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theseventhdimension · 1 month ago

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Connections 101: How Not to Overthink It

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Word Count: 1.7k+

DNI: Everyone is welcome!

Author's Note: Season 2 Spencer Reid save me, my man ya'll.

Me on my way to not upload for 2 months AGAIN. I'M SORRYYYYYYYYY (Enjoy though, honestly forgot how much i love writing :P)

Not beta read chat, forgive the "Speeling" and "Granmma" mistakes

Spencer Reid is someone who doesn't know who he is.

Well, biologically he is a male, 25, has brown eyes and brown hair. He is smart, a certified genius with an IQ of 187 who can read 20,000 words per minute with an eidetic memory.

But.. is that it? Is that all there is to him?

Connections are hard, despite how much he knows about the human brain and how they interact, of course he does, he's a profiler.

Apart from understanding why people are the way they are, he doesn't understand himself, and why he is the way he is.

He has great friends in the BAU, Derek Morgan, Penelope Garcia, Jennifer Jareu (JJ), Emily Prentiss, Aaron Hotcher (Can he even consider Hotch a friend? He's technically just his boss.), and Jason Gideon.. but he's more of a father figure.

And.. then there's you.

You..

Curious, clever… captivating. You have a way of moving through the world that feels deliberate, like every step, every glance, is part of some intricate choreography.

You’re thoughtful, quick-witted… achingly kind. It’s in the way you listen, like, really listen, even when Spencer’s rambling about statistics or obscure facts, hell, even his Star Trek theories. The way you remember the little things—his favourite tea, the way he likes his books stacked, the fact that he prefers jazz when he needs to focus.

You’ve always had this way of existing in Spencer’s orbit that confuses and grounds him at the same time. Where others see him as the walking encyclopedia (Though he does appreciate the.. compliment?), the awkward genius, you see… him. And that terrifies him as much as it fascinates him.

You’re not like the others. You don’t approach him with curiosity laced with pity, or frustration thinly veiled as camaraderie. No, when you look at Spencer, there’s something in your gaze that feels like it might burn straight through him. Not in a hostile way—no, it’s softer, warmer, like sunlight streaming through a window on a cold morning. It’s disarming.

At first, he didn’t know how to handle you. He expected you to lose interest, to grow tired of the way his sentences sometimes trail off when his brain moves faster than his mouth, or the way he rambles about a topic long after others have stopped listening. But you never did. You listened... Actually listened.

It was unnerving, how you broke through the defenses he didn't even realize he had. You laughed at his jokes, even the awkward ones he muttered more to himself than anyone else. You noticed the little things, like how he fiddles with his watch when he's anxious, or how he taps his pen against his lip when he's lost in thought.

"Don't do that," you once teased, taking the pen gently from his hand and laying it on the table. "You'll smear ink on your face, and I'll have to explain why our resident genius is walking around with a blue mustache."

He blinked at you in a fluster, but the warmth of your smile melted the embarrassment almost immediately.

With you, things feel… easier. Not easy, no, because nothing about Spencer's life is ever truly easy, but easier. You have a way of making the world seem less sharp-edged, less overwhelming. When he spirals into overthinking or gets stuck in his own head, you're there to ground him-not by fixing things or offering advice, but simply by being there.

You don't push, you don't pry, and somehow, he opens up in ways he never has before.

"What's going on in that big brain of yours?" you asked, your tone light but laced with a genuine curiosity.

He hedged, his fingers clamping down on the edge of the file he'd been holding. "Do you ever get this feeling that you know everything about the people around you but nothing about yourself?"

His question hung in the air, soft and unobtrusive, yet it unraveled something in him, finally letting it out, loosening the tension in his shoulders. Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting down to his hands before flicking back to you, as you lean forward, humming in thought.

"All the time," you admitted with a small smile, leaning back in your chair again as if to give him the space to breathe. "But I've learned that figuring yourself out isn't really a.. how do I put it, a one-time thing?" You furrow your brows, trying to find a way to put it into understandable words. "It's… like reading a really long book. Sometimes the chapters don't make sense until you're further along."

He cocked his head, considering your words. "What if you never reach the end? What if you're just… incomplete?"

You shrugged, your expression open and kind. "Then you keep reading. And maybe you stop worrying about the ending so much."

It wasn't the kind of response Spencer expected. You may have thought he was expecting you to say, "well, it gets easier; or he is overthinking this." Instead, you ..basically accepted the uncertainty of this and allowed him to, also.

For a moment, the silence stretched between you, not uncomfortable but charged with connection he rarely experienced. You watched him, your eyes steady but not pressing, in some way giving him a choice to say more, or nothing at all.

Spencer took a deep breath. "Sometimes I feel like I'm more of an observer than a participant. Like I'm watching other people live their lives, and I'm just… cataloging it.

You leaned forward, propping your chin on your hand as you regarded him with an easy curiosity. "Maybe that's because you catch things others miss, Mr. Profiler. It’s not a bad thing, Spence. It.. just means you see the details that make life more interesting. Comes in handy for cases, doesn’t it?"

His lips quirked into a faint smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes but still carried a flicker of appreciation, his brown doe eyes softening slightly. "You make it sound less… isolating."

"That's because it doesn't have to be," you said simply. "Well, not with me, anyway."

Spencer’s chest ached at your words, a gentle warmth seeping into the emptiness he’d grown so used to. He didn’t understand how you always managed to see through the barriers he’d built—barriers he barely understood himself. But somehow, you did, effortlessly peeling them away.

He found himself studying your face, the soft curve of your lips as you spoke, the way your eyes stayed on his like they were searching for truths he wasn’t ready to say aloud.

You leaned back slightly, a thoughtful smile playing on your lips as you continued to watch him, your expression open and inviting. It wasn’t the kind of scrutiny he was used to—clinical, curious, detached. No, this was something warmer, something that felt like sunlight breaking through the cold fog he so often lived in.

“You don’t have to figure it all out today, you know,” you said softly, your voice dipping just enough to make his heart skip. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Spencer’s breath hitched. How was it that you always seemed to know exactly what to say, the words slipping past the walls he hadn’t even realized were still standing?

He opened his mouth to respond but faltered, unsure of how to express what he was feeling without fumbling it. His gaze dropped to the table between you, his fingers twitching with the impulse to reach for something—anything—to steady himself. Before he could, your hand moved into his line of sight, your fingers brushing his wrist lightly, grounding him.

“Hey,” you murmured, your tone gentle yet insistent. His eyes lifted hesitantly to yours, drawn to the quiet confidence in your expression. “You’re allowed to take up space, Spencer. You’re allowed to just… be.”

The way you said his name—soft, deliberate, with a kind of affection that made his pulse stutter—felt like a balm to something raw and aching inside him. And then, as if to completely disarm him, you smiled. Not just any smile, but the kind that reached your eyes, crinkling at the corners, warm and unguarded. A smile meant just for him.

The corners of his lips twitched in response, and for a fleeting moment, the weight on his chest lifted. He felt seen, truly seen, in a way he hadn’t thought possible. It was terrifying, yes, but also exhilarating in a way he couldn’t explain.

You didn’t pull your hand away, and he didn’t want you to. The warmth of your touch was steadying, grounding him in the moment. “You know,” you said after a beat, your voice light but tinged with sincerity, “for someone who spends so much time looking for the truth in others, you deserve someone who does the same for you.”

Spencer felt his cheeks flush, the words wrapping around his heart like a protective shield. He’d never been good at letting people in, never good at trusting that they would stay once they saw the mess inside him. But here you were, sitting across from him with a patience and understanding that made him want to believe.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do what?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, your curiosity genuine.

“Make everything feel…not as,” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “heavy..”

Your smile softened, gently cupping his hand with yours. The quiet act, so simple and tender, made Spencer’s heart race in a way he wasn’t prepared for. He didn't pull back. Instead, he let the moment linger, the warmth of your hand against his, grounding him in a way nothing else had before.

“That’s easy,” you said, your fingers lingering as you trace the bumps on his knuckles, the calluses from years of writing.

“You’re worth it.”

Spencer’s heart skipped again, his pulse thrumming in his ears as he searched your eyes for any trace of insincerity and found none. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel the need to retreat, to rebuild the walls you so effortlessly dismantled. Instead, he let himself lean into the moment, into you, even as the fear of the unknown lingered at the edges of his mind.

Because somehow, with you, the unknown didn’t seem so daunting. It felt… manageable.

Maybe even a little beautiful.

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #x male reader #spencer reid #spencer reid x male reader #spencer reid x reader #x gn reader #spencer reid x gn reader #x reader #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x male reader #criminal minds x gn reader #Seventh Writes

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itsthesinbin · 4 months ago

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Sins in Stardust (Bill Cipher/Reader)

OKAY SO. I've been thinking of Ideas since I got HORRIFICALLY fixated on Bill/Gravity Falls. I still do like the "bill's hot wife" idea but I gotta think abt how that wld work, logistically. I can't get off if the plot doesn't make sense. BUT I do have. Another reader insert idea.

