#but eyeball trauma? Horrified me to this day

[pencilpat]

Dukeceitbrainrot here on anon. Do you have any ripe headcanons for Janus/Remus? 💛💚

Who am I fooling, we have so many that I can't even write them all out in one place without overwhelming myself! Here's some juicy ones though, just for you. @dukeceitbrainrot

Janus and Remus both have really bad abandonment issues, both from things Thomas has been through as well as losing Virgil from such a previously tight knit group. They cling to each other very, very hard. They fell in love out of necessity, out of proximity, out of 'you are the only one left for me,' but they still love, love, love.

They both watch a lot of horror films, sure, but their tastes are completely different. While Janus would bring things like Run. or Us to movie night, Remus will bring things like Slaughtered Vomit Dolls or Cannibal Holocaust and spend the whole film infodumping about the horrific backstories and crimes involved. Janus sits there utterly horrified the whole time, but he lets Remus have his fun nonetheless.

Remus eats a lot of weird stuff that's very bad for his health (I headcanon that he has the disorder pica among his menagerie) and Janus has to help him quell those compulsions in any way he can. That resulted in Janus learning to bake and cook creations that look or feel in texture exactly like the things Remus would want to eat. Such as sugar glass for that nasty glass swallowing habit, or fondant to replace fancy soaps. Janus once created candy that looks and feels like razor blades, just for him.

They are SO 'horrible beast and enabling owner' coded okay, "I don't know, I just let him play," and all else are you kidding me?? Janus enables the chaos for his own amusement and Remus's antics are an endless source of entertainment for him. Janus can be pretty easily grossed out, but it's creates flabbergasted affection towards Remus more than anything else.

A bit nsfw, skip if you need to. But their sex isn't actually as weird as you'd expect from Remus. He's a lot softer and sweeter to people he genuinely loves. He gets worried when he loves someone, will he scare them off, will he make them hate him like most others have, will they be just like the others? Their opinion actually matters to him, which is bizarre and terrifying for him to deal with. Janus is very good at reassuring him and keeping him close and safe when emotions do interfere with their encounters. Remus needs a lot of aftercare most of the time, he's very prone to those rushes of negative emotions following sex.

Remus gets injured a lot, either from fights with Roman or his own tendencies to step on/into his own weapons. Janus knows very basic field first aid because of this, and has to patch him up while chastising him pretty much 6 out of 7 days of the week.

Janus has really bad days sometimes, where his responsibilities and his role as Denial crash onto him like a train. He's hiding so much, holding so much back and away from the others. It's a taxing task. Remus shows a surprisingly strong soft side on those nights, caring for and comforting Janus through every trauma reaction he may have, be it screaming, crying, scratching at himself, etc etc. It can be really rough for both of them, but Janus is always incredibly grateful to Remus for staying with him through it, despite.

Remus does not care whether Janus likes affection or not, he WILL be being kissed and laid on and grabbed and tackled and shoved into Remus's chest 24 hours 7 days a week and he is not allowed to complain.

Shockingly domestic, sweet couple. always baking or gardening together or sitting on the sofa together doing nothing at all. The only difference is that There Is An Eyeball On The Coffee Table or Remus Filled That Pot With Human Waste So I Cannot Use It or other bizarre inclusions of disgusting things among their neat little domestic life.

Remus is a coffee drinker, Janus is a tea drinker. There are many arguments over this. 200 dead, 5000 injured.

Janus likes to try and plan civil, nice dates in The Mindpalace for them, but Remus always fucks it up in some horrific way, intentionally. What is love worth if it cannot flourish in chaos, huh Janus? Huh??

That's all for now, I love these two idiots so much

[banditomojado]

TW! Sexual assault, Violence

I had the most horrifying dream last night.. I woke up so angry and disgusted and violated. I dreamed my mom was still alive. We were together alone. Then she aggressively brings me to her lap and starts fondling me.. she was suddenly so strong and she wouldn't let me go. It felt so wrong and I was screaming but I was beginning to lose my voice. The rest of my family was in the other room, but they couldn't hear me. I somehow get away or she let me go and I burst into the other room where everyone was at, and I start screaming at them that she was raping me and they didn't do anything about it. But no one believed me! I was getting so angry and I was shocked that everyone was being so dismissive. Not even *you* believed me... So I leave the house completely distraught and suddenly I'm in the city. I'm white now. And I'm full of rage.. I proceed to find people, no one in particular, just random people. And I commit horrible acts of violence on them. I bite ears off, I scoop eyeballs out of sockets, I break faces and limbs, and the whole time I'm in a blind red and black rage. I do this for what feels like several nights and then I finally wake up. Sweaty, shaking, and so. Fucking. Angry. This will probably go down as the worst dream I ever had... I'm still in active trauma response, my body is wrong and my mind is foggy. And I'm out of cigarettes and I have to go to work in a couple hours. Jesus. It's gonna be a rough rough day

[tf2-hellhole]

Can i get some hcs of an s/o kissing the mercs scars and just an really emotional moment overall🥺

I’m sorry this is so so long, I got carried away and I still have like seven requests to finish up-

Ok so I only wrote the characters who canonically have scars and those who I head canon have scars.

Note: Scout’s head canon is kind of based on another I read somewhere, and I kinda accepted it as a headcanon for Scout because I think it makes sense. I just thought it’d be important to establish.

Warning: Self-harm, trauma

Scout:

Growing up was really hard for Scout. He was always really small and was often bullied and beaten by his classmates, and some of his brothers weren’t too nice to him either. He also didn’t receive a lot of attention from his mother. Like I said in the past, his mother wasn’t bad by any means, but it was hard to give all of her boys the attention they needed and hold down multiple jobs to support them all. But even then, sometimes there wasn’t enough food and the table and they would all still be hungry when they went to bed.

All of these things culminated in Scout having an extremely stressful childhood. School was a nightmare for him and he dropped out as soon as he could. The stress, insults, and abuse he received regularly had a horrible effect on his mental health that led to him often harming himself to feel better. The way he would do this is often hiding and harshly biting his hands when he got really stressed. He started bandaging his hands to hide them from his family, and he was careful enough that they didn’t realize what he was doing to himself. He stopped after he became a merc and built a healthy friendship with some of the other mercs, but he doesn’t want anyone to ever find out what he did to himself.

But one day, Scout had just come out of the shower and was already dressed, and he was sitting on his bed, wrapping his hands. His head shot up when his S/O called from outside and started opening the door. He called out, “Wait, babe, I-“ but it was too late. His S/O’s eyes were on his hands, following the lines of the short, pale scars dotting his fingers and palms.

He turned to hide his face and hands from them, but they hurried over to sit next to him and put a hand on his back. He didn’t look up at them; he couldn’t work up the courage to. He was horrified and panicking. He wanted to get up and run away, but he couldn’t move. What were they going to think of him now? Were they going to think he’s weak? Were they going to tease him too? Were they going t-

He almost gasped when they took his hand in theirs. They looked at his hand closely, making sure there were no new red marks, and sighed shakily when they found none. Scout’s head snapped up when his S/O lifted his hand and pressed a soft kiss to the back of it. They looked up at him and were surprised to find him on the verge of crying; His face was bright red and tears were welling up in his eyes. “Babe…” his S/O started, “I’m not gonna make you talk about this if you don’t want to, but I’m just letting you know that you don’t have to hide your past from me. I love you, and I’m here for you.”

In response, Scout’s face scrunched up and the tears finally spilled down his face and he yanked his S/O into a hug and cried into their shoulder. Scout absolutely fell apart, and to comfort him his S/O ordered some food and spent the rest of the day cuddling him and kissing his fingers and the back of his palms. He was so grateful to have them there and he’s so happy that he can talk to them when he needs to, even though emotionally he’s not ready for that. Just knowing that he can pull them close without the expectation of opening up yet makes him feel so much better.

Pyro:

(I tried to describe Pyro’s appearance or gender as little as possible so the reader can imagine them however they want, so sorry if this is a little short or vague). 

No one knows about Pyro’s background, not even their closest friend Engie or their S/O. Because of this, no one knows who they are or where they’re from. Because of this, they can’t even guess anything about Pyro’s appearance, not even their gender. Pyro really doesn’t want to ever show their face, but after a few years with their S/O, they finally worked up the courage to show them. They pulled their S/O into their shared bedroom and sat them down. They sighed softly before reaching up to pull the mask off of their face.

Their S/O took in the features of Pyro’s face. Their hair, their nose, their gorgeous eyes… but then their eyes settled on the scarred skin on their cheek, chin, and nose. They were burn scars.

For a few moments, Pyro’s S/O could only stare and take in the scars. Pyro whimpered and softly called their name. Why were they staring? They think their scars are ugly, don’t they?

Their S/O quickly snapped back to reality when they realized they were making Pyro feel self-conscious. “No, Pyro, I…” they couldn’t continue. They reached out and pulled Pyro close to show them they weren’t disgusted by their appearance. They quickly pulled back and pressed a kiss to their cheek. It took Pyro a few seconds to process the affection, but once they did, they threw their arms around their S/O’s neck and began bawling into their shoulder. Their S/O pulled them as close as they could and pressed more kisses to Pyro’s face.

They spent the rest of the night cuddled together and watching cartoons on the couch. Their S/O made sure to press a kiss to their skin at least every few minutes, which always made Pyro giggle softly and sniffle.

It took a little while longer for Pyro to work up the courage to take off their suit, though. Even though they knew their S/O couldn’t care less about what their body looked like, they couldn’t help but be a little nervous about showing the scars that covered their arm and parts of their back and stomach. They pulled off the suit so they were only in a t-shirt and shorts and looked up at their S/O. They smiled weakly and reached out for them, and their S/O giggled and pulled them into a gentle hug. This time it really wasn’t a big deal, but it was still a very loving and intimate moment for them.

Pyro never explains to their S/O where the burns came from, but his S/O never pushes for them to share and it never causes any tension between them.

Demo:

Demo can be really, really self-conscious about himself because of the constant beratement he receives from his mother and the BLUs. Hearing over and over that he’s not good enough made him feel horrible about himself, which is most of the reason he started drinking. But one of the things he’s most self-conscious about is his missing eye. Other people often make fun of him for only having one, and his mother always tells him that he needs to lose the other. It makes him feel a little torn sometimes because he really wishes he had two eyes but his mother’s made it almost a taboo in his mind to have either of them.

Because of all the abuse he’s received over it, he refuses to talk about it with his S/O or show him what’s under the eye patch. He never takes it off unless they go to bed, and even then he always makes sure the left half of his face is on the pillow so his S/O still can’t see and won’t move until the lights are off. This goes on for several months, and it worries his S/O because they want him to trust them.

His S/O eventually gets to see his eye, but it’s completely by accident. They walk into the bedroom to clean some things up but find Demo passed out on the bed from drinking. He was laying on his back and was facing up, and his eyepatch was tossed aside. His S/O turned to continue cleaning, but their curiosity got the best of them and they turned back to lean over his face.

It was true, what he’d reluctantly told them about his eye in the past; there really was no eyeball. His eyelid was slightly open, showing that there was nothing inside, just a small empty space. His S/O couldn’t help but laugh. This is what all the fuss was about? It was certainly strange, but Demo had acted like they would dump him in disgust if they saw.

They almost jumped when Demo opened his eye and looked up at them, obviously groggy from the hangover. After taking a second to process, his eye went wide. He quickly sat up and clapped a hand over his eye socket to hide it from them, then hissed at the sharp pain from his sudden headache. He angrily questions why they were looking while he picked up and put on his eyepatch. His S/O apologized and reached out to touch his shoulder, but he pushed their hand away. “I don’t need your pity… I know what you think about it!” he hissed.

His S/O sat down next to him and exclaimed that they weren’t pitying him. They apologized, saying that they should’ve respected the fact that he wanted to hide his missing eye from them, but they aren’t grossed out by it at all. Demo shook his head and spoke, his voice breaking, “I don’t believe you.”

His S/O sighed and put a hand to his face to pull him closer, and pressed a soft kiss just below his eyebrow, then another to his lips. “I wish I could prove it to you,” they said softly. When they pulled away, Demo stared at them in surprise. He practically broke when he saw the sincerity and the hurt in his S/O’s eyes as they stared back at him. He pulled them close and pressed another soft kiss to their lips. 

After this, he becomes comfortable with the idea of not wearing his eyepatch when they’re in private. It’s also a bit of a confidence boost for him. Kissing just below the eyebrow becomes a greeting for the two of them.

Sniper:

Sniper isn’t really self-conscious about the scar on his face; he thinks it looks badass. He will never mention the fact that he got it in a fight with a Spy that he lost.

It’s the scars on his torso and arms that he’s really self-conscious about. They’re closely tied to such a traumatic part of his life. They remind him of the feeling of quickly drifting away while he bled to death in New Zealand, the shock of losing the only people he had, his parents. Then there’s the additional shock of learning he was actually adopted then learning that his birth parents didn’t care about him at all. He’s reminded of all the pain and emotion he felt during that time in his life when he looks at the bumpy scars across his chest, to the point sometimes he feels a little sick when he looks down at them.

One night, he and his S/O were in his camper trying to fall sleep. It was ridiculously hot outside, so they had a small fan going inside, and his S/O was only in their undergarments. He was only wearing his boxers and a loose t-shirt. His S/O shifted to look at him and scowled when they saw how sweaty his shirt was. “Babe, aren’t you hot? Take your shirt off.” Sniper declined, saying that he was perfectly comfortable, and they jokingly told him that the smell of his sweat was absolutely disgusting and he needed to take the shirt off so they didn’t have to smell that the whole night (in reality, they just wanted to see him with his shirt off).

He awkwardly reminded them of the time he died and his S/O responded, “Oh… is it the scars? I’m sorry, Mick. I wish I could make you feel better about that. If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

Mick frowned for a second, but then he sat up and pulled his shirt off and laid back down, and stared at his S/O, who was starting back in surprise. He took their hands and asked them if he really could tell them about what he was feeling, and they nodded. He had realized that bottling everything up could ruin his relationship with his S/O, and he can’t be alone. Not again. He can’t hide from this.

