#but that does speak to a different sort of thing......the sheer exhaustion..... his body literally couldnt maintain being super....

[lowpolyshadow]

the only thing i could be wrong about is being delusional thinking the "ha .. ha" is out of breath laughter and not just straight up out of breath, but i mean. it could be. its shadow.

[jessicajonesrp]

He’s backkkk

 It took some careful planning, but eventually, Rikarah had what she needed to be able to bring Kilgrave back to life.

 She already had a safe and secure location where she would be uninterrupted during times of needed concentration- her open rented home, just outside of Manhattan. She had never bothered to inform Phillip that she had a rental house; it seemed a better bet to keep the information of her multiple living quarters, unused for most of the year, to herself, just in case. Phillip had been far from discreet, and there was a reason Rikarah had chosen a secondary lodging outside of the business of cities such as NYC, Hell’s Kitchen, Harlem, or Manhattan itself. She was a loner at heart, but her interest and her focus tended to be on others, and it was necessary to spend most of her time among them in order to know them and their lives. This distant secondary home was to be used only when necessary, to recharge, or for specific situations such as this.

 It hadn’t been difficult to obtain a picture of Kilgrave. After the incident on the dock, he and Jessica and Patricia Walker had been all over the covers of newspapers everywhere, so it was a simple matter of a few clicks on a smart phone to find and save a picture of the  man in question. It had taken more time to obtain something with Kilgrave’s DNA. Rikarah had attempted to trace the location of his body- somehow she suspected he had been neither traditionally buried nor cremated, and it was her guess that he was likely being used for scientific experimentation or study, legally or otherwise,  within the government or whoever else had been the highest bidder of access.

 With some creative thought, she had been able to trace back several of Kilgrave’s last known addresses, including the childhood home of Jessica Jones, which was unfortunately no longer standing after its bombing. Nevertheless, Rikarah had discovered that the “Kilgrave survivors” group Jessica had formed over a year ago, with the intention of drawing out Kilgrave and gaining information on him, was still active and meeting regularly.

 It hadn’t been difficult to insinuate herself into the group for a few weeks as a new member, pretending to be one of the traumatized survivors of the incident of Kilgrave-directed violence on the dock the evening he himself had died. Rikarah had enough research information to be able to nod along and briefly and tearfully provide her own version of events. Meanwhile she took note of the people who had spent prolonged time with Kilgrave- being his driver for a week, forced to let him live in their home for longer, or forced to wait on him as a cook, bartender, or masseuse.  

 Those were the ones that may possess something that would carry Kilgrave’s DNA, even now. Those were the ones that she made the effort to befriend, to offer a shoulder and a listening ear. And a few episodes of feigned attraction and friendship had been enough for one clearly still traumatized older man to allow her into his home and his bed, and with minimal encouragement from Rikarah, to lead her in a tour of the house Kilgrave had made his lodging for a time- the house the man still lived in.

 “It was terrible,” the man told her, actually tearful as he shook his head, eyes cloudy as though reliving what he spoke of. “I couldn’t leave the house, I couldn’t speak or even move without him giving me the okay to. He used my house as though it were his, and then one day he just left and didn’t come back. I was terrified that he might return, any moment, and I couldn’t predict when or do anything to stop him. He didn’t even take all of his things with him, and I was afraid to do anything to get rid of them, or even move them, in case it made him angry if he did come back. I know he’s dead now, but even now I’m afraid to touch his things. That’s pathetic, I know, but it’s the truth.”

 It was pathetic, in Rikarah’s view, but it was also fortunate for her. Because among Kilgrave’s “left behind things” were a comb, toothbrush, and some clothing including socks and underwear. All certain to contain Kilgrave’s DNA.

 She had charmed the man with sympathetic words and touches, assuring him of his bravery, lying without a flicker of remorse about her own supposed fear. It hadn’t taken more than twenty minutes for him to be convinced that he was now strong and brave enough to let some of those items go, “just a few to start with, the ones most associated with him personally”- and that she, Rikarah, in spite of her own fear, cared enough about his healing to be the one to take them away to make sure they were disposed of.

 She still couldn’t believe the man was gullible enough to fall for such nonsense. But he had actually leaked tears and hugged her, thanking her for her empathy and giving him the chance to start a new life.

 Ironic, and amusing, really, that in all actuality, she was bringing back what he feared the very most, all in the name of helping him put it behind him.

  So armed in her remote rented home with the personal objects of Kilgrave’s and a clear picture of his face, Rikarah sat cross legged on her bed and emptied her mind of all thoughts but those of her intention. She stared at Kilgrave’s picture, her hands stroking over each object containing his DNA, and pictured him awake, alive, and whole before her. She imagined the beating of his heart, the rhythm of his breathing, every synapse and nerve once more sharp with activity and use. She envisioned the blood running through his veins, and as her own small body grew taut and gave off fevered heat with the effort of her actions, she reached out for the knife beside her knee. Grasping it in her left hand, she slashed a shallow x over each of her palms, and then at the surface of each of her feet. Hands shaking slightly, she smeared the blood over the comb, the toothbrush, and the clothing, combining their DNA.

 With a final shudder of effortful focus, Rikarah spoke aloud Kilgrave’s name. She could feel the air grow thick and strained, as though holding something moving and living and shifting in shape, and she slumped back, exhausted, against the bed, watching with satisfaction as a human form began to slowly knit itself into view in front of her.

 It wasn’t a pretty sight. The revived bodies started first with skeletons, then filled up with internal organs and muscles and sinew, before finally being knit over with skin and hair and the other details normally seen on the outside. It was no different with Kilgrave, and eventually, there he stood, naked, panting, and wide-eyed at her bedside.

 Rikarah smiled, more in self-satisfaction at the accomplished task than at the sight of the man’s naked body. She didn’t consider him overly impressive in his physique, but he would do. It was the man and his mind, not his body, that mattered. She more than anyone knew it was a mistake to overlook people for their physicality.

 “Where the bloody hell am I?” Kilgrave sputtered, disoriented, seeming to struggle to draw in breaths. His lungs, being new again, were likely still adjusting to breathing. “What’s the matter with me? And who the fuck are you?”

 When Rikarah didn’t immediately answer, too tired to bother, Kilgrave straightened, pointing a finger at her, and took a menacing step forward, raising his voice. “I asked you a question, are you deaf? Answer me!”

  “I’m sorry, Kevin, but I don’t take orders from anyone if it doesn’t suit me, and certainly not from you,” Rikarah said coolly, lifting an eyebrow from her supine position on the bed. “As you quite literally owe your life to me, I would expect a little more respect and gratitude, but I’m a patient woman. I’ll assume you’re rather in shock at the moment, given you’ve just gone from bones and brain mush to a living body again, and let the rudeness slide.”

 Kilgrave’s eyes bulged, and he recoiled, alarmed as much by the nonchalant response he had just received as the strange situation he had found himself in. To speak an order and have it not obeyed immediately was beyond his comprehension.

 “But I told you to do it!” he almost whined, staring down at the small and clearly unintimidated woman resting on her side in the bed. “I told you to, and you just- the only person who could ignore me was Jessica, and-“

 He stiffened, his face paling, as he pointed an accusing finger at Rikarah again.

 “Jessica did this, Jessica used that sedative thing on me, didn’t she?! You’re with her, you’re one of her people!”

 “Certainly not,” Rikarah corrected him, exhaling with a weary and somewhat impatient sigh. “Jessica knows nothing of this- yet. As far as she believes, you are long dead, and she is glad of it. After all, she was the cause.”

 She sat up, watching wryly as the realization and the memory of his own last few moments of life, just before Jessica snapped his neck, came back into the forefront of his thoughts. Rikarah gave him a few more moments to process this against the obvious reality of his current status of being alive before addressing him again.

 “Yes, Kevin, you were dead, and for over a year now, too. You would have stayed that way, if not for myself and my own unique abilities. Some gratitude and a certain level of loyalty is not unwarranted.”

 “I was dead,” Kilgrave repeated, the words stunned, almost disbelieving. “And you’re saying- what, that you resurrected me? You?” He snorted, looking Rikarah up and down dismissively. “No  offense, love, but you hardly look the type to have that sort of power.”