Post Weirdmageddon and technically post Book of Bill. I couldn't read the full book in detail bc all I had was a kinda blurry pdf to work with so I'm missing some details.

This is the first chapter just 2 kinda gauge interest. I'm only posting it here rn until I write out a couple more :3 Feel free to leave a reply or tag if u reblog to let me know what u think

EDIT: Came up with a title I liked :3 I need to stop crutching on Hozier song titles LMAO

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You missed camping- you and your parents went at least once every summer, when you were a kid. A good old cross-country camping trip is what you needed, after the multitude of bullshit you’ve gone through. You quit your job, sold whatever shit you didn’t need and used the money you had to get out of your home as fast as you could. You’ll find a new place to settle, a new job in a new city with new neighbors and never have to worry again. All you had to worry about, now, is finding a fun spot to camp for the night.

You could sleep in your car- you have a few times since you started your trip- but it was a gorgeous night. The moon was full, the stars were so bright and clear this far out from a major city… It’d be a waste. You pulled your car off the road and trekked a bit out into the woods nearby. Hopefully your car would still be there in the morning. Please, God, let it be there in the morning.

You entered into a small break in the trees. The late spring breeze made the leaves sway and branches rattle softly. The starlight caught on the toadstools odd triangular spots. Eye-shaped spots on the trees seemed to follow you as you stepped into the small field. Like looking at creepy paintings in a haunted house, you felt like you were being watched. It was a little creepy, but you chalked it up to the full moon. Everyone was on edge during a full moon just because of stories and superstitions they all heard growing up.

The brightest thing in the clearing was a small statue, half buried in the ground. A triangle with a large eye, tophat, and bowtie. A single arm stuck out, as if ready for a handshake. The stone itself seemed to glow, but you chalked that up to the brightness of the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. You stepped a bit closer, noting how… quiet the area was. No birds, no crickets… Nothing. It was a little unsettling, you wouldn’t lie. Quiet woods never led to anything good. You really should go back to your car.

You pulled out your phone, first, though. You had to get a picture of this funky little guy. You were probably overthinking things. The statue was probably just someone’s abandoned art project, or store mascot, you thought as you snapped a few pictures of the lichen-covered statue. You smiled slightly. The little thing was kinda charming.

You decided to put your tent up anyway, despite the eerie silence. It was late, you were tired, and your car was still close enough to this clearing that you’d probably be in “danger” anyway. If you even were actually in trouble. The silence and the eye-spots on the trees were unsettling, sure. Weirdly enough, though, you felt a sense of calm here.

You decided against setting up a fire, opting to eat a can of cold pork’n’beans for dinner as you looked up at the stars. The sky was alight with blues and pinks and purples, seemingly swirling nebulas catching the attention of any being capable of comprehending beauty. You felt yourself smiling to yourself.

“Beautiful night, huh li’l guy?” You joked to the statue. You missed the way the eye-spots on the trees had stopped following you, instead focusing on the night sky. You threw the empty can of beans into a bag to throw away tomorrow, before rolling out your sleeping bag and laying out under the stars. You crossed your arms behind your head, and one foot over the other. Obviously, you were met with the same silence that had been here. Humans would be humans, though. Bonding with anything that even remotely had a face.

“Bet it gets lonely, stuck out here. Sure you got the view, but it sounds like nothing really drops by.” Nothing. The stars above almost seemed to move. You could almost make a shape out, but as soon as you tried it seemed to dissipate. You hummed to yourself, trying to find the shape again.

“I know how it feels to be stuck, buddy,” you offered, sympathetically. You sighed as a heavy feeling settled on your chest. You shook away the bad memories, the stars seeming to move again to keep your attention. It was getting a little weird, now. But you had heard that Gravity Falls was a pocket of weirdness in the middle of nowhere.

“I could use a traveling buddy,” you laughed. “I haven’t had… a friend in a long time…” You trailed off as the stars continued to twinkle and dance. You sat up with a heavy sigh, face to face with the statue again. Unsurprisingly, he stared at you stoically with his hand still poised for a handshake. You put your chin in your hand.

“And it’s driven me so crazy I’m talking to an old ARG piece left in the woods…” You rubbed your face. You stood with a stretch, the light around you seemingly getting a little brighter. You stepped in front of the statue.

“They use us and leave us to rot, don’t they? Hardly fair,” you mumble. You reach a hand out as if to grab its hand, but stop short of actually touching it. The hair on the back of your neck stood as you felt a million eyes on you at once. You look behind you, only to be met with the trees. You look up, and find the stars once again in the vague shape you couldn’t make out before. It felt like the very universe was watching this moment. Your throat felt tight. Strangely, though, you didn’t feel scared. You looked back at the waiting statue. Something prodded at the back of your mind.

“Maybe I will take you with me. Once I get settled somewhere, you can become a piece in my next living room,” you smiled. “I’ll get you cleaned up and see if I can patch some of those chips and cracks.”

You hesitated a moment, before you grasped the statue’s hand. Obviously, the stone limb didn’t actually move.

“I’ll get you out of here, you be my travel partner, and we both get to be free for a while. How’s that sound?” No response. Not that you expected one. You let the little hand go with a yawn. You kicked your shoes off near your sleeping bag and lay back down on it. The stars finally stopped shifting and swirling. They twinkled down at you as you covered yourself up for the night. You didn’t think it’d rain, so sleeping outside should be fine. You’ll deal with whatever happens, if anything.

You dreamt of the stars that night. They swirled above you, forming into a large creature that swam its way to you. You floated among the stars, eyes wide with wonder at the smiling creature. Its tail swept along the empty space beside you, leaving a small… child? It was a triangle with a huge eye, like the statue in the woods, but had giant shoes. It didn’t look at you at first, instead staring at the creature made of starlight and space dust in front of you. You also turned your gaze back to it.

The Axolotl stared down at you two, a peaceful smile on its face. You felt small under its gaze- like a child looking up at their parent. You reached out to pat it on the nose, finding your hand smaller than usual. You heard a squeaking noise and turned to look at the triangular baby.

“You see the stars too?” You didn’t know how he asked without a mouth, but you nodded anyway. Your 5 year old face was reflected in his large eye. He held a hand out for you to hold.

“You wanna watch them together?” You were quiet. You turned back to the Axolotl, only to find it swimming away from you. Back to depths of the universe you could only imagine. With no other option, you looked back at the kid next to you. His eye was turned up to show that he’d be smiling, if he had a mouth. His eye crinkled more as you grabbed his hand.

The stars began to burn.

You woke with a start, finding the sun creeping over the tree canopy and shining down on you. You groaned and covered your eyes with your forearm. You forced yourself to sit up, rubbing your eyes with your hand. Your head was pounding, the strange dream leaving you in a cold sweat. Maybe you shouldn’t have slept here.

A groan from in front of you made you freeze. Your head snapped up, making it throb. A triangular creature was sitting where the statue used to be, stone splintered and sprinkled around him. He massaged his singular eye, muttering under his breath. He looked up, tensing when he saw you. You both sat there in stunned silence for what felt like forever.

Then you both screamed.

#gravity falls #bill cipher #bill cipher x reader #mod fic #sins in stardust

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rin-sith · 6 months ago

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Following especially the latest season of Prodigy, I would just like to give a shoutout to Chakotay.

I actually liked him even back in Voyager, although he could definitely have been written better in that show. But then Prodigy came, and despite his limited screen time, that show did him SO well I can still barely believe it. And no, I'm not talking about how unexpectedly hot he looks in a cowboy hat ... That's the bonus cherry on top if anything.

If Prodigy proved anything (besides that it is now one of my favorite Star Treks of all time) is that Chakotay's earned that captain's chair, and so, so much respect.

I love how we get to see him be the selfless, dedicated, strong leader that he is and has always been, entirely disconnected from Janeway or any other legacy character. Now more than ever Chakotay and Janeway are just equally hardcore, badass captains who would give their lives for the greater good in an instant, and that's part of what makes them so great. Their equality, despite the different ranks, really came across in Prodigy more than ever before, which I loved to see.

Honestly, whenever I see Chakotay dismissed as a doormat or "best off as second in command" I just kind of rage a little. Even back in Voyager, it was pretty clear to me that he wasn't (for example, some people seem to forget that he was a captain originally and only became a first officer for the good of the Maquis crew.)

And now that we have Prodigy ... Even though we don't really see much of it on screen (which is a shame), I like reminding myself how, since the launch of the Protostar, he went through 12 (!) more years of (self-)sacrifice and (leadership) hell and managed to come out of that seemingly stronger and more certain of his place and himself than ever.

Even the events of "The Last Flight of the Protostar" aside ... Just think about how many life-altering, defining, difficult choices and sacrifices he had to make in those 12 years.

In the timeline that was averted, he sacrificed his only shot to get back home through the wormhole (the Protostar) to save the Federation from the weapon on board.

In the new timeline, he sacrificed himself by choosing to stay on that planet where he and Adreek landed, also for the sake of protecting the Federation from the weapon on the Protostar.