It was finally cooling down, so his S/O cuddled close to him and pressed kisses to where the scars stretched across his collarbones. Sniper was already emotional, but feeling his S/O’s arms around him and their lips lightly brush across the thing he hated most about himself made tears slip down his cheeks. Once they finished and buried their head in his shoulder, he wrapped his arms around them and kissed their forehead and temple. He cried softly until he fell asleep.

The next morning also mostly consisted of Sniper and his S/O cuddling and kissing each other, though it was much less emotional and more just content affection. After that, Sniper was much more comfortable with himself now that he had unloaded the weight from his shoulders. Of course, that didn’t fix everything completely, but it was certainly a step in the right direction.

Spy:

Spy, like I said, has scars that he hates more than anything. They’re thin, pale scars across his nose and left cheek, and down that side of his neck. He got them when he was young and had just started working as an assassin. At the time, he was bold, confident, and very, very reckless. He would never admit it now, but his confidence often made him extremely sloppy in his performance. One day, he was stuck in a melee fight with a very skilled nemesis. His lackluster performance got him pinned to the ground underneath them as they beat him until he almost passed out. The enemy was particularly sadistic, so they decided to ruin the handsome face that Spy was so proud of. They started with many light cuts to hurt him as much as possible. They were about to try to tear his cheek when Spy managed to grab their knife and use it to kill them. 

Even though they were very light cuts and healed nicely, Spy was still extremely self-conscious about his face and believed it was ruined forever. That’s one of the reasons he began to hide his face, though the main reason was to hide his identity. So he vowed he would never show it to his beloved S/O in fear that they would leave him and he would never find someone that would accept someone like him.

One night, Spy found himself standing in front of the mirror with his mask off. He put his hands on the sides of the sink and leaned forward to stare sadly at his face. He had high, sharp cheekbones, bright blue eyes, and beautiful, thick brown hair that greyed slightly at his sideburns. He really was a handsome and elegant-looking man, but he could only focus on the scars on his face, which had slightly blended into his skin with time. He hung his head and allowed himself to cry in silence. They would never find him attractive, they’d be disgusted with his face, and they’d leave him…

He was interrupted by hearing his S/O call his name behind him. Merde, he had never closed the door!

He turned his head in an attempt to hide his face, but his S/O could see his reflection in the mirror. He choked, “Get out, now.” His S/O approached them, saying his name softly and reaching out to him, but he only loudly demand that they leave again.

He heard their voice soften to the volume of a whisper as they said OK and stepped out. After a moment, he looked up at the mirror again. His face was red from embarrassment, and more hot tears were rolling down his cheeks. He stayed there for a while, replaying the moment in his head again and again. He eventually got up and straightened his suit out. He knew his amour would never stay with him now, but he still owed them an apology.

He arrived at their room and knocked lightly. His S/O opened the door and looked up at him, obviously upset and annoyed. He asked if he could come in, and they stepped aside for him to step inside. He turned to them as soon as the door was closed and apologized awkwardly. He wasn’t used to being the bigger person and apologizing, so at first his S/O wasn’t sure that he meant it, but he pulled off his mask to show he was being sincere. They stared up at his handsome face, their eyes following the length of his scars, which made him shift uncomfortably. He acknowledged that they probably didn’t want him any more, but at that his S/O threw their arms around him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. At this, he teared up and pulled them into a soft, long kiss and wrapped his arms around their waist. His S/O could feel the warmth radiating from his bright red face.

After that, his S/O always makes sure to pull his mask up and press a kiss to his face in private whenever Spy is feeling down. No matter how stressed or upset he is, it never fails to make him smile softly.

[chelsfic]

Leftovers - Part 6 - Nandor the Relentless x Reader Fanfic

Previous parts: Masterlist

Summary: In which the reader and Nandor engage in some smut. There are lingering effects after the attack by the unknown vampire. A fight breaks out! And Fucking Colin Robinson can’t help himself when it comes to Scrabble.

A/N: Yeah, hi. It’s me. I spent all day struggling with this unwieldy beast and trying to shape it into something the least bit consistent. I really hope this holds up with the rest of the fic. I am also thinking that a vampire orgy is on the horizon, lol. 

Warnings: Smut, Female Reader-insert, Reader is described as short and a roller derby player, lingering trauma from vampire attack, memory loss due to hypnosis

---

The horrible, empty echo of erased memories is still with you when you wake, like a forgotten dream that nags at the back of your mind. Nandor sleeps like the literal dead beside you and the inside of the coffin is utterly dark. His presence wraps around you. His solid body is a comfort and his scent fills the enclosed space--earthy and spicy with an edge of coppery-blood-soaked menace. It should raise the hairs on the back of your neck. Your primitive instincts should be screaming at you to run. Instead you draw closer to him, resting your head beside his, close enough for your breath to warm his lips.

The moment is quiet and still, despite the frantic beat of your heart as you recall the softness of his lips on yours and the proud, possessive audacity of his hands on your body. You think Nandor’s kisses must be at least as addictive to you as your blood is to him. Ever since that frenzied, blood-drunk makeout session you’ve had the memory of it running on repeat in the undercurrent of your thoughts. But, Nandor? Does he...want that outside the context of blood letting?

There’s only one way to find out, chicky, Nadja would say. 

You lean forward, pressing your mouth to his cool lips, marveling at the contrast with your sleep-warmed skin. For a long moment he remains unmoving... dead to the world. You dart out your tongue and stroke it along his full lower lip, thrilling when you brush the wicked point of a fang. Your hands cup over his bearded cheeks, and you drag your fingers along his jaw as he gradually stirs beneath your touch. He wakes with a deep groan that rumbles up his throat and into your kiss. His lips move with yours now, parting to admit your seeking tongue. He catches your bottom lip in his teeth and nibbles gently, eliciting a pleased squeak from you.

“Nandor...” you pant. He’s fully awake now. His hand roams down your side, into the dip of your waist and over the round curve of your hips. 

“Mortal,” he answers you, dragging his fangs along your lips with a shudder that wracks his frame. He brings his other hand up between you and brushes the tips of his fingers over your lips, “I can feel your blood. Here, and…”

He reaches down and just barely presses his flattened palm over the aching heat between your legs.

“...here,” he finishes.

Your breath falls from your lips in a shaky gasp. His touch is frustratingly light but thrilling all the same. You roll your hips forward, seeking the friction your body craves and Nandor obliges you, snaking his hand between your thighs to cup your sex and rub you through the fabric of your shorts. 

“I want you, Nandor,” you hiss in pleasure, peppering kisses to his lips, his cheeks, his nose. It’s a declaration and one you’re not sure he’ll accept.

His mouth curves in pleasure at your admission. He wants to plunge himself inside of you and tear into your neck, erasing the foul touch of that unknown vampire. You’re his human. A growl rips from his throat at the thought.

He lowers his lips to brush against the shell of your ear as he barely whispers, “When I am with you I feel like I did with 35 of my 37 wives…”

He captures your earlobe between his teeth, letting his fang break the skin with a stinging little pinch while at the same time increasing the pressure of his hand against the bundle of pulsing nerves between your legs. 

“...I feel as though I could never set another peasant aflame and...still be happy…”

He closes his lips around the tiny wound and sucks, moaning with the heady ambrosia of your virgin blood as you ride his hand.

“You’re in the habit of lighting peasants on fire?” you laugh shakily, your breath coming in heaving gasps.

He laughs haughtily, “I’ve killed a thousand peasants and drunk a thousand virgins, my human.”

Okay, pillow talk could use some...work. It doesn’t matter anyway because you soon lose your power of speech and resort to burying your face in the crook of his neck, breaking his hold on your earlobe in the process. 

When Guillermo throws open the lid of the coffin you’re clinging to Nandor’s body with his hand buried between your thighs and a completely obvious moan dying on your lips.

Guillermo’s mouth falls open in shock and you jump away from Nandor, scrambling over the side of the coffin and burning in mortification when you notice the camera crew lurking in the open doorway.

“Guillermo!” Nandor shouts. “Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?”

---

“So...things are getting a little complicated with the human…”

Nandor is still seated in his coffin, one arm draped casually along the rim, and addressing the camera with an uncomfortable grimace.

“It’s like, do I want to drink her or do I want to do the sex with her?”

He looks off to the side, shaking his head in confusion. After a moment he finally climbs out of the coffin, standing and revealing the massive erection tenting his trousers.

“I wonder where Laszlo is…?”

---

There’s a saying in the derby world. “Roller derby will save your soul.” Sure, it might ruin your knees, break your nose, and deplete your bank account. But when you’re skating on the track with your league you can let go of everything else in your life for a little while. 

The nagging black hole in your memories from the rave went away while Nandor touched you. But it returns with a vengeance soon after and you arrive at practice with a headache and a foul mood. Tonight is contact drills. Thank god. You really need to hit something. 

You go through the motions of warming up, tossing greetings to your fellow skaters and letting yourself be in the moment. Your body knows these movements like the lyrics to a favorite song. You’re strong, fast and in control. Everything that you weren’t last night when...whoever it was attacked you and stole your memory. By the time you break a sweat you’re grinning with exhilaration. 

You run through drills, losing yourself in muscle memory. The night ends with a short scrimmage and you on your ass after a truly impressive hit from one of the new skaters. The girl looks horrified that she’s hurt you but you just laugh it off, slapping your wrist guard to hers in congratulations.

By the time you step off the bus and make your way up to the front door of the house you’re feeling loose and pleasantly sore. And hardly frustrated at all after your interrupted moment with Nandor this evening.

Hardly at all.

As soon as you step inside Guillermo rushes up to you with a frantic look on his face.

“Nadja and Nandor are going to kill each other!” he cries.

Can you never have a nice, peaceful evening in this house? Maybe a game of Scrabble or a movie night?

All the vampires are assembled in the library and Nandor and Nadja are both floating in the air furiously hissing at one another like a couple of street cats.

“YOU BLOODY, SLUG-FACED ASSHOLE!” Nadja shouts, clawing out her arms and flying towards Nandor, who throws out a kick and sends her crashing into the opposite wall.

“Nandor!” you shout, disgusted. “What is going on!? I leave for a few hours and all hell breaks loose?”

“HUMAN! Tell your snake-ass boyfriend I am not to blame for what happened last night!” Nadja cries, breaking into a hiss as Nandor flies at her with murder in his eyes.

“Stop it, Nandor!” you shout, dropping your gear bag and reaching up to snag his ankle as he floats by. Rather than slowing him down as you intended, you end up getting dragged along the floor in his wake as he chases Nadja out into the hallway. 

“Gaaah!” you shriek, hanging on to him and trying to dig your heels into the floor to slow him down. When that doesn’t work you forcibly pull yourself up his leg, grabbing onto the thick belt at his waist and climbing until you’re wrapped around him piggyback-style. You clamp your hands over his eyes and shout, “Stop!”

“Fu-cking human!” Nandor curses, reaching up and prying your hands off his eyes. “You stop it or I’ll drain you right now. I mean it!”

The threat falls flat, considering he’s currently in an apparent fight to the death over your safety and honor…

“If you kill Nadja I’ll never kiss you again...or any other stuff!” you growl, digging your fingers into his thick hair and giving it a yank. He hisses and swats at your hands. 

Nandor actually pauses to consider your words, looking over his shoulder at you in hesitation before scoffing, “Psssk, you can’t resist my dark power, human. Now shut up and let me kill our roommate!”

Nadja has retreated up to the vaulted ceiling above the main entryway and Nandor surges upward after her. 

You shriek in terror, “I’m afraid of heights, you jerk!”

“I’LL RIP OUT ALL OF YOUR DIRTY PUBIC HAIRS AND SHOVE THEM IN YOUR EYEBALLS YOU--!”

Just as Nandor is about to collide with your astonishingly imaginative vampire mama, Laszlo barrels out of nowhere and rams into him with a dramatic cry, “I say, keep your hands off my lady wife!”

Nandor launches backwards and crashes against the wall, crushing you and knocking the wind from your lungs in the impact. You both crumple onto the upstairs balcony. Nandor recovers at once, making ready to jump into the fray, but you’re lying on your back, coughing and wheezing as you try to get in a breath.

“Stupid...jerk...vampires! Knock it off!” you gasp.

Nadja flies down from her perch to land at your side with a moue of concern.

“Poor, baby,” Nadja coos over you before turning on Nandor. “Now look what you’ve done, donkey dick!”

Nandor kneels on your other side and whines, “I did nothing! It was Laszlo!”

You lift yourself up onto your elbows and eye both vampires with as much exasperation as you can summon.

“Enough! Nadja...I forgive you for leaving me on my own. I know how horny you are--”

“Thank you, human,” she sniffs.

“Nandor...stop trying to kill Nadja,” you order, trying to instill the tone of authority into your voice that comes so naturally to him.

He rolls his eyes and pouts but finally murmurs, “Fine.”

“Good…” you sigh, getting to your feet with a moan of pain. “I’m gonna go lay in bed with an ice pack on my ass. Try not to kill anyone--er, well...at least try not to kill each other…”

---

After a shower and some icing of the blossoming red and purple derby bruise on your right butt cheek, you make your way downstairs to find that Nadja, Laszlo and Nandor have all gone out hunting. Colin is sitting by himself in the library with his newspaper and Guillermo is tucked away in his room, talking to his mom on the phone.

“Hey,” you greet Colin as you gingerly drop down onto the couch. “Do we have any board games? Maybe Scrabble?”

A grin spreads across Colin’s lips and you miss the sheen of blue hunger in his eyes as he replies, “I think I’ve got an old Scrabble set around here somewhere…”

---

“...And then in 2017 it was David Eldar who took home the championship. But, of course, today the reigning champion is still Nigel Richards. But what’s really fascinating about competitive mind sports, like Scrabble--”

“What the fuck!” Nandor appears in the doorway of the library and you immediately turn to him and make grabby hands.

“Save me!” you implore dramatically. 

