sometimes unexpectedly and with peremptory and terrible effects. (Valborg)

Its undulating path upwards is called “The Serpent’s Path” as it traces a parabolic shape as it climbs to ever-higher degrees of refinement (this is what the player does, you may recall). This journey of upward undulation, often felt by the individual as an electric current, is sometimes preceded by the “Lightning Flash,” the original impetus, which strikes downward from the crown to the lowest point, thus awakening the serpent, which makes its ascent. So these images come together quite conveniently in the figure of this lightning-spewing sandworm. You may remember that the worm drops “Lightning Stake”; not some other miracle, but the one that forces lightning down upon the earth. To see this electric serpent coiled up within a hot, subterranean chamber teeming with life—it is hard to imagine a more direct depiction of the kundalini.

We have talked about Solaire as a symbol of the Self, that was at one time appropriate but now needs to be refined, and it is therefore appropriate that he should find himself consumed in the flames of the underworld. The fiery hells of Buddhism are sites of purification; the fire that rages and torments the victim is their own unbridled affects, but they eventually exhaust themselves. What remains after is purified ash, synonymous with the “white foliated Earth” of the alchemists. It is this type of “environment” in which the “gold”—the personality—should be sown, in order to reach its potential. This is assumedly what has already happened to the Ashen One of Dark Souls 3, given their title and the fact that they have arisen from ash; it also seems to be descriptive of the process at hand for the kingdom of Lothric.

It’s easy to imagine that players might unconsciously project the image of Solaire’s rebirth onto this worm. For reasons related to Solaire’s story, as previously discussed, and for these perennial myths. At another point in the journey, the player is also confronted with Rosaria, the Mother of Rebirth, who “respecs” people—reallocates their stats and qualities. The only risk this refinement brings is that the person may become a worm! A few casualties of this process are seen or implied elsewhere in the game. These “mangrubs” are quite revolting, and yet at least a few are linked to the highest divinity. This should not surprise us:

Typical of the paradoxical imagery of the unconscious, the despicable worm can turn into the supreme value. Thus the messiah is equated with a worm in the messianic Psalm 22, verse 6: ‘But I am a worm and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people.’ (Edinger AoP 158)

For the full renewal of the image of the Self, it is necessary that the old king(/sun) dies. The body decays, and at its most revolting, it becomes the bed and the feast of maggots. Because Smouldering Lake is beneath the Catacombs, it can be said to be taking place within the body within the grave. The entire scene can be read as allegory of the processes within the body in the midst of its resurrection. The “messiah” here is invoked because Christ is another euphemism for the Self. And just as the dead king’s body is diffused into the bellies of the maggots, so too does Christ’s flesh become the object of consumption during the Eucharist. This takes us conveniently into our next bizarre fan theory.

Solaire Has Become Soup Slightly more arcane than the theory of Solaire’s transfiguration into a worm, is the notion of his transubstantiation into the Estus Soup, which is found in a few cauldrons throughout Lothric. The justification for this theory was handily summarized on a reddit by a now-deleted user:

Consider the room you get the sunbro badge in undead settlement. It also contains an estus soup bowl...

The sunbro badge is found on a device for dismembering corpses. We know this becasue we see the same device being used to cut up bodies later in the undead settlement just before the stairs down to the lower area with the ravine

 The sunbro badge is simply a rag of cloth sitting on the device, which heavily implies that a sunbro was cut up on this device and his badge was left over as a part of the cutting up process

Underneath the cutting up device are an absolute ton of small bowls, receptacles to contain fluid. What fluid will the cutting up device produce? blood and human bodily fluid.

These same bowls can be seen all around the main estus soup pot....

The blood of the dismembered sunbros/other undead is extracted in the cutting process into the small bowls. These bowls are then take to the main pot and their essences poured into the main soup pot which is boiled and the estus fluid is extracted from the blood of the chopped up sunbros. This is what forms the radiant estus soup.

 The player is in some sense conditioned to think this, because the entire Undead Settlement is oriented around the disposal of corpses. Moreover, Estus Soup is found at two more places, one of which holds Solaire’s talisman, and the other near paintings of Gwynevere (saint of the sunbros). Now, the more reasonable interpretation of the presence of these Sunlight artifacts near Estus Soup is that Siegward, who is later shown to be the one concocting the soup, leaves them behind in his absent-mindedness. Siegward’s attitude and behavior are very reflective of the “jolly cooperation” ethos, and thus we naturally assume that he is affiliated with the Warriors of Sunlight.

This, however, does not disprove that the Estus Soup is Solaire! Not to say that Solaire was butchered by Siegward, and bled into the soup via the grisly method described above; rather it is more likely that a faithful Warrior of Sunlight has consecrated this special drink in a manner similar to the Christian Eucharist. To understand the concept of the Eucharist, here is an excerpt from the Gnostic Gospel of Thomas:

The cup of prayer contains wine and contains water, being established as a representation of the blood over which thanksgiving is offered. And it is full of the holy spirit, and belongs entirely to the perfect human being. Whenever we drink it we take unto ourselves the perfect human being. The living water is a body.” (Gnostic scriptures p347)

In other words, “the Eucharistic blood represented the Soul of Christ.” (Jung & von Franz 93). The fact that “the conception of blood as soul prevailed in the middle ages,”(ibid. 93) is visually quoted by Dark Souls periodically, and further prepares the player to respond to such symbolic signaling within this fantasy setting. 

Now, Solaire as a Christ figure who becomes the subject of a Lothric Eucharist is probably not a theory that anyone would thread together without the specific intent of performing a Christian reading of Dark Souls. The reason that I discuss it now is because the existence of the Solaire-as-soup theory seems to have arrived at a similar situation unconsciously, and slightly rephrased into a secular materialist framework (more palatable to the conscious mind). We have examined how Solaire is an uncommonly strong draw for projections of the player’s better nature. It is also a fact of our world that certain Christian concepts—such as Christ representing a fully realized being to whom we should aspire, or the mysteries of the Eucharist—are present in the background of the unconscious. These stories and motifs were so ubiquitous for so long in the western world, that even if we live fully secular lives, this material continues to radiate its influence through the thinnest, unassuming little cracks in our speech, our aesthetics, and our stories.

So without any intention on the part of the player, their experience of the character Solaire receives some influence from the Christian world. This effect is aided by a few other elements. There is his resemblance to common depictions of knights from the Crusades, whose defining associations are Christianity and the fact that they were seeking something. Of course we also have the fact of his signature gesture which is similar to the pose of the crucified Christ. This essay has already described this gesture’s prominent contribution to the memetic potency of Solaire, but it bears mentioning that if the player joins this covenant, they perform the gesture automatically upon being summoned—any active sunbro is quite literally forced into imitating this pose! And of course, a third reason for this unconscious association of Christ and Solaire is the factor of the mysterious and divine parentage.

Which is Canon? So of these two fringe headcanons, which is the more valid? Is Solaire a worm or is he soup? Taking anthropology into account, we must recognize that the death and resurrection of the Sun-god naturally predates Christ, and Christian myths are often studied in that context. It is just as natural to see Solaire as a personification of the Sun, of goodwill, or of the Logos … although Christ also covers that ground. Whatever the case may be, the dismemberment and consumption of this embodied principle seems to be a common feature of these stories. Both the worms who feed on the king’s corpse, and the Eucharistic wine/blood, are images of this concept—and perhaps both images are necessary. The feast of the worms is the profane image, and the Eucharist is the sacred and civil version. After all, for the dissemination of this quality of consciousness to be complete, it must extend to every level. Edinger gives us another broad summary of the concept:

[The Golden Man] represents the microcosmos or monas, the initial matter, which also contains the goal of the work. His dismemberment signifies a new conscious ordering of his initial chaotic nature.

It is difficult to consider terms like “initial matter” and appreciate the fullness of the concept. In nitpicking over the details of the specific images, we may begin to lose sight of the importance and universality of the basic story. This is why it is so important that there are multiple histories, multiple headcanons. If Solaire was only the worm, or only the soup, he would be less complete and less adequate as a symbol. And there are many headcanons besides these, of course; they merely represent two aggregations with a mythologically fertile tension between them. By the incredible multivalence of the Sun’s many arms, he means something different and individual to each player.

And speaking of the “goal of the work.” The return of the Sun in the morning is not considered a triumph merely because it has survived. Withstanding the night in itself is hardly an achievement! It is a triumph because something has been earned in the descent, and the same is true of the story of Christ’s incarnation. When the Sun-god rises again, something has been purified, refined, or to use the preferred Christian term, redeemed. The personal stories of players also seem to follow this trajectory. Dark Souls doesn’t treat depression simply because players are enduring its difficulty, it’s because some special quality of attention is polished through their struggles. We ought also to remember that Solaire willingly became Undead so he could visit Lordran and find his own Sun. The descent into incarnation for the purpose of refinement is a journey that should only be made consciously, with optimism and good cheer, for that is the Sun’s native condition.

