#and then now its biting and cuticle destruction

[comfortfrogblog]

idk what nail biter needs to hear this but do not start messing with your cuticles, you will never recover from it

[hheaven-sentt]

glass in his palm

summary: sunk into flesh, meant to scar | leon kennedy x gn!reader

word count: 2.2k

warnings: angst, angst, angst, more angst, no happy ending (oops), depictions of injuries that are self inflicted (nail biting and finger picking, touching broken glass), self destructive behavior, anger and sadness, mentions of smut but no depictions, mentions of alcohol consumption

notes: back to back baby yeah | ao3

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

You wonder what time it is in Paris. You’re staring out the window, watching the city lights, the rain, and the cars that pass by on the street below. You hear their honks and see the blurry red of their brake lights, and you wonder what time it is in Paris. Your fingernail beds have been bitten and torn bloody, raw, aching. Your nerves are exposed, heart on your sleeve–a very dangerous place for things to be.

When you were a child, pretending was your favorite game. You’d spend hours with your friends in the backyard, skin baked by the summer sun while you pretended to be princesses, or a single mother of three, or the owner of a hotel. You did that every single day just because you enjoyed it so much. Your hair would bleach under the sun, your skin would fry, and you would be president of the world for a few hours while the Earth spun on its axis toward damnation. Maybe, because you did it so much as a child, that’s why you’re so good at it now.

You tear another piece of skin from the cuticle of your nail. Blood pinpricks in its wake, and you wince at the sting when you flatten your tongue against it. You wonder what time it is in Paris. Is Leon in bed or is he working? Is he drinking like he’s not on the job, but is covered in gear with enough weapons to satisfy a small armory stuck to him? Is he with someone? What time is it there? You know that it’s almost eight in the morning in London, so Paris could only be a few hours ahead of that, right? You glance at the clock sitting beside you. It’s nearing three. You let out a lengthy sigh. You stand abruptly, finding the lack of traffic distracting. You slide your empty glass from the windowsill, a few remnant drops of liquor sliding around the bottom.

You feel pathetic. You could almost guarantee that he hasn’t thought about you. At least, not in a way that matters. You hazard a guess that he’s thought about you beneath him at least once. The thought, although exciting, makes you frown. You feel pathetic. You’ve been staring out the window for the better part of two hours, worrying that he’s not sleeping enough, wondering if he’s hurt, hoping that he took his meds in the morning, and you know that he hasn’t spared you a passing thought.

Is something wrong with you? What about you turns him away? The rational part of yourself says that he’s just wired that way, that he’s not capable of that sort of connection. But then why does he always show up at your door, or pull pretty sounds from your mouth in the early hours before the sun is awake? That has to mean something to him. It means something to you.

You stand over your sink. The faucet doesn’t leak anymore, not after Leon fixed it. Rage bubbles into your system with a vengeance, and you hurl the glass across the room. It shatters in an instant, shards flying to rest at your bare feet. They glint against the soft light coming from the rangehood above the stove. So pretty against the bland gray-green of your kitchen linoleum. You sink to the floor beside the pieces. You press your palm to them, blinking when they sink into your flesh, meaning to scar you.

You’re hopeless. You hate him more than you hate yourself, though. And you know you’ll forget the hatred the moment you see him, the second his gaze connects with yours because you’re pathetic and hopeless. There’s something about him that makes you gravitate to him. You orbit him. You stare at the shards of glass stuck in your palm for a moment more before brushing them away. They clatter back to the floor without a second thought. A bit of blood seeps out of your palm from where the glass was, but you swipe it down the length of your bent leg, smearing your sweatpants with the red.

You rest your head against the bottom row of cabinets. It’s easy like this, blissful amidst the chaos.You fall asleep like that.

When the sun streams across the floor, reflecting off the glass, you hear the front door open. Like a Pavlovian dog, your mood shifts. You feel him before you see him. He’s standing in the archway of the kitchen.

“What the fuck happened here?” he asks. You lull your head to the side to look at him. His expression shifts when he looks at you, like he’s concerned. “What happened?”

“Drank too much,” you lie. “Must’ve dropped the glass and fallen asleep,”

He levels you with a version of his gaze you’ve never seen before. He still has his boots on, so when he approaches you, the glass crunches beneath his feet. He extends a hand to you, an open palm that you can feel before you touch it. You would recognize him in complete darkness. Wordlessly, you take it, and he hauls you to your feet. He’s careful to keep you away from the glass as he helps you out of the room. You feel like a ghost in your own home.

“What’s going on?” Leon asks. You look at him tiredly. You don’t want to be around him, but you know you’ll crumble if he walks through the door. He smooths a hand over your hair, bringing it to rest along your jaw as he forces you to look him in the eye. His gaze dances around your features, searching for injury. “Talk to me,”

“Right, because we’re known for talking,” you say, words a bit more harsh than sarcastic. He knits his brows together. “Been a rough few days. Just need a shower, or something,”

When you try to move away from him, his grip tightens. “You’re really not going to tell me?”

“I must’ve forgotten that you’re Mr. Forthcoming while you were away,” you bite. His hand drops from your face. “You’re not gonna tell me why you were in France for the last three weeks?”

His expression neutralizes in an instant. You nod slowly, pursing your lips, and say, “That’s what I thought,”

He takes a step back from you, and you take this as your cue to run a bath. You sigh once the bathroom door shuts behind you. The running water is enough noise for now, but it will be too quiet once you sink into the water. You stare at  yourself in the mirror for a moment. Your eyes are a bit more sunken than usual. Your skin isn’t as bright. Have you lost weight? This generally happens whenever Leon is gone for an extended period of time, but never like this. You look down at your hands, nails chewed to the bed, bloody and raw. Your palm is dirty from last night’s break. You run it under warm water to wash away the dried blood.

You wonder, briefly, what it would be like if Leon stayed. The times he’s here are when you’re at your best. He’s funny, makes you smile, does the dishes, treats you right. He riles you up because he knows he’ll be the one to bring you back down. He knows your body better than you do at this point. You know his just as well. You know that he has a sweet spot just below his ear where the hinge of his jaw is, or that he likes when you drag your nails down his back. 

You hate that you want him. You hate that you need to be around him or you become a shell of yourself, lonely and agitated. Maybe be less of a ghost if he would promise to come back, promise that he’s yours, instead of disappearing without even saying goodbye. The thought makes you angry, rageful. You stare at yourself in the mirror. Tears stream down your face, your jaw is clenched, and you can feel your breathing get more and more labored. You hate this.

A soft knock comes from the door. You wipe your face a few times to appear normal, and turn to shut the bath faucet off. When you open the bathroom door a crack, Leon is peering in at you, opening your chest up like a cavern; soft blue eyes bore into you like they mean to discover what’s hidden beneath rather than scrape from the top.

“I was in Paris for work,” he whispers. You blink at him. You know that. “Got called in on an assignment,”

“Those aren’t really answers, Leon,” you say. He sighs, an air of frustration floating about him. “Half truths don’t count,”

“We’re not built for full truths,” he returns.

Pain radiates throughout your chest, crawling around your shoulders and snaking down your arms. Pins and needles prick across your skin. Is it anger or rage? Maybe, but it’s also realization. The waiting and yearning is pointless. Leon has never intended to be truthful with you, not then and certainly not now. You swallow thickly.

“What are we built for?” you ask. Leon’s brows knit together in confusion like he doesn’t fully understand the scope of your question. “God, Leon, can’t you see I’m drowning here?”

He pushes the bathroom door open at this. You can hear the bath faucet dripping faintly in the background, but it’s mostly drowned out by the roaring of blood in your ears. He looks at you–really looks at you–and you feel exposed, vulnerable.

“I can’t sleep,” you say, voice cracking and shaking. “Can’t eat, can’t stop thinking. Did you know that I spend most of my time worrying about you? Bet you didn’t, since all you ever seem to care about when it comes to me is whatever comfort you can find, right?”

Leon doesn’t say anything. His fist flexes and clenches at his side, and you take a lengthy inhale before leveling your gaze on him again.

“You don’t return my calls,” you say. “Don’t ask how I’m doing. Don’t promise you’ll be back. You just take from me, don’t you? I guess I’m guilty of having too much to give. You tell me nothing about who you are or what you do, and expect me to open my home and my legs in return. I have spent the last eight months with a complete and total stranger,”

“You don’t understand-”

“No, I don’t,” you interrupt. He opens his mouth a few times before choosing to remain silent. “And at this point? I don’t want to understand. I just…want it to be over, honestly,”

“Over?” he repeats. “You want me to leave?”

“Doesn’t really stop you all that often,” you say, shrugging. “Look at me, Leon. I’m a mess,”

He chews on his lower lip, choosing his next words carefully. “Look,” he says. You blink at him. “I care about you, I mean, clearly. But I’m not sure what you expected. I told you how this was going to work, and you let me in anyway,”

You want to scream at him. “Yes,” you say calmly instead. “I let you in anyway. I let you in regardless of whatever stupid self imposed risks you’ve evaluated because it was you. You were worth that to me. I find it hard to believe that you can take care of me when you’re here, but forget that I exist when you’re gone. I’m sorry that I can’t do that, that I can’t separate my heart from my actions, but I think it’s really unfair for you to assume that I could,”

“I am trying,” Leon says. You look him in the eye, and you see something waver there. His tough facade is starting to crack and dissolve. You feel bad for being so upset, maybe you’re overreacting. “I am trying so hard to learn how to love you better,”

You feel a pinprick of pain at your thumb, and you realize you’ve been digging at the nail cuticle for however long you and Leon have been fighting. You smear the blood over the nail in an attempt to wipe it away.

“Is this what you do to yourself when I’m not here?” Leon asks, reaching to grab your hand and inspect your fingers. “Just take yourself apart over and over again without bothering to put the pieces back together?”

You stare at him. “I am trying to figure out how to without you,”

“Don’t go,” he pleads, voice barely a whisper.

“Don’t make me,” you reply. “Because I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I really don’t want to,”

You want him to feel a fraction of the aching pain you’ve felt these last few months. You want him bruised, beaten. You want him to sob in a chair in the middle of the night because he can’t sleep without knowing you’re alive. You want him to hurt.

“But unless you can fix this,” you say, taking a step away from him. “I don’t want to see you ever again,”

He frowns, but ultimately nods. “If you think that’s what’s best for you,”

“I have to look out for myself because I know you won’t,” you whisper. “I don’t want to be the guinea pig you try out new coping methods on,”

His nose twitches with what you assume is anger or frustration. But he leaves.

[silvereternitywrites]

Don’t let your (Human!!!) Mechanic make Mixtapes

Writing Prompt: A pirate ship boards, the human crewmate uses the coms to blast music trough the ship as a terror tactic.

Prompt Source: user fire-sword; subreddit Humans Are Space Orcs

The Captain had listened to this remix exactly once in its entirety and labeled it a terroristic weapon of mass morale destruction before locking it in a drawer.

To be honest, the human crewmate was perhaps a touch more thrilled than she strictly should have been to be given permission to actually use it.

It was horror-rock, falling into that delightful "creep" tune category with synthetic violins that wailed between high and low notes and a bass strumming heartbeat that artificially raised the pulse rate of the listening parties. Aliens... well, she'd found out aliens responded to that unconscious cue WAY more than humans did.

The fact that she knew every beat and bounce and hitch of it, well, that was where the morale destruction came in.

The pirates had boarded in a specific hallway- and they had been subtly guided to this door for a reason.