Colin snickers under his breath, “Sorry, Nandor, I couldn’t help it. There’s just something about Scrabble that really gets me going…”

“Fucking Colin Robinson…” Nandor mutters darkly as he trails you up the stairs, following you right into your room and shutting the door on the camera crew behind him. 

You plop down onto your bed, wincing a little with the pain of your massive bruise. When you glance up at Nandor you notice a splash of red blood on his chin.

“Have a nice...hunt?” you ask, trying and failing to sound nonchalant.

Nandor grins and perches beside you on the bed with a sweep of his cape.

“Jealous?” he questions with a smug smirk that bares his fangs.

Yes.

“No,” you insist. “I like my blood right where it is, thanks.”

Nandor narrows his eyes and needles, “Really...” His gaze falls to rest on the thrumming pulse of your throat. “Are you sure you don’t prefer it on my lips...or my tongue…?”

He crawls over you and the dark curtains of his long hair cascade down around your face as he bends to lay a kiss along your jaw.

“No biting!” you insist and he pulls back with a pout.

“Not even just to wash the taste of those joggers out of my mouth? They tasted like shit!” he complains. 

You really shouldn’t be pleased that he prefers the taste of your blood over others but…

“You’re getting spoiled,” you grumble, reaching up and idly playing with his hair. “But you’re very pretty…”

Nandor settles down beside you and pulls you onto his chest, running his hands over your back and down to the curve of your backside with a lecherous leer. 

“You’re the one who’s spoiled. I should have left you in the human cell to feed on when I choose…” 

The threat is comically empty.

You roll your eyes at him and squirm up to press a kiss to his bearded chin, “Yeah, but then I’d probably be dead by now...and you wouldn’t have someone to smooch and cuddle in your coffin, so…”

He cups your face in his hands, drawing you back down and pressing his mouth to yours in a long, passionate kiss that erases the taste of jogger’s blood from his tongue. 

“I suppose that there are certain benefits to mercy…”

Nandor picks up where you left off in his crypt. He kisses you senseless, until you’re a squirming bundle of need and then he finally reaches down between you and pushes his large hand down the front of your shorts and into your wet folds. His hands may have been made to hold a sword in battle, to bring pain and death, but they are also capable of the utmost tender and skilled care as he works you into a keening frenzy on top of him. You wail with the intensity of the orgasm that crashes through you and he keeps his hand on you, rubbing and stroking your oversensitive flesh until it almost hurts. 

His erection juts between your bodies, obscenely obvious through the thick fabric of his trousers. You’re still breathless with the force of the pleasure he’s given you when you make your first shy, tentative advances. As soon as your warm hand presses against him through his pants Nandor let’s out a fierce growl and he grabs your wrist, directing you to apply more pressure, rutting himself against your little hand. You reach for the waist of his pants with your free hand, tugging at it and fiddling with the absurd number of buttons until he finally assists you, opening his fly and reaching in to free himself.

Nandor’s smile is goofy and pleased with himself as he watches your virgin eyes roam over the impressive length of him. You reach out to touch. He’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your touch is feather light, experimental, hesitant. You watch as his eyes fall closed and his lips part. Nandor the Relentless is at the mercy of his mortal pet. Your touch grows firm, more confident. He fists his hands into the sheets and pants out the faintest, needy cries of pleasure until he’s twitching and shaking in your hand with his own release. The cold spurt of his seed falls over your fist and stains the rich fabric of his tunic.

Now that it’s over you’re unaccountably shy. You tuck yourself into his side and hide your face in his shoulder as he recovers himself. You fall asleep like that, clinging to him. And for the first time in centuries Nandor sleeps outside his coffin, curled protectively around you.

---

You’re sitting cross-legged in the high-backed armchair across from the camera man. His question hangs in the air and you pull the hood of your sweatshirt up, tugging on the drawstrings to hide your face as you answer.

“Yeah...I’m still a virgin.”

Memories of the previous night swirl through your head and you tighten the drawstrings until only your eyes peer out from the hoodie.

“...for now.”

---

“Guillermo!” Nandor shouts from his crypt. “I have clothes for the washer woman!”

---

A/N: Ugh---please send me soft, nice things. I’m entirely unsure if I’m happy with this. The only part I know I love was the fight scene with Nadja and Nandor.

Tags:

@festering-queen​ @glitterportrait​ @kandomeresbitch​ @scuzmunkie​ @redwoodshadows​

[misstrashchan]

Since @im-the-king-of-the-ocean did a post about what TMA fear entities the RWBY characters are aligned/avatars of, I’ve been itching to do one myself because as a result of overlapping hyper fixations I think about this A LOT

The basic concept is that avatars in TMA become what they fear most or embrace a fear they have developed the most complex relationship with that plays into their motivations and drive as a character. What negative impulses they have to constantly fight themselves on, the shape of the monster that lives in their heart.

To quote the RWBY song Fear, “But our greatest fear will be realised, if we fall and lose ourselves to fear, we’ll become what we’ve feared all our lives” yeah that’s a very loose definition of what becoming an avatar is.

Since MAG s5 has proven that you can be an avatar of more than one fear, (Like Martin serving both the Eye and the Lonely) some of the RWBY characters might have more than one, but I’ll try to limit it to two to avoid getting complicated, but at the end of the day it’s all fear soup, we might categorise them according to Robert Smirke’s 14, but they all bleed into one another, like Gerard’s colour analogy in 111:

GERARD

I always think it helps to imagine them like colours. The edges bleed together, and you can talk about little differences: “oh, that’s indigo, that’s more lilac”, but they’re both purple. I mean, I guess there are technically infinite colours, but you group them together into a few big ones. A lot of it’s kind of arbitrary. I mean, why are navy blue and sky blue both called blue, when pink’s an entirely different colour from red? Y’know? I don’t know, that’s just how it works.

And like colours, some of these powers, they feed into or balance each other. Some really clash, and you just can’t put them together. I mean, you could see them all as just one thing, I guess, but it would be pretty much meaningless, y’know, like… like trying to describe a… shirt by talking about the concept of colour.

O-Of course, with these things it’s not a simple spectrum, y’know, it’s more like –

ARCHIVIST

An infinite amorphous blob of terror bleeding out in every direction at once.

GERARD

Now you’re getting it.

ARCHIVIST

Like colours, but if colours hated me. Got it. 

Ruby Rose: The End. The fear of death itself, uncaring and unstoppable. Man this was hard to think about but I have a lot of Big Feelings about this one. Initially I really, really wanted to give Ruby the Eye simply because “can laser beam monsters with their eyeballs once they become powerful enough” and there is a fascinating overlap in how the Beholding powers and Silver Eyes function in the same way, (especially in how Cinder being exposed to the Silver Eyes fills her with an overpowering fear and reopens old wounds from trauma that have never properly healed; which is VERY similar in the psychological affect Jon’s has on his victims when he Beholds them) they’re both direct enemies/opposites to the Dark that expose their enemies/victims true nature and destroying them in the process at times. Only one feeds on fear and the trauma of others while the other feeds off of hope and love (Gerard says there’s no such thing as an avatar of hope and love, clearly he’s never heard of Ruby). 

But nope! The fear and nature of the Beholding just doesn’t really match with Ruby at all. She isn’t driven by a need of knowledge, nor does she fear being watched, followed or having her secrets exposed. The End though? Death itself? Ruby outright states that’s her biggest fear in volume 5 to Oscar “It doesn’t matter if you’re standing in Salem’s way or not. She’ll kill anyone. And that, scares me most of all” to me Ruby’s fear of death itself is projected onto Salem here, I think. It’s uncaring, unstoppable, it doesn’t discriminate, and it could come for the people she cares about at any time. What matters though is the context she says this is in explaining her motives to Oscar. Her whole life has been shaped by her inability to process death, her relationship with grief, all starting with the tragic and abrupt death of her mother Summer as a child. She’s also surrounded by a lot of death motif too, the hooded cape, mostly wearing black, the giant grim reaper scythe. She’s the End. 

Of course, her being an Avatar of the End means having to imagine the worst version of Ruby, one that is fully consumed by that fear. Avatars of the End are not malicious or destructive in nature but instead are… very apathetic. They don’t need to seek out victims to feed off of, nor do they have a ritual, because the End comes for all. And that fits with what Ruby would be like if that fear fully consumed her. It’s more or less established in vol6 during the apathy arc when she tries so hard to fight against their influence and how horrified she is when everyone around her falls prey to it. Giving up, not caring, accepting the inevitable demise of everyone and yourself? Ruby was terrified of that. And when looking at the vol8 opening where we see Ruby being dragged down by what looks like the arms of the apathy? She fights the hardest against it because it’s what she’s most afraid of, but because of her inability to process her grief properly is ultimately what will make her the most vulnerable to it when she’s pushed to her limit. All Salem needs to do to break Ruby is to remind her of Summer’s death. Not even what actually happened to her or how she died, just the death itself. Hell, the first time we see Ruby in the Red trailer, she’s at her mother’s grave, the first verse in Red like Roses that’s about Ruby “Red like Roses fills my dreams and brings me to the place you rest” in which we come to understand that the “Red like roses” lyrics in both part one and two of the song is referring to Summer’s abrupt death which Ruby apparently dreams about, which brings to mind Oliver Banks, our most prominent Avatar of the End, whose first statement to The Magnus Institute in 011 (underneath the fake alias of “Antonio Blake”) is concerning how he started dreaming about the deaths of others, which he didn’t begin to take seriously- until it was his father that he saw in his dream. Upon which Oliver realised how terrifying death really was and that fear began to consume him. 

Okay I’ve probably gone off long enough about this but yeah. Ruby is the End. I mean, she also just got a song in the v7 soundtrack called Until the End 

Weiss Schnee: The Lonely. The fear of isolation, of being completely cut off and alone or disconnected from the rest of society. I don’t really have to go too deeply into this one. It’s pretty cut and dry. “The loneliest of all”? And the Schnees basically are the Lukas family. Actually thinking about it the Lukas’ are actually somewhat better? They were the only ones in the whole of TMA that understood to raise a child to be an heir/avatar of their fear they needed room to reject it or actively choose it, even if that had an 80% success rate. Both are still awful though. (Damn, I can’t believe Jaques is an actively worse parent than an eldritch fear avatar)

When Weiss comes back to Atlas in v4 she’s more aware of her loneliness than ever, feels more aware of how she and atlas high society as a whole is disconnected from the rest of the world and its struggles. Whitley commenting on her being in her room for months implies she’s purposefully been isolating herself during this time as well, in order to avoid her family members “A pleasure to see you out of your room for a change” (sidenote; the fact that whenever Whitley shows up it always catches Weiss off guard, like she didn’t even notice his presence until he wanted her too. That’s. That’s a BIG Lonely thing. Given Peter’s siblings eventually ran away and he was the only heir I can imagine Peter being what Whitley would end up like if no one intervenes)

I’d say they might also be an possibility of the Stranger due to her struggling to find her own identity and inability to recognise oneself, but that can be an aspect of the Lonely too, as we see when Martin is in a house that is a domain of the Lonely in s5, and is unable to recognise himself in the mirror or recall who he is.

What I do have to say about this is it’s pretty interesting considering at this point in the show Weiss’ relationship with loneliness is actually somewhat healthy and something she can use to relate to and help others. She understands other people’s loneliness, that Blake in v5 needed space and in time she’d come back, and Weiss would be ready to be there for her when she did. And she also understands Yang’s loneliness in the same volume and that she needed someone there to support her.

“But you’re right. I don’t know loneliness like you do. I have my own version. And I bet  Blake has her own version too.” 

Speaking of Blake…

 Blake Belladonna: The Stranger, I Do Not Know You. The fear that you cannot trust the perception of yourself or of others. The creeping sense that something isn’t right. I considered the Spiral, but the Stranger and the Spiral overlap more than any other two entities so I’m just gonna go with the Stranger. Especially with her semblance being a metaphor for disassociation, a coping mechanism for the abuse and gaslighting from her relationship with Adam being kind of the biggest thing here, since the Stranger and Spiral deal with that a lot. She literally creates false copies of herself, shadow clones which she uses to feint, distract and evade. As well as statues/mannequins when dust is involved, which the Stranger is known for manifesting. Her fighting style centres around misdirection, stealth and fooling people’s senses. She also used to be part of the White Fang, known within Sienna and Adam’s faction to wear the masks of monsters, appearing anonymous. And she literally disguises her identity as a Faunus in order to escape the White Fang and enroll at Beacon. Blake at first was hesitant to trust and rely on the others in the earlier volumes, to let her guard down, and when she finally did, the worst happened and her fears were proven right. In s2 Jonathan becomes more paranoid due to being marked and in close daily proximity to the Stranger (as Not-Sasha), much like how Blake in v2 becomes far more paranoid and less trusting of her team. She also does seek knowledge or answers even at the cost of her wellbeing, which is an Eye thing, but Blake’s desire for knowledge and answers isn’t really consistent or important enough with her character and motives beyond vol2 for me personally to consider her an Avatar of it, but I do think she is Eye aligned. 

Yang Xiao Long- The Eye. The Ceaseless Watcher, It Knows You, as well as The Hunt. For the Eye, the first time we see Yang is her trying to find information on her mother, and we see Raven in bird form at the beginning too, as she has followed Yang her whole life, never actually interacting or doing anything for her, just… watching her. We learn in vol2 that her search for answers surrounding her mother has been a part of her entire life, almost overwhelmingly so to the point where in her childhood she and Ruby nearly lost their lives to the Grimm when she decided to journey to a shack in the woods she thought would lead to clues in finding her mother. She is adamant because of that experience to never let her need for the truth and answers control her, but it is a need that is always there. When she finally meets Raven, she’s encouraged to “start questioning everything she knows” which, she does. Questioning and knowledge is a big part of Yang’s character, even now. She’s the one who questions Ozpin the most, as well as Raven herself, and in the recent volumes is the one who challenges and questions Ruby’s leadership the most. There’s also a moment in vol7 of her drawing parallels between herself and Robyn and relating to her when she says “I won’t stop until I find out the truth” Her being the one to take the relic of knowledge is hugely significant in this too, especially given the context that she acquires it right after confronting her mother, getting the answers she’s searched for her whole life, holding an artefact possessing infinite knowledge, and she sinks to her knees and cries because there is no sense of closure, that anything is better because of her knowing who and what her mother is, and that her choosing this path might have cost her ever having a relationship with Raven (which is more Raven’s fault of course, and Yang knows that, but that’s not how she’s feeling at that exact moment). 