Chakotay was technically stranded in the Delta Quadrant twice (once with Voyager, once with the Protostar), and despite how abysmally things went on his first command, he never sacrificed his integrity or his dedication to Starfleet's values. He becomes a little grumpy over 10 years in solitude, but honestly, who wouldn't? And then the first thing he does after being rescued is take over Voyager-A and continue his service ... That's some dedication if I've ever seen it. I think he may have wanted to prove something there ... and honestly, he couldn't have succeeded more.

And no, he did not "teach" Dal that his place was "the second in command" ... On the contrary, he very likely showed Dal through his own competence and perseverance that Dal himself was simply not ready yet for such a responsibility.

He's just an extraordinary captain who has gone through things and made choices that very few others could have made. Choices like sending the Protostar back in time, that had the fate of the entire Federation depending on it.

I adore Prodigy in general, but one of the things I adore the most is that it finally shows us more of why Chakotay is not second to Janeway or to anyone. He's his own leader, his own character, and his own captain who deserves so much more acknowledgment.

Although, I still feel that we were robbed of some of Chakotay's best moments by not showing us the arrival of the Protostar on Solum and later the events preceding its (presumably) emergency landing on that planet where it stayed for ten years (honestly, I'd love for future Prodigy seasons to have maybe a flashback episode or two about the Protostar's maiden voyage and Chakotay's arrival on Solum and maybe later on that planet where he was stranded.)

Anyway, long rant over ... All I wanted to say was that Chakotay has more than earned the command of Voyager-A; seeing him in that chair made me very happy, I won't lie.

And I really hope if/when Prodigy gets more seasons, he'll be a more major character because he deserves a more central role.

#star trek #star trek prodigy #star trek voyager #st prodigy #prodigy season 2 #prodigy spoilers #star trek prodigy season 2 #captain chakotay #chakotay #chakoway #chakotay x janeway #janeway x chakotay #if i see someone dismiss him as a doormat one more time i will scream #nothing but the most respect for this man #pardon if this rant is a little incoherent but i have feelings #they finally did him justice #ngl i would watch a whole show with him in the center captain role

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thewickedbohemian · 2 months ago

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Some explanations for some of these

for the Jews who don't know, it's a thing (at least among some Jews) that you can have a second bar/bat mitzvah at 83 because 70 was what used to be considered a full lifetime

tasteful commercialization of Hanukkah means both not as excessive as Christmas (though we still deserve more than a blue end cap) and actually well done not this shit with blue-lighted wreaths and gingerbread Hanukkah houses and Hanukkah sweaters with English messages written using Hebrew letters as English letters which spell gibberish in Hebrew

Headcanoning characters played by Jewish actors as Jewish unless another religion's stated for them means that e.g. Quinn Fabray from Glee is still canonically Christian despite Dianna Agron being Jewish and Amy Farrah Fowler from BBT clearly had somewhat-Christian parents despite Mayim Bialik's heritage but you could be free to headcanon (unless they're mentioned as another religion in canon) as Jewish characters like Jack Hodgins from Bones or Flynn Carsen from The Librarians or DCEU!Billy Batson

in I think it was 2018 NBC made a really bad sitcom called Living Biblically that was supposedly based on The Year Of Living Biblically but all it shared other than the titular Bible quest was the main character being some sort of entertainment-y writer with a pregnant wife, I can see changing the names but they changed the motivation for the quest, removed the toddler he already had in the book and most gallingly made him freaking Christian when many instances from the book reliant on the guy's Judaism could have made good sitcom episodes

#tumblr poll #tumblr polls #polls #hyperspecific poll #judaism #actuallyjewish #jumblr #antisemites dni

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entropyvoid · 9 months ago

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Honestly with all the overlap between sci-fi and fantasy fans, I’m really surprised that “high fantasy in space” isn’t more of a thing.

There are some things generally assumed by most to be sci-fi that I’d personally label space fantasy, like Star Wars, where the high tech is just there as a backdrop to a classic heroic story of good guys vs. bad guys, who are definitely doing magic (by using the force). The point of Star Wars isn’t the tech or anything, it just happens to be a tale told in space. It contrasts pretty starkly with something like Star Trek, where the vast majority of episodes revolve around exploring whatever scientific or philosophical concept the writers thought would be kinda neat that week, using established characters as a vehicle for said exploration.

I think one of my favorite things about Honkai Star Rail is that it freely and unabashedly mixes sci-fi and fantasy. It just goes “You are a walking neutron bomb. Also turns out your bestie is from a self-reincarnating race of dragon people with powerful water and illusion magic. They live on this big, planet-sized ship that’s dedicated to hunting down this one cosmic horror that cursed all the ship’s inhabitants with immortality, under the banner of this other cosmic horror that exists solely to kill the first cosmic horror. Let’s go on vacation to the theme park planet, the actual resort is technically an Alice-in-Wonderland style dream triggered by the same kinda cosmic-horror-gifted bomb as you. Your new friend is a meme. By the way, did we tell you about the one time this super-genius harnessed the power of *imagination* to build a death ray that instantly obliterated a bunch of planets? That was kinda fucked up, huh.” Sometimes Star Rail tries to give explanations for its tech in a way that seems believably sciencey. Sometimes shit’s just straight up called magic or it’s from some deity or another and none of the characters present have a good understanding of why, so you all just go about your bullshit. It makes it work within the context of its established universe.

Cosmic horror in general is often (but not always) found in sci-fi, but where the point of sci-fi is to expand on and detail a concept in a believably scientific way or explore the impacts of a scientific thing, the point of cosmic horror is that there is a Thing that is beyond human understanding or comprehension. Sci-fi is a fun thing to insert it into, because the more scientifically sensible and well-understood elements of the world you have, the more jarring that becomes.

Then you’ve got things like Dungeon Meshi, which exists in an inverse of something like Star Rail: it takes a very Tolkien-inspired Dungeons and Dragons-esque setting, and then details it in a very scientifically sensible way. There is magic, and there are these fantastical monsters, yes, but the monsters are parts of their own delicate and intricate ecosystems, they are edible, and they have very particular nutritional values and ways you can cook them! The protag’s biggest strength lies in him being a nerd about monster biology. Magic, too, by the end of it, ends up with a plausible enough explanation as well. And the explanation is a cosmic horror! In this way, Dungeon Meshi, despite being built entirely off of very easily recognizable and classic fantasy tropes, is probably more accurately classed as sci-fi.

I just love all of it. Can I get like 50 more of these fucked up lil mixtures of science and magic please?

#ch.txt #honkai star rail #dungeon meshi #star wars #star trek #sci fi #fantasy #tagging all these bc I wanna hear if other people have cool thoughts on the subject #hopefully this isn’t considered bloating those tags or w/e #this came about from musings and conversations abt what kinda world/story I wanna write? since I’m redoing my lil sci-fantasy project

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vindicated-truth · 2 months ago

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I've been in online fandom spaces ever since I was 11 or 12—which is really not an age anyone should be left alone in the internet with. In our generation's defense though—as well as our parents' defense—we were the first generation to have online experiences in all its forms, including fandom, and no one really knew how to navigate the new virtual space, least of all our own technologically-challenged parents.

I'm now 35 years old, so it's been about two and a half decades of being a fangirl in varying degrees of fandom participation, but throughout the different fandoms I've been in, a lot of it has been spent both reading and writing fanfiction.

And what I've come to realize now, as I'm in the relatively older range of fandom, is that even the mindset changes.

I can tell now if a story, for example, is written by someone younger. And it's not even about the technical things like grammar or spelling, because a lot of writers have excellent technical writing regardless of age.

But it's in the inherent themes in the stories being written, the underlying philosophies and values that stand out the most to me. Even the perception of life, reality, dreams, and fears, it's all so fascinatingly—different now, when you're older.

And it's fascinating reading these stories written by younger fans, because it's also a stark reminder of how you were, too.

I'd think—oh, I used to be like that, too. I don't, anymore, but it's fascinating that I remember I once was.

It's not even a judgment of whether it's a good thing or not—it's just a statement of fact that even your own perceptions change as you grow older. For better or for worse.

I used to be a lot more idealistic, for one. And it makes me smile sometimes reading stories or statements by younger fans, because sometimes I think—I hope you never lose that. That spark and enthusiasm for life—hold on to that, and cherish that, because it can so easily be snuffed out despite your best efforts to protect it.

At the same time, I'm a lot kinder now. Sometimes I'd read stories and statements and see how angry and unforgiving and bitter some fans are and that would also make me think—someday, you'll understand. Someday, you'll realize that people are inherently flawed and more broken than they deserve to be, and it matters that you extend kindness to them, too.

Because you'll realize that you are just as flawed and broken as them, and you need them to be kind to you, too.

They aren't perfect, but then again—neither are you.

Sometimes I think of fandom history, and how it all started with older women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s back in the days of Star Trek: The Original Series, and how it's these older women who paved the way for younger girls all over the world and all subsequent generations to discover a community and passion that will keep that fire of life in you burning.