It was the maintenance crew hallway. The entire floor had holes big enough to reach through or climb through, and the human crewmate? She fit through them, being lanky, tall, and double-jointed. The ceiling had the same grates on either side of the walkway, to allow for access when the gravity was turned off, making it a catwalk surrounded by bolt holes.

The voice was soft at first- only someone who knew the song would know the words. But Human Jazz played them out perfectly to make the Pirates regret ever trying to raid this ship.

The first set of verses were about "burying" something, and every time it said "buried it" Jazz dropped uninterrupted from the ceiling to the floor. Just at the edge of vision, without touching the holes or making a sound, timing her catch of the bars below to the thump of the drum.

And once they were good and spooked, on edge...

She added her voice to the ship speakers, a roar that made the walkway vibrate under their feet for the chorus.

"RUN! AWAY! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, BEFORE THE MONSTER- MONSTER IS INSIDE! THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD! AND GONE! BUT YOU WERE SO WRONG! HASN'T BEEN SO LONG; YOU NEVER THOUGHT YOU'D SEE- SEE, SEE THE DEAD WALK!"

Screaming from above and plasma lighting up the walls told her it was working.

What a shame for them- the pursuit would continue until morale improved. Her morale, or course. All that light would make this more troublesome until it cooled.

The next verse was about what had been buried coming back to bury the singer- it was time to change tactics anyway.

Now her hands reached up through the tiny holes and grates throughout the verse, grabbing and yanking on legs, tentacles, weapon barrels, whatever was in reach, heedless of the burns she was getting or the catch of nails on fabric and skin. Her fake-claw nails were just acrylics, she'd replace them after this, and some bloodstains from a ripped cuticle or two would really sell the idea that something dead and gross was trying to get at them on top of the “detached fingertips”.

As they were coming up on the second chorus, she pulled both hands back down and put them on a panel instead, directing one of the repair-bots with their dozens of arms to dance to the tune, the lyrics printed on it's glowing screen that loomed up out of the dark.

She already knew what she was going to do with the bridge- it talked about disease and parasites, so she was going to yank body parts under the grate and "bite" them with needles full of weak general anesthetics from the first aid kit. She didn't need to actually like, poison or paralyze them, the imagery from the song would make their minds do that for her.

Except-- the thunder of movement, out of sync with the music, headed back up the catwalk at an honestly dizzying speed, and suddenly it was absolutely quiet except her, the repairbot who had now started the fix the plasma damage to the walls, and the music on the ship speakers.

Poking her head up from the nearest access hole, the pirates were gone- with the exception of one, who'd been hog-tied with their own tentacles and blinded with their Captain's hat. Left as a sacrificial offering to the monster for leading their crew into a deathtrap, probably. Well, Jazz didn't want them to think they were too hasty and come back...

She bared all her teeth in the widest, meanest grin, including her sharper-than-normal canines, and whipped the pirate's hat off, the light of the repairbot's torch illuminating her from behind in only brief flashes.

"Buried what I thought would die, don't got no alibi, I buried it," she sang at the alien's horrified face, "I FUCKING BURIED IT!"

The pirate's scream was a noise she couldn't have replicated in a million years. Yeah, driving it home was a good idea.

"RUN! AWAY! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE, THE MONSTER'S ALREADY INSIDE! THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD! AND GONE! BUT I WAS SO WRONG cuz it had been so long and life went on thought it was done I never thought I'd live to see THE DEAD WALK!"

‐-------------------------------------

"I still don't think you needed to render the enemy so terrified they entered an involuntary coma state," the Captain scowled at the human crewmate, who was slung sideways in her work chair. Again.

"It's not like I knew their species can even DO that, Cap! Besides, it was a bloodless battle that successfully repelled the enemy, right? And we haven't been bothered by pirates in that entire sector since!"

The Captain squinted angrily with all their eyes.

"We're a terror-tale in that sector now," they replied flatly.

"Wait, shit, did I accidentally Flying Dutchman our ship?! Aw fuck, Captain, I’m sorry."

The Captain sighed- finally, she understood the gravity of the iss--

"If I'd known that was gonna happen I'd have picked a better song! Dead Walk is kinda underground, how are other ships supposed to lean on the legend with an obscure Earth song?"

The Captain gave up and left to go drink their 400-year old heirloom spirits. They had never worried they were going to be the Onelle to finish off the 'drink in case of headache-inducing disaster' bottle but it looked more likely by the day.

Song: Dead Walk by RedHook Note: the remix featured here doesn't actually exist because I can't make it. Will update and link if that ever changes!

[airbendertendou]

s/o w a non-sexual oral fixation ♥︎ [including mikey, draken, yuzuha & senju]

if you have a blank blog [no bio, no user, no header or profile pic, nothing reblogged, etc] do not interact with my content. you will be blocked.

MIKEY ♥︎ tbh i can see him being the same ♥︎ he always needs something sweet in his mouth if he isnt talking ♥︎ has gotten into the habit of bringing your favorite candy with him everywhere! ♥︎ if you’re like me n chew on things you shouldnt [cuticles n lip skin] he notices n yanks your hand away from your mouth to put a piece of candy in there  ♥︎ has mitsuya n draken carry your fave candies too! ♥︎ no one in toman allows anyone to say anything mean to you abt your habits <3 [baji has put someone in the hospital before when they called you a baby for sucking on a lollipop ♥︎]

DRAKEN ♥︎ has literally dealt w this before bc of mikey lmao ♥︎ always holding your hand so you cant mindlessly chew on it!  ♥︎ someone once made a lil sexual ““joke”“ abt your habit n they were on the ground before you could even blink ♥︎ you literally were jus saring down at them w this giant seething half-bald guy behind you menacingly  ♥︎ knows to keep your mouth busy when you’re bored or not talking ♥︎ has helped you out so much ):  ♥︎ i also grind my teeth all the time so i can see him like squeezing your cheeks until you stop or else your jaw will b sore

YAZUHA ♥︎ challenges you to eat spicy food w her stinky older brother ♥︎ you win bc taiju sucks <3 n you get a kiss on the cheek from her so win, win! ♥︎ has bought you so many different brands / flavors of lip balm to stop your teeth from ruining your lips  ♥︎ tries new lollipop flavors before giving them to you bc her fave must b the one you like more ♥︎ also paints your nails if you bite them! nail polish does not taste nice, youve discovered ♥︎ made hakkai start carrying around some lil treats for you when you come around n she isnt home <3

SENJU ♥︎ makes you drink ice cold water before shoving mint gum in your mouth ):< ♥︎ says its to stop you from self destructive chewing but tbh jus wanted to laugh at you! ♥︎ also chews on candy when her mind is elsewhere ♥︎ gave you personal permission to steal wakasa’s lollipops <3 [he buys you both your own bag off-handedly but you can see him watching you fondly ):] ♥︎ takeomi now has to watch after the two of you n hes got such a headache lmao ♥︎ has choked on a piece of gum mid-fight before so she makes sure you always spit it out n take precautions 

i know this wasnt properly written out but i hope its okay! i also took an oral stimming route on this lmao thank you for your request ♥︎ 

airbendertendou © do not copy, plagiarize, repost, or translate my content on any platform. if you see my content under any other name than my own, let me know. i only have this tumblr and an ao3 account under the same name.

[cuttoothed]

172 spoilers

Post episode fic, because damn it these boys need to talk about stuff! Contains discussion of Jon’s season 4 feeding on victims.

*

Jon leads the way down a narrow, winding corridor while the stage noises dim behind them, sounds of laughter and scrabbling legs and the occasional scream becoming indistinct and indistinguishable. The air still smells like cigarette ash and blood, but even that fades as they approach a door with a brightly lit sign above it. The sign reads NO EXIT, but Jon knows that doesn’t refer to them. 

He pushes down on the rusted crash bar, which squeaks in protest before giving way, and the door opens into the gray light of the ruined world. 

From outside, Jon notices, the theater looks a bit like the Lyceum, except far more massive, its tarnished edifice warped and stretched into a predictably web-like arrangement. Maybe it was the Lyceum, once.

They walk a good distance without saying anything. Martin has a look on his face that says he’s thinking; his percolating look, Jon calls it, a little crease between his eyebrows and his lips moving faintly as he has some fierce discussion with himself⁠. He knows better than to interrupt Martin when he’s percolating. Sooner or later the thoughts he’s brewing will drip through and be ready, and he’ll tell Jon about it.   

Frankly, considering where they’ve come from, Jon is happy to wait a while before talking about it. He’d be just as happy not to talk about it at all, but he knows that’s a harmful impulse, self-destruction framed as self-defense. That isn’t who he’s chosen to be anymore. It still isn’t easy, talking about things, trusting people⁠—  

(the temptation to take just a peek, just to be sure the spiders aren’t crawling over what’s his) 

⁠—but he knows it’s what’s keeping him anchored. Keeping him human, or as close to it as he can be, at least. If he doesn’t talk about what he’s experiencing⁠—how he feels, however horrifying and shameful⁠—he could lose himself without even realizing it. 

(How do you know you’re the same person who fell asleep?) 

If he doesn’t trust Martin⁠—

“I was worried, you know.” 

Martin stops in his tracks, so Jon stops too, turns to look at him. His percolating expression has been replaced by his determined expression; this generally means they are going to have A Conversation. Jon considers that maybe they could find somewhere a bit less...exposed, to sit and talk, but really, there’s nowhere that isn’t exposed these days.  

“Worried about what?” he asks. 

“When you told me we were coming to a Web domain. I was worried...well, you know you left a lot of tapes in your office before the Beholding? All the ones you made while you were away.”

“On the run for murder, you mean.” 

“Yeah, that. Well, I listened to them. While you were⁠—you know...”

“Dead,” Jon supplies, and Martin gives a sad little laugh. 

“Yeah. Sorry, funny that I still have trouble saying it, after⁠—after everything. Not like it’s the worst thing that’s happened to us!” His jovial bravado rings false, and Jon reaches for his hand. 

“It’s okay…” he begins, but Martin shakes his head. 

“No, please, let me⁠—I listened to your statement. About...about when you were a kid? And I was worried that⁠—well, you’ve found the others, haven’t you? The ones that’ve marked you.” 

“You thought we might find⁠ Mister Spider.” Even now it’s hard to say that name. Fear doesn’t feel the same to Jon as it once did, but the thick bile still rises in his throat, the instinctual shudder of nerves firing down his spine. 

“I mean, didn’t it occur to you?” 

“Yes...yes, of course it did.”

“Do you know why we didn’t?”

Jon frowns. He hasn’t thought about the why of it⁠—or rather, he didn’t want to think about it, about why their pilgrimage brought them through this particular manifestation of the Web, its hanging hooks and guiding strings and victims stepping time and again through the same dance of will against want and always, always failing. They were not moths fluttering purposeless into the spider’s strands; something brought them here. 

“It was a⁠—a reminder, I think. Of what I’ve done. What I chose to do.” Jon hears the unsteady note in his own voice and then Martin is grasping his arm. 

“Jon⁠,” he says,”Let’s just⁠—” He looks around as if there might be somewhere pleasant to sit (no comfortable chairs in the apocalypse) and then, with a huff, folds onto the bare, blasted earth, tugging Jon down with him. Jon sits with his knees hunched, Martin cross legged in front of him, giving him a worried frown.

“You didn’t choose any of this,” Martin tells him. “It was all Jonah. He tricked and manipulated and used you! I know it’s hard to believe, sometimes⁠—” 

“No, Martin, not⁠—not that.” Jon shakes his head. “I’m talking about b-before. I...well, you took the statement. You heard what I did to that woman, to the others I fed on.” The pit of his stomach feels, rather appropriately, like it’s filled with spiders, squirming and sick and heavy with self-disgust. 