 “And Jessica does?” Rikarah countered. “I’ll grant you that she has the advantage in height, but she’s of a smaller frame even than myself, and what she may have over me in physical strength, I can outdo in the sheer enormity of my ability. She may be able to kill someone with a punch, but I’m the one who can bring them back from the dead. If you ask me, I have the greater power, and therefore, the greater true strength.”

 Kilgrave looked her over again, more carefully this time, assessing rather than dismissing her. He took a step closer, still seeming not to care for his nakedness as he narrowed his eyes at Rikarah, anger losing out to eagerness in his eyes.

 “You know Jessica,” he asserted. “Where is she?”

 Rikarah wagged a finger at him playfully, a small smile curving her lips.

 “Am I really so uninteresting, that I bring you out of death, and you would forgo all details to chase after another woman? Perhaps I was wrong in my interest in you. Perhaps someone else is more deserving, and you can simply go back to where you were before.”

 “Wait, no, that isn’t it, love,” Kilgrave backpedaled, his smile at Rikarah forced at first as he raked a hand through his hair, then more genuine. “Of course I want to know how you managed this, and of course I’m glad for it. And I certainly want to know how it is you don’t listen to a thing I tell you to do,” he muttered, more to himself than to Rikarah, before addressing her again. “But if you know Jessica, then you must know something of our history, and why I would want to know where she is. She’s the one who killed me, you know. She’s the one-“

   “That,” Rikarah interrupted, to Kilgrave’s barely contained outrage, “is in the past. The present is right here, with me, in this moment. Choose wisely, Kevin Kilgrave, and choose now, while you still have the choice before you. You can realize that I am no ordinary woman you’re dealing with here, that you owe me your life and your loyalty, and I owe you nothing and cannot be ordered into anything you may want from me. Believe me, I hold no liking for Jessica Jones, and as long as I am the woman who comes first and foremost in your world, I care little for how you choose to play with her. And I am certainly not opposed to letting you know every detail of what you have missed knowing of her life over the past year that you’ve been dust and bones.”

 She paused, tilting her head, and gave him a moment to consider, before concluding, “Or you can choose to be foolish, ungrateful, and quite frankly, a bumbling, pathetic corpse, stumbling off on your own in a world that has moved on without you. You would have none of my help or my connections, none of my knowledge, and you would displease me greatly. When and if Jessica Jones kills you again- and she would, you know, if you just pop up on her in her new life without my assistance- then you can be certain I would not lift a finger to bring you back. So, then. What shall it be? I would think the decision obvious, but perhaps you’re not as intelligent as I believed.”

 For a moment Kilgrave stood there, motionless, perhaps still in shock, or perhaps genuinely weighing out his obsession with Jessica and his desire for revenge against the logical reasoning of Rikarah’s words. But then he nodded slowly, reaching forward to take hold of Rikarah’s hand in his.

 “Well, it would indeed be a fool’s errand to let a woman like you slip out of my grasp. Why don’t we start over with introductions, and perhaps something in the way of an explanation.”

 And as Rikarah began to speak, giving Kilgrave some if not all of the answers he craved, she noticed his body relax further, his expression growing more and more fascinated as he came to understand more of the extent of her actions and her power. It wasn’t quite the way, she was sure, that he had looked at Jessica, but for now, it was enough.

 It was enough, in fact, that after he had dressed in some of his old clothing and taken time to familiarize himself with Rikarah and her home, that Rikarah was willing to give him the phone number, if not the address, of Jessica’s new workplace, Heroes for Hire. And she sat back, interested and indulgent, as he placed a call, from a cheap prepaid phone she had bought in anticipation of his need for one.

 It was Trish who answered, her voice bright and cheerful as the company’s head. “Heroes for Hire, we provide help, heroism, and honorable services for those in need in a time where true heroism is more needed than ever. How can we help you today?”

 “Ah, Patsy,” Kilgrave purred, snickering to himself when he heard Trish suck in a sharp breath, immediately recognizing his British accent and self-satisfied tone. “So good to hear a familiar voice, but unfortunately, yours has never been the one I wanted to hear, and you prattle on enough as it is on that bloody talk show of yours. Give the phone to Jessica. Tell her she has a message from an old friend, would you?”

 “This isn’t funny,” Trish said tightly, her voice controlled but barely keeping back anger. “Whoever you are, pretending to be that man is not a joke, it’s cruel, and-“

 “Ah, but this is no joke, Patsy, can’t you recognize your own  would be lover?” Kilgrave asked rhetorically. “Have you had so many men now you can’t remember the voice of all the ones whose throat you stuck your tongue inside of? Let me help you out, then. I’m the one who told you to put a bullet in your head. Fortunately enough for you, that doesn’t appear to have worked out, I never did find out why. Care to explain it to me, Patsy?”

 He and Rikarah both heard Trish suck in her breath on the other side of the line. He doubted that this incident in the bunker was something anyone but she, Kilgrave, Simpson, and Jessica were aware of- and out of the four of them, both men were dead. Or supposed to be.

 “Who are you?” she asked, her voice softer than before. “What do you want?”

 “Unfortunately, Patsy, for me to really make you do what I’d like to make you do, you’d have to be a good bit closer to me than a phone call, something about pheromones,” Kilgrave said casually. “But I do have other ways of making you do as I’d like you to. Put Jessica on the phone, or I will have six people show up at her doorstep and  cut your name into their own foreheads. If she tries to stop them, they will cut her as well. Is that something you want to have on your conscience, Patsy? For a simple conversation?”

 The line went silent for a few moments. When Jessica came onto the line, her voice was hard and cold as steel.

 “Who the fuck are you, and just what the fuck do you think you’re doing, playing this kind of sick joke?”

 “And hello to you too, Jessie,” Kilgrave exclaimed, putting an exaggerated bounce to his voice. “No joke, you never did have much of a sense of humor to waste any on. I won’t say it’s good to hear from you, since I had to get murdered,  raised from the dead, and then still call your sister first and threaten her for you to speak to me, and I must say that hurts a man’s feelings.”

 “You’re not him. You can’t be, you’re just some sick asshole who needs to fucking go put his dick in a-“

 “Oh, Jessie, I can see your language is as filthy as ever, every bit as appalling as your fashion sense. Let’s cut off all the protests of my supposed death and just check your office email, shall we?”

 Five minutes before the phone call, Rikarah had shot a quick video of him smiling and waving into the camera, with the date and time of the video clearly time stamped at its bottom. With a few clicks, he sent the video to the public Heroes for Hire email address, cutting off the call.

 “But don’t worry, sweetheart, you’ll hear from me again soon. If you miss me before we meet again, you have the video for comfort’s sake.”

 As Kilgrave hung up, glowing with renewed feelings of power over the fear, rage, and helplessness he had stirred anew in the two women he had just spoken to, he sent a genuine smile in Rikarah’s direction, who returned it in kind.

 “You know what, I like you, Rikarah Pallaton. I think we’ll get along just fine after all.”

[smol-and-trashy]

DimiClaude Vore (FE3H) 1/2

A/N: I’m cutting this fic into 2 parts because my motivation is waning and it’s turning out longer than I originally thought. This part is literally all description and Dimi being like “im inside a thing, but what is it? hmmmmm-ing intensifies.” and I’m deceased. Warning for unaware vore (but that’s on the tin), OOC-ness, and mentions of digestion. Enjoy :) 

____________________

The incessant pounding of a nearby heartbeat stirs Dimitri out of his slumber. He groggily rises, his first thought drawing from the heartbeat, thinking that he perhaps fell asleep on somebody after growing weary from a recent battle. His face flushes—it would explain the volume and closeness; however, as his eyes flutter open, he immediately notices that this is not the case. 

He’s inside a cavern of sort, he had to be, what else would explain the liquid dripping from the ceiling and the ever present puddles of water? 

Dimitri curiously takes a step forward, but finds his boot sink into the fleshy ground. Flesh? How could this be? His pulse picks up, nothing about this cave made any sense, the whooshing from above, the constant wetness, and what kind of caves had pliable floors? 