 Edinger, Edward. Anatomy of the Psyche. Open Court Publishing Company,   1985. Jung, Carl. Psychology and Religion: East and West. Princeton University Press,   1969. Jung, Emma & Marie-Louise von Franz. The Grail Legend. Sigo Press, 1980. Layton, Bentley, ed. The Gnostic Scriptures. Yale University Press, 1995 Neumann, Eric. The Origins and History of Consciousness. Bollingen   Foundation, 1954. Valborg, Helen. Great Symbols Series: the Serpent. Theosophy Trust, 2013.

Solaire is Pump-a-Rum Actually, you are this fledgling.

[clairekatswritingcorner]

Distraction

Word Count: 1,348

Summary: D loves a lot of things about Rhys, often becoming helplessly swayed by his charm. Although it’s hard for her to comprehend, her charms are just as compelling to him.

*Author’s Note*: Another commission for @robotarmjokes! This was really fun to write…I love flirty situations, especially when the people involved end up getting overwhelmingly flustered :P I hope you enjoy!

Although he tried to use his cocky side to his advantage, it usually came out at the worst times. To her, any time he flaunted his charisma was the worst…well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. She couldn’t really make up her mind about what her feelings were, about whether she actually appreciated his obnoxious, flamboyant personality or not. If he asked her, she’d probably say she did; she was just that helpless when it came to him. A charming smile here, a heart fluttering kiss there. She was like a fly in his web, and it wasn’t even a particularly well configured one. More like a series of strings he’d just frivolously thrown together, and she was the prey that’d been foolish enough to waltz right into them.

She didn’t like knowing he held so much power over her. Perhaps it was actually beneficial for her to be aware of it, since it meant she could at least try to intervene on her own behalf when she felt like things were getting out of hand. She was so used to going along with what other people said, blindly following them down whatever path they happened to be treading. That’d been her downfall for several years, the fact that she couldn’t break away from the negative influence of others. She’d had a lot of help recognizing that side of herself, confronting and rejecting it all at once. The process was far from over, and she was sure it wouldn’t be for years to come. It would take her a lifetime of unlearning to move past all of that, but things were getting better. Currently, she was confident that he was the best thing in her life.

There was no way she could be the best thing in his life, though; not in her eyes. He did everything he could to convince her that the opposite was true, but teaching herself to accept such a statement was just another step in the healing process. Agreeing that she was good and lovely and worthwhile, worth knowing, worth being friends with. She’d improved his life in so many ways, stayed by his side even in his bleakest moments. Working as the newly appointed CEO of a resurrected weapon’s manufacture wasn’t easy; sometimes even Rhys found himself questioning how he’d managed to make it this far. He knew it would have been impossible without his friends, the ones that’d been with him before the tipping point of the Hyperion disaster, and the ones he’d taken solace in after the fact. D was a member of the latter category, and he wasn’t sure he could have kept himself together without her.

Two misfits taking refuge in one another, finding comfort, a partner that they knew didn’t exist anywhere else. D was tinkering with something in Rhys’s workshop while he was out scouting for some materials; a typical afternoon for the two partners in both love and business. The broker was particular engrossed in her task, completely oblivious to the sound of his return as he traipsed down the stairs, strolling into the workshop. He saw her bent over the shop table and smiled, leaning his elbows against it as he set a sack of something that sounded heavy and full of metal on its sturdy surface.

“Don’t you ever take any breaks?” he teased with a grin, but D wasn’t going to fall for his instigation just yet. She kept her eyes focused on her work.

“You probably take too many of them,” she rebuffed, although her tone indicated that she was more neutral than mad, as if she was simply stating a fact. “Especially for someone in your position. What do you think some of your employees would say if they knew how much their boss slacked off?”

“I don’t know. What do you say about me?” he goaded, and this time her eyes snapped up in both embarrassment and exasperation.  The image they fell upon left her speechless, starstruck, and paralyzed by a combination of anxiety and appreciation.

He was still propped up against the table, resting his cheek on his hand and giving her that smirk he knew she couldn’t resist. She knew she couldn’t resist it, and that only made her heart thump harder. His skin glistened with a thin sheen of sweat, evidence of the significant physical exertion he’d been doing just before his return. It made his vibrant tattoos seem like they were shining, glowing with a faint light that the broker couldn’t distinguish between her imagination and reality.

For an office worker, and one that she presumed to be especially lazy at that, the nature of his physique was still a mystery to her. He must have just been born with impressive genes…actually, she was sure that was the case. She couldn’t help finding everything about him magnificent, wonderful, and breathtaking. She’d cursed him since the day they met for making her feel such irrational, pointless affection towards him. But she couldn’t deny how much happiness those emotions brought her, that he brought her. It was a gift that couldn’t be bought, that was rare to find, and even rarer to get lucky enough to hold on to like she had.

“Hey, are you feeling okay?” His question wasn’t jarring enough to snap her out of her trance. On the contrary, the proverbial hole she’d gotten herself stuck in only seemed to grow deeper. “Earth to D, what’s going on in that pretty pink head of yours? And I mean literally, your whole head is pink. Your face is the same shade as your hair…was it something I said?”

His words triggered something inside her, but her reply got jumbled up in her throat. She could barely articulate a coherent sound, let alone a full word. His smirk intensified, and her hands gripped whatever objects happened to be occupying them so tightly she was glad they weren’t more fragile. He tilted his head and kept his expression coy, drumming his human fingers against the table. He was scheming something, that much was clear, but right now D was in no position to figure out what it could be.

“Am I distracting you?” His tone was alluring and smooth as velvet; the sound of it made the broker’s arms erupt in goosebumps. “Is it because I’m gorgeous?”

If she’d had any strength left after that finishing blow, she would have used it to deck him. And if he’d thought her face was colorful before, he was in for a surprise. He could almost see the mushroom cloud rising from her neck to the top of her head, leaving a bright crimson shade in its wake that made laughter bubble behind his lips. But it also made him smile, turning the expression in his eyes into something warm and tender. One of them looked like melted chocolate and the other like honey sparkling in the sun. D swallowed hard, trying to find the strength of will to do something, say anything…but she was putty in his hands.

That description became quite literal as he reached across the table, caressing her face with his human hand as he drew her lips into a searing kiss. He tasted salty from the perspiration mixed with the fine grains of Pandoran sand, but his mouth was soft and gentle. He pressed his forehead against her own, lips parting just enough that he could speak. They still brushed against hers with every word.

“I think you’re gorgeous too, you know. The most beautiful thing in the whole universe.”

There was no way she could believe him, but his words and gestures kept her from immediately refuting his observation like she usually would. He meant what he said, and even if she found it impossible, she couldn’t deny the depth of sincerity in his words. She threaded her fingers with his robot ones where they rested on the table, trying to compose herself. No matter what it took, he was determined to never let her doubt or forget the strength of his love for her.

[imyourliquor-youremypoison]

Hjem(løs)  - Ivar x OC - Modern AU - Part 3

Hjem(løs) = Home(less)

Synopsis: It’s Juleaften and Silje walks home from a late Christmas shopping spree. On her way back to her apartment, she makes an unexpected encounter.

No warnings, this is me serving you comfort and love <3 Y'all are sex-driven maniacs in the Heathen Army, ily but you need some fluff and holy water.

Word count: 6.1k

MASTERLIST

Part 2 <<< >>> Part 4

The least she could say was that Ivar did things properly. He wasn't even out of the knee brace yet when he was out there searching for a job – any job. He looked for a week before landing a small rookie job at a local bar, helping with the unloading and the loading of the trucks of the bands that came to play every night. Silje admonished Ivar from dawn to dusk when he told her the news because it was such a physical job and he only recovered from his beating.

“It's irresponsible!” She pointed out, her fingers poking his chest.

It wasn't that easy to argue with him now that he stood tall, towering over her. She wasn't even that short.

“I'm not cut out for desk work or anything like that, I need action,” Ivar argued.

“I'm a man of action, I need to do a manly job to show off my man strength,” Silje said, mimicking his voice to show him how ridiculous he sounded. “If your knee cap pops again, I'm going to knock your head against that wall-” she threatened, pointing at the wall. “And then I'll call Ubbe and he'll smash it right through.”

“You're threatening to injure me because you're worried I might get injured at my new job?” Ivar asked with a scoff.

“It's how I express affection!” Silje burst out, pushing Ivar back with both hands.

The guy barely seemed to notice despite Silje using all of her strength, which infuriated her a little more. Although she had to admit he looked strong. He put on a bit of weight since she took him in and it suited him well. Not to mention that Ivar had been pestering non-stop about going for a run.

“Really?”

There was a drastic change in his tone and she wasn't sure she liked where this was going. A smug smirk made a guest appearance on his face and he crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were trained on her as if he tried to see through her and that damn grin showed no sign of fading.

“Of course you dickhead! I've been taking care of you for weeks, I don't want to do it again!” She scoffed, trying to pass this off as sheer annoyance but obviously failing. “Don't look at me like that!”