And I wonder how these older women think of all succeeding younger women, how the perspectives and values change over time.

I wonder how I'll be, too—ten, twenty, thirty years from now.

And it's why I sometimes find it amusing when younger fans say that older women are "too old" to still be in fandom space, when it's older women who created this space in the first place.

I wonder if these younger fans who are now in fandom realize that you never really grow out of fandom. You just grow in it.

And that's something noteworthy too. Because if anything, fandom is a written history of you, too. How you grow, how you change.

And most importantly, how you learn.

All this to say: do not shame anyone for being in fandom, regardless of age.

This is your story, too.

#personal #writing #musings #fanfiction #fandom

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leohtttbriar · 6 months ago

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For the Reverse Unpopular Opinion meme: would love to give you the excuse to talk about voyager. (or if that's too easy, something you like about your least favorite star trek series??)

i love voyager. so so much. i tried to think if i love another star trek series i've seen any less than voyager, but i can't honestly say that i do? i love ds9, tos, discovery, and, yes, even snw. i am in the embarrassing position of admitting that i really just love star trek, in a mostly uncomplicated way.

of the things i love about voyager, the premise is probably the biggest one. i have rambled about this a lot already but: i think it confronts for the first time in star trek the inherent sadness associated with us studying the stars--and therefore the sadness that science-fiction writers mostly imagine their way out of, often as a way to speculate a time when this reality may be less real: the fact that space is big. it is too big. the fastest human beings have ever traveled, with their own bodies along for the ride, still isn't fast enough to get us to the moon in less than three days. light--the speed limit of the universe--needs a full eight minutes to get from the sun to us--a relatively close planet. space is enormous. we measure things that are "close" in light-years. everything is so spread out and that's just from the perspective of being inside a galaxy, which is actually crowded when compared to intergalactic space. everything is so far away and so long away and it feels impossible to think of getting anywhere in a time meaningful to us and our lifespans. which is in its own way heartbreaking.

and while in voyager they are clearly not alone in the way we feel we could be (and in practice are until we get the smallest sign that even non-intelligent life exists off our very own special rock) with all the aliens they meet and the fact that they are on a ship that can go faster than light, they are stranded and they are on their way back home and it will still take them a life-time. that's the reality of the story: that they will spend the rest of their lives trying to get back. and though i know they do get back much quicker than that, where i'm at in the beginning of season 3 that is still the reality of it. and this makes literally everything that happens in the show so fascinating--even if it's a plot or an idea that not only happened in another series but was done technically better in that series. every plot in voyager is colored by the tension between what the star trek ethos is as a whole--exploration and diversity and learning and humanity--all in an optimistic light--and what voyager is about--getting back home. it makes me think of the tension in the actual "voyagers," somewhere now in interstellar space, and the golden record with a map of earth's position etched onto it: spacecraft meant to never be returned but contained on them is a deep, deep hope that in some way they will be. this tension, to me, affects everything on the show.

but that's maybe too big an idea without specific examples from the series--i might ramble about that at another point lol

in the spirit of your question, i will say there is one star trek property that i don't particularly care for on the whole and that's the 2009 movie (and sequels). but i will also say what that movie did right and what i do love about it even if i don't love the movie as a whole is how it portrayed the high-tech poetics of star trek in a much more immediately understandable way than even the 90s shows could for a 21st century audience. the "apple-store" aesthetic is really an argument about how this is the future and it's sleek and stylish and humans have advanced in their engineering and scientific abilities. and among this high-tech argument is uhura front and center: she's very loudly and explicitly a linguist and she fits in this silicon-valley look despite the fact that nowadays things like linguistics are considered "soft sciences" in a general way and treated like that very specifically by the tech-industry now (the attitude being "there's an app for that"). but uhura makes a central discovery in one of her labs at the beginning of the movie which gives her and kirk a leg up on understanding the Movie Threat. the 2009 movie significantly raised her importance as a character, to the point that the "main trio" in those movies is, arguably, more kirk/spock/uhura than it is kirk/spock/mccoy---especially if you're going by the movie posters.

also they gave her this line:

UHURA: And did I not, on multiple occasions, demonstrate an exceptional aural sensitivity, and I quote, "an unparalleled ability to identify sonic anomalies in subspace transmissions tests?"

which is excellent world-building about communications-officers, if you care for that sort of thing. and it provides a starting point for an argument about how listening to a universe (famed quiet due to the lack of material through which sound can travel) is essential to understanding it---an idea that can be further extrapolated via sci-fi regarding things like: listening to gravitational waves if we record them right; or working on the idea that all matter is but a vibration in a quantum field; or, from a more cultural concern, the implication that it is absurd to think you can travel to an alien world and not bring someone with an "exceptional aural sensitivity" who can facilitate an exchange of language and, thereby, meaning.

#star trek #thanks so much for asking!!!#i love rambling on and on about star trek apparently. really enjoyed this exercise y'all #voyager #star trek: aos #uhura

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divinemissem13 · 5 months ago

Text

How Long Has This Been Going On?

Star Trek Femslash Week 2024 Ship: Beverly Crusher/ Kathryn Janeway Word Count: 1,016 Rating: T Prompt: And they were roommates...

This is a much longer text than I would usually post here but since AO3 is still having some outages, take a peek under the cut here....

"Bev? Honey?" Kathryn calls out from the bedroom. She is looking in her closet and maybe it's just that she hasn't had coffee yet, but something seems off. "Why do you have more civilian clothes in my closet than I do?"

Beverly appears at her side and hands her a cup of coffee, which Kathryn gulps down gratefully. "Probably because I've spent a lot more time as a civilian than you," Beverly answers simply, as she wraps an arm loosely around Kathryn's waist and presses a kiss to the smaller woman's temple. "We can go shopping today, if you want."

"But what are they doing here?" Kathryn clarifies, now that the caffeine is beginning to do its job.

Beverly pulls back and holds Kathryn at arm's length, looking at her with a bewildered expression that only serves to confuse Kathryn further. "Where else would they be?" she responds.

"Your place?"

"My pl—? Kathryn, it's just easier to keep things here in San Francisco. But if you really want me to, I guess I can transport to the chateau every time I need a change of clothes," Beverly offers with a bit of an edge to her voice that makes Kathryn wonder if they've had this conversation before.

"You don't have a place in San Francisco?" Kathryn asks.

Beverly sucks in a deep breath through clenched teeth and takes Kathryn's empty mug. "I think you need more coffee. Just, get dressed, please? I don't want to waste our entire day off standing in front of the closet."

Kathryn, who hates to be confused and finds herself absolutely unable to let this go, does not get dressed. She follows Beverly out of the room, intending to demand answers until something else catches her eye: the bookshelf in the living room is more crowded than she remembers. On closer inspection, she realizes that there are medical journals and plays mixed in with her poetry and classic literature. Turning slowly, she takes in the room at large. There is a small greenhouse set up in one corner, a stone figure of dancing woman in the middle of the coffee table, a painting hanging on the wall that Kathryn definitely doesn't remember buying.

Kathryn strides into the kitchen in full admiral mode — despite the fact that her hair is still mussed from sleep and she is wearing only a pink silk robe — and demands, "Beverly Crusher, do you live here?"

Beverly wants to be mad, or at least annoyed, but she looks at Kathryn standing there in the doorway — back straight and hands clenched at her hips, one eyebrow quirked upward in a her most imperious expression, a freckled shoulder peeking out where her robe has started to slip — and all she can do is shake her head and chuckle softly.

Beverly walks over to her admiral (who she outranks, by the way, although now is not the time to bring that up), and straightens her robe, her long slender fingers lingering at the collar for a moment before skimming down silk-clad arms to lace their fingers together. "Technically, no," she finally answers Kathryn's question. "But Kathryn, can you remember the last time you spent a night here without me?"

Kathryn's brow furrows as she thinks back, tries to remember being alone in this apartment, in that big bed. Other than a few notable exceptions of overnight missions or out of town conferences, she can't.

"And you don't have your own place in San Francisco?" Kathryn asks, still trying to wrap her head around the idea.

Beverly sighs. "No more than you have your own place in La Barre," she says, pointedly referencing where they spend most of their weekends. "We did discuss this you know. It's not as though I just sneaked all my things in here bit by bit."

If Kathryn thinks hard enough, she might be able to remember…

An evening, not so long ago, after a particularly exhausting day trying to establish a trade relationship with the Kazon, of all people. Beverly had been sitting on the couch reading when she got home and Kathryn had all but collapsed beside her, resting her head in Beverly's lap while she combed her fingers through Kathryn's hair.

If she tries hard enough, she might even remember Beverly's soothing voice cutting through a haze of exhaustion, saying "I'm thinking of getting rid of my apartment here."

The realization must show on her face because Beverly leans down and kisses the tip of Kathryn's nose. "There it is," she says with a grin. "Now go get dressed, would you? We have a lot to do today." She swats Kathryn on the ass for good measure before she turns back to the breakfast she is preparing for them.