“That was⁠—yeah, that was bad, Jon. But you didn’t know what it was doing to them, not really.”

“I knew enough! And I did it anyway, gave those poor people nightmares to last their whole lives.” Jon laughs. “Before I turned everyone’s lives into a nightmare, that is. I chose to do it, Martin. It felt good. And I latched onto the idea that the Web was⁠—was making me do it because I couldn’t take responsibility for my own actions. And now...now I have all the fear in the world pouring into me. I’m like a⁠—a whale shark, just swimming along with my mouth open, swallowing it all down. I don’t have to hurt anyone directly to feed. And I don’t know⁠—” 

Jon looks down at his hands, resting against his thighs. They are faintly gray with the dust that gets everywhere, ground into the seams of skin and scars. His nails are bitten to the quick, a bad habit his grandmother never managed to rid him of. Something horrible sits in the back of his throat, and he bites his tongue, not wanting to say it. 

Martin’s voice is very soft when he says:

“You don’t know what?” 

Jon sighs. The horrible thing crawls onto his tongue, and he lets it go.

“I don’t know if the only reason I’m not hurting people is because they’re feeding me anyway.” 

“Oh,” says Martin. Jon feels a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like a hook, and he can’t look up, picks at the ragged cuticle of his thumb instead. He wishes he had a cigarette.

“You tried to stop, though, didn’t you?” Martin’s hand appears in his line of sight, grasps hold of the hand he’s picking at⁠—the burned one⁠—and lifts it out of reach, cradling it between his own. Jon risks a glance at him. He looks...he just looks like Martin. 

“When the others made me, when you⁠—” When you found out, he doesn’t say.

“They couldn’t have made you stop. Not unless you wanted to.” 

“I⁠—I wanted to want to.” Jon swallows the hitch in his breath that threatens to turn into a sob; he’s already wallowing in self pity enough. 

“Then you wanted to,” says Martin firmly. “You wanted to stop, Jon, but you needed help. There’s no shame in that.”

“But what if⁠—”

“Forget about ‘what if’!” Martin tells him, squeezing his hand tight. “What if I’m being controlled by spiders? What if Gertrude was right and there’s nothing we can do about all this? There’s enough guilt and worry to go around without dragging hypotheticals into it!” 

“Martin⁠—”

“I love you, Jon. Okay? You are a good person, who I love, and we are both doing our bloody best in this⁠—this ludicrous situation, and frankly the Web can go and⁠ get fucked if it’s trying to tell you otherwise. All right?” 

Martin’s face is red with determination, and though his eyes are wet, his jaw is set like stone. Jon is overwhelmed once again by how much he loves this man, how that love fills up all the space behind his rib cage, and though the spiders in his stomach don’t vanish, their squirming lessens. He takes a deep breath, and nods. 

“I love you,” is all he can say for a moment. Martin smiles tightly. 

“I should hope so.”

They sit there quietly for a little while. It’s not exactly comfortable⁠—the ground is hard and cruel beneath them, the Eye overhead a constant oppression⁠—but it is comforting. Martin keeps holding Jon’s hand between his, tracing his fingers along the shiny ridges of scar tissue, up to brush over Jon’s own fingertips, a delicate connection between them. Eventually, Martin gives a long sigh, and draws Jon’s hand up to kiss the tips of his fingers, then his knuckles.

“Suppose we’d better get going. We don’t want to be late to the Panopticon, Jonah might fire us.” He tilts his head, thinking. “Are we still Institute employees, technically?” 

“I, ah, I think so, technically,” says Jon. “Though I imagine the pension scheme is rather out the door at this point.” He hefts himself to his feet, pulling Martin with him. Martin brushes down the backs of his trousers, as if it might get rid of the dust, such a perfectly human gesture that Jon can’t help smiling. 

“What?” Martin asks, suspicious. Jon shakes his head. 

“Nothing, you’re just...quite adorable.” 

“You’re the adorable one,” Martin mutters, as a pleased flush creeps across his cheeks. “Ready to go?” 

“Yes,” Jon hesitates a second. “Just, umm...Martin?”

“Yeah?”

“What you said, about the, uh, the spiders?”

“Oh,” Martin says. He gives a sharp little laugh, and there’s a catch in it like the first crack in a pane of glass, the kind that threatens to spider web out and shatter. 

“If you don’t want to talk about it⁠—”

“No, it’s⁠—it’s okay,” says Martin. “We can talk about it, but it’s...hypotheticals, like I said. No point worrying. We’ll just...be careful. I might not want you poking around in my head, but you can still keep an eye on me. With your actual eyes. And I’ll do the same for you. I’ll let you know if you get ominous, you let me know if I get...spidery.” He wiggles his fingers. 

“I promise to keep a close count on the number of limbs you have,” Jon says solemnly, and is pleased when that gets a much more genuine laugh from Martin. 

That temptation is still there, to look, to just be absolutely sure. He’d never even know, a thought murmurs in the back of Jon’s head, and it’s true. It’s true, and Jon squashes the idea without mercy. 

It’s not easy, talking about things. Trusting people. But if he doesn’t trust Martin, then he might as well give it all up right now and succumb to this world. He trusts Martin, and it’s both a choice, and a defiance of the fear that tries to tell him he shouldn’t. 

The Web can⁠—as Martin so eloquently put it⁠—get fucked.

“Right, let’s go,” he says, and takes Martin’s hand in his.   

[turtle-steverogers]

Hero Complex

lmao hi IM BACK i wrote a fic pfffff it’s kind Shit cuz i started writing at midnight and now its 2:40 am so excuse the BAD WRITING dajfdslkfjalsdkfs

warnings: fire, mentions of death (kinda graphic ish, sad), crying

ship: ralbert

word count: 2762

-

Earlier

“Just- don’t try to be a hero, dumbass.”

Albert’s fingers freeze on the top button of his uniform, eyes darting up to study Race’s face.  He bites back a sigh, something weighing down on his chest as the fear in his boyfriend’s eyes grows.  

“That’s the whole point of my job,” He says softly, “But I’ll be careful.”

Race nods, wordlessly handing him his helmet.  Albert takes it, drawing in a deep breath to steady his hands.  Queso lifts his head from his paws, looking at the two of them questioningly before padding across the room and nudging Albert’s knee.  He lets out the breath he’d been holding and bends over the slightest bit to scratch behind Queso’s ears.  No matter how many calls his squadron responded to, his nerves still managed to run high.

“That’s all I ask,” Race responds, gently tilting Albert’s jaw and kissing him intently.  Albert presses back, heart kicking double time as adrenaline starts to overcome him.  He pulls back, the need to move overtaking him.  

“I gotta go,” He says, shifting the helmet onto his head, “I’ll be home later…”

The unspoken, ‘hopefully’, rings loudly in the air.  Albert really hates this part of the job.

Race nods, dropping his hand from Albert’s face and squeezing his bicep briefly, “Go.  Be safe.  I love you.”

Albert smiles, but it feels strained, “I love you, too.”

Now

“Dasilva, get that room on the right!  Some kid’s in there!”

Albert swears under his breath, shooting a quick nod to Finch as he hurries past him, carrying an infant in one arm and shielding a young looking mother with the other.  He grimaces, adjusting the mask on his face as the building gives the second unsettling creak in as many minutes.  

In the three years that he’s worked for the FDNY, he’d never seen a building fire this destructive.  Details were still being investigated, but from what had been gathered, an apparent fireball had formed on the 14th floor, engulfing the top four floors of the building and spreading quickly to the lower levels.  The casualty count was already tragically high, but between the first responders and following squadrons showing up to the scene, the fatality rate was going down.  

That didn’t make it any less gut-wrenching.  

Albert crosses to the apartment Finch had pointed him to and easily knocked the handle off the door.  He knocked once, calling a loud warning into the room before shouldering the door, which gave way easily thanks to the heat. 

In the corner of the room, a young boy sat cowering against the wall, arms wrapped protectively around an even younger girl.  Panicked breaths were coming vehemently from the pair and as Albert gets nearer to them, he can see the tear tracks that cut through the soot.  He crouches down, trying to seem nonthreatening.

“Are your parents here?” He asks, raising his voice over the roaring flames.

The little boy lets out a sob, pointing a trembling hand to the room adjacent to them.  Albert glances to the side, nausea rolling in his stomach as he takes in the flames licking under the closed door.  Whoever is in there, sure isn’t getting out.  

“Okay,” Albert takes a deep breath, turning back to the siblings, “I need you both to take your shirts and pull them over your mouths and noses, okay?”

He waits for them to do so, then scoops them both up easily, ensuring that they have secure grips on his shoulders, before moving swiftly out of the room.  The building lets out another threatening creak and Albert falters, trying to map out the safest route in his head.  He settles on running to the stairs on the southside of the building, opposite of where the fireball had started.

Five excruciating minutes later, Albert is able to exit the building, immediately seeking out some paramedics and dumping the kids in their care.  He turns back around, taking a deep breath before running back towards the building.

“People still up there?” Spot, another commissioner, calls.

“I don’t know!” Albert calls back, “But we can’t risk leaving anyone!”

“This building’s ‘boutta go down, man!” Spot shouts, jogging up to him.

“I don’t care,” Albert says, firmly, tightening the strap on his helmet, “If I can even get one more person out, that’s one more life saved.”

“Alright,” Spot concedes, “But I’m coming with you.”

Albert nods, steeling himself.

“Don’t try to be a hero…”

Race’s words echo in his head and he bites his lip, casting a hurried glance in the direction of their apartment complex, across the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Sorry, Racer,” He murmurs, hesitating for a short moment before running back into the building.

-

A recently opened beer bottle sits forgotten on the table as Race paces anxiously in front of the TV, a cigarette dangling loosely from his lips.  He’s not entirely sure why he’s smoking.  The thing that usually eases his worries only worsening the sick feeling in his stomach as smoke rolls over his tongue, parallel to the cloud of smoke he’s watching climb higher and higher from the building until it billows off-screen.

This routine is familiar, but it never gets easier.  Letting Albert go will never fucking get easier.  It feels like he’s dumping him into the jaws of death, fire biting at his ankles every time he leaves through their apartment door.  

But he does let him go, allowing himself to grow sick with worry as he immediately searches for whatever information he can find, usually settling on the local news and popping open a beer or lighting a cigarette.  Maybe both.  More often than not, they remain unfinished.

He lets out a frustrated hum, stubbing his half-smoked cigarette out in the ashtray they keep on the coffee table.  He forces himself to sit down and drags a sweaty hand down his face.  Albert had been gone for a good two hours by now, but the fire doesn’t look like it’s getting any closer to being put out.  If any, it looks worse.

Every time a firefighter passes by the camera, Race’s stomach does a violent flip.  He can’t really tell who’s who underneath their face shields and helmets, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to differentiate them.  

Once, the news caught a clip of a firefighter being wheeled into the back of an ambulance looking very much not alive and Race had been violently sick for an hour before Albert came home and assured him that it was not him and he was okay.

That had been a bad fucking night.

Suddenly, the face of the reporter on screen morphs into one of sheer terror and the camera shifts sideways to show the building, crumbling in on itself.  There’s a moment where no one seems to react and Race scrambles to unmute the channel.  Screams ring through the speaker as the reporter and the cameraman run for shelter.  

Race feels his eyes go wide, but he can’t look away.  Somewhere to his left, Queso lets out a whimper, but he can’t find it in himself to look.  A second later, he feels Queso hop up next to him on the couch cushions and settle his weight against his side.