“How am I looking at you?” He asked.

He knew the answer but he wanted to hear her say it. She was aware of that, but she was cornered. In fact, he looked at her with even more intensity after asking her that. Silje couldn't take it anymore and turned around with a defeated huff.

“All right, go ahead mess up your knee again, I don't care,” she exclaimed and busied herself with some meaningless house chore only to avoid looking at him.

“Silje, please-” Ivar called her. She felt him following her around the apartment but she kept on running away. “-Sil... come on, stop- come here.” He finally managed to catch her after jumping over the couch.

“See! That's what I'm talking about!” She burst out. “You act like a fucking child!”

“I've been laying on your couch for weeks, can you blame me if I want to stretch my legs now that I can?” That wasn't the right thing to say, he understood it by the way Silje shot lightnings at him. “That's not the point though- listen Silje. I get that you're worried, I know you can't help it, you worry about everything.”

“That's not true!”

“Please,” Ivar began, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows. “I've seen you get worried for a cat who bumped into a French window. Stop making me digress now.”

“I'm not making you do anything,” she protested, stepping back only to hit the wall. He was so close to her, she couldn't think straight enough to have this conversation with him. Her brain was screaming to abort mission.

“What I'm trying to say is that it's only a part time job a few nights a weeks. I'll be careful, and I promise I'll find another job if it's too much.”

Silence followed his statement. Silje refused to admit that it soothed her nerves in the slightest. She stayed quiet and glared at him – probably not hard enough since Ivar cracked a little smile and gently pushed her hair behind her ear. The voice inside her head told her that this wasn't something friends did but she shut it up.

“Peace?” He asked, his voice full of hope.

“Fuck!” Silje swore under her breath and whispered to herself, “You're so damn attractive.”

“Did I catch that right?” Ivar wondered out loud, a laugh escaping him.

“You win every argument because of this!” She accused him, taking a step forward in a hopeless attempt to intimidate him, except Ivar did not step back as she expected.

Now they were even closer to each other and Silje even more unable to form a coherent thought. It was a wonder they managed to make it through the first few weeks of cohabitation when she had to help him in the tub.

Ivar couldn't fight off his huge grin on his lips and Silje was torn between slapping it right off his flawless face or kissing him. Before she could walk farther down this road, Ivar interrupted her train of thought by throwing his arm behind her shoulders and pulling her to his side and he led her to the couch.

“And here I thought it was my compelling arguments who made a difference. Is that also the reason why I always win at our board games?” He teased her. Silje groaned and threw her head back against Ivar's arm.

Silje opened her mouth, ready to blurt out some nonsense and maybe even challenge him and tell him something stupid like 'I let you win this whole time' that she would regret saying later because she did not, in fact, let him win, but by some kind of miracle the door bell rang at this precise moment. Her shoulders relaxed and she had to hide her sigh of relief when she walked past Ivar – who very purposefully stayed where he was, right in the middle of the way with his arms crossed over his chest – taking pleasure in bumping her shoulder against his to show that she was still mad and this conversation wasn't over.

Silje would bet her life Ivar was smirking to himself. It made her hand itch to slap that cocky smile off, or maybe kiss it away. The person behind the door was a mystery but she was willing to hug them whoever they were. Ivar shrunk on himself when she reached the door, trying to make himself smaller than it was – an impossible task honestly. Ivar's Viking lineage was painfully obvious, he was broad and tall, not to mention a little boorish and ill-mannered when he was in a foul mood.

Speaking of tall Viking...

“Hvitserk!” Silje exclaimed incredulously when she opened the door. “Oh gods, it's you!”

They both laughed and hugged on the doorstep; the two siblings were happy to see each other to say the least.

“Hey little one,” he greeted her with a warm embrace and a kiss on top of her head. “Missed your stupid face.”

That was big brother language right there. It made Ivar snort slightly, causing Hvitserk to look up and see the stranger in his baby sister's apartment.

“Hey man,” Ivar took the lead and greeted the newcomer with a little hand gesture. Hvitserk let go of Silje and went to shake hands and give him a quick pat on the back – a much friendlier welcome than Ubbe's.

“I assume you're Ivar?” He asked and received a nod. “Yeah, I've... heard about you,” he said after a short hesitation, glancing at Silje.

“You have?” Ivar's eyebrow met his hairline while he shook hands with Silje's brother and made eye contact with her. “I can't imagine all the good stuff Silje must have told you about me.”

“What good stuff?” Silje sassed and joined the boys – she had to step between the two of them, this handshake had lasted way too long already. She turned her attention to her favourite brother.

“She tells me in our weekly calls that there's an infuriating parasite named Ivar living on her couch, and that he always beats her at board ga-” Hvitserk was interrupted in his sentence when Silje elbowed him in the stomach, making him bend in two.

“I did not say that!” She assured Ivar who didn't know what to say at this point. “Anyway, when did you come back?” She changed the subject and turned back to her brother, ignoring the daggers he glared at her. When his ego recovered from the blow his gaze softened.

“This morning. I crashed at Ubbe's after my night flight and I came here as soon as I woke up I wanted to surprise you,” Hvitserk told her and draped his arm over her shoulder, side hugging her. “Now will you offer your hungry brother something to eat or are we just going to stand there all night?”

It prompted a series of reactions ranging from protest to agreement but all in all they managed to find a solution even if Silje wasn't in the mood to play housewife with these two and Hvitserk insisted on having a celebration feast for his return to Copenhagen – they ordered pizza and Hvitserk was paying because he showed up unannounced, while Silje provided the beers. Ivar didn't utter a word during the siblings' negotiations but Silje knew that it made him uneasy. As soon as the order was placed she made sure to change the subject.

“So Ivar, now you have met the nicest of my brothers, I have to warn you that it can only go downhill from there,” she joked. “Is Sigurd back too?” She asked Hvitserk.

“He's coming back next week,” he told her. “And how am I the nicest? Have you met me?”

“Well you didn't try to crush my hand while shaking it, so there's that,” Ivar told him. “Though Ubbe sort of saved my ass so I feel like he's taking the lead in this race.”

“I'm buying pizza!” Hvitserk pointed out, his finger pointing at Ivar as he said it. “It counts for something, I'm reaching out here man.”

“Appreciated, though I gotta admit it's suspicious, in my personal experience no one hands out pizza for free.” Ivar's sentence made Hvitserk lean back against the couch and look at Silje.

“Suspicious? Sil do you believe this? Are you going to let him talk to your beloved brother like this?”

“You're totally weird, I'd be suspicious of you too if you weren't my brother.” Silje paused before sitting down and placing the beers on the coffee table. “Wait, I take that back. Actually I am suspicious of you especially because you're my brother.”

She held up her beer to cheer with the boys. Ivar was the first one to react, his infamous boyish grin that drove Silje crazy plastered on his face, and grabbed his beer, popping it open against the edge of the coffee table. The first time he saw Silje do this he was stunned. Girls usually were the first ones to shriek in indignation when someone tried to pull this off on their furniture. But she told him that teeth marks on the edge of a wooden table were the sign of good times.

Hvitserk's look of offence faded and finally grabbed his beer.

“Skål!” They all said at the same time and drank together.

Out of habit, Ivar put her arm across the back on the couch behind Silje – that was just what happened when you live with someone, you start to get cosy. Hvitserk began to tell tales and funny stories about his time in the military, recounting the late evenings and dirty jokes between him and his fellow soldiers.

“You look like the army type too, why don't you join?” He asked Ivar out of the blue. “It would be a good solution to your problem.”

“My problem?” Ivar scoffed. “Yeah, whatever man. I guess Ubbe warned you before you came here?”

“Actually no,” Silje cut in. “I told him, right after Jul. I have no secrets for Hvitserk.”

She could tell that Ivar wanted to protest but the surprised caused by her little confession bought them enough time to speak up again.

“I don't care anyway,” Hvitserk assured him, shrugging and taking another sip of his beer. “Like, who's to judge? I've been homeless too once.”

Ivar's eyebrows disappeared under his hairline and though he didn't say anything, he leaned back and waited for them to elaborate on that – but not before shooting a glare at Silje, gently signifying her that a heads up would have been nice.

“First weeks of university – before I dropped out to join ranks – there was some issue with the place where I was supposed to live, water damage of whatever,” he explained, fumbling with his beer. “I was already nervous about how to announce to my family that I wanted to drop out so I didn't want to give them another reason to worry and didn't tell them anything. So-” he stretched the syllable and glanced at Silje. ���- I slept on the streets. It was only late August, it wasn't too cold and it wasn't too bad an experience all together, now that I look back on it.”

“None of your siblings helped?” Ivar finally spoke.

“I was sixteen and living with our parents,” Silje pointed out. “Not much I could do without raising suspicions.”

“The others don't know, and I'd appreciate it if you could keep it to yourself,” Hvitserk confided, looking at his hands. “Silje is the only one I told, I was too embarrassed to ask the others for help. Besides we all had other things going on. Ubbe was still in military school, Sigurd was having his punk phase, Bjorn has a family.”