Kathryn rolls her eyes and reaches around Beverly for the fresh mug of coffee sitting on the counter. "Yes ma'am," she smirks, turning back towards the bedroom and sipping at her coffee as she goes. The coffee is good and strong and Kathryn thinks how lucky she is to have someone who will make it fresh for her every morning.

She doubles back to Beverly, using one hand to brush her long hair to one side so that she can kiss the taller woman's shoulder and neck. "Hey Bev?" she murmurs, now with both arms wrapped around her partner's waist.

"Hmm?" Beverly responds noncommittally as she tries to focus on the task in front of her rather than her the distraction behind her.

"Wanna move in with me?"

Beverly drops the knife on the counter and turns in Kathryn's arms to face her. "Oh, I see, you only like it when it's your idea, hmm?" Her expression is one of mock frustration but Kathryn can see from the sparkle in her bright blue eyes that Beverly isn't mad at all.

"I have really good ideas," Kathryn says mischievously.

Before Beverly has a chance to respond, Kathryn is kissing her. As she allows the full-body tingle to take over all of her senses, she decides that Kathryn does have some truly excellent ideas after all.

#star trek femslash week 2024 #i wrote this #fanfic #kathryn janeway #beverly crusher #kathryn janeway/beverly crusher #crushway #star trek voyager #star trek picard #star trek the next generation #femslash #and they were roommates #ao3 link

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wildbluesorbit · 1 year ago

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London II: Uncensored || JTK

18+MDNI

LONDON SERIES MASTERPOST

Paring: Jakexreader(f)

A/N: Howdy! I am honestly so nervous about the turn of this story. Although London is only my first, and is honestly a big smut sandwich, I’m a whore for character development and really wanted to challenge myself to dive into the potential of these characters …for now. This piece in particular exists in two variations. In the interest of everyone looking for the easier read, mama @tommie-gvf advised a revision to care for all their soft readers, which dawned the “London: Refined” alteration. However, for all my trauma junkies alike you’re in the right place. I still wanted to share my original draft for the full teeth-gritting, soul-grating, angsty flourish. I’m really crossing my fingers y’all enjoy the twists and turns to come but I am honestly already awed by all the love received. As always I am very open to criticism so pretty please let me know what you think!

p.s. I apologize for all these alliterations you’re about to read

Summary || Wounds fresh and head spinning, you try and find your footing without Jake in the picture. However, you are found by the dawn of a different peril.

Content Warnings || toxic relationship, depressive disposition, sickness such as fever, fatigue, vertigo, nausea, vomiting, and fainting, verbal aggression, graphic depictions of physical aggression/voilence/sexual assault and bodily injuries such as bruising, gashing, swelling and inflammation, and body aches, ptsd, nervous breakdown, mentions of alcoholic consumption and drugging, brief mentions of being undressed and bathed while unconscious, technical kidnap, allusions to rape

Word Count || 7.4k+

The sweeping sound of the door swinging shut behind Jake only solidifies his parting words. Like a fool praying for snow in the desert, you remain still, naively pinning for him to rush back through that door and take back what he said. You swear to every star if he will just reappear you’ll forgive and forget every trivial thing he’s said to hurt you.

You are more than capable of leading a fruitful life without him, you just have no desire to. With every molecule of your being you ache for him to please just walk back through that door.

When he doesn’t, you can’t help the hot tears that now downpour.

Consternation weighs heavy on your limbs with the understanding of just how bonded you had become with the concept that there is always a next time with Jake. You had taken advantage, maybe even abused, his phone number underneath your finger on speed dial; you became cozy in the comfort of knowing that when you pressed it he would always answer.

It harrows you to think Jake might be right. Maybe you are no good for each other. Maybe he did the right thing. Too little too late is a cruel ascertainment; Jake is not just an ecstasy, a high you procured an addiction for, but he had become a sanctuary. One you’ve never met in anyone else. A shelter not even you could provide for yourself and like a child you went and broke it.

You will your begrudging limbs to ooze forward but as soon as your feet lead their trek the walls around you begin to whirl worse than before. You don’t dare let it deter you though; you fear the grief that threatens to swallow you whole in that very bathroom if you’re to stop for air.

You catch the corners of the sink for stability, your disheveled appearance ruthlessly relays your casualties. You smooth your hair down, wipe your running mascara, and run your hands down your skirt.

You sloppily make your exit out of the bathroom, no longer being able to withstand the ghosts of the haunted room where Jake had just kissed you goodbye.

You spill into the hall and rashly scour for any signs of your deserter. You figure he’s fled from the flat entirely as his twin has now vanished as well. Despite the vertigo, you propel yourself towards the table where Claire is without a Kiszka twin as well, but is now flirting with her own stranger.

Positively glowing, she radiates delight. A presence to be demolished by the foreboding whirlwind that you are. The last thing you want is to be the helpless girl who’s best friend can’t finish her regaling tale of a handsome stranger because of your shitshow, especially when Claire has made her stance sorely evident.

Mercy for Claire’s night presents itself in the form of a fleeting drive-by. You swiftly breeze past with a sweeping touch on her shoulder and briefly whisper in her ear that you need some air and are going to step out for a minute.

You know she protests but you make it your mission to distance yourself by half the room by the time she can process your abrupt bulletin and conceptualize her inquiries of, “But..," and, "What happened?”

It helps that your vertigo has germinated past tolerance; the sensation demands you not slow down or your body might continue its course without you, making a rolling tumbleweed out of you, held prisoner by this illness’s tempestuous winds.

You clumsy and cleat a path through the thicket of socializing bodies until you finally topple into an exit. You sling your body mass against the heavy portal to be transported to a stairwell that you pray spits you out in the main street.

You thrust yourself upon the railing and cling to it as you slosh down the stairs like a teetering toddler. The stairway traffic makes its way around you as if you are some stationary obstacle, some even slow down to behold the scene unraveling on the steps. Fortunately, the only concern that permeates through the fumes is the night’s cool air at the bottom of the staircase that promises remedy, and you have only a flight to go.

You brake your staggering down the incline to briefly rest against the wall. Fatigue has found a home as it settles in your bones. However, regret seeks you out the moment you become motionless as the spinning now invites a monstrous nausea.

Your want for fresh air has mutated into a need for your own bed. Any and all will to stay awake evaporates into the torrid air, and the concept of supporting your own weight any longer than necessary becomes a daunting notion.

You coach yourself into mobility again, telling yourself that you just need to make it out to the street and into a cab. You would feel better after you have a chance to recompose in a taxi until you reach your flat.

After you endure the marathon of the final flight, you achieve ground level; the price being your senses, including your best judgment, fogged by the fever’s stupor.

Foolishly, you pour out through the first exit door you spot and catch your weight against the opposing wall of a narrow alley.

You clamber against the wall a bit further to see where the alley lets out. By the time you realize the backway has no outlet the door has swung itself shut, the unnerving slam of the metal mass sending a jolt through your entire frame

You sluggishly creep back towards the door, your stomach kneading itself into nauseating knots as you discover the steel barricade is locked from the inside with no way back to shelter. With your sickly strength, you bang and beat on the door, begging for someone to free you.

You can barely hear your own knocks suffocated beneath the overbearing bass. Having foolishly spent what was so little of your energy left on trying to be heard through the steel frame, you finally accept that no one is going to find you unless they come looking for you.

You slump back against the wall once more, the fever journeys to the pit of your stomach. You hunch over, your weight finding balance against the brick wall and some sort of electrical box as your whole body begins to tremble devoutly. You burn alive as the high-grade heat rises to your face and you expel your guts right there.

Having all frail muscles tense up in commitment to the deed, you plunge to your knees and land on all fours. As soon as you feel able, you rock back on your legs and wipe the residual sickness from your mouth. You optimistically anticipate the familiar wave of relief to wash over you but it never arrives.

This sickness was not brought on by alcohol, this is something else entirely.

You momentarily careen, scrambling to summon strength to find your way back on two feet again just as the alley door swings open and you hear Hunter gasp out your name.

He runs over to you, paying absolutely no mind to the door due to shut behind him.

“The door,” you wheeze out and weakly gesture towards the entryway just as the lock clicks securely.

“What- Oh, I’ve got a key, don’t worry,” he mumbles as he leans down to gain access to you, “What happened?”

Your touch shoots for Hunter’s shoulders to regain your structure and you prompt him to help you back inside. Your request generates something of an indecipherable grimace to dart across his features. You can see the cogs turning in his head and you find your hands instinctively retract back to your sides. You watch the prospect of salvation wither away before you.

He must recognize your sudden vigilance as he immediately agrees to comply, but only after he’s made sure you’re okay. Hunter bluntly forces his mulish hands to your waist and sharply hoists you up against the wall, triggering upsetting shards to pierce your aching muscles.

Once you become vertical, you expect him to retire as your personal forklift and give you breathing room but he instead confines himself within your orbit, hands still digging into your hips.

“Okay, I’m up now,” you try to shoo him, “Would you just open the door?”

“Not yet,” he protests impetuously.