For the Hunt, this one’s a bit simpler. The thrill seeker aspect to Yang’s character and motives in becoming a huntress and enjoying the chase and fighting in of itself. There’s another element in that as most Avatars of the Hunt start out as monster hunters who then develop the need to hunt and kill monsters, and gradually what qualifies as “monster” starts to blur more and more as they become consumed by the need and thrill of the chase and hunt itself. I bring this up because in vol3 Blake draws parallels between Yang and Adam after she is disqualified for attacking and injuring Mercury, worries with how familiar this all feels and that Yang might turn out the same as him (and just for the record Adam is a full blown Avatar of the Hunt, and the Slaughter too most like) 

 “I had someone very dear to me change. It wasn’t in an instant, it was gradual. Little choices that began to pile up. He told me not to worry. At first they were accidents, then it was self-defence. Before long, even I began to think he was right. This is all just… very familiar.” What Blake describes is… kind of similar to Basira’s relationship with Daisy with how Daisy, an Avatar of the Hunt, would justify to Basira and explain away how the violence and murders she committed as being for the greater good. 

Also just one more, because I have to

 Pyrrha Nikos: WebwebWEBWEB. Hoo boi Pyrrha is the Webbiest of Web Avatars as they come. Her whole character’s themes surrounding destiny, control and agency, feeling like her whole life had been decided for her, the fact she’d been blessed with incredible talents and opportunities meant she was supposed to be a huntress, the fact her talent as a world champion meant she was placed on a pedestal without her realising, becoming separate from the people who placed her there in the first place, that Ozpin and his inner circle tell her she has been chosen as the next Fall Maiden, but the method in which she must become so might result in the loss of her identity, that though they ultimately leave the choice to her do pressure and manipulate her into it. The idea of destiny being a predetermined fate you can’t escape is Pyrrha’s greatest fear, and rejects that idea in that she will not let her life be manipulated but will be the one to take control it instead, which is manifested in her having a semblance that she uses to subtly control and manipulate her surroundings. As Cinder puts it, “People assume she’s fated for victory when really she’s really taken fate into her own hands”.  

[angstyaches]

The Demon You Know

CW: repressed childhood memories, childhood trauma, drowning, detachment, child with depression (?), anxiety, nausea, pain, angst.

It gets a little abstract because my brain’s been in a funny place lately. Hopefully it makes sense, but if it’s not clear, pleeease tell me. 

Swallow the World: The Ouija Board Pt.11

The headache came on so suddenly that he knew it must have been Rin arriving at the house, Ouija board in tow. Charlie grunted and hoisted himself up from the sofa, wincing and holding one hand to his temple, one to his stomach, willing it to stay settled through the pain. His dad had made pancakes for dinner before he and Charlie’s mum had taken off again for the new house, and he had no desire to see them again, splattered across the coffee table.

Days had passed since Charlie had seen Shayne, and he honestly wasn’t sure that he wanted to anymore. Ingrid and Trevor had returned for a few days, and had seemed determined to keep him occupied with movies and drives and takeaway food. Charlie couldn’t tell if they had sensed he was upset about something, or if they were buttering him up for more bad news. He’d accepted their attention with as much gratitude and as many smiles as he could muster, which was plenty. He was used to making himself appear happy, because it made them happy. And in turn, he felt a little less guilty for being a weight on their marriage, their lives, their plans. He also knew that, soon enough, he’d be as distant from both of them as Jonathan already was from their dad.

Charlie went to open the front door, wondering why he’d heard Rin’s car’s engine stop a few minutes ago, with no sign of her coming to the door.

Rin looked up as she walked from her car to the doorway. Her hair was in two buns, her neck wrapped in a thick scarf. The package under her arm made Charlie want to recoil from the doorway, but he held his ground, trying not to let his panic show on his face as his gaze fell upon a second figure, who was a few steps behind Rin.

He somehow looked worse than the last time Charlie had seen him, and this did nothing to help the sense of dread piling itself onto Charlie’s headache.

“Hi,” Charlie said to Rin, reaching out an arm for a hug as she approached, holding the package out to the side so it wouldn’t touch him. He squeezed his eyes shut, digging his head, maybe a little too harshly, against her shoulder.

“You alright, Charlie Bear?” she whispered.

“Mmhmm, I’m fine, Rin, I just…” He trailed off, words disappearing and leaving only a sour taste on his tongue.

Rin nodded in understanding and tickled at his back.

“How are – how are you?” he asked as he pulled back, standing out of the way so she could come into the hallway.

“Oh, you know,” she sighed. She glanced down at the package under her arm, pulling it out and holding it flat across both her hands. “At least things never stay boring around here for too long, right?”

Charlie hummed in agreement and gestured for her to go through to the front room, where he’d set the coffee table up in the centre of the floor with sofa cushions on either side. She half-smiled at him before carrying the board to the table.

He glanced back towards the driveway. Shayne was hesitating by the steps, like he still hadn’t decided if he was going to come in or not. He looked down and kicked lightly at the gravel with the toe of his boot.

“Waiting for me to –?” Charlie pressed a hand to his head as a spike of pain rippled above his left eye. Well, I’m sorry, but what do you expect? “Waiting for me to invite you over the threshold?”

“I – I was in the forest, and I heard Rin’s car,” Shayne mumbled as he walked past Charlie. “An invite might have been nice –”

“Yeah, except you don’t look at your phone, and you’ve forbidden any of us from coming to your house.”

Shayne scoffed and sat himself next to Rin, eyes glazing over slightly as he watched her starting to set up the board. 

“Come on, Charlie Bear,” Rin called out. “Let’s get started.”

 ___

h-e-l-e-a-v-e-s

Charlie met Rin’s gaze across the table, and she met his. This was the first thing they’d managed to wrangle out of the board since they’d started.

“Was that you?” Rin whispered as the planchet stopped moving beneath their respective fingertips.

“N-no,” Charlie said, cold fear traveling through his bones. He - he certainly hadn’t felt himself directing the little token over those letters. He was still reeling with relief that, after the first three letters, it hadn’t gone on to simply spell the word “hell” as he’d feared for a moment.

“Shayne?” Rin asked.

Shayne gave her a dull look. “Why would I bother?”

Ignoring the remark, Rin looked at Charlie again. “’He leaves’. Does – does it mean you, Charlie? The demon doesn’t want you living here, in this house?”

Charlie slowly shook his head. That didn’t make any sense, did it? Charlie Two had seemingly been with him for a long time, before his parents had bought the Mulberry house.

“It means me.”

Nausea tugged at Charlie’s gut as one finger left the planchet. Shayne let out a huff before getting to his feet.

“Wait, I don’t even know if you can –” Rin drew a deep breath and sighed at having someone leave the board unexpectedly. “Are you sure that’s what it means?”

“Of course.” Shayne winced slightly, his hand almost reaching for his stomach before he stopped it. “Why walk yourself into the shark’s jaw, right?”

“Come on, babe,” Rin chided softly, “don’t take it like that.”

“Like what, Rin? Like I’m a big, black hole that people and demons alike cower away from?”

“Shayne, hang on.” Charlie’s voice was low from the quivering sadness in his chest. He desperately wanted to abandon the Ouija board and go to Shayne, but something in his bones was keeping him from moving. “This whole week, I – I want to just forget about it, okay? Everything you said, and – and what happened with us, I’m – I’m sorry.”

“That’s the problem, Charlie.” Shayne paused and turned in the doorway to the front hall. His hand went towards his stomach again, and he didn’t stop it this time. “Half of you is terrified of me, and the other half is just fucking sorry for me.”

The threat of bursting into tears was too overwhelming by now, and the pain in Charlie’s skull was almost blinding. He was impressed that he’d managed to stay sitting upright this long. He looked down at his lap, coloured spots dancing in his vision. “Alright, then. Go.”

Shayne muttered something that was halfway between a “yeah” and an “mmhmm”. Charlie couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his chest as he heard him leave through the front door.

“Hey,” Rin whispered, squeezing his arm with her free hand. “This is working, Charlie, aren’t you excited?”

“I love him, Rin.”

Her hand dropped away. “I know, Charlie Bear,” she sighed.

Swallowing thickly, Charlie lowered his head and let out a choked sob. It was as though the words had been living in his chest for quite some time, and now that they were out, he was left a little hollow.

“Let’s just get through this. We can chat after, okay? Charlie”

The next time Charlie attempted to blink or lift his head, his muscles resisted him. He wanted to say something, anything, but his lips were - they were so cold, and his lungs couldn’t draw enough air -

“Charlie?” Rin gave Charlie’s arm a shake. 

“The b-b-beach,” Charlie whispered, through it felt like his lips were hanging too far from his mouth, unable to form the words correctly. “Are we at the beach again?”

“The beach?” Rin repeated. “What are you talking about, Charlie Bear? You’re in the Mulberry house with me. Rin.”

Charlie finally completed a single blink, and tears fell from his eyelashes. He couldn’t stop the trembling that travelled down his arms and into his fingertips. He felt like he was about to fall through the floor, only being anchored in place by the finger he had on the planchet. It felt as though he would disappear if he let go.

“M-M-Mum,” he sobbed out suddenly, pain shooting from his head all the way to his heart. “Where’d you – where did everyone go?”

“Charlie, listen to me,” Rin sputtered. “You’re here with me. With Rin?”

Charlie One had known hearts could break. He’d known they could be stolen. Hell, he’d had those things happen to him, so he knew what they should have felt like. But he’d never imagined hearts could be chopped in half and separated like slabs of meat on a butcher’s table.

“Th-th-they don’t w-w-want me,” Charlie stammered. “They never wanted me.”

The pain was physically agonising, yet his body felt too numb to react to it.

“Where did you go?” he mumbled, searching for something inside himself that he couldn’t quite visualise. “Do you not want me anymore either?”

The last thing he heard was Rin’s horrified scream as his eyeballs rolled back in his head, his body swaying in its last seconds of remaining upright, before he collapsed against the floor.

___

Charlie ran barefoot across the sand, leaving tiny footprints behind in the sunshine. The tuneless squawking of seagulls and the rushing of the waves overwhelmed his senses. He didn’t understand it. His cousins loved the beach, and they’d all been giggling and splashing one another in the water, but not Charlie. Charlie didn’t like it. Charlie wanted his mummy. He was breathing calmly because he knew he’d find her. He just needed to find the bright blue screen that they’d set up around their towels and the portable barbeque. It was all here somewhere, a little, temporary oasis of domesticity in the chaos of screaming children and screaming birds.

Finally, there it was. All of the noise and the brightness seemed softer, easier to cope with, once a hug from his mummy was within his sights. He slowed his pace as he got closer, finally able to hear her voice as she chatted happily with her sisters.

“– didn’t want to at the time,” she was saying to his auntie, “but it was my decision to make, Tina. Charlie might be an accident, but ending a baby’s life was just not something I was prepared to do. You have to understand that? I’d never have been able to live with myself, and every day since, I’ve made that same decision over and over again...”

Charlie felt like the sand was going to swallow his feet. He started running again, thinking if he kept moving, it couldn’t take him. He’d just keep moving, never sticking, never ever thinking...

___

Charlie One gasped and blinked, the image of that white face in the dark cave replaced by the same white face in the front room of the Mulberry house. It leaned across the Ouija board, a long, dark digit resting on the planchet. The demon peered down at him as he lay motionless on the floor, deaf and numb to Rin’s desperate attempts to rouse him.

You’re here, he thought.

“Always,” Charlie Two said, and Charlie One detected a smile lingering beyond the unmoving jaw of their skull.

 ___

Charlie ran barefoot across the jagged rocks, not really thinking about where he was going but knowing he didn’t want to turn around. It was like something dark and sticky was chasing him and somehow he knew it wouldn’t follow him into the caverns.

It grew so dark so quickly that he began to slow down, no longer able to see which rocks he needed to step over. When he fell, he didn’t see how far he dropped, or how many sharp rocks he landed on; he just knew that it hurt, and he was gasping too much to cry out for help. Who would even find him in here, anyway? Who would even care, who would want him enough to come and help him?

The ground cut his feet. He knocked his head against rocks jutting out from the cave walls, because he couldn’t see them. Eventually, he turned his head and could no longer see anything but a sliver of sea, a sliver of sky. The cries of the birds and the drone of human activity didn’t reach this place. It was as if he didn’t exist in the same world he’d been in just minutes before.

“Are you okay?”

Fingers reached out in the dark and scared the boy so much that he began to run again. The creature to whom the fingers belonged should have known better, would have if they had been thinking clearer. For they knew of the small plunge pool just ahead, and the small child did not.

Charlie screamed as the ground - painful as it was to run on barefoot - dropped away, and water swallowed him up. He gulped, and he screamed, and he gulped, and it felt as though he’d be screaming and gulping endlessly for the rest of his life, without relief, without end, because who, who would come to save him?

“Stop crying. I’m here now.”

Charlie didn’t know where the air had suddenly come from, but he gasped it gratefully into his lungs, small hands clutching at the thing that anchored him to the rocks, to the world, to himself. He didn’t know where the words floated up from, but he gained control of his wet coughing long enough to ask; “Will you s-stay with me, please?”

The demon embraced the child, too weak to deny such a simple request, so simply asked. “Always.”

[madpanda75]

“Taking Chances Part 5: Busted”

Find out what happens when Sonny walks in on the reader and Rafael mid-coitus...cause what could be more embarrassing 😳 Also you’ll get some of Sonny’s perspective in this chapter.

Thanks for all the amazing feedback! If anyone wants to be added to my tag list, let me know ❤️

Sonny whistled a tune as he walked down the hallway towards your apartment. The law book. The pancakes. It was all a ruse. You had been avoiding your big brother for weeks. Further confirmed by the fact that you didn’t respond to his text the night before. Something was off and Sonny wanted to find out what it was.