“The important this is that everything worked out in the end! His landlord called him as soon as the damage was repaired and he moved in after four weeks of homelessness, and no one ever learned the truth!” Silje said cheerfully, obviously trying to pass a message to Ivar and his brooding self.

“I'm serious about the army thing though!” Hvitserk insisted, not taking the hint when Ivar rolled his eyes.

“Hvitserk, just drop it, it's none of yo-”

“-none of my business, I know but think about it.” There was a relatively long silence after that and Ivar set his half drunk beer on the table before leaning back against the couch again, not uttering a word. “Hey, it- it's not a bad idea!” Hvitserk tried ease the tension in the air but failed and turned to his sister for help.

“Dumbass!” Silje scolded her brother and smacked him upside the head.

“I was trying to help!” He protested and rubbed his head.

“Don't listen to him, Ivar. He's an idiot. A well-intentioned idiot, you have to forgive him, his mouth runs far ahead of his brain most of the time.” She was swift to elbow Hvitserk in the ribs when she saw him open his mouth, no doubt to complain about what she just said – even if it was true. The silence in the room grew thicker until Ivar decided to break it.

“I thought about it, okay? I wanted to join the army,” he admitted just when Silje was about to lose her composure. Only this time she almost regretted the silence when he broke it, and she sat a little straighter than necessary, suddenly feeling all tense and uneasy.

Ivar kind of hated it when it was tense between Silje and him; they got along on most subjects and had light, entertaining conversations, but sometimes they bumped into a touchy subject. Her heart dropped a little – hearing that he was thinking about leaving without even telling her didn't sit well on her stomach.

“Don't give me that look. I'm not going anywhere. I got rejected.”

It was Hvisterk's turn to stop Silje from asking more questions and he changed the subject. He complained about the pizza guy taking his time and turned on the TV to see, quote, 'what was happening in the world'. He had never had trouble making himself home wherever he went.

“Silje told me you spend a lot of time working out, maybe we could hang out and exercise one of these days. I mean- I don't have a gym membership-” Ivar asked out of the blue, not particularly comfortable with the subject of money.

“Relax, Ivar-” it was strange hearing his name coming out of Hvitserk's mouth. “I don't have a membership either, I run around the park, I do push up and pull ups in my apartment. No money for this shit, and what does a soldier do with a gym membership when he's gone for most of the year?”

Ivar smiled at that and the boys drank.

“Hey, speaking of- how's Inge doing? Why didn't you sleep home?” Silje asked, nudging her brother. She was so relieved that they weren't threading on thin ice anymore – she could only handle so much sensitive talk. Ivar listened with great attention, frowning each time he heard something that intrigued him.

“Inge is doing great,” he smiled as he told her, happy at the mere mention of her name. “She and the kids are at her parents' house this week, I wanna surprise them when they come home.”

“The kids?” Ivar asked, not getting what this was all about. This guy was barely a year older than he was, surely he could not-

“Hvitty here has two kids,” Silje confirmed his suspicions and it made him lean back and stare in shock. “You can be surprised yeah, he started pretty young.”

“I'm literally sitting right next to you,” Hvitserk reminded them. “What can I say? I'm irresistible.”

“More like insufferable! He couldn't keep it in his pants, is what happened,” Silje laughed, poking Hvitserk's cheek and making him roll his eyes.

“Okay, enough about me,” Hvitserk decided, glaring at his sister and hoping against hope that she would get the message and stop embarrassing him. “Question!” He exclaimed and turned to Ivar. “Why do you have the exact same haircut as I usually have? Does she have anything to do with this?”

He dismissively nodded towards Silje as he spoke to Ivar who proceeded to tell him in extreme and exaggerated details how Silje forced him to sit still and threatened him of bodily harm while she cut his hair against his will. Hvitserk kept nodding in sympathy and ended up giving Ivar a compassionate pat on the back when he finished his twisted retelling of event. Then he pursed his lips and shook his head at his sister, giving her a look that she interpreted as 'you monster', faithful to his dramatic nature.

“You two can't team up against me, I won't be disrespected in my own home!” Silje was quick to argue, pointing a warning finger at them both.

“Or what?” Hvitserk provokingly asked her, sticking out his torso.

“She'll make me sleep on the couch,” Ivar snickered in his bottle of beer with a smug little grin. His answer caused Hvitserk to choke on thin air and burst in laughter while Silje gave them the stink eye.

“That's my man,” Hvitserk congratulated him, raising his hand for a fist bump.

The clock struck midnight by the time Hvitserk called it a day and decided to go home.

“I would offer you to stay here tonight but the couch is already taken,” Silje said with a pout and an innocent shrug. Ivar who was leaning against the wall behind her smirked as Hvitserk rolled his eyes.

“I'm not conservative Sil, I would let you sleep in the same bed as your boyfriend, you know,” he teased her, earning a punch that hurt more than he expected.

After that last joke – because Hvitserk Ragnarsson could not simply walk away without cracking one last dumb joke – he finally left with the promise to come by again and meet up with Ivar to work out and have some man talk. What even was that? Silje wondered. Boys talking about their preferred choice of condom brand? Endless conversations about monster trucks and beer?

“He always knows exactly when to leave to avoid cleaning up,” Silje said to herself as soon as she closed the door behind her brother.

When she turned around most of the mess had already been taken care of by Ivar though, and she realized in this moment that this is what he did. Constantly overdoing everything in an attempt to pay her back for everything she does. She didn't even know what exactly she did for him, but it must be huge. More than simply giving him a place to sleep. She tried to tell him to leave it be until morning but he didn't want to sleep next to this mess, and Silje had to admit she wouldn't either. Instead, he told her to go to sleep if she was tired, but she shook her head.

After a few more attempts, Ivar convinced her to go to her room while he took care of everything – which Silje would never accept in normal circumstances, but she really was physically exhausted, as much as her mind was awake, her body was giving up on her and she needed to lie down. It wasn't long until she heard a soft knock on her door.

“Come in,” Silje said, her eyes fixed on her laptop screen. When she looked up she saw that he changed into the sweatpants he slept in and was holding two steaming cups of what she guessed was tea. He held one up for her and she took it with gratitude. “Sweet!”

She was lying on her stomach across her bed and Ivar plopped down next to her, grabbing her laptop from her so she would stop browsing through her social media and pay attention to him.

“Twitter, facebook, Instagram, my, my, who are you stalking?” He asked her.

“No one that matters,” she sighed, holding her cup with both hands to warm up. “Hope tonight wasn't too much for you, if I knew Hvitserk was back I would have planned to meet up with him somewhere else.” Silje winced at the thought of all her overbearing brothers showing up one by one at her apartment without so much as a little heads up.

“Nah, it felt good to speak to someone else,” Ivar said with a shrug, earning a slap on the shoulder.

“Say it if I'm boring!” Silje exclaimed in fake outrage.

“You're not boring, you're a girl,” Ivar told her, not realizing he was digging his own grave until she glare at him. “Not the best answer,” he decided. “I mean- you see... fuck it Silje, you know what I mean!”

“Yeah but it's so much fun to watch you wriggle like that,” she said with a grin her face. “Did you want anything other than bring me tea and spy on my internet activity?”

“Yeah- no- I just wanted to make sure that we're good. I know I became all snappy and stiff when your brother mentioned.... you know, my problem and the army thing.”

“Speaking of-” Silje trailed off and sat up to face Ivar who had put her laptop on the floor and was now leaning against her gigantic pile of pillows. “-what happened exactly? I know it's none of my business, you can tell me to bug off if you don't want to talk about it, bu-”

“You're rambling again,” Ivar pointed out, his smug smirk all over the place like every time he caught Silje in one of her awkward moments. “'s okay, I don't care. At this point I don't see why I would hide anything from you.”

“Oh.” Silje paused for a second and then asked with the biggest smile, “Do I know all of you deepest, darkest secrets yet?”

“Most I'd say. I'm keeping some of them so you don't get bored of me,” he laughed.

If there was one thing Silje noticed the last couple weeks, it was that Ivar was so much less angry than the first time they talked. Back in December he was bitter and mad at the world for the way it treated him. Now that his life had a bright side again, he smiled more, she didn't catch him frowning and glaring at the empty space every time he thought she wasn't looking.

“Why didn't join the army, Ivar?” Silje asked him, sitting Indian style next to him.

“I tried, almost as soon as I realized that I would be evicted. It was the easy way out and I'd always been an athletic person so I was sure it'd work.” He shrugged. Another thing Silje noticed about him was that he never shrugged when something wasn't a big deal, she learned to see it as the sign that, on the contrary, it was a major deal to him.

“Got rejected?” She guessed, Ivar nodded in response. “Why?”

“That's the tricky part,” he said, suddenly embarrassed and avoiding Silje's eyes. “Try not to freak out.”

“Okay.”

“Say it,” he insisted.

“I won't freak out,” Silje vowed, raising her right hand like they did in court on American TV.