No longer bothered to maintain the cordial facade, Hunter’s gaze is now fully enamored by your pallid body; panic’s tide rising higher and higher.

His hands, ice cold against your feverish skin, shocks a hiss from you as his fingers slither their way under the hem of your top. He shrilly hushes you and takes liberty to plod his trail upwards towards your ribs. Forcibly, Hunter dips his fingertips into every ridge in your cage, eliciting another pained sibilation from you.

You make an effort to jerk away from his molestive frisking but are far too wasted to make any sort of adequate escapade. You huff at your defeat as your exertion only results in you scantily swaying to the side. A defenseless speck absurdly fighting to escape the current it's been sentenced to.

You manage to limply place your hands against his chest in an attempt to disturb his afflictions.

“I’m just trying to help,” Hunter poorly disguises his unwelcomed touch as a well-intentioned examination of your health.

With your hands still planted against his sternum you thrust in order to pry him off, but you know the only force you create is a dull pressure, your fingertips barely even sinking into his flesh. He almost snickers at your second failed escape; fatigue only setting in deeper by the second.

“Get off me you, fucking creep,” you grunt, still sickly yet stubbornly squirming.

“Oh, really-,” he hisses, ”you were so into it earlier though. Why are you being such a fucking bitch now?”

Hunter intrusively shoves his gangly frame into yours, further crushing your achy flesh into the callous concrete rooted against your backside.

He brutally crowds your head with his, invading your earshot, “Keep squirming if you want to make this worse for yourself.”

You ignore his warnings and he closes in trying to force his mouth onto yours. His foul breath reeks of liquor, cigarettes, and an unidentifiable sulphuric odor that stirs your nausea. You snap your head to the side to gag.

“Be that way but your body won’t be able to fight off that drug much longer. I’m only taking what would have been mine had that wanker not ruined my night.”

And there it is, he confirms your suspicion of foul play and you immediately remember how he brought you a drink and seemed so pleased when you finished it. But this isn’t what angers you most from his admission, but the way he slanders Jake.

The very thought of Jake’s name in Hunter’s cruel disparaging mouth catapults you to new heights of contempt. He doesn’t even know Jake and doesn’t deserve to. How could he possibly categorize your Jake and a piece of shit like himself in the same league.

Although the last few affairs had been less than ideal, you had seen the most concentrated parts of Jake. To most he is some mysterious charismatic poetic rockstar invention of a man, but whether he meant to or not, Jake had let you behind the curtain to reveal the inventor.

You found behind the facade is a truly kind and attentive man. A man who loves to laugh and will do whatever he can to bring a smile to anyone else. A man who hides behind big words because he still gets nervous when he speaks. Someone who doesn’t like being angry and always tries to be the bigger person. Someone raised on chaos, morality, and the classics. And no matter what he endures, he’s a family man first. He likes to operate on a low profile but won’t hesitate to become loud and brash to make sure everyone around him is taken care of. A delicate wholesome rarity. To know Jake is to love him and you know anything he asks of you is already his.

Therefore, hearing Hunter traduce Jake’s name like some foul swear, only to implicate your night that would always belong to Jake was actually his set you ablaze.

You rear your head back towards Hunter’s face and spit on target, “Let go of me you sick fuck!”

He flinches as your saliva coats his face and his lip peels back in a snarl of disgust. You can’t help but feel some regain of control as one of his hands releases you to wipe his new glaze.

You unwisely decree this your opportunity to flee, gaining some advantage by shoving him away. Yet, Hunter only refills the space and barbarically thrusts you back into his pinhold. Your vulnerable skin catches the teeth of the exposed brick as it grates into your backside, eliciting a broken cry from you.

He irately swipes the back of his hand over the rest of his contaminated features and lifts it to the air in a fist. He tempestuously brings it down to make agonizing contact between your eye and cheekbone.

The sudden blow sends trauma throbbing throughout your head. The abrupt pain bleeding into the drug induced haze is paralyzing. You stand apathetic, striving to stay conscious at this point. Hunter matches his left forearm up to your shoulders to pin you against the wall and he moves his right to untie your blouse Jake had just gracefully done up minutes before. He yanks the material off your shoulders, the dark’s frigid wind and Hunter’s greedy gawk pricks your helpless frame against your concession.

Hunter reaches his hand to grope you freely now, lingering in annoyance where you're sure the love marks Jake had left behind are beginning to develop.

Even as hope for some sort of salvation begins to flicker out, you refuse to concede in your tussle to shimmy out of his hold.

He lets out an offended grunt, as if you are being a rude victim. He rolls his eyes and moves swiftly and precisely to jab you in the ribs, knocking all air out of your lungs and remaining will from your limbs; as well as pummel whatever fortitude your body was using to brave the drug’s gravity.

“I don't even know why you’re being so stubborn, you’re little wanker boyfriend isn’t around to see what a slut you are,” he growls through concentration and clenched teeth.

Out of all the elaborate ways he could have invented to torment you, this cuts you deepest. Simply because he is right.

Jake isn’t here. And it’s all your fault. If you hadn’t driven him away, you wouldn’t be here.

You’ve never possessed a moment more worthless than this moment. The thought of Jake seeing you like this is a weight you are sure you wouldn’t survive. You hope to never see him again. He would be absolutely heartbroken.

All the torment and tears you had stifled while fighting for your freedom suddenly bubbles and bursts to the surface. You are startled by the loud ugly sob that leaves you. A howl so eerie and animalistic, you hardly recognize it as your own. You immediately throw your head up in a sharp inhale to abolish any other cries that plan to escape on their own accord, as if this would preserve some portion of your pride.

Hunter forcibly snatches your jaw into his hand and steers your face towards his so that no matter how you maneuver you are forced to hold him. His pupils swivel back and forth across your face studying this new breed of terror your eyes produce.

He curtly arrives at a diagnosis, “Oh, I see, he broke you.”

The last fiber of your sanity slipped through your clenched fists: the notion no matter how fucked up he was, he couldn’t possibly read how shattered you are. The only thought keeping your head just above the violent current.

But he now stripped that from you too.

The concept that he might feel some perverted pity for you only diminishes your spirit further. But as quickly as it comes, he zones back into his mission.

Instead of returning his hand to your chest, Hunter travels to fumble with the zipper of your skirt. As he struggles to pull it open, clarity of what is about to take place cuts through the smog. You contemplate what is about to be stolen from you and just how powerless you are to stop it; how you will most likely struggle with the unrelenting haunt of this moment for the rest of your days.

Your pathetic shrieks voidly echoes throughout the lifeless alleyway, “Stop! No- Red- Get off- please!”

He grows impatient, demanding you shut up as a note of tattering intersects your imploration. He mercilessly pinches the hem of your skirt and tears the material apart, the two assaulted shreds hanging from your hips granting him full access.

Enslaved to complete stupor, he’s admitted to run his fingers over the waistband of your underwear.

You finally accept this as your fate. You accept that this will be the horror story you will have to recite everytime someone inevitably asks why you are so prodigiously fucked up. You accept this is the warning label you will have to tow around for the rest of your existence.

Your teary vision starts to tunnel and you finally feel your conscious giving way to the void. You just hope it consumes you before his deed.

Just then, you feel a gap finally open between you and your oppressor. You spill onto unkind asphalt once again, scrambling to register what has occurred but you're unable to refocus. The only sight you can identify is the hazy reflective neon glow against the wet blacktop.

You flail about on the ground to best cover your indecency. As you can’t see, you listen for any clue of the phenomenon proceeding just above your head, except your audio is now faltering too.

You hear the slurs of two tussling and shouting. In between the intervals of din, a familiar rasp of your name rips through the tumultuous turbulence to grace your ears. Then again. And again.

You snap your head upwards to decipher whether this is just another trick of the drug. You can only make out his silhouette as your line of sight slowly becomes clouded with black spots.

It is Jake. It has to be. You need it to be.

Yet, you do not trust your senses as they are obviously failing. You hold your hand out to ward off the figure now reaching for you and faintly crawl away. The being flinches at your motion and frets your name out like a mantra, begging for something you can’t seem to process.

However, the poison in your blood holds no regard for this development. You are suddenly enwrapped in the amplified feverish fire you felt earlier and almost immediately eject the rest of your stomach.

All tension finally leaves your muscles as your body becomes a burden too heavy to support upright. You recognize the sensation of falling backwards but everything becomes so still, so quiet, so black before you ever feel the ground cruelly collide with you.

It's the sensation of the cool crisp white bed linens caressing your dormancy heated skin that wakes you. You force your lead heavy eyelids open and peer around what you suspect is a hotel room.

The space is dark except for a halo of light around the blackout curtained window, so you know it is daytime wherever you are. You tense in a stretch, freeing your bones of the deep slumber you had just escaped. You feel as if you have been asleep for a thousand years and struggle to recall anything existing before the darkness.

The recollection of how you ended up bedridden rushes through your mind in a searing headache. You spring yourself upward to find that the nausea and vertigo has left you but the febrile aching and a throbbing head remains.

Your first instinct is to flee until all at once your senses flurry with him.