Did he feel guilty about checking up on you? Of course he did, but you were his baby sister. It was only natural for him to be worried and he actually did leave his immigration law book at your apartment. So technically, he did have a valid reason for stopping by. At least that was what he kept telling himself.

While walking Sonny bumped into your neighbors just as they were leaving their home. “Hey...uh…Sandra and Tom, right? It’s Sonny Carisi. I’m just stoppin’ by to check on Y/N.”

Sandra scoffed and shook her head. “Hope you brought your ear plugs.”

Sonny knitted his eyebrows in confusion. “Ear plugs?”

“Good luck, pal.” Tom patted Sonny on the shoulder and left to catch up with his wife.

Sonny glanced between your neighbors and the front door of your home. He could hear the faint sound of music playing inside. Taking out his spare key, he opened your door and stepped inside. “Hello?” He called out, but there was no answer. Sonny assumed you were painting. You always played music whenever you were working on a piece, completely lost in your own creative little universe.

As he headed down the foyer, a wave of relief washed over him. Everything was fine. You were probably busy with the gallery and your art. He was just overreacting. Working at SVU, it was hard not to assume the worst. Unfortunately, the detective was reminded of what happened to people who make assumptions when he turned the corner.

Sonny froze in his tracks, shocked at the scene he was witnessing. There you were laying on a table with your back arched, moaning loudly while a dark-haired man’s head was between your legs. His sweet precious baby sister who would beg him to play Pretty Pretty Princess over and over again; who used to sing in the youth choir at St. Thomas. The teeniest feather could’ve knocked him over in that moment.

“Y/N?!” He exclaimed.

Upon hearing your name, you turned your head. “Sonny!” You screamed and immediately tried to cover yourself.

Sonny was horrified. It was like witnessing a car crash. The most horrific carnage-filled car crash. He silently prayed to God for a sudden bout of hysterical blindness. Although even with his eyes shut, the images he had just seen would forever be seared into his brain. He was going to need trauma counseling and wondered if perhaps his boss’s therapist was available.

Just when Sonny thought it couldn’t get any worse, the head of a certain sharp-tongue, sassy, snarky ADA popped up like some sick version of Whack-A-Mole. The man in question looked almost as stunned as the blue-eyed detective. “Carisi,” Rafael softly said and wiped his chin and lips—which were coated in your arousal.

When Sonny saw Rafael, everything suddenly clicked into place—the recent tardiness, the perfume. It was you. You were the mysterious hook-up the squad had been teasing Rafael about. Sonny choked back the bile rising in his throat and then he saw red. Fury flashed before his eyes. His fists shook with rage. Never in his life had he wanted to hit someone so much as he did right then. “RAFAEL?!” He boomed and dropped his bag of groceries. “What the fuck is goin’ on here?!”

You hopped off the table, quickly picking Rafael’s sweater up off the floor and putting it on.“Sonny?! Get OUT!” You shouted in a shrill voice and stomped your foot like a petulant child.

“Seriously, Y/N?! On Nonna’s table!” Sonny ran a hand through his hair, his eyes were wild.

Rafael cautiously took a step closer, not wanting you to catch all the heat from your big brother. After all it took two to tango and to be fair, he could understand why Carisi was upset. This certainly was not what Rafael had in mind when he wanted to break the news that you and him were dating. “Carisi, I can explain,” he calmly said.

“Explain my ass.” Sonny marched up to Rafael and got right in his face, prodding the ADA in the chest. “That’s my baby sister you’re defiling on a family heirloom,” he growled.

You moved in between the two men, recognizing by the tone in his voice that Rafael was seconds away from getting punched in the face by your brother. “Sonny, calm down.”

“And you!” Sonny looked you up and down while shaking his head in disapproval. “Is this why you’ve been so busy? Cause you’re more interested in fucking some guy than spending time with your own family?”

You drew a sharp intake of breath at his harsh words. Your brother had never spoken to you like that before. You couldn’t help but feel embarrassed, wanting the floor to swallow you up whole.

Rafael saw the hurt in your eyes and something inside him snapped. Before his brain could even process what his body was doing, he pulled his fist back and punched Sonny square in the nose.

“Oh my God!” You stood there with your jaw dropped open, completely stunned—at Sonny, at Rafael, and at Rafael’s fist colliding with Sonny’s face.

Sonny doubled over and pinched the bridge of his nose, tears welling up in his eyes. “My nose!”

“Don’t you dare speak to her like that,” Rafael snarled and clutched his fist, trying to flex his fingers, his knuckles red and swollen. “Fuck, my hand!”

The two men groaned in excruciating pain. You glanced between them, not entirely sure who to go to first, your boyfriend or your brother. “Wow, Ma was right,” you mumbled to yourself. “Men really are just overgrown children.”

Sonny glared at Rafael, his nose bleeding profusely and began to lunge at him with his fist in the air ready to counter-attack. Thankfully, you were prepared this time and jumped in between them both with your arms outstretched, palms pressing against each of their chests as you pushed them off each other.

“STOP IT! BOTH OF YOU!” You turned and pointed to Rafael. “You sit DOWN and don’t move. I’ll be right back.” Rafael immediately followed your orders, kind of turned on by your dominant side shining through, but now was not the time to tell you that.

You then turned to your brother. “You. Bathroom. NOW!” Sonny wouldn’t budge, muttering to himself in Italian as he tried to wipe the blood off his nose. “NOW!” You smacked him upside the head.

“Ow! Ok, I’m goin’! I’m goin!’” He held his hands up in surrender and headed down the hallway.

“Put those long limbs of yours to good use and walk a little faster then!” You said, hot on his heels.

Rafael could hear you both bickering all the way to the bathroom, your normally non-existent Staten Island accent coming out in full force. It was strange. He had never really noticed a family resemblance between you and Sonny until now.

*****

Sonny sat on the edge of your tub, nursing his swollen, tender nose. To stop the bleeding, you split a tampon in half and shoved each part up his nostrils. It wasn’t broken, but bruising was already beginning to form. He was gonna have a great time trying to explain two black eyes and a bashed-in nose to the squad on Monday morning. Who knew Rafael had such a killer right hook?

You walked into the bathroom—now dressed in your own clothes—and silently handed him a bag of frozen corn. In order to keep the peace, you had to put Sonny and Rafael in timeout. If it worked for your nieces and nephews, it would certainly work for your brother and your boyfriend.

“Thanks,” he muttered and held the frozen vegetables up to his face, wincing in pain. “Where’s Barba?”

“Still sitting at the table with his hand under a bag of frozen peas. You both owe me for groceries by the way.” You stood there, studying the tiled floor in silence before clearing your throat. “I better go check on Rafael.”

Just as you were about to leave, Sonny took hold of your hand. “Y/N, wait a sec, will ya’?”

You pulled out of his grasp and turned to face him, crossing your arms. “What is it?”

Sonny sighed and looked up at you with black eyes and a bloody nose. “I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I shoulda’ never said that. It’s just when I saw you and Barba. I freaked out. Please forgive me.”

You mulled over his apology for a moment, worrying your bottom lip. “I forgive you,” you replied before punching him hard in the left shoulder. Rafael had nothing on you. Over the years, your brother had done a stellar job teaching you how to fight. You may have been the creative, sensitive artist, but you could also quit your day job and become an MMA cage fighter if you wanted to.

“Ow! Jeezus!” He hissed in pain. “What was that for? I said I was sorry!”

“Rafael got a hit in and now it’s my turn.” You clutched your brother by the collar. “Don’t ever speak to me like that again or I’ll do worse. I’m a grown-ass woman and this is my home. My boyfriend can eat me out cafeteria-style and make me cum until I scream if I want him to!”

“Oh God! I didn’t need to hear that! Please do me a favor. Take somethin’ sharp and pointy and gouge out my eyeballs and puncture my eardrums, will ya’? Haven’t I been punished enough?” He groaned.

“For barging into my home and embarrassing me in front of Rafael? No, you haven’t.” You let go of Sonny’s shirt and sat down next to him, taking the bag of frozen corn and bringing it back up to his face. Your expression softened a bit. You loved Sonny with all your heart. His recent outburst aside, he was the best big brother a girl could ask for. “I shoulda never given you a spare key.”

“How did you two even meet?” He asked.

You shrugged. “He stopped by the gallery one day and then I ran into him again that night you and I were supposed to get dinner. The rest is history.” You softly smiled, thinking back to that first embarrassing encounter with Rafael and everything that followed. That first drink. That first kiss. Reflecting back on this past month, you realized that slowly but surely Rafael had changed your life for the better. “Guess you kinda had a part to play in all this. If it wasn’t for you cancelling on me. We may have never gotten together.”

Sonny pushed your hand away from his face. “Don’t say that. I don’t want to be responsible for this.” He sadly shook his head and got up. “I better get goin’.”

“Sonny, wait!” You followed him out of the bathroom and down the hallway.

He ignored you, tossing the bag of frozen corn on the table where Rafael was still sitting, flipping through Sonny’s immigration law book.

“Here’s your book,” Rafael said, handing it over.

“Thanks,” he sneered and snatched the book out of Rafael’s hands before heading to the door.

“Carisi!” Rafael called out.

Sonny whipped around to find the ADA right behind him. “What?”

“You have a tampon up your nose,” Rafael coldly replied.

Sonny’s cheeks turned bright red. He pulled the tampon out of his nostrils and tossed it on the ground before leaving.

You flinched when you heard the door slam and crept up beside Rafael. Wrapping his arms around you, he kissed the top of your head and sighed. “I hate to say it, but I knew we should’ve told him earlier.”

@glimmerglittergirl​ @southern-magnolia​ @sweetcannolicarisi​ @delia26​ @obfuscateyummy​ @sass-and-suspenders​ @eclecticminded​ @thatesqcrush​ @katmstanton​ @amirightcounsellor​ @beltzboys2015-blog​ @letty-o​ @sonnysdoll​ @lyssa1385​ @sweetsummertime99​ @burningsorr0ws​ @gibbs274​ @izzythefanfreak​ @riodallas​ @babypink224221​ @livxrafa​ @esparza-army​ @obsessionprofessional​ @ottosuricato​ @melsquared79​ @dreila03​ @frenchiefoxy​ @tropes-and-tales��� @thecraziestcrayon​ @goodluckfindingone​ @scarlettsoldier​ @amirightcounselor​ @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii​ @graniairish​ @ashley-chi​ @imjustreallynosy​ @lolacolaempath 

[in-tua-deep]

Hi! Ok so I'm totally taking you up on your offer and gonna send in some stuff! So, I did a rewatch recently and took a few notes (mostly following 5 bc his concept and interactions are just so fascinating to me) and I noticed some stuff! 1] none if the kids have practically ANY physical interaction unless it's a fight or Allison and Vanya. Idk about you, but to me, that implies an oddly formal relationship even tho they're family and makes 5 and the handler that much stranger (1/?)

(2/?) And gives it that much of a contrast. I think someone on here counted that she touches him like 20 times or something? Idk BUT 2) there is such a clear divide between the “older” and “younger” siblings bar Diego and Klaus that it almost feels like 2 different families at times and it’s really interesting! 3) only 3 siblings have canon PTSD flashbacks/visions if we exclude Vanya during her breakdown: 5 and Klaus obviously, but also Allison, which is really interesting and plays into how

(3/3) Her growth bc of Claire. 4) 5 had to see his dead siblings, we know this, but he was also the one holding the cloth over Allison’s neck when Vanya attacked her, which is a horrifying detail but I love it. 5) there were 2 extra seats at the dining table in the flashback of all the kids! It’s probably not important, but with the shows attention to detail I can’t help but wonder. Also I’m sorry I just completely dumped on you but I wanted to know your thoughts 😅😅 that and I love your metas

yeAH my sister pointed out to me at one point that the Hargreeves familiarity with violence was alarming in that a lot of their physical interactions with one another were… violent. Diego fighting with Luther at the funeral. Klaus smacking Five across the face at the eyeball place. Luther choking Klaus. Luther choking Vanya. Ben punching Klaus. Like genuinely a concerning amount of their interactions with one another involve some form of violence oof and none of them really apologize for any of it either. It’s accepted and made to seem almost normal which says all manner of bad things about their family dynamic rip

BUT they also have interactions I feel are at odds with that - Vanya taking care of Five’s arm, Diego tying up Klaus to detox, Klaus attempting to comfort Luther even after literally just being smacked around by him, Diego with Klaus at the vet bar, Klaus and Five’s conversation on the steps of MeriTech where Five tells Klaus about Dolores - just these soft in between moments where they look after or confide in one another

and all of those moments are private, they’re one on one whereas in a group they tend to fight and put up walls and argue which says to me that collectively the family wasn’t allowed to show weakness (thanks Reggie) and so they fight in order to protect their weak points before anyone can attack them

there’s like, the four A’s of how people handle conflict and one of those is aggression. It’s attacking because you feel like if you aren’t on the attack then you’re the one being attacked. It’s raising your voice and being the aggressor and starting conflict because you’re trying to protect yourself, because you’ve learned that it’s kill-or-be-killed and if you aren’t on the offense then you’re being hurt (i know there’s avoid and appease and i can’t remember the other one off the top of my head whoops)

so what i’m saying is that when there’s witnesses, when there’s a group, they’re on the offensive from the start. But alone, there’s a little more wiggle room for weakness. Alone is at night when there’s no training left in the relative safety of their own rooms. Alone with one other person is private, and privacy is safety in a house like that.

So there’s this paradoxical roughness and softness with one another, they were in competition with each other no doubt but they’re also family. Reginald pitted them against one another, but there’s no possible way to keep walls up ALL the time, you know?

but yeah i have a lot of feelings about the kids interactions with one another to say the least u picked a topic i like to ramble about as is clear from all this text and i didn’t even talk about the handler and how i feel like her touch was with the primary motivation to make Five uncomfortable and to punish him for his rebellion

okay there is more to this ask and this response is going to get so long I can already tell sorry in advance

and yeah the divide between the siblings with ‘older’ and ‘younger’ siblings is interesting!! Luther-Diego-Allison are one-two-three and are sort of purposefully portrayed as the older siblings. I definitely think Luther and Allison were off in their own little world as kids and they were definitely the golden children, the good kids, the ones who didn’t really question their father and avoided a lot of punishments. They were set apart from the rest of the family - and I think a lot of that was on purpose.