Ivar hesitated. Whatever he was about to blurt out must not be something he liked to talk about or wanted people to know. Every second of silence worried Silje a little more but she promised she wouldn't freak out.

“Because of my legs. They were fucked up way before I got beat up.” He saw Silje open her mouth, no doubt ready to fire a bunch of questions he did not want to answer so he gave her a short version to satisfy her curiosity, for now at least. “It's my bones, they are too weak. Even if I had money or insurance it's fucking incurable.”

���What kinda shit karma do you have?!” Silje burst out, nearly spilling over both of their cups of tea – a first degree burn was the last thing Ivar needed. Then she breathed slowly to try and collect herself. “Weak how?”

“Weak like they don't heal as well as most people's. Weak as in going to the gym or for a run is fine but participating in a several days trek in the wilderness while carrying over 60 pounds worth of military gear is not.”

“What about your knee then?”

“What about it?”

“Well, are you going to be okay? Is it healing all right or have you been withholding information? If you don't want to tell me that's fine, but at least tell Ubbe,” Silje reprimanded him, giving him a scolding glare.

She could understand that admitting to her, of all people, that he was in tremendous pain could be a blown to his ego – however stupid it was to place one's ego over one's health – and she knew that Ivar was proud and liked to appear as strong. Silje knew it wasn't just a façade and that he was one of the strongest person she had ever met, but he felt the constant need to prove himself anyway. However, someone needed to know and help him, and if he was too prideful to tell her then he had to go to her brother and current doctor since he still didn't want to go to the hospital.

“What on earth would it change if I whined to you all the time?” He snarled, shrugging again.

“Fuck you, Ivar! How many times will I have to tell you that I do not pity you?!”

“Oh c'mon, you're whole demeanour screams 'oh poor little Ivar',” he replied.

His voice was calm and steady, he didn't say it with any malice but what hurt the most that that he didn't realize how hurtful it was to her. Silje had done nothing to let him think that she took pity on him, not once during all the weeks he spent living with her and that was how she was rewarded? Mistrust? Disdain?

“I don't wanna talk about this with you, okay? Enough with all the pitying me, I can't stand it.”

This struck a nerve and Silje could feel her right brow twitch in anger.

“Get outta here!” Silje tried to push him off her bed but it was about as successful as trying to move a brick wall.

“Hey, hey, calm down! I didn't mean it like that!” Ivar protested. “Don't be angry, I'm the one who should be angry, not you.”

“Oh but I'm not angry,” Silje told him in bad faith. “I'm tired, I want to sleep now so get out.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no? I said get your ass out of my bedroom!”

“Don't be mad. I'm sorry if I offended you,” Ivar tried to make peace.

“Apologies accepted,” Silje snapped and grabbed the nearest book to pretend she was busy and to show she was done with him. “Now leave.”

“You're still mad at me I can hear it. I can't leave if you're still mad.”

“Sure you can. You stand up, walk out, and close the door behind you,” she instructed, her eyes not leaving the book in her hands. Gods help her, she didn't even know what book she had grabbed, much less what the page her eyes were set on was about.

Ivar ignored her attempt at being a smart-ass, and shifted on her bed to move closer to her, his hands running through is freshly cut hair as usual when he was nervous. It was a lot better now, Silje hadn't lied when she told him that she knew what she was doing. She allowed him to keep his hair rather long. He now sported a clean undercut and went to his job interviews with a man bun. She teased him for being a hipster.

“Silje,” he said, gently removing the book from her hands. He could tell she was angry and hurt and not in the mood so he did what he promised himself he wouldn't do: he dropped the subject. This required a change of strategy.

“I already told Ubbe,” he confessed in a sigh, and saw Silje's eyes drift to him for a split second before going to her lap now that she didn't have her book anymore – which she had been holding upside down.

“Oh?” That shut Silje's mouth faster than he expected.

“So now we forget about this and we move on to something a little less depressing. Also there's no reason why you should always be the one asking all the questions.”

Her jaw clenched and unclenched, her eyes set on him as if trying to read his mind – she must have liked what she found because she shrugged and said a low little, “fire away.”

“Your brother has a wife and kids?”

She fought back the smile that threatened to split her face and put tremendous effort into glaring at him instead of giving in to her good mood. She was mad at him, she couldn't be smiling just because he mentioned Hvitserk's family.

“He has a fiancée and kids,” she corrected him. Unpon seeing the astonishment on his face, she added, “Yeah, I know it's crazy. Can you even imagine having a family at his age?” Silje gave in rather easily. If possible, she always tried to not go to bed mad at someone so she might as well try and forget their argument.

“God no, I can't even imagine owning a plant right now,” Ivar chuckled. “How did it even happen?”

“Well-” Silje started, a look of mischief painted on her face. “When two people liked each other very much, they-”

“Not that, gods Silje!” Ivar protested, nudging her and making her laugh though he almost spilled his drink on her bed.

“Okay then, he was in High School, always quite the charmer. I mean, you met him so you can easily imagine now. Anyway, he had a girlfriend back then, Inge, bless her soul she still puts up with him, and he got her pregnant during senior year. Our parents were out of their minds,” Silje kept on filling in Ivar without any consideration for Hvitserk's privacy.

To be fair, she would have told this story earlier, while her brother was sandwiched between Ivar and her if he hadn't interrupted her.

“It was really hard in the beginning, especially when he lived in the streets for a few weeks, his girlfriend pregnant and living with her parents still. He had a bit of trouble convincing them that he would make a good father to their grandchild. Now six years later they are still together, they have two little boys, and he still hasn't made her an honest woman.”

“So what you're saying is that in order to be a respectable member of society, a woman has to be married?” Ivar teased her, making her blush in anger.

She should have seen this one coming, she made a poor choice of words. Ensued a ten minutes argument that Silje won eventually.

“How old are they?” Ivar asked to change the subject.

“Six and two. Boys,” she told him. “I think... I think Hvitserk is going to leave the army.”

This caught his attention, as did the worried crease barring her forehead. Ivar turned his chest to better look at her. They were now both lying next to each other on her bed, their arms touching.

“Why are you saying that?”

“Now that Ubbe is a civilian again and doing fine, I think he's considering it. I know that he barely sees his boys, he feels terrible about going away all the time, he's hardly home anymore, he doesn't see them grow up like a dad should. And he misses Inge, maybe even more than she does him. I tease him all the time about his not being married, but he might actually grow a pair and pop the question too.”

“Do I get to be your plus one at the wedding reception?”

“Ivar! If I didn't know better I'd think you're using me to get free food!”

“If being homeless taught me one thing, it's that you never know when your next meal will be,” he tried to convince her by using his old wise man voice, but Silje's eyebrow merely had a tremor as she glared at him, half amused, half dismayed. “And I want to see your brothers' faces when they see us together.”

“Oh Ivar,” Silje cooed this time, placing a hand on his arm and rubbing soothingly. “There are less painful ways to go if you want to finish yourself off.”

He let out a dry laughter and grumbled something about this no being funny, though Silje was pretty sure it was very funny - at least it was to her. Ivar pretended to sulk and turned his back to her but Silje was having none of it and poked his side and nudged him until he gave in and turned back around, facing her once again. She promised him his favourite cake if he stopped frowning and so the conversation was back on track

For an hour or so it went on and on, the discussion moving from one subject matter to another, their voices growing faint and sleepy. Nonetheless Ivar and Silje fought to keep their eyes open, until one of them finally gave in to their exhaustion and the other one gladly followed. Neither of them found it difficult to fall asleep huddled against one another on Silje's bed – in fact, it would be the best night's sleep they had in a while.

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@thinemineours

[drcranewillseeyounow]

Sleeping Companions

Erik Destler x Christine Daaé

Request: Write a story about the phantom getting used to sleeping with someone.

"She's on MY pillow! There are at least one hundred other pillows on this bed and she had to fall asleep on mine!"

Lots of fluff. Most cute. Please and thank.

Authors note: Hey everyone! Let's get the ball rolling on this account shall we?! Forgive me if these are rusty or just downright terrible, it's been a hot minute! I greatly enjoy bringing fantasy to life and I hope you guys will love it too! You can never have too much Phantom fluff and Lord knows we need more! So, without further ado, let's dive in! ~Fluff, Humor, Romance~

○Requests are officially open!○

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Erik' s typical routine was trying to busy himself, constantly, for doing nothing in solitude led to dark places. Not that he wasn't well acquainted with those dark places, he liked to avoid them if he could. Writing his music, his only outlet, his only escape, for we can all escape in our fantasy and through his beautiful scores Erik truly escaped, the only way that a man of his position could, through emotions. His music was flooded with them. Those he was very familiar with, his sorrow, his loneliness, his self-loathing. Such deep pain, such deep agony, such trauma, how could it create such beauty, only he could know, or perhaps he himself strived to know as well.