A million frantic thoughts crowd Race’s mind, eventually settling on the horrible debate of whether Albert is in the building or not.  Part of him wants to believe that he got away in time, but logic tells him that the idiot was probably in the building until the last second, searching for straggling survivors.  Fucking dumb shit.  Always has to be a fucking hero.

Sometimes he really hates Albert’s lack of self-preservation over others.

Scratch that.

He always hates it.

He runs his hand through his hair, pulling it almost painfully as his chest tightens.  Taking a deep breath, he presses his knuckles to his eyes, trying to stave off the oncoming panic attack.  He has to stay calm.  If Albert is alive and got out of there unharmed, he’s going to need Race to be a rock for him tonight.

Race takes another deep breath, letting it out slower this time as the vice that previously gripped his lungs loosens a bit.  He can do this.  He just needs to be patient.

He watches the news for another few minutes, picking at his cuticles distractedly as shots of firefighters and paramedics work to reign in the newly charged chaos.  Then, he clicks off the TV, heaves himself off the couch and begins to prepare for Albert’s (hopeful) return back home.

He puts some more food and water in Queso’s bowls, then crosses to the bathroom to take a quick shower.  The water is too hot and he drops the bar of soap three times before he can steady his hands enough to use it.  

He dresses himself mechanically, then digs through their dresser for Albert’s favorite pair of briefs, sweatpants, and a hoodie, setting them neatly on the end of the bed.  As an afterthought, he grabs a fresh towel and washcloth from the closet and sets them on the toilet in the bathroom.  

It’s doubtful that Albert will want to eat much of anything if- no, when he gets home, but Race busies himself in throwing together a quick pasta primavera nonetheless.  If anything, the cooking helps to settle his own nerves a bit.

Another hour passes and Race has managed to finish cooking, eat a little, and clean up the kitchen, all the while forcing down the ever-growing wave of dread.

He’s starting to run out of distracting things to do, so he picks up the book he’s been reading and settles on the couch, eyes scanning the pages, but not comprehending a thing.  

45 minutes later, the front door unlocks and opens.

Race is off the couch before it can swing back closed.

Albert doesn’t look at Race as he hangs his helmet on it’s hook, but Race can already tell that it’s going to be a rough night.  Despite the gear protecting every inch of Albert’s body, his face and hair are covered in a thick layer of ash.  He’s still dressed in his turnout pants, but his uniform top has seemingly been abandoned at some point on his return home.  The sharp tense of his shoulder has rendered his movements stiff and Race watches in carefully masked concern as he tugs off his boots.  

Once they’re dutifully lined by the door, Albert straightens up, looking at Race for the first time, a dull, haunted look in his eyes.

For a moment, Race is scared that he’s going to breakdown then and there, but Albert only clears his throat and croaks, “I need to shower.”

Queso is lingering by the kitchen entrance, but he seems to sense that his company would not be very well received right now.  Race nods at Albert, bending down to pluck one of Queso’s toys from the ground and tossing it in the direction of the kitchen.  He hears the slow patter of Queso’s paws on the tile and sees him pad out of the room in his peripheral.

“Let’s get you out of those pants before you do anything else,” Race says in a measured voice, working to sound easy, but firm.

It’s a testament to how fucked up Albert must be feeling that he doesn’t make a dirty joke at that.

Albert barely moves as Race unbuttons his turnout pants and eases them down his hips.  His gaze is unwavering as he stares blankly across the room.  Race can hear his slightly erratic breathing and it seems as if the adrenaline has yet to wear off.

“Lift up for a sec, love,” Race says, tapping at Albert’s socked feet and waiting for him to lift his legs one by one, allowing for Race to fully remove his pants.

“You can go shower now,” Race says, standing back up, “do you need me to come with you?”

Albert shakes his head, “No, I’m-I’m good.”

“You sure?” 

Albert nods, “Yeah, just- yeah, I’m good.

“Okay,” Race smiles a little, trying to look encouraging, “Shout if you need me, though.”

Albert nods again and makes a stiff beeline for the bathroom.  A few minutes later, Race hears the shower turn on.  He crosses to their bedroom to find that Albert took the clothes he’d set out in with him.

He smiles a little more genuinely as he crawls into bed.  Rolling onto his side, he busies himself with his phone while he waits for Albert to finish up, turning up the brightness to keep himself awake.  Albert was bound to take a while in the shower tonight.  He always does after missions.

A half hour later, he hears the bathroom door open and close and a moment later, the bed behind him dips as Albert joins him under the covers.  Race clicks off his phone and sets it on his bedside table, shifting onto his back as Albert settles into his arms.

“Want me to keep the lights on or off?” He asks quietly, pressing a little kiss into Albert’s now clean hair.  It’s still a little wet and smells strongly like the coconut shampoo he likes to use.

Albert nestles closer, pressing his nose to Race’s neck, “Off, please.”

Race extracts his arm momentarily to flip off the lamp switch, then draws Albert in protectively.  The silence between them stretches on for what could be hours, but Race knows Albert is still awake.

This is also part of the routine.  If Albert wants to talk, he will, but if he’d rather just lie quietly and process, Race wasn’t going to push him.

But he’d stay up with him either way.  There’s no way in hell he’d leave him to handle this alone in any capacity.

Eventually, the silence is broken by a soft whimper, then a short sniffle and Race feels Albert tuck his face further into his collarbone.  He feels his heart break in his chest, but he wills himself to remain steady as he tightens his hold on Albert.

A moment later, Albert begins to cry in earnest and Race presses a firm kiss to the crown of his head, shushing him.  

“I’ve got you,” He murmurs as Albert fists his hand in his nightshirt, holding on like a lifeline, “I’m here and I’ve got you.”

“There-there was a little girl on a fire escape,” Albert hiccups, “and she was screaming for her mom and I was about to go back in to get her, Race, I was about to go get her!  But the building…” he trails off, an awful keening noise sounding from his throat.

Race blinks back his own tears, rubbing a hand up and down Albert’s back, “You did what you could, baby.”

Albert shakes his head, “But it-it wasn’t enough.” His words are stilted- broken- and his breathing is harsh and heaving.

Race maneuvers them so they’re lying side to side, facing each other.  He cradles Albert’s head with one hand and rests the palm of his other hand on his cheek, brushing away his tears with the pad of his thumb.

“It wasn’t your fault,” He whispers firmly, “There���s nothing else you could have done.  You can’t save everyone.”

Albert closes his eyes, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood as he tries to take slower breaths.

“I wish I could,” Albert says after a lingering pause, “It’s fucked up.”

“It is,” Race says, “But you helped a lot of people get out of there today, you did a lot, Albert.”

Albert doesn’t answer, just tucks himself closer to Race, breathing in his warmth.  

“Rest, baby,” Race mutters, knowing that neither of them are really going to sleep that night, “I’ve got you, you can relax now.”

Albert lets out a shaky sigh and Race feels his heart grow heavier still.  The concern, grief, and anger at the world for plaguing Albert with the fucked up trauma that accompanies his job are indiscernible from one another.  He wishes more than anything that he could take away his pain, but he also knows that’s as naive as wishing he’d quit.

The most he can do is be there for him, even if there’s nothing he could say to truly make it better.

But he can be there and maybe that’ll be enough.

“I love you,” He breathes, lacing their hands together, “I’m here.”

Albert squeezes his hand, “I know,” he pauses, “I love you, too.”

And for a second, things are a little okay.

-

yeah, so im still alive!

anyway

thanks for reading, chiefs

hmu to be added to my tag

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[diningpageantry]

Drunk Text

Archive Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18215168/chapters/43179500

Chapter 4/10 of It’s A Handheld Disaster

Word Count: 2002

Chapter Summary: Baz's friends get him a little drunk, which scares Simon half to death. Cue nervous spamming, best friend's advice, and a single picture.

BAZ

(strings_n_roses): gods.mistake: i dont know i guess im just scared of losing her family's attention???

My eyes scan over his text in the drop down, thumb pressing onto the screen to keep it half-showing. It's probably not a good idea to be talking to him about this right at this second, but I don't want him to feel abandoned (especially given our topic). The tiny graphic of the Instagram logo looms in the forefront of my mind even after I close my phone, thinking of a response.

A hard lemonade bottle rolls and rests against my thigh, making me look up at Dev as he pops open another. Despite calling them a “Gay drink”, he's already gone through two of them.

“Oy, you've barely had shit,” he says, twisting off the top of his third as he eyes my one half-empty bottle.

“Yeah,” Niall adds, eyebrows narrowing as he lifts his own drink. He bought an even shittier wine cooler. “Loosen up a little, you wound up dick.”

Reluctantly, I bring my bottle to my lips and swing, maintaining eye constant with Niall. Even with a weird shiver in a response, he doesn't look away. Neither do I--not until the bottle is finished. With a pop of my lips, I lower the glass and smirk. “There--happy?”

“I… guess?” He says slowly. “You okay, mate? What's wrong?”

What's wrong? What's wrong? Snow's texting me from his bathroom, too tired from crying to get off the tile, and I can't help him in any other way than to talk to him. That's what's wrong. “It's nothing. Just shit. That's all.”

Dev's foot nudges mine, making me disconcerted with their mutual care for my emotions. Usually, they just let me sulk, but tonight… tonight's odd. They're boozing me up and getting me to talk (for once).

I turn my head head away, looking towards the long, creaking window of mine. It nearly brushes the floor, and looks out upon the broad, rise and fall of our garden. The winter season leaves it beyond chilling.

“Can you open that?” I ask, voice tired as I nod towards my cousin. He blinks at me at first before rising to his feet and drawing it open. With a hand on my bed frame, I haul myself upright and onto my feet before digging through my nightstand. In the back lies a pack of cigs and a lighter I snagged from Aunt Fi's flat.

Only Dev takes one when I offer, seating myself right on the ledge. Neither of them bat an eye, except Niall's concerned staring as I lean against the frame, striking the light.

“Fine, don't answer,” he mumbles, taking back a mouthful of his drink.

I let in a drag, feeling it burn the back of my throat as I slide out my phone. Both the boys sit silently, exchanging glances as I finally type back a semi-coherent response for Simon.

The already buzzing of my head from the nicotine doesn't fully help my thoughts as much as I hoped it would.

strings_n_roses: christmas is over now, so the holidays are gone. if she weighs heavily on you because of the break up, then it isn't healthy and definitely not a pain that you deserve

strings_n_roses: and i know she drives you home, but maybe someone on your team will drive you instead if you ask

strings_n_roses: there's options other than discomfort

I suck in, turning off my phone with the app left open. The sound of Niall's shifting is nearly enough to make me want to yell. Their collective concern is barely appreciated, given it seems to be so sparse when actually needed.

In all honesty, I shouldn't blame them. I'm not in school, and they're just trying to help when they can. still, I can't shake the emptiness of their situational devotion to my feelings.

“You've been acting odd,” Dev adds first, giving me another drink. I take it, finishing my cig first. Looking at the burning end of it, I hand it out the window and crush it against the stone of the wall, leaving the butt on the sill as I climb off.

The drink is always better when you start the second one. “Just life shit. Doesn't matter,” I say, leaning back against the wall as I exhale slowly. There it is. The odd, mostly empty stomach nausea I get whenever I get to drink. Hits me harder, and makes it stronger. And almost definitely going to fuck me over, but it's only a few drinks (and I'm a lightweight, because fuck genetics).

As my eyes fall shut, I feel the jostling buzz of my notifications. Without hesitation, I pick it up and read it through as more messages slide down.