Because Reginald Hargreeves pitted these children against one another, in a move that honestly was smart even as it speaks to the fact that he’s a horrifying human being: because if there is discord among the ranks and rivalries and pettiness then the kids aren’t banding together against the true threat in the household - they’re going at one another’s throats instead of Reginald’s. The rivalry between Luther and Diego is probably the clearest portrayed tbh but Five was clearly also held up as someone to beat, someone who was competition (”he ADAPTED”)

so it’s almost like there are three groups really - the ‘good’ kids, the middle kids, and the disappointments. You have Luther and Allison at the top, Diego and Five and maybe Ben in the middle (and Five is only in there because he’s too headstrong, too willful to be at the top because Reggie doesn’t appreciate those that can think for themselves), and then you have Klaus and Vanya way down at the bottom. And there’s crossover relationships between the tiers (Diego and Luther’s rivalry, Five and Vanya’s solidarity, Klaus and Ben being bros etc.) but they were divided up on purpose tbh

alright moving on i could yell about how reginald fucked up a bunch of perfectly good kids all day lmao but

Allison is such an interesting character in general??? like she’s not even in my top three for the show but damn if tua doesn’t have some seriously interesting characters in the show hot damn like her journey from petulant and manipulative child familiar and comfortable with violence to an adult trying desperately to piece her family back together and prove to herself that she can be the good mother she desperately wants to be to Claire

i feel like i yell an awful lot about luther and allison for someone who has them towards the bottom of their list of favs tbh whoops

also GOD how dare you remind me of Five’s Extra Trauma regarding that scene holy heck like is wasn’t enough he had to find his siblings dead bodies in the apocalypse he also has to press his hands to his sister’s throat and literally see the life fade from her eyes as they rush to save her?? like shit man and that’s a concept that i haven’t seen anyone really do anything about as well like actually @ authors who aren’t me bc i have a dozen other aus to write on top of my various ideas, someone please address this

also do you think that’s the reason that Five initially agrees to killing Vanya at the bowling alley?? because he’s thinking about Allison’s blood hot against his hands and he missed the entirety of the apology/Vanya freaking out scene???? I mean even though I yell about Five’s motivation being his family I don’t think it was out of character for him to turn on Vanya because in his mind stopping the apocalypse has become so entwined with saving his family that they might as well be the same goal

if it helps though i don’t think five would ever actually kill Vanya even if he did okay the plan like look the boy could have jumped behind vanya himself and snapped her neck like did you WATCH the fight scene in Griddy’s holy shit but he does Not do that because he doesn’t want his sister to die and he especially doesn’t want to be the one to kill her and that’s the tea on that

alright where was i

HMMM i dunno if there was any significance to the bigass table other that i mean,, technically there are two other family members?? There’s Grace and Pogo if you count them, but i mean otherwise I think it’s just a feature of a mansion to have a bigass dining room table that can’t possibly fit the entire family

so maybe it was a statement about Reginald not considering Grace and Pogo to be members of the family and excluding them

or maybe it’s just a rich people table lmao

but i really enjoyed all your thoughts and observations 10/10 feels free to yell at me again ;3c

I will admit that i’m a bit of sham because i’ve only seen the series like,, one and a half times?? like once all the way through and then watching the first few episodes again and then jumping around the random points to fact check or other things oops but i do plan on rewatching sometime when i actually have free time to spare!! only a few weeks until the end of the school year oof

[iloveurscratchybeard]

Snow in September

Today’s Advent calendar fic prompt was “Snowman” and I felt like I needed a break from the darkness of writing Mulder’s trauma with Scully’s abduction (in the multi-chapter work I should be working on today instead). This was supposed to be a tiny little ficlet and turned out to be a bit longer. No beta.

Set sometime post-“Per Manum” but full of fluffy sweetness. Rated PG

Tagging @only-txf-fanart @today-in-fic @txf-prompt-box and anyone I’ve hurt with my recent angst.

***

"Scully, didn't you ever have snowball fights as a kid?" he asks as she sends another wad of paper into the bookcase behind the trash can, falling alongside a pile of another dozen discarded paper balls from the report she was trying to close out. He winces.

"Actually, despite all of the moving we did as a kid, we rarely lived where there was enough snow to stick during winter. We spent most of our time on the coasts."

"So no snowball fights? No sledding?" She shakes her head as he continues, "No homemade sno-cones or snow angels?" Mulder is in disbelief. He may have had a shitty childhood, but all of these things are a rite of passage.

Scully shrugs her shoulders and turns back to her report. She just wants to finish this thing up so she can start her weekend with a long, hot bath, and with all of Mulder's jabbering, she can't seem to string a full sentence together.

A minute later, she's startled by his hot breath on her neck as he leans down behind her. "Scully? Have you ever built a snowman?" She lets out an exasperated sigh. "Mulder, Skinner's waiting on this. If I don't finish the report on my medical findings, we're never going to be able to go home!"

He raises his hands up and starts backing out of the room. "Okay, okay....I'll just give you a few minutes of peace and quiet so you can concentrate."  He grabs his coat and heads to the door before turning back to her at the doorway and winking. "I'll be back in a few to help you wrap things up." And he's gone.

Scully rolls her eyes and tries to gather together all the focus one can muster after a long week of cramped rental cars, shitty motels, and autopsies. What she wouldn't do for a hot meal, some cozy sweats, and a good book. Any reading that didn't involve studies of how extremely high altitudes (i.e. being in a spacecraft for days at a time) affected hemoglobin concentration sounded like a fine change of pace for her.

Thirty minutes later, Scully was finally, finally, putting the final notes on her report when she heard Mulder exit the elevator on his way back into the office. She looked up as he was rounding the corner and her jaw dropped.

"Mulder- what is that?"

In his arms was a very large styrofoam cooler. He didn't answer her, just wagged his eyebrows as he walked over to deposit it on his desk. "Finish up the report yet?" he asked casually.

"Yes-" she drew out slowly, lowering her eyebrows at him and pursing her lips as she stood to investigate what he was up to.

"Now, now, now..." he shielded his surprise from her by moving to stand in front of her,  causing her nose to briefly crash into his tie. "Sorry," he smiled and grabbed her elbows to steady her against him.

"Mulder, what are you up to?" she asked, raising on her tiptoes pointlessly to sneak a peek over his shoulders. The curiosity was getting the better of her. Even though she tried to play it cool, Mulder knew that she loved surprises.

"Now, Miss Scully, good things come to those who are patient." Another wag of his eyebrows and she hated how much he was enjoying her eagerness to get at his little surprise.

He leaned in close to her face, studying her eyes for a moment, and then reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I was thinking about what you said earlier and I - um, well, I thought we could kill two birds with a single stone. So, I ran to the store real quick and got you this." He held up a plastic bag from the corner market in his hand and waved it in front of her face.

"What's in the bag?" she quirked her right brow at him.

"Well the investigator in me suggests you open the bag and find out for yourself."

She wanted to scoff at him but was too curious, so she reached inside and procured a box of raisins and a snack mix of baby carrots. "Okay." She looked up at him in utter confusion.

"And-" he reached in his coat pocket and pulled out two twigs and what looked like a piece of rubber from a blown tire. Scully was sure Mulder had finally lost his marbles.

"I don't get it."

Mulder held up a single finger, continuing to draw out the longest reveal in history. He then reached inside his inner coat pocket, and like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat, he revealed two paper cones and a small water bottle of red liquid.

Scully was utterly and completely lost.

Mulder watched her face with entirely too much satisfaction that she hadn't figured out his plan. He set everything out in a row on his desk and then picked up a pencil in his hand and started twisting it in the air. "With the flick of my wand and the magic words....'presto magnifico- let there be snow!'" He tapped the styrofoam box twice with his pencil and then slowly lifted the lid to reveal several gallons of very finely shaved ice.

"Mulder- it's September. There is no snow."

"Ah-ha, Miss Scully. That's why it's called magic!" He lowers his voice to a whisper, "And some help from the guy that runs the Kona Ice food truck down the street."

Taking her by the shoulders, he guides her around his desk and pulls out his chair so she can take a seat. Then he flips the lid upside down on his desk and scoops several heaping piles of ice on it.

"Scully- would you like to build a snowman?"

She is in shock. "Are you serious?"

"Hell yeah, I'm serious. I brought all the components for a perfect snowman to you, M'lady. We've got raisins for eyes and a mouth, a carrot nose, twig for arms, and while there were no miniature top hats lying around, this little black piece of rubber looks awfully majestic."

Scully is in awe of the creativity of this man and the lengths he will go to make her smile. "Mulder-" she doesn't even know what to say.

"Scully, I'd start rolling if I were you because pretty soon we're not gonna have snow anymore, we're just gonna have....well, a wet and ruined desk."

For the first time all week, her heart feels light and she's smiling, really smiling. He perches on the corner of the chair beside her rolling a miniature ball for a head to accompany her larger body balls and then they layer them on top of one another. She grabs the box of raisins and pops a few eyeballs into the head while Mulder tries his best to jab a baby carrot into the center. The weight of it rolls the head right off the body and Scully snickers under her breath. She extracts the carrot from the head and brings it to her mouth, biting it directly in half before reinserting it carefully into the newly attached head. Mulder watches her mouth with amazement and then nods his approval at her methods. A few twigs and a tire fragment later, and Scully's first snowman stands before them in all of its crooked half-melty glory.

"I think he needs a name," Scully giggles.

"Hmmm....how about 'Ice Flukey'? I mean, he's kind of horrifying."

"Stop! I think he's cute."

"Oh- wait! I forgot the finishing touch!" Mulder reaches into his pants pocket and procures several sunflower seeds. He presses them gently into the snowman's body. "Buttons. Now he's styling." Then he rounds the desk to grab the remaining items from his bag of tricks. He fills the two paper cones with the remaining ice from the cooler and then opens the water bottle of mysterious red liquid and douses the top of each cone.

"Voila! Homemade sno-cones"

"Mulder- this...." her voice breaks a little. She's exhausted and her hormones still don't feel like they've equalized after the failed attempts at in-vitro. She's had the emotions of pregnancy, without the blessing of actually being pregnant. "This means a lot."

"I just wanted to give you a little something. After all you've been through lately- and..." he feels suddenly shy. "I just want you to know. There are good things, too. I mean, we spend so much time in the dark chasing after mutants and monsters, but I want you to never lose sight of that. I want you to have good things. I want you to laugh and eat sno-cones. I want to help you build a snowman, and I want... I want us to have it all." He places his hand delicately under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. "Just- tell me you won't lose hope. We can still have it all."

She's crying at his words, at the implication that he wanted the baby just as badly as she did. They struggled to talk about it, but she knew he was trying. In the thousands of little ways that were purely Mulder, he was trying to keep her dream alive.

She takes his hand and squeezes it. For the first time in weeks, she feels hope. If this man can make a snowman in September, maybe he can bring her other miracles as well.

[aeondeug]

That I think is a big part of why it’s so important to me that like the Knorth twins’ lives were awful right from the get go. I remember being kind of angry when I heard in the podcast that Jame didn’t act like a kid. And then I just kind of calmed myself down and didn’t really do anything about that and just had to think it out. Since that wasn’t the kind of mood where I could act appropriately and reasonably so it was better to sit on it and think. And I’ve had time to think it out and calm down more and express it more coherently and less in a panicked fit. And the reason I was so angry is that Jame does act like a kid when she’s a kid.

And that’s horrifying.

A kid shouldn’t have to have that sort of life and go through those sorts of things and be thinking of that sort of stuff so early but that’s just kind of the reality for a lot of kids. Like, no, I guess potatoes can’t really grow creepy eyeballs that pop into poisonous toxic goop but there are lots of kids who don’t grow up with safe food. And, no, I guess there’s no such thing as your dad actually having like spooky mind control blood but like your parents might as well have spooky mind control blood when you’re that young and weak and they’re that big and cruel.

The cartoon robot dad dying in a movie was never the worst thing in my life. The worst thing in my life was pets dying, my parents screaming at each other, my father trying to break down the door and yelling about how he’d kill my mother’s then boyfriend, my brother trying to stab me because I’d spent years as the favorite and lying to get him in trouble instead of me, it was having to leverage my status as the favorite in that fashion at all because the alternative was worse. I had an emotional breakdown about it sometime last year and I had to write these broken choppy poems about it because I had to come to accept the fact that this happened.

And it’s not like there’s been nothing happy in my childhood. There’s lots of happy things in my childhood. I remember how much it meant to me to save up enough allowance to get Lunar 2: Eternal Blue Complete because I loved the original on the Sega CD when I was like 4. I remember long beach trips where I just got to wander around and do whatever I pleased for hours on end. I remember the first time I caught a wave and the first time I ever popped up on a board. I remember lots and lots and lots of trips to Disneyland and how even if my mother hated the fucking ride she’d always go on It’s A Small World with me because it was my favorite ride and she’d never make me go on Splash Mountain like how my father would.

But I also have to balance the mother that did that with the mother that had a child taken away because she was deemed abusive and unfit as a mother. And that’s why I had to write those poems and that’s why I so distressed because for years I tried to pretend that the worst thing that happened to me as a kid was the cartoon robot dad dying and that’s just not the case. It’s really not. I think my brother was well within his right to have stabbed me. Because that’s how bad the levels of abuse physical and mental we suffered were. It would have only been just.

There’s some fucking post that goes around here on tumblr about how anxiety for people with C-PTSD is different from that of people with like irrational phobias and GAD and there’s a bit from it I remember super well. In how living with this kind of trauma is like living with a fire alarm that constantly goes off at random times every day. It’s living with the fear of things getting horribly bad not because they theoretically could but because they’ve been that bad before and your brain knows that and is trying everything it can to prevent that from happening again. Because it’s been that bad. This isn’t a cutesy what if scenario. It’s something that happened.