Erik could be Inspired for hours, days sometimes, so he was well occupied, but eventually we all must close our eyes, and when we are left to our own devices we are open to terrible things, things he would rather think about later than to properly deal with. So, he avoided sleep all together, if he could that is, choosing to stay inside his music or pace the floors when he was uninspired.

That's another thing about living in solitude and being left to your own devices, you learn to do things your way, because that is the way you are set in. Or, perhaps, it was just that Erik was born with an unusually hard head.

"Erik." Christine's voice chided. "I believe you've done enough pacing, if you do not run a line in the stone, you shall drive me mad first." She smirked, arms crossed as she surveyed Erik's worrying stare.

Erik felt his face heat from the coming flush. "M-my apologies, Christine." He quickly spoke as he swiftly made his way to his composers bench. Perhaps he could busy himself again to come up with something worth while. Just as he finished his thought, Christine placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him a stern gaze. Erik looked up at her with what could only be described as the look of a worried child. "I think you've been up long enough, the moon must be so high by now, and I'm quite sleepy myself. Perhaps we should retire for the night, won't you come to bed, Darling?" Christine urged, there wasn't a possibility that he was not the least bit sleepy at this time.

Erik could only look to her in awe as he placed his hand atop hers where it perched on his shoulder. He always felt a rush from her touch, if he was tired before he was jolted awake by her presence. In his daze, Christine only smiled and urged him to stand and follower her to his chambers. Erik could not protest, he fought with himself on wether he would, even if he possessed full control of his actions. He was entranced by an Angel.

Christine led him up the steps and into his private chambers, she removed his coat gently and slowly as not to disrupt this bout of obedience. Erik could only gaze into her eyes and think a million things at once, yet he could form no coherent thoughts. Christine folded his coat and laid it neatly on the back of a present chair by the dresser which faced a large mirror.

"Now, I will properly arrange the bed for you, and you will properly arrange yourself, for bed." Christine explained as she nuged him in the direction of his water-room to freshen up for bed, while she went to work on his plush bed. Very plush bed. Yes, A very lovely bed indeed.

Erik was shocked he had let himself be lead away so willingly by Christine. She simply entranced him, she listened, she even dared to touch him, to see him. To...care...for him? He dared to dream, if anything. Once Erik was adorned in his night robes and well, he made his way cautiously out, looking for Chrsitine. Yet, he saw no Christine. He assumed she must have went to her own chambers, it was late and she had gotten him this far, in his robes and in his own chambers. He relaxed mildly, making his way to his bed.

Erik couldn't hold back the small gasp that escaped him, his face was heating up rapidly, his ears and the back of his neck. There she was, so simple, in her loose gown, laying on his bed. Her body curled just so, her gown covering her ankles, a dainty hand under her head and the other lay inches from her face on the bed. Her brown curls sprawled out on his pillow. She was a vision. His vision.

My pillow! He thought. There are at least one hundred other pillows on this bed and she had to fall asleep on mine!

Erik didn't know what to do with himself. He began to hesitantly reach out for her, but recoiled at the second thought of disturbing her. Suddenly Christine spoke out, startling him and causing a small, unnoticed jump. "Come now Erik," she mumbled, her eyes still closed. "Lie down." Well, of course at this statement Erik was a little more than surprised. Lie with Christine? In his bed? Surley not, surely she must be jesting. "I...ahem...Christine.." He attempted to string together some kind of sentence to voice his concern, but of course, before he could. "LIE. DOWN." She groaned forcefully. To which Erik, of course, obliged.

Erik made his way to the other side of the bed and slide under the covers, stiffly laying beside Christine, keeping his distance from her small body. He folded his arms across his chest, and stared at the canopy. Christine...she was beside him. She was peacefully sleeping beside him, unafraid. Not filled with hatred, nor pity. She just lay sleeping, dreaming her vibrant dreams. Her endless fantasys. What may lie beyond that beautiful face? What may lie beyond the angel? What compels her to stay? What compels her to act out such care for him?

He laid still like that for several minutes. Christine rolled to his side, placing a hand delicately on his chest. She let out a sigh and gazed up at him with a barely awake look, a small smile playing on her lips.

Alone. That was all Erik knew. When he closed his eyes the darkness followed him from his waking life. It rivaled the darkness he saw daily in himself. The darkness he saw daily in his life, in his music, in his mind.

But, Erik also saw Christine and Christine saw him. He supposed that as long as he saw his Christine, he could face the darkness. They could face the darkness.

Christine moved her hand up and removed his mask and laid it behind her on the bed. Erik closed his eyes. Yes. He thought. He no longer had to face his darkness, without a little light.

[pontificalandwarlike]

Enjolras the (Non-)Survivor

Or, an essay on why I struggle with survivor!Enjolras

[ cut for length......  buckle down kids cause this is about to be a long one. ]

As I hinted at previously, there are 3 layers to why survivor!Enjolras is a strange and confusing beast to me. 

Let’s start with the easiest/simplest, which is: history. See, the point of having Enjolras survive the barricade is usually to give him a second chance, right ? He lives, he continues on, and he triumphs the next time, or maybe two tries later, or maybe ten –– but the ultimate goal is a happy ending of sorts for our golden boy. Or at least a triumphant ending, a closure of sorts, a successful closing arc for him and his Revolution. Except.... 19th century history isn’t kind to the French Republic. A lot of survivor!verse stuff take 1848 as the happy ending ( and I in no way mean to insult or nitpick them at all ). And on the surface, that makes sense ; that’s the next successful revolution ! Except the revolution might have been successful, but the Second French Republic born of it really wasn’t. Like, the February Revolution of 1848 happened in... February, as the name suggests; four months later, the June Days Uprisings were a major rebellion in Paris, where the workers rose up en masse, complete with barricades, in protest against the Second Republic’s policies. I won’t go too much into history here ( although there’s a lot of fascinating stuff ; a book I read characterized the June Days as the last major barricades ), I mostly wanted to mention it as an indicator of how rocky the Second Republic was from the start. And then, of course, the Second Republic lasted all of four years. In 1852 we have the Second French Empire, because they went and elected Louis-Napoléon Bonaparte –– aka Napoleon III, aka Napoleon Bonaparte’s nephew and heir –– as the president of the Second Republic, and he did as Bonapartes apparently do in France. So, with 1848, Enjolras either dies on that barricade, or lives to see his beloved Republic fall apart in front of his very eyes and then give way to yet another empire. Not a very happy ending, and quite honestly, I don’t know how much his story changes functionally from what we already see in canon. 

Let’s say for the sake of argument that this boy survives past 60 and sees the next republic come to be in 1870. Well, first of all, to do that, he has to : 

lead a failed rebellion and deal with the physical, legal, and emotional aftermath of that 

live under a regime he tried to overthrow for another 16 years 

watch the Second Republic fall apart and give way to the Second Empire

live in an empire for almost 20 years

and finally, live through yet another bloody revolution 

which, clearly, is not a great time for anyone. But also, the Third Republic was a bit of a mess of its own. See : the Franco-Prussion War, the Ordre Moral and the suppression of the Commune which lead up to 16 May 1877 ( “le seize mai” ), the aggressively polarized politics... Hell, just look at the wikipedia page for the Third Republic. Similar to 1848, simply getting to 1870 and the successful Revolution that leads to the Third Republic is not a happy ending in and of itself. 

The point of all this historicizing is that, given his position in history, and his ideology as a radical revolutionary republican –– no matter what he survives and lives to see, Enjolras is just destined to be a tragic figure. There’s just no happy ending for him in history ; the best he can do is go out in a symbolic blaze of glory on a barricade somewhere, as he does.  

Alright, let’s move on to layer #2 now, which is the symbolic/meta layer. This is also the most fun layer for me, and I’ll shamelessly mooch on some other people’s brilliant meta for this. There’s a lot of things you could talk about in the Brick, but I’m going to speak mainly to one of my perpetually favourite scenes, which is the execution of Le Cabuc. More specifically, the speech that follows right after it. I could quote the whole damn thing, but the key part is : 

“As for myself, compelled to do what I have done, but abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself. [...] Citizens, in the future there shall be neither darkness nor thunderbolts, neither ferocious ignorance nor blood for blood. As Satan shall be no more, so Michael shall be no more. In the future no man will slay his fellow, the earth will be radiant, the human race will love. It will come, citizens, that day when all shall be concord, harmony, light, joy, and life; it will come, and it is so that it may come that we are going to die.” (Tome IV, Book 11, Chapter 8) 