He wishes for a lantern to illuminate his surroundings, perhaps then, he could see what kind of cave confined him. Dimitri inhales slowly and while ignoring the surreal sensation of the odd flooring molding around his feet, he walks forward, trying to gather clues of where he could possibly be. As the blond trudges blindly, he notices a slight dip which makes him lose balance and lands him face-first to a squishy wall. 

Dimitri’s eyes widen, caves shouldn’t have soft walls, they should be hard and rocky. None of this made any sense. 

His heart is thrumming like a hummingbird beneath his ribcage, almost painfully fast. The notion that he may not even be in a cave at all is becoming more fitting. 

Dimitri reaches for his lance but finds his sides bare. Not only was he trapped in this… area, but he had no weapon of protection. He clenches his jaw as sparks of rage, and pure frustration begins to nip from under his skin; however, he squashes those feelings down, choosing to focus on a way out over letting his temper get the best of him. If he entered this pit somehow, there had to be an exit. 

No, before on deciding on an exit strategy, figuring out where exactly he was would be more efficient, and then he could use that to escape. He paws around his surroundings, trying to check off what qualified as a possibility of where he was. Cave? Does not explain the plush walls. Kidnapped in a sack? Does not explain the wetness… Or…It could be raining outside, and the water was leaking considerably inside the sack. Dimitri’s face lit up before turning grim, figuring out that he may have been kidnapped was not much of a consolidation prize. 

Dimitri’s face darkens as straightens his back and calls out, 

“Release me!” it was a poor attempt to gain his captor’s attention, he’d admit, but unarmed and having few advantages on his side, he decided to speak to his kidnapper before doing anything rash or could possibly be turned against him. 

There’s no initial response, but the thumping from above quickens while the sack gurgles and convulses? Dimitri freezes, feeling rooted despite the shifting of his surroundings. The idea that he could be inside a creature never came into fruition until now, but it all clicked. The whooshing noise was the beast’s powerful lungs, the heavy, constant thumping was a heart, and the odd chamber that seemed to never stop moving…. a stomach. He thinks to himself, the sheer thought of being inside an organic prison, filled to the brim with lethal acids, sends shivers down his spine. He would be digested alive and not have a clue of the beast he was inside of. Dimitri’s eyes narrow, going by the size of the organ and how he so easily able to fit, the only fathomable guess would be a Crest Monster; but, forgetting the memory of getting close enough to the beast to be eaten? Was he rendered rendered unconscious? Perhaps he had passed out in battle, and someone had taken his unconscious body as feed to the beasts. Still, that rationale didn’t add up. He had always been careful, always precise, so being betrayed, and fed to a Crest Monster could not have been true. Yet, his surroundings tell a different story. 

The overwhelming heat, the puddles of liquid increasing, and stale air, all point to being inside a living creature. 

A warm molasses envelopes him as he can hear the rush of the lungs get louder, and the gurgles intensify; everything is too loud, too crushing. Dimitri’s teeth clench as white-hot anger bleeds through his body. He surges forward to the nearest wall and digs his nails into the ridged walls, ignoring the giant heartbeat pick up frantically, he tears into the walls, scratching and grasping until they bled: this monster will spit him out, or he’ll tear his way out. 

His fit didn’t last long as the chamber lurches, earning a gasp from his captor; a loud groan shakes his surroundings, and Dimitri finally stops. His body is tense, animalistic, and he’s breathing heavily. If Felix were to see him now, he knew exactly what he would say, imagining the clear disdain written in those amber eyes.  

“You’re nothing but a bloodthirsty boar.” 

Dimitri shakily exhales, trying to compose himself, yet he can’t. If he just lets himself get digested by this monster, everything he fought for would be for naught. His brows knit together, focusing on the inky darkness before him and as he’s about to throw an exhaustion fueled punch to the walls, he hears a very familiar voice surround him. 

“Nah, it’s nothing. I’ve survived off feeling way worse.” the slightly strained voice of Claude echoes, he’s clearly feeling more pain than he’s letting on, but for now, that’s not the point—

He’s inside Claude? 

[fablesrose]

Of Kings and Shadows XXIII

Description: Y/n, a girl who seems to have found her calling. Being a SHIELD agent is like a dream come true. With a friendship starting to form with the Avengers, she’s the Queen of the world! What could go wrong?

Pairings: Avengers x reader, Loki x reader (eventually)

Notes: It’s a little short for the time it took, sorry!

On Wattpad –> Here

Masterlist

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

The mind is a tricky place.

Effortless to become lost in, easy to meddle with, hard to break, difficult to control, and nearly impossible to put back in its place.

The mind requires both precision and respect. Neither can be given as a gift, only learned. Usually, they are developed together along with the ability to penetrate the mind. Wanda was given the ability without the required time for respect. Perhaps deep inside she knew it, that that was why Loki was placed in charge of the mission of Y/n's mind. She was still sharpening her magic's blade to be a steel knife. Loki, on the other hand, was sharper than obsidian.

That's why in the heat of battle, the Avengers were put in charge of keeping the opposing agents at bay and away from Queen and Loki while also defending themselves from attacks. It is well within Loki's abilities to multitask with mind magic and dueling, but this was a special case. Loki hung closer to the back and threw up a shield for good measure. He put minimal attention to the battle around him with occasionally taking out an agent if needed.

The rest of his focus and energy was put into exploring the folds and shadows of what used to be Y/n's mind. The surface was worryingly dark to him, not at all what he imagined the original Y/n's mind to be.

He dug deeper and found it somewhat difficult, every mind is different and has a different 'texture' and consistency, but Y/n's functioned differently than anyone he had ever seen. It was like it was actively trying to keep him out, with half a moment of pushing through sludge, to falling forward suddenly with thin and lightning-fast decisions of battle. It was puzzling, usually only those with mental abilities are able to protect themselves or even sense someone was infiltrating the mind unless the infiltrator specifically makes contact. As far as they knew she didn't have any mental magic, but he pushed through to see what was bouncing around in there. He was able to get far enough to start seeing flashes of assignments and missions that were numbered many times more than they had ever thought.

Some were horrific and brutal. Some were stealth with her blending with the shadows like she was born there. It was fascinating... and almost nauseating. Eventually, he had to refocus himself on what his actual mission was: make contact, try to see how much of the old, the good Y/n is still in here, and find if there are any weaknesses they could use.

He repeated her name over and over to himself to keep him on-mission. As he did so the pattern around him changed as if she was only then made aware of his presence.

A voice spoke to him that sounded only vaguely familiar, 'Y/n is not here.'

Loki realized he must have mistakenly projected his thoughts into telepathy instead of privately. At first, he wondered if he remembered her voice incorrectly since it has been so long since he's heard it, but the dark and almost unnaturally smooth quality told him otherwise. He believed her--partly--he believed that he was not talking to Y/n. 'To whom am I speaking then?'

'I've gone by many names as I'm sure you've seen on some of those files. Around here they just call me Queen. Y/n seems to think that I've evolved and have always been here, she calls me Noxy. You may call me what you like.'

There was a spark of hope at her words, 'So Y/n is here.'

There was a pause, 'She won't be for long. I'm actually surprised that she's lasted this long. Existing anyway. Not surprised at the state she's in.'

That was all it took for Loki to dig deeper into her mind, leaving whatever abomination was controlling Y/n's body to try to find something, anything to stop the rampage and hopefully save the woman he would like to call his friend.

He went farther past the missions, the strategies, and manipulation 101. He was about to give up on trying to find Y/n and start scavenging to find weaknesses when he approached the far reaches of her mind. That's when he began to hear faint traces of music. He followed it to a small corner that didn't reflect the dark sludge around him. It was colorful and light, but he didn't fail to notice the fingers of dark shadows invading the area, causing it to fade and turn a bit grey.

The rhythm of decisions being made now made sense. The brain does not have the ability to truly multitask. Instead, it switches back and forth between tasks quicker than we can register. Her mind wasn't trying to keep him out, her mind was just switching between this Noxy character and Y/n.

The song seemed familiar, but the lyrics being sung hardly made sense.

He tried to reach out to her, calling her name, but nothing seemed to snap her to pay any attention to him. It was just that snippet of a song playing on a loop and scrambled flashes of pictures, memories, all of them incoherent.

Blinded by the light...

revekjsmed up like a dochewekf.

Ansldkjthor rumner in the night!