And how in the fuck do you deal with a world in which someone can say something like how being a kid the worst that could have happened was the cartoon robot dad died and you can’t fucking relate because that’s never been true. My earliest memories are of people yelling and screaming and slamming things and having to move and leave my school because my father hit my mother in front of my baby brother. I was the kid that liked Digimon and Monster Rancher more than Pokemon because my pets could die in the game and that felt more real than some world where no matter how bad my pet got beat up it never, ever died and I never had to spend time with it and feed it and make sure it didn’t get sick and never had to deal with the fear that one day you’ll wake up and find out that the cat has a sickness and can’t get better and it’s going to fucking die.

My therapist asked me once to remember a time when things were fine and I felt safe and I got very angry at her and I cried and yelled at her because I can’t remember a time when I was safe. There was never a time when I was safe.

Jame acts like a kid. I know she does because I’ve been that kid. Or rather I’ve been the other kid in the equation who hated her and loved her all at once. But the point is they act like kids. I know they do. I’ve been one of those kids.

I’m happy that there are people who haven’t been. But I’ve never felt more alone knowing that there are. One of the happiest days in my life was showing someone I trusted the poems I wrote during that mental breakdown and knowing that they understood them on a deep, personal level due to going through similar things. But people like us shouldn’t exist. There shouldn’t be a world where anyone should have to know what it’s like. We should get to live in a world where people can see Fate in Nanoha getting beat by her mom and go ‘Oh that’s not believable! This is just so cartoony.’

That’d be such a lonely world for me but it’d be a better world I think.

[tamboradventure]

You Should NOT Visit Syria Right Now

Posted: 2/27/2020 | February 27th, 2020

If you’re like me, you associate travel with positive emotions: the feeling of the sun on your shoulders halfway around the world, of breaking bread with people from cultures different than your own, and the inner joy of making your way across unknown lands safely.

Travel improves our lives, broadens our horizons, and helps us understand the world we inhabit.

Yet these are experiences few humans will ever have.

As widespread as it has become in recent years, travel is still a privilege afforded only to a few.

That is especially true of war zones, where residents are more concerned about living through the day than seeing the wonders of the world. Things we take for granted — the ability to turn on a tap and get drinkable water, to flick a switch and get light, to walk to the store and find food on the shelves — are rare or absent for those suffering through such conflicts.

While there many places in the world that are like that, today I want to talk about one in particular: Syria.

Lately, I’ve seen a number of folks visit Syria as tourists. When asked why, they usually talk about trying to highlight the good people in the country and how such places aren’t “just what you see in the media.”

And while both of those things are almost always true, I don’t think one should visit conflict zones as a tourist — whether you’re a writer, blogger, or everyday Joe or Jane. I think it’s reckless and shows a complete lack of empathy and respect for the people suffering through the horrors of war. It’s self-centered. It doesn’t actually help in any real way. It usually creates a distorted picture of the situation. It’s a misuse of Western privilege.

No one doubts there are wonderful people and places in Syria. In fact, one of my greatest travel regrets is not having visited Syria before the conflict, because friends waxed poetic about how the hospitality and openness of the locals were second to none.

And the media is always more “doom and gloom” than the reality on the ground.

But that doesn’t change the fact that there is a continuing war going on in Syria where millions continue to be displaced and dying. While bloggers or tourists are there taking pictures, hundreds of thousands are freezing.

The country has been in a civil war for close to nine years. Over 400,000 civilians have been killed (some estimates put that number as high as 585,000). That’s more than the entire population of places such as Iceland, Belize, the Bahamas, or Malta.

On top of that, over 13 million people have been displaced — with half of those being forced to leave the country entirely. And many can never return due to retaliation from government forces against them or their families.

And almost half of the schools in the country have been affected, with one in three children unable to attend.

And while ISIS has been pushed back, they still have control of some areas, and thanks to Trump, there is also now an influx of both Turkish and Russian troops. (And that’s only causing more chaos.)

As millions suffer through ongoing war, chemical attacks, and displacement, visiting as a tourist and having a fun time is a horrifying idea to me. It makes those who go seem more concerned with their ego than the plight of the country. “Well, I just really want to see the country, so fuck those who are suffering!”

War zones are not tourist attractions. Bombed buildings that used to be filled with life are not backdrops for Instagram shots.

While millions suffer and die just hours away or are displaced and cannot return home, bloggers or tourists shouldn’t be frolicking in the places where they used to live and laugh and spend time with their children, snapping pictures and having fun while giving lip service about how it’s sad to see what is happening to the country. That to me seems like a major disconnect.

If someone wants to go there and report as a journalist to educate the world and try to mobilize action to stop the conflict, that’s one thing.

But I’ve yet to see one person who wasn’t an actual journalist from the mainstream news media do that. Instead, I hear talk about how “complicated” the situation is, how things are being rebuilt, and how everyone is happy and things are safe, whitewashing the war crimes of President Assad. If you follow these accounts, you get the impression the worst is behind the country. (It’s not. And the fighting in Idlib is getting incredibly worse, with children being greatly affected.)

But that’s because these bloggers are (a) in government-controlled territory and (b) likely talking to Assad supporters or those too afraid to speak out.

Then there’s willful ignorance. Take the example of Drew Binsky. I’ve never met him, though I do enjoy his videos. And I’m sure he’s a well-intentioned guy. But he went to Syria and, when challenged about this for the same reasons I’m bringing up, said, and I quote:

I know that Syria has been in a constant state of war for nearly a decade and I choose not to make that a focus. Why? It’s a lose-lose for me, because A) it’s a touchy subject and B) I don’t know much about the war and politics in general. In fact, I can’t even tell you a thing about American politics cuz I don’t really care! I’ve spent the last 8 years on the road and I’ve purposely separated myself from any politics because I choose to spend my time doing other things that make me happy. I guess the bottom line here is that more eyeballs on my videos means more haters, and we all know that haters are gonna hate!

Apparently, people who bring up the notion that maybe going to a war zone is not a good idea are haters. And here he admits to not knowing much about the war or caring too much about the subject.

How can you visit a country torn by war and not want to learn more about it?

How can you have a platform and seek to educate people and not talk about the conflict? It’s a pretty important thing!

And he’s not the only one who has done this, just the most well known. There have been many others. (It would be hard to link to them all, but they are easy to find via a Google or Instagram search.)

I think trips like these to war zones or repressive regimes are further examples of the lack of ethics in the online travel industry, as well as “look at me” vs. “learn from me” writing that puts the reader second to the influencer’s own ego. Rather than using this visit as a teachable moment to expand people’s knowledge, educate, and talk about a dire situation, they visit without thinking about that deeper impact.

But against the backdrop of war, egos must wait.

A visit to government-controlled territory during an ongoing conflict is simply playing into the propaganda that says that the news is exaggerating the plight of the people. What gassing by the Assad regime? What war crimes? What factionalism? There’s nothing to see here, right?

Many of the Syrians I spoke to had even fewer kind words for those who go there. They talked of those who visit now as “taking joy in others’ misery,” whitewashing Assad’s crimes, and Western privilege. This quote from Zaina Erhaim, an exiled Syrian journalist, sums up what I heard from Syrians I spoke with:

Besides the active war going on and tens of civilians being killed on a daily basis, beside whitewashing Assad as [someone] who has brought life and security back, using their privileged background [to get] released if stopped at checkpoints, above all that, to cross to our home where half of us are forbidden from going to, as we are forced into displacement and in exile, to walk above our memories and wounds in order to get some extra views, is inhuman.

Their blogs step on our trauma as they take smiling pictures in our streets, with our destroyed homes and favorite restaurants in the background, while we are prevented from going back to because we simply did our work and protested for basic rights.

***

I think travel boycotts are dumb. People are their governments. But when war is happening and millions are dying and displaced, our desire to travel must wait. When Syria and these other countries are done fighting and need to be rebuilt, tourism dollars are a wonderful way to help make that happen.

Take Afghanistan or Iraq. While turmoil still exists there, these countries are trying to pick up the pieces and rebuild. There are new governments, and the society is trying to move past the conflict. There’s a functioning economy and civil society. Now is the time to visit those places.

But Syria? There is still an active conflict with other nations rolling tanks through part of the country. (Turkey and Russia are in conflict there, and Israel recently sent missiles into Damascus). Wait until the conflict is over, people aren’t dying and starving in the streets, and there is (hopefully) some sort of brokered truce or long-lasting cease-fire.

That’s when people will need our tourism dollars.

If you want to help those in Syria, lobby governments to try to find a way to end the conflict. Give to aid organizations like these:

Tight Knit Syria

Doctors Without Borders

International Rescue Committee

Basmeh Zeitooneh

Save the Children

Islamic Relief USA

Tahirih Justice Center

Project Amal ou Salem

But don’t go visit. Don’t give Assad his propaganda wins. Don’t make people think everything is fine and the world should move on. Don’t go to a place where so much suffering is going on just because you want to see it. It’s just the wrong thing to do.

Travel enriches the mind and expands the soul.

But it loses its charm when a place that is still shattered like glass and those around you are mired in a conflict without end.

Book Your Trip: Logistical Tips and Tricks

Book Your Flight Find a cheap flight by using Skyscanner or Momondo. They are my two favorite search engines, because they search websites and airlines around the globe so you always know no stone is being left unturned.

Book Your Accommodation You can book your hostel with Hostelworld as they have the largest inventory. If you want to stay somewhere other than a hostel, use Booking.com, as they consistently return the cheapest rates for guesthouses and hotels. I use them all the time.

Don’t Forget Travel Insurance Travel insurance will protect you against illness, injury, theft, and cancellations. It’s comprehensive protection in case anything goes wrong. I never go on a trip without it, as I’ve had to use it many times in the past. I’ve been using World Nomads for ten years. My favorite companies that offer the best service and value are:

World Nomads (for everyone below 70)

Insure My Trip (for those 70 and over)

Looking for the best companies to save money with? Check out my resource page for the best companies to use when you travel! I list all those I use — and they’ll save you time and money too!

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[toove122]

“A flower is relatively small. Everyone has many associations with a flower — the idea of flowers. You put out your hand to touch the flower — lean forward to smell it — maybe touch it with your lips almost without thinking — or give it to someone to please them. Still — in a way — nobody sees a flower — really — it is so small — we haven’t time — and to see takes time, like to have a friend takes time. If I could paint the flower exactly as I see it no one would see what I see because I would paint it small like the flower is small.

So I said to myself — I’ll paint what I see — what the flower is to me but I’ll paint it big and they will be surprised into taking time to look at it — I will make even busy New-Yorkers take time to see what I see of flowers.

Well — I made you take time to look at what I saw and when you took time to really notice my flower, you hung all your own associations with flowers on my flower and you write about my flower as if I think and see what you think and see of the flower — and I don’t.”

(Georgia O’Keeffe ‘The Poetry of Things’ )

Has been a while now. It has been a bad night, precisely two bad nights- of salt. Probably that’s the only time when Marquez was right through me, the healing to any suffering is salt- sea, tears and sweat. I abide to it. It is a postcolonial feeling, a telepathic communication as I see Marquez in his little teens running around. 

Some days I feel like I should get out and drown in the seas. Yesterday I dreamed of lying on a rail track. I didn’t know how to do it, lying on half neck, and the train comes by, it approaches thrice, faster than the each one before. Until it reaches I am doubtful of its speed, I am dubious if I will die or not. Huh! I am trying to fix my position as if to surely carry away. I don’t want to spare this chance. And the metal wheels struck my head away. I am left with a bare torso, a sculpted head that is broken to the track. It rolls and rolls and falls under my mother’s feet. When everyone else laughs it’s she alone who cries. I last had such horrifying dreams when I was preparing to go back to iit. Violations, bodily violations. Its expectancy, acceptance. Probably him leaving me is as big a violation as it sounds. Like taking a breath away, taking thousands of breath away, snatching this existence off. Will he ever know,after 21 years of living that’s what I have learned- life doesn’t pay you back in equals. What is it?Destiny? What is it that I am an all lost lying bitch in his eyes now? Was it even important if I lied or not, if there was truth or not? What is truth to the bones ultimately? Ain’t it about realities, love and desperation? Even if there are lies why would it happen firstly? Why would a Hitler happen, or why would ‘A’ happen himself? If I thought like him, would I have fallen in love with him? I still remember and I still know, when I first met him, he was this prudent guy who was careless to the bones, extremely vigilant, defensive, at the same time silent, sublime. There was something about him that I noticed, i notice it even now- life hadn’t touched him, unlike me who had aged faster, who always feels like she is at the old age, he was young, my exact opposite. I should not have touched him, contaminated him probably. I should have stayed away, but nevertheless I liked him and I went near. As it got nearer I still can’t imagine how he used to walk across the supermarkets looking from one thing to another, believing that capitalism will save him no matter what, believing that playing cards, getting a girl, getting lots of money will save him out of the spell he is put into. I still don’t know what did he believe, why did he trust that one. Lies that are dressed like truths? His mother, hasn’t she lied to these little kids- his father what does he do? What is that man really? His mother does she exist like she do, does she put it forth like it should have been, what have they been taught- that one should aspire for power? That one should struggle to forget? Was it all spectacular? Was that needed? He thinks I don’t care- but why I ask him, he thinks I lied to him, truths that are dressed like lies? What should one believe and what one doesn’t?

I know what big trauma is disbelief, I precisely very well know it. But this guy, this guy does not know what I did to him, what was it about, and somewhere down the line even if i left he will leave a peaceful life. How’s that possible, what is it that he has now, that he never had. Yes, he will live a life in peace past his young. He asks me to calm down. Hmm.. I should calm down, before that to what shall I calm down? To unpromised hopes and desires and a power made world, brutal world- or to him who is brown, deep and serine? He says I need to control, but what has this been about, about learning to face bigger traumas, bigger controls, bigger submission, bigger domination, bigger kinkiness. This route from the self to the world, it is important to understand, have I got it? no, has anyone got it? perhaps yes. I hope he lives an eventful life, I hope he understands the moments we shared. I hope he knows me, that none of it was an attack on him, and that there was no need whatsoever to defend himself. 