It took so much restraint to not bold the entire passage, but I managed to stick to a few phrases only. There’s sort of two ideas happening here. One is nor blood for blood / in the future no man will slay his fellow / all shall be concord, harmony, which is to say that Enjolras and the revolutionaries are fighting for a world without violence. Sit on the contradiction of that statement for a moment. They are fighting for a world without violence. There’s a fundamental ideological crisis here, and that is the contradiction of violence in the name of a world without violence. A question aries, then: where do people who have shed blood in the name of liberty and progress, fit in a world after revolution? More specifically for me & this essay, where does Enjolras, a “pontifical and warlike nature” fit in a peacetime world ? We have our answer in to what I have condemned myself / so Michael shall be no more / we are going to die. The answer is, he doesn’t and he can’t. The answer is, if you try to fit him in, he becomes Robespierre and Saint-Just and the Terror. The answer is, a warlike nature is a warlike nature in war or in peace ; and Enjolras is made to be the war that brings down regimes, and just because there is no more regime to be brought down doesn’t change his nature. ( Note that this is many chapters before the moment they realize they’ve been abandoned, that Paris isn’t coming to their aid ; that doesn’t happen until Tome V, Book 1, Chapter 3. Why does that matter ? Because Enjolras has no reason yet to believe they won’t survive this rebellion. And yet here he is, already condemning himself –– to death, I imagine, given the rest of his speech –– and a few lines later proclaiming that we are going to die. The revolutionaries, these men fighting with blood and sweat and tears for the future, are not going to live to see it. Because there isn’t a place for them in the world they are trying to build. They’re writing themselves out of the future. ) 

All this to say : if Enjolras survives a successful barricade, there is no place for him in the world it creates. He has already condemned himself, and the rest of the revolutionaries with him ( “We will share your fate !” Combeferre shouts, and Enjolras replies simply with “Very well.” ) He is Michael, and in a world where Satan is no more, he too will be and must be no more. ( I mooched a lot of ideas off of this meta thread, so feel free to go there for more intelligent, coherent, and informed thoughts than mine. )

Okay, then what about a failed barricade ? Well, let’s talk about that on the symbolic/meta level for a bit. Enjolras surviving a failed barricade... doesn’t make sense, on that level. It’s sort of the point of his story, that he dies there. That he dies embracing Grantaire, holding his hand, smiling. That’s the ultimate sacrifice, yes, but also the closure of his character arc : accepting love, accepting the skeptic, accepting people-with-a-lower-case-p, even when they don’t fit neatly into his revolutionary worldview. It’s a symbolic redemption of the heartless, ruthless version of republicanism he espouses at the very start ; it’s the antithesis of “Silence before Jean-Jacques! I admire that man. He disowned his children; very well, but he adopted the people.” In other words, his arc remains incomplete on a symbolic level if the barricade fails and yet he doesn’t die. Also, can you imagine Enjolras surviving the barricade when everyone else has died ? I sure can’t, unless some magic stepped in and saved him when the Guard thought he was dead and he really should have been dead. 

Anyway, having addressed the symbolic/meta reasons of why Enjolras surviving the barricades is a baffling situation to be in, let’s go to the third and most practical layer : characterization. Look, Enjolras as we see him in the Brick is made of exactly two things, and that is 99% Revolution and 1% his friends. ( Percentage may vary. ) So then, who is he when we rip both of those things away from him ? Who is Enjolras, when his Revolution has failed and his friends have all died ? I don’t have a good answer to that. I can’t possibly imagine him giving up, or God forbid turning a cynic, because that runs contrary to his entire person. It’s hard to imagine him becoming a moderate, peaceful republican or something along those lines, because he’s built on quite the absolutes, and while Combeferre/Courfeyrac/Feuilly/et al. to temper his beliefs, I just don’t think there’s a way he’s ever going to bend that far. He’d break before that. But at the same time, there’s no way he can go on like before, as if nothing happened. That’s just not how trauma works. This boy, all of 26 years old, waged a war, had his hands drenched in blood, killed people he didn’t want to kill ( see : the artillery sergeant scene ), watched all of his friends die by his side, was abandoned by a group of people he believed so deeply would be on their side, and saw the ideals he devoted his entire life to shatter to rubble in front of his own eyes. He’s not walking away from that unchanged, because that’s just not how human beings work. 

So then, to summarize. I can’t imagine him giving up, because it’s not who he is as a person; I can’t imagine him choosing a moderate path, because I don’t think he has it in him to be that tempered; I can’t imagine him continuing as he was, because that’s just not how we work as people. So I’m at an impasse. 

An Enjolras who survives with a few of his friends is easier to work with, because he as room to be at both ends. He can go through his terrible post-barricade phase, the survivor’s guilt, the trauma, the fears and the insecurities and the doubts that are borne of that experience. But then he can build himself back up, piece by piece, with the help of his friends –– and he can help them build themselves back up in turn. And at the end of the day, they stand back up as they did, scarred and wounded by their experiences but still standing. For what, I’m not so sure ( see history rant above ), but at least standing. 

But an Enjolras who survives alone ? I genuinely have no idea what he would do or be, in the long-term. In the short term, sure, he’d be terribly guilty and terribly scarred and probably honestly terrified for a while. And then ? Does he heal from that on his own –– and if so, how ? What happens if he does heal –– does he go on to join or found another revolutionary group ? What happens if he doesn’t heal –– does he die, somehow ? 

This is not to say that I don’t like writing survivor!verse. The opposite is true, actually ; I love it. I love angst, first of all, but it also lets me explore a side of Enjolras that doesn’t happen a lot in other places. Which is to say, an Enjolras stripped and broken down, an Enjolras shattered and torn apart, an Enjolras guilty and doubting and robbed of his own self-assured confidence. This essay is more to explore in more depth why I struggle with Enjolras post-barricades on a broader and longer-term scale. I could probably go on but I’ll stop now because this is already 2100+ words.

[ol-razzle-dazazzle]

A Double Black, Please

A soukoku fic that was based on a pun, posted on my AO3

Summary: Chuuya works at a bar in order to pay for his extra expenses on wine, and has been for a while. However, he can't help but be reminded of the one person that left him. He drinks a coffee, and of course, it's his luck that makes /him/ come into his life again.

Amazingly enough, despite the Port Mafia's expenses, the job didn't pay all that well. At least, for someone like Chuuya, who needed to have his therapy moment of enjoying the 'finer things in life'. Those things being wine. He wouldn't exactly call himself an alcoholic, but he noticed that ever since Dazai left him, he's been drinking more. Or perhaps it was the same amount the whole time, when one gets that delightful buzz in their head and blurry eyes it really is hard to tell.

However, such things made getting few, well admittedly more than a few bottles of wine difficult. Which is why, fittingly enough, Chuuya's behind the bar stand on this very night, polishing some glasses. Also throwing out the less than occasional drunkard is really another one of life's delights. With a sad eye he looked over at the cellar, his hat pegged on a rack and his hair tied up. Such a uniform really was illogical, what kind of idiot thinks that wearing an uncovered white top at a bar is a good idea?

Thankfully enough, no one seemed to recognise him. He chose this bar purely because of the fact that to his knowledge, none of the other of the Port Mafia went there. It wasn't a huge concern for Chuuya, even if they did. Even with another job, it was a chance where Chuuya could feel a semblance of what he considered to be 'free'. A place where he felt just as sane and just as deserving of a drink as anyone, where he (for the most part) didn't need to follow whims of higher-ups.

There was no baggage. Yes, that's what it was. Nothing compelled to remember, no painful reminders or loathing for even thinking about such a weakness. As much as Chuuya hated to admit it, it was the latter more than anything, because he simply couldn't forget or forgive-

"That pieceeee of shit." A low drawl came from a man who fell off the stool. "But I don't give nothin' to him no more, I don't give a shit." Thankfully, there weren't any glasses that were falling or smashed, as Chuuya leaned over, with great difficulty. Nope. Too high. For fuck's sake...He went around, scooping up the guy who was now just saying gibberish with coherent, "Done, fuck, shit"'s being thrown in between sentences. He set him on the chair, smoothing aside any drinks that would be beyond the alcoholic's reach.

"Yeah? People can be unforgivable sometimes." Chuuya nodded, 'The customer is always right, unless their brain has left', the motto of the bar. "You know, we were best buds me an' him." Chuuya rolled his eyes, if he hadn't this one a million times. "Even better buds than ol' Buddy Wiser over here...speaking of which, gimme." His hand lolled out, stretching to the bottle. "Rather not, sir." Chuuya swept up the bottle, considering to take a sip. No, it was just beer. He was better than that, at least, for now. He put it back in the shelves, causing a sigh.

"Y'all are the same. Unforgivable. You stay on my side when you feel it, then you switch em up and toss me aside for another...ah fuck, I don't know." His reaching arm slammed onto the bar. "Your car's probably getting towed outside, you've been here for four hours." Chuuya looked down at him, well, metaphorically. "You know what son?" "I'm not your son." "You an' me, got a lotta in common." He was staggering out the door, not able to push it open. 'Like hell we do.', is what Chuuya normally would say, but the guy seemed down on his luck. He got betrayed by his partner, and anyone who's getting paid and has experienced that can sympathise. "I do have to ask something, what did the bastard do?" Chuuya opened the door, looking out into the street, eyes catching a piece of paper on a smashed up car. "He swiped my fuckin' liquor from my house, that's why the hell I'm here in the first place." The ability to relate could only take Chuuya so far, and his expectation, as well as his faith in humanity caused him to literally, kick the guy out, slamming the door with a huff.