He would be lying if he said it didn't scare him. Not even his own thoughts were ever this disarranged, and he has been called mad far more than his fair share of times. It became abundantly clear that he wasn't going to get through to her and he began to lose the small spark of hope that he got before.

Loki did the mental equivalent of sitting down with a huff and tried to think of what to do next. This was becoming more difficult than he had hoped. As he sat there he really paid attention to the music since that was the only thing Y/n was giving him.

He must admit that it took longer than it should have for the song to click and that maybe Y/n was trying to tell him something through it. It nearly broke his heart that even when she didn't have all of her pieces put together that she was still trying to give them something to work with. Something to beat her with.

At least, that's what he hoped she was doing. He kinda wanted a deep moment.

Loki snapped back to the battle outside of his mind and smacked his head for all of them being so stupid, including himself, but he wasn't going to say that out loud.

"Stark!" Loki yelled through the comms, throwing himself back into the battle.

"What? What have ya got?" Tony continued to blast at black spears being launched at him and Hydra agents that kept coming and didn't seem to have an end.

Loki flung daggers with deadly accuracy while slicing down any agent that came into his path, "What is the opposite of darkness?"

"Really? You're gonna give me riddles? Light... Light is the opposite of dark."

"And if there is enough light?"

"No darkness at all."

Loki nodded to himself, "Do you think we can get enough light?"

There was a pause while Tony did some calculations, "I don't know, but we can damn well try."

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

I had that feeling when you're zoned out and someone calls your name but you don't notice until five minutes after the fact? I was so focused on the song... It was so important. When I snapped out of making sure the song kept playing, something was different.

I couldn't put my finger on it--figuratively or literally--what exactly was different, I mean, I'm the only one who could rearrange things in my little corner, so maybe I was just going crazy. More crazy anyway.

I spent a moment puzzling over the strange feeling before I felt her body succumb to waves of exhaustion out of nowhere. I hadn't felt that kind of exhaustion in a long time, but I knew what it was all too well. It reminded me of the lightroom.

I was scared, I hadn't been in the lightroom since Noxy took over, but maybe something changed.

I finally decided to see what was going on in the outside world and I wasn't sure if I was going to like what I saw. I didn't want to see the stark white walls and the electric shocks. I tentatively paid attention to what was going on and a bittersweet feeling overcame me.

Noxy had her hands out and tried to shoot her spears of darkness at the Avengers... and others I didn't recognize. The pitch-black material that made up her weapons became smaller and smaller, not flying as far as they normally would, and some even fizzled away at her fingertips. I could tell that we didn't have the energy to keep the fight going.

The reason why is that everywhere I could see there were lights shining on me. Lights from the building behind me, some sort of aircraft above me had a spotlight trained on me, and every Avenger that was able had some sort of light fixed on me. They weren't perfect. There were shadows that Noxy was pulling energy from, but they were small and the sheer force and brightness of the light coming from Thor's lighting, Tony's repulsors from both of the suits, even Cap had his shield reflecting light at me, it all made it so the shadows weren't enough.

Nevertheless, the light wasn't enough to drop us.

Since she could draw upon the shadows, Noxy pulled out a gun and a whip from her belt.

All at once, I could hear everyone I had ever met, including myself say, "Kinky."

I didn't remember ever seeing it before, let alone using it, training with it. For a moment I felt like Indiana Jones with the bullwhip at her side. I could see it wasn't perfectly smooth and that there were bits and pieces of shiny material woven into it. I instinctively knew that it would be extremely painful to be hit with.

Noxy cracked it easily and began to advance towards the heroes. She only took two steps before there was a sharp prick in the neck. Noxy pulled out what looked to be a horse tranquilizer. Her eyes snapped to the direction it came from to see Clint crouched in a tree, bow slung across his back. He emptied the barrel in one fluid motion and shot a loose salute in our direction, but despite the lightness of it, there wasn't a smile on his face.

I could feel her body begin to shake as it became difficult to stand steady. She raised her gun to shoot at Clint, but her hand was trembling too bad to take aim. Noxy dropped the whip to steady her gun, but her eyes drooped in exhaustion. My already limited range of sight began to shrink even more and then the world became dizzy, I became dizzy? I wasn't sure anymore. The one thing I did know was that as I was falling to the ground it felt like there was a whole new presence in my head. It was soft, hardly noticeable, but before I could figure out what was going on, we blacked out.

[maconnoheyjam]

So, I watched ‘Breaking the Waves’ (1996).

This was painful to watch in its entirety because every moment was so deeply embedded in this stilting silence juxtaposed w jerky bits of action. I think, and this is my pretentious high school media nerd coming out, the lack of non-diegetic audio really got to me. The camera was shaky throughout, which really inadvertently (or advertently?) added to the feeling of being a voyeur to the horrible stuff happening on screen. Kind of like, this feeling of invading a private scene, but then also feeling compelled to watch because someone has to witness what is going on, right, or what’s the point of having the story in the first place.

A thing that really struck out to me within the film was the way different chapters were introduced – that startling pop music combined with the burst of colour in the landscapes. It felt very very oxymoronic to the actual scenes but also kind of was a reminder that this wasn’t actually real? That this was a film? And you would sit during the 10-12 seconds while they transitioned between chapters thinking “my god this is fiction?” Especially that last GODDAMN SONG – my goodness, I was giggling hysterically at that bit; horrified & captivated & confused by the humourous and facile expression of what the story was.

I’m not sure what exactly Bess’s condition is – autism or – you know what, I’m not going to even attempt it because I don't want to misdiagnose, and I KNOW I’m going to be about as accurate as a kid putting on their parent’s makeup for the first time i.e. the end result is always a surprising simulacrum of The Joker. But the psychological aspect! The naivety and capacity for self-delusion, the intense combination of unconditional love and unconditional religious devotion (that ultimately ends up destroying her), the conviction in self and the continuous rejection & belittlement of that self from others; God, it’s heartbreaking. Bess is somehow simultaneously the most simple and complex character I have seen in a film. Reminds me weirdly enough of Lennie from Of Mice and Men. Characters so pure and simple that when faced with the realities of the world end up obliterated.

And Jan – my goodness, I was torn between hating and pitying him. On one hand, the sheer sadism of his actions and the callousness of the request he made of her, which was so cruelly foreshadowed with the repeated “she’d do anything for you if you asked” made me so. MAD. But on the other essentially ambidextrous hand, the loss he faced at a moment when his life should have been so bright! He’d lost his body – the basic foundation of his work and living – and the medication no doubt fogged his mind, so he’d become a shell of what he was…it was very hard to condemn him when he still had so much love for her. I mean, he tried to martyr himself for her. It was weird and touching and disturbing.

You know what I found really damn awesome about the acting? When Bess alternates between God and herself (i.e. the inner voice cultivated by having been rigorously taught by douchebag ‘religious’ men vs. her own desires) and the way Emily Watson portrayed the difference between the two. The eyes – my GOD, the way Bess looked so lost upwards, like a kid looking for answers. And then the harsh, dead gaze of ‘God’ – so reflective of the dead, judgmental stares of the men from the church and (at times) her mother. It was so well-crafted; those particular exchanges, and you could see a very clear procedure for how Bess’s inner conflict would play out. The meltdowns – oh wow. The literal explosion of her emotions against the world; pure, unfiltered injustice articulated perfectly. That one time she did it against the waves? Epic & gutting.

I can’t say I much liked the ending of the bells ringing; it felt a bit shallow in that there was a sense of things coming full circle, but also it came across as a vaguely relevant answer to the most pertinent question. Like, it made me feel like there was an answer of sorts there, but it was too poorly formed for me to really get it? Or maybe I’m just a ditherheaded idiot? Maybe both? Maybe neither? Maybe I should stop typing?