(strings_n_roses): gods.mistake: i dont really have friends on the team to drive me

(strings_n_roses): gods.mistake: or really anyone, except penny and sort of agatha, i guess

(strings_n_roses): gods.mistake: and her dad. her dad loves me

(strings_n_roses): gods.mistake: fuck im a little lonely fucker sorry im a killjoy and you're probably doing something more interesting with your life and im just ranting like an idiot fuck sorry

I ignore both Dev and Niall's looks as I attentively swipe it open, head spinning. I barely pay attention to what I'm saying, trying to get a word in before he has a chance to belittle himself further.

strings_n_roses: don't apologise at all. im heer to yell towards

strings_n_roses: after all im judt drinking im not ewally doingmuch

SIMON

My heart nearly stops, throat catching as I reread.

He's drinking. Fuck.

Vision blurring and body weak, the process of pulling myself upright makes it a battle all in itself.

The bathroom floor is filthy, but it felt like home. One minute I was standing, washing my hands silently in the sink, then I met my eyes in the mirror and crumpled onto the old, ratty bathmat. I'd just cried, a quiet sob into my wrist as the details of the room overwhelmed me. The dripping of the sink, the burning of the lights. The fear of losing Penny because I've practically lost Agatha already.

I don't even know if I miss her. I don't know if I want to miss her. I miss her family at Christmas--this was the first year since moving here without me going to the Wellbeloves for the holidays. I know I miss the way we'd sit together in silence, shoulder to shoulder and watching Doctor Who, but I don't know if I miss us.

She'd told me today that I'm too much. It's been months since the break up, but she said she still had something to say. That something, apparently, is that my life's unnecessary overwhelming, and I don't make her happy.

I told her likewise to me, even if I didn't mean it.

Maybe I did. I don't know.

I don't know anything.

I don't know why Baz is drinking. He'd told me a month or so back that he does occasionally, but he usually refrains from drunk texting. Says he doesn't like waking up to messages he didn't mean to send. I wonder what's different tonight.

I wipe my eyes, sniffling as quietly as possible as my trembling fingers tap out a response.

gods.mistake: please drink water

gods.mistake: and limit yourself. dont drink too much fuck just slow down

gods.mistake: did you eat? make sure youre eating

gods.mistake: please dont do anything stupid just please dont hurt yourself

At first, he's silent. The read receipt pops up, then stays still. Something in me thumps, then grows in strength as I struggle to breathe evenly again.

I've seen it too often. Too fast--too soon. The spiraling, the life destruction. The kids a few years older than me stashing stolen pill bottles under beds and liquor in their pillow cases.

I don't want him to hurt like that, and I can feel it already. The biting edge of coping.

My hand slides through my hair, settling amongst tangled curls as I shake. A disappearing picture from him pops up, starling me slight before I exhale, opening it.

It's his hand, the flash on it as he holds a pint sized glass of water. I can recognize it from his pictures of violin playing, scattered throughout his damned aesthetic Instagram account. It's the only part of his body I can recognize, and I know it well. Smooth on the back, and calloused fingertips with sharp jutting angles of his joins. His skin is a midtone of soft brown, like the shade of a perfect cup of tea, and his palm fades much lighter. You can tell he's some posh arse, because his nails are always trimmed and buffed.

And there they are, holding a glass of water with a crudely drawn smiley face on the screen. The room is mostly dark around it, and I can only make out hardwood floor and a thick, red carpet.

(gods.mistake): strings_n_roses: i'm okay i promise! i'm a healthy boy

(gods.mistake): strings_n_roses: :)

(gods.mistake) strings_n_roses: i’m with friends rhey’re takint xare of me i promise i an ok!

gods.mistake: ok ok im sorry for freaking out im sorry

I chew on my nail, biting around to the cuticles as my eyes squeeze shut. I'm overreacting again. I'm blowing up.

I tap out of the app and pull of my messaging, pulling my one of few conversations--Penny.

im losing it right now penn

its so stupid and youre gonna hate me but im losing it fuck me fuck shit fuck fuck fuck

You've texted your last fuck, buddy

It's the swearing police

I've come to ask for a recount of why on Earth you're sobbing

its stupid its so stupid im sorry

its baz hes drinking

and i panicked and messaged him a ton but im worried i pissed him off and he might hate me what if he hates me

fuck shit fuck

Do you have any basis on him hating you???

Did he text you all angry???

no but i feel it im stupid and i know it i feel it

First of all, stop

Second of all, if he's not angry, he's not angry

Third, why does this matter so much? You barely know him

thats not true we talk everyday

He's online, Si

You can lose him in a snap, why care?

Why do you even trust him so much you don't know what he looks like ://

i know what his hands look like

thats something

and just idk i trust him he seems to care

and we like the same stuff and i just

idk

i trust him

why are you talking about this again now

i thought we were over this

I said I was tired of you talking about Baz at lunch, I didn't say we were over the conversation

I'm just worried, that's all

Fuck knows you don't have someone else to worry about you over this, and he could just be some arse praying on you because you're vulnerable

People do that, you know

hes not some 80 year old creep penn

he seems as young as he says

and he doesnt use me or anything we just talk

im ok im safe i swear

hes just scaring me

Just be safe, Simon.

Something makes me jump, and it takes a full moment to register that it's Davy knocking around downstairs, doing whatever he does in his study. I should be in bed. He knows I should be in bed. He'll want me to be asleep, after all.

I tiptoe out carefully, knowing where the floor doesn't creak as I slip back into my room and in bed. The blanket's shit and scratchy, but it's something.

As I plug my mobile in, I send out a quick message to Baz, letting my embarrassment ease through while I swallow my pride.

gods.mistake: im sorry for freaking out

gods.mistake: sleep tight pls

[fireinmywoods]

In your estimation, what's the longest amount of time Jim and Bones have gone without physically seeing each other since meeting at the Academy?

 Ooooh, great question. Musing and pseudo-fic below the cut!

Now, there’s some question as to whether AOS Jim spent a semester on the Farragut, and if he did, that’s definitely the longest time he and Bones have ever spent apart by some orders of magnitude. However, if we’re going by palimpsest verse rules, he didn’t, so that’s off the table.

During their Academy years, they never went more than a few days without seeing each other. I don’t personally have them as roommates during that time, but it’s established that Jim stuck to Bones like a burr from the very beginning, and they both stayed on campus during breaks since neither of them had much of anything to go back to. The longest time they spent apart during those years might have actually been that time Jim holed up in the library for finals and it took Leonard a while to find him. Or, possibly, the time Jim disappeared from campus entirely for a few days with a vague excuse Leonard never fully bought but wouldn’t learn the truth of for years. (He went to Tom Leighton’s wedding. But we’ll get into that later.)

Then they got assigned to the same ship. Even when they were grounded between missions early on, they wouldn’t have gone more than a couple days without hanging out, seeing as how they’d already spent years living in each other’s pockets and hey, why mess with a good thing. And of course onboard the Enterprise they saw each other virtually every day even before getting together, because 1) Jim was forever doing dumb shit and ending up in medbay, 2) Leonard was forever wandering up to the bridge to be near Jim / spar with Spock / occasionally do some actual work [error: records not found], and 3) codependency’s a hell of a drug.

So! That means the answer to your question is almost certainly a time when one of them was off the ship without the other. The trouble is, if you asked Jim and Leonard themselves, they’d each give a different answer.

Jim would say it was the time Bones got borrowed to oversee the response to an outbreak of Kyrtian fever on some colony or another. He was gone for 10 days, and Jim spent the whole time sulking, getting mad at anyone who suggested he was sulking, biting his cuticles, being an immense pain in everyone’s ass, and inventing flimsy excuses to contact his CMO about Important Starfleet Business. (He just wanted to hear Bones’s voice. And, you know, make sure he wasn’t bleeding from the eyeballs or coughing up pieces of his liver or anything. For…professional reasons.)

Leonard would argue it was the time Jim was down on an uncharted planet conducting an ecological survey with Spock and the usual suspects from geo and botany and he just fucking…disappeared. Just up and vanished in the middle of the goddamn jungle. Leonard spent the better part of a week convinced he’d been eaten or swallowed up by quicksand or fallen to a slow starving death in some perfectly camouflaged pit cave where they’d never fucking find him - and then his captors finally made contact.

Turned out the planet wasn’t quite as uncharted as they thought, and the traffickers using it as a drop point were not happy to have been made.

Three days and as many failed rescue attempts later, Jim beamed back onboard, beaten to shit and down a few kilos but irrepressible as ever, de-fucking-lighted with himself and crowing to anyone who’d listen about his daredevil escape and destruction of the traffickers’ cache. (At least until Leonard got back to his quarters that night and found Jim waiting for him, subdued and apologetic, too thin in Leonard’s arms but warm and solid and alive, gripping him tight, murmuring reassurances into his skin.)

But that’s not Leonard’s real answer.

In a sense, it’s an issue of semantics. How do you define seeing each other? What does it mean to be apart? Where’s the line between occupying the same space and being together?

It doesn’t matter anyway, Leonard would say. It’s ancient history now, just another ghost of not-quite-forgotten heartbreak rattling its chains down with the rest. Leonard’s got plenty of old hurts to go around. What makes this one any different?

It doesn’t matter, but he still dreams about it sometimes, on nights Jim’s away and he can’t get comfortable around the shape of his absence in their bed: that waxen colorless face under the glass, the ice crystals sparkling diamond-bright in those long eyelashes, the chill radiating off the thawing body as Leonard reached inside the cryotube to inject the serum.

It doesn’t matter, but the truth is he’s never felt so far from Jim as he did in that moment, and in the days that followed, Jim lying on the razor’s edge of life and death in an SFM biobed, so close Leonard could touch him

(and he did, any chance he got, he listened to Jim’s stuttering heartbeat with an old-fashioned stethoscope because he didn’t trust the readings on the monitor and he repositioned him every couple hours to prevent pressure ulcers even though that was the nurses’ job and occasionally he managed to snatch a few minutes of uneasy sleep with his fingertips digging into the weak flutter of Jim’s radial pulse)

and yet so impossibly, unbearably, incomprehensibly out of reach.

[morningsound15]

bechloe - things u said after you kissed me

Beca x Chloe + “things you said after you kissed me”

merry christmas :)

(also i have a bunch of prompts in my inbox so it’ll take me a while to get to any more but give me a ship and a number and i’ll do a prompt)

Beca has said a lot of dumb things in her life. She’s sort of prone to it, like some embarrassing, self-destructive habit she can’t kick. Like biting her fingernails (which she did compulsively from the ages of 10-19, until she started lathering nail polish on every other day to stop permanently damaging her cuticles).

It’s par for the course, with her. The first time her first boyfriend said “I love you” to her, she smiled back at him, pained and panicky and most assuredly not reciprocally in love and said, slowly, “…Cool.” That relationship, absolutely no one will be surprised to learn, didn’t last much longer.

But it’s not just her knee-jerk reaction to uncomfortable romantic situations. She has a perpetual case of foot-in-mouth disease. She once told a guy she knew in high school that his band actually kind of sucked; their music was pedestrian and cliché and overworked. They had been friends, sort of, before that, but he had looked close to tears halfway through her sentence and she still hadn’t been able to stop herself from finishing her thought. He never talked to her again.

She once called her stepmother “Step Monster” to her face. Which is just… appalling. Beca can have all the private opinions she wants, but Rosemary is actually a pretty nice lady, at the end of the day (despite the fact that she’s unfortunately named ‘Rosemary’, but that’s a curse she didn’t put on herself, so Beca can’t really hold it against her), and her father could certainly do much worse.