His fault for trying to find meaning. Chuuya sighed, retreating back to his post. It was a late night, and it was going to be a long one. He walked over to the coffee machine, which he thought was normally a shitty investment, considering people came here to get off their face and sleep, not stay awake. But for now, it was a welcome object (that is to say, he couldn't trust himself not to get drunk on the job, at least right now. One of the drawbacks of being a lightweight.)

He retied his hair as he waited for the soft hiss of the pot, eyes going askance at the door. Perhaps there's a little 'unnamed drunkard' in everyone. Perhaps Chuuya took pity at the familiar loss of thought at losing someone he thought he could...trust wasn't the right word. Chuuya felt a lot of things about it, but he never felt he could trust /him/, for better or for worse, who was to say.

'No. This was different, you're just coming up with excuses to think about it again.' The sentence rang in Chuuya's mind, as he took a sip, the warm burn of coffee not all that different to that of wine. It was enveloping, soft on the outside yet sharp on the inside- like leaning onto someone after you got injured in a knifefight. Each sip was another confirmation into reality. 'You're not an alcoholic, you're not a petty fuckwit, you don't have a smashed up car, and you have dignity. This isn't you, and you aren't falling apart over anyone, no matter how petty or important they were to you.' Chuuya looked down, a stained white of a cup staring back at him. With a stupid realisation, he realised that the cup was probably empty by halfway through the third thought.

He retreated to wash the cup, considering the bar was much more lulled than usual, the beginning a slew of people, and the end the common but few ones that needed to be picked away. Besides, if someone needed him they could just "Ding ding ding!" The noise rang sharply through his ears, unrelenting on any break. He set the glass aside, hearing the bell ring more and more. It was a measured ring, not the usual irregularity of someone trying to press for more alcohol. Chuuya walked over, before stopping immediately.

Because any training could prepare him for literally any other possibility. It could've been assassin or any stereotypical bad customer. However as this person could be possibly all of those, it was who the man before him that shook him more than anything. If it wasn't the bandages enveloping his arms, it was lilted voice, all too frustratedly detached from concern. "Doesn't anyone work here anymore?" Chuuya felt shaken up, telling himself mentally to just suck it up, go home and just drink until this seems like it never happened.

"Someone does work here, sir." Perhaps it was an attempt to hide himself despite being in plain sight, but even Chuuya found himself hissing slightly on the words. Dazai seemed to take no notice, either acting like he didn't recognise him, or if he did- giving no indication that the man before him was his partner that he ditched all those painful years ago.

"So, what booze are you having?" Chuuya asked, again a reminding himself. If Dazai was here, it would only be to get booze, there's no way he figured to actually do this shit to taunt him. "None, thank you. Just a coffee." Chuuya fought back the urge to glare at him. "The machine's there, right?" An obvious statement, taunting Chuuya's hesitation, still trying to grasp at the possibility of Dazai not figuratively fucking with him. "How do you like your coffee?" 'You piece of shit', is what he would like to add.

"Two shots of espresso, no milk and one sugar." Dazai smirks at him. A normal order...

"You know, you can just say it's a..." Chuuya stops himself, eyes widening.

"Double black?" And out of all the times that Chuuya wanted to beat up Dazai, this was at least in the top twenty.

"I honestly can't believe you." He settled with saying that, but not before grabbing the other's shirt collar. "You give me all this shit-"

"I'd love to talk about that, but I actually would like a coffee right now." Dazai beams, as Chuuya reluctantly lets his grip go, before making him the beverage.

****

"This...is actually pretty good." Dazai glances up over his sip, looking at Chuuya making sure that he paid the right amount. "Do you really not trust me that much?"

Chuuya shoves the money into the register. "Give me one good reason why I should."

"I gave you the right amount, didn't I?" Chuuya scowls back at the response. "You also gave me a right amount of ditching me, a few lovely years."

"I can't tell whether that's you missing me or you being glad I never saw you again."

"Both, neither, shut up." Chuuya avoids any further response, feeling a pained groan emerge from him at Dazai stretching his arms and adjusting his bandages, a surefire indicator that it would be a long night.

"I said I'd love to talk about that, though." Dazai glances at Chuuya, settling a hand on the other's.

"Pay for a therapist."

"But the reason I came here was for you." He hummed, pouting slightly.

"The reason you came here was for that pun."

"...I will neither confirm nor deny that-" "Dazai." "Okay, it was admittedly a prominent factor."

Seeing the look on Chuuya's face Dazai added, "Come on, I didn't come here just purely for the sake of the pun, and the coffee."

"Then spit it out." "No! It's the best coffee I ever had!"

"The reason, dammit!" Chuuya rolls his eyes. "Of course. My own fucking fault for playing along with your games." "Chuuya, it's not tha-" Chuuya cut him off, "No. You don't get to decide how bad it was for me. You don't get to say anything about the fucking hell I have been through."

Dazai took a sip, before exhaling softly. "You're right, I don't." He decided to take the plunge. "...How is everyone over there?"

"You don't care about them, so why are you asking."

"Fine, how were you?" He raises an eyebrow, and Chuuya can't fight the smirk off his own face. "Mori's been killing me with paperwork. To think, he just tosses Akutagawa around and barely even uses me aside from infiltration, damn ridiculous..."

"Is that why you took up this lovely establishment?" Dazai asked, trying not to let his eyes flit to the aspects of the building that would state that the place is anything but lovely.

"You gotta pay before you can drink." Chuuya shrugs. "Besides he thinks I'm too..."

"Risky?"

"He said a glass canon loaded with gunpowder and fireworks, but let's go with that."

They looked at each other, with a knowing glance. Ever since Dazai left, Chuuya couldn't use Corruption. Well, of course he could. If he wanted to... "I would've just tried to kill him, shoot him with that loaded fire."

"Well, as good as the wine is in hell, I do have other... things to live for." Chuuya sighed, "Even if we're rotten, things get better with time."

"Did you just compare our relationship to wine?" Dazai laughed, "I didn't figure you cared about me that much."

"I'm not wrong am I?" Chuuya brushed off the teasing attempt, smirking at the other's retracted expression.

"Quite the opposite, actually." Dazai sighed, "I can't believe it, but you're actually right."

"Are you satisfied?" A blunt statement, one that held...way too many implications. "You got what you and every mafia man dreams, 'freedom'."

"Ah you think so?" Dazai's expression falters for but a moment, "And you? What's it like being free?"

"I throw out drunk bastards so I can spoil myself the luxury of expensive wine because killing people isn't enough, you tell me if that's freedom." Chuuya scoffs. "But yes, I am rather enjoying this job nonetheless."

"I wonder if you're saying that because of customer obligation or because you know better than anyone that you love throwing people around and acting like you have authority." Dazai muses, taking a sip.

"Both, really." Chuuya exhales, a half-smile ebbing onto his face. "You're a lot more tolerable when you're honest, you know that?"

"But I wouldn't be myself if I wasn't an intolerable liar, now would I?" Dazai glances up.

"See? It's not that hard." Chuuya pats the other's shoulder, before looking down. He retracted his hand, too close for comfort.

"Just like old-" "Shut up." Chuuya brushes it off, hands robotically reaching for some wine before he even realises it.

"Hey, don't get drunk on the job- I've had my fair share of carrying you around." Chuuya pours himself a glass, downing it and just getting more frustrated. Didn't even appreciate it. He didn't even appreciate any of this.

"Well, you aren't my partner, so you don't get to tell me."

"Ah, but isn't the customer always right?"

"Unless they're being an intolerable shit-" Chuuya reaches forward feeling the bandages against Dazai's arm.

"Careful, Chuuya- you might start backing away again."

"The fuck I will."

"Why, because you missed me?" Chuuya's eyes widened, his grip tightening. "You're the one that told me I should be more honest."

"I'm not going to let go of you."

"Not like you ever did." Dazai smiles at Chuuya's anger- an expected reaction. However, out of everything, Chuuya didn't expect this sentence. "Neither did I, I guess."

"What's it like being free?" The words fall on Chuuya's lips again, heart too shaky to ask anything else.

"You get a choice of all the drinks in the world...but the coffee, alcohol and everything else are bland, and you have to make it all yourself." Dazai's eyes flicker for a moment at the the glass on the table. "Why did you think I ordered a double shot? Word association aside, of course."

"Knowing you, you have at least five ulterior motives to why you do anything." Chuuya rolls his eyes.

"Oh? And what five would be the reason I came to see you?"

"The pun, you actually wanted a coffee, you're a little shit and you wanted to fuck around with me..." Chuuya shrugs. "I wouldn't know the last one, it has been...years since you've bothered to show up again without either of us trying to put a bullet in each other's heads."

"Well, I came here to change that. How about I visit this time every week, order some-"

"Fuck that. I'm tired of waiting, and I know what the reason is." Chuuya sighed, before tugging Dazai closer, feeling the other's lips on his own, before pulling away- smirking at Dazai's dazed face.

"Another double black?"

"...I'd like that."