Okay BUT you know who I thought was the real tragedy of the film? DODO. That woman was the epitome of the impossible woman who somehow has to be the caretaker, sister, confidante, nurse, balancer-of-worlds, psychologist….it was just that in this version, she was taking care of a woman as opposed to the typical ‘husband/father’ trope in your usual literature. She spends the entire film trying to do what’s good for everyone and though she does miss the mark on a couple points, her intentions always come from a place of selflessness. In her speech during the wedding, she makes it clear that she has no one in her life except for Bess. Her husband’s dead (the history of which is never spoken about in the film because Dodo doesn’t get to have a narrative; she only exists to fill in the blanks) her mother-in-law is a figure present only in her emotional distance from anything outside religious matters, and her original home isn’t something she can return to. She has nothing but Bess, and her relationship with Bess is incredibly toxic. It isn’t a remark against Bess, but the relationship they have is one-sided at the least and emotionally draining & crippling (lol) at worst. Of course, Bess is the main character so it’s understandable that she be the center for most of the plot, but the continuous way in which we see Dodo picking up after Bess and handling her, and ensuring everything is fine is just exhausting. I mean, it’s exhausting to watch, imagine how exhausting it is to live like that day after day. And then in the end, when Bess dies, and Dodo breaks down – isn’t that the ultimate “I failed to do my duty�� reaction? Dodo’s life isn’t built around devotion and imagination like Bess, or joie de vivre and love like Jan’s; it’s built entirely around duty and balance – and she’s failed. Completely and unequivocally, and the proof of that is in the funeral, when she breaks duty and custom to speak out, realising that in doing so she’s condemning herself but being unable to keep it in. It’s her equivalent of screaming at the waves. Also, you know how I spoke about feeling like a voyeur watching the film? About still having to act as witness? Dodo is that; the silent witness who does not get to act but is still left broken in the aftermath.  

I’m not sure if I can perfectly articulate what the film is about, or try and link it to a broader theme in literature, because in doing so, I feel like I’m erasing the personal and painful nature of Bess’s story. In the end, the audience is left trying to reconcile what they watched with the world they live in, and in doing so gaze directly into the worst horrors of life. I was left thinking a lot about the film Come and See (1985). Mostly because watching this film made me feel as if the director had been saying the same thing to us during all of Bess's private and public pain; come and see, come and see; both a warning and a dare. 

Obligatory TL;DR that my friends have instilled in me as a fixture as permanent as a closing salutation in an email because I’m always sending longass emails: the film was *mimes explosion within heart & brain & all 43 chakras* you should watch it if you like emily watson & enjoy pain.

[emperorhwangs]

Which hogwart houses do you think nuest members belong to ?

OOOOOHHHHH WHAT AN INTERESTING QUESTION OK LEMME THINK

ok so i’m going to cheat a little and have some combined houses bc i think only one house can’t be enough to confine some of the members

Aron - Aron is a Gryffinpuff(?)/Huffledor(?) lol I don’t know what to call it

• he’s actually quite intelligent; he performed well in school and achieved a 2200 on his SAT (for reference, a 2400 is the full score and the Ivy League avg. is about 2150ish for the old SAT) 

• during the Pledis auditions, he ranked first out of all the trainees who auditioned

• he learned the entirety of the Korean language in under a year

• he speaks 3 languages: english, japanese, and korean

BuT (why he’s a gryffindor too)

• he can be brash and say things without thinking first, which has gotten him into trouble multiple times

• He perspective towards life seems to be to dive headfirst into things, without looking back

• he rejected his admission to NYU/rejected his academic future path to fully and completely pursue kpop (if this isn’t the definition of “taking the leap”, I don’t know what is)

• he won’t really censor his thoughts and is frank and stubborn, which can both be good and bad

• though he is the oldest member, he acts as if he is the maknae~ he tends to live vicariously without regrets

Ren (Minki/Mingi) - slytherpuff(?)

Slytherin gets a lot of hate for being the “evil” house, but that’s not how it is–the house itself is one of the most loyal and unified, with traits just as impressive as those of Gryffindor

• Ren oozes self confidence and is one of the few androgynous well known kpop stars–when he was been attacked for his “effeminate” image by a rude interviewer, he coolly, elegantly put him down, without a crack in his facade. He doesn’t flinch at insults to his appearance and instead hides his pain and buries it

• as you could see on PD101, ren is extra as hell; he knows how to draw attention for his benefit

• slytherins can tend to come off as a bit arrogant or prideful, and Ren definitely knows how gorgeous he is (there are an infinite amount of times where he’s complimented his own looks, lol, he even did it on PD101)

• slytherins are extremely loyal to their own, and Ren is extraordinarily loyal to his group 

i giffed this a while back, but this was his reaction when he heard one of his labelmates dropped from top 11 (at the time he was the only one of NU’EST who wasn’t ranked within top 11)

• he’s been described as the most playful and mischievious, but he rarely laughs

• but Ren is a hufflepuff too, despite his seemingly cold exterior

• he is the maknae of the group, and if you have been Nu’est’s fan for a bit, you know the rest of the group spoil him and love him to death; he probably has the most skinship with the other members because they love him so much

• he is extremely selfless~ never once did he complain about being ranked lower than his fellow members, he was only happy they had made it so far

• he treats his fans like angels–there was a brother of a fan who ran into him at a cafe he goes to regularly and he remembered his name and greeted him every time they bumped into one another at the cafe from then on out

• he used to respond to private messages from fans and would comfort them through difficulties

• according to the other members, he complains the least

• he’s very tolerant of everyone and has encouraged fanboys to approach him as well, and he would be willing to hug them

• the younger trainees on PD101 all loved him and they stuck to him a lot; he was said to be a spirit raiser on the show

JR (Jonghyun) - ravenpuff(?) huffleclaw(?)

hufflepuff gets a lot of shit for being the “useless” house but there is nothing to be ashamed of if you are a hufflepuff

• nation’s leader, onibugi, is selfless almost to a fault

• he was the leader of Nu’est since he was 16(1!6!) an takes the failure of Nu’est onto himself; he always has carried the entire burden of the group on his shoulders

• in literally every group performance he was in, he was the leader and he stiLL nEVER gave himself more than a few lines (pun intended, but this was still so upsetting)

• he always puts the other group members before himself and looks over him as if he is their older brother, despite being younger than some of them. (look at the disappointment on his face when he saw Minhyun walk into D rank and Dongho when he forgot the lyrics during the grade reevaluation)

• he’s really friendly, despite being very introverted

• in fact, despite his natural introvertedness, he tries his best to push himself out of his own comfort zone so he can be warm to others and he has devised several ways for him to seem more extroverted (how selfless is this holy fuck)

• he’s also a ravenclaw, though

• he is a very capable leader who tries his best to avoid conflict by sorting the situation out

•ex. he could’ve been argumentative with Kwon Hyunbin when he wasn’t being an exemplary member and wasn’t pulling his weight, but he instead just talked some sense into him by mediating

• when he is quiet, it seems he is more analyzing and sorting out every situation silently. he seems to be a bit calculating so that he can approach problems more effectively.

• he is very driven and will push himself past boundaries–he was the only nu’est member who went up in grade reevaluations, going to rank B 

• despite his position as leader and rapper, he can also dance very well and he does so passionately

• he can play the piano, the flute, the clarinet, the saxophone, the tuba, the drums, and the trombone (that’s 8 instruments!!!)

Baekho (Dongho) - Gryffinpuff (i know this is an oxymoron, but hear me out)

• he looks like a formidable, scary, guy, but he is actually the softest human being ever. 