Jake’s aroma fills the sheets and emits from your skin as well. You seek refuge in the sight of his well-loved shirt draped against your torso; along with a pair of boxers, and fuzzy socks. You assume he must have helped you shower and dress at some point.

You reach over to tug the remaining blanket off your limbs, the simple shoulder motion detonates a chain reaction of sore strain all over your body. A pain induced squeal resonates through you and against the foreign vanilla walls of the vapid hotel room.

You freeze and bite your bottom lip in an effort to stifle any other oncoming cries. You survey the room as if your siren can disturb anything within the lifeless compartment.

Nothing.

You draw in a deep breath against your aching rib’s wishes and wincingley scoot to the edge of the mattress to discover the bathroom is a few yards away. You vacillatingly make it on your feet, your legs shake as you stand but you are devoted to wobbling over to the bathroom.

Pitifully exerted from your trek, you throw your balance towards the counter and assign your weight to the marble slab by bracing the edge with your hand; careful to contain your yelps this time. You stabilize yourself before feeling out the wall behind you for a light switch, deliberate in your objective to only move the parts of your body necessary for this daunting task.

Immediately, regret pierces your eyes in blinding light. You swear the sudden attack on your sight is so vile it causes a ringing in your ears. What you logically know is mere seconds, seems to last for hours until your eyes finally focus.

As you cower your head to shield yourself from the bright sting, grisly bruises on your palms and legs that weren't visible in the bedroom are now illuminated.

You laggardly drag yourself over to the full body mirror in hopes the gruesome hues are an optical illusion and your reflection would prove you unharmed. You reexamine the skin in question, only for the glass to cruelly confirm your injuries. Sleeves of sporadic purple, green, yellow, and blue are strewn against your every limb.

You want so badly to be outraged at the sight. To be irate at how you were wronged. Yet the only words your mind will carve out for you are how could you be so foolish and so weak as to let this happen? It only further mocks your grief that you can’t seem to purchase any strand of anger.

But you don't let yourself succumb to the bleakness; your intuition anticipating the worst is yet to come.

You hesitantly raise your shirt to heed the discoloration traveling up your ribs. The sight abruptly brings back the petrifying sensation of Hunter excruciatingly shoving his prickly fingers into the crevices of your torso.

The intrusive recollection makes your stomach swell into your throat. For a brief instant, you think you might have to somehow shuffle to the toilet to be sick but you swallow it down.

You continue to raise your top past your breasts just enough to uncurtain your shoulders. The skin there is littered with dark fingerprint devised bruises.

It isn’t your victimhood now recorded all over your body that corrodes and eats away your insides, but is your inability to differentiate the assault from Jake's love marks. A palette of colors Jake left as a reminder in that moment you had given yourself to him completely; that he’d seen all of you, every last inch, and still he wanted more. He needed to consume you more than physically possible. A token he wants you to think of him just as much as he is thinking of you. A note that no matter how many times he unconvincingly tries to deny that he cares, he blatantly thinks of you as his. An objet d’art now defaced by the stains of a sick thief.

It is getting harder to see your reflection as grief starts to pool in your eyes and any desire you’d once had to examine your abrasions flees. You decide to barrel through the rest of your appraisal as you know your dark inquisitiveness will not let you rest till you have dug up the entirety of this aftermath’s hidden bones.

You try to lift the loose shirt completely from your body but are seized by an inadmissible fire catching throughout the flesh of your backside. Certain strips of your skin feel as if they’d split if you move too fast. Stubbornly, you trudge through the flames, determined to remove the piece of clothing. The sound of air shooting through your clenched teeth joins in with the rustling of the cotton material.

You finally rid yourself of the restriction and twist to see your back in the mirror, your expedition arriving at the concentration of the calamity; your skin tone a minority against the tyrenous bruising.

A shudder delivers the image of savagely being thrashed into that brick wall, rattling around your head like a pinball stuck on its course. A small sob drills its way into the room despite the defense of your palm sealing over your lips.

White rectangular bandages are taped exactly over where you had felt the splintering pressure threatening to tear your skin. You remove your hand from your mouth, no longer bothering to contain your shrills, and contort to the most accessible bandage starting at the bottom of your ribcage and extending to your pelvic bone. Your lethargic inertia only enables you to peel the material off slowly, the adhesive taking its time to part with your raw skin.

Fixating your gaze to your handiwork, you tug the gauze about halfway off to notice it is not white like the outside. The threads are dyed with streaks of dark red, brown, and discharge. Your eyes quickly flit up in the mirror to see a deep vile gash that hasn’t even yet begun to scab.

Your glistening brown eyes now overflow into warm streams down your cheeks. The left side of your face is pierced by a stinging sensation at the introduction of the salty tears.

You realize you have been avoiding your reflection above your shoulders and for the first time since the bar bathroom you allow yourself to study your own face. To your dismay, you discover your left eye and cheekbone are grotesquely swollen and bruised.

Ugly.

There is no other way to put it. No other word your brain would provide. No further way to break it down. You had never felt so broken and unlovable in your life.

You had never felt so fucking ugly.

You futilely attempt to wipe your tears away as they are already being replenished. As you vainly swat at your face your attention is drawn near the nape of your neck; alluring as it is the only pristine scene amongst your features. Your hair has been neatly brushed and delicately laid back into a single looped messy bun; just the way Jake always does his own.

A cruel notion ripples its way throughout your mind. Jake witnessed you beaten in that alley. He graciously undressed and bathed you and aided your wounds. He got to shelter you in his clothes and fix your hair and put you to bed.

And part of you hates him for it. You hate that he got to see you in such a vulnerable odious state. You hate that you let him.

How could he proclaim you are no good for each other only to turn around and take such inordinate care of you? You loathe his words of disownment that crash against such ardent acts of affection for you. This deep level of intimacy is the first for the two of you and most likely the last. Yet, you aren’t even sure if you were conscious, you certainly weren’t in your right mind. You don’t even get to archive the moment. He had no right.

You yank the band from your dotingly tied up hair, tangling it once again and thoroughly erase any evidence it had recently been combed. You thrust the band with as much might as your body will allow, intent for it to land in some bathroom abyss, never to be seen again.

Your glossy eyes dart to the population of hygienic products to pinpoint the first-aid supplies within the cluster. You swing your arm towards the kit, sending the medical equipment soaring off the counter. The clattering din of the tools crashing to the floor reverberates throughout the small room and rings in your ears.

You don’t even realize you are yelling until your voice cracks against you gasping for an air supply. You can’t bear the concept of facing your execrable appearance any longer and find your hands and knees bracing the piercing chill bathroom tile.

You give in to the malaise. You are swallowed whole by your own laments, the suite humming with the songs of your weeping howls. You have no will to ever cease your decimation. No desire to ever lift yourself from this very bathroom tile. You are going to decompose here.

But as quickly as you give in to your grief you are snatched from it. More than startling you, two hands from behind graze around your shoulders. You hadn’t heard any doors open or close, much less were you aware of any life stirring in the room.

Before any discernment or recognition can approach, you careen forward, leading with your pounding chest to cower near the floor.

You blare your terror in a panicked squeal, “No! Get off of me!”

“Whoa-,” the voice announces itself and you immediately recognize the lull as Jake, “hey- babygirl, you’re alright. It's me.”

He circles in front of you with his hands up indicating your safety and crouches down so he is eye level with you. Your favorite eyes, the prettiest pools of amber and fresh autumn now plagued by uneasiness. You immediately dive your beaten face into your hands not wanting to be held by those tormented brown eyes.

“You’re alright, you’re safe,” he passifies.

Jake places his hands to cup yours and slowly peels away the mask they were providing. You fling his hands away with your own and find you gain some unexpected relief from the slight blow.

Instinctually, you start to throw your hands towards him to achieve whatever contact you can, shoving at his shoulders and beating your fists against his soft chest. Jake doesn’t fight back or stop you or even protest. He only scrunches his eyes shut and lets out a shaky exhale; as if you are some toddler and he is simply tolerating your tantrum. He cups your jaw, freezing your thrashing movements.

He searches your eyes through his glassy ones and begins to fuss, “I know, babygirl, I’m so sorry.”

His sentiment does little to console you though. You shove him from your vicinity harsher this time, releasing you of his touch and knocking off his balance. He gently lands back against the nearby bathtub wall but he is still in reach. He frowns as you gain momentum again, thirsty for a mere drop of the initial remedy your first feeble impact released. Anything to rid you of this eroding ache in your chest.

His eyebrows turn upwards in clemency, which only makes you drive through your swings harder. However, it doesn’t seem to make any difference as he catches one of your wrists in his stark hands mid-swing, and then the other.

In one skillful motion, he jerks you forward into an upward kneeling position by both arms. Jake slings your limbs around his shoulders, causing you to lurch into him. Before you have any chance to protest, he nimbly takes hold of your hips and delivers the rest of your body into his lap.

Every nerve under your skin is on fire with the impulse to retreat, “No, Jake! I’m not worth it!”