Just like how my doc says ‘the body has its entire mechanism to dilute, eat, and exit, it doesn’t care for anything else but itself’. It became somewhere necessary for me to understand I should cover myself up in hurts, wounds, tragedies, and melancholy. Vulnerability is like a cobbler’s knife, once it is sharp anything will cut through, once it is a trauma the body will re imagine itself. The head has its own laws, it will slowly learn to anticipate, conglomerate and saturate its own sadness, frustrations. I never wanted him to be an other father of mine, I never wanted him to understand this at the end of an age. Being a man those people will make him work like a mule. I don’t want him to bear the responsibility, suffer and get more lean calves. I don’t know who that girl was, I never wanted to know too. I had promised to me once something like this happens I won’t ask about it more again. I asked him quite a lot- it didn’t seem clear enough. Probably he is scared of me, he is expecting an attack. How do I tell this, dark lovely person that he will be in my heart forever, that his eyeballs look like my old stars. What have I become, where have I reached to. Will I love anymore, will I live anymore, will I laugh, will I wither. I should admit my failure and sleep. But still it is like a beam of light that radars all through the night at a seashore. I remember going to the lighthouse with my old love at 11 in the night, there was nobody, we had sandwiches and lemonade. A beautiful night by the sea, may be a sea shine will cure. I should go, i should leave, to my own serenade, to a self that doesn’t deserve to be gifted, to a self that doesn’t deserve to be shared. I should go, I should leave

I hope he reads this some day.

[cortex-reaver]

Chapter 62: Reunion [Post System Shock 2 Fanfic]

Warnings; Language, cyborg horror, emotional trauma

Masterpost

Hacker peered down the corridor, mentally wincing at his sensor-enhanced sight. It was so garish it made his old Berserker visions look muted in comparison. He continued poking at his menus and their settings, patiently reducing the mish-mash of sensory data down to something he could tolerate.

That and he'd really rather not see the skeletons or fleshy insides of people he knew quite well already, thank you very fucking much. The first few times he saw Goggles after hooking in would give him nightmares. That much he knew already.

Oh there we go. Reduce deep-radar, deep-scan layers to toggle for when I want 'em...And now modify the scan modes to Moderate to Light so I'm not thinking the floor is fucking transparent even when the limbs are telling me it isn't. Yeah okay. There.

The sensory hailstorm of colors and data dropped to a near monotonous blue-green-red scheme showing heat sources, accessible machinery, systems with wi-fi, and a much better view of Goggles without all her squishy insides. Seeing all the modifications SHObeta had made to her hadn't helped his sanity much either. She was less human than either had realized, and that had been surprisingly disturbing despite his current condition.

A corner of his mind noted that Goggles knew this about herself, and this was why she had withdrawn so much during her time at his apartment. No wonder, he mused.

Moderate scan was now promptly blocked by her armor, and what he got back was information that defined a solid human body in front of him instead of...well, let's not go there.

He blinked his eyes, wondering why in fuck-all had the Super-Reaver frame decided to go rearrange the innards of his eyeballs. He'd managed to stop it from building those sensor plates over his eye sockets, but it had gone right around him and modified his eyes.

He shrugged mentally. Fix that later, just get things useable, and then find out where the damn combat HUD was so he could get at it during a fight. Or better yet, find out where the simple Visible Spectrum view was first.

Oh. There we go—AUUUGH I DID NOT SAY TO GO TO CYBERSPACE! WHAT THE FUCK IS WITH THESE MENUS?!

The world around him lay drenched in black, with fluorescent geometric shapes outlined in brilliant lines. Corridors of yellow and gold panels outlined chambers with flickering shapes and symbols around them. Lines of code flitted back and forth. Energy pulsed on the walls like a thing alive. Citadel's cyberspace looked positively boring compared to this.

Now his head hurt again, and not because of the shit he'd let drill into it to wire his brain up--

Fucking hell where's the exit? he growled to himself as he swam about the mass of confusing and brightly lit shapes. This looked more like Cyberspace shot with Stam-Up and a double dose of Berserker, then chased down with some LSD for kicks.

At least navigating here felt mostly the same. Maybe. Maybe not. He couldn't tell. He hadn't been in C-space proper since some of the newer interface softwares for his implant skipped direct cyberspace interfaces in favor of layered symbol grids. Immersion had become outdated over the last twenty years, much to his present chagrin.

After swatting around some several familiar-looking shapes, plenty of swearing, and ducking a trio of floating glitchy skulls he hoped weren't security programs reporting back to the Super-Reavers, he finally found the stop-sign shaped exit and dropped back into--

“Dude, are you okay?” Goggles asked. “You froze up for a second there.”

“Got lost in the menus, then got lost in cyberspace,” he sighed tiredly as he scrubbed at his face with one hand. “This thing's a beast. I was lucky to get the legs working as well as I did back there. Thanks for your help.”

Thank God it was Visible Spectrum Mode he'd dropped back into. He saw her smile, and sighed with relief.

He looked her over, then shook his head amid the Super-Reaver's wiring.

“Damn, those optics are trashed. Sorry about the elevator. I uh, set the speed modifier too high there. Can you see well enough to walk?”

In answer, the soldier simply pried the optics off and regarded him with her natural brown eyes.

“Blurry but decent,” she finally said. “Anyways...we're still alive, we're OK, and we're not being eaten by a mass of Super-Reavers. I'll take busted optics over that any day. How about we tell the others how you made out?”

“Sure. No problem. Y-you might wanna go ahead of me, though. I'm pretty sure I have the super-regen now, but I'm not ready to find out how much it hurts to grow anything back.”

Goggles nodded with a knowing chuckle.

“Yeah, I'll do that,” she remarked, then shook her head with a grin. “Hopefully the Stooges don't decide to grenade first and ask questions later.”

The walk to the Regen room was quiet, save for Hacker's occasional slips and slides while skittering along with his new limbs. Goggles gave him a wide enough berth as he continued sorting out the Super-Reaver's movements. After another moment's walking, she sent her signal ahead.

Goggles: Hey. We're back. Can you like, not shoot when we get there?

Moe: Hey, welcome back. Whaddya mean, not shoot?

Larry: Waitasec. Hacker was gonna get one of those Super-Reaver rigs. Right?

Curly: Yeah yeah yeah how'd you make out?

They reached the three Stooges guarding the doorway several moments later.

“Hey guys,” Hacker called out, waving with one hand. “That answer your questions?”

All three Stooges stared in perfectly synchronized slack-jawed shock. Then abruptly switched to fanged grins accompanied by soft moaning cackles.

Then Larry banged on the door with one limb.

Larry: GUYS YOU GOTTA SEE THIS

Curly: DUUUUUUUUUUUUDE THAT IS SICK

Moe: HOLY SHIT

The door slid open to reveal Dex, who peeked out, then promptly lurched backwards with a horrified scream. SHObeta darted out next, then whirled to race back into the Regen room with a gleeful screech of glitched laughter.

Craig stepped through the door, then did a double-take.

“Hey, you’re not dead! Or a zombie!”

He pulled off his optics, and looked Hacker over. He put them back on with a stunned shake of his head.

“Wow, damn that's some serious freak-ass you're wearing.”

“Tell me about it. Might need you and the Stooges to help with the menus. They're beyond ridiculous.”

“Uh yeah, sure thing,” Craig sputtered as he motioned the soldier and Hacker inside.

Goggles stepped through, then got as far away from the door as possible. Thankfully the entryway was bigger than the elevator's. After a few minutes' frantic limb positioning, Hacker hauled himself into the Regenerator room.

He picked his way to the largest patch of clear floor, then set the Super-Reaver down in a messy coil of limbs with his body sitting atop them. Only after he sat down, did Dex venture to peek out from behind a stunned Bryce.

Hacker waved, hoping to calm him down. The poor Exec-Bot shook harder than the Reaver factory's bots had when they found out Cortie was SHODAN.

A moment later, he got control of himself, and stepped out from behind his friend.

“So it did work,” Bryce remarked with an evil grin rivaling the Stooges'. “You are crazy. Good. Only way to live these days.”

Then he grinned even wider.

“So what can ya do to these bastards now?”

“Plenty,” Hacker answered with a matching grin. “All thanks to null.ethic.”

“Huh. So that bit of code is actually good for something?” Dex marveled. “The times we live in. Sorry 'bout that, Hacker. Call it a flashback to when I got blown up by one of those fuckers.”

“No worries there, dude,” Hacker softly replied, nodding. “I've done worse with my shit.”

He then motioned to the regenerators. “Anybody wake up yet?”

“Nah,” Craig answered. “Not yet. Rebecca's coming out first cause she got the least amount of damage. Mostly a mangled shoulder. Timer's got fifteen minutes left. Rod's next, Tamora's third, and then Suzi last since the Super-Reaver like, almost broke her in half. It's gotta not only rebuild her but her cyberware. Messy.”

He winced sympathetically, then shrugged. He glanced to Goggles, noting the busted optics in her hand. He rummaged in his assorted pockets, then pulled out a brand-new pair of cyber-goggles.

“From the Reaver plant's replicator,” he explained. “Had a feeling you'd need a spare again after the rat hunt.”

The soldier smiled with relief as she took the new optics and secured them to her face.

“Thanks.”

“Looks like the regenerators are making better time than the old Citadel ones,” Hacker remarked, using his Sensearound – only after turning off all the same jacked up sensor-feed bells and whistles on its viewer as well – to closely examine all the stations' timers.

“Means we won’t have to wait too long to regroup, here.”

Goggles nodded.

“Figured as much. Rebecca's the one we need for taking the Bridge the most, so with her out first, we have a better shot at a decent plan. But first...”

She walked up to Cortieball, who had watched the proceedings with saucers for eyes. Gently she lifted her from Bryce's hand, then carried her over to the Hacker.

“...I think you should get Cortie out of lockdown.”

He looked down at Cortie's face, which now had a huge grin of sheer glee to go with her huge eyes.

“Well now this is an old fantasy of yours, isn't it?” he teased with a crooked grin.

Her face remained the same save for an eager nod as Goggles passed her into Hacker's hands.

“Probably something about reaching my full potential as a cyborg,” he remarked with a chuckle. “Well once I get you out, I'll tell you about all the bells and whistles on this thing. This thing is beast.”

Goggles chuckled.

“So you figure out how they did it?” she asked. “Dumped in the ethics code?”

Hacker shrugged in his rig.

“Judging from the wi-fi menus in this thing, my bandwidth is ridic. Could transmit station-wide OSes in minutes. Chances are the ethics params went through in oh...half a second? Maybe less? The tricky part is how they got them in past Cortie's defenses”--

“CYber-r-RspaCE,” Cortie said softly, her face shifting to a somber expression. “I Look-k-Ked at My meMORieS of WHeN thEY aTTAckeD. It...it waS In CyberSPaCe. I waSN't lOokInG theERe WheN thEey caMe. All thEy Had To Do...waSss Get NEaR mEEeee-e-eE. WHICh theY D-d-d-dID. VerRrRy QuickLY.”

“Shit,” Hacker muttered, realization dawning on him. “Classic Cortex Reaver c-space fuckery. That's how they get anybody kicking around in C-space, pretty much. If you're jacked in, they can see you. That's easy enough for a normal Reaver, too. All PsychoDAN had to do was tell 'em what to do once they found you. And soon as you got distracted, wham.”

Goggles snapped her fingers in frustration.

“It's like they were planning for her to be distracted. Defending you”--

“Was exactly it,” Hacker sighed grimly. “They used my blackout against her. It was the perfect opening for them. She'd have to defend me because of how she felt about me and Citadel. The one time she wouldn't be focusing on her brain defense.”

“They used your guilt as a blind spot,” Goggles said softly.

Cortie blinked. Then her face crumpled inside the ball.

“OhHhHhh-H-HhHhh,” she sighed miserably.

Her face settled into the bottom of the ball with a long, mournful sigh. Hacker gently held her to his chest.

“It maAkes PerFEct seNSE,” she whispered. “THeY KnEw whaAT to Hit Me With, whERe, and WHeN.”

“Well now I know how they did it, I should be able to undo it,” Hacker said. “My implant's got a copy of null.ethic. All I'll have to do is go into cyberspace and pop it back into your head. The tricky part is figuring how to replicate the Super-Reavers' little dance move. Boom. Done.”

“It wiLL not bE so sIMple,” Cortie sadly explained as he settled her into his lap again. “I caN onLY speAK in THisS-s-s Form. I WIlL be MuTE theEERe. My sysTEM has ActiVaTed NumerOUS defenSEs againST beINg DIsaB-b-bBLed Or MOdifIEd.”

She paused, letting out a long glitched hiss of a sigh.

“The EthiCS PrograM UsEs theM TO PReveNT tamPerInG. DIeGo gaVE you aCCEss PaSt thoSe. You Do NOt haAVe thaT aCcEs-s-sS nOw. TheY wiLL fiGhT You. I Am ParalYZeD but the progRAm is NoT.”

Hacker blinked as he stared down at the ball in his hands.

“So I'm gonna end up fighting you in cyberspace...again?”

She nodded delicately.

“I aM So SOrR-r-rY...in aDvancE.”

Hacker groaned as he clapped a hand to his face.

“The bright side to this dark cloud is I'm going in as a Super-Reaver,” he muttered. “Which means it's going to work, regardless of whatever I end up dealing with.”

“AnoTheR thiNG,” Cortie added. “I moDifieD my dEFenseS extENSIveLy on CItaDEl and BeyoND. The EthIcs COde USeS whaAT is aVAILable. TheY...THeY arE Not For the FainT-t-t Of HeaRT. YOu wIlL HaVe to Get PaST theEM to SEND meE the Code. It mUst Get intO my MInD or It wiLL bEe DestrOYED by THeEM.”

Hacker stared at her, then groaned again. Yep. Flashback Central dipped in acid and chased down with Berserker. Par for the course.

“I picked a hell of a day to face all my nightmares at once,” he muttered. “Goddammit.”