She’s cursed to perpetually say stupid, ill-timed, moronic, offensive things. She has no filter when it matters. It’s why she got into so many fights with Aubrey her first year at Barden — Aubrey is as stubborn as Beca is, but she, at least, knows when it’s time to just shut her mouth and let someone else take charge. Somewhere along the way in her development, Beca never learned that skill.

So it makes sense that, the first time Chloe kisses her, Beca makes an absolute ass of herself.

It’s a really nice kiss, too, which makes Beca’s response all the more humiliating. Chloe is standing in front of her, looking beautiful with her nose brushed red from the cold. She has snowflakes caught in her eyelashes, and Beca feels like she’s landed in the middle of a movie, a romantic comedy wherein she’s both the leading lady and the leading lady’s love interest.

Chloe’s lips taste like vanilla chapstick. Her breath is sweet and warm, her gloved hands are impossibly soft where they rest on Beca’s shoulders. She smiles into the kiss, and Beca forgets how to breathe.

They pull apart a moment later, and it takes Beca a few seconds to blink her eyes back open. She feels like she’s been hit over the head. Maybe that’s why she has so much trouble forming a coherent sentence. (Maybe it’s just her curse in action.)

“Woah. Um… thanks.” Beca grimaces. She feels a blush erupt immediately over her cheeks and hopes, privately, that the earth will open up and swallow her whole. “I mean… I wasn’t expecting a kiss. To—for us to kiss.Thank you for, um… that.”

Any time now, earth. Just crack down the middle and take her away from here. Back a bitch up, please.

Chloe, by some strange miracle, seems to find it charming. She laughs and uses the thumb of her mittens to brush some snow out of Beca’s hair. “You’re cute,” she says, instead of Yikes why did I ever think you were worth talking to, which Beca thinks is very generous of her.

Beca clears her throat and glances away. She’s still standing so close to Chloe, and it’s making the back of her neck itch. She doesn’t really do well with personal space. There’s no room for error when someone else can count the number of freckles on your cheeks.

“Hey,” Chloe says softly. She uses one of her hands to pull Beca’s head slowly back towards her. She frowns a little, concerned. “Are you okay? I’m sorry about kissing you without permission. I’ll ask, next time.”

Beca’s breath catches in her throat. “Next time?”

Chloe laughs. It sounds like a Christmas bell ringing. Somewhere, Beca thinks, an angel is getting its wings. “Well, you know I’m not really a one kiss kind of lady. That one was nice and all, but I think we can top it with more practice.”

Beca licks her lips, her eyes locked on Chloe’s mouth. “You don’t need to ask.”

Chloe’s mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Yeah?”

Beca nods. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

“Just kiss me, Chloe, Jesus.”

Chloe laughs, her head tipped back. They’re standing under a streetlight; like literally, you could not script a cheesier scene. It’s winter, nighttime and so cold their breath freezes the second it comes out of their mouths, big puffs of white air. They’re both a little pink in the cheeks from a night out drinking, because they wanted to have their own little Christmas celebration a few days early. Chloe’s wearing a floppy hat that covers her ears, and it’s so cute it almost makes Beca feel a little nauseous (but mostly she’s just smitten). There’s a thin layer of snow on the ground, it crunches underfoot when they walk, and more flakes drift slowly down around them. There’s no one around — it’s too late and cold for most people to be out and about; they’re all cuddled under blankets in front of fires, like smart people who don’t want to get frostbite because they’re making out in the middle of a December night (when it’s snowing, too, no less).

Beca’s never really been one for clichés, but fuck it, if it’s Chloe she’s kissing, she’ll live through a thousand of them, and she’ll do it happily.

[olivia-crains]

Sharp Objects

Episodes: Vanish, Dirt, Fix, Ripe

Content below may be triggering for some, please read with discretion.

Examining tiny hairs became my daily hobby. I would always attempt to remove the tiny white bulb from each eyebrow or eyelash I pulled.

I had two groups of friends in middle school, one set who did nothing but make fun of me and really appealed to my critic voice, and the other group who were kind and loving and adored me. I am sure you can guess which group I hung out with more often. Christ, you’d think I would have learned by now. These girls would write notes to me in class threatening to kill my cat, they would go into gruesome detail about how they would do it and where they would bury him. My boy was only about a year old and he was my world, this ‘friend’ befriended me because I was the new kid at this school and had a photo of my cat in the front pocket of my binder. She used the very thing I loved so much to hurt me. This would grow to be a frequent occurrence with all the toxic individuals who have entered my life. The picking began that year, while taking our end of grade tests, the note passing session fell around the same time as well. I hate seeming like I was an easy target and like a pitiful little baby, I had no problem sticking up for myself and becoming defensive, but it is as if they and everyone else knew I would take their insults and words to heart and lash out at myself in the process, it is as if no one took me seriously. My vulnerability has always been used against me though it is my favorite attribute that I embody. So, following the threatening cat letter, I told my Mom and she in turn told my teacher, though I told her not to. The girls were obviously scolded and were told to apologize to me and they did and I forgave them and all was dandy! Me teacher took a liking to me after that happened, she stopped me in the hallway and said to me one afternoon “You know that saying, sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me? Well, words are worse.” I have never forgotten that, and thinking back on that now, I would much rather someone shatter my skull than harm my heart with words; the most powerful weapon of all.

My palm is still pulsating from my grip on my favorite pair of scissors. I used to use them to cut out photos of the cast of LOST and carefully pin them on my wall, they are children’s scissors, a rather hideous blue color, I once was detained at the Colorado airport for having them in my backpack. These scissors have traveled with me for well over a decade now, always handy, for whatever need may arise.

Is there anything more vulnerable and heartbreaking than hearing an adult refer to their Mom as ‘Mama’? It is the southern staple, it is what I call my own Mama, a spark of my inner child latching on to this tiny, yet, oh so powerful word.

Everything is a sharp object, a person who self harms spends time scanning rooms. When you vow to not keep the ‘normal’ tools in your home, you sometimes have to get creative when you are desperate. Using the end of a tube of lotion, safety pins, knives, caps from various household items (toothpaste, prescription bottles, etc), the blades of your blender screaming your name, end of a lightbulb, end of an iPhone charger, etc. Anything can work as long as you press hard enough. The thoughts and perceptions are the ammunition; the cutting itself is the therapy.

I chipped my front tooth on a glass bottle a few months ago, it is sharp and jagged, but barely noticeable. As an anxious habit, I tend to rub my thumb nail against the sharp part of the tooth and drag my thumb up and down repeatedly throughout the day, my cuticles are worn and bruised, my nail has white lines, jagged and uneven all over. I wish I picked up skills as quickly as I pick up gross habits. I always must be doing something, whether it is biting my nails, digging my car key into my stomach while socializing, cutting words like ‘fat’ and ‘never’ on the inside of my thighs, purging until my throat is stinging and raw, picking and picking, punishing me for being me.

I am always particularly drawn to destructive characters, not their behaviors or habits, but their strength. It takes a brave person to keep living when everything inside of them is frothing with hate. The damage is outside of ourselves, though we take it out on ourselves, no matter the issue, no matter the severity, we take it out on ourselves. Amy Adams perfectly conveys what it is like to have destructive thoughts and painful memories rumbling inside of your skull at all times, instead of taking it out on other people, which tends to be the more common practice, she takes it out on herself. Why is it that I can care for such characters so deeply but cannot care about myself? I think it is because my issues are weak comparatively, that is what the message on the jumbotron flashing across my insides reads.

I recently turned in my apartment key to my former leasing agent, my first thought when I left the building was about that key; a sense of mourning trailing behind me. It is dull and smells of nickel, but I have always preferred it due to its specific ridges. I trace my finger across the grooves, it is ritualistic in nature, that’s always how it begins, I feel the object, allow guilt over past issues/what people think of me take hold of me, and carve. It is an instant euphoria, it’s hard to describe it, it feels like my guilt or my self-loathing is silenced for the night. My thoughts quiet, bleeding through, I always promise this will be the last time, only issue is my guilt and self-loathing are like rabbits; rapidly procreating.

Camille hides her indulgences like a child, her stunted adolescence is showcased through the candy bars and tiny alcohol bottles she continues to sneak into her Mother’s home. Addicts and individuals who partake in harmful activities tend to minimize everything and/or make excuses for themselves. Camille buys small bottles of vodka instead of a full handle. Camille softens experiences, her rape, cutting, alcoholism, she is never the victim, ever, she thinks she deserves all of this. Placing the sewing needles against the pad of a finger, no blood, no incision, just a press. It isn’t real if the dose of the destruction is untraceable.

Camille is so real, so dark, familiar. Unlovable. The only way to stop ones destructive habit(s) is to graduate to a new one. For Camille, that is alcohol. There is almost a self destructive meter that each person has. For me, alcoholism and sex addiction are the 10s, I made a promise to myself years ago that I will never get there, ever. I tend to teeter on the line at a 5/6. 1-Pulling (trichotillomania) 2- weak cuts, no depth 3-anorexia 4-heavier cutting 5-bulimia 6-bulimia and cutting. I know this makes no sense and seems appalling, but these are examples of my own personal excuses. “Well, ill never make it to a ten, well I never use razors, well ill never be a sex addict because no one will have sex with me, etc.” I am trying my hardest to level down, the only issue is there is so much darkness I have yet to punish myself for, so many memories living at the forefront, things I will never forget. Our ability to remember everything is our everlasting curse, no prince will ever break it, in a way, our worst memories are what keep our destruction alive. A buffet for the critic living inside of us.

Adora’s words slither. Whispers coated with poison, suffocating all those around her, yet her love and approval feel like antidotes. Camille will never fully heal.

Amma wraps her lollipop around Camille’s waves in her hair, the ultimate childish act. Teens are just so freaking scary, that scene is just deeply troubling and it is tough to see a grown woman sucked into a gaslighting reality. Its all about power dynamics in that toxic town. Camille seems fearful, her tone shifts to defensive, but it never works, not even on her sister who is more than a decade younger than her, people can just sense that she is an adult child. The empath. The watcher. The ultimate reactor.

Camille is timid, but she asserts such dominance when her secret is threatened to be exposed.

There is an acid stain on my porcelain tub, it sits two inches from the drain and features a light orange tint, I remember that specific night that stain was born. Its the spot I always aim for when purging; a home, a landing strip for my innards, you’re not alone here; no one is alone here. I shave sitting down in the shower because I am a weak individual who just prefers to sit or lay at all times, I notice the stain, I stick only one finger in my throat to gag, but stop myself from taking it further than that, it isn’t good, but I have to do something. Usually I will stare in the general direction of the stain and blindly shave while staring at it, my eyes shift to the drain and memories shoot out and I wish to turn the small top off of the drain and cut myself again, I ignore that and continue to shave, if only I had shorter legs.

I bet you’re sensitive, writers are sensitive. You can make people understand.

Camille is a person of senses, she is so easily triggered by her environment. She feeds off of energies; clocking everyone.

There is a moment in Vanish where Camille is driving in Wind Gap, she sees one of the town’s many murals and says quietly, but with a shake of comfort, “Hi Betty.” She later greets the mural outside of the tire store and says with a sarcastic (she finds the funny and its one of so many things I so deeply love about her, her wit is incredibly strong) tone, “What do ya know, Joe?” I have this ritual to ease my anxiety that I have been doing since I was a teenager, whenever I am feeling overwhelmed or like I wish to purge or cut, I say hello to every object in the room I am in. Hello sink, hello rug, hello shampoo, hello conditioner. I have never really given much thought to this little coping mechanism of mine, but Camille saying hello to these little pieces of her town, it made me feel less like a freak.