• he is always laughing, and the other members have said that if baekho isn’t laughing, there is something wrong (literally during the meringue time he just laughed the entire time even though he was just beating eggs)

• the other members refer to him as “baby tiger” despite his “sangnamja” appearance

• he’s been described as the most sincere and the most sensitive member 

• he didn’t even purposefully audition for Pledis he actually went there with a friend for emotional support and then he was casted (if that isn’t the most hufflepuff thing you’ve ever heard)

• he can’t sleep without hugging someone

• he is very caring and friendly, despite the jungle music editing MNET used, he picked up a lot of friends on the show and was loved by a lot of the younger trainees; seonho said that he would only share his special mango snack with Dongho

• but Dongho is also a good Gryffindor

• one time he almost fought a drug dealer who had threatened him and the group (omfg wht)

• he is willing to take the lead to be a leader, on adopt101 he patiently and diligently helped Haknyeon with his parts

• he can be just as ambitious as anyone, though it may come off as a little headstrong~ his clases w/ Sewoon~ but it isn’t malintentioned

• his instincts are sharp, and he isn’t afraid to voice them--when he heard the voice doubling in Daehwi’s BIL team, he wasn’t hesitant to immediately call them out. In this way, he wants to act justly and fairly

• hufflepuffs typically hold peace over everything, including justice in some cases for the sake of avoiding conflict, but that isn’t the case for Dongho because he is the type to call people out on their BS, immediately

• savage as hell *when watching Jonghyun’s center audition* --dongho: *it would’ve been very good....if you couldn’t hear anything”

Minhyun (CEO/Emperor Hwang) - ravenpuff

• Minhyun got the title CEO Hwang for good reason, he was able to form an incredibly strong team from only short analysis after spending some time with them and he found very strong team dynamics within the people he chose; he knew what he was doing when he chose the Justice League team

• Minhyun is supposedly the most intelligent of the members of Nu’est (even though he can’t type for shit)

• he is incredibly dedicated to his “studies”; though not necessarily academic, he will put his all into learning and  applying himself and has been called the most applied of the nu’est members

• he worked incredibly hard in preparation for the grade eval according to the other trainees and hence was most expected to rise in grade; however, he failed the reevaluation because of sheer exhaustion 

• when asked why he likes Minhyun so much, Seonho replied that “minhyun-hyung gives very good, practical advice”

• it may not be shown often, but I expect Minhyun is very intelligent (aside from the evaluation of group dynaimcs that formed the sorry, sorry team, he has shown that he can adapt successfully to several different concepts and master difficult dances even though he is a vocalist, and he dedicates his all to what he does)

• ravenclaws overlap with hufflepuff in their tendency to avoid all conflict, and this is very evident in Minhyun

• he consistently would check on the other members of his team, not wanting to overstep any boundaries or make anyone uncomfortable, and he was a key part in the harmony of each group

• despite being regarded as the “face” of the group along with Minki, he is still very humble and doesn’t talk much about his visuals

• he’s the motherly figure of the group, always nagging them to pick up after themselves and keeps their dorm relatively neat and orderly (how messy is their dorm gonna be for the next 1.5 years those hoes better keep it clean for him)

• he apparently always has body lotion in his bag, for both him and others to use (how considerate is this I’m gonna cry)

• he is allergic to salt and will react to his own sweat, but he bears through it to train and pursue his dream, proving his will and determination 

this is probably way longer than you expected anon im sorry lolololololaslkjasfal;sdfja lsdfjsdfsdafjasdfla;dsf

[jamest-kirk]

Can you do a mckirk prompt where there's some sort of transporter malfunction (because there's always is) and Jim is beamed aboard but can't be seen or felt, and everyone thinks he's dead and he can see and hear everything?

Jim doesn’t feel any different when he’s beamed back on board. Honestly, he feels fine. The two redshirts and Chekov, however, look pale and confused. “Where is Captin Kirk?” Chekov asks. “Here-” Jim starts, but he’s cut off by Scotty. “He should’ve beamed aboard with you lads,” he says. “I’m. Here,” Jim repeats, watching Chekov step off the platform and approach Scotty’s work station. Together, they seem to be focusing on trying to find him down on the planet they previously visited, and ignore all of Jim’s calls to them.  The two red shirts walk straight by him, too. So, he’s invisible? After exactly two seconds of sheer panic, Jim’s lips turn into a grin. He can at least have some fun with this.

Spock is on the Bridge when Jim arrives. The doors slide open for him, oddly enough, but the crew see no one arrive. Odd as that is, no one seems alarmed by it, as malfunctions happen quite regularly when Jim lets Scotty tinker freely on the ship. “Mr. Scott,” Spock speaks into the communicator, “please provide us a proper explanation when you tell me “I lost Kirk”. That’s impossible.“ Jim’s reaches out, a hand on Spock’s shoulder to startle him, but the other doesn’t seem to feel it at all.

Apparently the whole ship just loses it because they lost their captain, who’s mostly just fucking with Sulu’s and Spock’s workstations at this point. He’s trying to get a message across to Uhura for a while, too, hoping he can find a way to mess with the frequencies she listens to, but to no avail. “Captain Kirk was with us when we were beamed up,” Chekov says when Jim follows Spock to Scotty and the others. “I cannae pick him up on the scanners, sir,” Scotty says to Spock, who frowns ever so lightly when he’s stressed. “Send a search party down,” Spock says, “make sure to scan the surface again.” “Aye, sir,” Scotty says.

Jim strolls to medbay, hoping that somehow Bones can sense him. It’s all fun and games to be invisible, but the fun wears off really fast when Jim has this constant state of needing attention. This way, he’s not getting any. But Bones doesn’t see him at all. He doesn’t even know anything is wrong, because he’s working on the archives in med, and keeps himself occupied with that until Spock calls him over, too.

Everyone searches the surface all night. Spock doesn’t want to leave until they found him, which even surprises Jim because they’re on schedule, and it goes against the prime directive. Bones is on the surface, too, going around in an attempt to try and find his best friend. Jim wishes he could be beamed down again, but to no avail. 

“I retraced our steps,“ Scotty says to Spock and Bones when they’re back on the ship, “I can definitely see that we picked up Kirk when we beamed you up from that planet.” “But he isn’t here now, is he?” Bones counters. “Well, no. There was a malfunction in the transporter. His particles aren’t properly reattached.” “What does that mean?” Spock asks, “where is Jim now?” “Theoretically,” Scotty says, and he cringes a little while he speaks, “he just ceased to exist.” “Damn it, Scotty,” Bones calls out to him, “I didn’t bring Jim back from the dead just to have him leave again.” “I’m sorry, doctor,” Scotty says, “I cannae do more than this.”

It’s not true. Jim knows he still exists. The ship knows he still exists because it reacts to his presence. The doors to his quarters slide open just as it always did. If he tries hard enough, even certain buttons on his captain’s chair react to him, though it’s always too exhausting to actually send a message, no matter how hard he tries. But none of the humans seem to respond to anything. Not a touch of his hand or him calling -hell, even crying, screaming- out their names. The mood in the ship is at an all time low, too, and Jim feels just as bad. He follows Spock and Uhura for the longest time to try and draw their attention, but to no avail. They can’t stay at the planet longer, and so they leave, despite no one wanting to.

Bones is a whole different story. Bones is a mess. Jim’s never seen his reaction to Jim dying at the hands of Khan, but he can witness it again close up now. Bones just drinks himself to sleep and does the very same thing the next day. Doesn’t even show up for work. Spock doesn’t question it, just schedules him offline while Bones allows himself to wallow in self pity. Jim lies next to him, quietly watching his best friend go through hours of stupid footage they shot on the ship. Mostly Jim filming those short 5 second videos roaming the Enterprise’s hallways and praising literally every nook and cranny. Small shots of Bones and Jim drinking in the bar together, lots of footage of Bones calling out Jim for his erratic and idiotic behavior. Jim feels just as miserable as Bones looks, because he isn’t dead, but everyone treats him as such.

Bones is still a mess, but after the self pity doesn’t make him feel any better, he just kind of buries himself in work. And that’s when Jim gets an idea. Because Bones takes those long, steamy showers, and Jim reaches out for the foggy mirror in the bathroom. “I’m Here,” he writes on the mirror with his fingers, and then watches Bones step out of the water, drying himself off quietly. In any other situation, Jim would’ve found that distracting, but he’s too eager to watch Bones’ reaction. Bones wraps that towel around his waist and approaches the mirror, frowning at the fading message written down. Instead of questioning that, he just wipes it away with his hand and instead focuses on shaving. “God damn it, Bones,” Jim mutters under his breath.

He tries again the next time Bones showers. “Bones. Jim here.” he writes. That, at least, sparks Bones’ attention when he reads it. “Jim?” “Yes!” Jim calls out, realizing Bones can’t hear that. So he just draws a quick smiley on the mirror before that, too, fades. “You’re supposed to be dead,” Bones says, though Jim can hear the sheer relief in his voice. The foggy mirror is quickly clearing up, though, and so Bones turns on the faucet to hot, pretty much wasting his hot water. “Help?” Jim writes down, and Bones nods. “I’ll talk to Scotty and Spock.” Jim nods, realizing Bones can’t see that, and so Jim watches Bones get dressed and head out the door; following him closely.