Your own words draw light to why you are so hellbent on repelling from Jake’s touch. It hadn’t been that he said you are no good for each other but that some part of you had always felt he is too good for you. That's why when things got tough you would argue and run to someone else. You were constantly trying to flag his attention that never veered from you. He had fooled you with his placid exterior but little did you know you only had to ask and he would grant you the world.

You are not good enough for him, yet he still spoils you and when it came down to it he was your salvation; harbored you away from the monster that had its claws around you.

But you’re more trouble than you are worth. You are tainted now, only baggage he would grow to resent. Jake did not deserve to be dragged down by you. You won’t allow it. You certainly wouldn’t survive it.

You try to evacuate his embrace but he only squeezes you tighter, “I’m sorry, I never should have left you!”

You squirm further, lifting yourself to your knees in preparation to somehow walk away. But Jake is not having it. He clings to your waist and stabilizes you by placing his knees to the back of your thighs.

You frantically beseech him, “Jake, please, there’s no room for junk in your world, trust me.”

He shakes his head and nuzzles his face between your jaw and collarbone, sighing against your neck to speak a muffled decree against your skin, “Don’t speak about yourself that way. You’re more than worth it.”

Your need for space is overwhelming, but your urgency to be held together overpowers anything else in existence. Exhausted from fighting, you let your weary body go limp and melt back into his gravity.

He loosens his arms a bit that are sealed around you, no longer afraid you’re going to make a run for it. Your head heavy, you rest your forehead against his clavicle and your hands center against his supple chest, trapping your arms between bodies as you bend your legs to the side and lean into him.

Your grief returns to you as soon as you stop moving and you concede to its demands. You find that these clamors, though, are different. They’re muffled as they’re collected by someone else. Not echoing void into space, an expression lost and forgotten with no purpose once they’ve passed from you. Now there is someone to record your sorrow, you are no longer just an inconsolable calamitous clutter on the bathroom floor. You let yourself fall apart in the arms of someone you trust can put you back together again.

“Jake, he almost- I-,” you struggle through your hiccuping breaths.

“I know,” he doesn’t pressure you to finish your thought.

Your voice becomes concerningly soft, “You saw?”

“I did,” he gulps.

“I wish you hadn’t,” your shame doesn’t let you speak above a whisper.

“Don’t say that- what if," you can hear his voice begin to crack and splinter, rendering him unable to finish the unbearable horror, "what if I hadn't been there in time? What if I hadn’t- you could have-”

For the first time it occurs to you that you are not the only victim. You imagine Jake must have lost his mind at the sight of you. You most definitely would have been petrified if the roles were reversed. And though he doesn’t owe you a thing he took you upon himself as his own responsibility. He acted while his mind must have been racing up and down, pondering the right thing to do. Whether you would wake up okay or not. Whether you’d wake up and blame him. Would you forgive him for leaving?

But you would never blame Jake for this. Even if you had, you’d never been capable of sentencing Jake to your storm for long. You’d forgiven him so many times before for a hundred things and you would continue to do so for the next ten-thousand offenses. And you prayed he’d never wake one day with enough sense to forget about you because you know now that you need him in this new season.

“Jake, hold me tighter,” you heedlessly pule, acutely aware of how needy and demented you sound, consumed by the exigency to be closer to him than ever, “tighter, please?”

“I want to, baby, more than you know, but I don’t want to hurt you,” he fretts.

You could hear the compulsion to accommodate you in his trembling tone and the sudden tense of his arms that carefully circled around you.

“How could I be so invisible? I feel like some foul disposable thing,” your own words ambush you.

A blubbering tumble into the air on their own perturbing accord; subconscious thoughts you had not dared let slither into the forefront of your reality. Mere shadows come from the corners of your mind that have expedited any real contemplation.

“And I know I'm not supposed to but I feel like this is all my fault,” you sob out the confession.

Your sadistic ears register the fractious cries inhabiting the small room now as the same ones that haunted you in the alley. Sounds you hadn’t known you were capable of prior to your casualty. You have no idea whether the grotesque marks along your body would stay with you in a scar but you know that this despairing tune was one of an everlasting requiem and these tears would never dry.

Jake pulls away from you to tug his sleeves over his fists. He examines your face and shakes his head before swiping his cuffs to carefully towel the tears away from your afflicted skin. He kisses both of your eyelids shut and draws back into you, cradling the nape of your neck to bury you further into his shelter.

“Nothing you did, my love,” he begins to vow, “was even remotely deserving of what happened. Don’t you ever let anyone ever make you feel less than beautiful, not even me. You are perfect, I swear it.”

Your consoler rakes his fingertips along your backside, between your shoulder blades, down to your tailbone and back again. However the migration of his hand doesn’t follow your spine. The irregular pattern of his touch graces around your wounds without him having his eyes navigate. How long he must have studied your comatose skin to plot a mental map and detour your injuries. The cozy concept grounds you, enabling you to finally catch your breath.

The air eventually stills. The only stirring sounds of your sniffles and shared quaking breaths.

You hoarsely whisper, “Jake, where am I?”

“My hotel room, babygirl,” fragments of his side of the nightmare begin to spill out, “and I know I should’ve taken you to a hospital or something but- I’m sorry- I didn’t- I was terrified they might make me leave or not let me see you or something and I couldn't- I just- no- and we had to move on to the next city- I was not leaving you again- or ever.”

Now he holds you tighter as if he can no longer deny the urge; afraid you could still be confiscated from him, a kid clinging to his favorite blanket.

“I had one of the medics I trust come check you out,” he rambles on.

You choked a bit at the thought of another man having access to your unconscious body, “He-”

“No, no. She said you were going to be fine and your body was working through whatever it was you ingested. She only handed me pain meds and some heavy duty first aid for liability. I tried to dress your wounds as best I know how. I’m sorry if i-”

You slip your arms around his neck, cradling his nape to bring him closer into your orbit, “Stop apologizing. Thank you, Jake.”

“Don’t thank me, you could have told me you hated me a million different ways in that bathroom and I still would have done the same thing,” he precisely threads his words, conviction weighing down every syllable, “I take care of what's mine.”

The room grows quiet once more as you bask in contemplation of his last words. Jake starts to rub your back again and you find yourself tempted by a drowsy spell once more.

“Jake?”

His hand springs from your back, “God- Am I hurting you? I’m sor-,”

“No, just thank you for taking care of me,” you drowsily sigh against his skin as slumber cocoons you in its grasp.

You flicker in and out of consciousness until you wake to Jake carrying you back to bed. He sits you down on the edge and pulls a bottle of pills from his pocket.

“For the pain,” he gives the bottle a good shake and pulls a water canister from the amenities on the dresser, handing it to you.

After you’ve taken the medication he encourages you to drink the rest of the water. Once you appease him, Jake helps you recline, careful not to lay you on your back. In his assistance, you grab his hands, the bruised and split sight commandeering your regard.

“Your hand- It's bruised,” you gasp.

He lets out the smallest chuckle, “Yea, I broke his nose.”

“Jake, that's not funny,” you lethargically scold.

“I know-”

“But thank you,” you make sure he understands your gratitude before he can beat himself up.

Still holding onto his hand, you pull Jake to lay down next to you and curl around him. He reciprocates by tucking your head under his chin. The grounding warmth of him travels across your skin and brings you to safety.

He tilts his head towards your ear and bashfully asks, “No more games?”

“No more games,” you concur.

He draws in a breath deep of solemnity and panic as he runs a finger down your temple and tucks your hair behind your ear. You prepare yourself for his bad news before he can even speak the opposite.

“I think I love you but I can't keep chasing you from halfway around the world,” his confession so subtle you almost miss his first five words.

“Well, lucky for you I don’t think I can go back to London and I have nowhere else to go,” your antic tone does less than mesh with your words.

Jake mimics your earlier sentiment back to you, “That’s not funny, baby.”

“I know- I just- I don’t want to go to London,” you drop your facade.

“You know I have a few guest rooms at my house,” he begins fidgeting, twirling your hair around his fingers, “but they never see any guests. And I know my house gets so lonely when I’m gone.”

“You mean- your house-,” you gulp, “in Nashville?”

You can hear the smirk in his voice now, “Yes, gorgeous scenery and a lovely people. It also happens to be very far from London. You’d be doing me a real favor if you came and looked after it.”

You ponder his proposal as if you have a choice. As if you hadn’t slowly been moving towards this leap since the dawn of Jake and you. As if you could ever grant your caretaker any answer that isn’t yes.

And of course any life with Jake would be better than a life without but still you never thought the question would come, certainly not before others. You are clueless as to what role you are to play and what life is supposed to look like after this, outside of London. How would you even fit into his tumultuous musician’s life?

He breaks your thought flow. You can tell Jake is trying not to pressure you but your silence terrifies him, “What’s swirling around in that pretty head of yours?”

You tilt your face up towards his and speak against the corner of his mouth right where his lips begin to curl when he gets giggly.

The course hair there prickly against your whispered affirmation, “I love you too, Jacob.”

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