The yellow innards of the lemons printed on my sheets stared back at me. A perfect set of sheets for the summer, lemons have always made me happy, I tend to give fruits and other inanimate objects personalities, and lemons are just so very kind and nurturing. Mother fruit. As a child, I would constantly take the lemons from my parent’s waters at restaurants and suck on them until my tongue was numb. The blood is traceable, not much, a familiar yet distant sight to behold. The warmth of the blood slowly dripping down my inner thigh landing on one of the many lemons printed on my sheets; silencing its kindness.

There is always a sting of pain hidden beneath the shadow of empathy in the eyes of the damaged. Weighted looks, like magnets, that draw you in.

In the words of the masterful Gillian Flynn,

Camille is a ballerina with a steel spine.

[unchartedterritoria]

Dangerous (Sam Drake x OC) - Chapter 20

This chapter was hard to get started and then just came flowing out. I promise a lighter chapter soon!

WARNING: There is mention of suicide in this chapter. It’s a dark chapter.

You can read past chapters on A03, as well as read this current one if you don’t wanna read it here:

A03 Chapter 20 Link

“You sure we're out of museums?” Faith asked.

“Yup, the drunk bastard's house was the last one on the list,” Sam answered her.

“How do you know Hemingway was a drunk?”

“Weren't all the 'great' American authors drunks?”

Faith thought about it for a second and shrugged her shoulders in agreement.

As the prospects of finding a link between Mudd and Key West were beginning to dry up faster and faster, Faith and Sam decided to switch the focus of their search to the phrase branded into the barrel. The Third Artillery. They found no mention of it in any of the history books they had, which left what hope Faith had left waning. Sam on the other hand, who was trying to hold on to his diminishing optimism, had another idea.

Faith and Sam rounded the corner of the block. A basic, black wrought iron fence ringed the Key West Cemetery. Beyond the barrier sat 19 acres of eccentric island graveyard. Each headstone, each marker, each crypt had a unique twist that embodied the essence of the island itself. White mausoleums, faded with age, stretched along segments of the fence. They dwarfed the other single person crypts, five rows of final resting places resided in the tall buildings.

Sam strode through the gate and under the large metal archway into the cemetery as if on a breeze while Faith trudged slowly through, the unease of all of the dead people inside doing a tap dance on her stomach. Nervous perspiration began to form at her temples and mingled with the beads of sweat already there from the heat.

It's just a cemetery. It's not like you know anyone buried here. You got this Faith; you got this.

“You ok?”

The sound of Sam's voice shook her brain loose from the anxiety that was trying to grab hold.

"Yeah, I'm good," she said.

“Then let get moving,” He said, nodding his head forward.

Faith blew out a heavy breath, quickly caught up to Sam and fell into step next to him to explore the sprawling graveyard.

A small, green sedan with Georgia plates parked underneath one of the massive palm trees which lined the street that led to the entrance to the cemetery. The man in the driver's seat watched as Sam and Faith walked up the wide lane, the graves flanking them on either side. He kept his distance. When he was sure he was out of earshot, he slid out of the driver's seat and closed the door behind him. Stowing a small handgun in the holster hidden under his billowing shirt and a cellphone in his pocket, he began to follow them. He kept a reasonable distance, but never took his beady eyes off the pair walking a couple of rows ahead of him.

Faith made sure to grab one of the maps for the self-guided walking tour of the cemetery when they came in. After a few blocks in, she produced the glossy pamphlet from her back pocket.

“Where's their section for the military?” Sam asked.

"I don't see a designated military part, so I'm guessing they're just spread all over," Faith shook her head and scanned the numerous gravestones around her.

“Shit,” He grumbled as he produced a smoke from his shirt pocket, giving it a light.

Good thing it's a full pack, he thought to himself, I'm gonna need it if I have to look at every goddamn tombstone in this place.

“So, I gotta ask, how do you know so much about a town you've never been to?” Sam asked, his words accented with an exhaled plume of smoke.

Faith smiled as she stared at the long worn in ruts of the cemetery road under her feet.

"When I was around 15 or 16, my mom decided that we should go on vacation when I graduated high school. She let me pick where we would go, and I picked Key West. Before we went, I wanted to know all about where we were going, so I read up on the city and its people and its history. You know, like the geek that I am. Then graduation came and..." Faith shrugged her shoulders with a defeated sigh.

Sam nodded knowingly while he walked beside her. He knew that expression. He'd spent most of his teenage life wearing it.

"We tried to go again when I graduated college. We got closer that time! We had the money for it then, and we were all ready to book it, but then my mom got sick, and that was that." Faith's voice went soft and quiet as she reached the end of her story.

“She was sick for a pretty long time, huh?” Sam said as his eyes scanned the text of the tombstones as they walked by them.

Faith picked at her cuticles. "Since I was eleven. That was the last time I remember her being healthy."

“Cancer?”

"Self-destruction."

Faith's answer caused Sam to look at her; his face wore a look of confusion.

“Ok,” She began with a deep breath, “My parents loved each other. I mean, really loved each other. I'm talking Gomez and Morticia Addams level of love; you know what I mean?"

Faith continued after Sam nodded his head, his full attention focus on Faith's story, the cemetery falling away around him.

"And that shit's rare. I knew that when I was little but I didn't really understand just how special and how rare that intense, 'compliment and complete each other' kind of love was until I was a lot older. Anyway, my parents went on vacation. There was an accident. My dad got hurt and ended up in a wheelchair with brain damage."

“How bad?” Sam interjected.

“Before it, he was a music teacher, did piano accompaniment that kinda thing. And after it, he couldn't play anymore; he couldn't remember how to either."

“That's a tough hand to be dealt,” Sam said as he ground the butt of his cigarette into the grass with his boot.

“Yeah it was, and mom tried her best. Quit her job, took care of him full time. Then one day, two years later, he told her he was tired and put a shotgun in his mouth,” Faith said very matter of fact.

“Jesus,” Sam exclaimed in a low voice.

Faith's eyes hardened. “Yeah, I don't think he was there that day,” she said through pursed lips.

Her retort caught him off guard and made him stop in his tracks while she continued forward without breaking her stride.

Sam wanted to tell her that she didn't have to talk about this. That she could tell him to fuck off and mind his own business and that would be alright, but Sam had a feeling this was something that needed to be said.

"Ma kept it together pretty well in the beginning. She was strong for me; I was strong for her. Between going back to work and getting me through high school she didn't really have time to fall apart, you know? Then I went to college, and it was like this depression just... consumed her. She stopped taking care of herself. I'd come home on weekends and take care of her, try and distract her, get her out of her head and out of the house. But it just didn't work. She kept fixating on dad and why he did it and why didn't she stop him and yadda, yadda, yadda. And after ten years, her body just broke down. Kidneys stopped working, infections all the time, her muscles atrophied. She couldn't walk anymore so she couldn't work. For ten years I tried to get her to fight, tried to make her want to live. But in the end, she said she was tired, and she didn't want to fight anymore. So I had to let her go," Faith finished with her head hung down. She willed herself to keep it together and not cry. Instead, she continued to stare down at her shoes intently while they walked.

Her story sat in Sam's throat like a sticky ball. Some of it had felt so chillingly familiar. A mother giving up on life, depression, suicide, being left alone. The story had echoed that of his teenage years with the loss of his mother and ending up in an orphanage with Nathan. For one of the few times in his life, he didn't know what to say. He wanted to tell her he understood, that he understood deep down on a level that only a person that has lost a parent at a young age could.

Instead, Sam put his hand on her shoulder and gently pulled her in close next to him while they walked. He tilted his head, letting it rest on the top of hers.

The action was more sincere and heartfelt for Faith than any 'I'm sorry' ever could be.

They walked like that for a few more steps. Unable to deal with the sad, maudlin feeling anymore, she broke from his grasp and turned around to face him while she walked backward.

"But hey! I made it! I'm here!" Faith said with a grin as she stretched her arms out. She saw Sam smile back at her, but the small guy in the distance caught her eye. He was only a row or two back from their current position. There were other people in the cemetery, tourists on bikes, the occasional work truck of the groundskeeper. What grabbed her attention was his shoes. White penny loafers with no socks that stood out under his light tan slacks.

Definitely not appropriate footwear, I don't care how Miami Vice it looks, she thought to herself.

The man in the insensible shoes looked ahead to see Faith staring at him. He quickly slowed his pace and began to find the small mausoleum next to him very interesting, giving it his full attention.

Despite the looming threat of being found by Jasper's people, Faith had tried to keep her paranoia to a minimum. She knew if she were suspicious and freaked out about every person she passed in Key West, she would be a complete mess. She had been doing well until now. Those out of place shoes though. They sent a quiver up her back as if someone dragged their thumbnail up her spine. Faith shook it off, keeping the expression on her face light and airy.

“Let me see the map,” Sam asked, bringing himself to a stop and holding out his hand. Faith handed the sweat softened map to him.

Sam unfolded it carefully, his face contorted with a look of playful disgust.

“Didn't you just grab this at the gate?”

“Oh bite me. It's warm out,” She said with a wave of her hand as she stood next to him to read over his shoulder.

"I think here's probably our best shot." Sam pointed at a small square with a picture of an anchor that read 'USS MAINE MEMORIAL.'

“Yeah, but let's snake our way through the place, see if any of the graves in here mention 3rd Artillery.”

Sam refolded the damp map and put it in his back pocket.

“Alright sister, you lead the way.”

Faith chanced a small glance behind her, the man in the white shoes was nowhere to be seen.

Faith made her way through the cemetery with a lightness that came from the person next to her, Sam. She had entered the graveyard full of dread and trepidation, all but convinced that a panic attack was looming in her not so distant future. Instead, she ended up talking about the one thing that had sent her into countless states of anxiety and discomfort for the past six months, her mother, her father even. She had never told anyone about what happened with her father before, in the hopes of keeping conversations airy; the mention of suicide tends to really bring down the room. When people asked her about him, she always said, 'he passed away' and left it at that. But something in Sam, in his kind eyes, in his easygoing personality, acted as a truth serum for her. It brought down walls in Faith that had been built up brick by brick, leaving a wall that was mortared together with avoidance and hardened solid with the passage of time. Faith's wall had started to crumble and the sheer terror that she had anticipated with it, hadn't come. Instead, it was a feeling of refreshment, cleansing, and comfort.

[trendingnewsb]

This Gene-Editing Tech Might Be Too Dangerous To Unleash

To get to work in the morning, Omar Akbari has to pass through a minimum of six sealed doors, including an air-locked vestibule. The UC Riverside entomologist studies the world’s deadliest creature: the Aedes aegypti mosquito, whose bite transmits diseases that kill millions each year. But that’s not the reason for all the extra security. Akbari isn’t just studying mosquitoes—he’s re-engineering them with self-destruct switches. And that’s not something you want accidentally escaping into the world.

The technology Akbari is designing is something called a gene drive. Think of it as a way to supercharge evolution, forcing a genetic modification to spread through an entire population in just a few generations. Scientists see it as a powerful tool that could finally vanquish diseases like malaria, dengue, and Zika. But US defense agencies see something else: a national security issue.

Last year, former director of national intelligence James Clapper added gene editing to a list of threats posed by “weapons of mass destruction and proliferation.” In July, the US Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency awarded $65 million in four-year contracts to seven teams of scientists, including Akbari, to study gene-editing technologies. The commitment officially made Darpa the world’s largest government funder of gene drive research. Most of that money is going toward designing safer systems and developing tools to counter rogue gene drives that might get into the environment either by accident, or with malicious intent.