Scotty figures it out after a few hours. Or so he thinks. Because Scotty’s technically not sure what even malfunctioned in the first place. They fix it by flying towards the nearest Class M Planet, and Bones and Spock beam down together, and Jim stands on his own platform, too. He’s beamed down with them, though that doesn’t seem to do the exact trick. The scanners do finally pick him up when he’s about to be beamed back up, and somehow being put together in an actual body after being invisible for a few days is not a painless process. Jim has a pounding headache when he opens his eyes, and he’s on the floor. Bones is kneeling down next to him, one of his ever-beeping machines pressed against his cheek. Spock is on his other side. “Are you okay?” Spock asks, and Jim nods. “I feel like I’ve been put through a blender.” “That seems like an accurate description of what happened,” Scotty says, and Jim huffs. Bones helps him stand up straight, though his knees still feel weak. “I’ll get you to your quarters,” Bones says, and Spock nods.

Jim groans when his back finally hits the mattress. Rather than letting Bones leave, though, he grabs his hand and pulls him down, too. "Thank you," Jim says, "now stay for a little while." "Fine," Bones says as though it's so much effort to do so. Jim rolls to his side, sliding an arm around Bones' waist, and smiling fondly as Bones raises his eyebrows. "I'm just glad you managed to figure it out," Jim says, and Bones shrugs. "I didn't do much. I thought you were dead." "That's true, you were even more miserable as when we first met," Jim points out, and Bones scoffs. "So not true." "I saw you watching my video recordings over and over again, Bones. There's no denying. You love me so much," Jim jokes, but Bones looks eerily serious. "I do," he says, and now Jim raises an eyebrow. "What-" "I do love you," Bones says, "I thought you were dead and it just wrecked me. I'm not even gonna lie about that." "You couldn't, because I saw. I was there. I spent the last few days with you," Jim points out, "I tried to hard to get that message across-" he's cut off when Bones leans in and kisses him. Maybe it's just that stress relief, maybe it's more than that. But Jim is happy to receive that, sliding his arms up to wrap them around his shoulders, keeping him close for a little while. "What I was trying to say," Jim continues when Bones pulls away, and he smiles fondly when the other rolls his eyes since Jim's still talking, "is that I love you too, Bones."

[ampharos-writes]

Memoir

Archivist’s Note: The text from the following statement is excerpted from a historical document - an old letter, discovered in the attic of a condemned home and delivered to the Institute for archiving and analysis. The contents of this letter should make it clear WHY it was entrusted into our care. Details regarding the “statement” have been filled in by institute staff.

Statement #9191101 Author’s Name: John Hawthorne Nature of Incident: The nature and circumstances of his death Date and Location: Letter dated November 1st, 1919; recovered from a home in Lexington, Virginia, USA on March 5th, 2020

Statement

Dearest Father,

I write these words to you, of course, knowing full well that there is no way that you will ever be able to read them. Once I was young and idealistic and believed in the great Kingdom of Heaven, but over the course of my life and the events that have transpired within I have become convinced that God and His Kingdom are nothing but the wishful thinking of so many hopeful fools atop this doomed rock, and that all that awaits us at the conclusion of our time upon it is an eternity of cold unfeeling nothingness, a sheer black Void which at the end of our days does consume all that once lived and breathed and grew and flourished and prospered and withered and faded and died.

You must forgive me, as I am getting ahead of myself. No, I am of course aware that you cannot read these words, but in writing them I am perhaps hoping for one last shred of blissful hope myself, one last tiny morsel of catharsis, as I feel my own time drawing near, and I cannot help but dread it down to the deepest part of my soul.

Have you ever died, father? I suppose that’s a foolish question. A better one might be, “Do you know what it feels like to die?”, as I imagine that at this current juncture you’re much incapable of knowing much of anything at all.

I know what it feels like to die. I know it all too well.

I knew it first when Tom and I ran and played by the old creek, when play-fighting turned decidedly more real, when rough hands shoved my lighter frame down into the rushing rapids and a hidden stone lodged itself deep within the back of my skull, when blood rushed out of my head and water rushed into my lungs, when everything went white with pain and then black with nothing, and I was no more.

And then I wasn’t. I woke up the next day, half-blinded by pain, too stiff to move. The poor doctor hovering inches above me blanched as if he’d seen a ghost, and perhaps he had. I remember him shakily asking me to roll over, remember laying on my side for what felt like forever, listening to him hem and haw and poke and prod and examine and ask “does this hurt?” (yes) and “how do you feel?” (bad) and eventually clear his throat and wander off.

Behind a door they thought was thicker than it was, I heard the doctor discussing in hushed tones with mother. He said that I was bleeding much less than I should have been, that the wound looked much cleaner, that I should make a full recovery after copious bedrest. I remember my mother saying that it must have been a miracle, that we had all truly been blessed. I do not believe anything could be further from the truth.

I know that you knew nothing of these events, father, as mother decided that she would rather not worry you, nor did she wish to inspire anger towards Tom, for both she and I knew that what had happened was not his intent, and that his crying at my bedside for the entirety of my confinement was proof enough of that. I must belatedly apologize for this deception, and further admit that while it was the first, it was certainly not the last.

I recall the first time Tom died, too, though I obviously know not what went through his head during the events that transpired. What I DO know is that his recovery from that illness he underwent as a teenager was not nearly as ordinary as we both convinced the hapless physician overseeing him to tell you that it was. In truth, Tom could have, should have, and did in fact pass away from his disease, but the unfeeling end rejected him as it had me, and his condition improved rapidly with no scientific or medical explanation to back it.

Admittedly, as young men this did contribute to our more… reckless endeavors. How could it not have? I know you saw us both as foolhardy braggarts keen to rush into danger for even the slightest chance at glory, but it was all an act, for neither of us relished the thought of fighting an overseer we never knew for a country we barely cared about. No, it was not brashness that drove us to enlist when the minutemen came calling, but a grim sense of duty. We had each died once or twice more by then, enough to know that for whatever reason our lives refused to be cut short, and we felt a moral obligation to harness this towards a purpose that, for whatever reason, people seemed to believe to be righteous and true.

I fell but once in the battles that ensued, to a bayonet wound that grew gangrenous. I hid my discomfort from the others in my regiment, of course; I imagined it would be more tolerable to fight through the pain for the few days I had remaining than it would be to explain away the aftermath of such a wound. Tom claims to have fallen three times, but I was only personally witness to two of them: a musket ball right between his eyes, and a dozen horses briefly reducing him to a tattered facsimile of a human being, before he opened his eyes and quite literally put himself together.

He was always the more brazen of us, Tom was. I was ever-cautious, equal parts humbled by our apparent gift and fearful that it might one day fail us. Tom was under no such compunctions, and after receiving a taste for danger in that great war for freedom he remained something of a frontiersman and a daredevil, constantly venturing out into the wilderness with nothing but his old musket and a canteen.

You knew all of this, of course, just as you knew that I settled down and attempted to put the past behind me, to make something of a normal life. Tom and I stayed in touch, of course, but I have no idea how many times he perished on his expeditions, and that was perfectly fine by me. I had steady employment and a family to look after. The prospect of pushing my luck in a manner such that he had was completely antithetical to my entire nature.

Of course, all the caution in the world is useless against the ravages of our TRUE father. One can evade death as many times as they wish, but their body shall nevertheless weaken and wither with age, their once-bright eyes growing dimmer, their once-proud posture stooping ever lower, their once-unending vigor suddenly draining away with every step they take, until finally they are no more. Ironically enough it was I who father time came for first, as Tom was evidently in better physical condition than I and remained spry well past the age of 80. You and mother were of course long gone by this point, and my sons had both been killed in the second British war, so the only people I had left to comfort me were Elizabeth and Tom.

Both were with me as I lay in bed, too exhausted to move and barely alert enough to speak. Both were with me as my hands dropped from theirs, as the blankets began to feel as if they were enveloping my very soul, as the world began to go dark. Both were with me as faint whispers danced on the edges of my hearing, bearing secrets I could not hear and would not comprehend, as the edges of my mouth crept upwards into a smile, and my eyes finally allowed themselves to close.

Of course, given that I’m here to tell of it, you may correctly assume that this was not the end of my story, and indeed my eyes did not remain shut for long, as the gentle warmth I bore within me suddenly swelled into a searing inferno, sending shooting stabs of agony into every fiber of my being, and my eyes snapped open, and I screamed. It lasted an eternity. It was over in an instant. It matters not. The concept of time itself, I have come to conclude, is as vague and fluid as anything else we like to assume we know about this world. 

Whatever the case, what had started did in fact stop at some point, and the first thing I noticed was that I felt… different. Different, but not unfamiliar. It took me a moment to pinpoint what exactly this feeling was: I felt strong. Able. More able than I had in a long time.

I looked at my hands. Gone were the folds and spots of age. Here were the hands of a young man, able to do the powerful work necessary for a young man to succeed in this life. The same was true everywhere I looked, everywhere I examined upon my person. I hadn’t just died. I had been reborn.

My dear sweet Elizabeth had fainted, of course, and poor Tom was too busy gaping at me to help her. We got her into a chair and got her some water, and after confirming that she was still of sound mind and that I wasn’t some demon or malevolent spirit, we explained to her all that had brought us to this point. I didn’t expect her to believe me, but… perhaps there are some miracles in this world.

It was an… odd next few years. Tom had all but moved in with us, waiting for his OWN rebirth, which none of us had any reason to disbelieve would be coming. Elizabeth and I remained madly in love, of course, but there was this strange sort of distance that had cropped up. I would occasionally catch her staring at me with a look that I couldn’t quite place, or shooting glances at Tom that were outright hostile. I of course attempted to make inquiries about the nature of this, but was repeatedly rebuffed, as she insisted that of course everything was fine, and that I was worrying far too much, and should be enjoying my newfound youth. This prospect, frankly speaking, was tempting enough that I tended to agree with her, and spared little thought to my previous concerns.

The darkest day of my life dawned bright and cold. Winter was fast upon us, and Tom had been up before the sun in an attempt to fetch some firewood. Personally, I suspected that he was intentionally trying to wear himself out, in an effort to speed up his own rebirth, but I saw no reason to try to stop him. Elizabeth was already out of bed when I awoke, and I contented myself to simply lay atop the sheets and enjoy the gentle rays creeping in through the window, listening to the love of my life puttering around in the kitchen. In a moment of weakness, I permitted myself to slip into a bit of a flight of fancy, imagining that my lifelong connection with this woman had perhaps extended my curse to her as well, and that she too would be reborn, for us to jointly enjoy a life eternal. It would be… nice.

My daydreaming was interrupted by a terrible, gut-wrenching scream.

I’ll admit to only remembering flashes of the rest of the day. The shock of an event so terrible would do that to anyone, I think. I recall bolting from bed and running through the house. I remember Elizabeth, lying on the ground, her blood pooling atop her chest where a pale and trembling hand still clutched the kitchen knife. I remember the look on her face, equal parts anger and melancholy and regret. I remember she said something as the last of her life slipped away, but I don’t remember if I replied.

I don’t remember Tom returning home, but he must have. I assume he would have found me still standing there, just… looking at her. I don’t remember him guiding me out the door or across town to his own modest lodgings, though I do have vague images of his own rebirth a few short days later. His face was much the same as I recalled it, though tinged with the unmistakable wisdom of age.

To this day, I don’t know why she did it.

The next few years passed in a blur. There wasn’t much I wanted to do except drink and mope, and Tom was of no mind to stop me from doing so. They say that time heals all wounds, but I think that gives time too much credit. I find that wounds deep enough will always leave a scar - enough that you’re not actively bleeding out, but still weaker than the surrounding area, and cementing the memory of the events that created it deep within one’s psyche. So after a few years of my sullen stupor, the wound did indeed began to scar, and I attempted to figure out what I was going to do with what appeared to be my now-unending life.

Of course, at this point Tom and I lapsed into the hedonism one would expect of any two men in their physical primes who believed themselves to have truly and permanently cheated death. We drank, gambled, traveled, hunted, partook in all sorts of activities that sane men would have balked at a hundred times over. Tom fought for the south on a lark, the smug bastard, and you’d be fool to believe that I haven’t lorded our victory over him ever since. We performed odd jobs when we needed money and lived like vagrants when we didn’t. For the first time in my afterlife, I felt like I was truly living.

It was when the Grand Columbian Exposition came to town that we finally learned more of the nature of our situation. Not from the event itself, of course; the nature of our anomalous qualities bears only a tenuous connection to what most people know to be reality, and thus an exposition of such prestige would nary venture to go near exploring it. The prestige and attention that the event brought to Chicago, however, brought with it a fair number of hangers-on hoping to absorb some of the prosperity they figured would be in fair abundance, and it was in the dimly-lit stall of one such vendor that we sought our wisdom.

She claimed to be an oracle from the slopes of Olympus, able to divine the threads of fate and feel out their general trajectory both past and present. Of course, I assumed this was all fairly nonsense - though it was fairly plain that she was at least telling the truth about her Mediterranean origins - but it had been Tom’s idea, and we had nothing better to do. I recall jokingly confiding in Tom that our cover was about to be blown. As it turns out, I was right.

There was no crystal ball, no light show, no smoke and spectacle. She simply sat us down at a small table and stared, hard, at the both of us, fingertips slowly tracing lines we could neither see nor feel. A heavy stillness filled the air, and despite it being a warm summer’s day I suddenly felt very, very cold. When she finally spoke, it was as if she was looking right through me, and I realized with a start that she was very clearly blind.

“Never have I seen the strands of fate so closely intertwined. When one strand is cut, the other patches the gap, until both are so thoroughly entangled that they cannot progress any further. Fate shall not continue Her weaving unless one severs the knot.”

Her voice reverberated through my ears, their meaning clear as day. I shakily slapped a bill down on the table and the two of us fled into the now-too-bright afternoon.

So this is the crux of my tale, father. While Tom lives I cannot die, and the reverse is true as well. We were born together, have lived together, and must die together. Confident as we were at the time, we believed this fate avoidable, and easily so: we would simply have each other’s backs, protecting each other from dangerous circumstances, and we would be fine. Given that this was how we had been living anyways, it seemed almost trivially simple to continue to wind our knot.

But these are curious times, father. The Great War came and went, and out of an abundance of caution neither of us served, but it may spell the end of us anyways. We learned of the Black Plague in the schoolhouse, of course, but this isn’t that. This is something far more insidious. It doesn’t make itself evident with boils and pustules and the overpowering smell of rot and decay. It begins as a common cold, one that simply refuses to go away, that buckles down and ingrains its presence within its host, until it simply saps the life out of them. Dehydration, starvation, breathing problems - no matter the method, the end result is the same. And it’s the one outcome where having each other’s backs may have done more harm than good.

As I write this, Tom lays in the bed next to me, his forehead slick with sweat, his sleep restless, his breathing shallow. My own hand trembles as I write, and were I not writing to a man over a hundred years deceased I would fear for the legibility of it all. I can feel the plague doing its insidious work all throughout my body. Everything hurts, and I know that it will not stop hurting until the end, and that this time it truly will be THE end.

I would say that I lived without regrets, but Tom has always been better at deceiving you than I have. If I am wrong about everything, don’t bother to pass on my regards, as I shall give them myself. If I am right...  well, I could do with a rest.

Forever Yours, John

Statement

Historical documents tend to be very, very good at piquing my interest, but this one has been a bit of a dead end. Public record keeping tends to be rather haphazard this far back, and the name Hawthorne is a bit too common in colonial America to truly be of any use. Beyond verifying that the letter truly is as old as it claims to be, there’s little we can do here.

I DID ask Lissa to speak with the man who delivered this, a Mr. Nathan Finch. He read the letter and claimed no knowledge of any family or acquaintances by the name Hawthorne, though he admitted that his mother, one Persephone Theopoulos, had passed away when he was young, and that he knew little to nothing about that side of his family.

It’s worth noting that Mr. Finch discovered the letter through his work with the American Historical Society, and has no personal connection to Lexington, Virginia or the house therein. He himself resides in Chicago, Illinois.

-Amy A. Ampharos, Head Archivist June 1, 2020