That danger may be more real than scientists first thought. Four years ago, when Harvard biologist Kevin Esvelt first suggested the idea of building gene drives with the newly discovered Crispr gene editing system, he was thinking about extinction. Specifically, preventing endangered wildlife from disappearing by spreading a fertility-reducing gene through the invasive animals competing with them for resources. Conservation biologists took the idea and ran with it; they're now considering gene drives to save native birds in Hawaii, New Zealand, and the Farallones. But now, Esvelt is saying they should slow down.

That's based on the results of a new mathematical model he and his colleagues published on Thursday on the bioRxiv preprint server. Taking into account things like how often Crispr screws up and the likelihood of protective mutations arising, their work shows how gene drives could be ruthlessly aggressive. Just a few engineered organisms could irrevocably alter an ecosystem. While Esvelt doesn't view the technology as inherently threatening, he is now preaching that it deserves a bold new caution in how it's applied.

"The primary risk posed by gene drive technology is social," he says. "Unethical closed-door research, unwarranted fears, or unauthorized releases of gene drives will damage public trust in science and governance." He still thinks gene drives have potential to save threatened species and battle public health threats. But researchers will have to invent safer forms of the technology first. That's where the Darpa money comes in. Until very recently, gene drives have been largely theoretical—safe ones even more so. But with the new funds, scientists like Esvelt and Akbari are starting to put together the pieces to test them in real life. That starts with bugs that have a gene editor baked into their DNA from the moment of conception. In a paper published Tuesday in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, Akbari did that for the first time in Aedes aegypti, creating mosquitoes encoded with the bacterial Cas9 enzyme.

These mosquitoes were born with white eyes instead of black ones, after Crispr/Cas9 cut out genes associated with eye pigment.

Michelle Bui/UC Riverside

Cas9 is the DNA-chopping half of the Crispr gene editing system. So Akbari’s team just had to inject the other half—a bit of guide RNA—into the embryos, for Cas9 to automatically execute its patented snipping action. When they deleted a cuticle pigment gene, the mosquitoes turned from black to yellow. How about a wing development gene? Welcome to the world, flightless blood sucker. Good luck crawling your way to a human meal.

These modifications were just for show. But the skeeters with built-in Cas9 will be an important tool as we learn how to best disrupt mosquito populations. Scientists estimate they’ve only probed about 5 percent of the Aedes aegpyti genome. Which means no one knows what the vast majority of mosquito genes actually do. Now they’ll be able to more easily screen knockouts gene by gene. Maybe they’ll find one that makes the mosquito mouth a hospitable home for malaria. Or one that turns off their taste for human blood. The goal is to disrupt the animal—and the ecosystems they’re a part of—as little as possible while still eradicating disease. If you’re going to play God, the idea goes, use a light hand.

In addition to advancing a new way to study mosquito physiology, these strains represent an important building block for efficient gene drives. Normally, the technology would require expressing both Cas9 and the guide RNA together in the same location. But that could make the drive system invasive and uncontrollable. One way to control them is to keep the components separated in the genome. And that’s what Akbari is working on: a less virulent version called a split-gene drive.

His team has already started the process by breeding these Cas9 strains with mosquitoes encoded with guide RNAs. “The only way to keep the drive spreading is to continuously release Cas9 into the population,” Akbari says. “That makes it confinable to a laboratory setting or self-limiting in the wild as the drive will depend on the presence of Cas9 which gets inherited in a Mendelain fashion.”

More on Gene Drives

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Another way to do that is a “daisy drive,” which is what Esvelt is developing in nematodes on the DoD’s dime. It works by equipping the worms with a self-exhausting supply of genetic fuel. By splitting into three or more parts and then daisy-chaining them together, the desired modification disperses quickly right when you introduce it, but fizzles out after a while. The result is temporary, controlled gene editing of a local species. That’s the idea anyway. Other Darpa-backed groups are working on having a backstop should systems like these go awry, or worse, be released as part of a biological attack.

Teams at the Broad Institute and Harvard Medical school are screening and compiling a suite of chemical off-switches to block gene editors like Crispr/Cas9 and Talens. At UC Berkeley, Jennifer Doudna’s group is hoping to find anti-Crispr proteins to inhibit unwanted gene-editing activity, which would help design resistance-proof gene drives. While the military��s involvement has some in the public concerned about weaponized, Crispr-ized superskeeters, Esvelt sees defense department support as the only way to advance gene drive technologies safely, at least for the time being.

The Darpa program explicitly prevents the release of gene-drive organisms and requires participants to work under stringent biosafety conditions—hence Akbari’s six-door entrance and exit routine. Perhaps one day he’ll have the molecular tools to come and go without concern. But for now, they’re still the safest thing between his gene-drives and the world outside.

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Read more: http://ift.tt/2mynAbI

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2mZsaQz via Viral News HQ

[trendingnewsb]

This Gene-Editing Tech Might Be Too Dangerous To Unleash

To get to work in the morning, Omar Akbari has to pass through a minimum of six sealed doors, including an air-locked vestibule. The UC Riverside entomologist studies the world’s deadliest creature: the Aedes aegypti mosquito, whose bite transmits diseases that kill millions each year. But that’s not the reason for all the extra security. Akbari isn’t just studying mosquitoes—he’s re-engineering them with self-destruct switches. And that’s not something you want accidentally escaping into the world.

The technology Akbari is designing is something called a gene drive. Think of it as a way to supercharge evolution, forcing a genetic modification to spread through an entire population in just a few generations. Scientists see it as a powerful tool that could finally vanquish diseases like malaria, dengue, and Zika. But US defense agencies see something else: a national security issue.

Last year, former director of national intelligence James Clapper added gene editing to a list of threats posed by “weapons of mass destruction and proliferation.” In July, the US Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency awarded $65 million in four-year contracts to seven teams of scientists, including Akbari, to study gene-editing technologies. The commitment officially made Darpa the world’s largest government funder of gene drive research. Most of that money is going toward designing safer systems and developing tools to counter rogue gene drives that might get into the environment either by accident, or with malicious intent.

That danger may be more real than scientists first thought. Four years ago, when Harvard biologist Kevin Esvelt first suggested the idea of building gene drives with the newly discovered Crispr gene editing system, he was thinking about extinction. Specifically, preventing endangered wildlife from disappearing by spreading a fertility-reducing gene through the invasive animals competing with them for resources. Conservation biologists took the idea and ran with it; they're now considering gene drives to save native birds in Hawaii, New Zealand, and the Farallones. But now, Esvelt is saying they should slow down.

That's based on the results of a new mathematical model he and his colleagues published on Thursday on the bioRxiv preprint server. Taking into account things like how often Crispr screws up and the likelihood of protective mutations arising, their work shows how gene drives could be ruthlessly aggressive. Just a few engineered organisms could irrevocably alter an ecosystem. While Esvelt doesn't view the technology as inherently threatening, he is now preaching that it deserves a bold new caution in how it's applied.

"The primary risk posed by gene drive technology is social," he says. "Unethical closed-door research, unwarranted fears, or unauthorized releases of gene drives will damage public trust in science and governance." He still thinks gene drives have potential to save threatened species and battle public health threats. But researchers will have to invent safer forms of the technology first. That's where the Darpa money comes in. Until very recently, gene drives have been largely theoretical—safe ones even more so. But with the new funds, scientists like Esvelt and Akbari are starting to put together the pieces to test them in real life. That starts with bugs that have a gene editor baked into their DNA from the moment of conception. In a paper published Tuesday in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, Akbari did that for the first time in Aedes aegypti, creating mosquitoes encoded with the bacterial Cas9 enzyme.

These mosquitoes were born with white eyes instead of black ones, after Crispr/Cas9 cut out genes associated with eye pigment.

Michelle Bui/UC Riverside

Cas9 is the DNA-chopping half of the Crispr gene editing system. So Akbari’s team just had to inject the other half—a bit of guide RNA—into the embryos, for Cas9 to automatically execute its patented snipping action. When they deleted a cuticle pigment gene, the mosquitoes turned from black to yellow. How about a wing development gene? Welcome to the world, flightless blood sucker. Good luck crawling your way to a human meal.

These modifications were just for show. But the skeeters with built-in Cas9 will be an important tool as we learn how to best disrupt mosquito populations. Scientists estimate they’ve only probed about 5 percent of the Aedes aegpyti genome. Which means no one knows what the vast majority of mosquito genes actually do. Now they’ll be able to more easily screen knockouts gene by gene. Maybe they’ll find one that makes the mosquito mouth a hospitable home for malaria. Or one that turns off their taste for human blood. The goal is to disrupt the animal—and the ecosystems they’re a part of—as little as possible while still eradicating disease. If you’re going to play God, the idea goes, use a light hand.

In addition to advancing a new way to study mosquito physiology, these strains represent an important building block for efficient gene drives. Normally, the technology would require expressing both Cas9 and the guide RNA together in the same location. But that could make the drive system invasive and uncontrollable. One way to control them is to keep the components separated in the genome. And that’s what Akbari is working on: a less virulent version called a split-gene drive.

His team has already started the process by breeding these Cas9 strains with mosquitoes encoded with guide RNAs. “The only way to keep the drive spreading is to continuously release Cas9 into the population,” Akbari says. “That makes it confinable to a laboratory setting or self-limiting in the wild as the drive will depend on the presence of Cas9 which gets inherited in a Mendelain fashion.”

More on Gene Drives

Megan Molteni

Creating Zika-Proof Mosquitoes Means Rigging Natural Selection

Matt Simon

Genes Might Be Helping the Tasmanian Devil Fight Off Face Cancer

Megan Molteni

When Is a Mosquito Not an Insect? When It's a Pesticide

Another way to do that is a “daisy drive,” which is what Esvelt is developing in nematodes on the DoD’s dime. It works by equipping the worms with a self-exhausting supply of genetic fuel. By splitting into three or more parts and then daisy-chaining them together, the desired modification disperses quickly right when you introduce it, but fizzles out after a while. The result is temporary, controlled gene editing of a local species. That’s the idea anyway. Other Darpa-backed groups are working on having a backstop should systems like these go awry, or worse, be released as part of a biological attack.

Teams at the Broad Institute and Harvard Medical school are screening and compiling a suite of chemical off-switches to block gene editors like Crispr/Cas9 and Talens. At UC Berkeley, Jennifer Doudna’s group is hoping to find anti-Crispr proteins to inhibit unwanted gene-editing activity, which would help design resistance-proof gene drives. While the military’s involvement has some in the public concerned about weaponized, Crispr-ized superskeeters, Esvelt sees defense department support as the only way to advance gene drive technologies safely, at least for the time being.

The Darpa program explicitly prevents the release of gene-drive organisms and requires participants to work under stringent biosafety conditions—hence Akbari’s six-door entrance and exit routine. Perhaps one day he’ll have the molecular tools to come and go without concern. But for now, they’re still the safest thing between his gene-drives and the world outside.

Related Video

Science

Biologist Explains One Concept in 5 Levels of Difficulty – CRISPR

CRISPR is a new biomedical technique that enables powerful gene editing. WIRED challenged biologist Neville Sanjana to explain CRISPR to 5 different people; a child, a teen, a college student, a grad student, and a CRISPR expert.

Read more: http://ift.tt/2mynAbI

from Viral News HQ http://ift.tt/2mZsaQz via Viral News HQ